by Owens J. C.
His eyes closed, he felt the ever-present tension bleed away. With a single sigh, he slid into unexpected sleep.
Hamon smiled at the sudden limpness that was the prince.
He turned his touch into a slow, mesmerizing massage, feeling a sense of honor that Rian would lay slumped against his larger frame, no fear evident.
It made him feel decidedly protective.
Rian’s head slid a little, and Hamon adjusted his body to support him, one hand coming up to card through beautiful soft black strands of hair.
As the prince’s head tilted to the right, Hamon caught sight of the edges of a bruise, only a few days old, the shape of fingers evident. Slightly further down, a raised weal, the mark of a whip…
He froze, a rumbling growl rising in his throat, surprising himself with the surge of possessive fury that roused his anger to flashpoint in a heartbeat.
Wravon and the others stopped their conversations, staring.
Hamon let his touch fall away, unable to understand what had just happened.
Rian murmured in protest, nuzzling closer, his face against Hamon’s throat. He took a deep breath, as though taking in scent, before settling once more.
Hamon blinked, trying to bring himself back into some semblance of rational thought. He had pushed Rian onto his back that morning, onto those lash marks…
Wravon frowned at him, concern clear in his eyes. Hamon turned aside, unable to meet his cousin’s look. His gaze fell upon Telan, sitting across from them. The large man was watching both Hamon and Rian with eagle-like intensity, but there was a calmness in his demeanor that seemed to settle Hamon’s frayed nerves.
“You are an energy worker?” Telan’s voice was rich and deep, no judgment in the tone, only faint curiosity.
The Zala were deeply spiritual people, in touch with the land and all energies that existed within it. Other countries often saw their abilities as unnatural, witchcraft even. That Telan was asking questions was an oddly calm response.
Hamon had encountered much prejudice in his few dealings with foreigners, and he eyed Telan cautiously before replying. “I am.” When no negative comment appeared, he decided to elaborate. “I am considered one of the strongest of my people, enough that I can use energy both to heal and as a weapon.” There was a faint warning in his tone that he could not control, much as he liked Telan.
Telan nodded, solemn and amazingly accepting. Even with this disclosure, he did not seem the least bit concerned that Hamon was holding his prince. Hamon felt that the man did not extend that acceptance to many when it came to Rian.
So why then was he accepting Hamon so readily?
Telan’s lips quirked into a slight smirk, as if he guessed Hamon’s thoughts. “My own people are open to the spirit world. It is one of the reasons I can accept and aid my lord Rian so well. Your abilities are impressive among your people. I can sense your energy much more strongly than most, a warm, golden glow. No one who carries such energy can be of malicious intent.”
Hamon frowned, somewhat insulted. “I can be very malicious. Just ask my brothers. I am no man of peace.”
Telan’s eyebrow, expressive as always, rose the slightest degree. “No? I have known you for only hours and already I have seen you keep peace among your men in a potentially hostile place, comfort your cousin, working him through his grief with true compassion.” His gaze fell to Rian. The way Hamon held him close. “And now, a young man who has no reason to trust anyone has given you just that. Trust.”
Hamon felt his cheeks heat, wanted to refute the words, but he could not seem to release his hold on Rian despite all he wanted to say. He looked helplessly over at Wravon only to find him, and his former friends, grinning like fools. No support there. He growled in their direction but stayed where he was.
Telan’s faint smile widened into a grin. “I feel a connection between you two. Strong.”
The nuances of the words made Hamon shift uncomfortably, heat rising in his shaft as he thought of all the ways he wanted to connect with the prince. He shook the thoughts away, shamed. This boy would be terrified if he had the slightest inkling that Hamon desired him. After what he had gone through with his brother… Hamon shuddered. In no way did he wish to be similar to that monster.
Perhaps… Perhaps he was destined to be support for the boy, in what he would become.
“He could possibly be a soulseeker. The soulseeker we have searched for. That is all. Even that seems both highly unlikely at best, and impossible at worst, given his station in life.”
Telan sobered, a great sadness in his fierce eyes as he gazed upon Rian’s sleeping face. “I have searched for a way to free him, but Arran watches us all with an eagle’s eye, as do his spies. There was a brave man once, years ago, who sought Rian’s freedom, who saw what was happening and offered to see a way to set Rian free. I heard he was tortured to death, and Rian was made to watch.” Telan’s dark eyes blinked, and he turned his head slightly to stare at Hamon. “It has scarred the boy far more than his own abuse ever will. His attempt at escape was a final, desperate grasp for freedom. Now… Now I can feel his surrender. He will give in to Arran utterly, if only to save others, and to be allowed access to his children.”
Hamon took a shuddering breath, trying to cast away the images of the horrors Telan spoke of.
“He has children? He is so young…”
“He is twenty-one. His son was born when he was seventeen.”
Hamon grimaced. “So the rumors of Arran’s impotency are true then. So Rian will be king if Arran dies.”
“No, Rian will never be king.” Hamon’s confusion made Telan elaborate. “Arran will never let Rian free. I fear that he would take Rian even into death with him. Therefore Rian’s son, Timur, will take the throne.”
“Forgive me for the assumption, but Rian does not seem the type to want women, though that is my own observation.”
Telan nodded, his expression morphing into cold hardness. “Arran forced Rian to lay with a woman, even when it was greatly obvious the boy was not inclined to females. It was rape of a whole other sort.” The large man’s dark eyes held Hamon’s. “And he will do it again. The second child was a girl, unable to be a second heir. There must be another son.”
Hamon realized his lips were drawn up in a snarl. He leaned back, stunned at his own fierce reaction. He was no stranger to caring for others, having had many lovers over the years, both male and female, but never had he felt such a surge of possessiveness, protectiveness.
His glance down at the prince was wary, tinged with a growing sense of fear. What magic did the boy possess that had drawn Hamon in so swiftly?
A soft laugh made him startle. Rian almost roused for a brief moment, before sighing and turning his face into Hamon’s body, relaxing back into slumber.
Telan’s face was remarkably handsome when he laughed. The hard edges, the lines of what must have been a difficult life, eased into something younger, less cynical and guarded.
“Your energies meld together so perfectly,” Telan said, “I would almost dare to call it destiny borne. God-given roles are not always easy to understand and accept. We are only men.”
Telan’s tone seemed to hold whispers of more knowledge than he was admitting. Hamon gritted his teeth, biting back the questions he longed to ask: of this man’s past, of how he came to be here, guarding a prince not his own, far from his own people. The sheer speed with which Hamon had come to both like and respect this man was frightening in its own right. Hamon was not one to trust, to open.
Combining that with the intense feelings that seemed to rise around Rian made it all too much, a sense of pressure, of Hamon’s will meaning little to those, divine or not, who were setting this in motion.
Despite his lack of faith, he had to admit that Telan was right. This, increasingly, had the feel of godly intervention.
But which gods? His own, or those of Rashma? Could it be that gods could ally with each other, regardless of which people were the
ir followers?
He scoffed at his musings, discomfort making him pull his thoughts hastily from the matter, despite the itching feeling that he was close to comprehending something important.
This was far too much, too soon.
Despite his stubborn and sometimes heedless independence, he felt a sudden great desire to speak to his oldest brother, Baasan, who was given to visions and had strong ties with the gods. Baasan would understand this, would accept more readily than Hamon was managing. He felt suddenly young and foolish, completely out of his depth.
Why had the gods not chosen Baasan for this, when he was so much more competent than Hamon could ever hope to be? Who was Hamon to step into this situation, where so many lives hung in the balance, under the rule of a madman? Who was he to discover how to unravel this to a satisfactory conclusion?
Surely Baasan could…
It was as though a whisper ran through his thoughts, clearing them, holding his panic and fear at bay.
Baasan was his father’s heir, trained all his life for the position. There would be no travel to foreign lands. He was too valued to risk. Whatever would come, he belonged to the Zala.
Hamon was seventh born, with no possibility of greatness within his family. He was expendable. Exactly why his father had agree to this strange journey to begin with. He tried not to feel a pang of loneliness at the thought. He had gloried in his perceived freedom. Why did it now feel more like exile?
Yet who better for the gods to maneuver? He drew a deep breath, bringing his thoughts back into the present matter.
“Arran is quite mad, is he not?” It seemed important to hear Telan’s own observations, someone who had known the king far longer than a newcomer.
Telan was silent for long moments, his expression troubled. “He is—damaged. Sometimes mad, sometimes frighteningly sane. Never is there a way to predict which way he will react in any given moment.” A massive fist clenched. “It is Rian who attempts to stand between the people and the worst of his brother’s behaviors.”
Hamon held the prince more closely, another growl rising in his throat, an odd feeling of strength and determination rising to the fore. If the gods had indeed maneuvered the two of them into meeting, then surely they also had a plan to free Rian from his brother’s iron grip.
Hamon was a warrior of note. Would that be his role? To stand against a mad king?
* * *
Rian woke in his own bed, disoriented, the edges of dreams fleeing from his thoughts. He sat up abruptly, cursing at the wash of pain, feeling cold despite the thick covers.
Something was missing.
He blinked, memory coming in disjointed snatches.
The press of powerful fingers into taut, pained muscles. The sense of release, of safety—of a warm body against him.
He touched a suddenly hot cheek in shamed comprehension.
He must have fallen asleep. On his enemy. Dear gods.
He would never live this down.
If the Hawks believed he was weak before… Wiping a hand down over his face, he cursed again under his breath.
“Supper, your highness.” Zacar’s voice startled him into instant retreat, over the edge of the bed.
He sat there on the floor, fortunately not having landed on either his back or his shoulder, tangled in sheets, breathing hard, wondering vaguely if he could possibly fit any more humiliation into the day.
Zacar eyed him for a long, silent moment, then blessedly seemed to decide that Rian was entirely capable of freeing himself without aid. He set the tray down and began sorting out the food and drink, carefully ignoring Rian in the doing.
The prince unwound himself from the sheets with careful precision, wincing as his back pulled and his shoulder twinged, but unwilling to face his servant until he could get himself back into some sort of order.
When he finally stood on his own two feet, he took a deep, steadying breath before approaching the table and seating himself with something approaching dignity.
“So, my lord. You seem very comfortable with this Hawk leader.” Zacar’s voice was remarkable for its complete lack of tone.
Rian’s blush, which had begun to mercifully fade away, flared back into full life.
“The relief of pain—” He miserably trailed off, aware that his ability to lie had always been completely pathetic. Yet another of his flaws. In his world, lying kept one safe, another layer of protection in a court riddled with layers of intrigue, maneuvering for the ever-fickle favor of the king.
Rian had well learned that silence and expressionless calm were his only armor in a pit of vipers. All the nobles perceived him as a weak link, a possible way to leverage Arran into some scheme of their own without actually having to face the king’s unpredictability. In their foolishness, they seemed to believe that Rian held far more influence over his brother than was actually true.
Their mistake in this matter gave him a sort of bitter satisfaction that their posturing and lies would gain them nothing.
But then, it was his own father who had long fostered this nest of desperate and dark beings, had created this scramble for survival that held no honor. His father had reveled in a rule of fear, and now Arran continued the corruption of Rashma.
If only Arran had chosen a different path, stayed the way he had been before ascending the throne, rejected their father’s brutal form of kingship…
But that chance was long gone.
There was only the present reality—and survival.
He stared at his food, hunger waning. He had to remember where his future lay, and it was not with a foreigner, however fascinating that man might be. His growing interest with Hamon made no sense and could only bring danger to all involved.
Vivid descriptions of blood and screams rose to the fore. Endless screams that seemed to echo in his dreams…
Zacar’s hand settled on his shoulder lightly, reading his reaction and the cause with the ease of long familiarity.
Rian blinked, putting a hand up to cover Zacar’s.
“Don’t fear,” he whispered. “I know where I stand—and who I belong to. I will never risk another soul for my own purposes.”
There was a sharp sound of protest and the grip on his shoulder tightened. “It was nothing you did. It was Captain Perosh’s own choice, and he would have absolved you of all blame with his last breath. Do not shame his sacrifice.” Zacar hissed the words with fervent intensity, eyes blazing. “There is no blame upon your head, there never was. Arran alone holds that. The blood spilled stained his hands and always will.”
“My mere existence brings a curse to those in my presence.” He brought Zacar’s hand down to kiss the back. “Protect yourself when Arran comes. I will not be able to show how much I care for you…” His breath hitched.
Zacar fell to his knees by the chair, keeping their hand linked. “I will not leave you, my lord. Not when he comes, and not after. I will be discreet, submissive, all the things he demands, but you will never be alone again, not when I can prevent it.”
Rian leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “It would finish me if harm was to come to you or to Telan in my defense. Let him have his way. When this conflict is over, and he has me back at the palace, perhaps his possessiveness will die down. Maybe I can soothe his temper into a more mellow reign. When I am at his side, passive, he relaxes.”
Zacar gripped his hand with surprising strength. “At what cost, my lord?”
Rian gave a pained little laugh. “I am a prince, my friend. Born to duty, and duty is never a pleasant thing.”
“It is not your duty to lie under that bastard!” Zacar snarled softly, always aware of potential listeners. Arran had far too many spies within the camp for them to ever be at ease.
It was this that frightened Rian the most. That word would get back to Arran of the change in attitude among the Hawks, and that the prince seemed to be forming a friendship with the leader.
Even his own pavilion was not safe. Any speech could be
overheard by the guards stationed close outside by Arran’s orders. To all appearances, he was protecting his beloved younger brother, the commander of his army, from all harm.
Rian was aware, with deep discomfort, that over the years whispers had grown that the prince was more beloved than was acceptable, until Rian felt he could not bear the weight of the speculation and salacious gossip of the court.
Only here, amid the common men, the backbone of what kept Rashma free, did he feel like maybe, just maybe, he was not judged quite so harshly.
Or at least they kept the musings out of his hearing.
“If lying with him keeps peace, spares even one life from his madness, then it will be well worth it.”
“Not to those of us who love you.” Zacar was passionate in his defense, though his eyes were filled with tears.
Rian reached up to stroke back tousled curls from his servant’s face. He gave no reply, for within his heart, he knew the truth of his own value.
Nothing at all.
It was only an hour before sunset, when Rian, with Telan at his heels, came to the Hawks where they had set up their own campfire, remaining separate from the others.
The prince nodded to the others, but came to stand before Wravon. “I apologize that I did not have time for this before, but would you like to choose a mount from my horses now?”
Wravon rose to his feet in silence, glancing over at Hamon, who had stood upon Rian’s approach.
The two Hawks seemed to share silent communication, before Wravon’s expression smoothed into cautious anticipation and he nodded to Rian.
They walked together, side by side through the camp, the other Hawks trailing behind, Hamon pacing beside Telan.
The soldiers saluted or called out respectful greetings as the group passed by, though their stares were wary and suspicious when they landed upon the Hawks.
Rian had no doubt that rumors were flying thick and fast over the foreigners’ presence and the reason for it. Hopefully Rian’s behavior since their return would scotch some of those, and certainly this present action would show acceptance that would quell the rest.