MPNS Ch 87

Chapter 87

“Did you just say imugi?”

Nikiel could not hold back the question. Might Naet also be from another world—specifically, from the Republic of Korea? Such a possibility could not be dismissed now. At this point, bluntness seemed best.

Expectations for Nikiel were low; whatever he said would be dismissed as, “There he goes again.” Better to ask directly how Naet knew of the imugi. Still, waiting for an answer tugged at his nerves.

Naet glanced down at Nikiel’s hand trembling slightly where it grasped his arm. He kept his lips sealed at first, then smiled lightly.

“Bweika is beginning.”

Bweika was one of Ossinis’s ballroom forms, a number suited to a tango-like tempo. Slightly brisker than the traditional Ossinis waltz and far more tactile between partners, it was usually played toward dawn when the older nobles had retired. Being a sensual dance, it was precisely the one the real Nikiel had practiced endlessly.

So soon for Bweika already? Nikiel sighed shortly.

“I know only the gentleman’s steps.”

Though the real Nikiel had studied the lady’s steps as well to make the dance more sultry, Nikiel pretended ignorance. He had no wish to take Bweika quite so far.

“Your Highness, be at ease and place your arm kindly about my waist,” Naet said with a soft laugh. The green of his eyes, gentle as they fixed on Nikiel, left Nikiel at a loss. No answer to his question, forcing Lucian to yield—Naet today was far more high-handed than before.

As Nikiel watched him in silence, Naet smoothed his expression, dipped his head, and whispered at Nikiel’s ear.

“Beware that cur Raphael, Your Highness. No doubt you have seen what that dog’s whelp has done.”

“…How could you….”

Nikiel froze. Naet had named precisely the vision—no, the memories of the true Nikiel’s childhood. Without meeting Nikiel’s eyes, Naet guided the prince’s arm around his waist and stepped forward.

Thus Nikiel, stepping back a half pace, had to take the man’s part in the Bweika. With crisp precision, Naet half-turned his head, then arched back. The sternocleidomastoid stood in relief; the firm, straight line of his neck only sharpened his masculinity. The swell of his chest as he bent drew sighs from watching ladies and lords alike.

Nikiel supported his waist with ease. The training had paid off; unlike feather-light ladies, even the well-built Grand Master could be borne by his strength.

Using Nikiel’s braced arm, Naet rose, chest to chest. Though cloth lay between them, sensation seemed vivid. Cheeks warming, Nikiel averted his gaze from his partner in the first dance.

Given their height difference, even with the gentleman’s steps, Nikiel ended up folded in Naet’s hold. Now it was Nikiel’s turn: as he moved his head aside and back, Naet murmured again.

“Near that mongrel you must keep your wits above all, my Night.”

Such words did not suit the lips of a Grand Master who served the Sun. To praise the night this way sounded as if darkness were preferable.

With a firm hold at his waist, Nikiel pressed his thigh between Naet’s, allowing him to lean back. The sensual brush of thigh against thigh quickened Nikiel’s heart.

“So how, then, do you….”

“Naet,” he corrected softly—

He straightened at once, spun in place until Nikiel’s arm slipped from his waist, then returned in a controlled fall, guiding Nikiel’s arm to encircle him once more. The mere contact made Nikiel’s heart pound.

“You promised you would call me so.”

An entreaty again. Nikiel clicked his tongue in vexation. Their chests met once more; he fought to steady his breath. Each swell of his ribs at inhalation touched Naet and sent a strange heat through him.

From the onlookers rose a chorus of awe.

“What a perfectly matched pair….”

“Was Bweika always so sensual?”

Behind screened fans, whispers spread; a flush touched many cheeks. With Oryx Ziments—the silver-haired, black-eyed Grand Master—and Nikiel—the platinum-haired, blue-eyed prince—performing a flawless Bweika, no other couple dared step onto the floor. Courage failed them all.

Yet among the eyes upon them, one gaze turned noxious.

‘Tch. What do they see in that vulgar whelp of the royal line?’

It was Count Gaspar. Since his public humiliation at Nikiel’s hands, he had failed to secure funding and now faced financial strain.

The story had spread; invitations dwindled. Even tonight’s had been secured only by trading on his loyal forebear’s name.

‘That a great lord like me must suffer such disgrace?’

Then a voice like thunder rang in his skull.

—Yes. Therefore, take your revenge.

Gaspar nodded. Yes—revenge. A mere palace strumpet dared shame him? The price would be exacted in full.

—Indeed. Nikiel Ossinis is a strumpet. Such creatures belong in their proper place.

Draining yet another glass of fruit wine, eyes half-lidded, Gaspar let the whisper coil around his thoughts. He would defile Nikiel, remind that insolent, newly lauded youngest prince of his true station.

When no one watched, he drew a handkerchief-wrapped packet from his breast and tipped its contents into a silver goblet. The white powder dissolved completely in the apple wine. After a dance, Nikiel would be parched; then Gaspar would offer the cup.

The powder was an aphrodisiac known as “Opportunity of Delusion,” a stimulant old men used to coax back their senses. In a young man like Nikiel, it would trigger rut—as in the old days when he was a mere strumpet. Then, in the very heart of the court, he would lose his reason and see his hard-won reputation crumble.

Tonight Nikiel had entered the ball at the arm of Lucian, Duke of Turun. Absurd. Why would that high-nosed duke come as Nikiel’s partner? To Gaspar, nothing about it made sense.

As he stewed, the final strains of the Bweika sang through the strings. Swallowing, Gaspar advanced toward the couple leaving the center of the floor.

Just then, partners were set to change. Raphael, crown prince of Ossinis and Nikiel’s brother, approached them with a smile. Oryx Ziments met him, stepped close to shake hands, and turned slightly—his back screened Gaspar’s approach. A chance.

Gaspar glanced swiftly up at the dais. Lucian and Raymond, finally escaping the king’s swamp of chatter, watched Nikiel. They clearly meant to claim the next dance. The sight sickened him. That low creature, a prince? Ensnaring great lords? Intolerable.

He moved quickly, aiming to reach Nikiel before the next partner. He must seize the initiative before any other noble could speak.

At last he stood at Nikiel’s side.

“Your Highness… you must be thirsty. Pray, take this.”

Disguising his voice and hiding his face beneath a hunting-brimmed hat, Gaspar offered the cup. Nikiel eyed the sudden interloper warily, but realizing it would be discourteous to refuse a noble’s proffered drink without cause, accepted it with a faintly troubled face.

Gaspar exulted inwardly.

‘Drink. Quickly now. Drink—and show the world how base the blood in your veins is, how your sacred power is nothing but a sham!’

A strange rapture climbed higher within him. The naive, foolish strumpet held the silver cup to his lips. Just a moment more—Gaspar stared, obsession glazing his eyes.

And as Nikiel tilted the cup, ready to take the golden wine into his mouth—

“Pardon, Your Highness. My thirst is dire.”

Yullan, who had arrived unnoticed, whisked the cup from his hands, threw back his head, and drained it in a single swallow.

“No!”

Gaspar cried out. Nobles turned, murmurs rising in confusion.

No time now. He had to flee—at once—before anyone learned the nature of the drug, or who had ordered him. If he confessed that a radiant, burning command had driven him to punish that palace strumpet, the sunlight itself would char him to ash.

Horrified by his own thought, Gaspar lumbered away, fleeing the hall.

Left behind were Nikiel—and Yullan, who had just drunk a goblet of unknown brew.

Footnotes

1. Bweika: An Ossinis ballroom form akin to tango in tempo and intimacy, typically performed late when older nobles have retired; markedly more sensual than the traditional Ossinis waltz.