by Derr, Megan
"Men are not beautiful," Witcher replied, amusement in his eyes.
"No?" Shah asked. "Yet, when you look like that," he watched as Witcher writhed beneath his touch, gasping his name. "You are very beautiful indeed."
Witcher groaned, and tilted his head up, begging for another kiss. Shah obliged and let Witcher tug his hands free, relishing the burning touches as Witcher opened his robes to map his skin.
*~*~*
Witcher closed his eyes and willed his head to stop aching. Still the light persisted in making his head throb, pain digging deep enough that he wanted to scream or cry.
He could do neither.
The soldiers finally let him go, and Witcher felt the world tilt unsteadily. He opened his eyes, immediately regretting it, but forced himself not to fall over. Lord above, he was so tired. The pounding headache did not help either—suddenly being a prisoner did not seem so bad. Surely whatever torture they had in mind was better than this.
Anything had to be better than another battlefield, another day, hour, minute of seeing men die, hearing them scream, having to write home who had died. He was tired. If he was going to die here, a prisoner of war, he would thank God for finally being merciful.
Witcher closed his eyes again, holding perfectly still until his head settled a bit.
Voices began to penetrate; the strange, rolling dialect of the desert nations he had been made to study diligently once it was decided he would be a commander. Reluctantly, Witcher opened his eyes again.
He should be ashamed, really, that he and his men had been captured. An error he should not have mad, but he was so tired …
He looked up to regard the man who would be deciding his fate—the king Shahjahan about whom he had heard much, most of it distorted, twisted information that tended him toward believing the exact opposite.
His head still throbbed, but suddenly it seemed a distant, tolerable pain. Shahjahan was … what he had expected, but not. There was a sternness, a confidence there that Witcher had long associated with royalty, nobility. There was something else in his demeanor, though, which he could not identify. Dark eyes locked with his, and the pain in his head faded from notice a bit more.
Witcher broke contact first and wished he knew why those eyes were so disconcerting. Perhaps because there was no smugness, no satisfaction in them. His own liege would have been gloating over such a capture. This king looked only like he wished the whole affair over.
He switched his gaze to the men lined up on either side of the low throne, each one sitting motionless on thick cushions. They were all dressed alike, in long, black skirts. Bare-chested. Fine chests, Witcher could not help but note. Each man was far too easy to stare at, and good excuses not to go back to the king.
The hair alone on the one nearest the throne on the right was reason enough to gawk, and Witcher hoped that was not what he was doing. It was loosely bound, pooling like dark silk on the floor beside and behind him. If it were acceptable to call men beautiful, this man would be that.
On the left hand side was a man a trifle rough around the edges—at least compared to the first. Short, tousled hair and a bold gaze. There was an energy about him, even as still as he sat, that spoke of a harder life. Possibly low-born, but if his upbringing bothered him, it did not show in his mien.
Beside him was a man who had a stillness the first two lacked. A calm that spoke of discipline. Like the man next to him, he had a strong build, muscles shaped by rigorous exercise. His hair was shoulder-length, pulled neatly back.
"Do you speak our language, western soldier? A commander, yes?"
Witcher turned his attention back to the king. "Yes," he said slowly, the foreign language coming somewhat stiff to his tongue. He'd not had reason to use it for a while. "I am a commander."
"What is your name?"
"Witcher Fitzroy."
The king arched an eyebrow, amusement making his lips twitch. "Witcher? As in one who does witch work?"
Witcher thought he saw the rough-looking man start to laugh. "Aye," he said reluctantly, hoping the issue would not be pressed. But they always asked.
"Why would someone name you this?"
"I sincerely doubt the story is one which would interest you."
"Indulge me, prisoner."
Well, that said all that needed to be said. "My mother was rumored to be a witch. Before she died—in childbirth—she named me Witcher to thumb her nose at everyone."
"How interesting," the king said. He motioned, the gesture almost lazy, and the soldiers and guards in the room vanished.
Witcher frowned, sensing something strange. "Where are my men?"
"They are being held in our cells. Do not worry, for now they are being well-treated." The king made a vague motion in the air, as if trying to order something else away. "I have no interest in dragging out this absurd war. You are my prisoner in hopes that I can end matters, not prolong them."
His men were all right. Witcher allowed himself to relax a bit, then wondered why he was so willing to trust the king's words. His head was not so strained as that, though the throbbing was worsening, becoming harder to ignore even with the distractions before him. The need to close his eyes again was strong, but Witcher could not permit himself even that small relief. Not when he was so vulnerable.
His wrists were beginning to chafe against the rope binding them, but Witcher barely noticed anything past his aching head.
He realized the king was speaking again. "What?"
Another arched brow; Witcher could see he had surprised the king. "I said would you like to see them for yourself?"
Witcher shook his head, then immediately regretted. "No," he managed. "I will trust your words for now."
"Are you all right?"
How strange—it almost looked as though the king actually cared. "I'm fine," Witcher managed. "What do you need from me? I cannot imagine I am here simply to converse."
"I wanted to know who precisely I hold captive, that I might send accurate information to your king. Given your location, I doubt anyone knows that you have been captured."
"Probably not. If you tell them you have Witcher, the king will respond quickly enough." Witcher almost laughed, imagining the looks on the faces of the king and ministers when they realized their favorite tool was out of their grasp.
The king smiled, pleased, and relaxed in his seat. "So I have succeeded in capturing someone quite valuable."
"Valuable? I would not say that," Witcher said. "Merely quite useful."
"A good soldier?"
"Yes, until today. And more besides."
"More?"
Witcher grinned, a bitter twist to it. "Yes, but that is nothing that relates to you." He would say no more about it. Already he was saying too much, but he could not bring himself to care. If this was the route he must travel to get out of this war, even if he already knew there was another one waiting for him, he would do it. At least his men could go home.
He could not bite back a gasp as fresh pain lanced through his head. His hands twitched, wanting to make an attempt to soothe away the crippling pain. Witcher could not help closing his eyes, knowing that if he didn't, his late lunch would wind up all over the rug.
"Have you been injured?" The king's voice, so strangely kind, slipped past the pain.
Witcher bit back another gasp of pain. "No. I'll be fine." He hoped. It was rare it was ever this bad; he wondered if he'd even be able to move now.
"Something is wrong." He said something else, but Witcher could not understand what. The light, why couldn't it just go away? He wanted to cry, and didn't that just make everything worse? Someone moved past him, softness brushing his arm, the smell of nutmeg, cinnamon.
Then his wrists were free, and his hands were cradling his head before he could make them hold still. How quickly he'd succumbed to weakness—but after everything else, the fighting and the capture, knowing he had failed and endangered his men, coping with one of his crippling headaches was too much.
"Your head?"
Witcher was again struck by how kind the man sounded, a trait he could not associate with a king. It was … tempting, somehow. Though he couldn't say what he was being tempted to do. But the word seemed the right one. "Yes. I am sorry."
"Do not be; my mother had a concubine who suffered the same."
Witcher wanted to nod, but opted to hold as still as possible. Then he was being led away, and gave up trying to maintain any sort of control. He just couldn't bring himself to care anymore.
*~*~*
Concubines seldom attended any court function but the nightly dinners, when everyone was expected to relax, letting food and wine and music ease away the strains of the day. Shah, though, was fond of having them present at certain times or places, for support or to make a statement—authority, wealth, ability. A weak king would not be able to control the men this one had claimed for his harem.
Witcher wanted to shake his head in amusement. Once he had thought the idea of a harem something his tutor had made up. A grand joke on an ignorant, pale-skinned soldier. Quite disconcerting to realize the joke wasn't.
He sat to the left of the throne, Aik beside him. On the right side sat Nanda and Bey. With the arrival of the foreign officials—he called them foreign!—Shah must look his strongest. Even if the exact nature of the harem would not be immediately obvious to most of the foreigners, they would remember it and learn the significance later. Meanwhile, all of Shah's people would understand what was not being said: they had a strong king.
Even after three years with Shah and the others, he still felt naked at times—especially in a crowded room of fully clothed people. More than two decades in a multitude of modest layers made it difficult to get used to being always bare-chested, especially ever since he'd allowed Beynum to persuade him toward the gold hoops in his nipples. Even now he twitched to hide them.
But Shah wanted them on display, so on display he would be. Anything Shah asked, he would do.
Though he had expected it, had braced himself for it, still it came as something of a shock to see men he had once known come walking through the door. But he immediately disliked their arrogance, walking in as though they had every right to be there. It was by Shah's good grace they were permitted anywhere near the palace.
If Shah could hear his thoughts, he'd realize there was no reason for the concerns Witcher knew he would never voice. Witcher had ceased to think of himself as anything but finally home from the moment he'd decided to stay.
So the looks that should have unsettled him—shock turned to disbelief, and in the faces of those who understood what he was, disgust and even contempt—only amused him. But, in their defense, he supposed it must be quite a shock to see him as he was now. His light blonde hair had once been trimmed to military shortness; still short, there was enough length that the fine strands held a soft wave. The gold at his chest was matched by gold in his ears and a slender chain around his neck.
It wasn't hard to anticipate the conversations they would try to have with him later. He couldn't wait to see their reaction when one of them tried to touch him.
He didn't have to look to know that Shah was still nervous beneath the calm he seemed to wear so easily. Perhaps after this the king would finally be convinced that his former home held no appeal. Especially not now.
From the corner of his eye he could see Brandon attempt to catch his gaze, and he knew Samuel would be studiously ignoring him for now. The rest of them he didn't recognize, which was a relief. The two he did know would be more than enough to deal with.
The greetings and platitudes went on for some time, and Witcher knew many guests must have been confused when the four men closest to the throne were not so much as mentioned. It was so hard not to smirk or smile, as the trio of dignitaries sent to begin negotiations attempted to launch right into things. Shah was direct when he wanted to be—in politics he seldom tended that way.
At last the welcoming court was adjourned. As one, the four concubines rose. Witcher held out his hand for Shah to take, escorting his king from the room while the other three followed close beside and behind. He could feel two pairs of eyes on him, and ignored them.
*~*~*
"Are you feeling better?"
Witcher looked up, snapped out of his thoughts by a warm voice. "What? Oh. Yes." He looked away, those eyes—dark brown, he could see now—far too intense for his liking. "Thank you. I am sorry to have behaved so poorly. Prisoner or no, a man should not collapse because of a headache."
"Nonsense," the king said peaceably. "May I sit?"
"Of course." Witcher hid his confusion—when did a king ever need to ask if he could sit on a bench in a garden in his castle? A strange garden, more stone and water than plants. But in this place, so dry and hot, a water fountain of such size was clearly more impressive than an excess of plants. He tried not to fidget as the king sat down beside him; suddenly things felt much warmer than they had a moment ago.
He did not need this. Wasn't his life miserable enough without letting dangerous thoughts and wants surface? He could only deceive himself for so long about the effect those eyes and that lithe body had. Witcher cast his eyes out, searching for anything other than the king to stare at.
They landed on a man of average height, bare-chested, legs encased in black pants overlaid by a long, black skirt slit on both sides. Gold bands hung at his wrists, another at his neck. And that long, long hair. One of the men from a few days before—he had barely been out of his room since his humiliating collapse. But in those days, he had finally figured out who those three men had been.
He remembered his tutor, a humorless man who had not been pleased to be teaching his language to a 'heathen,' telling him a great deal about the culture. One of those lessons had involved the royal family, who were the only ones permitted to keep multiple lovers—concubines. Always of the same gender—princes and kings kept male, queens and princesses female—and the current king apparently kept a less than orthodox harem.
So those three men had been this man's harem. Lovers. Three of them. Male. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. It was wrong. Wrong to even think about anything like that.
Not that it had ever stopped him. But this entire place was forcing his deepest thoughts far too close to the surface. And this was his sworn enemy!
Well, this was who he'd been told was his sworn enemy. But when had his comrades ever cared for him when his head ached badly enough he saw stars? And here the king had seemed concerned, which made no sense.
The entire situation made his head ache in a brand new way. "Did you require something, Majesty? Am I trespassing? Not supposed to be out?"
"You are fine." The king smiled. "Please make yourself at home. Your king is quite stubborn; I think the arguing will continue for quite some time. I realize as a captive you can only ever feel so comfortable, but I wish you no ill. It would please me if you considered yourself more of a guest than a hostage."
Witcher dared a look and found it hard to look away. "I would like that." He motioned at the garden, the palace. "You've a beautiful home, and war is not something for which I hold personal grudges. I wish I were here under happier circumstances." He sighed. "I have not seen my men."
"We are keeping a closer watch on them for now. A few have proven … uncooperative. Forgive me."
"Forgive me, Majesty. My men should better be able to behave. If they cannot, they've only themselves to blame. If you will permit me, I will have a word with them later."
The king nodded. "Of course." He held out a hand to the long-haired man standing nearby, drawing him forward. "Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?" He laughed. "My council will not be pleased to see me entertaining a captive like a special guest. Still, I would enjoy a
fresh face. And I bet I could persuade Nandakumar here to play for us. Yes, Nanda?"
"Of course, my king." The faintest of smile's curved the quiet man's lips. If Witcher had not been watching him, painfully curious, he would have missed it. And there was obvious fondness in his eyes, something Witcher would not have expected of a man in such a position. But then again, what did he really know about it?
"So will you join me? If your head is not troubling you?"
Humiliated, Witcher looked away. "It should be fine. I am rested, and things are calmer. Again, I apologize for being so weak."
"Hardly weak," the king said, a hand resting comfortingly on his shoulder before sliding slowly away as the king stood up. "As I said, my mother had a concubine who suffered them. There was many a day she could not move from her bed. I will see you at dinner." Then the king and his quiet, handsome shadow were gone.