Chapter Text
Cliopher took a deep breath, met the lion eyes once more, and a feeling of wild abandon to the unknown, pushed over the edge.
"I may not touch you. I may not kiss you or embrace you or grasp your arms or your knees or your feet as I can all my cousins and aunts and uncles and friends. I may not lay my hand on your shoulder when you are sad or clasp your hands with you when you are jubilant. I am not the Moon Lady to be above those strictures. I do not know what history lies behind her naming you her Best-Beloved but my lord, my… Tor… if you were my brother or my cousin I could not love you more."
His Radiancy stared at him with a face utterly drained of expression. It occurred to Cliopher then that it was possible no one had ever said that to him, to the inner man, before.
His Radiancy lifted his hand, the signet ring catching the light, and then he let it fall again and curl around his cup and keep that wall unbroken between them, and Cliopher remembered the brief flash of horror and uncertainty on his face when Dora asked him if she would be struck by lightning for touching.
He watched the motion, feeling in the abbreviated gesture a benediction worth far more than any title or public honour that could ever be bestowed. He felt a strong compulsion to say something more. He let his heart open, imagined the words welling spontaneously, and without quite consciously planning it, said: "When you are no longer sitting on the Lion Throne, I would like to know the man behind the Serenity. As a friend."
Victoria Goddard, Hands of the Emperor, 27%
As a friend, I marveled, Kip's—Cliopher's—Kip's words echoing in my head, alongside all those other astonishing things he'd said: touch you, kiss you, embrace you, grasp your arms—your knees—your feet…
Each body part tingled as I replayed him naming them. I was discomposed again, but compared to the near-caustic waking fire of the Moon Lady this was like being chilled and slipping into a warm bath.
Lay my hand on your shoulder… I rubbed at my shoulder, dazed beyond words.
Cliopher thought he felt a warm touch on his shoulder, but when he looked up, no one was there.
He was working late. The lamps were low in his little cabin, and he had set up a glow stone on his desk. As he focused back on the page in front of him, it flared slightly brighter.
"Thank you," he said, and then felt foolish. It wasn't as if anybody was listening. He shrugged and tried to focus again on the latest report from the Yengan Audit Office.
In the Yellow Lotus Room, which was not the same as the Waterlily Room, Lady Ylette and his Radiancy were having a sharp and lively discussion about his wardrobe. He could not help but think of all the work sitting undone, as he stood here uselessly in a room full of fabric swatches worth more than his life savings. He had held the weight of the world on his shoulders before this promotion; a title and a few scraps of cloth should not make that weight feel so overwhelmingly heavier. And yet, yet—
His Radiancy held up a swatch of something purple-pink, considered it judiciously, and tossed it aside. As he did Cliopher felt his own rising panic not ebb, exactly, for it was still there below, but—recede, become background to something warm, a pot left on a gentle simmer. Ease, fondness, a somewhat illicit enjoyment. His shoulders relaxed, as if someone had put their arms around him, and he took a breath—what felt like his first easy one in days—and turned his attention back to the matter at hand.
It was strange and fascinating for Cliopher to sit at his usual desk in the Study and listen to his cousin Zemius describe his research into the quest that would release his Radiancy from his duties and allow him to retire. He could feel the intensity of his lord's focus as a near-physical presence, quite the way he might expect to feel his hand clutched by a friend or family member who was receiving life-altering news.
It occurred to him that, as Lord Chancellor, his Radiancy might, in fact, allow him a level of familiarity that would enable him to be that metaphorical friendly hand for his beloved lord. Cliopher caught himself smiling at the thought and raised his eyes to glimpse his Radiancy smiling back at him, his tawny eyes bright with warm interest and—
He was in the offices of state, pleased by the quiet hum of activity around him, the bright young minds tackling the problem together, when the thump of spear butts announced the arrival of the Sun-on-Earth.
Cliopher rose from his obeisance feeling something odd sparkling in his chest—bright interest and, yes, a distinct sense of mischief. He looked up, and saw a matching sparkle in the lion eyes. Could it be—?
Sometimes, late at night, as he was finishing one last report or setting his calendar in order for tomorrow, a deep and terrible loneliness would steal over him, as silent and stealthy as midnight fog. It was not his usual homesickness, that old and familiar friend, which he had learned to keep at bay by writing letters or turning his mind to something else. No, it was nearly a physical thing, weighing down his heart, and there was no cause that he could see, and no help either.
His feet itched to climb those few staircases, to cross those paltry handful of hallways, to knock at the great carved ebony door and ask for—what? A game of chess, at half past midnight? No, his Radiancy needed his rest. Resolutely, Cliopher straightened his papers, and endured.
The presentation before the Council of Princes had been inarguably a success. He had left exhilarated, but as the high of victory wore off he realized how tired he was. He knew what the stipend would mean to the people of Zunidh, he had spoken to them, he knew the freedom it would bring. It was something to be proud of.
But it was not, in itself, enough to help the one person on Zunidh he most wanted to free.
His next appointment had been unexpectedly canceled, and although he had any number of things that required his attention, he gave himself the gift of using his free quarter bell to sit in the gardens. He sat on a bench near some tall Ystharian flowers that reminded him of the sun-in-glory his Radiancy occasionally used when signing off his letters to Cliopher. There was so much work to be done, and although he had faith in his plans, in those working with him, he, at this moment, could only see the cost of failure. If the government he built was not stable, secure, safe for all its people, his Radiancy would not leave. He would never leave his people in need.
He looked up again at the flowers. He hadn't noticed before that so many of them had their faces turned towards him. Their yellow petals seemed almost golden now, almost glowing, nearly the color of his Radiancy's eyes. It reassured him, as if he were looking not at flowers in the gardens, but into the glowing supportive eyes of his beloved lord. As if he could feel his lord's faith in him. Without thinking, he reached out to touch the petals, and from behind one of the flowers a small creature climbed onto Cliopher's outstretched hand.
"Oh, hello," he said softly. "What are you?"
The creature was as bright and golden as the sun-drenched flowers, and it was like no other beast Cliopher had seen in the gardens, Palace, or menagerie. Small blunt claws prickled against his palm. It was warm to the touch—shining, almost flickering, with its own inherent radiance. It seemed almost to be made of fire, except that it wasn't burning him. A small snout snuffled into his wrist as though exploring this new platform, and then it lifted both paws and tilted back as though trying to look directly at Cliopher's face.
"Aren't you a beauty?" he said, keeping his voice soft.
The creature made a happy little cooing noise, and stretched its chin up invitingly. Cautiously, Cliopher lifted his other hand to scratch under its chin. It hummed and snuggled into the touch, and Cliopher felt relaxed and refreshed, as if he had just finished a long and luxurious bath.
Suddenly the creature squeaked and burrowed under the embroidered cuff of his sleeve, as Koloi rounded the corner of the path with a diffident cough. "You asked me to alert you at ten to the hour, sir."
"Of course." Cliopher sighed and stood, trying to surreptitiously shake the creature out of his sleeve and back into the flowers, but it clung determinedly to the silk. He wondered if it was leaving visible furrows to bewilder Féonie later. "Go on," he murmured to it quietly. "I shouldn't take you from your home."
It made a firmly negating huff, and crawled further up his sleeve to nestle in at his elbow. Behind him, Koloi shifted his weight pointedly, and Cliopher sighed and gave in. The creature seemed tame enough, and someone could always return it to the Gardens later.
Cliopher strode through the cool halls, very aware of the warm living creature curled inside his sleeve. It seemed to be asleep, its earlier burbling silent. It really wasn't responsible of him to take it indoors, he thought, but he couldn't seem to work up any true regret or anxiety about it. Its presence against his skin felt—right. Soothing, like a supportive hand on his back.
As he passed through the seven antechambers, Cliopher felt the creature begin to stir. Tiny claws pricked his skin, and he heard soft, drowsy murmuring. And then, as the innermost guards stamped their spears to announce him, he felt a great, golden swell of delight within his chest, and the creature gave a tiny, happy squawk. That had surely been loud enough for Hiscaron to hear, Cliopher thought in dismay, but the guard's placid expression did not change as he waved him into his Radiancy's study.
As he made his obeisances, careful not to jostle his sleeve too much, he realized that bringing an unknown but clearly magical creature up from the Gardens into the Presence without alerting anyone was perhaps not the best security practice. But it was too late to turn back now, and the creature seemed placid enough, already settling back to a contented stillness at his elbow.
His Radiancy was at the far end of the study. He made the gesture to rise as elegantly as always, and stood there in the shaft of sunlight pouring through the terrace door, the fiery gems glimmering against his brow and all down the swoop of his tawny robes, looking somewhat like a being of living fire and power himself. "Congratulations, Cliopher."
For a moment Cliopher's mind was blank—the distraction of the small warm presence in his sleeve had driven away his tiredness, or at least his awareness of it, and his mind fumbled over what the Emperor might mean. He murmured a neutral acknowledgement and sank into his usual chair.
"So modest." His Radiancy smiled, and a small thrill of pleasure ran down Cliopher's spine. "And yet you have won the day. Dare I hope you have spent the time since the council in some relaxing pursuit?"
"As it happens, my last meeting was cancelled, my lord, and I have been sitting in the gardens."
A dark curved brow raised. "You have been sitting in the gardens? My ferocious Lord Chancellor, at rest for all of—a quarter of a bell, perhaps?"
"Nearly that, my lord." Cliopher could not help smiling. A bubble of amused fondness seemed to have risen in his chest; the small fire creature nuzzled into his arm; his lord was pleased. And they had, in passing the last essential element of the stipend proposal through the last hurdle in the Council of Princes, wrought a great work for the future of Zunidh.
If only he could be sure that they would achieve the next, essential steps—that the council, and the structures they were building, would allow his Radiancy to be truly free.
"Nearly a quarter bell," his Radiancy repeated. "You must be feeling well rested. One might say, restless."
Cliopher bowed his head in acknowledgment, barely suppressing the smile tugging at his lips.
"And so, my Lord Mdang," his Radiancy continued, his tone rich with mirth, "poverty itself quailed under the weight of your ideas and the sharpness of your set-downs, so tell me." His Radiancy had drawn closer over the course of their exchange, and Cliopher could see that his golden eyes were alight with a manic glint that sent gentle shivers down his own spine. "What is next?"
Cliopher felt an answering spark of mischief flare up inside him. "My lord," he said gravely, "I was thinking that the Post might need to be reformed again."
A resounding pause followed his words. His Radiancy, Cliopher noted with satisfaction, was looking at him with eyes that seemed as wide as the delicate gold-rimmed saucers Conju selected for him.
Cliopher let the Sun-on-Earth stew for a few more heartbeats, before he burst out laughing.
His Radiancy joined in, the sound of his warm laugh flipping Cliopher's heart with adoration. After a short while, he had to look down from the intensity of his Radiancy's gaze on him, but froze when he realised that the creature's small head was peeking from the fabric of his voluminous sleeve, and that it was making a sound that sounded suspiciously like a purr.
The creature, whom Cliopher never felt an impulse to name, became his constant companion. It rode along with him on his daily rounds, tucked deep inside his robes. While he worked at his desk, it crawled out and explored, disarranging his papers, poking its nose into his glass of water or inkwell. He found it impossible to be annoyed with its antics, and often found himself laughing helplessly as it played. And when he went to bed, it would curl up against him, in the crook of his neck or elbow or tangled in his hair, and sleep.
It became clear that the creature was magically sustained. It appeared mildly interested in his food, but never ate, nor did it drink water. Cliopher offered it tidbits of various kinds but it took to none of them, and yet it lost no vitality for lack of eating. This, too, ought to have worried him, he felt, but it did not. Its presence was good and right and comforting, and it was clearly content with him.
One evening at dinner, Rhodin tried to cajole the creature to eat slices of hot pepper—even though it had never eaten so far, he wanted to see if it might become more fiery. Cliopher watched him and tentatively asked, "Could someone take a look at it for me, do you think? In case of… eavesdropping spells, or any such thing?"
Rhodin raised his eyebrows. "Surely his Radiancy would have said something by now. But very well, just in case."
A very solemn young lady came to scrutinize the fire creature; it ran up her arm and snuffled into her ear. "No," she told it. "Checkup first, petting after." (She had brought her instruments in a veterinarian's toolkit.) After some time, she pronounced it healthy, with a significant look over its head to indicate that it was not cursed or spying on anyone. The fire creature, promised petting, rolled over and waved its little legs at her. She stroked its belly with a careful finger.
"What kind of animal is it?" she asked.
"I have no idea," Cliopher admitted. "My colleague Aioru calls it 'the dumpling animal.'"
The creature bounced up and down, delighted at being accurately(?) identified, or possibly just pleased at their undivided attention.
One morning in the study, his Radiancy paused in his pacing. "Is something the matter?"
Cliopher could feel himself flush. "Ah, no, my lord, it's just…" He poked the fire creature with the end of his pen. It barely wiggled. "Since when do little magical animals have opinions on budgets?"
His Radiancy came over to see, eyes full of mirth. The creature lay sprawled on its back across Cliopher's desk, paws in the air, snoring ostentatiously.
"What about the finalists for this year's Emperor's Prize? Would that suit you better?" His Radiancy addressed the little creature directly.
It sprang up immediately out of its faux nap and snuffled at him happily.
"I am outvoted, I see," Cliopher said. "It knows which side its bread is toasted on."
His Radiancy laughed. "I am sure we can endure just a little more of the budget, don't you? And then the music competition."
Meep! it agreed, and sat politely, as though it was a trained dog and not a chaotic hedgehog-armadillo-dumpling that liked splashing Cliopher from his own water-glass.