Page 113 of Dragon Slayer

Arslan scrubbed at his back, careful over the tender bite mark Mehmet had left on the point of his shoulder. After a long moment, he said, so soft, “They do not speak of you, your grace, but of the sultan. Taking a boy as a lover is forbidden by our holy book. It is shameful.”

Val rolled the words over in his mind, traced their shapes, marveling at the weight of them. “A lover?” he asked, voice catching. “Is that what I am?” He wore the sultan’s sapphire around his neck; wore the marks of his teeth and fingers, the dark bruises left by the driving of his hips.

Arslan’s hand stilled. Water droplets fell into the bath, loud as hammer blows in the silence of held breath. “I think,” he said, finally, “that you are a slave. Just as I am.”

Val closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his knees.

“I’m sorry, your grace. I shouldn’t say such things.”

“No. I’m glad you did.” He swallowed, and it felt as if the chain at the back of his neck bit into his skin, the stone too heavy to hold. “It’s nice to have company.”

~*~

The days bled together; a routine developed. Mehmet was pleased; Val could tell he was when he left his chambers that morning, thumb swiping across Val’s still-slick lower lip. He bent down to kiss him before he left, tongue flicking slow and sly into Val’s mouth. He was pleased, and he wasn’t worried about Val trying to get away or “run crying” to anyone.

Val dressed, and went, at last, in search of his brother, Arslan in tow, a dutiful eunuch chaperone.

The scent was easy enough to pick up in the garden, the familiar notes stirring both longing and embarrassment in the pit of Val’s stomach. He ached for boyhood, for the shared bed, and the cold nights keeping warm under heaps of furs. Vlad had never been sweet – that wasn’t in his nature, all the most violent parts of his blended Roman and Viking heritage coming to the fore – but he’d been accepting. He’d loved Val, in his own way. It was love that Val missed more than anything, more than home and Helga’s cooking and the bravery of their wolves. He missed being loved; now he was only desired.

And now, he was no longer desired from afar. He’d bathed, but he carried the sultan inside him now, and on every piece of hand-picked clothing; in the jewel around his throat and the delicate gold circlet set in his hair. He was no longer a boy, but a possession, and he knew he reeked of it.

Vlad was in the training yard, crossing swords with a janissary in steel and leather gauntlets and greaves. Vlad, by contrast, wore only breeches and a shirt; a cut in his sleeve and a drying line of blood marked a hit won by his opponent, but he was otherwise unharmed, moving impossibly fast as he dove into his next strike.

Val took up a place against the wall, waiting, Arslan nervous beside him.

Vlad could smell him, no doubt. But he finished his bout, pressing the taller, yet weaker, janissary back until he finally knocked the man’s sword away and held him at bay, tip of his own sword pressed to his opponent’s throat.

“I yield,” he said, hands lifted. His Turkish was rough, accented; he’d come recently from somewhere farther east, Russia maybe.

Vlad stepped back, chest heaving as he caught his breath, ghost of a smile flitting across his mouth. He was straight-faced, though, when he turned to Val. His jaws and brows set at disapproving angles. He ambled a few steps closer and produced a cloth from his waistband that he used to wipe down his blade. His gaze dropped. “The sultan’s favorite plaything,” he said, and it wasn’t a greeting.

Val had been expecting as much – he’d expected worse. But it stung all the same. He drew himself upright and said, with as much dignity as possible, “Brother. I wish to speak with you. Will you walk with me?”

Vlad chuckled. “And be seen in your company? So I can lose my hands?”

“You’re mybrother,” Val said, growing desperate. “Mehmet – no one thinks that you…” He gritted his teeth, and Vlad laughed again. An ugly sound, mocking and cold. As flat as his dark eyes.

“I have no choice, do I?” Vlad’s gaze flicked up, and had Val not already stood against a wall he would have staggered back beneath the force of it. “I will walk with you, yes.” He glanced toward Arslan. “Is this your chaperone?”

Val laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and felt him flinch beneath it. “This is Arslan.”

Vlad snorted. “Don’t get sentimental,brother.” Mocking, again. “Someone like Mehmet has no attachment to slaves. Neither should you if you wish to remain his mistress.”

Val took a deep breath. Vlad was baiting him, that was all. He stepped away from the wall and forced a smile. “Thank you. I thought we could go through the garden.”

Vlad dropped his practice sword in a barrel full of others and shrugged, falling into step. Arslan followed them, silent but watchful.

Vlad smelled of fresh sweat, and horses. Himself. Clean, outdoor smells of exertion. He didn’t smell like a lover; like a kept pet. Val found that he’d started to drift toward him, and corrected course, walking straight ahead from the stables to the start of a garden path.

When it became apparent that Vlad wouldn’t speak first, Val said, “How have you fared these past weeks?”

Vlad said, “Better than your ass, I’d wager.”

Val bit back a shocked sound and stared resolutely forward as the path curved and ducked beneath a vine-covered arbor. In a quiet voice, sheltered by the shade of vines: “I didn’t ask for this.”

Vlad didn’t respond.

“I had thought…thought that we might be able to come to some sort of understanding, the two of us,” Val admitted. “It’s true that I’m…” He couldn’t say it. “And I have his favor. I could curry favor for you if you would only–”

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