Page 109 of Dragon Slayer

“Hm, maybe so.” Mehmet tipped his head to the side. “But first…I think I’ll kill your entire family, and take your palace for my own.”

He departed with one last smile, turning back to his retinue, confident that he could present Vlad with his back and remain unharmed.

He was right in that, at least. When Vlad eventually put a sword through him, he wanted to be looking the fucker right in the face.

~*~

Val woke in a panic. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep. As dawn broke over the palace, slaves had come to assist Mehmet with his morning ablutions. Val had lain in the rumpled bed that reeked of his own blood and Mehmet’s seed, clutching a pillow to his chest, hiding beneath the covers. He hurt; he burned. He felt like he choked the tears back one at a time, a struggle that took all his concentration.

“Bring the prince a breakfast tray,” Mehmet had ordered, and someone had scurried to comply.

Val’s plan had been to lie quietly until Mehmet left, off to do sultan things, and then he would gather his ripped clothes, and the tatters of his dignity, and go back to his own quarters.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

He sat up now, too warm beneath the sheets, flinging them off in a haste. Thick, golden sunlight fell in through the iron grills of the garden doors. It was late afternoon. Songbirds trilled, lazy from a day’s activity.

“Oh no,” he groaned, scrambling to get up. He was still sore, and worse, weak from hunger. He’d slept nearly the whole day away, still naked, still in the sultan’s bed.

He got unsteadily to his feet and was reaching for his discarded salvar when he noticed he wasn’t alone. A small slave boy, not much younger than himself, one of Mehmet’s eunuchs, sat quietly on a stool, his plain clothes and downcast eyes lending him the air of a sculpture; a servant meant to be useful, but not seen.

Val yelped with fright, and tried to cover his nakedness, snatching the pants to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stupid with fear. His hands and his limbs and his breath trembled. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The boy lifted his face, but did not meet Val’s gaze directly, his own downcast out of respect. “Forgive me, your grace.” Voice soft, unobtrusive. “His Imperial Majesty the sultan bid me offer you food and draw you a bath when you woke.”

“When I…” Val tried to catch his breath, his head spinning. “I should – my own quarters, I…”

“Shall I fetch you a tray from the kitchens?”

Val sagged back and let the bed hold his weight. What about his studies? His lessons with the other boys? His training and exercise and endless archery lessons?

Deep down, he knew the answers to these questions. Lessons and training were for hostages who would be sent home. Wards turned carefully to allies who could return to their kingdoms and principalities to rule as puppets of the empire.

Meals in bed and slave-drawn baths were the indulgences of mistresses.

Of a ruler’s favored pet.

He closed his eyes. His stomach growled. “A tray, please,” he whispered.

Val nibbled at fresh pita, still warm from the oven, with hummus, and olive oil, and sipped red wine craftily mixed with blood while the slave boy filled a copper tub set before the coal brazier with hot water. He had no appetite, but the few bites he managed, and the blood-wine, helped to settle his stomach and calm some of his shaking.

“It’s ready, your grace,” the boy said when he was done, moving to stand with a bowed head beside the tub, a cloth draped over one arm, cake of soap in-hand. A well-trained bath attendant.

“Alright. Thank you.” His legs were steadier now, when he stood and crossed the distance, but his fingers stilled on the laces of the shirt he’d pulled down over his head at first opportunity. His bruises from before – the dark shapes Mehmet’s hands had pressed into his skin – had all faded, but he didn’t want to be naked in front of anyone, not even a slave who wasn’t looking.

Why not?a mocking little inner voice asked. Everyone in the whole palace doubtless knew what had happened. Everyone at the feast last night had seen Mehmet single him out, reach for him, take him up to an honored seat at the high table. Val had slept in the sultan’s own bed all day. How could anyonenotknow? And what shame was simple nakedness in the face of that?

He felt his face heat regardless, as he slipped the laces free and stepped out of the shirt. A flush that went all the way down his throat, and chest, and made it hard to breathe. He stepped quickly into the water, and then sat, even though it was too hot on the still-tender parts of his body that Mehmet had made use of.

He drew his knees up to his chest, and hugged them, teeth clenched against a pain that had little to do with his physical hurts. Every blink was a chance to replay it. Every distant sound in the hallway left him flinching; Mehmet would return, and when he did…

“Your grace,” the slave said, and Val started. “Shall – shall I wash your hair for you?”

“Oh.” His heart fluttered, a trapped bird. “Um. Yes, please.”

The boy moved slowly, deliberately. And his touch was soft as he moved to kneel beside the tub and urged Val to tip his head back. Val closed his eyes, and the warm water poured carefully along his scalp, the boy’s free hand coming up to shield his eyes. He was thorough: wetting, lathering, massaging the soap in and working the tangles free with deft fingers.

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