The King's Harem

by Derr, Megan

  The sound of water splashing in the fountain was soothing, but the garden was still far too quiet. There was too much room for thinking, and Witcher was not feeling strong enough to see where those thoughts might lead. Invariably they would only end unhappily, and he was heartily sick of his life always taking that path.

  Better to help speed the negotiations and let himself be thrown into the coastal war that was starting in the north than linger here and think too long on dark brown eyes and a warm, kind voice.

  Clearly that last headache had destroyed what little sense he'd managed to cling to. Witcher sighed and left the garden to seek out his men. His frustrations would serve well to give them a sorely needed dressing down.

  *~*~*

  "Witcher? Is it really you?"

  Stepping only just through the doorway, into the small garden allotted to guests, Witcher folded his arms across his chest and regarded the man he'd once considered a comrade, if not exactly a friend. "Brandon," he said slowly. "You seem to be doing well." The words he had once considered native now felt strange on his tongue. Funny the difference three years of happiness could have on a man. "You tread dangerous waters by daring to request to see me like this. I would advise you not to do it again."

  Brandon ignored him. "We heard you had decided to stay here. I didn't know it was because you'd decided to become a … a …" He looked torn between horror and disgust.

  Witcher held up a hand to forestall him, switching back to the language he now considered his. "Watch what you say. The wrong words will be taken as insult, and to insult me is to insult my king."

  Brandon narrowed his eyes; Witcher thought the expression comical. "He is not your king. Or didn't you notice you're a bit of the wrong color."

  "Choose your words more carefully," Witcher said, his voice full of the steel that had made him a good commander. "Or you will find yourself going home with nothing gained but my king's displeasure."

  Shaking his head in frustration, Brandon stepped forward and stretched out a hand to grip Witcher's arm—only to find his own roughly grabbed as a guard hauled him back. "What the devil! Let me go this instant! Witcher!"

  The guard let Brandon go, none too gently. "Touching the king's men is forbidden."

  "What!" Brandon glared at Witcher. "What the devil is he yowling about?"

  Witcher laughed. "I am the exclusive property of His Majesty, King Shahjahan—none may touch me without his permission. Say what you came to say, Brandon, and then leave me in peace."

  "You even speak like they do—what happened to you? Why this? You could have been a prince!" Brandon looked at him, confused and angry. "Why did you abandon us?"

  "Because I found happiness." Witcher stood up and strode past his former comrade, who still glared. He looked at the guard. "I am returning to my room. Please inform my king of this discussion."

  "Yes, Lord Witcher." The guard bowed and blocked the door once Witcher had passed.

  Witcher did not relax until he had returned to his room, then released a long, slow sigh.

  "Oh, the witch looks a little tense after his chat," Bey said from the table where he and Aik were enjoying a late breakfast. Always the three of them rose early to spar, and unless he had court—like today—Nanda usually joined them for breakfast afterwards when he finally dragged himself from bed.

  "Quiet unless you want me to hex you," Witcher said with a laugh. Crossing the room, he took his seat between the other two.

  Bey chuckled and pressed a bit of honey and nut pastry to Witcher's lips, the treat one of his favorites. A hand strayed down Witcher's chest, flicking the gold hoops that Witcher wished he could blame on the wine he'd had the night he'd agreed to them. He choked on the sweet and tried to glare.

  Even if he could manage it, a glare had never been enough to dissuade Bey.

  "Would you look at those eyes, Aik? I think he's casting a spell."

  "Hmm, better break it," Aik advised calmly, nibbling at a piece of bright orange fruit.

  Bey grinned. "And what, wise monk, is the recommended method for spell-breaking?"

  Aik tapped his chin, and he furrowed his brow as if thinking hard. "A kiss would probably break his concentration. Then you just have to keep him busy until he forgets what spell he was trying to cast."

  "The only spell I'm going to cast is my fist upside—" Witcher's protest was cut off as Bey kissed him soundly, quite neatly succeeding, if not in breaking his concentration, then making him forget what they'd been discussing.

  He should be used to it, this wicked excess. But he thought even five, ten, or more years from now he would still feel like a schoolboy about to be caught doing things he shouldn't. But that didn't stop him from burying one hand in Beynum's hair, taking the hungry kiss and returning it full measure. Nor did he pull away from the warm hands that roamed his back, circling around his chest to tug at the small gold rings, though it made him jerk. "Didn't you two get enough exercise sparring this morning?"

  "Since when does Aik ever have enough?" Beynum laughed and leaned past Witcher to take Aik's waiting mouth. "Hmm, my decadent monk? Have you had enough?"

  Aik looked thoughtful. "I'm pretty sure I've been trained to have a fairly high threshold."

  "Some monk," Witcher muttered. "And you're lucky Nanda's already awake and gone."

  Bey tsked softly. "Ten minutes with a pale-skin and you're already turning stuffy."

  "Don't you mean stiff?" Aik asked blandly.

  "Hopefully not because of the pale-skin."

  Witcher glared, trying not to laugh. "So what, I'm not a pale-skin? Then what am I?"

  "Our after-breakfast snack," Bey answered, and didn't give Witcher a chance to argue.

  *~*~*

  "So negotiations have not gone as you had hoped they would?"

  Shahjahan shrugged, and though he maintained a casual air, Witcher thought he looked disappointed. "Your king is admirably stubborn, I will give him that." A ghost of a smug smile. "Though he did not get all that he wanted."

  Witcher could not help a soft chuckle. "It is disloyal of me to say so, but I am glad you won some concessions. I'm sorry I did not prove more useful a captive."

  "On the contrary," Shahjahan gave him a pensive look. "It is your presence alone that secured me what I won. Well, your presence and your advice. You are wasted on the battlefield."

  Another laugh, but it was more bitter than amused. "The man who denied being my sire hoped paying for a commission would see the end of me. When he died a few years after I left, the king would have recalled me but I proved to be all too good at war." Witcher looked out the window beyond Shahjahan. "After I tidy up things along the coast, he'll probably drag me home to finally marry his youngest daughter."

  "Oh?" Shahjahan said softly, and for a moment Witcher thought he looked upset. "Through all this, I gathered you were important, but I never caught an inkling that you were royalty. Clearly I underestimated your king, if he was so sly as to keep that from me." He frowned briefly, clearly annoyed with himself.

  "Merely a bastard child who refused to stay out of the way. The king wants nothing more than to secure the son that proved far more useful than the father." Witcher tried to smile, but it failed miserably. He definitely did not feel like smiling. With negotiations concluded, he would be returning to where he had to go. Certainly not home.

  No, home felt more like it should have bright sun, endless dunes in the distance, splashes of rich green in unexpected places. Dark brown eyes and a voice that could be unexpectedly kind.

  He really was a fool. His life wasn't hard enough, he had to cause himself more pain? Witcher wished his headache that first day had proven fatal. Death was infinitely preferable to having to leave in a matter of days, and he had no one but himself to blame for putting himself in such an awful situation.

  Why couldn't Shahjahan have proven to be some cruel, despicable heathen?

  Shahjahan's soft chuckle interrupted his gloomy thoughts. "You do not want to marry a fine princ
ess and enjoy the favor of your king? I know plenty of men who would gladly risk their lives for such an honor."

  "Yes," Witcher replied. "And most of them are now dead. If they had ever asked, I would have gladly traded places with them."

  He received another pensive look, this one so long that Witcher wondered if perhaps he'd opened his mouth enough for one night. "All is arranged for you and your men to leave the day after tomorrow. You will be escorted to the border, with compensation for being held hostage for so long."

  "Two months is hardly 'so long,' Majesty." Witcher's lips twisted in an unhappy smile. "To be honest, it's been the best two months I can remember ever having. If you ever have need of a hostage, I am more than willing."

  Shahjahan was silent, fingers drumming quietlly on his chair in what Witcher had come to realize was his nervous habit when he thought especially hard on something. Usually Shahjahan held still, always careful to look relaxed. "But would you really be willing to stay?"

  "Majesty?" Witcher thought he must have heard wrong.

  "Not as a guest," Shahjahan said slowly. "Nor as a soldier. Nothing like that." He finally looked up, face carefully void of expression but his eyes intense. "I would like you to stay as one of mine." He stood up. "But I know how such things trouble people from your world. Think about it." He left quietly.

  Leaving Witcher gaping after him. Had he meant it? There was no way. Why would he? He couldn't.

  It just wasn't possible.

  *~*~*

  "Are sex slaves allowed to wander the halls unattended?"

  Witcher stopped a few feet away from Samuel, keeping his face expressionless. From the corner of his eye he could see a guard move forward, displeased by Samuel's words. A flick of Witcher's fingers stopped him, and he motioned the guard to remain where he was until otherwise ordered.

  He turned his attention back to Samuel. "I would appreciate it if you were more polite."

  "What game are you playing, Witcher? Is this something you've arranged with our king?"

  "Shahjahan is my king," Witcher replied. "No other."

  "Stop being so formal!" Samuel closed the space between them, but kept his arms at his sides. "We were friends, you and I. What game is this you're playing? You can tell me!"

  Witcher backed away. "There is no game. I am a member of my king's harem. And you are breaking protocol by talking to me without his leave."

  Samuel's lip curled in disgust. "You really are one of his little whores, aren't you?"

  "Watch your words," Witcher warned. "It's a crime to disrespect anything that belongs to the king."

  "Even his bed toys?"

  "Yes." Witcher again motioned for the furious guard to remain at his post, though he could see his orders would not be obeyed for much longer if Samuel kept pushing it. "What do you want? Be brief."

  "I want to know why you've chosen this over us."

  Witcher laughed coldly. "You mean over you? Who always pretended and lied?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I suppose not."

  Samuel's stony expression cracked for a moment, but recovered almost immediately. "Why this? You could have had everything."

  "Everything I want is here. I'm not going to waste my time trying to explain it to you."

  "God damn you, Witcher! You could have married Britney. We could have been—everything would have been safe then."

  Witcher let his contempt show, relishing the way Samuel recoiled. "I would have loved you in the sunlight, Samuel. No matter what anyone said—if you had been willing to stand with me. You wouldn't. That was your choice. Now I've made mine. Go back to hiding in the dark and leave me be. Marry Britney yourself." He turned to the guard who waited patiently. "Report this conversation to the king, if you please. I would also prefer that this man not be permitted near me."

  "Yes, Lord Witcher."

  "Thank you." Witcher walked away.

  *~*~*

  Witcher laughed as he watched his men as they jostled and joked, relieved to be going home at last. He wondered how far out of proportion the stories would get when they related the ordeal of their capture. It was almost a shame he would not get to hear them.

  He waited as his captain broke away from the group and approached him.

  "You're staying here, aren't you Commander?" Knowing eyes flicked toward the sword and belt Witcher held in one hand. "Why?"

  "I have my reasons," Witcher said, handing the sword over. "Keep it, if you like. Else give it to whoever thinks they should have it. Tell the king …" Witcher grinned suddenly, briefly. "I guess you can tell him I'm sorry."

  "Even though you're not? You'll be missed, Commander. I wish I knew what to say to change your mind, but then again I don't know that I'd have the heart to say it."

  "Do me a favor when you get back," Witcher said. "And get out of the army. Find a better place to be."

  "Is that an order, Commander?"

  Witcher nodded. "My last."

  "Yes, Commander." The captain saluted smartly, replacing his own belt and sword with Witcher's, then turned and began ordering the men into line, ignoring or quashing the questions that sprang up. As they finished assembling, Shahjahan's men appeared to join them, readying to escort them to the appointed meeting place.

  Witcher knew without turning around that Shahjahan had arrived as well. He clasped arms with his captain, and said farewell in the language he was slowly ceasing to regard as his own. Ignored the looks the others sent his way.

  Gradually the courtyard emptied, and Witcher finally turned around.

  "You could have been much," Shahjahan said quietly.

  "I could have been a prince, and so favored I would have been all but a king," Witcher said with a tired smile. "I've been labeled a hero and given suitable reward more times than I can count. Princess Britney is said to be one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom." Witcher shrugged, and started to speak again, but decided to hold his tongue.

  Shahjahan drew closer, moving slowly as he cupped Witcher's face in one hand.

  "This is wrong where I come from," Witcher said unsteadily.

  "Good," Shahjahan said with a smile. "Because if it were not, I suspect you would not be mine for the taking." So saying, he took Witchers mouth thoroughly.

  And even though he expected to wake up, or for someone to shout, to be dragged away and beaten or killed, Witcher opened to the kiss, and returned it, and enjoyed the arms around him and the sunlight beating down on them.

  *~*~*

  "The guards have been reporting some interesting conversations to me," Shah said, lips curving in amusement. "I admit to not liking this Samuel much."

  Witcher laughed, the sound echoing down the hallway as they traveled to their own rooms after seeing the queen to her own. "Samuel had his good points once, as I recall. He was worth knowing, and calling friend, back when we first met." Witcher shrugged. "He's become what I probably would have, if I had not opted to come and play in the sands."

  Shah lightly squeezed the hand twined with his own. "It always amused me, at the time, that it was the councilors who first pressed upon me the idea of taking prisoners and holding them for ransom." He laughed. "They still are irate that I wound up with another concubine at the end of it." A soft smile. "Though until the last, I did not think you would choose to stay. I could not think of a reason that you would want to."

  "Hmm … Life married to a shrewish princess, life devoted to a wonderful king …" Witcher stopped them, dropping their clasped hands to wrap his arms around Shah's waist. "Do you still doubt me, Shah? I've been yours almost since we met, and other than being completely overwhelmed those first few months, I've never been anything but happy."

  Fingers tangled in his hair as Shah gently held his head, and Witcher surrendered to the kiss, ever willing to give whatever his king wanted. "I don't doubt you, my beautiful witch," Shah said at last. "But you were the only one I ever truly feared would say no."

  Witcher shook his he
ad, the movement awkward as Shah still held it. "You should know by now that there isn't much I say no to." He rolled his eyes. "Even Bey had his way."

  Shah threw his head back and laughed. "Yes, I suppose he did." He dropped his hands from Witcher's head to explore elsewhere, brushing over the gold gleaming at his chest. "They suit you."

  Witcher laughed. "You suit me, my king." A grin. "And—" The rustle of fabric, the sound of boots scuffing stone turned his head, and Witcher frowned to see Samuel and another foreign dignitary. Then he almost smirked, realizing that the two had not wanted anyone to see them together.