Page 186 of Dragon Slayer

He finally sat back on his heels with a gasp, water streaming down his face, his throat, onto his clothes. His hair stuck to his cheeks, and he reached to push it back, pausing when he saw the blood still on his hands, caked in under his nails.

The killing had happened so quickly – how had he gotten so thoroughly coated?

He washed his hands in the stream, doing the best he could without soap, scrubbing beneath the nails and between each finger.

He waited for his gorge to rise, but it didn’t.

Waited for shakes that never came.

He felt…nothing.

When his hands were clean, he reached for his sword and washed it as well, using water and a clump of pulled-up moss. He noticed a nick along one edge: a place where bone had proven stronger than steel.

There was nothing to do for his clothes. He’d have to bathe and then burn them later.

Footsteps approached from behind, not trying to be stealthy. Mehmet.

“I’m impressed,” he said as he drew up behind Val. His shadow fell across the creek, blotting out Val’s reflection in the water.

Val’s heart throbbed in his chest. One strong beat, where before it had felt like there was nothing. He wasawareof the organ, suddenly. One painful contraction. Followed by another, and another, and another.

Mehmet walked closer, right up beside him, to the edge of the stream. “That sword will need to be seen to.”

Val tilted it in his lap, so it caught the light.

“Is that the first time you’ve killed a man with your own two hands?”

“You know it is.” His voice came out a gravelly scrape of sound, like the edge of a door grating across a floor.

“Hmm. You did well. Stronger than I expected, actually. And I’m surprised you got through all four without handing it off to one of the janissaries.”

His heart pounded, and his skin prickled, and he thought of Arslan, his bruises and bloodied lip. Thought of himself at age ten, fingernails digging into the bark of a tree limb, trying to stay small and hidden. Thought of drool-damp silk against his mouth, hands digging into his hips, sharp burning pain in a place he’d never even touched himself before.

He turned his head so he looked up at Mehmet.

The sultan looked down at him with mild interest, brows raised. “Are you finished?”

Val climbed to his feet and sheathed his sword. The sun beat on his back as they walked back to the tent, until sweat trickled between his shoulder blades.

But chills rippled up and down his arms the whole way.

~*~

When Mehmet reached to touch him that night, Val refused, ducking and shrugging away. Mehmet glared at him, but left him be. He went, flanked by guards, into the torch-smudged night, and Val knew he would seek to spend his passion elsewhere – Val was glad of it.

He went to the small tent that abutted the royal one, the tiny, but private place he’d given to Arslan, and found his slave bundled up in blankets, sweet-smelling and clean and pampered as any prince.

Nestor sat on the edge of his makeshift bed; Val caught his sad, sympathetic expression before he whirled around to face him…only to relax when he saw who it was.

“Thank you, Nestor,” Val said quietly, and the scribe took it for the dismissal it was, patting Arslan on the shoulder before taking his leave of them.

Val moved to take his place. Reached slowly to brush Arslan’s shiny black hair off his forehead, tuck it behind his ears. The boy flinched, but looked up at Val, gaze trusting.

Fresh tears welled up in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, hush that,” Val murmured, stroking his face. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Arslan closed his eyes, and the tears slid down his cheeks.

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