Sovereign's Gladiator (3 page)

Devon hated it.

“No,” Devon answered. “I do not enjoy the games.” And he forced this conversation back to his purpose for having Xan here. “You understand you are not going home. That is not why you are coming with me into the wild lands.”

“Your man Marcus told me my purpose is to guard you. Is that all you want of me?”

Devon heard the sharp intake of his own breath in his nostrils. So Xan noticed how he looked at him.

“Of course that is all,” Devon said, curt, his cheeks burning. “What else did you suppose?”

Let’s get this out right now.

As much as Devon wanted this man, Devon would not have him. The chasm of rank stretched a wide, deep maw between them—the gladiator and the Sovereign, the desert breed and the Raenthe.

And no doubt there was also a difference in inclination. Xan would be a man for women. Devon would not let out a whisper of his own wanting for this man. Xan may suspect—even know—but Devon would not confirm it.

“I am a stranger to this land,” Xan said. “I suppose nothing. You must tell me what I need to know.”

“What I want you to do is your duty as General Marcus explained it to you,” Devon told him, hotter and sharper than he intended. “You are to be my first guardsman. That means you get me to my destination safely and back again, no matter if it requires your life to fulfill your assignment. That is all.”

* * * * *

The wild lands were a great expanse of desert, steppe, fens and hard plains. The people who lived there were scattered tribes who spoke in different tongues.

The wild lands had been under Devon’s rule for three years now. And he had been unable to control them at all.

He hadn’t seen a
dinac
of taxes since the Reigna gave him the wild lands three summers ago. There ought to be roads by now and irrigation to the dry country. There ought to be a flow of trade goods between there and here.

Reports said the people of the wild lands were savage. And, true enough, all the ones Devon had ever seen had been so. Including Xan. Especially Xan. Xan had been brought here to Calista City in chains, roaring.

Devon’s frontier governor Kani could do nothing with the wild lands but hold on. Kani’s garrison suffered the highest mortality of any unit in the whole wide Raenthe Empire.

Governor Kani’s missives did not really explain why the hell settlement of the wild lands was going so very wrong.

At last, frustrated to death, Devon had declared, “I cannot rule from a distance!”

To which his best general, Marcus, had foolishly asked, “What more can you do?
Go
there?”

Marcus had thought he was being sarcastic.

But Devon had answered with a decisive nod, dead serious, “Go there.”

Panicked at that idea, Marcus had asked soberly, “Do you want me to go,
ma dahn
?”

“No. I shall go. I need to see for myself what my governor is up against.”

Marcus had started to argue. “Devon, you are a good soldier and a great general and people adore you—”

“Are you ‘people’, Marcus?” Devon had interrupted.

“Yes, I am people,” Marcus had said, including himself among the adoring ones. “We can’t afford to lose you.”

“And so you shan’t.”

Still, Marcus had tried to talk him out of this journey. But there was no talking Devon out of anything he set his mind to. Marcus could only try to keep him whole while he did it. So Marcus had given him Xan.

Damn him.

* * * * *

After he dismissed Xan from his presence, Devon climbed more steps to an upper-level colonnade where he found Marcus looking on, amused. Marcus’ black, beady eyes raked up and down Devon’s dusty self.

The open side of the palace curved here. Marcus could have seen the match in the exercise pit from up here.

“Self-assured bastard, isn’t he?” Devon commented to Marcus.

“Exactly what I want in your company when you go into the wild lands,” Marcus said. “Since it cannot be me.”

Marcus was another self-assured bastard. Devon had thought of Marcus as family all his life.

Devon told Marcus truthfully, without saying why, “I’m afraid of him.”

Marcus cackled. Laugh lines fissured his tight sun-baked skin. “I wouldn’t give him your back if I didn’t trust him.”

“Would you trust him with
your
back, Marcus?”

Marcus grinned. “No.”

“Ha!” Devon barked.

Marcus continued, “I am not his Sovereign and I didn’t set him free.
You
are sacred.
I
am not.”

“I don’t think I am sacred to him, Marcus.”

“He respects order and authority.”

“Really?” said Devon dryly. “Odd quality in a wild beast.”

“Not at all. Not at all. Prides of lions and packs of wolves respect authority.”

Devon gave a sideways nod. An interesting comparison. Lions and wolves were also hunters, not warriors.

Well, the hunter may respect authority, but Devon was fairly certain that Xan did not respect
him
.

Devon had come to the sovereignty young. He had seen twenty-eight summers when the starflowers blazed on the green hillsides and the air was sweet with birdsongs. He had seen twenty-eight winters when ice locked the mountain passes.

He had seen war.

He knew he would never see love.

His bedchamber had seen a lot of sex. Partners he’d had many. He could not call them lovers. Skilled women slaked the burning thirst, but they were not what he wanted. Oh, there were professional young men available, who were practiced at playing the woman’s part. Those boys were not at all what Devon wanted and he never engaged their services.

Devon ruled a province. Men lived and died at his word. He moved armies. But in his dreams he did not play the master in bed.

Master of everything, in the depths of the night Devon just wanted to surrender to a stronger power, a dominating man.

But a leader did not submit. Ever. Penetration was an unspoken out of bounds.

Devon was fated to a smoldering existence, never satisfied. The fires may be lowered, but never quenched.

Dreams of being held in the arms of a strong man, the man’s sex inside Devon’s body, must remain forever in the realm of dreams.

The morning arrived when Devon was to embark with the lord of his fantasies as his first guardsman.

Devon blessed and cursed Marcus for this.

Marcus rode out to the plain outside the city to see his Sovereign off. Devon recognized the wiry crooked figure approaching on horseback. An unfamiliar metallic sunlight flash glinted from Marcus’ brow.

Devon’s eyes widened to see Marcus wearing a crown.

The regent was not permitted the crown while Devon was in state. Yes, Devon was leaving, but he was not gone quite
yet
. Devon nodded up at Marcus’ brow and asked, “How does it feel?”

“Hot,” said Marcus. Sun on metal on Marcus’ balding pate became quickly painful.

“Grow more hair,” Devon said.

“Marry a goat,” Marcus said.

Wryly smiling, Devon wagged a warning forefinger at Marcus. Devon mounted his black stallion and whisked away to join his entourage.

In addition to the formidable Xandaras and Devon’s personal bodyguards, his company included a full regiment of foot soldiers and a horse unit, coming along to relieve Governor Kani’s garrison in the wild lands.

Marcus need not fear for the Sovereign’s safety on this journey.

Devon’s entourage set out on the royal road, passing between two columns of the home guard, their swords lifted in salute.

Once away from the capital, it didn’t take long for the comments to start.

“Never like it when they dress up wild animals in clothes and teach them to walk on their hind legs,” a soldier said within Xan’s earshot, meant to be heard.

When that got no reaction, another soldier replied louder, “Do you think he can balance a ball on his nose?”

Devon did not rebuke his men. It would not wear to take the barbarian’s side against his own soldiers. He could only tell Xan, “Pay them no heed.”

“I don’t,” Xan said.

“You’re sure?” Devon asked.

“I do not answer to barking dogs or braying jackasses either,” Xan said.

“Ah.”

Xan rode with an easy seat, hips rolling with the horse’s motion, as sure as a cavalry commander. He was a giant man and the horse was not happy.

Devon and Xan rode side by side behind Devon’s royal litter. The luxurious box was curtained with rich scarlet trappings trimmed in gold. Twelve richly dressed honor guards carried the royal box.

Like the silver eagle standard of Shiliya and the gold Imperial Raenthe crest borne at the front of the procession, the ornate litter was a mark of the Sovereign’s rank. It announced Devon’s importance.

Devon never rode in the damn thing.

This journey was a secret—as far as a regiment marching with a Sovereign at its head could be called a secret.

As far as Devon’s subjects knew, the Sovereign and his armed men were headed to the summer palace at Laklare. And that was actually true. But Devon was only going to the summer palace because Laklare lay on the road to the wild lands.

It would not be wise to announce his real destination was that part of his domain which might welcome him with spears.

The first part of the journey was through a land at peace.

The royal train marched past groves of fruit trees, lush fields dotted with grazing sheep and clusters of neat fieldstone houses.

Villages along the way to Laklare welcomed Devon’s approach. Village elders turned out to present him with gifts of fresh fruit, fat geese, and local wares. Children strewed the way with flowers. Devon leaned down from his saddle to accept kisses from young women.

“You are loved,” Xan commented curiously as Devon passed a matched pair of silver mugs to his attendants to stow in his royal litter with the rest of the gifts.

“You are surprised?” Devon answered coolly. He had flowers stuck in his hair. They were pink cyclamen blossoms, their petals pulled back like butterfly wings. Devon added, “You
do
know I send soldiers ahead threatening to flog them if they don’t show up cheering?”

“No,” Xan said simply. He didn’t believe it.

Good.
Devon nodded. A flower fell from his hair into his lap. He turned his head to look Xan in the eyes. “Then yes, Gladiator. I am well loved.”

Devon’s column arrived at Laklare. The soldiers paused there a day and a night to refresh and to pick up more food and to unload the Sovereign’s gifts. The litter bearers were grateful.

The summer palace at the edge of Laklare, with its soaring ceilings and airy colonnades, was built on the shore of a broad glassy lake.

The local palace attendants had the Sovereign’s bedchamber ready for him, the fine sheets clean and scented on the wide bed, fresh-cut flowers in all the vases, potted plants in the hearth because nights here were mild. Perfumed water was drawn in the footed bathtub. Vast crystalline windows overlooked the ultramarine lake. The water lay glassy in the sunlight.

The chief of staff asked if
ma dahn
wanted him to arrange a companion for the night.

No, Devon told him. No. Days and nights in company of Xan had delivered Devon here hot, disturbed and edgy, nothing that the touch of a woman could ease. He refused to be irritable to a sweet and talented young lady who would try her best with no hope of pleasing him.

He rode out to the royal stables to find a mount more fitting a man of Xan’s stature than the poor beast that had carried him here.

They found a promising animal. It was an imposing draft horse with a handsome bronze coat dappled with ghostly points of gray. Its mane and tail were white-gold. It had all its teeth, a broad sturdy back and a sensible face. Its massive hoofs were sound.

And it took a liking to Xan. It snuffled his hair, blew hay-scented breath through wide fluttering nostrils and butted Xan in his broad chest. Devon thought he might have spied a trailing edge of an unguarded smile soften Xan’s face as he held the big head.

“Tell me what you are thinking,” Devon commanded.

The gentle look vanished. Xan said, “It is a good horse.”

“No. Not about the horse. Tell me your mind.”

“I haven’t the words,” Xan said. “Not in your speech.”

“Then speak to me in your own.”

“You don’t know my words.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Devon said. “Speak to me.”

Xan frowned. He met Devon’s gaze and spoke.

The sound of Xan’s voice was like sand on stone, shifting rocks, a guttural purr in a rolling desert cadence. A crease deepened between Xan’s uneven brows as he spoke, his expression becoming a brooding glower, his eyes glittering sharp. There was tension in his lower jaw. He bared his lower teeth as he bit words off. The movement of his lips was seductive.

As last Xan lifted his eyebrows quizzically, one higher than the other, and he said in the Raenthe tongue, “What did you hear?”

“I heard the wrath of the horse that doesn’t understand the bit,” Devon said.

“That is not what I said at all.”

“The words, no. But you told me you are feeling my foot on the back of your neck. I have the power of life and death over you like a god, yet I am not a god, and you are wondering how such a thing can be allowed in a just creation.”

The gladiator let his mouth drop open in unmasked astonishment. “Are the Raenthe mind readers?”

“No,” Devon said. “And you’re wrong about my foot on your neck.”

Devon put his palm to the draft horse’s withers and called for a stable hand to bring a bridle.

It was on their way back to the palace that Devon and Xan rode up behind an overloaded oxcart attempting to turn down a side path to a mill.

The wagon groaned under a tower of badly balanced bricks. The driver was taking the turn at a bad angle. One wagon wheel was about to fall into a deep rut.

The old miller, red-faced at the reins, was bellowing. Three young men put their shoulders to the cart, pushing under the leaning side of the tottering load.