N. Jemisin - The Killing Moon

He stopped beside a raised plinth bearing a platter, gazed at it for a moment as if to assure himself of the suitability of its contents, then brought the platter over to her. He knelt with careless ease before the bench she’d chosen and offered the platter to her with his head bowed, humble as any lowcaste servant.

On the platter lay a profusion of delicacies for the taking: crisp vegetables flecked with hekeh-seed and sea salt, balls of grain held together with honey and aromatic oil, medallions of fresh fish tied into bundles around wine-soaked raisins. And more, each arranged in neat rows of four—forty in all. An auspicious number by Gujaareen reckoning.

Sunandi smiled at that implicit hopeful message. After a moment’s consideration she selected a wafer of sugar-stalk around which some sort of river crustacean had been baked. He waited while she took her time chewing, savoring the salt-sweet flavor; that was the proper way to show appreciation in both Gujaareen and Kisuati custom. Then she inclined her head in acceptance of the offering. He set the platter on his knee and began feeding her more with his fingers, showing no sign of eagerness or haste.

“Kisuati speak often of Gujaareen courting-customs,” Sunandi said while he selected another morsel. “My people find it amusing that men here use food to lure women into pleasure. In our land it is the opposite.”

“The food is only a symbol,” the Prince replied. His voice was low and smooth, and he spoke softly as if to soothe a wild animal. “It is the act of offering that—hopefully—tempts a woman. Some offer jewels; the shunha and zhinha favor such things as a mark of status. Lowcastes offer poetry or song.” He shrugged. “I feared that jewels, given our relative positions, might be misconstrued as a bribe. And poetry is such a subjective thing. Offerings can offend, after all.” He gave her something redolent of nutmeg, and wonderful. “Delicacies, however, tempt the appetites.”

She licked her lips, amused. “Whose appetites, I wonder?”

“The woman’s, of course. Men need little incentive to take pleasure.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. Sunandi resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his foolishness. “And we Gujaareen revere our women.”

“As much as you revere your goddess?” The statement edged along their notion of blasphemy, but the Prince only laughed.

“Women are goddesses,” he replied. She opened her mouth and he placed the next item on her tongue, where it melted in an exquisite mix of flavors. She closed her eyes and caught her breath, inadvertently overwhelmed, and saw when she opened them again that his grin had widened. “They birth and shape the dreamers of the world. What better courtship can a man offer than worship?”

“Until you’ve had your pleasure. Then your goddesses return to making babies and keeping house.”

“Just so. Honorable men continue to make offerings to them, though the offerings are nightly pleasure and helpful tools rather than frivolities.” His eyes snapped with humor as if he sensed how much his words irritated her. “So you must forgive my courtiers and counselors if they are uneasy at having to deal with you as Kisua’s Voice. In their eyes you should be secure in some man’s kitchen, receiving the adulation that is your just due.”

She laughed, not as gently as he. “Would they be displeased to find me here with you now?”

“Doubtful. A man and a woman associating for pleasure makes far more sense to them than a man and a woman associating for business.”

When Sunandi politely turned away the next morsel, he set aside the platter and took her hands, pulling her to stand. She rose with him, curious to see how far he meant to go. “In fact,” said the Prince, “they will actually be pleased that I have seduced the Voice of Kisua. No doubt they’ll expect you to become more acquiescent after a day and a night spent offering dreams of ecstasy to Hananja.” He shrugged one shoulder. “They do not understand outland women.”

A day and a night. Mnedza’s Hands, he had a high opinion of himself.

“I see,” she said, keeping her face serene. The Prince made no move to pull her against him, did nothing more than hold her hands and gaze into her eyes. She met his eyes without wavering, wondering what a Gujaareen woman would do in such a situation. He had strange eyes: a clear, pale brown, like polished amber from the tall forests across the sea. His skin was of a nearly matching shade—not unattractive, but certainly improper for a nobleman. Amazing that these Gujaareen had allowed even their royal lineage to be diluted by northerners.

She decided to banter. “And you understand outland women?”

“I have two hundred and fifty-six wives,” he replied, his voice rippling with amusement. “I can understand any woman.”

She laughed again, and after a moment’s further consideration stepped closer. His hands tightened immediately, pulling her nearer still until her breasts brushed against his chest through the folds of her gown. He leaned close, putting his face beside hers, cheek against cheek. He smelled of sandalwood and moontear blossoms.

“You find me amusing, Sunandi Jeh Kalawe?” His voice held only the barest hint of roughness; the lust was in him, but firmly controlled.

“I am a woman, my lord,” she replied, in the same tone he’d used a moment before. “I find any man amusing.”

He chuckled, breath warm against her ear, and began pulling her toward the couch, his grip coaxing her to stay close. “You’ll find I’m unlike any man you know, Sunandi.”

“Because of your great experience?” She posed the question carefully, knowing he would sense her true meaning but leaving him a safe outlet. He had two hundred and fifty-six wives, and was duty-bound to please them all. He was also far older than he looked. No one knew his age for certain, but he had ruled Gujaareh for more than thirty floods, and he didn’t look a day over that much. His lineage was famous for its longevity, said to be the gift of the Sun’s scions.

But the Prince only sat down as they reached the couch, pulling her to sit beside him. Not until she was seated did he release her hands, shifting his grip to her hips instead.

“Because I am the Avatar of Hananja,” he said, his golden eyes hungry as a lion’s, “and I will give you beautiful dreams.”

Once their business was concluded and the Prince slept, Sunandi rose from the couch to attend herself in the wash-chamber. She took care to confine her exploration of the Prince’s apartments only to what was in sight, for there was no telling when he might wake and come looking for her, and he would already be suspicious of her motives. Though she had expected to find nothing of note, her attention was caught in his study, where an iron case bristling with four elaborate eastern locks sat bolted to the desk.

There, she realized with a chill. The secret she had come to Gujaareh to find: it was there .

But she did not approach the case, not yet. Most likely it held dangerous traps; Gujaareen were fond of those. Instead she returned to the terrace, where with some unease she found the Prince awake, as alert as if he had never slept, and waiting for her.

“Find anything interesting?” His smile was a sphinx’s.

She returned it. “Only you,” she said, and lay down beside him again.

She returned to her suite late that night, just as the Dreamer passed zenith. The Prince had not made good on his boast of a full day and night of pleasure, but he’d given a respectable accounting of himself nevertheless. The pleasurable aches she felt in the aftermath told her that it was probably just as well. She’d gotten out of practice; by morning she would doubtless be sore.