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Kip Mdang woke in the silver hour before dawn and blinked up at the unfamiliar ceiling. It was higher than he would have expected, and the space around him felt larger than usual, and the surface beneath his back was softer and more comfortable than a sleeping mat.
He lay still, collecting impressions. The room was full of light. It slanted in through a high window and glinted through an extraordinary mass of glass objects that appeared to be floating up near the high ceiling. Spangles of refracted light splashed out across the walls, which were painted in a striking teal colour that made him think of -
The near surface of the Bay of Waters - the gleam of a shell like a nautilus - the glorious shade of an asymmetric vase.
The memories made little sense, but he was used to that. He continued his catalogue of the room. The bed had a cover but it was all pulled to one side, wrapped around - oh, there was somebody in the bed with him, how strange - he did not feel alarmed.
He was, however, beginning to feel restless. And he needed the facilities. There must be a water closet nearby, in such a well-appointed room as this. He sat up with unexpected difficulty. His body was responsive to his will, but movement took more effort than he would have expected, as though all his limbs were heavier than they should be.
By the time he was sitting on the edge of the bed he was out of breath. He took a moment to rest there and consider matters from this new perspective. There was a low table beside the bed and on it -
The gleaming case - the subtle magic - your instrument, as the cello is mine, said his sister Vinyë.
“Kip?”
Ah, he knew that voice. He turned his head, painfully slowly, and yes, improbable though it was - the other person - the man in bed with him - the blanket-thief - was -
Perhaps he was dreaming.
The other man pulled himself up, pushing aside the covers in an easy motion. His lion eyes were lit with gentle concern. “Do you need help, Kip?”
Would he dare - even in a dream? But he did have a pressing need.
“Can you direct me to the water closet, my lord?” he asked.
A shadow passed across that beautiful beloved face, but his lord said nothing, merely shifted across the bed towards him.
Mindful of the taboos - he must be mindful, even in a dream - he could not allow himself to be otherwise - Kip stood and stepped back to give his lord space. His body still felt weighted down by that unfamiliar heaviness, his muscles seemed almost to creak as he moved, it was as though he was old. Ancient.
He did not think that he could be ancient. He had surely not lived enough life.
His lord swung his legs over the side of the bed with an ease that Kip envied and - his lord was wearing a loose pair of Vangavayen-style trews, the same as Kip, which was a peculiar thing for him to dream - and his lord was wearing an efela. Kip stared at it, his hand coming up to his own neck to grip the chipped obsidian pendant of his own efela ko.
His lord’s efela was strung on a thread that glimmered faintly, bright against the dark skin of his chest. The central pendant was a shell with a creamy white edge that curved around a gleaming blood-red interior, like nothing Kip had ever seen before, except -
A canyon with walls of glassy black water - the weird and ugly monsters in the deep - the fire at the heart of the world fountaining beneath his feet - the glory and the ecstasy.
His lord was studying his face with a look of naked love and loss that was hard to bear. Kip, ashamed of his confusion, looked away.
A hand cupped his elbow. He drew in a sharp breath, looking down at it - his lord’s long, elegant fingers curled around his arm, as though the taboos had never been.
“This way, Kip.”
The situation grew no less dream-like in the small bathroom. The face looking back at him out of the mirror was undeniably his own, but it was so old. His hair was white and long and wavy, braided down one side with a selection of black glossy feathers, to striking effect. His skin was weathered, lined, and almost translucent.
He was wearing a new efela too, one that also had a red and white shell as a central pendant. His hand trembled as he traced the other beads. Something turquoise and gold that looked decidedly Shaian. A ghostly white pearl that most definitely did not come from the Vangavaye-ve. An intricately carved wooden piece, the patterns vaguely reminiscent of - someone’s - whittling. All pregnant with meaning, all obscure.
It grew easier when he had washed and dressed and made his way downstairs. His body seemed to know the space, even if he could not remember it; he stepped lightly through into what turned out to be the kitchen.
There were more people here. All old men. They seemed familiar, but the names would not rise to his mind. He nodded to them amiably, all the same.
“How are you feeling this morning, Cliopher?” asked the man at the stove, who appeared to be frying pancakes.
“Muddled,” he said, honestly.
Another man - large-framed, laconic, possibly Azilinti by his features - put down the paper he had been reading and regarded Kip solemnly. “In what way?” he asked.
Kip shrugged, because he was not sure that he could find the words to explain the strange familiar-unfamiliar shape of the world this morning. He sat down at the table, looked around, and was struck by a revelation -
Tang of lemon tarts - gold flash of the portrait - the kindly smile of an old friend.
“This is Saya Dorn’s house, isn’t it?” he said, “Where is she?”
There was a definite moment of discomfort. The man at the stove turned away from his pan to give Kip a disbelieving look. The man at the table clenched his hands together on top of the Ring O’News. The third man - a dapper fellow in a loose Shaian-style linen robe - got up and came over to stand beside Kip, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, my dear,” he said, “do you recognise us?”
“I know you,” said Kip, staunchly, “I just - can’t quite place how.”
The hand tightened on his shoulder. “We’re friends,” the stranger said, and the rock-solid certainty in his words cut through some of Kip’s rising anxiety.
“Thank you,” he said, “I am sorry -”
“It’s not your fault,” said the man at the stove, firmly. “Have some pancakes.”
Kip ate, and wondered at the looks that passed between them. Eventually the man at the table said, “Cliopher, if you don’t mind me asking… how old are you?”
The question made him frown. The face in the mirror looked so… decrepit. His memories were a tangled mess. But… what came most readily to mind suggested -
“Seventeen?” he said, tentatively. “I remember… my birthday?” He looked down at his plate. What was he doing here? It was all... wrong. “Can I go home now?” he asked.
“You are home.”
It was his lord. The glorious dark man with the golden eyes.
“When I am with you,” said Kip, the words coming from some hidden place in his heart. They were the right words; he was rewarded with a heart-stopping smile.
Later, he felt as though he ought to be working. There was no doubt a report to write (there was always a report to write). His friends showed him to a marvellous desk, with stationary of all kinds stowed in a bewildering assortment of cubby holes and little draws.
Kip’s hands knew what to do, despite their quavering. He set up his inkstone and ground the stick into the little puddle of water, dipped his brush in the glossy black ink, and wrote. His thoughts seemed to flow more easily when he was constructing a proposal: the problem statement, the possibilities, the challenges to overcome, the recommendations, the risks.
He was aware of someone coming in and sifting through the pages beside him. “What is it this time?” asked one of his friends.
“The postal service again,” his lord said, with a sigh.
“I never know if we should leave him, or…”
“Not today, I think,” said his lord. “Kip. Cliopher, look at me.”
Kip was in the middle of a complex passage about the interlocking duties of the Solaaran government and the regional princes, but he could not ignore a direct command. He cleaned his brush and laid it down and twisted round in his seat.
His lord had pulled up a chair next to his. He looked different, with all that white hair making a fierce halo around his head, a lion’s mane to go with the lion eyes.
“Kip, you fixed the postal service centuries ago.”
That made no sense. He shook his head, not so much in denial as in confusion.
Long hours at a desk, the candle guttering low - or no, the mage lights flickering against the Palace dark - and bringing forth the words - before the princes in his battle stance.
“Beloved, take my hands.”
He did, hesitating only slightly. In this dream the taboos did not seem to be a problem.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“You’re home. With me. Kip, you’re safe. We’re all safe. You made it so. You made it possible. You took apart the ruins of Astandalas and built the future of Zunidh… we retired, together - we went adventuring - you bought this house for us.”
“I… don’t…”
“I know,” said his lord, his voice breaking. “I know.”
Kip was shaking. “I don’t even remember your name,” he said.
His lord smiled at him, sweet and sad. “It’s Fitzroy Angursell,” he said, “you found me. You saved me.”
“Oh.” It was all too much. Kip felt the sob rising in his throat. “I’m sorry.”
Fitzroy pulled his chair up close and wrapped strong arms around him. “Your mind goes wandering, beloved, we all know that. It’s not your fault. Think of it like… travelling through time. You bring us different facets of yourself every day, and all of them are welcome.”
Kip snuffled mightily, and managed, “I have not always been - good company.”
“It is true that you have your pricklier periods,” said Fitzroy, “but I have enjoyed every Kip Mdang that I have met. Even the one who tried to brain Rhodin with a kettle.”
Kip hiccuped into silence. “I did what?”
“You thought he was an intruder in Saya Dorn’s kitchen, I believe,” said Fitzroy.
There was a moment of silence while they both contemplated this. “I don’t remember,” said Kip.
“I know, beloved,” Fitzroy’s voice, like his tears, was soft against Kip’s face. “I know.”