The Red King

  Maarten took a much larger draught and wiped his mouth on his arm. As he passed the cup to Andrew once more, he answered, “You are quite the prize. I feel most fortunate to have you.”

  “I am only a man, my lord, and a smallish one, at that,” Andrew demurred. He took another sip of wine, wary of another hidden physic. His stomach churned, but he did not know if it was from the wine or the look on Maarten’s face.

  The smile was gentle, almost adoring, but those pale blue eyes were bright with an edge of lunacy. “You are a gift to me, a treasure beyond compare. I have searched the world for you.”

  Shivering, trapped by the gaze and the words, Andrew released the goblet and reclined on a cushion. “Searched the world? Was I so very hard to find?” He managed a smile, kept his tone warm.

  “I have kept a dozen pets, fought to train them to my liking. Only one lived to see me satisfied,” Maarten said, setting the cup on the floor. He moved forward then, placed his hands on either side of Andrew’s shoulders and hovered like a crouching beast. “Even he was a disappointment, in the end.”

  Andrew remained still, but let his eyes roam Maarten’s form. It was a pleasing frame, but one that spoke of natural strength without discipline. As it was he felt dwarfed by the man, completely eclipsed by his size. One of his hands was large enough to cover his face and had, in fact, during the prolonged session yesterday. He had no mirror, but he could feel the bruises along his jaw, his cheek, all the size of Maarten’s fingertips. Schooling his gaze to reflect only calm, he raised it back to Maarten’s face. “And this pet, the one you say satisfied you, it was Ruaidhri? Rorik?”

  “Indeed, my dove. You are most perceptive,” Maarten said. He lowered his head to kiss Andrew and Andrew allowed it but did not respond in any way. “How much did he tell you?” The man began to move down Andrew’s neck, teeth finding already aching bruises to worry once more. “How much did he show you?”

  “He…it was implied that you took him young,”

  Maarten laughed against his throat. “He was still smooth. I discovered a fondness for it with him in those early days.”

  Andrew closed his eyes, fought against the memories of what Rory had told him. When Maarten’s hand slipped lower, exploring the rough surface of newly grown hair at Andrew’s groin, Andrew flinched. Hard enough to gain Maarten’s notice.

  “I will have you scraped again. It suits you.”

  “But I am a man, fully grown. Surely you would rather…” Andrew began, but the hand at his balls clenched and his words cut off on a pained gasp.

  “Do not tell me what I prefer,” Maarten seethed and bit him, viciously, on his nipple. When Andrew screamed he released the flesh to flick with his tongue.

  Swallowing a whimper, Andrew said breathlessly, “As you wish, my lord.”

  The hand at his groin stayed and toyed with him there, pulling and squeezing his cock. “Tell me more. Tell me when he first took you.”

  Rory’s mouth tasted of rum. His lips were somehow rough and soft at the same time.

  Andrew closed his eyes once more. He inhaled deeply and found in that sacred consummation what Maarten wanted. “He took me on the floor of his cabin, after the death of a shipmate.”

  “I will make it quick.”

  “It was fast…hard…I didn’t…I didn’t know…” He had not known what was to come; not the pain, or the pleasure, or the brilliance of love to follow.

  Crying…he was crying…but not because of the pain…

  “It hurt. I wept.”

  Rory’s eyes were on him, hungry, wanting more. Wanting all.

  “He took me there in his anger and from that point, I was his.”

  “Did his anger arouse you? Did you come for him?” Maarten asked, kissing his throat and shoulder.

  The room, the very world tilted. Rory’s eyes never left him for a moment.

  Andrew felt his body respond, to the memory. Nothing more. “Yes,” he whispered and shuddered as heat flared and spread out from his groin, but could not melt the ice around his heart.

  Maarten was still tugging at his cock. Andrew was hard. “You liked it, didn’t you, my dove? His strength, his fury…I gave those to him,” the man said, now biting and gnawing at Andrew’s flesh.

  Andrew moaned, his hips thrusting up to meet Maarten’s palm. “Yes,” he hissed, curling his fingers into Maarten’s shoulders, digging his nails into the curve of hard muscle.

  “I gave him that and you loved him for it.”

  “Yes, yes,” Andrew said, writhing beneath the man’s hand even as knees parted his legs.

  Maarten sat back on his haunches and pulled Andrew roughly into his lap. There was no time for Andrew to even catch his breath. He was impaled, thrust into quick and sharp, and he screamed again. Maarten took both of his wrists and pinned them to the bed, leaning forward to continue. “Now, you will love me, for I am the source of your pleasure. I am the well from which it flows.”

  Andrew sobbed, ignored the words as they were flung back at him and held onto the vision of Rory’s face as he was fucked. “Yes, yes…yes…” he cried. The pain was its own pleasure now, coursing through him, scalding him. Burning him.

  “Say it!” Maarten commanded, thrusting faster.

  I love you, Rory said, his eyes wide and shining in the night.

  Andrew’s back arched and he felt his own come on his stomach.

  Maarten finished with him, bending to sink his teeth into Andrew’s neck once more. When he stilled, he lay on top of Andrew, almost smothering him with the weight of his body. He stroked Andrew’s hair, his face, relishing the tears and wails of misery that could no longer be stemmed. “In time, my dove, you will forget him. You will love only me.”

  Wine was all but forced upon him. Maarten lifted his head to pour it into his mouth. He drank half of it without caring for physics or poisons or anything but numbing the twin pains in his body and his soul. After another searing kiss, Maarten left him. Laurent returned to clean and tend to his newest wounds, now blooming down his neck, shoulder and chest. He was wiped clean of blood and the sticky remnants of his seed. Again, the ointment took away the worst of the sting, but the bruises left by Maarten’s teeth were too deep and the burning throb he felt in his bottom would not ease. By the time Laurent was finished, the wine was only making him sick. No hidden potions, then.

  It seemed empty in the room, even with the servant beside him. “Laurent, where does he go? When he’s not with me?” Andrew asked, softly, riding another wave of nausea.

  Laurent watched him for a moment and rose. He returned with a cup. “It is the same as before. It will ease the sickness as well as the pain.”

  Andrew swallowed. He took the cup with a shaking hand and trembling smile. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Min Herre goes to the dungeon to slake his bloodlust. It must be his intent to keep you, as he is treating you well,” Laurent told him while he drank.

  Choking, Andrew lowered the cup. He laughed, a high, shrill sound edging towards hysteria.

  Laurent pushed his hand back up. “Drink it all. You must know that most do not last through the night, much less retain their wits after four days.”

  Andrew looked up at the man’s face. There was the usual slight frown, unwavering even when his eyes showed disdain at the Inquisitor, or sadness, as they did now. Andrew finished the potion and did not comment, except to give his thanks.

  “I can bring you another with your supper. If taken regularly, it will make your time here…less trying,” Laurent offered. He stood to leave, taking the empty cup with him.

  Though his thoughts were muddled with pain and ever lingering fear, Andrew was struck with a bit of sudden clarity. “Does he know? That you…help?”

  “I do nothing, save what he bids me,” Laurent answered, with the same emotionless tone, even as his eyes stared hard into Andrew’s. They held secrets, horrors, and above all, a plea.

  Andrew nodded, blinking quickly. “Of course, please forgive
me.”

  “I have other duties. Rest,” Laurent said. He silently left the room.

  Andrew was left alone. He desperately wished for someone there, someone he could talk to, who could distract him from his thoughts. Memories and dreams danced in his mind and he rubbed his eyes with his fingers. Rory’s laugh, his curses, even his fighting roar echoed in his thoughts. His mind showed him Rory at the moment of rescue, backed by the sun, then faded into the peaceful moment beneath the minaret before unfurling the memory of his first kiss. Rory had pressed him against the hull and held him tight, thighs, chests, and bellies pressed so close he could feel Rory breathing.

  With his next breath those memories washed away in a torrent of blood, like a fountainhead, from Salvatore’s chest. Andrew could not close his ears to the screams or turn from the sight of skin blistering and charring beneath the iron when they were in his own head. He curled up on the bed, hands fisting in his hair and biting back a scream. He wanted to let the elixir work, let it take him away from the pain, but beneath the storm of remembered kisses, laughs, and screams, there were the softly repeated words.

  Forgive yourself and return to your task.

  The dream had mostly faded, but that voice remained. “But how, Father?” Andrew sobbed, not knowing if he prayed or if he were merely mad. “I was wrong. I am lost.”

  Do not fear mistakes, for they are what compels us to improve.

  “I am a fool,” Andrew whispered to the empty room. “A proud and witless fool.”

  Return to your task.

  His task was to kill Maarten and he knew it would be his only escape.

  The potion began to do its work, providing a distant, hazy quality to his surroundings. Andrew’s mind was racing, though, despite the sluggishness of his limbs. He struggled up, off of the bed. The pain was muted, true, but still there deep inside and it made every move strained and agonizing. On the third try, he stood and had to wait while the objects around him shifted and pulsed in his vision. When his eyes had focused, he took careful steps to the large chest at the foot of the bed. It was unlocked, meaning that Maarten had nothing to fear within its walls. A search provided another banyan; this one was of blue brocade and stitched heavily with gold. It was not as warm as the velvet one but it would suffice.

  Walking in a straight line was challenging, for the floor seemed to rock as if he stood on the deck of the Taibhse. The table provided some balance and while he leaned against it, Andrew noticed it had been cleared of all but the jug of wine. His eyes locked on the carafe. It was his intention to poison Maarten. He could put the hemlock in the wine now. Andrew made his way back to the bed, unsteady but determined. He fell upon the furs as his fingers sought the vial.

  The blankets and furs were so soft, so warm, Andrew was tempted by the promise of painless sleep. The vial in his hand was hard and smooth and it grounded him. He tapped a well of resolve, his last, he believed, and pushed to his hands and knees. He shook his head. The opportunity had arrived and he had to take full advantage of it.

  It is time, his mind cried. End this now.

  It felt like an eternity to Andrew as he made his way back to the table. He pulled the earthen jug towards him and gave a small cry of frustration when he realized it was all but empty. He looked at the heavy double doors. Carefully, he hid the vial beneath the table, wedging it between a leg and its support to keep it secure. As he made his way to the entryway his mind assured him that he was a fool for even trying; of course it was barred. Yet when he pulled on them with all his might, they swung open.

  For a moment, he simply stood, staring out into the hallway. The lure of freedom and the cooler air of the hallway cleared his head. He almost smiled.

  “You must keep the doors closed,” a gruff voice said from behind him.

  Startled, Andrew spun on his heel and instantly regretted it. He teetered left, only saving himself from falling by one flailing hand landing on another’s firm arm.

  “You are not allowed out,” the man said.

  The guard did not help him, but did not push him away, either. Once steady again, Andrew withdrew his hand and took a breath. He remembered the guards standing at the door, four patiently attentive men in black wool and leather, as he was presented to his lord. They had shown little interest as he’d passed, but he’d felt their collective gaze on his back. “I wish,” he began, lifting his eyes to the man’s face.

  The man smirked, eyes not on Andrew’s face but farther down, where the robe lay open on his chest. Andrew felt his heart pump faster and knew in that moment that Maarten would give him to these men. There was a horrifying picture forming in his head, of this man rutting into him from behind, laughing and jesting with others as they waited. He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. The jolt of fear worked to further focus his thoughts.

  “We’re almost out of wine. I would like to fetch more,” Andrew said, softly, fighting to keep his revulsion from his voice.

  “No.”

  Andrew scoffed. “Surely I’m allowed to go to the kitchen. Where else would I go in this?”

  To show his predicament, Andrew raised both arms to display the yards of silk brocade draping from his shoulders down. He did not close the front. Before the guard could drink his fill of Andrew’s pale and trim form, Andrew had turned away. He waved at them, dismissively, and concentrated on walking with as much right and confidence as he could muster.

  There had been the sound of boot heels echoing around him on his last walk down this passageway, but this time there was only the rustle of fabric and the brush of his bare feet on the stone floor. He wrapped the banyan firmly around himself and draped the ends over his arm, as he had seen Maarten do, in the hopes that he would not stumble over the abundant cloth. The hall had not seemed so very long on that first walk. Now it stretched on and on, lengthening even as he strove forward. His shoulder hit the wall when he swayed, but he kept his steps the proper speed and the proper distance and finally reached the decrepit great room.

  As he wandered through to the kitchen he had seen on his first night, he heard pounding at the doors behind him. He almost laughed, wondering who would call upon this dismal place. The fate of the last visitors sobered him and he briefly considered darting to the doors to shout a warning. He could see the glow from the kitchen fire, though, and that was his goal.

  When Andrew entered all movement ceased. Six servants, male to the last and all as pale as their master, turned to stare at him with blatant astonishment. The only sounds were the popping of wood as it burned and the bubbling of something viscous on the hearth. “My lord needs wine,” Andrew said, speaking as loud as he could manage. He sounded as he felt, raw and aching.

  One of the men stood, dropping both knife and half-peeled potato. He turned his back to Andrew and moved towards the corner. He seemed to sink, feet first, into the floor. To Andrew’s addled mind it was magic and it took him a full minute to realize there were steps there, leading down. His laugh escaped and it was brittle and hollow.

  The other men returned to their duties silently and shut out Andrew’s presence. Andrew did not blame them for that. He paused, considering their bent heads and averted eyes, Andrew found he did not blame them, at all. They looked as downtrodden as any slave, as beaten as any dog. The blame for all of this misery rested on one person’s shoulders. Andrew held that close, hoped it would help fan the flames of hatred and provide him strength for what was to come.

  Shortly, the first man reappeared with a clay jug similar to the empty one in Maarten’s quarters. “You go back now,” he said as he handed his burden over “before he comes to find you.”

  The jug was heavy and Andrew was weak. He had to wrap both of his shaking arms around it and clutch it close to his chest. He nodded, gave the man a polite “Thank you” and turned to go.

  There were voices in the great room, in the far left corner near the doors. Andrew saw Laurent’s back but could not see to whom the man spoke. He focused instead on keeping his steps
steady and silent. When he swayed, dangerously close to falling over, he found the grace to move sideways and catch his hip on a rickety table. As he paused to catch his breath, he heard a gasp from across the room.

  Andrew’s eyes widened when they fell on Ortega. The man looked shocked, staring at him with disbelief. There was a tall figure beside him, wrapped in black Arab garb with his head and face covered by a kufiya. Andrew could determine neither sex nor age, although the person leaned heavily on a staff. All he could ascertain was that the hands and skin around the eyes was pale and that those hands tightened on the staff as they gazed at each other.

  “My apologies…” Andrew began but Laurent flew at him before he could finish.

  “What are you doing?” Laurent hissed, loud enough to echo off of the stones around them. “Are you mad? Do you know what will happen if he returns to find you gone?” He took the wine from Andrew and took one arm in a painful grip.

  “The other was empty,” Andrew offered as he was dragged from the room. “I thought…”

  “You do not think here. You await the Master’s bidding and that is all,” Laurent scolded, angrily. He was moving too fast for Andrew, who stumbled and fell hard on his knees. Andrew’s cry bounced throughout the hall.

  “Wait, please!” Andrew tried to regain his balance but was now tangled in his banyan, stepping on the bottom and landing heavily against the wall.

  Laurent’s fingers dug into his arm, sending a shock of pain when they pressed the bite mark on the inside. “Never leave the Master’s chambers without him! Never!” Laurent shouted, shaking Andrew hard enough to rattle his teeth.

  “Laurent! Please…just let me…” Andrew begged, trying to regain his balance and pull the hand from his arm.

  “You have to hurry,” the man insisted. He put his face close to Andrew’s and his eyes showed too much white. The desperation in his voice sent chills up Andrew’s back.

  Quickly, inelegantly, Andrew yanked the ends of the robe up and wrapped them around his hips. He nodded and allowed Laurent to haul him towards Maarten’s rooms.