Thief of Songs (Twin Kingdoms 1)

The lowland conquerers have taken everything from him, or so the composer Amet Emendexte-ilye was taught: prestige, autonomy, wealth, and most importantly, magic. But when one of them steals his fiancee, Amet avenges himself on them all by writing music and giving it away in defiance of the lowland laws. It is a very satisfactory vengeance, or so he thinks, until he discovers the kingdom's royal composer is planning to debut Amet's work---as folk music!

So he's riding east to set the record straight. But he has no idea how compelling a decadent lowland hermaphrodite can be. And before it's over, this thief of songs may be stealing more than his music....

A lyrical novel-length romance, set in a second world fantasy. Leave your cares behind today!

Genre (setting): high fantasy romance (Twin Kingdoms)
Relationship: Male/Hermaphrodite
Tags: low conflict, music, composers, magic
Rating: PG for emotional situations, implied sexual situations (no explicit scenes)

Excerpt from Chapter 1

“How’s it look out there?” I asked around the hairstick in my mouth. Loops of hair fell over the silk sleeve of my jacket: pale green now that spring was fresh, though this morning I’d woken to an emerald tress. Summer on the way, and we were home at last.

“It’s fine,” came the voice of my companion. Distracted, though. I glanced at it, found it watching the crowd past the painted screen. Letting my hair fall and pulling the stick from my teeth, I joined it… and it didn’t react. Not necessarily strange behavior; all the fourth sexes had the talent, to just… sink into the world, become still, become the hole into which freneticism and agitation sank. I loved this about Always Falling, had loved this about it from the moment we’d met. It was my own personal quenching, the sanctuary I sought when the edges of my joys turned brittle, bright like knives.

So its quiet did not surprise me. The predatory focus, though, did. I followed its gaze and pursed my lips. “Well! I have an admirer.”

Amid the courtiers milling behind the murmuring orchestra was a man. A fierce blade of a man in black silk, and he wore it severely. No showing crepe for him, no salacious invitation, not so much as a piped hem in a different color. His manner matched, all stern angles and scowls. Such a face, though. Exotic in its pallor. Brows distinct and sharp, like calligraphy strokes. Eyes that brooded, cheekbones and jaw so sharp the skin between them was taut as drums. His lips would be full when he wasn’t torturing them by pressing them together so hard. They were dry, too. Such harsh treatment, for such lovely lips.

Always Falling hadn’t said anything. I slid an arm through its and said, “You don’t think so?”

It glanced at me repressively. Its eyes skated to my fallen chignon and it sighed, plucking the hairstick from my curled palm. I bent my head meekly, allowing it to twist the mane back up and secure it. Always Falling, always catching me. I loved it dearly, and in every way but one it filled my heart to repletion.

Gentle fingers lifted my chin and I met its eyes: storm-gray, and so we would have rain later. I teased it that of the two of us, the calmer one had the features that responded to the far more tempestuous weather, while I’d ended up with the slower seasonal banners: the canescent green in spring, emerald in summer, scarlet in fall, and white in winter. In winter, only a dark gray rim around my irises made their size clear. I looked uncanny in winter, and dressed to accentuate it.

“You think I am ridiculous,” I said, mouth twitching.

It kissed my brow. “I think you will be late to introduce yourself and open the concert.”

“Nonsense,” I said, luxuriating in the touch. “I’m never late.” Straightening, I pulled one lock from the perfect sweep it had arranged so effortlessly, just enough for a bed-tousled look. It sighed and smiled, and I stepped out from behind the screen as the orchestra finished its tuning. Naturally. My sense of timing had always been impeccable. I would have made a poor appointee to the position of royal court musician otherwise.

* * *

“So,” I said to my audience. “As you can see, I have returned no worse for the wear.” Their laughter was music. I bowed, a flourish that exposed the crepe lining along the skirt of my jacket. Unlike the fellow in black, I enjoyed advertising: beneath the teal silk, a flutter as red as a throat, and beneath it, white edged in coral pink. Available, but only to those I approached. I enjoyed hearing the gossip about who I might be bedding from those who poured it into the ears of my friends. Including—

And there en was. We knelt, each one of us, for en was divine, blood of gods, fated to rule over all the world. En had proven it by reshaping ens own body on ascension, complete with wings—dragon’s wings, silken and limber, crimson and purple iridescing blue edged with shimmering droplets of gold. The Divine no longer needed the embroidered silks that paneled ens body, for en was magnificence personified, strange and otherworldly and gorgeous, from ens toes to the delicate swept antenna en had formed from ens brows.

En also tasted like tea, and let me win at Forts and Walls, and had a wicked sense of humor. We’d known one another since childhood, when en had been a rambunctious prince and I had been rather less than that, but already such a musical prodigy that my destiny hadn’t needed reading in prayer skeins. We’d been each other’s first lover. We were still fond of one another.

“Dancer,” en said. “You’ve been missed.”

“O Divine, not as much as you have been.”

En chuckled and settled onto the cushioned bench set on the raised end of the hall, and this freed the rest of us to move. The court remained on the terraced floor on their pillows. I rose, pressed my palms together, and bowed to Izdrasen, called by ens poem name, Inevitability of Clouds Against Mountains. Every word I’d said had been true. I had missed en. Had missed home, the court, my friends, my own bed. I’d enjoyed the tour I’d taken, escorting my latest opus through the east’s major cities, and even up into the highland cities over the border. But home was where the world eased into the bone, into sinew and iris and tress, was pressing my nose into Always Falling’s hair, was smelling familiar incense, gardens, sheets. Home was a place you could trust the orchestra to read your mind as well as the score.

“Have you brought us something new from your travels?” Clouds asked.

“I have,” I said. I heard the rustle of sheet music behind me. When I spoke, it was to the hall at large, and it was no less a performance than what was about to commence. “While I was in the highlands, I was privileged to hear the music of the people: folk dances, tavern reels, teahouse ballads. These songs speak to a history older than the union of our peoples. They dig deep. They call. I heard them, and knew I had to bring them home, to the very seat of the kingdom. I’ve selected five of the very best of these folk songs and arranged them to suit an intimate orchestra and a modern audience. I hope you enjoy them, Divine.”

“I am certain I shall.”

As elegant a cue as any I would give to the orchestra, that, and I turned to face my beloveds, my musicians, the actors who gave voice to the manifestations of magic that filled my head. They reflected my joy back to me: did we need to smile? We knew one another too well to need it, but I saw among them the scattered curving of mouths and, dearer still, the lifting of bow and bending of head. I showed them my hands and curled them, gathering their attention. And then, with a flick of my fingers, I released us all to the music.