Waiting for the Yisun's Bloom

Only a thin paper wall separated my room inside Silk-Bite Keep from my charge's. Like every morning, I awoke one bell before sunrise -- and two before her. I crawled up naked from the sleeping mat and pushed myself upright by the knuckles of my fist.

First, the unarmed moves. Stretches, into the dance of the webbed bird. Leg-sweeps, kicks and punches. Advanced figures, and then the warrior's prayer. I did not allow the memories of sleep to intrude on my mediations, and the exertions did not soil the trials for my aching body.

The blade training, however, cannot be done in the nude. The water on the washing table, delivered the night before, felt biting cold -- as always. I cleaned myself and exhaled. The wet rag touched my coiled muscles, and in my mind's eye, I centred the heat of my beating heart. The biting memories of ice-floed mountain brooks sharpened away the remaining tiredness.

I dressed myself only in my tight training trousers and then approached the stands. The wood and straw and silk. Their carved and gilded ornamentations were the only extravagances in the clean, bright room. A man-high mannequin stored my armour, and my three blades were sorted by size on the rack beside. The antlered helmet sat alone on its bust.

Affixing the lacquered plates of bitewood without help would have never been practicable, so I weighed myself down by strapping the shellbreaker over my shoulder instead. The straps bit my flesh where old scars reminded me of the times my training had failed me. The graceful lessons of the Nightshade, and the graceless lessons of lesser shades. The price paid for guarding the Mist Scars, and later my charge's life.

Custom calls the warrior's one-handed swords our honour, and some poets even do so with skill. I have never called one of mine anything but a tool. My first broke during my schooling with the Turtle, and I lost two more patrolling the Scars. To the world, my honour remains unbroken, and my own regrets do not relate to shattered metal.

Still, gripping the hilt in morning twilight, there is a sense of calm and awe which none should deny. I did not bow, nor perform any other ritual. The weapon would not have cared, and if it did I imagine it would delight in skill. I began my dance by bending my knees into the swoop.

Swoop and soar. The moves of the Three Talon Technique. Done slower, and repeated until sweat started to stain my brow. Even thin metal tires the arm, and I gripped the blade with both hands. The Turtle do not name their chops, their all-breaking attacks. I moved as if holding the shellbreaker, as if the blade was heavy enough to cut down an armoured opponent with a single swing. A last strain, the light weapon back in my right; the explosion into the Seven Beaks. Quick thrusts, yet precise. I caught my breath and returned both weapons to their stands.

After, I cleansed myself again. I shaved off the silver stubbles of my beard and applied oils to my face and arms. Comb and silken ribbons tamed my hair into a tail. Our stay demanded I pay some attention to my face, so I drew black lines over my brows and dabbed a shade of ochre on my temple. I then laid out my clothes and prepared the sword belt.

Rested on my knees, dressed in my flowing mistweave pants and the blue and grey robe embroidered with twigs and blades, I waited for her. My left hand opened like the rising flame, and my right lingered on the hilt of the soul. Yet the tranquil nest escaped me. Soil-bound dreams had returned. Lubricious images, a curse of our human sides, plague many a warrior but reading the leather-bound pillow book had been weakness. Seeing beauty, I had wished it degraded. Waiting still and betraying no emotion, I nonetheless longed to return mortal signs to the waiting pages.

She always rose under the cover of sunlight. During the final thrusts, I had glanced her naked shadow dance on the white screen. Her station demanded a more involved style of clothing, and her ability to don the swing-sleeve dress without a human's aid had always impressed me. She opened the sliding door. Her face was painted white, and a few dots of elegant colour paid respect to ancient custom. And to our host's sensibilities. Birds, silver-stitched and pearly-eyed, played on the House-colours of her dress. Only the short soul-sword was hefted to her side.

I stood and bowed. "Good morning, Blossom, my Lady," I said. She gave me a nod. At court, her smile would be flawless, but for me, she dared to scowl. "Bad dreams?" I asked.

"Not enough sleep, Thorn, my brother."

"You work too hard, Blossom, my sister."

It was enough to make her smile. "And yet I never seem to work enough," she mumbled. I fell behind her, but she waved me close. "And I am babbling. What is on your mind, Thorn, my brother?"

I gave the less inappropriate answer. "The waiting, Blossom, my sister. Whisper and cabal test my patience at the best of times..."

"And yet you chose this assignment."

"Liking it more than fighting the shadow-touched and the lingering is not an endorsement."

She snapped open her fan, but joy sparked deep in her dark eyes.

"And you are most pleasant company, Blossom, my sister."

"D'aw."

I cleared my throat. "But. But waiting for the outlander is worse. I understand the need for diplomacy -- as you understand the need for warfare. And my personal misgivings aside, I know why we walk among the Spiders. But I do not understand why we should trouble ourselves with distant shores. And to wait like this is an insult."

"And yet the Dragon Empresses have paid tribute to these 'outlanders' since time immemorial. Surely, you have not forgotten, Thorn, my brother?"

"I have not. It is yet more proof of their arrogance. I cannot fathom why the Empress sees the need to humble herself like this, but..."

She hit me with her fan. Anyone else I might have blocked, but this attack left me flat-footed. "Are you mad?" she whispered. "The walls have ears, and you have gone from delightfully grumpy to blasphemous."

The whack did smart, but the shame hurt worse. "Forgive me, Blossom, my Lady. My thoughts are soiled this morning."

She relaxed. "I don't think anyone heard. Else we might decide that you started drinking early." I winced, but she rambled on. "Even if you were right, Thorn, my brother, it would be one more reason to gain the envoy's favour. She will have the Empress' ear, and influence over her is a surer way to avoid bloodshed than the tightest bonds I could ever forge with the Spider. And if that means waiting till the Yisun's bloom -- or longer -- so be it."

I said nothing and instead fell back. She was right, as always, and we were approaching the grand audience chamber anyway.

The Spider Lord had taken his seat on the dais at the far end of the hall. Beside him, his seneschal and commander knelt on smaller pillows without armrests. All three wore similar masks. Demonic grimaces, cast in gold and ending in fiery horns, covered all their faces. Arrayed from there, mats and simple cushions for the attending guests. For Blossom a plump silken pillow, and for me a straw mat two rows behind her. Most other guests were courtiers of the Spider, masked and seated on tangles of translucent silk.

I reached the nest this time. The program never changed, yet he insisted on explaining at length, again and again. First the talks: Honeyed words and hidden dangers, a game best avoided. They would serve tea and padpad cakes at least. Entertainment next, scenes, usually, and below even my own unrefined measure. Finally, lunch, followed by more of the same.

Movement on the dais shifted the flow of my meditations. The Lord did not pause his discussion of the lesser poet we would have to endure after lunch, but she did destroy all tranquillity. His Lady-wife wore the thin and tight black robe so often associated with her House. Or with the most disreputable of them -- spies, assassins, and courtesans. A thin, sheer veil barely covered her features. And I thought I could detect the outlines of a smile.

Blossom -- perhaps sensing my weaknesses -- had always taken delight in sharing rumours about the Spider's spies in general, and about those known to us in particular. The Lady Moonsend's alleged misdeeds surpassed the general aura of scandal common to all telling about the Shadow House and reached filth.

Deep within the Lord's quarters, she would receive the most valued guests naked. "Forgoing even a mask," Nightshade, my charge's friend among the Spider would add. The noblest Lady would then allow them to use her holes in ways that would make harp maidens blush.

She was said to have been the lover of at least three Great Lords, not counting her husband. And -- Blossom had been hesitant to repeat this rumour even in whisper -- to the Dragon Empress herself. When courage had deserted the Lord Spider's human troops and whispers of mutiny had filled the war camp, his wife had offered her body to the groundling hordes and allowed herself be used and abused by unwashed cocks until her face, her whole body, was covered with their earthen seed.

Similar stories, glitzed by the luxuriant details the soil-born consider acceptable, filled many a leather-bound pillowbook. Details which clouded my mind. Pubes trimmed and shaved down to inviting shapes. Thaw between her eager lips. The lewdest slurps and moans. The stiffened nipples I was certain I saw.

By the Slut Progenitor's mercy -- she delights in debauchery -- my degeneration had not yet been complete. No one had moved while I daydreamed about the Lady Spider, while my focus had been lost. My charge remained unmolested, and she now rose, her face emotionless. But mercy's grasp can not exceed wickedness, and the First Nightingale is said to always test men. Standing, even the looser cut would not hide my reaction. So I remained on my knees.

"You should be more attentive, Thorn, my brother," Blossom said.

I knew her enough to know that this was not in fact her complaint. "Forgive me, Blossom, my Lady, but it seems weakness has a claim on my bones today."

"Bones, Thorn, my brother? Bones?" She did not smile, but her glee was obvious, nonetheless.

Before she could tease me further, Nightshade approached, her own protector in tow. A dark, ornate half-mask, fashioned from lacquered cloth and even leather, covered the left half of her face. Her style of dress; thin, night-black silks flowing and rising in enticing strands from her long and slit seven-thread skirt, mirrored and rivalled that of her Lord's wife. Similar subtle yet luxuriant embroideries accented the curves of her body; and, as I noticed from my lowered seat, the loose folds were not held properly by her sea-red sash, a moment's inattention would cause the whole dress to slip.

"Speaking of weary bones, Blossom, my sister," she said, "how do you stand these tortures every morn?"

"I am grateful to be invited, and your house have been the most gracious hosts," Blossom answered.

The Spider woman smiled, then nodded. Her friendship with my charge had always been a mystery to me. On the surface, she was the most despicable exemplar of her house: All mask, no sincerity. She asked more than she answered and frequently scratched against the limits of tactlessness. Whatever answers she did give; she was likely to claim the opposite tomorrow. Her love of rumours -- possibly the only genuine thing about her -- I could not much hold against her; I have learned to greet the Striped Dog as an old friend, and I imagine courtiers suffer similar relations to the Nightshade during their training. Those of her house especially, to say nothing of her name. And maybe my charge had been able to find something lurking behind the facade. The Spider courtier moved, and her robe slipped.

A human brought drinks, hot water infused with the rarest herbs, and Nightshade served us. Blossom first, then her own guardian. I had seen the sinewy man around; a good fighter if prone to the Spider's chief weakness: An over-reliance on tricks with noticeable shortcomings in the basics.

Finally, she served me. Her body moved with a gesture of almost obscene courtesy. Again, the loose robes slipped, unseen by the others, and I espied her exposed mounds. All my effort to calm the telltale signs of a soiled mind turned to naught. I at least managed a sitting bow, and a murmured "thank you."

"My pleasure, Thorn, my Lord," she said. Rising, biding her time, she shot me a wink. Then turned to my charge, and asked: "Blossom, my sister, I have been thinking. Is it not curious how words which were invented to hide complex truths from time to time reveal so much more?"

"What do you mean, Nightshade, my sister?"

"Exactly," said the Spider, "I think of you as a sister. Not an acquaintance, not even a dear friend. Truly, I feel closer to you than to my own blood."

Blossom snapped open her fan. "And I you," she said, her face hidden behind the grey and blue paper.

"And yet," said Nightshade, "isn't it curious how little we know of the other worthies in each other's life? I do not think Thorn has ever even been formally introduced to me -- and I know for a fact that you did not know Stinger's name."

"You are quite right. Lord Stinger? If you'd like I would entrust my life to you." Blossom held out her hand, and the wooden-masked warrior hurried to her side. "That is if you feel safe in Thorn's capable hands, Nightshade, my sister?"

"There are no hands I would rather shield me, Blossom, my sister. Stinger? Why do you not show the inner gardens to the Lady Blossom?"

I looked after them, alone and trapped in the spider's web. Blossom had kept her face hidden behind her fan, and both Spiders seemed to laugh behind their masks. I realized with trepidation that all the other nobles had long since left the grand hall.

With practised gestures, Nightshade ordered the attendants. She requestioned more infusion and cakes, and she had her pillow moved next to mine. After, she dismissed the humans. We were all alone. The air tasted of promise, and of danger.

She took her seat. Again, she flashed her skin; and again my member betrayed me. "Show it to me, then," she said.

"Whatever do you mean, Nightshade, my Lady?"

"Show me your cock. You might've fooled my sweet Blossom, but I saw you looking. Who could blame you? The Lady Spider is a whoresome sight, and every -- every man might fall for her. No, Thorn, my brother, do not even bother to deny it. Dearest Blossom might not have noticed, but -- but she did. My dear sister is clever like that." The side of her mouth not covered by her mask crept upward.

"Forgive me, Nightshade, my Lady. You guessed right." I bowed my head. "The Lady Blossom was good enough to cover my weaknesses, but I see you are too sharp-eyed to be fooled. Forgive me, Nightshade, my Lady, for bringing dishonour into the halls of your House."

"Nonsense," she said. Her robe slipped more, and my cock reacted. "You are a warrior. Flesh, and muscles, and sinew, and even the soil, should ever be close to your mind. It is why I like you. And why I would like to see your spear."

I lowered myself down. I placed both palms on the floor, and I then pushed myself upright. The erection tented the flowing fabric. I lowered my head.

She looked up, her head close to my centre. "Pull it out then, Thorn, my brother, I want to see it all. Show me your hard cock."

The outrageous command only made me harder. "As you command." I tensed, and I tried to replace weakened knees with tensile metal. Air escaped from my wearied lungs, and I freed my cock.

"Oh my! And they say the Nightingale lacks for men. And that your womanly ways make you shrivelled and small. But you are magnificent. May I touch it?"

Lights danced before my eyes, but I did nod. And I then felt her slender fingers on my shaft.

She cooed again. "Close your eyes, Thorn, my brother," she said, and I obeyed. Her mask rustled, and then her lips touched mine. She, rubbing and kissing, brought me to the edge of orgasm.

"I'm close."

"Good." She redoubled her efforts. "Cum for me, Thorn, my brother. Show me your seed, and soil the hall."

"I can't," I said, but I knew that I could not resist. Faster and faster strokes beat me into submission, and her viper tongue wrestled down mine. "Progenitor's mercy!" I came.

She giggled and stepped back. Her mask moved again. "You can look," she said. Her pose was demure, but telltale white dripped from her fingertips. She slurped them clean. "Mhmm. And a promise of more to come."

"Forgive me." I bowed. More of my emissions had pooled on the parqueted floor. Panic gripped me, and I lowered myself deep and deeper. "Please, Nightshade, my Lady, could you ever forgive my folly?"

"Aren't you just the cutest, Thorn, my brother?" She cleaned my cock with swift hands and a silken kerchief. "Here." She handed me the rag. "Best be thorough, Thorn, my brother. Humans are the most horrible gossips."

Frenzied, I dropped to the floor and wiped away the traces. Finished, I stood and held out the piece of cloth. A laugh. I felt like a sheep, or like its herder. And I then put it away under her continued laughter.

"A sign of my favour, Thorn, my brother. Now shall we find our friends? They might get suspicious -- and we wouldn't want them to think that we did anything untoward." Smiling, she offered me her arm, and we searched for Blossom and the Spider warrior amongst the shrubs and orchids. Even uniting with good company did not make the following performances bearable. The food, however, was good.

"Thorn, my brother?" asked Blossom. The tone in her voice was curious, but after a day of failed entertainment, my mind was a muddle. When I did not answer she fell silent.

"Did you want something, Blossom, my sister?" I asked when we reached our rooms.

"No. Nothing. I was just wondering -- never you mind. I know you can be trusted, Thorn."

"Of course. You know you can trust me."

She gave a very formal bow, tip-toed to the side, and allowed me into her room. "Sit."

Some luxuries filled the more spacious bower. A desk and a separate table with toiletries. A thicker mattress and five sitting pillows. A heavy wooden chest and her own set for the preparation of infusions. "Sit," she said again, and I obeyed.

Whiteearth clacked, and boiling water rushed as she prepared our drink. I had tried to gainsay, but she had been insistent. Steadying my breathing, I searched for the calm of the nest. The soulwood whisk, balanced on her immaculate fingertips, muddled the herbs into the bubbling liquid. Soil-like thoughts circled the nest, but her grace could not be denied. The fragrance of flowers and mist filled the air.

She served the steaming cup with a bow. "Here, Thorn, my brother, I hope it is to your taste."

I took a careful sip. "A divine brew, Blossom, my sister. You honour me."

Smiling, she took her seat opposite mine. She sipped hers, then hid her face behind her fan. "I have not allowed you to see harp maidens. And you had the good sense to follow my suggestion regarding your entanglement with our gracious hosts."

"My life is yours to command," I said. She watched me, sharp-eyed, from behind the edge of her fan. To look away would have betrayed me. The nest had been close, and I regained some calm. I reigned in my features. This was my hope. "But I will confess to you a weakness of spirit. Sometimes I struggle with earthly lust." Looking away after such a confession is normal, and so I did.

She snapped the painted paper shut and revealed a grinning face. "I am well aware, Thorn, my brother, and the restraint you have shown does you honour. I have a confession to make as well." Sipping from her cup, she continued. "I expect a guest tonight, and I fear my own thoughts have turned to matters of the soil." A coarse blush flawed her face.