The Red King (22 page)

“You were brought into this against your
will.”

“I was not!” Andrew said, impassioned. “You
offered me escape, more than once. I stayed of my own accord. I
want to be here, with you, which is why I cannot understand why
your throat would be in my hands!”

“Because I have made you a killer and I’m
asking you to kill again. It is against everything you know,
everything you were taught. You may have agreed to this but it was
not fairly tendered. You want to be here now, but when the time
comes, you are going to hate me for it,” Rory answered. “It is good
that something inside of you understands that.”

Andrew stared at him, eyes blazing. “I will
never hate you.”

Rory stepped closer to him. It was on his
tongue to argue, to tell Andrew he was wrong, but he did not say
it. Instead, he ran a finger across Andrew’s bottom lip, swollen
from his biting in concentration and effort. “You must learn not to
do that. One hit, one fall, and you can tear your own lip off.”

“I will try,” Andrew answered. His tongue
swiped across it, following where Rory’s finger had gone.

There was a shout and they both turned to the
path to see one of the older boys. He shouted something to Rory who
smiled and replied in Berber. The boy nodded and ran back towards
the village.

Looking at Andrew, he said, “The ship is
here. Would you like to row out to meet it?”

A mutinous gleam appeared in Andrew’s eyes.
“Will I be doing all the rowing?”

“Not if you can beat me there.”

Rory gave Andrew a quick kiss on the lips
before he sprinted away. Rory did not expect him to keep up,
despite his commitment Andrew was not the fastest runner, but he
did expect to hear at least following footsteps. At the edge of the
village he paused, listening for anything that would indicate
Andrew behind him. There was nothing. The drapes were lowered in
the houses to keeping out the hot, midday sun, and all was
quiet.

One moment from backtracking to find Andrew,
Rory was startled by a small herd of goats. They shot out from
between houses farther up, bleating indignantly at their
disruption. Andrew rounded the corner then, casting one look over
his shoulder as he ran for the water’s edge. Rory grinned and took
chase. He was faster than Andrew and could overtake him easily, but
he prolonged the chase and his own enjoyment.

When they reached the moored fishing boats,
Rory added a burst of speed and lunged forward. He caught Andrew
around the waist and bore him to the sandy beach. Andrew recovered
quickly and pushed him off, using his feet for leverage as he had
been shown the day before. Rory expected the move, though, and
quickly had him on his back with arms pressed into the sand and
Rory’s knees pinning his shoulders.

“How did you do it?” he asked, smiling.

Andrew was panting, grinning back at him. He
did not seem to mind Rory perched on his chest. “I found another
path. It is overgrown, but it is there.”

“Well done,” Rory complimented. He did not
rise. “Can you throw me?”

“I can’t even get my arms up, you’ve got them
trapped,” Andrew answered.

Putting his hands on his hips, Rory sat back
a bit, resting more of his weight on Andrew’s chest.

Andrew was still for a moment, but then his
knees came up behind Rory and he wrapped his legs around Rory’s
chest. He rolled, freeing himself and throwing Rory into the sand.
“Is that what you expected?” he asked, getting his feet beneath him
but staying in a crouch.

“As ever, a joy to teach,” Rory said, smiling
at him. He got to his feet effortlessly, unaffected by the
strenuous activity.

Andrew did not fare as well. He was out of
breath, a bit shaky, and there were bleeding scrapes on his arms
from being tackled. The worst of the lot was on his face high on
his cheek. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, saying “So
much for my pretty face. Do you have another plan if I turn into an
unsightly troll?”

When you are old, Rorik, and no longer
beautiful, I will no longer want you. What will you do then?

Rory shook himself, shocked by the sudden and
clear recollection of Maarten’s voice. He felt sick for a moment,
dreading another onslaught of visions, but it did not come. He ran
his hand across his eyes, wiping away sweat and possibly tears.

“Tell me,” Andrew whispered. He was standing
right next to Rory now, having moved closer while he fought with
the nausea and trembling the memory incurred.

“When I had been with him three, maybe four
years, he had me watch him with another slave, a girl no older than
I. I was… jealous,” Rory told him. That was why he was sick, the
memory of the horrible, bitter envy he felt that he was not the one
chosen. “Maarten laughed. He found it amusing. He asked me what I
would do when I was old and no longer beautiful. He asked if I
would kill myself because he did not want me. I…cried. I cried and
he laughed and then he fucked me right there next to the other
slave, because my pain aroused him. That was when I realized he’d
killed her. She was not asleep or unconscious; she stared at me
with dead eyes and a broken neck. I think I screamed.”

Andrew pressed himself against Rory, but did
not touch with his hands. His voice was soft. “You have never
laughed at my sorrow nor found pleasure in my pain. You are nothing
like him.”

Rory turned his head to look down at Andrew,
lifting his eyes from the sand. Andrew met his gaze without
wavering and Rory felt the warmth return to his chest. “That is not
entirely true,” he said. His arm tightened, not pulling but holding
firm. “There have been times that I have found great pleasure in
causing your pain.”

There was no blush this time, only an
answering gleam in Andrew’s eyes. “Perhaps, but those times offered
me pleasure, as well, and I do not begrudge yours,” he replied, his
voice lowering in timber.

“Even the girl?” Rory asked.

“Were you pleased by that?” Andrew
countered.

Rory hesitated. He had not been. It had not
been arousing in any way. He’d felt …alone, despite his and
Andrew’s linked fingers. “No. It did not provoke the feelings I had
expected.”

“But when you first took me, and I wept and
wailed, you felt it then.” Andrew was looking up at him, his eyes
very soft and warm.

“Yes, you…” Rory began, but stopped to clear
his throat. The memory was still so fresh, so lovely; Andrew’s
skin, his trembling limbs, even the sounds he made as he found his
release. “You were perfect, but I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Would Maarten have thought to kiss me, to
promise me it would end soon, and still seek my pleasure?”

Rory shook his head.

“You are not like him.” Andrew smiled, his
hand cupping Rory’s cheek. His face was pink and his eyes darkened
and Rory suspected he was remembering the moment just as
clearly.

“I will not let you sleep tonight,” Rory
warned. He slipped an arm around Andrew’s waist and bent to brush
his lips across the man’s scraped cheek.

Andrew turned his face into the kiss so that
their mouths touched. “You seek to distract me.”

“Is it working?” Rory asked, one corner of
his mouth curling upwards.

They heard voices then, coming closer down
the path to the boats. They separated slowly. It was with great
excitement that the men of the village assembled, cutting short
Andrew’s answer. They pushed the small boats out, exuberantly
shouting as they jumped into the vessels. The
Taibhse
was
near enough to hear the bell, see movement on deck, but continued
to draw closer before dropping anchor. The men were already on the
water, ready to meet the ship and ferry supplies and men back to
land.

Neither Andrew nor Rory had to row, though
there was some argument as to who won the race. In the end, they
rode with Idir and another man and their speed was greater by far.
Rory was at the aft, his brow furrowed as he thought over the
memories, both good and bad. He felt he was losing a struggle. The
struggle to carry the anger and hate and misery, letting it slide
away from him. He wanted to let them go, feeling for once that
maybe he wouldn’t drown if he released them.

The angry, damaged child in Rory was still
not ready for that. Not just yet.

When they were close enough to hear the
shouts of the crew, Andrew responded with his own happy wave.
“Ahoy!” he cried, his arm arcing above his head. He threw a smile
over his shoulder, to Rory who put aside his brooding to admire him
thus.

A rope was dropped to Rory when they reached
the anchored ship. He was hauled up quickly and dropped to the deck
to be greeted by his men. They seemed in extremely high spirits,
even more than their usual rough carousing, and jostled him with
claps to the back and friendly hugs. “It has only been a few days!
Did you miss me so much?” he laughed.

Yousef took him by the arms. “We weren’t sure
if you would come back to us, now that you’ve found your
inamorato
!”

The word brought Rory up short, but his
unease went unnoticed as Andrew landed and was at once surrounded.
Rory did not hear the question, but Andrew’s answer was innocent
enough. “I rode a camel! It was much easier than I had imagined but
I would have still rather been on the ship.”

“You found your sea legs, then. When you wish
to return, you have a place,” Yousef said, taking him by the
shoulders.

“Thank you, Yousef,” Andrew answered, his
pleasure obvious in his smile.

“Captain!” Malik’s voice boomed over them
all.

Malik gave Rory a hearty handshake, but left
off after the greeting to go to Andrew. He took Andrew into his
arms for a mighty hug, exclaiming, “Ah, Coinin! It does my heart
good to see you!”

Andrew made a strangled sound. “Not so….hard,
Malik,” he managed with what little air he had left in his
lungs.

Rory could not help but laugh. “Easy, Malik,
he’s had a rough couple of days. He’s learning to defend himself
and has the bruises to prove it.”

“Indeed!” Malik said and set Andrew back on
his feet. “Why, you do look well! You have color in your cheeks and
flesh on your bones, a refreshing change!”

Andrew peered up at him. “What is that in
your ear, Malik?”

“What, this?” he said, his fingers gingerly
touching the gold hoop through his left lobe. “A bit of trickery on
some of the men’s parts; they caught me unawares.”

“We caught him in a drunken stupor!” Yousef
interjected.

Malik glared at him but Andrew smiled. “I
think it’s rather nice. I’m sure the ladies will find it
dashing.”

“Dashing, eh?” Malik said, still eyeing
Yousef, balefully.

Clearing his throat, Rory announced,
“Gentlemen, let us get the load from ship to shore. We have much to
do!”

With that the crew went immediately to their
prescribed duties; some holding the lines that lifted Andrew and
Rory from the boats, others entering the hold to unload the cargo,
a group lowered the ship’s own dingy to assist in the ferrying to
shore. It was without jumble or confusion.

Noticing a significant amount of small,
wooden barrels, Rory asked Malik, “What are all of these? I recall
none in my purchases.”

Malik smiled. “We met a Greek in Tunis. He
had the most wonderful wine,
Ruaidhri
.”

“And what did you trade him for the wine?”
Rory was almost afraid to ask.

“Some spices, the raki…he had an abundance
and was happy to make a trade,” Malik said.

“I liked the raki,” Rory complained.

Malik laughed. “You were the only one! You
were not here, Captain, so I put it to a vote. The men chose the
wine.”

Sighing, Rory told him, “Leave some of those
onboard, and one of the boats when you are finished. Andrew and I
will row ourselves back in.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“And Malik, mind you drink no more than
two.”

With a grin, Malik said again, “Aye,
Captain.”

Andrew was helping Yousef lower a stitched
bag of grain to a waiting boat. He was laughing, caught in the rope
for a moment and dragged to the gunnel. Yousef kept him aright and
pushed him back, telling him to fetch another bag. When Andrew
turned, he saw Rory watching him. Rory backed towards his cabin,
inclining his head in the direction of the door. Andrew gave him a
small nod.

Rory entered his cabin and went straight to
his bed. Kneeling, he opened one of the drawers, pulling it from
its secured pegs to remove it completely. He reached into the
recess, searching for a moment before feeling the fabric tucked
into a crevice. He pulled and the bundle came free. “There you
are,” he muttered, and removed his hand from the hidden space.

Andrew entered, quietly, and asked, “What do
you have?”

“Sit,” Rory said. He joined Andrew at the
table and set the bundle before him. Within the layers of muslin,
slowly exposed to the light, was a gemstone nearly the size of his
palm. It was a deep, dark blue, translucent, seeming to emit its
own light. Rory lifted it, holding it up to catch the sun.

It split the light, casting prisms around the
room, across Andrew’s astonished face.

“Sapphire. I took it from Maarten in the
hopes that he would leave his fortress. He did not, obviously,”
Rory said.

Andrew held his hand out. “May I?” Rory laid
it in his palm. “When I first woke, here” he cast his eyes towards
the bed “I heard you and Fleming speaking of a gem.”

“Yes.”

“And you spoke of me, as well.”

“Yes. I thought, first, that taking you after
stealing the gem would goad him more,” Rory said. He watched Andrew
as he stared at the sapphire, tilting it, looking through it,
clearly fascinated. It tugged his heart, made him want to smile,
but he fought the urge.

Handing it back, Andrew asked, “Thank you for
showing me.”