V

Altaeus watched as the emperor heartily engaged in a drinking game with a keen-eyed, lion-maned beast of a man. High General Benniche.

One of the first duelists to truly incite Alcya’s wrath. By a stroke of fortune, the general had killed his opponent that day, and then he’d had the gall to spit on the corpse, step on it. According to fireside tales, he’d lost three fingers and half a cheek to old warrior Phaevros the very next day.

Tonight, the decanters overflowed with more ale and beer than delicate wines, and it seemed impossibly more raucous than the night before, the excitement much more heightened, especially sitting so close to the audience around the emperor. Altaeus looked away from the undignified scene and briefly met Sarshen’s solemn gaze.

Naturally, he would find a way to ingratiate himself with the emperor. As a Councilor, Sarshen had been one of the most cunning, most charming, and ostensibly one of the most loyal, even when he had thrived most on precarious politics within the Council. But for all his intricate games, one thing had been clear: his opposition to the war, ever since the first news. He’d balked at the ultimatum that Altaeus had brought home five years ago. Had pushed for compromise.

Across the table from Sarshen were former elder Councilman Craeite and General Rhanos. Craeite smirked patronizingly, lifting his cup. His lordly arrogance—as though he had nothing to be afraid of—was as brilliant as ever. An influential voice in the Council, Craeite had served for years under the previous two kings, and he had never been very content with Prince Eryx transferring the throne to the youngest prince. Altaeus supposed he was relegated again to a “young whelp” in the old man’s eyes.

A great burst of cheering forced him look toward the emperor and his drinking partner.

“What is your demand, High General?” Sylan asked, amused and slightly peeved, the beginnings of a slur in his smooth voice.

The general grabbed his emperor’s chin roughly, and much too intimately, as he leaned over with a roguish grin. “Hard to decide, Your Majesty.” He licked his lips…and then pulled away. “Just for tonight—your slave-king, my Emperor.”

Sylan said nothing for a moment, his smirk firmly in place. The audience was acting like a pack of excited hyenas, their eager attention now divided between the emperor and Altaeus, who was faintly stunned and irritated. What was he doing here? Watching this supposedly great emperor of a great realm reduce himself to some common barbarian, considering crude wagers on men like they were merely pieces of coin—

“Have at him, then.”

Altaeus frowned. Not without a fight.

It was not how he should act, but this…this was beyond any such formality. He knocked over his untouched drink as he stood up in disgust, turned around and pushed through the crowd. He felt the general’s presence behind him, but he kept his steady pace. A fight didn’t sound too unappealing right now—

And the moment the hand closed around his wrist, Altaeus readily threw a hard punch and pulled away from the loosened grip, quickly enough to avoid the general’s retaliatory fist. The voices around them fell to a steady buzz. Benniche had staggered back a pace, cradling his jaw, and looked less than amused. In terms of brute strength, Altaeus was possibly outmatched, but he still had the upper hand.

The general charged. Altaeus shifted calmly and grabbed an arm, flipped the man onto his back, ignoring the sharp sting at his back. He slammed his knees onto the general’s arms and pressed his fingers warningly into the exposed neck. With a winded groan, the pinned general reluctantly subsided.

As Sylan burst into laughter, Altaeus released the general and glanced at the mirthful emperor, whose drunken but undeniably handsome smile was warm, open, and aimed straight at him.

It took just a bit of effort for him to look away from the unguarded expression. But he did, quickly, and left the room.

Altaeus roamed the dark streets, heading again for the main gates. The soldiers barely paid him attention when he stepped into the now corpse-less clearing.

It was doubtful Lyvander would be here still—one could hope… But… What then? What would he do if he did find his friend? He stared at the plain buildings, at the Sivarens eyeing him with half-hearted suspicion, and snorted. Truly like a pathetic whelp.

He redirected his footsteps and climbed the steps to the path at the top of the thick defensive wall. Noise faded into the background until the only thing ringing in his ears was the crickets’ song. The entire perimeter was secluded, the soldiers apparently seeing no reason to be up here. He took his time looking up at the sliver of the waning moon, the bright constellations dusted over the black ink of the heavens. Chanyiax, as steadfast as always, stood by.

“Five long years, and I never thought I would miss the war so,” Altaeus murmured. He loathed being so helpless, so aimless. Like he was chained within a void in the night sky, with nowhere to go and no means to escape the emptiness.

At least the war had forced upon him the very clear and then-vital roles of king, warrior, leader…father and husband… Familiar roles that filled his life, roles he could carry out. And the years far before the unexpected burden shoved into him by his brother. Student, explorer, soldier—liberated from the gravity of duty, driven by wanderlust, overwhelmingly brimming with simple goals that could be chosen at will and manipulated to suit his desires.

So much possibility at his fingertips out there in the vast, beautiful world…all of it dashed within the period of one Council meeting by Eryx’s reluctance and selfish love of life—the selfish sort of love in which, admittedly, Altaeus himself had carelessly indulged. And yet, he had been unable to resist his brother’s pleas.

Now that he was nothing but a pleasure slave, left to do apparently anything but nothing at all, he missed the sense of being needed by his people, of the weight of something—something grander than himself—resting on his shoulders. Inflated self-importance—was that it? Gods, such a shameful thing…the disapproving look his Mentor would give him…

Still…were the previous jobs truly any better than this role as a whore? So dominated by his own wants and needs, his own objectives, his own value as royalty, for so long… Undeniably, it was a jarring position, one he was too reluctant to succumb to, even with the temptingly open doors awaiting him, beckoning him. Here was the chance to travel far north, step through exotic lands he had yet to see—but this I could always do without the emperor…—and… Such irresolution.

…Hadn’t he already accepted his lot in life…? He clenched his fist.

Chanyiax shifted, wrapped a hand around his king’s, and Altaeus relaxed, gentle, self-mocking chuckle was lost in the night.

…

Faint noise of feet shuffling, weapons clacking, doors banging.

“Attention!”

Altaeus ended his meditation and looked down over the parapet at the organized ranks of Sivaren foot soldiers.

“We depart tomorrow morning. Any man who wishes to remain, step forward.”

So, today was his last. He took a final deep, calming breath as he turned toward the rising sun. Vaguely wondered if the emperor was awake yet. He lifted his arm for Fazhih as he and Chanyiax descended from the wall.

“Captain Rihayle—what a pleasant surprise…”

Altaeus slowed down when he heard that distinct, cold voice and, for lack of anything better to do and fully aware that he was being almost as improper as the emperor, hid behind the curved wall of a defensive tower to spy on the exchange.

“Colonel,” Captain Rihayle acknowledged brusquely. “Have you seen His Majesty’s slave?” Altaeus glanced away at that. Where had the captain been last night? He was usually like a barnacle, unshakable and completely attached. Rather admirably persistent in carrying out his emperor’s orders.

The colonel had jumped off the crates he’d been lounging on. “Rihayle…” His hands jerked toward the captain but dropped midway. “You should take better care.”

After a fleeting moment, Rihayle turned away. He shrugged off the hand on his shoulder with an impassive “Don’t waste any more of my time,” as he walked away from the colonel, toward the defensive tower.

Altaeus took that moment to walk into plain view, petting his firebird, as if he had not heard the exchange at all. “Ah—Captain, good morning.”

Rihayle faltered, and then approached steadily, bowed his head. “Sir. Please stay inside the palace walls today.” Stoic as ever. “You must get ready to leave Alcya. Anything you wish, you may take.”

“Quite generous of the emperor,” Altaeus muttered as he unhurriedly made his way into the city.

Sylan slowly sipped his wine, glancing obliquely at Altaeus. Statue-like, his drink untouched…as magnificent as ever in his silence. “Instead of just sitting here, bored and looking pretty, why don’t you play a song for us?”

Altaeus snorted softly and briefly met Sylan’s eyes. “My last performance in this palace…for you Sivaren invaders?”

Irony tinged those words, and Sylan only smirked. After the long day of last preparations for departure, it was nice to hear that pleasant voice, to fully meet the warm, flashing amber gaze of that one eye peeking out from under sinful locks of richest, finest ebony… And he was too deeply struck by infatuation’s pesky arrows if he was going off spouting such nonsense in his head.

“Nonetheless…your idea is not without merit.”

Sylan let his hand trail down the length of the king’s back as he stood up to leave the room. He put down his cup, resolving to remain sober tonight, and coolly returned Benniche’s fleeting look.

As much as he was willing to share his toys, Sylan was beginning to feel less inclined when it came to Altaeus. He wouldn’t have stopped the high general from taking his due, making yet another tally…but it had made Sylan inordinately happy when his beautiful warrior-king had effortlessly pinned down one of Sivare’s most capable warriors. He hadn’t even minded too much when his slave went missing the entire night, impelling Sylan to hand over himself and his two dutiful captains to the high general. No…going beyond the simple terms of the wager had been fun, after all. Just…not ideal.

When Altaeus returned, he handed over the Northern lyre to Sylan. “You may as well, emperor.” There was a hint of challenge in that lovely gaze.

A loud cheer rose up from the men around them. Sylan wavered, not so confident of his skill—but a charming, daring tilt of Altaeus’s head…and Sylan laughed shortly, looking down at the instrument and then at the people. Those who bothered to pay attention were actually eager, and quite pleasant about it. Encouragement for the emperor, even the occasional appreciative call at the slave-king.

Sylan bowed his head, gestured smoothly to the raised dais behind the main table. “Care to go first, lovely?”

It was yet another foreign melody. He watched the subtle shifts in the king’s expression. The fractionally parted lips, enticing and by the gods if only they would yield, framed by a neatly trimmed beard. Slightly hooded gaze, contemplative and immersed in the music, deaf to the background clamor. He paid such tribute to the instrument—a kind of zither?—resting on his lap. Nimble fingers—long and elegant, despite warrior’s calluses—reverently plucking just so, sweeping over, dragging across, dipping low, to produce the perfect quiver, the perfect ring in the notes. He looked like royalty…looked completely civil, and utterly out of place amidst the unruly mass in the chamber.

The notes slowed down, and then Altaeus lightly put his hands atop the strings, finally looking at Sylan. The emperor lifted his head from the lyre he had used as a prop, feeling his smile fade away uncertainly.

But his fingers remembered well enough. He had chosen his favorite piece from his childhood—a well-known, cheerful tune—to contrast the dark, meditative one played by Altaeus. He listened to the men singing the words, glanced over at Altaeus, who seemed focused only on Sylan’s hands, and played on, looking mostly at what his fingers were doing. And suddenly, at a refrain, the sound of the king’s instrument joined his. They played for a while, with the king creatively improvising at times. If only he were so accommodating in bed…

Decanters were refilled many times before the recital ended. Altaeus took the lyre in his free hand and made to leave.

Battlelust, fatigue, intoxication…tonight, all of those were wholly out of the formula. But that certainly did not mean Sylan wasn’t going to be inappropriate.

With a wicked smirk, he grabbed deliciously firm hips and pulled his slave down onto the seat between his legs. The king merely grunted, apparently choosing his instruments over his dignity.

Sylan pushed aside sleek hair to kiss the back of the king’s neck, to breathe in the heady, mingled scent of soap and sweat and the man’s faint, unique musk, and he had never really paid attention before, had he? He kneaded the muscles along the tense waist, felt the slight warp of the burn scars he vividly recalled seeing on that first night. Like a splash of fire…

After just a few moments, Altaeus ducked slightly, jolting Sylan out of thoughts and sensations, and pulled away, leaving without a backwards glance.

The emperor followed leisurely, a cup of sweet wine in his hand. At the king’s chamber, he leaned against the entrance, watching as his slave tended to the instruments.

“You are surprisingly sober tonight,” Altaeus spoke suddenly, setting the covered zither against the wall.

He took a sip of wine, smirking. “I don’t get piss drunk every night, lovely.”

“Hm.” Composed and disinterested as ever.

It made the emperor tick, just a bit. He stepped further into the living quarters, and Altaeus finally turned around. They started circling each other, very slowly, casually.

“If you came here to sleep, by all means.” Altaeus swept his arm fluidly toward the bedchamber.

“There is much of the night left for more exciting activities,” Sylan returned, making a point of looking his slave up and down.

“Then I will leave you to your activities,” came the airy, completely disregardful reply.

“You are resisting yet again.”

“Am I,” he commented nonchalantly, now at the wall opposite the instruments. That earned him a pointed look.

At the center of the room, Sylan stopped, near enough the entrance to intercept the slave, leisurely taking another sip of his wine.

“Hmm…since you want excitement, why not we play a game?”

“I am not here for a power play.”

“Oh?” Faint sarcasm. “So…you will leave me alone when I want peace—you will gladly grant freedom when I ask for it.”

Sylan smirked, annoyance beginning to take a hold. “Perhaps…not just yet.”

Altaeus’s lips quirked. “Indulge me with my game then,” he said, voice and gaze both softer, more inviting…but it raised Sylan’s hackles.

“You are fully aware that have no leverage against me, slave. I can easily order your precious general’s execution, or perhaps your Thaasalian?”

A faint curl of his lip… “That is despicable.” The slave’s tone was frigid, detached. Flayed Sylan’s conscience.

“But that would be such a waste, wouldn’t it.” A nerve twitched on Sylan’s forehead. “Fine then. What are the rules of this ‘game’?”

“Pin me to the floor, and I will give you complete reign for the night.”

“‘Complete’? As though I don’t already…” But that wasn’t true, not really. Sylan hated the silence, the control, displayed by his slave. How in hells could a man be so frighteningly unresponsive? Not one stray groan, barely any indication of either pain or pleasure. Even the very drunken fuck… He only vaguely recalled that night—the slave’s body had yielded somewhat, but that same prickling discomfort of handling an otherwise rigid, lifeless toy… Useless, alcohol.

“I will yield all of myself,” he murmured, gaze flickering away briefly—uncertain?—and seemed to steel himself. He cocked his head, a smirk in his eye, as he made some variation of the Alcyan sign. Two fingers gliding from forehead to lips, down the center of his chest, lingering just slightly at his stomach…and palms open at his side in an invitation too tempting… His whispered string of Alcyan was thick with promise, seductive.

Mockery and resistance crumbled as Sylan mentally pulled at his hair, Couldn’t he bear to tear that Sivaren equivalent from his tongue? He raised a brow. “And if I don’t manage it?”

There was a spark in the slave’s eye as he boldly stepped closer, close enough to touch. Sylan couldn’t help but conjure the image of a tiger who has merely to make a last jump to hook his claws into his prey. “You submit to me.”

…How very cheeky. Still…Sylan grinned slowly. Surely his senses were sharp enough, not yet dulled by the meager drink. He downed the rest and unceremoniously tossed the cup onto the couch. “Fine. You’re going to sing for me tonight, my slave.”

“And I will trust you to keep your word, emperor,” Altaeus said, and lunged forward.

Sylan dodged, stumbling a bit in his surprise. The king had recovered quickly, but he gave Sylan just a moment to take the offensive. And by the gods, he would take it, even if it was a concession on the slave’s part. He felt the adrenaline pumping through his body, his blood singing in excitement. Just couldn’t shake off that warrior’s call…

He charged, trying to gauge the body language, and, with an effective feint, landed a punch that should’ve knocked the slave down…and pulled back after Altaeus smoothly took the fist, moving his shoulder back with it. Sylan lunged again. This time, he was met with a low, spinning kick that he tripped over, but he managed to tumble safely, get up again, with only retaliation in mind. But before he could recognize into what he was hurling himself, Sylan saw the room falling, felt oddly weightless.

Wasn’t this the move used on Benniche…?

The wind knocked out of him, Sylan blinked rather stupidly as he looked up at the king. Up. “Hell’s fire…” he breathed out. Too stunned to be bothered by the cold stone at his back. Perhaps it was time to reassess his abilities…

Once sensing that Sylan would stay, Altaeus relaxed his hold. He leaned down until there was barely a handspan between the tips of their noses. “My terms, emperor.”

The loss wasn’t terrible however. The king’s face…Sylan continued staring at the smile lighting up the eyes. The faint wrinkling at the corners. He looked radiantly alive. As much as melancholy suited the king…he had been made for sun-kissed smiles, for carefree laughter, for playful sparring, and…

Ah, blasted gods, I am lost, Sylan thought distantly, eyes on the slowly fading smile as the king slipped into shuttered concentration.

Only a few layers of soft linen separated them, and Sylan badly wanted to get rid if them. Warm hands rubbed at his chest, cloth chafing pleasantly against his sensitized skin. His breath quickened, blood pulsing, coursing down toward his groin. Hips shifted down, agonizingly unhurried, along his abdomen. Tantalizing. He brought his hands up onto strong thighs, moving upwards…but didn’t get far. The king seized the wandering hands and forced them to the floor above Sylan’s head, holding them there with one hand. “You have given me your word, emperor…”

The attention was too intoxicating for him to struggle against. “Hnn…” Sylan closed his eyes, tilted back his head, letting the king’s free hand trail down his collarbone, down…

Altaeus whispered into his ear, calmly, “Please refrain from sending your guards after me.” And then…no movement at all.

Before Sylan could process this fact, he acutely felt a disappointing absence of weight and warmth as Altaeus pushed himself off. He blinked, too bewildered to even sit up to watch the king back out of the room.

“Enjoy the rest of your night, emperor.”

He lay there for a moment, arms frozen above his head, aching and panting. Dignity smashed to so many pieces…even his heart felt a twinge.

Captain Galenn appeared at the entrance. “Your Majesty? Shall—”

“No,” Sylan bit out as he covered his eyes with one forearm. “Leave me.”

NOTES: Just FYI, I imagined Altaeus playing an instrument that’s something like the Chinese guqin, and Sylan a Greek kithara. I…should stop getting too into subjects I know next to nothing about.

(041509)
TBC