V: Giving and Receiving

Kestrel drifted in and out of sleep. Time had no meaning; life consisted merely of the glimpses of white curtains, the scent of fresh herbs, that he caught between stretches of dreamless darkness.

Gradually, his waking moments started lasting longer, to the point where he could sit up and accept the water and thin broth the infirmary staff fed him. But every time he tried to leave the bed, his muscles spasmed and his strength leaked away like water from a spilled bucket.

"You need to rest," the staff cooed, but he saw the worry plain on their faces. They had no idea what was wrong with him.

Only Kestrel knew. Once, shortly after manifesting, he had lost control of his aura and accidentally blown down an entire barn. As a consequence, he’d spent a week bedridden. No one had known why, and he’d never told anyone. It was only then he’d learned how unusual he was: not only could he not detect scents, but his aura didn’t behave like anybody else’s.

At least the window had shattered—one small blessing. It gave him an excuse for the cuts all over his body. There was no way he could tell anyone that his aura injured him if he overused it.

After a while, he started to receive visitors. Lady Dulmer came with a basket of oranges, the first time he had seen her since the banquet. “You shouldn’t have gone off alone with the Prince’s Consort.”

Her condescension made Kestrel’s hackles rise. “If I wasn’t there, he’d have died.”

Lady Dulmer blinked. Perhaps she hadn’t expected him to contradict her. Then she sighed and busied herself peeling an orange. “True, true. But it’s better not to get tangled with that man. He’s got ghost blood, you know…who knows what strange powers he might possess?”

Well, they certainly couldn’t be as strange as Kestrel’s.

The next visitor was Torrance Dyneth, though he left quickly, perhaps because he needed another hit of moonweed. But he said, gazing at Kestrel with a curious pained expression, "You're brave too. Just like Mia."

Kestrel couldn't help it; his heart leaped. He'd always been weak like that.

Once, Dracen Thandemar and Ilya came in, but it happened right before he nodded off again. Later he heard voices echoing in the darkness, as if he was inside a cave.

"—not your fault, Ilya—you'll see, I'll make them understand—"

"If only he'd fucking wake up. What the hell did he even do?"

"He's an unbound energos, of course it took a lot out of him..."

"I don't like this, Dracen. That Basquiale, whatever he's got planned, and he has to drag me into it—"

The voices faded, leaving Kestrel alone in the dark.

When he awoke, a dim terror cramped his stomach. How much time had he spent in the infirmary? And he still showed no improvement. Even while awake, he was bleary and fuzzy-headed, and when he rubbed beneath his eyes, the skin ached like a new bruise.

What if his condition only deteriorated? What if each time he slept a little longer, until he he could no longer awaken?

Had he come to court only to die?

If he did, the line of Shanneray would truly end. Lerette wouldn’t come of age for another seven years. Much too long for a House to survive without a proper heir.

Surely Kestrel had a duty to live. If not for his own sake, then for his half-sisters'. For his mother's. He still needed to learn the truth behind her death. He couldn't join her just yet.

But the pillow was so comfortable, and his head was so heavy, and before he could stop himself his eyelids slid shut. They felt heavy as circles of lead.

The next thing he knew, the scent of moonflowers tickled his nose and a hand, soft and deliciously warm, touched his forehead.

It felt nice. Nobody had ever touched him like this before, least of all his mother.

Then a voice spoke. It was soft and lilting, and it struck a familiar chord in his heart.

"You look like a dead man, Lord Knight."

It took an eternity for Kestrel to force his eyelids open. When he did, he only saw a white and red blur. He watched one red blob move, opening and closing, forming words.

"This won't do. I wasn't under the impression that you were weak. Tell me, Lord Knight, are you weak?"

"By the Winds," Kestrel murmured, "I'm not."

"The Winds?"

"Do you not know what the Winds are?" It felt nice to talk like this. No thought about which words to choose. Just open his mouth and let it come out. "There's one for each direction. The Four Winds. Then the hundreds of Lesser Winds under them. They're capricious and they don't really care about people, but without them...without them...air wouldn't move...there'd be no life. 'Cause air has to move, or else it stagnates and grows sour and people get sick. You know?"

"I see." A scrape of wood on wood, like someone was drawing up a chair. "I like that concept. Swearing by something that's tangible and affects our everyday lives."

"What do you swear by here?"

"The Ancestors. The First. People who died long ago. What good can they do?"

"I don't know," Kestrel said. His vision had cleared enough for him to make out the details of Aramy's face. Those cheekbones could not be real. Not with such a smooth, unbroken sweep. He wished he could tell Aramy how beautiful he was, but for some reason he felt it would be wrong to do so. "I think it's important to know where you come from."

"I don't come from anyone but myself. I have no lineage."

"You have a family." Kestrel felt a sluggish stir of anger. Yes, that was one thing people shouldn't take for granted.

"I have a family, yes.” Aramy leaned forward, his earrings swinging. "But I don't have a lineage. Aether magi never do. It's sheer luck if we manage to find a teacher, if we can find books that are written by us rather than about us. We have no origin, no land, no history."

I'm the same, Kestrel wanted to say. The words danced on the tip of his tongue, but even in this most unusual of conversations, he recognized the danger they posed.

"Now are you going to lie here forever, Lord Knight? That would be a pity, especially after you saved my life."

"I want to get up," Kestrel said. "But I can't."

"You can.” Aramy tilted back his head. From this angle, his eyes sparkled like rubies in sunlight. They were as hard and fierce as his voice.

"I can't," Kestrel said again.

"Then I'll help. It's the least I can do.”

"What?" Kestrel felt that he'd lost control over this situation, if he'd ever had it in the first place. He needed to do something to stop what...whatever was going to happen, but he didn't know—

All thought vanished when Aramy pulled the blanket away. Kestrel gasped as the chilly air brushed his chest, only covered by a linen robe. He squirmed, wanting to escape, but Aramy pressed upon his breastbone.

Aramy was surprisingly strong. Or maybe Kestrel's muscles had already atrophied into nothing.

"Don't," Kestrel began.

"Do you want to walk again, Lord Knight?"

"Of course I—but you can’t—I mean, we're not—"

"Shh." Aramy pressed his fingertip to Kestrel's lips. The pressure was light, less than a raindrop, but it made his every nerve flare with exquisite awareness. He tried to rise, but Aramy pushed on his chest with both hands.

Kestrel forced himself to stare at Aramy's hands, those elegant long fingers tipped with crescent crimson nails Then further up, at the cuffs peeking from beneath his sleeves. Silver. Gold wouldn't suit Aramy; the only warm hue allowed on his body was red, stark as blood upon snow.

If I die now, some delirious part of Kestrel thought, I will die happy, because I'll have known true beauty.

He breathed in and out, adjusting to the pressure of Aramy's hands on his chest, and the whole situation no longer seemed so strange. When warmth trickled through his body, slipping into his veins like golden honey, he almost thought it was entering him through Aramy's hands...

Maybe it was. Blinking, Kestrel noticed a haze surrounded Aramy's body, blurring his features. The haze pooled around Aramy's hands before brushing across Kestrel's chest with coquettish hesitance. Wherever it touched, aches dissolved, tension released, and cuts stopped stinging.

He no longer felt any pressure, as if Aramy's hands had disappeared. As if the two of them had become one. As if the divide between noble and bastard, aether and wind magus, ministra and energos, meant nothing.

When the warmth began to fade, longing wrenched in his gut. He didn't want it to go. He sat up, not quite realizing that Aramy's hands had already slipped away, not quite registering how smooth and easy the movement was. It didn't seem to matter that his robe had slid down from his shoulders, pooling around his waist.

Right now he had nothing to hide. It was the sweetest feeling in the world, even if he knew it wouldn't last.

A smile lifted Aramy's lips. Aside from his slightly ragged breathing, he showed no signs of exhaustion. "How do you feel, Lord Knight?"