The Red King (37 page)

Shivering, trapped by the gaze and the words,
Andrew released the goblet and reclined on a cushion. “Searched the
world? Was I so very hard to find?” He managed a smile, kept his
tone warm.

“I have kept a dozen pets, fought to train
them to my liking. Only one lived to see me satisfied,” Maarten
said, setting the cup on the floor. He moved forward then, placed
his hands on either side of Andrew’s shoulders and hovered like a
crouching beast. “Even he was a disappointment, in the end.”

Andrew remained still, but let his eyes roam
Maarten’s form. It was a pleasing frame, but one that spoke of
natural strength without discipline. As it was he felt dwarfed by
the man, completely eclipsed by his size. One of his hands was
large enough to cover his face and had, in fact, during the
prolonged session yesterday. He had no mirror, but he could feel
the bruises along his jaw, his cheek, all the size of Maarten’s
fingertips. Schooling his gaze to reflect only calm, he raised it
back to Maarten’s face. “And this pet, the one you say satisfied
you, it was
Ruaidhri
? Rorik?”

“Indeed, my dove. You are most perceptive,”
Maarten said. He lowered his head to kiss Andrew and Andrew allowed
it but did not respond in any way. “How much did he tell you?” The
man began to move down Andrew’s neck, teeth finding already aching
bruises to worry once more. “How much did he show you?”

“He…it was implied that you took him
young,”

Maarten laughed against his throat. “He was
still smooth. I discovered a fondness for it with him in those
early days.”

Andrew closed his eyes, fought against the
memories of what Rory had told him. When Maarten’s hand slipped
lower, exploring the rough surface of newly grown hair at Andrew’s
groin, Andrew flinched. Hard enough to gain Maarten’s notice.

“I will have you scraped again. It suits
you.”

“But I am a man, fully grown. Surely you
would rather…” Andrew began, but the hand at his balls clenched and
his words cut off on a pained gasp.

“Do not tell me what I prefer,” Maarten
seethed and bit him, viciously, on his nipple. When Andrew screamed
he released the flesh to flick with his tongue.

Swallowing a whimper, Andrew said
breathlessly, “As you wish, my lord.”

The hand at his groin stayed and toyed with
him there, pulling and squeezing his cock. “Tell me more. Tell me
when he first took you.”

Rory’s mouth tasted of rum. His lips were
somehow rough and soft at the same time.

Andrew closed his eyes once more. He inhaled
deeply and found in that sacred consummation what Maarten wanted.
“He took me on the floor of his cabin, after the death of a
shipmate.”

“
I will make it quick.”

“It was fast…hard…I didn’t…I didn’t know…” He
had not known what was to come; not the pain, or the pleasure, or
the brilliance of love to follow.

Crying…he was crying…but not because of the
pain…

“It hurt. I wept.”

Rory’s eyes were on him, hungry, wanting
more. Wanting all.

“He took me there in his anger and from that
point, I was his.”

“Did his anger arouse you? Did you come for
him?” Maarten asked, kissing his throat and shoulder.

The room, the very world tilted. Rory’s eyes
never left him for a moment.

Andrew felt his body respond, to the memory.
Nothing more. “Yes,” he whispered and shuddered as heat flared and
spread out from his groin, but could not melt the ice around his
heart.

Maarten was still tugging at his cock. Andrew
was hard. “You liked it, didn’t you, my dove? His strength, his
fury…I gave those to him,” the man said, now biting and gnawing at
Andrew’s flesh.

Andrew moaned, his hips thrusting up to meet
Maarten’s palm. “Yes,” he hissed, curling his fingers into
Maarten’s shoulders, digging his nails into the curve of hard
muscle.

“I gave him that and you loved him for
it.”

“Yes, yes,” Andrew said, writhing beneath the
man’s hand even as knees parted his legs.

Maarten sat back on his haunches and pulled
Andrew roughly into his lap. There was no time for Andrew to even
catch his breath. He was impaled, thrust into quick and sharp, and
he screamed again. Maarten took both of his wrists and pinned them
to the bed, leaning forward to continue. “Now, you will love me,
for I am the source of your pleasure. I am the well from which it
flows.”

Andrew sobbed, ignored the words as they were
flung back at him and held onto the vision of Rory’s face as he was
fucked. “Yes, yes…yes…” he cried. The pain was its own pleasure
now, coursing through him, scalding him. Burning him.

“Say it!” Maarten commanded, thrusting
faster.

I love you, Rory said, his eyes wide and
shining in the night.

Andrew’s back arched and he felt his own come
on his stomach.

Maarten finished with him, bending to sink
his teeth into Andrew’s neck once more. When he stilled, he lay on
top of Andrew, almost smothering him with the weight of his body.
He stroked Andrew’s hair, his face, relishing the tears and wails
of misery that could no longer be stemmed. “In time, my dove, you
will forget him. You will love only me.”

Wine was all but forced upon him. Maarten
lifted his head to pour it into his mouth. He drank half of it
without caring for physics or poisons or anything but numbing the
twin pains in his body and his soul. After another searing kiss,
Maarten left him. Laurent returned to clean and tend to his newest
wounds, now blooming down his neck, shoulder and chest. He was
wiped clean of blood and the sticky remnants of his seed. Again,
the ointment took away the worst of the sting, but the bruises left
by Maarten’s teeth were too deep and the burning throb he felt in
his bottom would not ease. By the time Laurent was finished, the
wine was only making him sick. No hidden potions, then.

It seemed empty in the room, even with the
servant beside him. “Laurent, where does he go? When he’s not with
me?” Andrew asked, softly, riding another wave of nausea.

Laurent watched him for a moment and rose. He
returned with a cup. “It is the same as before. It will ease the
sickness as well as the pain.”

Andrew swallowed. He took the cup with a
shaking hand and trembling smile. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“
Min Herre
goes to the dungeon to
slake his bloodlust. It must be his intent to keep you, as he is
treating you well,” Laurent told him while he drank.

Choking, Andrew lowered the cup. He laughed,
a high, shrill sound edging towards hysteria.

Laurent pushed his hand back up. “Drink it
all. You must know that most do not last through the night, much
less retain their wits after four days.”

Andrew looked up at the man’s face. There was
the usual slight frown, unwavering even when his eyes showed
disdain at the Inquisitor, or sadness, as they did now. Andrew
finished the potion and did not comment, except to give his
thanks.

“I can bring you another with your supper. If
taken regularly, it will make your time here…less trying,” Laurent
offered. He stood to leave, taking the empty cup with him.

Though his thoughts were muddled with pain
and ever lingering fear, Andrew was struck with a bit of sudden
clarity. “Does he know? That you…help?”

“I do nothing, save what he bids me,” Laurent
answered, with the same emotionless tone, even as his eyes stared
hard into Andrew’s. They held secrets, horrors, and above all, a
plea.

Andrew nodded, blinking quickly. “Of course,
please forgive me.”

“I have other duties. Rest,” Laurent said. He
silently left the room.

Andrew was left alone. He desperately wished
for someone there, someone he could talk to, who could distract him
from his thoughts. Memories and dreams danced in his mind and he
rubbed his eyes with his fingers. Rory’s laugh, his curses, even
his fighting roar echoed in his thoughts. His mind showed him Rory
at the moment of rescue, backed by the sun, then faded into the
peaceful moment beneath the minaret before unfurling the memory of
his first kiss. Rory had pressed him against the hull and held him
tight, thighs, chests, and bellies pressed so close he could
feel
Rory breathing.

With his next breath those memories washed
away in a torrent of blood, like a fountainhead, from Salvatore’s
chest. Andrew could not close his ears to the screams or turn from
the sight of skin blistering and charring beneath the iron when
they were in his own head. He curled up on the bed, hands fisting
in his hair and biting back a scream. He wanted to let the elixir
work, let it take him away from the pain, but beneath the storm of
remembered kisses, laughs, and screams, there were the softly
repeated words.

Forgive yourself and return to your
task.

The dream had mostly faded, but that voice
remained. “But how, Father?” Andrew sobbed, not knowing if he
prayed or if he were merely mad. “I was wrong. I am lost.”

Do not fear mistakes, for they are what
compels us to improve.

“I am a fool,” Andrew whispered to the empty
room. “A proud and witless fool.”

Return to your task.

His task was to kill Maarten and he knew it
would be his only escape.

The potion began to do its work, providing a
distant, hazy quality to his surroundings. Andrew’s mind was
racing, though, despite the sluggishness of his limbs. He struggled
up, off of the bed. The pain was muted, true, but still there deep
inside and it made every move strained and agonizing. On the third
try, he stood and had to wait while the objects around him shifted
and pulsed in his vision. When his eyes had focused, he took
careful steps to the large chest at the foot of the bed. It was
unlocked, meaning that Maarten had nothing to fear within its
walls. A search provided another banyan; this one was of blue
brocade and stitched heavily with gold. It was not as warm as the
velvet one but it would suffice.

Walking in a straight line was challenging,
for the floor seemed to rock as if he stood on the deck of the
Taibhse
. The table provided some balance and while he leaned
against it, Andrew noticed it had been cleared of all but the jug
of wine. His eyes locked on the carafe. It was his intention to
poison Maarten. He could put the hemlock in the wine now. Andrew
made his way back to the bed, unsteady but determined. He fell upon
the furs as his fingers sought the vial.

The blankets and furs were so soft, so warm,
Andrew was tempted by the promise of painless sleep. The vial in
his hand was hard and smooth and it grounded him. He tapped a well
of resolve, his last, he believed, and pushed to his hands and
knees. He shook his head. The opportunity had arrived and he had to
take full advantage of it.

It is time
, his mind cried.
End
this now.

It felt like an eternity to Andrew as he made
his way back to the table. He pulled the earthen jug towards him
and gave a small cry of frustration when he realized it was all but
empty. He looked at the heavy double doors. Carefully, he hid the
vial beneath the table, wedging it between a leg and its support to
keep it secure. As he made his way to the entryway his mind assured
him that he was a fool for even trying; of course it was barred.
Yet when he pulled on them with all his might, they swung open.

For a moment, he simply stood, staring out
into the hallway. The lure of freedom and the cooler air of the
hallway cleared his head. He almost smiled.

“You must keep the doors closed,” a gruff
voice said from behind him.

Startled, Andrew spun on his heel and
instantly regretted it. He teetered left, only saving himself from
falling by one flailing hand landing on another’s firm arm.

“You are not allowed out,” the man said.

The guard did not help him, but did not push
him away, either. Once steady again, Andrew withdrew his hand and
took a breath. He remembered the guards standing at the door, four
patiently attentive men in black wool and leather, as he was
presented to his lord. They had shown little interest as he’d
passed, but he’d felt their collective gaze on his back. “I wish,”
he began, lifting his eyes to the man’s face.

The man smirked, eyes not on Andrew’s face
but farther down, where the robe lay open on his chest. Andrew felt
his heart pump faster and knew in that moment that Maarten would
give him to these men. There was a horrifying picture forming in
his head, of this man rutting into him from behind, laughing and
jesting with others as they waited. He closed his eyes and took a
steadying breath. The jolt of fear worked to further focus his
thoughts.

“We’re almost out of wine. I would like to
fetch more,” Andrew said, softly, fighting to keep his revulsion
from his voice.

“No.”

Andrew scoffed. “Surely I’m allowed to go to
the kitchen. Where else would I go in this?”

To show his predicament, Andrew raised both
arms to display the yards of silk brocade draping from his
shoulders down. He did not close the front. Before the guard could
drink his fill of Andrew’s pale and trim form, Andrew had turned
away. He waved at them, dismissively, and concentrated on walking
with as much right and confidence as he could muster.

There had been the sound of boot heels
echoing around him on his last walk down this passageway, but this
time there was only the rustle of fabric and the brush of his bare
feet on the stone floor. He wrapped the banyan firmly around
himself and draped the ends over his arm, as he had seen Maarten
do, in the hopes that he would not stumble over the abundant cloth.
The hall had not seemed so very long on that first walk. Now it
stretched on and on, lengthening even as he strove forward. His
shoulder hit the wall when he swayed, but he kept his steps the
proper speed and the proper distance and finally reached the
decrepit great room.