Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(173)

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As he pushed back the canvas flap that served as a door to the tent, the delicate scent of incense wafted over him. The servants had been as busy with the interior of the pavilion as they had with the outside, and now it glowed like something out of his childhood memories. Dozens of paper lanterns—red, gold, green—cast playful shadows onto the floor. Delicate tapestries from Mo’ir hung from the walls while intricate woven rugs covered the packed earth.

His eyes barely flickered over them, fixing instead on the wide bed that dominated the space, a bed decked in silk and strewn with plump pillows. He cast about for a chair or bench, but the servants who had carted the entire kit up the mountain evidently considered lamplight more important than seating. There was nowhere to go, nothing to turn to except that enormous bed. Triste froze just inside the door, but he did his best to appear casual, approaching the mattress, running his hands over the cashmere blankets gingerly.

“Well,” he said, “at least it’s big.…”

Triste did not respond.

Kaden turned, casting about for one of Heng’s jokes to ease the tension, but all thought of joking vanished when his eyes fell on her.

She stood trembling just inside the door, her dress pooled on the carpet at her feet. She wore nothing beneath. Involuntarily, almost instinctively, Kaden drank in the sight of her: slender legs, satin skin, the full curve of her breasts. In Annur, outside the temple of Ciena, stood a marble statue of the goddess herself, the incarnation of physical perfection, the apogee of human pleasure. He had overheard men joking about that statue, about what they’d like to do with the goddess if they could get her alone, and on one outing, Kaden and Valyn had spent some time furtively staring at the idol, intrigued by a beauty they could only just apprehend. Compared to Triste, however, the marmoreal curves and elegant proportions seemed awkward, almost misshapen.

He groped for the Shin exercises he had spent so many years mastering, exercises that would cool the heat and bring reason to the chaos cluttering his mind. It was no good. Triste was slender, fragile even, but that fragility drew him with more force than knotted cord, and for the space of a few heartbeats, he was frightened of himself, frightened of what he might do to her. He tried to avert his eyes, but he could no more look away than he could stop his own heart.

Suddenly, with a small cry in the back of her throat, Triste threw herself at him, propelled, he realized, by wine and fear rather than lust. She crashed awkwardly into his chest, knocking him backward, and they collapsed on the bed in a tangle of limbs. Kaden tried to pull away, but she clung to him, desperately ripping at his robe.

“Wait,” he pleaded, trying to calm the girl without drawing attention from beyond the insubstantial canvas walls of the pavilion. “Stop!”

The words only spurred her frenzy. Each year, Kaden helped to tie goats for shearing and slaughter—and each year, he found himself shocked by the strength in the body of an animal driven to panic. That same panic had seized Triste, and for several heartbeats she overpowered him, driving him down and backward despite his greater height and weight. Her hands around his wrists might have been manacles, for all his ability to break her grip. She’s stronger than I am, he thought, amazed even in the midst of the contest. Then something seemed to snap in the girl. She fought still, but the impossible power had gone, and Kaden was able to subdue her at last. When he finally managed to extricate himself, he looked down to see her violet eyes welling with tears.

“We must,” she sobbed. “We must. We must!”

“Must what?” Kaden asked, although he had a pretty good idea already. “We don’t have to do anything,” he added quickly.

Triste shook her head so violently, he thought she might hurt herself. “They told me,” she cried. “They told me we must.”

Kaden stood quickly, straightening his robe about him and turning to examine one of the priceless tapestries hanging from the wall. It depicted a battle, he realized gradually, some sort of conflict between gorgeous men and women, half naked but wielding long spears against ranks of foes in drab, gray armor. He bent all his energy to the study of the weave, the alternation of color and pattern, using the focus to still his pulse, slow his breath, relax … everything, and after a long, awkward minute he was able to look back at Triste. She was crying softly.

“They may have said we must,” he began, trying to put more resolve into his voice than he felt, “but they also told me that I’m the Emperor, and as your Emperor, I command you to put on some clothes.”