***
The sultana hesitated only long enough to calm the boy’s tears and direct him to stay with his companions. Then she swept out of the sleeping chamber, her face hard, eyes glittering angrily. She found the new guard standing just outside. “What are you doing here?” she snapped.
Harel bowed slightly. “I heard shouting, my lady, and came to . . .”
“Never mind.” She dismissed his explanation with a wave. “Come with me.”
“Yes, my lady.” Without a further word, he followed as she stormed out.
He had no idea of where she was leading him, up corridors and down. He kept pace with her easily enough, despite the pain in his head.
In a distant corner of his mind, he wondered over the names that had simply popped into his awareness. He knew who was who, even though he hadn’t seen the two dark haired ones before. Sven was the largest of the three, only slightly shorter than Harel himself, but slimmer, a bit less muscular. His black hair had been neatly cut. Serious, centered, calm but intense, a cold rage when aroused. His accent, softly lilting, very Swedish . . .
Harel bit his lip to keep from making a pained sound. Where on Arus was this Swedish place?
Keith was dark haired as well, but his was far longer, flowing down over his shoulders in thick waves. His skin was golden in tone, much darker than Sven, who was pale. He was a bit smaller overall than Sven, but obviously fit and strong. He looked young, his face innocent. Optimistic, capable despite his youth, always very much in control of himself . . .
Where were these thoughts coming from? He bit harder, wanting it to stop . . .
Why did something tug at his heart when he thought of the third? Was it just because he’d carried the boy? Not a boy, Harel reminded himself. Thick reddish-brown hair, tangling down over his shoulders. His skin was light, but not nearly as light as Sven’s. He was Keith’s size, Keith’s shape, but there the similarities ended. Rebellious, overconfident, cocky, yet sometimes insecure beneath it all, a study of contradictions . . .
The sultana’s sudden halt forced Harel out of his disturbing thoughts, and he was grateful. Glancing around, he saw they were in a little frequented section of the palace. It was dark despite the large arching windows of the corridor. The door before which they stood was plain, uncarven, with nothing to tell them to whom the rooms belonged.
She stood, staring at the door, for a long moment. Just as Harel took a breath to ask why they were here, she lifted her chin in determination and pushed the door open, not bothering to knock. Harel shook his head at her rudeness, but trailed after her.
The light was no brighter inside. The windows were covered with heavy drapes. The only source of light was a single dimly flickering candle on the far side of the room. Harel stopped, not wanting to stumble over any furniture in the shadows while his eyes adjusted, but the sultana strode forward fearlessly.
“Haggar!” she called angrily. “Haggar! I know you’re here, witch!”
Harel shivered, even though the room was close and very warm. The witch? He’d heard of her, of course- who in the sultan’s palace did not know of the witch? She was reputed to be very powerful, very old and wickedly wise. The populace feared her more than they feared the sultan. The sultan could order their deaths at any instant, true, but the witch could steal their souls . . .
“My lady.” Both intruders started at the voice coming from the darkest shadows. Harel spun about, hand on his sword, and managed not to send anything crashing to the floor. He could only stand transfixed by the glowing yellow eyes. The sultana scowled, as the witch asked, “What are you doing here? I did as you asked . . .”
“No, you did not!” the sultana protested. “They require medicine. They need care. They . . .”
“They need to be kept away from your husband, you would say?” The voice was smug.
The sultana closed her mouth over the words she had been about to say. “Yes,” she bit out.
“You will have to work that out with him, princess.” And that easily, the witch dismissed the matter. “If you would be so kind as to leave . . .” she said pointedly.
“No. The alcohol is still acting against the drug in their bodies.”
A heavy sigh drifted from the shadows. “My lady, there is . . . nothing I can do for them.”
But the pause as the witch spoke told a different tale. The sultana leapt upon it eagerly. “There is. I’m not leaving until you agree to heal them.”
“Very well,” Haggar growled. Harel could hear jars and bottles being opened and occasionally sniffed. Then there was a grunt of satisfaction, and within moments, a small pouch was flung at the sultana, who caught it easily. “Mix that into a goblet of wine. Give each of your boys no more than three swallows. That will stop the reaction of the drug and the alcohol.”
“In wine?” the sultana asked, confused. “But . . .”
“Wine is the only liquid that powder dissolves in,” the witch interrupted, now quite vexed. “It is very strong, and should not be mixed with any other potion. Do not give them the other for the next couple days, until this one has gotten out of their systems, or the reaction will be much, much more severe. Fatal. Now, leave.” Her tone brooked no argument.
“Thank you,” the sultana said, a bit resentfully, and turned to leave.
Harel’s eyes had finally adjusted, but he wished they hadn’t. He kept thinking he saw . . . things . . . in the shadows . . .
“Always a pleasure, Romelle,” Haggar mocked. “And so nice to see you again, Harel.”
Harel froze for an instant, his blood cold, then turned to face those disturbing glowing eyes again.
But they were gone, and he could sense that, other than him, the room was empty. Shaking his head, he lengthened his stride to catch up with the sultana.
He had never, never seen the witch before this day . . . He was sure of it.
Why, then, were her words so disturbing?
***
Consciousness slowly slipped back into his body, bringing pain with it. Before he opened his eyes, he tried to determine where the pain was coming from. After only an instant, he gave up, because everything seemed to hurt. Every muscle in his body ached, his head pounded mercilessly.
His ass throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
He couldn’t remember anything before this waking moment. His life was a bleary haze of pain, with chills and fever running through his veins. Each shiver made his abused muscles protest. He groaned, and the sound was loud in his ears.
“Lance?” Very lightly, something stroked his forehead, and he twitched. At least the voice was pitched low enough not to hurt.
Lance? Was that his name?
Memory returned only grudgingly. Not that there was much to remember. “Pidge?” he croaked, daring to open one eye. The light was too bright, and he closed it again with a whimper.
“Lance, my sweetheart.” Another gentle touch on his face, different. The voice was quiet, husky, but distinctly feminine. “Drink this. I know that you’re hurting, but this will help it.” The hand lifted his head up slightly, and he whimpered again. The slightest movement, the merest touch caused almost unbearable agony. He felt the curve of a goblet at his lips, and forced them open to let the liquid trickle in. The goblet tipped away, as he swallowed the bitter brew and made a face. “Now, a little more,” the voice coaxed, and he complied. Almost immediately, the pain started to recede. “Very good.” He felt himself being lowered again, and the soft fingers were stroking his cheek. “Very good, sweetheart. Now just go to sleep.”
Before the darkness claimed him again, he heard the rustle of movement, and a breeze of her perfume told him she’d moved away. At the edge of his hearing, she whispered, “Keith, love, wake up . . .”
There was nothing.
Then there were the dreams. He had them almost every time he slept.
He could never remember the dreams, but he was always left with a feeling of loss when he awoke, a feeling that everything that seemed so wrong had been explained.
This time was no different. When Lance opened his eyes again, the room was darkening and cooling slightly, but the heat from the day was still trapped. He sat up easily and stretched his long limbs, finding with some relief that his muscles no longer ached. Then he looked around the room, eyes narrowing. Keith and Sven were still asleep, curled about each other. Pidge was nowhere to be found, but was probably with the sultana in the outer room, or perhaps her bedroom.
Something feels wrong, he thought. I feel . . . sharper, somehow. Odd.
He climbed to his feet a bit unsteadily, and was reminded that all was not well as the action reawakened the pain in his ass. Closing his eyes, he could see the sultan again, his lip curled into a sneer, his long white hair tied back into a tail, falling forward over his shoulder with his quick movements. His pale blue skin had been sheened with sweat, his red shirt soaked with it as he stripped it off, revealing his powerful chest . . .
Trying hard to keep the memory at bay, Lance opened his eyes and crossed his arms protectively over his breast, clutching hard at his opposite shoulders. Any second, it felt like his chest would cave in; he felt so hollow inside.
Was this all there was? He could only remember the past few months; the rest of his life was blank wall, as if it had never been.
He wished that the previous night had never been, but it was so vivid in his mind, the memory of pain too fresh to forget. It had happened so many times . . .
The sultan had already been well intoxicated when he burst into the sultana’s quarters, with several guards in tow. The girl who had been tapping a drum dropped it with a gasp. Pidge had been dancing to that beat, while Lance and Keith and Sven had lounged by the sultana, but he stopped, eyes reflecting blank terror. Slowly, he’d backed away. The sultana leapt to her feet in outrage, and Pidge ducked behind her, shivering. Before anything could be said, though, the sultan gestured and the guards had immediately taken hold of the three older boys, and begun dragging them to the door.
The sultana then threw herself at her husband, spitting curses, as he took away her harem. Laughing, he shoved her away easily. She had landed hard on the floor. “Since you enjoy your little dancer so much, Romelle,” he said, his voice haughty, “keep him! However, I will take these three in lieu. When you come to your senses and give him to me, I’ll return the others.”
The last things Lance had seen before being hauled away were Pidge and the girl crouching beside the sultana, Pidge’s face white and horrified as he stared after them.
“Damn you, Lotor!” the sultana had screamed, her cry echoing down the corridor. “Damn you!” The sultan’s mocking laughter was the only response.
The alcohol he’d been forced to consume made Lance’s memories fuzzy after that, or they were missing altogether. But the fear and pain he’d felt, sobbing, scrabbling panicked on the floor, on his knees, as the sultan’s strong hands held his hips . . . that was clear.
There has to be more to life than this, he thought. Tears he did not want to let fall burned his eyes. There has to be.
He hated seeing that look on Pidge’s face, that look of mindless fear. Pidge knew what the sultan wanted the three of them to do, knew that if the sultan ever took him away, he’d be expected to do the same, and it terrified him. It frightened all of them. The three of them had determined that it would never happen as long as they could prevent it. Without even discussing it, they’d all decided that Pidge was to be protected as much as possible, especially from the sultan.
He shuddered in revulsion, and, trying to ignore the still lingering aches, crossed to the door. He nearly ran over the girl when she appeared in the doorway. He had an impression of blond hair . . .
She looked up at him in surprise, her blue eyes wide. They widened even more as he dropped to one knee, head bowed. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he whispered, his voice rusty. “Forgive me . . .”
“Get up!” she hissed, glancing around nervously. “Quick, get up!” She reached out to grasp his shoulder, but stopped before she touched him.
Her voice made him raise his gaze in shock. It wasn’t the sultana! Her face was too . . . young, too open to be the sultana, her voice too light. She wore an outfit of gauze and silk in the palest shade of pink, no more than a blush on white fabric. It was a color the sultana would never choose for herself, he knew. He scrambled to his feet. Now he saw that she wore the armband of a palace servant. Like the sultana’s, her hair was blond, but slightly lighter, though her eyes were the same blue. The hair was tamed into a thick braid, falling halfway down her back. Alli; the name drifted in his uncertain memory. She was one of the sultana’s servants, had played the drum last night as Pidge danced. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I thought . . .”
She gave him a lopsided smile. “I know. It happens a lot, especially if you just look quick.” Her tone was warm, and conveyed understanding. She eyed him, taking in his pale skin marred with the purpled bruises, the way he stood, unconsciously hugging himself, his loincloth of dark blue silk stained and rumpled. The smooth play of muscles in his arms and chest as he clutched himself entranced her for a moment. He was slightly taller than she, but the way he had his head bowed, long reddish-brown hair hiding his face, made him appear smaller and slighter than he was.
“You were going to bathe,” she stated, suddenly knowing. When he looked at her again, she noticed his eyes were the same shade as his loincloth. “The sultana asked me to make sure you all were all right. She is in her bedroom with the little one. Go on, take your bath,” she ordered, not unkindly. “I’m sure she will understand.” She moved aside to let him pass.
Gratefully, he nodded and nearly ran to the bathing room.
Walking carefully on the damp tiled floor, he let his loincloth fall and stepped into the warm water. The tiles surrounded a pool, made shallow on one end with a raised platform, dropping off to a depth of about six feet at the other. Lance very briefly considered immersing himself in the deep end and letting himself drown, then dismissed the idea. Someone would be in soon enough to find him, and the punishment for attempted suicide wasn’t one he wanted to contemplate. Death was too permanent a solution . . . even though, right now, it seemed appealing. Normally, he’d never even consider it . . .
Normally? This was normal. This was his life.
The water circulated constantly, cloudy replaced with fresh by some unseen mechanism. Gingerly, he settled himself into the water, hissing as it stung abrasions he hadn’t been aware of. He dunked himself momentarily, wanting to erase the memory of the sultan’s touch.
He sat up, head and shoulders above the water, wrapping his arms around his knees. For a long time, he stared at nothing, letting the room go hazy and indistinct around him.
Was this really all there was? Couldn’t there be another way of life, one filled with adventure and comradeship . . . without fear, without pain . . .
Quiet splashes distracted him. He shook his head and looked up to see they had belonged to Keith and Sven. Keith’s dark brown eyes were ringed with shadows, his lips swollen, and he whimpered softly as he lowered himself down. Beneath his natural golden color, he was pale. Sven was in little better shape. He made no sound, but Lance could see his face stiffen as he sat. His eyes were the color of slate, and just as hard, emotionless, until he looked at Keith, shivering despite the warmth of the water. His whole demeanor softened at the sight, and muttering softly in . . . another language, he reached out to draw Keith to him, just as Lance made the same movement. The three huddled together, arms wrapped tightly around each other, heads bent, touching.
It took all of Lance’s will to keep from crying, knowing that Keith often bore the brunt of the sultan’s abductions, knowing the way they always wounded his heart, if not his body. But the sultan had not used him last night . . .
It was a near thing, though.
Now, Lance wondered if his sacrifice had hurt Keith more than it helped him.
Brokenly, Keith whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry . . .”
Lance tightened his embrace, while Sven nuzzled Keith’s cheek. “Why should you be sorry?” he asked, his accent softly lilting.
Sobs shook Keith’s frame. “I . . . I just get the feeling . . . somehow . . . this is all my fault . . .”
“Keith, please stop,” Lance said plaintively. He rested his forehead against the side of Keith’s head, kissing his cheek, wanting to comfort him. “This can’t possibly be your fault. We’ve . . . we’ve always done this, remember?” The words stuck in his throat, though, and he had to force them out.
Sven snorted. “This is all I can remember, but I had a life before . . .”
Lance recognized the words; he’d said them to himself many times. But where he had questioned it, thinking it a dream, Sven’s words were firm, as if he knew.
The door banged open. Startled by the noise, they all looked up, but did not release each other. A small human cannonball careened into the room, all white face and huge eyes. Still wearing his loincloth, Pidge tumbled into the water, sputtered for a split second when he surfaced, and reached out to his friends. Lance smiled, and let go of Sven to hold an arm out to the boy.
Pidge swarmed all over him, arms and legs twining about him. Lance had a fleeting impression of the small body quivering in his arms, of a voice sobbing breathlessly in his ear, “You’re all right!” Then Pidge was gone, clinging to Keith, then Sven, in the same way. Keith managed to wipe away the guilt that had been plain on his face, and now he smiled slightly, touching Pidge’s head, the wet brown hair plastered to Sven’s shoulder.
“Of course we’re all right, little brother,” Sven said quietly, releasing Lance and Keith to wrap both arms around the shaking form against his chest. Keith and Lance moved closer, to add their embraces. “We’re fine . . .”
“No!” Pidge interrupted heatedly, without raising his head. “You don’t remember . . . I saw . . . this morning . . . I thought you were going to die . . . all of you . . .” He buried his face in Sven’s broad shoulder and began to cry softly. “I thought you were all going to die . . .”
Except for the lapping of the water against the lip of the pool and Pidge’s quiet sobs, there was silence. Keith and Lance glanced at each other, then at Sven, who looked up from comforting Pidge. There was no way to make light of it, Lance knew, his heart heavy, not if Pidge had been so scared. So they said nothing, and tried to reassure him with their presence. It was several minutes before his sobs subsided into hiccups.
All the previous times, they’d tried so hard to keep him from knowing how . . . brutally the sultan had used them. Now, there was nothing to be said. Somewhere, Lance found enough emotion to mourn another bit of lost innocence.
After a few more moments, he waded to the edge and pulled himself out to retrieve some soap. “We’d better hurry,” he said quietly. “She’s going to be waiting for us.” He didn’t want to cut short their recovery time- he needed it as much as the others- but the sultana’s temper was uncertain at the best of times.
And this would certainly not count as the best of times.
While they lathered each other, towels and fresh clothing were brought in and laid on one of the benches against the wall. Reluctantly, they rinsed and left the pool. Pidge dropped his sodden loincloth, and immediately pulled on his clean one, as Keith reached out to dry his hair. “Pidge, go back to the sultana and tell her we’ll be there in just a minute,” he said, swiftly finger-combing Pidge’s curls back from his face. “She’ll be missing you.” His fingers trailed lightly over the gold chain still about the boy’s neck.
“I don’t want to,” Pidge replied petulantly, sidling away from Keith. His voice still held a note of fright as he continued, “I . . . I don’t want to leave you . . .”
Reasonably, Lance said, “Nothing’s going to happen to us between here and the sultana’s bedchamber, little brother.” Pidge merely stared at him, eyes guarded and reproachful, and he shrugged. “Well, please yourself. We’re almost ready, in any case.” He dropped his towel and pulled on his loincloth.
Pidge surveyed them critically. I wonder what he sees, Lance thought as he tied back his mane. I wonder who he sees. Does he remember anything from before . . .?
From before . . . what? It was a question to which he almost feared the answer, even as he longed for it.
Keith shook some excess water from his long black hair, accidentally spraying Sven, who cursed inventively. He grabbed Keith’s towel from around his waist and used it to mop up the droplets on his chest. Keith shrugged, unmindful of his own nudity, and well aware of Sven’s short temper. Lance noticed him, however, covertly drinking in the sight of their older companion as if he hadn’t seen him in ages, and he smirked, as Sven adjusted his loincloth. Lance, too, admired Sven’s form, but it wasn’t quite the kind of body he preferred. A man slightly taller than Sven, more golden in tone, like Keith, very muscular and powerful, with dark hair and a shy smile . . .
He shook his head. Where had that come from?
There has to be something wrong, he thought, worried. I feel so . . . different. I can’t remember ever feeling so . . .
Keith shook his head, still trying to get his hair dry. He managed to shower Sven again, and Sven glared at him. Lance sighed. I’m not up to dealing with Sven’s temper tonight, he thought. And if Keith keeps this up, he’s going to be very unhappy . . .
He heard a cough behind him, and turned to see that Pidge had looked away, fidgeting, his eyes closed, a flush suffusing his cheeks.
Clearing his throat again, Pidge said abruptly, “Let’s go.” Keith quickly pulled on his crimson loincloth.
They filed out of the bathing room into the main chamber. The guard leaning in the doorway to his waiting chamber stood straighter as they exited. He was remarkable only because of his size; otherwise, he was the same as any other guard that had served in the sultana’s quarters. He was slightly taller than Sven, but much more muscular. Then Lance stopped short, falling behind Keith and Sven, and looked again more closely, frowning.
His ears seemed to buzz, and his earlier thoughts echoed through his mind.
Pidge had halted with him, and saw the direction of his stare. “That’s the guard who brought you back.” His tone was thick with distaste. “He’s been on duty here today, too.” He tugged hard on Lance’s arm to get him moving again.
Frown deepening, with a great effort, Lance tore his gaze away from the guard and looked down at Pidge. He let the boy encourage him into motion. “Brought me back?”
Pidge nodded, hurrying him into the sultana’s bedroom. “He carried you back at least three hours before other guards brought back Keith and Sven.” Once safely in the sultana’s chamber, he whispered, “He didn’t do anything to you, did he?”
Lance shook his head. I don’t remember anything about last night, after . . . But I still can’t tell Pidge that. He forced a smile, and ruffled the boy’s hair.
“I don’t like him,” he heard Pidge mutter as he moved to the sultana’s side. “He hurts my head.”
Puzzling over that remark, Lance followed him. He knelt beside Keith and Sven and felt the sultana’s cool fingers on his cheek. Even as her warm, honeyed voice washed over him, apologizing, he wondered at the jolt he’d felt at the sight of this guard. A jolt . . . of what? He couldn’t quite place it.
Then he understood what Pidge meant. The more he thought about the burly guard, the more his head started to pound. Knowing that the heavy footsteps behind him carried the object of his thoughts was almost too much.
“My lady, my relief is here.” His voice was deep, rumbling. Lance suppressed a shudder and closed his eyes. He heard a rustle of movement behind him, as the guard bowed and departed.
Despite himself, however, he quickly looked over his shoulder to catch another glimpse of him.
Who is he?
***