Sandstorm (52 page)

"Your head?"

Witcher was again struck by how kind the man sounded; a trait he could not associate with a
king. It was…tempting, somehow. Though he couldn't say what he was being tempted to do.

But the word seemed the right one. "Yes. I am sorry."

"Do not be; my mother had a concubine who suffered the same."

Witcher tried to nod, but opted to hold as still as possible. Then he was being led away, and
gave up trying to maintain any sort of control. He just couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

Concubines seldom attended any court function but the nightly dinners, when everyone was expected to relax; let food and wine and music ease away the strains of the day. Shah, though, was fond of having them present at certain times or places, for support or to make a statement - authority, wealth, ability. A weak King would not be able to control the men this one had claimed for his harem.

Witcher wanted to shake his head in amusement. Once he had thought the idea of a harem something his tutor had made up. A grand joke on an ignorant, pale-skinned soldier. Quite disconcerting to realize the joke wasn't.

He sat to the left of the throne, Aik beside him. On the right side sat Nanda and Bey. With the arrival of the foreign officials - he called them foreign! - Shah must look his strongest. Even if the exact nature of the harem would not be immediately obvious to most of the foreigners, they would remember it and learn the significance later. Meanwhile, all of Shah's people would understand what was not being said - they had a strong King.

Even after three years with Shah and the others, he still felt naked at times - especially in a crowded room of fully clothed people. More than two decades in a multitude of modest layers made it difficult to get used to being always bare-chested, especially ever since he'd allowed Beynum to persuade him toward the gold hoops in his nipples. Even now he twitched to hide them.

But Shah wanted them on display, so on display he would be. Anything Shah asked, he would do.

Though he had expected it, had braced himself for it, still it came as something of a shock to see men he had once known come walking through the door. But he immediately disliked their arrogance, walking in as though they had every right to be there. It was by Shah's good grace they were permitted anywhere near the palace.

If Shah could hear his thoughts, he'd realize there was no reason for concern. Witcher had ceased to think of himself as anything but finally home from the moment he'd decided to stay.

So the looks that should have unsettled him - shock turned to disbelief and in the faces of those who understood what he was, disgust and even contempt - only amused him. But in their defense, he supposed, it must be quite a shock to see him as he was now. His light blonde hair had once been trimmed to military shortness; still short, there was enough length that the fine strands held a soft wave. The gold at his chest was matched by gold in his ears, a slender gold chain around his neck.

It wasn't hard to anticipate the conversations they would try to have with him later. He couldn't wait to see their reaction when one of them tried to touch him.

He didn't have to look to know that Shah was still nervous beneath the calm he seemed to wear so easily. Perhaps after this, the King would finally be convinced that his former home held no appeal. Especially not now.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Brandon attempt to catch his gaze, and he knew Samuel would be studiously ignoring him - for now. The rest of them he didn't recognize, which was a relief. The two he did know would be more than enough to deal with.

The greetings and platitudes went on for some time, and Witcher knew the guests must have been confused when the four men closest to the throne were not so much as mentioned. It was so hard not to smirk or smile, as the trio of dignitaries sent to begin negotiations attempted to launch right into things. Shah was direct when he wanted to be - in politics he seldom tended that way.

At last the welcoming court was adjourned. As one the four concubines rose, and Witcher held out his hand for Shah to take, escorting his King from the room while the other three followed close beside and behind. He could feel two pairs of eyes on him, and ignored them.

"Are you feeling better?"

Witcher looked up, snapped out of his thoughts by a warm voice. "What? Oh. Yes." He
looked away, those eyes - dark brown he could see now - far too intense for his liking.

"Thank you. I am sorry to have behaved so poorly. Prisoner or no, a man should not collapse
because of a headache."

"Nonsense," the king said peaceably. "May I sit?"

"Of course." Witcher hid his confusion - when did a king ever need to ask if he could sit on a
bench in a garden in his castle? A strange garden, more stone and water than plants. But in
this place, so dry and hot, a water fountain of such size was clearly more impressive than an
excess of plants. He tried not to fidget as the king sat down beside him; suddenly things felt
much warmer than they had a moment ago.

He did not need this. Wasn't his life miserable enough without letting dangerous thoughts
and wants surface? Because he could only deceive himself for so long about the effect those
eyes and that lithe body had. Witcher cast his eyes out, searching for anything other than the
king to stare at.

They landed on a man of average height, bare-chested, legs encased in black pants,
overlaid by a long, black skirt slit on both sides. Gold bands hung at his wrists, another at his
neck. And that long, long hair. One of the men from a few days before - he had barely been
out of his room since his humiliating collapse. But in those days, he had finally figured out
who those three men had been.

He remembered his tutor, a humorless man who had not been pleased to be teaching his
language to a 'heathen' telling him a great deal about the culture. One of those lessons had
involved the royal family, who were the only ones permitted to keep multiple lovers -

concubines. Always of the same gender - princes and kings kept male, queens and
princesses females - and the current king apparently kept a less than orthodox harem.

So those three men had been this man's harem. Lovers. Three of them. Male. He couldn't
wrap his mind around it. It was wrong. Wrong to even think about anything like that.

Not that it had ever stopped him. But this entire place was forcing his deepest thoughts far
too close to the surface. And this was his sworn enemy!

Well, this was who he'd been told was his sworn enemy. But when had his comrades ever
cared for him when his head ached badly enough he saw stars? And here the king had
seemed concerned. Which made no sense.

The entire situation made his head ache in a brand new way. "Did you require something,
Majesty? Am I trespassing? Not supposed to be out?"

"You are fine." The king smiled. "Please make yourself at home. Your king is quite stubborn;
I think the arguing will continue for quite some time. I realize as a captive you can only ever
feel so comfortable, but I wish you no ill. It would please me if you considered yourself more
of a guest than a hostage."

Witcher dared a look and found it hard to look away. "I would like that." He motioned at the
garden, the palace. "You've a beautiful home, and war is not something for which I hold
personal grudges. I wish I was here under happier circumstances." He sighed. "I have not
seen my men."

"We are keeping a closer watch on them for now. A few have proven…uncooperative.

Forgive me."

"Forgive me, Majesty. My men should better be able to behave. If they cannot, they've only
themselves to blame. If you will permit me, I will have a word with them later."

The king nodded. "Of course." He held out a hand to the long-haired man standing nearby,
drawing him forward. "Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?" He laughed. "My council
will not be pleased to see me entertaining a captive like a special guest. Still, I would enjoy a
fresh face." He held out a hand and drew forward the long-haired man. "And I bet I could
persuade Nandakumar here to play for us. Yes, Nanda?"

"Of course, my King." The faintest of smile's curved the quiet man's lips. If Witcher had not
been watching him, painfully curious, he would have missed it. And there was obvious
fondness in his eyes, something Witcher would not have expected of a man in such a
position. But then again, what did he really know about it?

"So will you join me? If your head is not troubling you?"

Humiliated, Witcher looked away. "It should be fine - I am rested, and things are…calmer.

Again I apologize for being so weak."

"Hardly weak," The king said, and a hand rested comfortingly on his shoulder, before sliding
slowly away as the king stood up. "As I said, my mother had a concubine who suffered them.

There was many a day she could not move from her bed. I will see you at dinner." Then the
king and his quiet, handsome shadow were gone.

The sound of water splashing in the fountain was soothing, but the garden was still far too
quiet - there was too much room for thinking, and Witcher was not feeling strong enough to
see where those thoughts might lead. Because invariably they would only end unhappily, and
he was heartily sick of his life always taking that path.

Better to help speed the negotiations and let himself be thrown into the coastal war that was
starting in the north, than linger here and think too long on dark brown eyes and a warm, kind
voice.

Clearly that last headache had destroyed what little sense he'd managed to cling to. Witcher
sighed and left the garden to seek out his men. His frustrations would serve well to give them
a sorely needed dressing down.

"Witcher? Is it really you?"

Stepping only just through the doorway, into the small garden allotted to guests, Witcher folded his arms across his chest and regarded the man he'd once considered a comrade, if not exactly a friend. "Brandon," he said slowly. "You seem to be doing well." The words he had once considered native now felt strange on his tongue. Funny the difference three years of happiness could have on a man. "You tread dangerous waters by daring to request to see me like this. I would advise you not to do it again."

Brandon ignored him. "We heard you had decided to stay here…I didn't know it was because you'd decided to become a…a…" He looked torn between horror and disgust.

Witcher held up a hand to forestall him, switching back to the language he now considered his. "Watch what you say. The wrong words will be taken as insult, and to insult me is to insult my King."

Brandon narrowed his eyes; Witcher thought the expression comical. "He is not your King. Or didn't you notice you're a bit of the wrong color."

"Choose your words more carefully," Witcher said, his voice full of the steel that had made him a good commander. "Or you will find yourself going home with nothing gained but my King's displeasure."

Shaking his head in frustration, Brandon stepped forward and stretched out a hand to grip Witcher's arm - only to find his own roughly grabbed as a guard hauled him back. "What the devil! Let me go this instant! Witcher!"

The guard let Brandon go, none too gently. "Touching the King's men is forbidden."

"What!" Brandon glared at Witcher. "What the devil is he yowling about?"

Witcher laughed. "I am the exclusive property of his Majesty King Shahjahan - none may touch me without his permission. Say what you came to say, Brandon, and then leave me in peace."

"You even speak like they do - what happened to you? Why this? You could have been a prince!" Brandon looked at him, confuses and angry. "Why did you abandon us?"

"Because I found happiness." Witcher stood up and strode past his former comrade, who still glared. He looked at the guard. "I am returning to my room. Please inform my King of this discussion."

"Yes, Lord Witcher." The guard bowed, and blocked the door once Witcher had passed.

Witcher did not relax until he had returned to his room, then released a long, slow sigh.

"Oh, the witch looks a little tense after his chat." Bey asked from the table where he and Aik were enjoying a late breakfast. Always the three of them rose early to spar, and unless he had court - like today - Nanda usually joined them for breakfast afterwards when he finally dragged himself from bed.

"Quiet unless you want me to hex you," Witcher said with a laugh. Crossing the room he took his seat between the other two.

Bey chuckled and pressed a bit of honey and nut pastry to Witcher's lips, the treat one of his favorites. A hand strayed down Witcher's chest, flicking the gold hoops that Witcher wished he could blame on the wine he'd had the night he'd agreed to them. He choked on the sweet and tried to glare.

But even if he could manage it, a glare had never been enough to dissuade Bey.

"Would you look at those eyes, Aik? I think he's casting a spell."

"Hmm, better break it," Aik advised calmly, nibbling at a piece of bright orange fruit.

Bey grinned. "And what, wise monk, is the recommended method for spell-breaking?"

Aik tapped his chin, and he furrowed his brow as if thinking hard. "A kiss would probably break his concentration. Then you just have to keep him busy until he forgets what spell he was trying to cast."

"The only spell I'm going to cast is my fist upside-" Witcher's protest was cut off as Bey kissed him soundly, quite neatly succeeding, if not in breaking his concentration, then making him forget what they'd been discussing.