Page 212 of Dragon Slayer

“Sultan beat the wits out of him, finally,” another said.

Val pitched forward against their hold and vomited onto the rug. It was only watery bile he brought up, his stomach empty; his head throbbing with pain that felt like grief, even if it was only dehydration, hunger, and the healing of physical wounds.

Through the hazy wash of tears, he registered the janissaries parting, and a slender, dark-skinned figure knelt before him. His own sweet Arslan.

“Here, your grace,” he murmured, and a cool, soft, damp cloth began to bathe Val’s face, slender fingers cupping his chin to hold him still. “It was only another nightmare,” the boy slave soothed, lying for him. “I have some water for you.” A cup was pressed to his lips.

Val could swallow only a little, and then turned his head away, coughing.

Arslan, in a rare show of bravery, addressed the janissaries: “If you could give him some space, please. And guard the tent, perhaps.” And, seeing as how he was the personal slave of a prince, the janissaries listened.

Val heard their footfalls leave the tent, and the rustle of the flap opening and falling shut.

“Your grace,” Arslan said when they were gone, and his hands landed light as butterflies on Val’s shoulders, cajoling. He urged him away from the mess he’d left on the rug, over so he could slump against the side of the sea chest, and prop his forehead in one shaking hand.

“The soldiers,” Arslan said, apologetic. “They came bursting into the tent – there was all this commotion outside. I tried to stop them – I knew you were dream-walking.” It was then Val managed to blink his vision halfway clear and see that Arslan had a fresh bruise coming up on one cheek where he’d been smacked aside. “Where did you go, your grace?”

Val tried to reach for the boy’s face, but the weight of cuff and chain proved too heavy for his arm in that moment. He slumped deeper into his cupped hand, instead. “Beyond the breach,” he said, his voice wet and choked. “They finally breached the wall, did you know?”

Arslan’s dark brows were knit together with concern, and he looked at Val with such pity that he couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. “Yes. Everyone outside was shouting about it. That’s how the soldiers got in; no one was paying them any attention.”

“Ah. What better way to celebrate than to rape a pretty prince, eh?”

Arslan made a small, distressed sound. “No, your grace, they were only – bragging. Saying how they’d taken the Roman city. They came to mock you.”

“You’d be surprised how quickly mocking a chained-up man turns to raping one.” He tipped his head to the side, and caught the boy’s stricken look. “What am I talking about: no, you wouldn’t. You know, don’t you, my sweet one?”

“Why did you do it?” Arslan said. “After what happened last time, why did you risk it?” He sounded on the verge of tears.

Val sighed, and all the bruises along his ribs pulled. “Because I needed to warn my friend. To do something besides…” He shifted, and his chains rattled. “But all I did was watch him fall. Ineffectual to the last. I don’t know if he…”

He did know, but he couldn’t think of that now.

When he said no more, Arslan eventually rose and went to fetch a bowl of water, and a cloth. Val didn’t resist as the boy cleaned his face more thoroughly, and managed to sip the wine he brought him. He couldn’t nibble the flatbread, despite Arslan’s begging. His stomach was too tender.

The silhouettes of running men flashed past the tent on all sides, and the camp beyond the canvas walls was alive with shouts, and celebrations, and the occasional scuffle as all manner of discipline broke apart amid the joy of victory.

Heartsick, overcome by exhaustion, Val eventually put his head down on the sea chest and dozed.

When he woke, night had fallen, and Arslan had lit the lanterns, and the big coal brazier in the center of the tent; Val lifted his head and felt a lap rug slip down off his shoulders where the boy had draped it over him.

Nestor-Iskander had joined them as well. He sat at the sultan’s wide table, bent over a piece of parchment, writing furiously, slinging ink as he dipped his quill again and again.

A commotion still raged beyond the tent walls, but its pitch had changed; Val could hear a steady cheering.

Val cleared his throat and smacked his lips, trying to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “What’s happening?” he croaked.

Arslan paced back and forth in front of the brazier. “The sultan is returning. He’s riding back into camp.”

“What?” That was ridiculous. A conquering monarch would immediately install himself in the finest rooms of the palace, and send slaves and soldiers to fetch his things. He wouldn’t come back himself.

Arslan shook his head.

“He sent a messenger ahead,” Nestor said without pausing in his task. “He’s bringing you agift.”

Val leapt to his feet.

Tried to. It was more a lurching, stumbling, flailing attempt, and he ended up with both hands pressed flat to the chest, breathing harshly through his mouth. Everything in him screamed for him to run, but his chains shivered together, and he couldn’t. All he could do was–

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