Sandstorm (51 page)

The Master nodded. "Your Master misses you. I think he does, to some degree, blame himself for your 'fall' into decadence." He stared out across the garden they were in, ignoring the guards who had accompanied Aik when the Master had requested an audience. "You were his prize pupil, you know. He had hoped to make you his heir in the Temple."

Aik stilled, genuinely surprised by the Master's words. "I had not realized my former Master thought so highly of me. Several of my Brothers were far more skilled than I."

"You might be surprised," the Master said. "More than your former Master missed you, and to this day they speak of you, wondering if perhaps they did something wrong. Nor has the Master let any of his pupils leave the Temple to study elsewhere."

"He never approved of such practices, anyway, as I recall." As intimidated as he'd been upon his initial arrival, all the uncertainties he'd faced, Aik had not been sorry he'd left the temple to study at the Palace. Even had he chosen to return to the Temple, he sensed there were lessons in the journey that would have served his monk's life well. "It is my opinion that to lock them away like that will inhibit their studies as much as he believes traveling would. One cannot know one's path without first seeing all that is available."

The Master smiled. "Wise words; we live by them in my humble temple. We lose a few, but such is the way of things." He motioned vaguely in the air. "I am sorry if I offended you at dinner the other night. I speak often with your former Master, and you never fail to become a subject of conversation. He truly misses you, and worries for you, and I wanted to carry word to him that you are happy, and are on a true path. I can tell him so now, and I think it will ease him. I thank you for your patience and indulgence, Lord Aikhadour." Standing, the Master bowed, then without another word turned and left the garden.

Aik watched him go, then smiled faintly. He looked at the guard. "Report this conversation to my King," he said.

"Yes, Lord Aikhadour," the guard said. "His Majesty also sent word that, should you feel like it when your conversation is concluded, he would enjoy your presence at his council meeting."

"Of course," Aik said.

Witcher

"Witcher," Shahjahan cupped Witcher's face in one hand, leaning down to take a kiss from pale pink lips, which tasted of honey and almonds, a hint of lemon.

"Shah…" Witcher opened to the kiss, his immediate compliance as stunning the thousandth time as it had been the first. That a man who could have been all but a king himself should bend so easily never failed to steal his breath. "What's wrong?"

Shah sat back reluctantly, but did not make any attempt to eat the late snack that had been brought. "The visit tomorrow."

Witcher tilted his head. "You fear something will go awry? Betrayal?" A pause, and Shah didn't flinch from the sky-blue eyes that studied him so intently. "Their effect upon me?"

"Hardly the last," Shah said, waving it away like he would command his table be cleared. "So far as that goes, I fear only that they will upset you." He hesitated; only a heartbeat of time, but a hesitation all the same. "Your place is with me. I do not doubt you will remain there."

"Yes, you do," Witcher said with a faint smile. He reached up and tugged Shah down on top of him, burying them amongst a wealth of pillows. "For naught. I belong right here, and I don't care who of my former countrymen try to tell me otherwise."

Shah kissed him hard, deep, tongue tasting honey and almonds, lemon and the flavor that was unique to Witcher. And he was always so hot, such a contrast to the pale skin and hair that looked as though they should be cool to the touch. "Are you really mine?"

For reply, Witcher simply continued to kiss him, fingers running through his short, thick hair.

"You doubt it?"

"Doubt I can truly be so fortunate."

At that Witcher did laugh. "Majesty, your fortune is what you are bold enough to take."

Shah smiled into their kiss, then shifted them on the pillows, holding Witcher's wrists in one hand , thrusting a thigh between his legs. "Then I will take you."

"You already have me."

"Yes," Shah kissed him again, this time softly, slowly. This time there was no hesitation when he spoke. "I do." With a last lick, he abandoned Witcher's lips to explore his throat, feeling the sighs and moans as more of that pale skin was bared for his attention. His hands set to the task of unfastening the skirt and pants that, though they looked so good on his men, were ever irksome in removing. Far too much fabric; if he were not so greedy, he would simply have them walk around nude.

Witcher laughed, the sound ragged and breathless. "You don't have time for this."

Shah responded with a laugh of his own. "If I waited until I had time, I would never get to do it." He leaned up to give Witcher another kiss. "You are beautiful, Witcher."

"Men are not beautiful," Witcher replied, amusement in his eyes.

"No?" Shah asked. "And yet, when you look like that," he watched as Witcher writhed beneath his touch, gasping his name. "You are very beautiful indeed."

Witcher groaned, and tilted his head up, begging for another kiss. Shah obliged, and let Witcher tug his hands free, relishing the touches as Witcher opened his robes to map his skin.

Witcher closed his eyes and willed his head to stop aching. But still the light persisted in
making his head throb, pain digging deep enough that he wanted to scream or cry.

He could do neither.

The soldiers finally let him go, and Witcher felt the world tilt unsteadily. He opened his eyes,
immediately regretting it, but forced himself not to fall over. Lord above, he was so tired. The
pounding headache did not help either - suddenly being a prisoner did not seem so bad.

Surely whatever torture they had in mind was better than this.

And anything had to be better than another battlefield, another day, hour, minute of seeing
men die, hearing them scream, having to write home who had died. He was tired. If he was
going to die here, a prisoner of war, he would thank God for finally being merciful.

Witcher closed his eyes again, holding perfectly still until his head settled a bit.

Voices began to penetrate; the strange, rolling dialect of the desert nations he had been
made to study diligently once it was decided he would be a commander. Reluctantly Witcher
opened his eyes again.

He should be ashamed, really, that he and his men had been captured. An error he should
not have made. But he was so tired…

Witcher looked up to regard the man who would be deciding his fate - the King Shahjahan
about whom he had heard much, most of it distorted, twisted information that tended him
toward believing the exact opposite.

His head still throbbed, but suddenly it seemed a distant, tolerable pain. Shahjahan
was…what he had expected but not. There was a sternness, a confidence there that Witcher
had long associated with royalty, nobility. But there was something else too in his demeanor,
which he could not identify. Dark eyes locked with his, and the pain in his head faded from
notice a bit more.

Witcher broke contact first, and wished he knew why those eyes were so disconcerting.

Perhaps because there was no smugness, no satisfaction in them. His own liege would have
been gloating over such a capture as much as possible. But this king looked only like he
wished the whole affair over.

He switched his gaze to the men lined up on either side of the low throne, each one sitting
motionless on thick cushions. They were all dressed alike, in long, black skirts. Bare-chested.

Fine chests, Witcher could not help but note. Each man was far too easy to stare at - and
good excuses not to go back to the king.

The hair alone on the one nearest the throne on the right was reason enough to gawk, and
Witcher hoped that was not what he was doing. It was loosely bound, pooling like dark silk on
the floor beside and behind him. If it were acceptable to call men beautiful, this man would be
that.

On the left hand side was a man a trifle rough around the edges - at least compared to the
first. Short, tousled hair and a bold gaze. There was an energy about him, even as still as he
sat, that spoke of a harder life. Possibly low-born, but if his upbringing bothered him, it did
not show in his mien.

Beside him was a man who had a stillness the first two lacked. A calm that spoke of
discipline. Like the man next to him, he had a strong build, muscles shaped by rigorous
exercise. His hair was shoulder-length, pulled neatly back.

`

"Do you speak our language, western soldier? A commander, yes?"

Witcher turned his attention back to the king. "Yes," he said slowly, the foreign language
coming somewhat stiff to his tongue. He'd not had reason to use it for a while. "I am a
Commander."

"What is your name?"

"Witcher Fitzroy."

The king arched an eyebrow, amusement making his lips twitch. "Witcher? As in one who
does witch work?"

Witcher thought he saw the rough-looking man start to laugh. "Aye," he said reluctantly, and
hoped the issue would not be pressed. But they always asked.

"Why would someone name you this?"

"I sincerely doubt the story is one which would interest you."

"Indulge me, prisoner."

Well, that said all that needed to be stead. Lord above, he felt tired. "My mother was rumored
to be a witch. Before she died - in childbirth - she named me Witcher to thumb her nose at
everyone."

"How interesting," the king said. He motioned, the gesture almost lazy, and the soldiers and
guards in the room vanished.

Witcher frowned, sensing something strange. "Where are my men?"

"They are being held in our cells. But do not worry, for now they are being well-treated." The
king made a vague motion in the air, as if trying to order something else away. "I have no
interest in dragging out this absurd war. You are my prisoner in hopes that I can end matters,
not prolong them."

His men were all right. Witcher allowed himself to relax a bit - then wondered why he was so
willing to trust the king's words. His head was not so strained as that. Though the throbbing
was worsening, becoming harder to ignore even with the distractions before him. The need
to close his eyes again was strong, but Witcher could not permit himself even that small
relief. Not when he was so vulnerable.

His wrists were beginning to chafe against the rope binding them, but Witcher barely noticed
anything past his aching head.

He realized the king was speaking again. "What?"

Another arched brow; Witcher could see he had surprised the king. "I said would you like to
see them for yourself?"

Witcher shook his head, then immediately regretted. "No," he managed. "I will trust your
words for now."

"Are you all right?"

How strange - it almost looked as though the king actually cared. "I'm fine," Witcher
managed. "What do you need from me? I cannot imagine I am here simply to converse."

"I wanted to know who precisely I hold captive, that I might send accurate information to your
king. Given your location, I doubt anyone knows that you have been captured."

"Probably not. If you tell them you have Witcher, the king will respond quickly enough."

Witcher almost laughed, imagining the looks on the faces of the king and ministers when
they realized their favorite tool was out of their grasp.

The king smiled, pleased, and relaxed in his seat. "So I have succeeded in capturing
someone quite valuable."

"Valuable? I would not say that," Witcher said. "Merely quite useful."

"A good soldier?"

"Yes, until today. And more besides."

"More?"

Witcher grinned, a bitter twist to it. "Yes, but that is nothing that relates to you." He would say
no more about it. Already he was saying too much - but he could not bring himself to care. If
this was the route he must travel to get out of this war, even if he already knew there was
another one waiting for him, he would do it. At least his men could go home.

He could not bite back a gasp as fresh pain lanced through his head. His hands twitched,
wanting to make an attempt to soothe away the crippling pain. Witcher could not help closing
his eyes, knowing that if he didn't, his late lunch would wind up all over the rug.

"Have you been injured?" The king's voice, so strangely kind, slipped past the pain.

Witcher bit back another gasp of pain. "No. I'll be fine." He hoped. It was rare it was ever this
bad; he wondered if he'd even be able to move now.

"Something is wrong." He said something else, but Witcher could not understand what. The
light, why couldn't it just go away? He wanted to cry, and didn't that just make everything
worse? Someone moved past him, softness brushing his arm, the smell of nutmeg,
cinnamon.

Then his wrists were free, and his hands were cradling his head before he could make them
hold still. How quickly he'd succumbed to weakness - but after everything else, the fighting
and the capture, knowing he had failed and endangered his men, coping with one of his
crippling headaches was too much.

His hands were pulled away by much warmer ones, and even through the pain Witcher was
fascinated by how dark the skin was against his own, which even by his country's standards
was startlingly pale. He looked up into the face of the king.