Win: The Atlantis Grail, #3

Chapter 1

June, 2048.

Today is the most impossible day of my life.

Today I plummeted from orbit in an alien transport shuttle, landed in the private airfield of the Imperial Palace in Poseidon, and took my first steps upon the surface of the planet Atlantis—while carrying bags made too heavy by the excessive gravity, wearing wraparound sunglasses against the merciless glare of Hel, the white sun, and awkwardly hiding tears caused by a devastated heart.

And then, in just a few hours, a crazy whirlwind of unbelievable events took place, for which I have no words.

Culminating in all this . . . whatever this is, happening right now.

Aeson Kassiopei, the Imperial Crown Prince of Atlantis, has just done the unthinkable—after cruelly brushing me off only this morning in the shuttle, he now singled me out from the Palace crowd, grabbed me by the hand, dragged me up the red path toward the Throne, and announced me as his Imperial Consort and Bride.

And then he kissed me in front of his Father the Imperator and all the Imperial Court.

Right now, I am in shock.

I am standing next to Aeson before the Imperial Throne.

Okay, what just happened?

I am holding his hand—or he is holding mine—and I am shaking with a perfectly insane combination of euphoria, joy, triumph, confusion, terror, and absolute blazing anger.

I still feel the sting of his impossible kiss on my sweetly bruised lips. . . .

Raw pulses of desire still move in waves throughout my body, concentric circles of wild energy slowly receding outward with every heartbeat. . . .

And my ice-cold fingers are enclosed in his warm, powerful ones. His large palm covers my trembling hand with steady strength, clasping me tight. From it, sweet heat is spreading. . . .

Oh, no, I am so damn furious at him! I am also relieved and confused and stunned, and infernally happy, all at the same time!

What has he done? He chose me!

This is the most surreal moment of my existence. I am still unable to grasp what just happened to me—to him and me—and whether I’ve just hallucinated everything.

Is this just a bizarre dream?

No, it’s real . . . it must be.

Indeed, the reality of other sound around me is registering at last, slipping in past my euphoria. The Imperial Court of Atlantida is humming like a beehive in turmoil. . . .

From all directions I can hear it, the loud whispers . . . people shifting in place as they stand . . . turbulent movement as heads turn, draw closer to each other to speak with discretion . . . nervous looks exchanged, general confusion moving through the Atlantean ranks in clamoring waves. . . .

This tumult in the crowd around us, on both sides of the red path where we stand, is echoing my own internal state.

What has he done?

As though Aeson Kassiopei senses my crazed mix of emotions, he now squeezes my hand meaningfully. At the same time, he again pulls me with him, and together we take another step closer to the dais, approaching the Imperial Throne.

Approaching the Imperator, his Father.

I glance sideways in that moment, and see Aeson’s inflamed gaze, as he turns in the same moment to look at me. His eyes are fierce, desperate, filled with wild emotion, imploring and overwhelming me at the same time. . . .

Meanwhile, his hold on my hand is so tight that once again it is starting to be painful—as though he is unable to let go.

In the next instant, Aeson turns to face his Father.

Precisely then, the Imperator speaks for the first time. His dark low voice strikes the great chamber, sending echoes rebounding.

So this is your Choice. An Earth female of no distinction and no bloodline.

Romhutat Kassiopei, the Archaeon Imperator of Atlantida, speaks in a strange, neutral tone, with only a minor inflection of disdain, but the words come down like hammer blows, and the Court falls deathly silent at the sound of it.

I forget to breathe.

In his magnificent attire of dark scarlet and gold, the Imperator is a god frozen to stone. . . . His Imperial Crown of Atlantida resembles a pharaoh’s war crown headdress called a Khepresh, only of scarlet cloth, not Egyptian blue, with a band of gold from which the Uraeus cobra serpent rises from his forehead. He is vaguely middle-aged, darkly handsome, with impassive angular features. No movement, no physical reaction. From his elevated Throne he merely looks at his son and at me with the devastating stare of an ancient dragon.

Yes, Aeson replies in an unflinching loud voice. She is my Choice and I have made my Claim.

There is a long pause during which I can hear my heartbeat pound wildly in my temples.

Then the Imperator looks specifically at me.

How do I know this? Considering how emotionally messed up I am at the moment, I don’t possess the strength to look directly into his eyes, nor do I think it’s a good idea to do so. But I can feel the terrible weight of his gaze—familiar somehow, almost tangible, reminiscent of the intense manner in which his son occasionally looks at me, but only during the moments of our most fierce conflict.

The Imperator is examining me, evaluating me, dissecting me, I realize. And he is making my skin crawl. . . .

I stand, frozen with awe, expecting him to address me at any moment. But it does not happen. Instead, there is only more excruciating silence, and the Imperial gaze bearing down upon me. . . .

Very well, the Imperator says at last, in the voice of a serpent, dismissing me with a blink. The full burden of his gaze is now trained upon his son. The Imperial Consort and Bride has been Chosen and is Acknowledged before My Court.

Wow, okay. . . . I did not see that coming.

Where is his displeasure, his reluctance, his wrath?

It must all be there, seething underneath the infernal composure. . . . But it is all held under such perfect control, hidden by subtle impenetrable layers of disdain and mockery and nearly absolute power.

The Imperator is toying with us. . . .

Aeson Kassiopei squeezes my fingers again, then inclines his head slightly, bowing before the Throne. I respond to his nudge with only a tiny delay of a millisecond, and bow my head also, following his lead.

Come, My Son and your Bride, you may approach and take your Seat at my side.

Immediately I experience a deer-in-the-headlights moment of terror—after all, Consul Denu only taught me what to do in case the Imperator singles me out from the crowd in Low Court, not what to do if I am suddenly made the Imperial Consort and told to ascend the dais and actually sit on one of the Imperial Seats next to him.

But again, Aeson Kassiopei helps me by guiding me after him, tugging my hand discreetly as he takes the five stair steps with careless practiced ease and then sits down in the lesser-backed gold chair directly on the right of the Imperator, and positions me to occupy the first backless bench seat to his own right.

I walk up the dais on legs that nearly buckle from under me, and not so much sit down as collapse on the golden cushioned bench next to Aeson.

Next to my Bridegroom, a crazy thought comes to me, striking me with its full insanity.

I am a Bride. . . . WTF! I am his Bride. . . .

The next instant I once more feel Aeson’s hand over mine. It covers me with its warm fierce strength, and he does not move it away as we sit.

From the bizarre vantage point of where I am now—raised up several feet above floor level over the Court, illuminated from on high by spotlights of golden radiance, with my back against the magnificent golden sunburst relief on the wall—I stare at the vast chamber before me, its expanse filled with a multitude of the highest Atlantean nobility. . . .

And they stare back at me. Their faces reflect various degrees of amazement, disapproval, wonder, disdain, and above all, curiosity.

Suddenly I feel like an elegant zoo specimen on display before a very alien and discriminating world. . . .

Then I think, out of the blue, Oh wow—Mom and Dad! What if they saw me now? And what about Gracie, Gordie . . . George? Oh, this is surreal!

I blink, and my stunned gaze inadvertently rests upon the closest people in the crowd—the section of High Court that is the crème de la crème of Atlantean high society.

Here I see grand golden wigs, intricate headdresses, enough priceless jewelry to fill a treasury, expensive fabrics and precious metals, exquisite makeup and cosmetic enhancements. I also see men and women who wear gold filigree skull caps and robes of gold and white—members of the Poseidon Imperial Executive Council, as I recall, from Consul Denu’s earlier commentary.

And then, with a sudden pang of nerves in my gut, I notice Lady Tiri—she’s in the very front row, the now-familiar perfect beauty dressed in the glorious golden outfit. I recognize her immediately, the layers of ethereal fabric surrounding her elegant figure, her flowing metallic hair, and her devastating green-honey-hazel eyes, which now bore into me with absolute vicious hatred.

Lady Tiri stands glaring at me with barely repressed fury, and her loveliness is marred by the tension of her fine facial muscles, held barely in check. She does not bother to hide her reaction before the Court, and shows far less control over her emotions than any of the other gorgeous young women lined up on both sides of her—they also stare at me with various degrees of confusion and displeasure. While the other Atlantean girls merely examine me critically, she is sending me a killing look like a focused beam of light, intended to put me in my place.

I’ve just made a serious enemy, it occurs to me. And then I think about how many other enemies there might be in that crowd, in that moment, all watching me. . . . People whose intricate political plans I’ve ruined merely by being chosen by the Imperial Crown Prince.

Not to mention, there is the Imperator himself, sitting one Seat away.

While all this chaos passes through my mind as I look out into the faces of the crowd, Aeson’s hand continues to cover mine with a steady warm presence, his touch anchoring me in the moment. I don’t dare move my hand, nor do I want to. Honestly, if it weren’t for his touch, I would be trembling uncontrollably. . . .

In that moment the Imperator speaks loudly, jolting me out of my senses.

"My Court of Atlantida! It appears, this is a night to celebrate. Tonight, My Son has Chosen at last his Imperial Consort and Bride—and all of you stand Witness to the occasion. Behold and Acknowledge!"

And while the echoes of his deep voice still ring throughout the chamber, the entire Assembly focuses their attention on me and slowly lowers their heads, bowing before the Throne.

But no, wait, this can’t be right. . . . They are bowing before me.

Dear God in Heaven!

I feel the gazes of thousands of eyes on me, pressing from all directions, so that suddenly I am short of breath and drowning, and I begin to tremble. . . .

Aeson squeezes my hand in that moment, again.

I continue to stare straight ahead, at the Court, and I don’t dare look away or turn my face to glance over to my left, toward Aeson. But somehow I know he is now looking at me, along with everyone else. Indeed, despite all those alien stares of strangers, I am aware of his intimate gaze upon me, and it’s like a beam of sunlight, warming me, steadying me. . . .

The Imperator remains silent, while the Court looks on, having bowed before me, and now waiting for whatever must come next.

Okay, now what? How long must we sit up here like fancy alien dolls? This is a nightmare.

I desperately try to maintain my posture, sit upright and not move a muscle.

The Imperator must be doing this on purpose, torturing his own son and me in punishment, in front of his entire Imperial Court.

Just as the wait becomes unbearable, Romhutat Kassiopei, Archaeon Imperator, speaks once more, turning to his son—and including me, seated just beyond, in his sphere of attention.

Tell me, Prince Aeson, My Son, what gift should I bestow upon you and your Bride? I had in mind to give you one of the Eastern Provinces along the Great Nacarat Plateau, when I expected you to align yourself with the Fuorai Family. But now that you have chosen elsewhere, I don’t anticipate that your Earth Bride will properly appreciate it. Therefore, you will be given some other thing. So, what will it be?

I listen, barely breathing, trying very hard to focus on the meaning of the Atlantean words the Imperator is using. At least, it’s the gist of what he is saying. But the undertone is rich with mockery.

But Aeson replies without a pause, inclining his head minimally. His voice is steady and clear. I am honored, My Father, on behalf of myself and my Bride. There is no need for such a grand gift, at least not until Gwen Lark, my Bride, has had time to better know her new home—

And yet you shall have it. I give you three days to consider what it is you want. The Imperator cuts him off in an inviolate tone.

Aeson inclines his head once more. Then I must thank you, My Father. And after a slightest pause, adds, There is one thing I want right now—to be alone with my Bride. Therefore, I invoke my Bridegroom Privilege. Do I have Your permission to depart this Assembly together with my Bride, so that we can retire to my private Quarters?

Aeson’s words trail off and surprisingly are met with soft waves of laughter around the Court. Even the Imperator makes a sound similar to a snort—but I can’t be too sure, since I haven’t heard him laugh or act anywhere close to human. . . .

My pulse starts racing wildly at the meaning of what was just said. If I understand Aeson correctly, he just told everyone here that he wants to take me to his room and be with me?

Is that why everyone is suddenly laughing?

Oh, God. . . .

My cheeks, my neck, all of my face—everything is flooded with an instant horrible blush.

It is in your right, yes, the Imperator says. Well then, you may go. I excuse you from the rest of tonight’s Assembly. Go and be with your Bride. But I expect to see both of you tomorrow. Be ready for my summons.

My Father, I understand and thank you.

The next moment I feel a firm tug on my hand, and Aeson rises from his Seat, pulling me after him so that I stand also.

We descend the five steps from the dais onto the red path. Here, Aeson Kassiopei turns around once more, and I move with him, like a puppet on shaky legs, so that we both face the Imperator. We bow before him nearly in unison—by now I know the meaning of the hand squeeze and can anticipate it.

The Imperator merely watches us like a dragon.

And then we turn our back to the Imperator of Atlantida once again. We walk at a steady pace along the red path down the length of the Pharikoneon, the great ancient chamber that is the Imperial Throne Hall.

The Court stares at us, and whispers accompany us on both sides as we pass. I look straight ahead, avoiding everyone’s eyes, while my hand burns in Aeson’s steady grasp. Oh no, there, just to my right, is Lady Tiri. Don’t look at her, I tell myself. Don’t look. . . .

However, as we pass the Low Court section, I briefly glance to the side to see Consul Denu standing there, smiling at me, acknowledging me with a gracious nod as soon as our gazes meet. His familiar face is such a relief that a lump begins forming in the back of my throat, and I blink in order to hold back the tears. . . .

We reach the back of the chamber, and pass the Pharikoneon Gates, emerging into the ante-chamber, where immediately a security detail surrounds us. I recognize the same six guards who had come with us on the shuttle this morning. Two of them walk before us, two flank us, and two more bring up the rear.

We walk out of the ante-chamber into a network of Palace corridors, picking up the pace now. Aeson remains silent, while I find that I have to almost run in order to keep up with him. Trembling with the emotional overload, I continuously glance up at him with anxiety, but he continues to look straight ahead. This way I only see his profile, and from what I can tell, his expression is serious and grim. Meanwhile, his possessive grip on my hand is once more a painful iron vise.

Where . . . are we . . . I start to say, finding myself breathless.

But he throws me a fevered look that slips away just as quickly, as though he is afraid to maintain eye contact, and says in a low voice, Keep going.

Moments later we enter an elevator that swiftly takes us to an upper floor. We exit into a particularly elegant long corridor decorated with mosaic inlay and marble, and then come to the end of it, to a grand set of massive double doors carved with elaborate relief designs and jewel stones.

At the doors Aeson Kassiopei stops and turns to the guards, speaking in a cold commanding tone, I am not to be disturbed by anyone until morning. No one may enter my Quarters until I tell you otherwise.

Understood, My Imperial Lord, the head guard says, and they all salute sharply.

But Aeson is no longer looking at them. Instead he presses a gold handle, opens the doors and steps past the guards, pulling me inside after him.

He does not let go of my hand until we are safely within, and the doors have been closed from the inside.

––––––––

The moment the door clicks shut, and my hand is free, I step backward, away from him. I stand, panting with desperate emotion and the exertion of walking too fast in an environment of heavier gravity—my hands, arms, knees, all of me, is trembling uncontrollably, while my extremities are cold.

With my peripheral vision I take in the grandeur of the suite around me, the lofty ceiling cast in distant shadow, the rich earth tone furnishings, the gold and marble and luxury out of a fabled storybook. . . . But my immediate attention is on him—Aeson Kassiopei.

My former commanding officer, the Imperial Crown Prince, and now my Bridegroom, stands before me, looking at me with an impossible mix of raw emotions in his lapis lazuli blue eyes. His expression is full of contradictory things—vulnerability, soft wonder, overbearing intensity. He’s only a step away, close enough that he can just reach out for me—and I for him—in order to close the distance between us.

I can hear his quickened breathing the same way I hear my own . . . and the pounding pulse in my temples threatens to deafen me, while the pressure in the back of my throat is overwhelming.

I am shaking. . . . Now that we’re alone, I am going into full-body shock, and I can barely inhale each breath because of the choking sensation, the horrible pressure of impending tears.

What . . . what did you . . . what is happening . . . what did you do— I start mumbling, because I must say something at that point, but I find I cannot form coherent sentences.

Gwen . . . he says gently, looking at me with vulnerable expressive eyes.

And then I scream.

What did you do?

I rush at him and pound him impotently with my fists, while an explosion of tears comes gushing out of me, so that my vision is a blur, and all I can do is feel the expensive fabric of his dark blue jacket against my hands, and underneath it, the muscular hardness of his chest as I strike at him—and he lets me. "What . . . what . . . did . . . you . . . do!" I repeat, over and over.

At the same time his arms come around me and he holds me very lightly with a strange tenderness, as though he doesn’t dare embrace me with his full strength—and even so, his arms are powerful around me, and I am oddly comforted even as I rave.

Gwen, he says, I am—I—

"You what? What? I scream, choking on my sobs. What happened, what did you do to me? You chose me as your goddamn Bride? You—you—didn’t even ask me! You just assumed it was okay, and so you—what? What does it mean? What happened? Why did you do this to me—"

I am so sorry, he says, his voice gentle as I’ve never heard it to be. So sorry that I didn’t ask you properly. But—it had to be done this way, for your own safety. I had to keep you safe. . . .

He reaches up with one hand and runs his fingers against my wet cheek, sending a warm current throughout me at the touch, a potent electric charge. . . .

"No! Don’t touch me!" I slap his hand away and disengage myself from his embrace, striking his chest again for good measure. Then I take a step back again, finding myself backed against the door through which we just entered. There is no place to run. . . .

He sighs deeply and puts his hands up in a calming gesture. It’s all right, I will not—will not touch you. . . . Please, Gwen, don’t be afraid. . . . I had to do this, I had to—

I wipe the tears and the mess of my face roughly with the back of my hand and sniffle with my nose. "What do you mean you had to? I don’t understand! How could you just do this immense, terrible, life-changing decision thing without first asking me?"

His eyes are wounded and full of intensity. Is it really so terrible to be married to me? To be chosen as the Bride of a future Imperator? he says softly, in the same voice that rips into my heart.

"It is, if you didn’t ask and I didn’t give my consent! I raise my voice again, and this time my anger dominates my tears and lends me strength and resonance. First, you dragged me down to the planet under some stupid excuse that your Father wanted to see me—"

Aeson shakes his head. It was not an excuse, it was a command. He ordered me to bring you down to the surface—

"Okay, so—even if he did, I interrupt him. But then you were so awful to me in that shuttle! You cut me down like I was a nothing, told me I was never to speak to you again, ever, not under any circumstances, and you were no longer my commanding officer but the Imperial Crown Prince! I realize I’m a nobody compared to your divine Kassiopei blood, but I thought at least you cared on some level—"

I do care! he exclaims, drawing closer to me again, but remembering and not touching me. His face with its inflamed gaze hovers above mine, and I feel the heat of his breath against my cheek, my lips. . . . "Listen to me, Gwen . . . it broke me to say the things that I said to you in the shuttle. But I had to make you believe—believe that we were done. He—my Father—has spies everywhere. I could not risk having you act as though we had any kind of relationship. I had to hurt you—hatefully, unforgivably. I— he pauses briefly, as his own words falter, and the agony in his eyes makes my own agony that much more acute, and I am once again shaking. I will never forgive myself for what I had to do—"

"It was horrible! You made me feel like dirt! And you broke my heart!" I exclaim, looking up into his eyes. My voice cracks and fades away, as anger again gives way to the choking onslaught of tears.

He blinks, moves back a little, giving me some breathing space.

For a few seconds I sob with deep convulsive shudders, then catch my breath violently and stop. Again I wipe the back of my hand against my face with all its fine courtly makeup that’s now a disgusting mess, then glare at him through my tear-blurred eyes. "You—you really hurt me! And then you—what you did was—"

I know, he says in a dead voice. And the only thing I can do now is explain to you why.

All right—go ahead. Explain! I breathe raggedly, watching him.

And with a grave expression he does.

"My Father told me to bring you here urgently, because he found out—how, I don’t know yet, but I have my suspicions—he found out that you keyed the Quantum Stream to yourself during the Cadet Pilot Race. With such abilities, you were no longer a simple curiosity but a threat. He told me that his plans for you have changed. You were now to be studied and experimented on—basically, dissected by the dark scientists, those arcane priests and lab experts who work in secret, doing unspeakable things on behalf of the Imperial Throne."

He pauses, gathering breath, while I stare at him in stunned shock.

I was—I was supposed to bring you in and deliver you to him—and to them, he continues, and his eyes are filled with pain. There wasn’t going to be a normal life for you in Atlantis, not ever. The moment you set foot here, you would have been escorted directly from the Imperial Court reception to one of my Father’s secret research facilities.

Oh my God . . . I whisper, while a wave of debilitating cold rises inside me. Suddenly I am numb.

Aeson watches me with his solemn intense expression. He remains silent, giving me seconds to process.

I stand frozen and stare into space, then look into his eyes. . . . I—I didn’t know. As I say this, the realization sinks in.

They were going to lock me up in a lab and experiment on me.

They were going to—

I find that I am perfectly motionless, steeping in the sudden cold reality, grappling with this new perspective. I look away in abstraction, and my gaze wanders, while my mind races in anxiety as I try to come to terms with the horror of what I just learned. . . .

And then it occurs to me.

He saved me. . . . He saved my life.

And probably sacrificed his own future to do it.

I take in a shuddering breath. "You—what you did—I had no idea. They were going to study me?—Oh my God! So then, what you did for me, that means—I owe you—I—"

I put my hands over my mouth, rub my face again, then look up at him with a wild expression. The moment I see his eyes watching me with such gentleness, the pressure of tears comes back again. Just like that, the stupid water is pooling, and my vision is blurred, until deep sobs once more wrench my body.

You . . . you risked . . . your Father’s anger . . . and your own position to . . . save me, I barely manage to say in-between sobs. "Which means . . . I can’t even begin to . . . thank you. But—did it have to be this way? You didn’t warn me . . . didn’t ask—"

Gwen, he says. "This was the only way to keep you out of his clutches. The Imperial Consort and Bride has legal rights, and is protected by the ancient laws of the land. Not even the Imperator may touch you now, and only the Imperial Crown Prince may command you. You are under my direct protection now, formally, for as long as you are alive."

Wait. . . . Command me? I echo him. "What—what does that mean? That you are the one who can order me around?"

Oh, in the name of sanity . . . I’ve been ‘ordering you around’ for months now! He exhales in frustration, and shakes his head. Gwen! You are missing the point!

Well, no, I am still trying to wrap my head around the point! I am no longer crying, and now I frown, rub my cheeks and forehead with my hands.

I must admit, at this point my feelings are an absolute conflicted mess—gratitude and warmth, residual anger at him, despair at the realization of what fate I narrowly escaped—and I don’t even know what else! I’m a ridiculous emotional wreck, and it needs to stop.

The point is, he says passionately, "is that you are now safe. Do you understand? Safe! And you are free to live your life—"

"To live my life with you," I interrupt.

With me, yes.

Suddenly he moves in, and both his hands grasp my upper arms, pulling me toward him. I think he’s forgotten that he is not supposed to touch me, and momentarily so have I.

He holds me, looking at me fiercely, desperately, and our faces almost touch, breath mingling. The places where the bare skin of my arms makes contact with his hands are wildly alive, burning . . . waves of strange molten power course up my arms and down my back, making me weak and pliant, so that I begin to sink toward him, overcome with his proximity.

I am a moth and he is a flame. . . .

No!

I straighten and move back again, and my frown deepens. Why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me any of this up front? I say evenly, keeping my voice from trembling. "Okay, I get it that you were trying to protect me, and I am very grateful, but—but—why didn’t you trust me? If you had told me about the danger I was in, if you had explained this in advance, and given me the choice, I mean, I’m not an idiot—"

No. Aeson Kassiopei looks desperately into my eyes. You’re not. But you are stubborn and impossible. And I could not risk you saying ‘no’ to me—not in this, and not this time.

My mouth falls open and I glare at him. "What? Do you mean to tell me that if I’d told you ‘no, I don’t want to marry you,’ you would still have gone through with it?"

He pauses, tightens his mouth into a line, as though considering his answer. And then he says, To be honest? Yes. I would’ve chosen you as my Bride regardless, in front of my Father and the Imperial Court. Because I couldn’t let anything happen to you. It’s the only way, and I’m not going to ask forgiveness for my actions.

He ends, breathing heavily, watching me with intensity.

I’m reeling with a mixture of anger and strange inexplicable satisfaction. But I am not done. Do you realize how absolutely insane this sounds? I say, shaking my head in disbelief. "You basically kidnapped me! I don’t know how you do things here on Atlantis, but on Earth we don’t do this kind of caveman barbarian crap! We ask each other out first! And then we ask again, before mutually deciding on making a committed relationship! This is nuts!"

Is that so? Now he is beginning to frown at me. From what I’ve studied of Earth customs, even as recent as the 21st Century, you have quite a few cultures where women are still considered the property of men, and where no one asks for consent when it comes to most aspects of their lives! So don’t give me your Earth as the paragon of human rights!

Okay, now my head is ready to explode with anger. I take a step, this time advancing on him, so that I’m the one leaning up into his face. What? You’re using barbaric, archaic, completely unacceptable backward customs to excuse yourself?

You’re the one who brought up barbarians! he retorts in a hard, sarcastic voice, but he does not move away. In that instant we are so close that his lips are almost touching mine. . . .

Incidentally, he continues, "here on Atlantis we have perfectly civilized similar laws and human rights. But you need to understand that what happened to you was a special case, a very particular exception! And I’ve already given you a sufficiently logical explanation. So, enough! No more excuses from me, it is done! You are my Bride under the law of Atlantida, and you will be my Wife—something for which you will thank me later."

Oh, yeah? I am shaking, this time in pure white-hot anger. "Well, guess what, my so-called ‘Imperial Lord,’ I am not your anything, and you are so not touching me! You have not asked me, and I have not given my consent to be your Wife, and this is just unbelievable!"

Yes, I know I’m being irrational, all things considered. But I’m just so worked up right now that all reason can go to hell. . . .

Aeson Kassiopei looks at me with a flicker of sorrow and then steps back, moving away from me unexpectedly. He stands watching me from a few feet away, and I can see his chest rise and fall, and the focused intensity in his face—every muscle under control, the straight austere line of his mouth held in check.

It is done, he says coldly. "Look, I know you don’t want this, and any feelings that you might have for me are uncertain at best. But you are now mine by Atlantean law, and all I can do is make your life the best it can be under the circumstances. I hope you learn to tolerate me, and I’ll do my best to keep out of your way. But we will be married, and you will be my Wife, with all that it entails—eventually."

"Oh, that’s just great! Does that mean that you won’t be ravishing me tonight—as you told your Father and everyone at the Imperial Court you’ll be doing, your so-called Bridegroom Privilege—but only eventually?" I exclaim with angry sarcasm.

He shakes his head with disgust. Lark, I don’t ‘ravish.’ I only said those things to get you out of there, so that my Father would allow us to leave the Pharikoneon chamber.

Aeson pauses, glances away briefly, then back at me. His expression is suddenly reserved and oh-so familiar—he is once again my commanding officer, the Command Pilot of the Fleet, and the Imperial Crown Prince, rolled into one—while his posture is stiff with pride. He looks down at me coldly. Don’t worry, I will not touch you tonight—or any other night, indefinitely. It is not in my habit to force myself upon anyone, especially not on a young innocent girl such as yourself who might have mixed feelings about me. . . .

Seriously? I take another step forward. You are going to use the ‘I’m too noble to impose on you’ nonsense with me? And we’re back to ‘Lark,’ are we? And, ‘mixed feelings?’ Are you kidding me?

He makes a low sound of frustration and his eyes are again desperate. Well, what do you want me to say to you? I’ve apologized, I’ve explained . . . and now you’re apparently concerned that I will force you into physical intimacy? Is that what you really think of me, of what I’m capable—

"No! Oh, God, no! I exclaim, and my voice breaks again. That is not what this is about! I need you to—I need you to stop—just stop being a goddamn Prince for a moment and just be a human being, an ordinary guy who doesn’t make grand announcements on my behalf, who—who simply talks to me normally—"

I grow silent and look at him fiercely, willing him to understand me, my hands at my sides, balled into fists with tension. He meanwhile stares at me, and his gaze is wild. . . .

Several long seconds pass.

He exhales loudly and turns away at last, runs his hands through his long metallic gold hair. Gwen . . . he says in a voice that’s gone soft once more, glancing back at me with his oh-so-blue eyes that cut right through me. Please.

"Please what?"

"Please . . . be my Bride and my Wife. I am asking you—asking you right now."

I freeze, breathing hard, looking at him, looking into his eyes. You think this is going to make up for everything?

No. . . . His voice is now but a whisper, and his eyes are imploring. But I am asking you now.

Why?

What do you mean, why?

I bite my lip and do not blink, meeting his gaze as sternly as possible. I mean, why do you want to marry me?

His lips part, and he takes a step toward me. Because I—

You what?

"I need you. He blinks, and then pauses, while a sudden fierce blush floods his face, and at the same time an odd vulnerable fear lurks in his eyes. I am—I am in love with you."

I feel faint now, and forget to breathe. The world, the room, everything seems to be spinning around me. . . . At the same time, everything is suddenly rendered into sharp, vivid focus. You are? Or—you’re just saying this crap now, aren’t you, to shut me up?

Gwen! There is a flash of genuine hurt in his expression, and he looks at me with hunger. "Listen to me, Gwenevere Lark, you matter to me. You matter to me so much—more than anything or anyone! You—you—I can’t even begin to tell you how much, because I don’t think I understand it myself. I am in love with you, and have been for so long now that I don’t remember how it is not to love you. . . ."

As he says this, I feel a new lump forming in my throat, and suddenly water is running down my face in a torrent.

You . . . love me? I whisper in a voice without any strength, as I stand there, bawling, looking at him.

He nods and moves toward me. His large hands surround my face from both sides, warm strong palms enclosing me, gentle fingers stroking my cheeks, wiping the tears. He turns my head so that I am looking up at him directly. Gwen . . . he whispers. Amrevu.

Beloved.

The Atlantean word caresses me, and gives me chills of awe, and wrenches my heart.

His forehead rests against mine, and the golden tendrils of his hair fall around me like a curtain, and our breath mingles.

"Gwen Lark, im amrevu . . . will you marry me and live your life with me and be my Wife?"

I open my mouth and somehow I can hear myself speak even before I do, as though I am on the outside witnessing myself in the act of living, witnessing one of the most important moments of my existence.

Yes . . . I utter softly. Yes, I will marry you. But not because it will keep me safe. Because I love you so much that I can’t imagine doing anything else!

He makes a muffled joyful noise that sounds like a sigh, or an exclamation, or a gasp of surprise—but I can’t be sure, because the next instant I feel his mouth covering mine, and it is hard and soft and scalding all at once. . . . A sudden tidal wave of feeling slams me, and immediately I drown in him, and sweetly die. . . .

When we come apart a few moments later, my lips have been stung, and I am ringing with music, as though a great tolling bell has come alive inside my head.

Get a grip, you giddy idiot Gwen! I tell myself in a fit of euphoria. And then I tell myself to shut up.

Yes! he exclaims meanwhile, and then I am lifted full-body, and he embraces me so hard that I almost feel my bones cracking.

Whoa! Gently now, mister! Command Pilot Kassiopei—I mean, my Prince, My Imperial Lord—

He laughs, and lets me go, but only enough so that he can face me and look at me. I have never seen such a soft expression on his face as there is now. Stop. . . . No more need for title or rank. My name—it is yours, along with everything else. You may call me ‘Aeson.’

Aeson . . . I whisper. Tentatively I reach out with my hand and touch the soft pale locks of his hair, then run my fingers over his forehead, smoothing back the tendrils, like silk—and unexpectedly his eyelids flutter while he lets out a faint shuddering breath.

"Aeson . . ." I repeat in wonder.

And then, sliding my other hand behind his strong neck, I pull him down toward me, and I kiss him thoroughly, with all my own fierce, pent-up intensity.

Chapter 2

We are both flushed with heightened color when we come apart again from the kiss to catch a breath. My heart, oh, my heart—it’s beating a thousand times a second! Aeson does not let go of me even as he maneuvers us into the middle of the grand softly-lit chamber in which we stand.

Gwen, he says, turning me around so that I face the room, and then embracing me from behind so that I lean back against his chest. At first his touch is cautious, almost shy. But then suddenly he is no longer holding back, and his hands tighten around my waist. He bends down, rests his chin intimately in the curve of my neck and shoulder—so that I feel an indescribable welling of joy at his presence directly against the pulse point at my throat—and speaks close to my ear. Look around you, you are home.

For the first time I allow myself to relax enough to comprehend my immediate surroundings.

Wow, what is this place? I say shyly. Is this your apartment? It’s so big!

Honestly, saying the place around us is big is a wild understatement. The chamber is easily the size of an entire three-bedroom in the suburbs, or maybe a meeting hall, considering the height of the cathedral ceiling. It is vaguely rectangular, with one wall made almost entirely of grand floor-to-ceiling windows, leading to what appears to be a long balcony terrace bordering it.

Outside it is late sunset, and I see my first Atlantean nightfall, with the sky turning a strange teal-violet with mauve at the horizon where Hel must have set very recently. . . . I stare out at the windows, mesmerized by the sight and the surreal thought of what is happening, and it occurs to me to wonder if the direction where the sun sets is called west here on Atlantis, or there’s some other local designation.

I blink, staring at the fading alien sky and then return my full attention to the room. There are several long divans and upholstered sofas lining the back wall directly opposite the windows. The luxurious seats are interspersed with ornate side tables and upright torchieres in which frosted glass sconces sit like lotus blossoms and give forth a soft warm radiance of honey and peach. The light is soothing, artificial, and again my curiosity is engaged—does it use electricity or some other technology?

The walls above the seating area are covered with works of art, both ancient and modern digital, similar to what I have seen in my own far more modest Palace apartment earlier today. I see antique stylized landscapes and moving digital scenes including gorgeous 3D holograms, old-fashioned portraits of people both austere and in finery, and fascinating modern patterns.

Everywhere there’s a lot of what appears to be dark wood trim, lacquered and carved, and chiseled stone that must be marble or its Atlantean counterpart—in particular the decorative columns that stand every few feet, lining the two side walls. Between each column, the walls have built-in oval niches containing elegant statuary of black polished metal and stone ornamented with gold . . . so much gold!

I’m reminded yet again that, here on Atlantis, gold is everywhere, and that I am inside what has to be some of the fanciest royal apartments in the Imperial Palace.

And then as I look closer, I forget gold. Instead, I open my mouth in wonder. . . . The statues in the niches are backlit by delicate floating celestial lights—hologram objects hovering like dislocated suns and microscopic constellations of stars—all of it suspended in the very air around them.

This place is a museum of wonders!

As I stare in amazement, Aeson speaks near my ear, still holding me, and his tone is slightly embarrassed. Yes, these are my Quarters—and now yours too. This is the ante-chamber, and beyond are more rooms—far too many, I admit—since the suite of the Imperial Crown Prince takes up this entire floor.

My mouth falls open yet again. At this rate I might as well just leave it permanently stuck that way. . . .

Would you like to see the rest? he says, letting go of my waist and coming around to face me.

Okay . . . I mutter.

In response he takes me by the hand and we walk to the opposite end of the chamber to a hidden set of ornate doors.

Aeson opens each one, and takes me through rooms that lead into yet other rooms, all decorated with ridiculous luxury and full of marvelous objects. There are sitting rooms, libraries filled with scrolls and books and modern storage media, a well-equipped gym and sparring dojo with a bamboo-like wooden floor polished to a shine, an indoor swimming pool framed in mosaic tile (at which I exclaim in amazement), several guest bedrooms, luxury bathrooms with sunken granite and marble pools and showers, and then the master bedroom suite.

Good lord! The Imperial Crown Prince’s master bedroom is an immense chamber with a dais in the center, and upon it—underneath a canopy of translucent fabrics that cascade from the ceiling—is a grandiose bed draped in deep dark shades of burgundy, clay, coral, and sienna red, that is the size of three king-sized beds on Earth put together, and can probably fit a dozen people.

A disturbing idea of why a bed might need to be so large, or fit so many people, comes to me. . . . I blink, trying not to let my overactive imagination roam too far into that direction.

Aeson, who’s been watching my reaction to everything with intense fascination—almost as much fascination as I’ve been devoting to the surroundings—notices my alarm at the sight of the immense bedroom, and the bed in particular.

The Prince sleeps alone, until he is wed to his Bride, he tells me softly. But it is the traditional custom for families to sleep together, parents with small children, until the little ones are old enough to sleep alone.

Oh . . . I say in some relief. So that’s why the bed is so large, to fit an entire family? Not for wild partying and orgies.

He holds his mouth tight, repressing a smile. Not . . . commonly.

What? My jaw drops again. "Are you saying you might have occasional orgies?"

Gwen, he says, highly amused with me. "Not in a hundred years. While it’s true that some of my ancestors were less—shall we say—inhibited than we are, in general— and here he grows serious as the smile leaves his eyes—in modern times, especially in the more recent generations, the Imperial Kassiopei have chosen to adhere to some very strict rules of personal conduct when it comes to physical relations and the act of procreation."

Rules? Such as what? I ask.

Such as abstinence. With a faint surge in color, he glances away from me as he speaks. In any case, this is a very old bed, not my favorite. And there are far more interesting things to see.

Oh . . . okay.

Seeing how uncomfortable this turn of conversation seems to make him, I wisely choose to let it go for the moment. But my curiosity has definitely been piqued. . . . I admit, now my thoughts race like crazy. Abstinence? Does this mean that my Bridegroom is—

Wherever the thought crazy train was about to take me is interrupted, as Aeson claims my hand again and directs me gently to follow him. We walk out of the master bedroom to a smaller set of suites, and these appear to be more casually furnished and more lived-in.

We come to a large comfortable bedroom with a far more modest king-sized bed decorated in soft earth tones and dark shades of blue. Adjacent to it is an elegant bathroom suite, a closet storage area, and then a smaller workroom with a large neatly organized desk and a wall of computer tech equipment and display screens that bring to mind Aeson Kassiopei’s usual office arrangements.

These are my actual living quarters, he tells me with a smile, as he flicks on a wall switch and suddenly the space is filled with a warm golden glow from several softly illuminated candelabras on the walls and ceiling. This is where I sleep and work whenever I am home. I prefer this by far to the formal master bedroom.

I can see why, I say, while a little smile starts to bloom on my lips. These rooms, I suddenly realize, they really seem to fit Aeson’s personality—ordered yet elegant, slightly austere and yet somehow profound and comfortable.

Aeson stops in the middle of his bedroom and looks at me. Gwen, you are the first female non-relative who has set foot here, not counting the Palace servants who come to clean.

Oh, I say. And this time my smile deepens. "I am . . . really glad. And kind of honored."

At that he makes an easy sound that could be a pleased chuckle. I say could be, because I’m just beginning to discover this new and relaxed Aeson Kassiopei who’s not on guard every second. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh casually so much as I have in the last hour—ever since we arrived here in his personal quarters, and our very intense (or should I say, crazed) conversation happened, followed by all that amazing kissing. . . .

I begin to examine his room with the same eagerness that I feel when I look at him—after all, this is his personal place, filled with so many revealing private details about him—but he does not let me linger, and instead says, Come along, there’s more.

Okay . . . And I follow him back into his workroom office and then through a small inconspicuous door that connects his bedroom suite with another.

This bedroom suite is smaller, and decorated in tones of dusky rose and deep mauve. It has a similar large-but-not-excessive, comfortable bed, and an exterior wall with an amazing focal-point window shaped like a four-point star with long extended rays. Through the window I get an outside view of the darkening teal sky, densely filled with stars.

Oh, wow! I exclaim, forgetting everything but the window and those incredible stars that seem to be clustered so thickly that they look unreal—nowhere on Earth is the proliferation of stars so dense in the sky. It is another reminder that I am on an alien world, and this is a very different place. . . .

I thought you might like this room, Aeson says softly, looking at me. This one is yours.

I turn to him, tearing myself away from the view. Oh! I say. You mean I get my own room? Oh, thank God!

And then I put my hand up against my mouth, realizing how awkward and possibly rude that sounds. Oh, I’m sorry! I mean—

But he starts laughing at me, again chuckling softly. Gwen . . . oh, Gwen. He shakes his head, but there is only amusement in his expression, and a kind of innocent delight. "I hope you didn’t think we would be sharing a bed on your very first awkward night here, when you barely know me, barely feel comfortable with me or your surroundings. . . . Besides, by Imperial rules of conduct it is not permitted before we are actually wed."

It’s not? Oh, okay. And then, just like that, my head is on fire, and I’m turning red as a beet.

Seeing me blush, he starts to blush too. And he quickly looks away again with a little smile.

But he regains control swiftly and starts talking, to dissipate the awkwardness. This bedroom has always been a favorite of my sister’s, he tells me. Manala liked to stay here with me in secret when she was small, whenever she wanted to hide from our parents or the nurses and servants. And she still uses it upon occasion, whenever she’s in the Palace, preferring it to her own Quarters. It’s all about that window. She used to think it’s magical. And he nods at the oddly-shaped window with its darkening view of the star-filled night.

"Your sister is right, it is magical! I say with enthusiasm. And Manala—the Imperial Princess—she sounds like someone I would like to meet."

He smiles, and the look in his eyes tells me I’ve said something very right. Oh, you’ll meet her soon. And she will be very happy to meet you.

Great! But—if this is her favorite room, how can I take it? I say. I don’t want to impose! I mean—

You’re not imposing. Manala will understand and expect you to have this room on her behalf.

Are you sure?

I am certain.

Okay. And I smile at him shyly and just stare at him—and he at me—for a long moment during which we both appear to be equally mesmerized with each other. Meanwhile, a slowly blooming smile comes to his lips, his eyes, all of him also, to parallel mine. . . .

Until I suddenly remember. Oh—my things! I say. My two bags from Earth are still in the other apartment.

Aeson blinks, recovering again from staring at me, and nods. They will be delivered here first thing in the morning.

Thank you, I say. But what about for now? I don’t have my sleeping shirt, and my toothbrush. And oh—what about some water? Is there my own bathroom?

Of course! He nods, becoming businesslike, and takes me to the other end of the room through a doorway to show me a very large bathroom with yet another sunken pool and shower area, and then a large storage closet and dressing room.

This is all yours. There are personal toiletries and everything you might need, including toothbrushes—though I must warn you, we have a different style of brush for the teeth, not like the ones you use on Earth.

He takes me to a mirrored cabinet, where a row of various pristine brushes stand in jars, next to unidentifiable odd implements, and picks out one that looks more like a bottle brush. This, he says, is for the teeth. And the paste we use, made of natural ground plants, is in this round container here.

You are going to have to explain to me all the rest of these things eventually, I say in embarrassment, staring at the unfamiliar toiletries and the nearby stacks of fine fabrics that must serve as towels.

He raises one brow with amusement. Eventually, yes. But let’s leave that for tomorrow.

Next he points out the storage room. Oh, and feel free to wear anything that’s in that closet. The clothing belongs to my sister who routinely leaves her outfits here and then has new ones delivered, forgetting the ones already in the closet.

He speaks with amusement and points to multiple rows and rows of hanging outfits that to my untrained eye look like the rack of a high-end boutique, or maybe a clothing museum—fabulous, exotic, and completely not my style, in shimmering fabrics, stunning delicate and bold colors, and very much High Court.

Wow! I stare at the clothes with a lost look.

Oh, no . . . it occurs to me. As the Imperial Consort, I might have to wear clothes like this all the time.

Manala is probably near your size, Aeson says, glancing at me appraisingly, and his close gaze again sears me with a strange yet now-familiar charge of electricity. There has to be something in there you can wear for tonight.

I’ll try . . . I whisper.

And then he remembers something else. Are you hungry? he says with concern. Forgive my negligence in not asking sooner.

I shake my head. Not really. I think I am still too overwhelmed to eat. . . .

You must at least be thirsty. He shakes his head at me. Come, you need to have something before bed.

And we exit the suite comprising my quarters and return back to his own, through the small door. Here in his workroom, Aeson shows me what could be a cold storage cabinet equivalent of an Earth refrigerator. It is well stocked with food containers and drink bottles, as far as I can tell.

I tend to eat and drink alone, as much as possible, he tells me. So, except for the main formal meals at the Palace, the servants know to provide me with foodstuff.

I know, I say, with another tiny smile.

He glances at me in surprise. You do?

I mean, I know you always eat alone at your desk at the CCO back on the ship, so this makes sense.

Oh, he says. I suppose, yes.

Why? I look at him seriously. Why did you always eat alone? Why isolate yourself so much? I mean, I kind of get it—there’s your rank, and you want the crew to feel at ease, which is generous. But on the other hand, at least sometimes it’s nice to have someone else there to share a meal—

He watches me with a complex expression. And now I have you. . . .

The words affect me strangely. I look away and nod, and my lips form a smile, but my heart constricts painfully on his behalf. There is so much about him, it occurs to me, so much that seems rooted in dark loneliness. . . .

But he distracts me by taking out a bottle of some dark plum-colored liquid, and pours its contents into two elegant glasses that he retrieves from a shelf next to the food storage. The rich colored drink fizzes as it fills the clear glasses, and the foam heads rise, colored a shade of cream and mauve.

What is this? I ask, taking one of the glasses and sniffing a somewhat fruity pleasant aroma that vaguely reminds me of hops and wheat and raspberries.

My favorite stuff to drink, he says. "It’s qvaali. Think of it as a cross between weakly brewed Earth beer and fruit juice."

Is it alcoholic?

Not enough to make you drunk, he says, looking at me with a sly smile.

Are you trying to get me drunk? I say in a teasing tone.

He snorts. You would need to drink a barrel of this before you start feeling any kind of inebriation. And then he lifts up his own glass and takes a deep thirsty swig. Ah . . . he says.

I follow suit. Apparently I am very thirsty, because the drink feels and tastes like sudden heavenly ambrosia, as it soothes me instantly, quenching my thirst and going down smoothly, with a small bite of wonderful bubbles. The flavor is a little like apple cider with a hint of berries and wheat.

Oh, I like it! I say. It’s not too sweet, and much better than soda.

He watches my reaction with a faint smile. It’s why I like it. I don’t like things that are too sweet.

Okay, is that supposed to have a double meaning? Is he implying something about me? Am I overthinking, as usual?

As I consider this, he tips his glass slightly toward me in an easy gesture, and nods his head.

"To you, Gwen. . . . Not a very formal toast, but welcome to your new life. Welcome to Atlantida."

Thanks, I say shyly. And then I do the same thing, lift my glass to him. "Back at you, Aeson. . . . Thank you . . . for everything. For