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The King’s Harem

Nandakumar

The only sound in the grand hall was the sound of strings, plucked with confidence by strong, knowing hands. Here gentle, there hard, played by memory, the hands moving as if of their own will, the eyes of the man playing closed.

His hair was long, midnight dark, bound into a long tail by intermittent gold clasps; when he stood, it would stop just short of the floor. Matching gold wound in a thick band around his neck; the clasps around his wrists had been discarded to avoid interfering with the strings.

When they opened, his eyes would be the color of wet sand, strikingly pale against the cinnamon of his skin. Dressed in black pants and an overlaid floor-length skirt but completely topless, he was one of the most striking men in the room. More than a few said that beauty was what had spared the musician the fate that had befallen his traitorous family. Once the music stopped, those same rumors would resume.

He had always ignored them, and he would continue to do so. Only the words of four men mattered and he knew they did nothing more than listen to the music and admire him while he played. If they whispered anything at all, it was of how they would show their appreciation later.

The thought almost made him smile, but the expression was unfit for the bitter-sweet song of the strings. But as the piece came to an end, he wove it into another, the bitter falling away and leaving only the sweet. And as he played, the corners of his mouth tilted every so faintly, and only the four who knew him well saw that he smiled. He knew they smiled back.

As the music faded away, there was a breath of absolute silence and he opened his eyes just enough to see those four. Then the hall filled with applause – some of it genuine, some of it begrudgingly given. No one there dared not clap for the finest musician in the palace.

Especially since he was also the man who had been the first to be taken into the King’s Harem.

Gingerly he set his instrument down and kowtowed to his king, then rose gracefully as the applause reached a crescendo before finally fading away.

“Thank you, Nandakumar.” The King was still applauding, and stopped only as he descended his dais to take Nandakumar’s hands in his own. “Your playing is as magnificent as always.”

Nandakumar bowed his head. “It is always a pleasure to play for my King.” The corners of his mouth tilted up again, the formality amusing them both.

“And a pleasure it is to hear you play.” The King motioned for him to return to his spot on the dais, and after seeing his instrument into trusted hands, Nandakumar did so.

On the raised dais that was reserved for royalty and rare guests was a long, low table. All around the floor were soft, deep pillows for sitting or lounging. At the center was the King’s seat; beside him sat his Queen. Around the table sat three men and two women.

Nandakumar took his seat between a man with dark skin and short hair, and a man with fair skin and pale blonde hair. Though his expression never changed, he enjoyed and returned their touches of thanks and appreciation, unseen by others in the gently muted light of the grand hall.

Music far less skilled than his filled the hall and Nandakumar almost felt sorry for the poor young girl who had to follow after him. He sipped wine from a shallow dish, humming in pleasure. Fingers traced the length of his thigh; Beynum expressing his amusement. They never agreed on wine; a long joke between them that a musician should prefer bitter wines and a former pirate the sweet ones.

Nandakumar listened to the entertainment distantly; instinctively noting what was worthwhile and dismissing what was not. Throughout it all, he exchanged looks and touches with his companions and King, speaking in soft tones with the Queen and her own ladies. And he could see it relaxed them, the women still not entirely comfortable with their new life.

Gradually the evening passed, and Nandakumar returned to their chambers with Beynum, leaving Aikhadour and Witcher to escort their King and the Queen.

Reaching, the private chambers of the King and his Harem, the silence at last broke.

“That last girl, eh?” Beynum said, his restrained smile breaking into a shameless grin. “Enough to make me wish I were deaf.”

Nandakumar lifted a brow. “Then however would you hear my music?”

“If anyone could work the miracle of curing deafness, Nanda, it would be you.” Beynum laughed. “If only because the idea of someone not hearing your music is wholly intolerable.”

“It is intolerable,” Nanda replied, sniffing in contempt. “Certainly I don’t play so people can look at me.”

Beynum laughed again and embraced him loosely from behind, bare chest pressed to Nanda’s back, voice in his ear. “You don’t like to be looked at, Nanda?”

“Not by that lot,” Nanda said in disgust. “It makes me feel dirty, to have their eyes upon me.”

A hand brushed the heavy tail of his hair aside, and warm lips explored the back of his neck beneath the gold band, trailing along one shoulder. “Then come and I’ll clean you. Hmm, Nanda?”

“If you insist, pirate.”

Beynum laughed and turned him around, then leaned down to steal a slow, deep kiss.

They broke apart as laughter and chatter spilled into the main chamber, the source of it three men: King Shahjahan and the remaining members of his Harem, Witcher and Aikhadour.

Nanda slid from Beynum’s arms as the King approached, twining his arms around Shahjahan’s neck to accept his expected kiss. “You play as perfectly as always, Nanda. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Shahjahan laughed as his arms slid along Nanda’s body before dropping away. “And what mischief were you and Bey about to get yourselves into?”

“A bath is mischief now?” Beynum asked

Shah laughed and beckoned Beynum forward, leaning up to kiss him in greeting. “Where you go Beynum, mischief walks hand in hand. And my well-behaved Nanda has not been so since you joined us.”

Beynum only grinned and stole another kiss from his King. Then he took Nanda’s hand, and together they led the way to the baths where all five men could finally begin to relax.

“Nandakumar, is it not?”

Nanda looked up, startled that someone had been listening to him play. When he realized who had been listening, it was hard to remember how to speak. “Y-Yes, Majesty.” He set his instrument aside and bent to touch his forehead to the floor.

King Shahjahan crossed the room, stopping a few feet from him. “Sit up, please. That’s a nomadic piece, is it not? Something about stars?”

“Yes, Majesty.” Nanda smiled faintly, little more than an uplifting of the corners of his mouth. “It’s called The Road of Stars, and is played as a travel song.

“You play it very well.”

Nanda kowtowed again. “Your Majesty honors me.”

“I’ve heard quite a few rumors about the talented musician in our midst, but I have been too busy to discern their truth. Having heard you for myself, I can see the rumors do not do you justice.”

“Majesty.” It was all he could manage. His own family saw him only as a nuisance; the instructors teaching only what his parents were willing to pay. Nanda almost wished someone else was around to bear witness, to see the King praise him.

But something in him also wanted to keep this meeting secret and precious.

“You should play tonight. I am surprised you have not been presented already.”

Nanda looked at the floor to avoid staring at the King, whom he had always enjoyed looking at – far too much for a mere youngest son. One who had chosen to go the path of artisans on top of that. In a family known for its political acumen, he had always been something of a disappointment. “My noble parents were planning to present me in two months, Majesty.”

“During the Spring Carnival.” Shahjahan laughed. “A well-executed moved, of course. I should have expected no less.” He nodded. “Very well, then. I shall not upset the plan. But I enjoyed your playing very much, Nandakumar. It was a bright spot in days that of late have been very dark.”

“My honor and pleasure, Majesty.” Nanda kowtowed again, and swore his beating heart was going to break right through his chest.

“I would ask for another song, but alas I will be missed before much longer and I do not want to spoil the carnival surprise.”

Nanda spoke before he gave himself time to think about it. “I-is there a song your Majesty would like to hear when I am presented?” He couldn’t bring himself to look up.

“You have not already decided what songs you will play?”

“It would be an honor to adjust my selections to suit what will please my King.”

Shahjahan laughed softly, and Nanda froze as he heard and felt the King kneel in front of him. Then fingers touched his face, curled under his chin and indicated Nanda should sit up. “It is probably silly to ask if you know a song, for I sense you know all the usual and more besides – perhaps only the royal musicians would know the nomadic pieces so well as you obviously do. But if you know In the Garden, I would greatly appreciate it.

It took every bit of his upbringing not to show his astonishment. Disbelief. There was no way…“O-of course, Majesty. It will be my honor.”

The hand lingered on his cheek, tilted it up a bit for a closer inspection. “And your pleasure?”

“Yes,” Nandakumar whispered.

“Good. Then I bid you good day, Nandakumar. We will speak again after the spring carnival.” Shahjahan’s fingers slid slowly away, and a moment later he was gone.

Nanda touched fingers to his too-warm cheek, another to his chest, willing his heart to slow down. But it wouldn’t. In the Garden was ostensibly a song about a man admiring all the flowers in his garden…but it wasn’t generally performed because it was blatantly a song about a King admiring his harem. And though he would be playing only, not singing, everyone would know the tune and exactly what was being implied.

The late King had been dead four months; Spring Carnival was two months away. Six months total, bringing the mourning period to an end. When King Shahjahan be able to take him as a concubine.

If that was what he had been implying. It had seemed the obvious implication, but now he would worry himself to death about it. Shaking his head, feeling the waves of hair that seemed to grow inches every night – grown to aggravate his brother, who was constantly embarrassed by his pretty, musical brother – Nanda drew a deep breath and then resumed practicing. He had not played In the Garden as often as he played more acceptable songs. And usually only when he was alone, as he had thought he’d been earlier.

He didn’t even want to think about the humiliation if the King had chanced upon him playing that. Well, it was all right now. He hoped.

Two months suddenly seemed very far away.

“Nanda, good morning.” Aikhadour scooted over to make room for him at the table. He pressed a kiss to Nanda’s cheek as he sat. “Did you sleep well?”

Nanda made a sound between a muffled curse and a laugh. “I distinctly remember two men who did their best to keep me from sleeping.”

Aikhadour laughed and lifted a sliver of a soft, white fruit to Nanda’s lips, laughing harder when his fingers were delicately licked clean of fruit juice. “Perhaps they were just trying to express how much they enjoyed your performance.”

Nanda rolled his eyes. “Aik, you’re in quite the good mood this morning. And I would hazard you’ve been awake from some. I see we shall never break you of those abysmal mountain habits of yours.”

Another soft laugh, as Aik continued to feed him. After awhile, Nanda seemed more alert than when he had arrived. He stopped eating and leaned over to kiss Aik, who returned it eagerly. “Aik, good morning.”

“Awake now?”

“I suppose so. Where is everyone?”

“Beynum and Witcher went with Shah to the armory today.”

Nanda nodded. “And what are your plans for the day?”

“I’ll be with Shah once he returns, but until then I’m free.” A smile, one of the slow, shy ones that had first drawn Nanda’s notice. For all that Aik was now so bold about many things, he was still very much the shy monk he had been when he’d first been drawn into the Harem. “Are you off to practice?”

“Yes. Would you like to keep me company?”

“That sounds delightful.”

Nandakumar’s practice room was the very room in which Shah had first encountered him; once a free room of the castle, it had been turned into one for his exclusive use. Only the grand hall was better in regards to sound. The room was fairly stark, containing nothing more than the bare essentials and a few cushions for him and rare visitors – generally just Shah and the rest of the harem.

He had practiced for four hours – several strenuous songs meant to ever improve his dexterity and fluidity with the strings. Complicated songs that required all his concentration and skill, one of which he could not quite do properly. But he was getting better. The last hour was spent working on a piece of his own composition, and as he finished he shifted into lighter, easier tunes, humming along and then singing, mouth tilting in a faint smile when Aik’s voice, trained by the recitation of prayers nearly as intricate as his songs, joined in.

When the music faded away, Nanda set his instrument aside and crossed the space between he and Aikhadour, falling into the arms that welcomed him eagerly, tasting the tea of which Aik was so inordinately fond. His own soft-cinnamon skin looked pale next to Aik’s skin, dark caramel from all the time he spent in the sun.

He was just beginning to find more of that sun-darkened skin when the door opened. Nanda shuttered his expression and stood, Aikhadour standing beside him. The servant’s expression was a familiar one – too used to the ways of the late King, even after all these years, they would never grow used to the fact that Shah had never minded, in fact encouraged, that they love each other as they did him. But the opinion of servants no longer troubled him; he had ceased caring about most opinions long ago. “Yes?” he asked, polite but brief.

“Lord Nandakumar, there is a visitor to see you. He says he brings a message of importance and will speak to no one but you. We have placed him in the private waiting room.”

Nanda did not react, but he knew Aik had sensed his displeasure. “Thank you,” he said. “I will go and see him at once. Please make sure there are at least two guards present.” He thought a moment. “Also inform the Queen, if she has not already been informed.”

“Yes, Lord Nandakumar.” The servant bowed to them and left.

“Who would be coming to visit me?” Nanda’s hands went automatically to his hair, ensuring it was still bound and neat, a nervous habit of old. Aik’s fingers soothed up and down the length of his spine. “I guess we had best go see.”

The man waiting was not familiar, and Nanda felt something inside him untwist. They were gone and not coming back; he had nothing to fear any longer. “I am Nandakumar.”

“Yes,” the man said. Around his shoulders was a length of cloth that once he left would be draped over his head and face, to protect from the heat. His clothes were dusty, stained, as if he had been traveling for quite some time. “You look much like your father and brother did.”

Nanda felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “Did?”

The man nodded, expression tight, as if he were holding back his own pain. “I regret that I must bring such news to you. Your parents and brother were killed two weeks ago in a rockslide on Gold Mountain.”

“Thank you for bringing me the news. Your kindness is appreciated.” Nanda motioned to one of the guards. “See that he is taken care of. His Majesty will want to speak with him.” Duties attended to, Nanda ceased to notice anything, overtaken by a heavy numbness. He noted distantly that Aik was leading him back to their chambers, felt the softness of a bed, warm skin pressed along the length of his own, and then blessed darkness.

Nanda hummed as he traversed the halls; low, so no one would know what he hummed. Really he should not be humming at all, but he was too nervous and excited not to. Tomorrow was the day, and he would learn if it was all some grand joke, a brief moment already forgotten by the King he had not really seen since their brief encounter…or if it truly was what it had seemed it was going to be.

He smoothed his hair, which reached well to his knees, and immediately remembered that he would have to get up even earlier than usual tomorrow if he was going to have time to prepare it properly for the performance. His presentation had already been approved, the request signed by King Shahjahan himself. It made him anxious all over again.

Voices caught his attention as he entered the suite of rooms allotted to his family in the palace. His father and mother, and from the sounds of it another of their political comrades for whom Nanda did not care at all. Always they talked, voices low so that no one would catch so much as a word of the plots and plans they were forever weaving. His parents treated the court and its affairs like a game – and one they had never lost.

Nanda stood outside the door, half-listening so that he knew when it would be all right to interrupt and ask if his costume for tomorrow had arrived yet. He saw no sign of it in the main room and it would not be in his own bedchamber.

“…it’s all arranged then?”

“Yes. During the performance.”

“Should we do it then? It would be safer to do it sooner.”

“Safer is not the issue. We won’t make a statement if we play it safe. How many times do you want to debate this?”

“Of course. Forgive me. You know I get anxious the closer we get. I still cannot believe the first went so smoothly…”

A laugh. “You expected anything less? Are we or are we not the best? Your man will be in place by the beginning of Nanda’s performance. Listen close, because Nanda is lazy about his songs –he mashes them together rather than stopping one before starting another. Does he know the songs?”

“Do not be insulting. He attacks during the Dance of Spring.”

Nanda started to shake, and hugged himself to ward off a sudden chill. Surely they did not mean what he thought. His parents? Did his brother know about this? What was ‘the first one’?

But he thought he knew. Whispers of possible assassination had abounded for months after the late King had died in a routine tour of his land. An accident, it had been declared. But there were always whispers, and Nanda had known his family disliked the changes made by King Shahjahan’s father. Changes that Shahjahan continued to support, with the cooperation of most of the council. But his family thrived on disliking; discontent was a major factor in their games.

Would they really assassinate Shahjahan? Had they already planned and carried out an assassination?

Nanda felt sick. He turned and fled, terrified. How had he missed all this? Who did he tell? How? Would anyone believe him?

“Nandakumar!”

He turned around and swallowed. “Mother.” Had they caught him running?

His mother frowned, her pretty face pinched with annoyance. “Where have you been? Wandering the halls, making yourself a nuisance? Come along, your costume has arrived and we need to make sure those idiots didn’t make any mistakes. You must be perfect if you’re going to be of any use to us.”

“Will I be of use, mother?” He bit back what he really wanted to ask. “I would like my songs to be useful to you, for once.”

She didn’t look impressed, more secretly amused. It made him sick. “Yes, you will. The court will come apart at your performance. It will be fabulous.”

“I’m glad to be of help to you, mother.”

“It is a nice change, isn’t it?” She grabbed his arm and led him back to the suite. “Now come, let us adjust your costume and then you will play everything through for me so I know you’ve got it right.”

Nanda bit his tongue. Of course he had it right. He had it better than right – he had it perfect. Nor had he told anyone of his brief, treasured encounter with the King. And now he was grateful, so grateful he would be shaking with relief if his mother wasn’t clinging to him.

He had to figure out something to save Shahjahan. And he thought he knew what. But it hurt, and didn’t it figure, that so close to everything he’d ever wanted – his family snatched it away in the cruelest way possible.

Nanda woke slowly and under heavy protest. He didn’t want to wake up – he wanted the dark back. But then he realized he was being held against a familiar chest, surrounded by the incense and outside that was Shah. His arms moved of their own accord, and he held his King tight. “I—“

“Shh, Nanda.” Shah stroked his hair, which had either come free or been freed while he slept. It would be a pain to redo it all again. “It’s all right.”

“I shouldn’t be upset,” Nanda finally managed. “I wasn’t sorry to see them go.”

“They were still your family, and watching them go is not the same as knowing they are dead. Why do you think I spared them?” His short beard scratched, familiar, comforting, as Shah kissed Nanda’s wet cheek, then took his mouth, until Nanda was not so tense in his arms.

Nanda took several deep breaths, willing his mind back into order, calling up the discipline that had been drilled into him practically from birth. He sat up, and though he didn’t leave Shah’s embrace he felt more like himself. “A rockslide, right?”

“Yes,” Shah said slowly. “But in the time you’ve been asleep – nearly a day – it has come to light that it was probably an arranged slide.”

“So someone killed them, not simply something.” Nanda spoke dully. “Why?”

Shah stroked his hair, his side and back. “You do not need to ask all these questions, Nanda. It will do you no good.”

“And I will not be weak as to live in ignorance,” Nanda countered, a bit of his familiar bite in the words. “What were they doing?”

“I do not know. I did not follow the investigation that far – only enough to learn it was not accidental. But my guess is that they probably decided to tangle with someone who did not think exile sufficient punishment.”

Nanda closed his eyes, arms tightening around Shah. “So they never learned a thing. Not a one. Even after you spared them.” He buried his face against Shah’s chest. “I—I wish it hadn’t gone the way it did.”

“I know,” Shah said softly. “But I hope you do not regret the choices you made.”

“Of course not,” Nanda looked up, temper flaring slightly. “Why would you suggest such a thing?”

Shah laughed. “Because if you still have that temper you so cleverly hid from me for so long, I know you will be all right.”

Nanda blinked, then scowled. “I didn’t hide a thing.”

“Of course not.”

Around them, sitting quietly to the side, Aikhadour, Witcher and Beynum laughed. The noise seemed to shake off what remained of Nanda’s anguish-induced lethargy. “Was I really asleep so long?”

“And probably would have slept longer,” Beynum said. “But you started to have nightmares. Only reason we woke you – well, the only reason Shah finally let us wake you.”

Shah shook his head at Beynum. “Nanda wakes when he wants; if you wake him sooner you have only yourself to blame.”

“Of that I am all too aware,” Beynum said dryly, playfully shoving Aikhadour when he started laughing. He crawled across the distance between he and Nanda to kiss him softly. “Are you done sleeping now?”

“I suppose I am.” Nanda let go of Shah and let them help him up. He welcomed and returned the embraces of Witcher and Aikhadour, murmuring a quiet thanks in the latter’s ear, for he knew it had been Aik who had remained with him until Shah returned. “Dare I ask if the news has spread?”

“Of course it has,” Witcher said with exasperated amusement. “I particularly like the one about Shah arranging everything.” He shook his head. “Honestly, Shah – where do you find time with all these plots?”

Shah grinned. “Between running a country and the four of you? I wish I knew – I should to make some of it available for the occasional nap.” He held his hand out to Nanda. “Come – we’ll have a nice, quiet but showy dinner and I’ll make an announcement about it. Did you want to play them something?”

“I…” Nanda frowned. His family had always derided his music except for the one moment where it had proven useful – where it would be so distracting an assassin would have easy access the new, young King. “Yes. Even though they’d probably hate it.”

“Or maybe because they’d hate it,” Beynum offered as they began to prepare themselves for dinner.

His hands were slick with sweat, and trembling too hard for him to hold a drink. If he tried to eat, he would regret it – and that regret would wind up on the floor of the great hall.

He didn’t really know what to do – rather, he didn’t know if it would work. And it made him want to scream or cry, that the moment he’d been dreaming about for two months was never going to be.

Dozens of other schemes – leaving a note, talking to Shah or someone close to him – were thought of and then immediately discarded. There was no guarantee his note would make it or who would read it. No one would let him near Shah and he absolutely no idea who to trust.

Nanda stooped to pick up his instrument, relieved that his hands immediately steadied. Here was something he could handle, no matter what turmoil went on around him. And music was the only way he’d reach Shahjahan now. Assuming, of course, that the King caught on. Realized. Because Nanda didn’t know what to do if his pathetic plan didn’t work.

Surely someone would realize what he was trying to say. Someone not involved in the plot, ideally.

It wasn’t fair! Nanda set his instrument down before he gave into the urge to break it to pieces. Why did they have to do this? Why couldn’t they just whisper and mutter and attend his concert and see his ‘nonsense’ earn him the position of first in King Shahjahan’s harem? They would have been so pleased! To have their youngest, useless son so close to the King. Of course he would never have done anything to betray Shahjahan…but his family would have been proud of him for once. And now he was going to attempt to have them all put to death.

His family would hate him. Shahjahan would loathe him. That hurt worst of all.

Nanda looked up as a servant appeared, signaling it was his turn. Normally performers were simply called from the assembled diners, but in a formal dinner like this the performers were called in one by one. He nodded and as the servant left smoothed his hair and adjusted his costume – formal black, the robe fitting tight at the top and flowing at the bottom, the sides split high to show the dark gold pants beneath. The ends and sleeves were embroidered with his family’s beetle crest. For just a moment, he allowed himself to pretend that soon he would be wearing the pants and skirt of a concubine; chest bare to show always who and what he was.

Originally he had arranged to five songs; never telling anyone that he would actually be playing six – In the Garden, he had finally decided, would be first – to begin boldly and then he would wind down from there. Start strong, end peacefully, humbly.

Not that it mattered now – so long it ended with Shahjahan alive, he would be content. He would have to be.

He was beautiful; he knew he was. If he had not been, his family would have sent him away somewhere – probably to a monastery to be forgotten, his religious devotion to be brought up in conversation when useful. His hair, bound with costly gold, reached just past his knees. Heavy, but a weight he was long used to.

Nanda kowtowed to the King, to the assembled, and spoke all the appropriate platitudes. Settling his instrument in his lap, he dared a brief look at Shahjahan from under his lashes. And could barely breathe to see how intently Shahjahan was watching him. It hurt. He closed his eyes and began to play.

Not the playful notes of In the Garden but a slower, more haunting melody. A song titled The Candle. About a man waiting for his lover to return, watching as the candle melted, counting the hours. And how he has to kill his lover, when he finally arrives. Nanda kept his eyes closed, willed his heart to slow though he knew it wouldn’t. At least, he thought, there is a song for everything. There’s even a song for killing loved ones.

It would have made him laugh, had the situation not been his own.

He wished he was brave enough to open his eyes, but he had been trained to play without needing to see. Opening his eyes would be distracting…and he didn’t know what would be worse. To see the confusion, or the comprehension.

The song seemed to last forever, and Nanda wished he could just go to sleep until the worst was over, but he continued to play, blending the first song into the second – hardly lazy, he thought contemptuously – and then the world exploded.

Discordant noises drowning his song, shouts – someone grabbed him, hauled him roughly to his feet. Nanda cried out as his instrument hit the floor; he could hear it break. Was that really necessary? He thought he heard the King shout something, but then he was being hauled away, trying in vain to block out the angry cries and frightened shouts.

Seconds, minutes, hours – he couldn’t tell – he was thrown down on a soft, deep rug. He focused on the deep jewel tones, the intricacy of the design, desperate to think about anything except that he was probably about to die a traitor. He’d betrayed his King unwittingly, but repairing that mistake had forced him to betray his family. He wasn’t sorry, but he hated it anyway.

“Nandakumar,” a voice said softly.

It made him shudder. Nanda couldn’t bear to look up. “I—I’m sorry, Majesty. It wasn’t—I didn’t know until too late.”

A hand cupped his jaw, forced his head up. “Nandakumar,” Shahjahan repeated. “Explain everything to me.”

Nodding, Nanda did so. Shahjahan sat there before him on the rug and listened to every word, breaking into the explanation only to clarify something here and there.

“Your song puzzled me at first – I thought perhaps I had somehow managed to tell you the wrong one. But then I began to realize what exactly you were playing and quietly ordered my men to act. We found the assassin, and your parents…they confessed before long.”

Nanda flinched, and did not ask for details about what had persuaded his parents to talk.

“The only point I disagreed with was your willing participation.”

”I didn’t know until yesterday, I swear it.” Nanda looked down again, staring at the way his long, thin fingers were attempting to pull up or burrow into the rug. “I just---I just wanted to play the song you requested.”

Shahjahan forced him to look up again. “As did I,” he said, and Nanda could see the genuine regret in his face. “I’ve been looking forward to this night since the afternoon we met.”

“I’m sorry, Majesty.”

“You have nothing for which you must apologize, Nandakumar.” Shahjahan released him, fingers withdrawing slowly, and stood up.

For the first time, Nanda took in the room they were in. The smallest of the three court rooms in which the King conducted business. He watched Shahjahan recline in the low seat on a raised dais, dropping his eyes when Shahjahan looked at him.

“My guards are not pleased at all with me, for insisting on speaking with you alone. Nor is the council.” Shahjahan’s teeth flashed in a grin that was remarkably boyish. He stroked his close-cut beard. “It’s a good thing my father taught me to care only so much what all of them think. I was not about to let them kill you, when I was quite certain the last thing you wanted was me dead.”

Nanda shook his head, but did not speak.

“More cold-bloodedly, why kill me when you knew very well I was about to put you in a very ideal position? This, of course, they would not know.”

“Majesty…” His fingers were beginning to hurt, they clung so tight to the carpet. “I…” Nanda dared to look up. “You are not going to kill me?”

Shahjahan shook his head. “No. Your family…should be put to death. But they are going to be exiled.” He sighed. “So soon after my father’s death, I am not eager for more spilled blood. Especially not with war looming.” A faint smile. “It will cause a ruckus, Nandakumar, but if you are willing to endure it I would have you for the first flower in my garden.”

“Even after…” Nanda stared at him, then shook his head, then nodded. “Yes, Majesty. It would be…an honor and a pleasure.”

Shahjahan held out a hand, beckoning Nandakumar forward, tugging him down into his lap, taking a hard, sure kiss before Nanda could find his balance. He smelled like incense, always present for the countless meetings and sessions that filled a King’s day, and like the sands, a warm breeze. He tasted just as warm and welcome, a bit like pale, sweet wine. “Majesty…”

“Shah,” Shahjahan corrected. “When we are alone, you should call me Shah.” He smiled, and Nanda could not resist smiling back. “Another kiss, my lovely Nanda? And then I shall have to go and deal with everyone else.”

“Yes, Shah.” Nanda leaned in to give the requested kiss.

Nanda ignored, as he always did, the negativity he could feel emanating from more than a few people in the crowd. If anyone thought he should have been with his family beneath the rocks in a far-away mountain, that was their opinion. Once he had let such things affect him; no longer.

Eyes closed, Nanda focused on his music. His fingers moved fluidly on the strings; he did not bother trying to think about what he was playing – his fingers always knew before he did, by the time he mastered a song. And this was one he’d known forever; a song he’d written, based on a lullaby his nursemaid sang to him.

He’d been with Shah for nearly ten years; in all that time he had spent at least a moment of every day wishing that he had become Shah’s under happier circumstances – that his family, as aggravating as they were to him, would redeem themselves.

But they had died doing the same things that had gotten them exiled. It felt, on some level, like they were betraying him.

Nanda kept playing, letting the music take everything away. Let the music he loved, and which they had always disdained, wash them from his life completely.

He looked up as the music faded into silence, and returned the four gazes watching him so carefully. Shah, who had trusted and wanted him despite the happenings of that night, and men who were brothers as much as lovers. And gave one of his whispery smiles that only they could see.