Duty #2
As far as champions went, Jain was par excellence.
Xandar’s refusal to allow the Champion of Flowers entry into Kysan had not deterred her one whit.
Months prior to his arrival, she’d installed herself seamlessly among the royal medical staff and maneuvered into the position of most trusted physician in record time.
No one, not even Lord Patel, suspected the Pavarian spy in their midst. Jain’s cosmetic surgery was impeccable and her Kysanian accent was perfect; she did not betray a shred of her origins.
She could have assassinated the king by now if she wished, but Jain was no Wraith.
She was a Champion of Flowers, and if her Flower was committed to peace, so was she.
A Champion bore their Flower’s sacrifices. If he suffered, she suffered.
And he had suffered. But if Ardor could bring an end to this miserable cold war, it was a fair price.
It was a Flower’s job to ensure an orderly transfer of power, but his true purpose, in his estimate, was to protect the populace.
For the sake of his people—Pavarian and Kysanian alike—he must not fail.
The royals were not the ones who suffered most when a Flower failed in his duty.
They were not the ones who fought in bitter civil wars and starved and died.
He owed it to all those people to secure the royal line and ensure stability.
For that to happen, he and Xandar needed to produce at least two healthy children, the sooner the better.
Jain hummed as she prepared a dilution and slides.
Ardor absently watched her work and waited for the usual verdict, which was always forecast by a slight pursing of her lips and a flicker of worry in her eyes.
She never said what she saw–or didn’t–in the meager samples on those slivers of glass.
She merely reassured Ardor again and again that he was fertile.
He could have children. He was not the problem.
Given the state of his flower, his doubts lingered. His Champion was loyal to a fault. As far as she was concerned, Ardor was never the problem. She was not above lying to spare his feelings, or withholding information if she thought it would protect him.
“Oh,” Jain said. She peered through the microscope for a long moment before preparing a second slide to replace the first. “Oh, my! His motility is excellent!” She laughed, delighted. “What luck!”
“What do you mean?” Ardor asked, puzzled. “What changed?”
Jain peered at a third slide, still grinning.
“Perhaps it was stress after all. All that matters is he’s quite fertile now.
” She turned to him. “Eminence, this is wonderful. Between this and the enthusiasm... He will certainly give you a child soon. Have you been practicing the exercises I taught you?”
She’d encouraged him to caress himself in private, to coax his bud to open so he could become familiar with the sensations of an eager bloom. Typically, Flowers were forbidden from stimulating themselves, but Ardor was a “special case.”
Jain always couched such things in clinical terms. Self-stimulation was therapy, an exercise to help him perform his duties. But no matter how she framed it, Ardor couldn’t bear to touch the source of his miseries any more than necessary. It only made him feel more broken.
“Of course,” he said.
Jain rested a gloved hand on his. “Your Eminence, it’s only a matter of time now. You will have children soon. You will secure peace. I’m certain of it.”
“Of course,” he said, forcing a smile.
In the absence of his Champion, Leya was the only person permitted to bathe and dress him, but Jain missed their old routines, and she was confident she could manage the optics if anyone saw them.
She washed his chest and stomach and performed a brief but thorough check of his flower.
His face grew hot and his heart raced when eyes were on him, even if they were loving and familiar, and he forced himself not to fidget.
“How deeply were you able to penetrate it?” she asked, and he showed her, bending his index finger to the second knuckle.
They both knew that likely wasn’t deep enough for proper insemination. Flowers were the miracle workers who held royal society together, but they couldn’t defy physics. He couldn’t have babies if the king’s sperm didn’t reach his eggs.
“I’ll practice,” he promised. Now that he had confirmation of his consort’s fertility, he couldn’t ignore his own deficiencies anymore. He must open his bloom. He would manage it. Somehow.
Jain brushed out his hair, an unnecessary task that soothed them both. For a time, he allowed himself to get lost in the familiar glide of the brush over his scalp and through his long silver tresses.
Ardor’s father had decided what he would look like, along with everything else about his body.
It was his father who chose his skin color and hair, and he determined they would only share one feature: deep brown eyes.
He wanted Ardor to be different, exotic and memorable, and he was.
In hindsight, perhaps that was why their relationship deteriorated.
When his father looked at Ardor, he did not see a child made in his own image.
He saw a man crafted to be desirable to others, to be bartered and exchanged.
Ardor’s expression must have betrayed him, because Jain’s brow knitted.
She stopped brushing and pressed a gloved hand to his forehead and kissed it.
To kiss a flower directly, even out of chaste loyalty, was forbidden.
His consort was the only person permitted to touch him without gloves.
The intimacy of skin contact could only come from a man he despised.
“Beloved Eminence, you will have children, and you will thrive. I will do whatever it takes to help you.” She would die for him. He knew that. He’d long trusted her above all others, especially his family. “Trust me. We finally have what we need. You will be pregnant soon, mark my words.”
“Of course,” he said.
* * *
ARDOR SPENT MOST of his free time in the palace garden near the apiaries, in part because the king disliked bees (along with everything else, it seemed).
He sometimes fantasized about the little workers coming to his rescue and sending Xandar to an early grave, but afterward he was always ashamed of it.
Xandar’s death would likely trigger a civil war, and all the bees who stung him would die as well.
Ardor had grown fond of the little workers, and befriending them provided a much-needed diversion.
He dressed mostly in white, knowing it soothed them, and read everything he could about bee husbandry.
He soon handled them with ease. This time of year they preferred to flit among the delicate white blossoms in the royal orchard, but some kept him company, cheerfully working among the aster and bee balm near his table.
Leya helped carry his books, and he carried his lunch. He set out a plate and added several smooth stones before filling it with water from a pitcher. His food never left his sight after Jain tested it for poison, and he kept the basket at his feet.
“Will you sit with me?” he asked Leya, knowing the answer.
She blushed. “Oh, Your Eminence, I shouldn’t. May I bring you anything?”
“No, thank you. I’ll stay here for the afternoon.”
She bowed deeply and scurried away. Knowing Leya, she would clean his apartment top to bottom twice before returning to escort him back before his curfew.
After years with a champion constantly at his side, Ardor enjoyed being left to his own devices.
Ironically, the public gardens were the one place he was allowed some privacy.
He was never truly alone in any meaningful sense, but the garden granted the illusion of solitude.
The guards were instructed to keep their distance, and Leya was the only person allowed to approach him.
He could undertake his studies and interests without interruption.
He resumed his reading of Kysanian history. It was educational and entertaining. Their version of the centuries-long feud with his nation was fascinating and often hilarious. He only looked up when the bees drinking from the saucer abruptly flitted away.
The king stood in the garden, watching him. His guards remained a short distance away, at full attention. Xandar’s jacket was a dark navy, nearly black. It was a jarring contrast to the brilliant flowers blooming all around him.