by Astrid Amara
“I ran into a soldier on the pilgrim’s trail, loyal to Yudar,” Jandu said. “He informed me that Lord Druv of Pagdesh and a contingent of his men are on their way here, right now, up the pilgrim’s trail. He gave us some money and begged us to flee immediately.”
The reaction couldn’t have been greater if Jandu had set himself on fire.
All three of them jumped up in panic. Baram immediately drenched his cooking fire. Yudar opened the fence to let their cow wander free. They threw their belongings into two traveling chests. Baram carried the heavier chest himself, and Jandu and Yudar shared the burden of carrying the other.
“We can’t risk the pilgrim’s trail,” Jandu repeated. The loose horse would summon Druv’s entourage, but hopefully nightfall would slow them.
“We can try the valley,” Yudar said. They all walked to the precipice that had formed the farthest limit of their property for two years. It was a sheer drop down over a hundred feet into the valley.
“No way,” Baram said, shaking his head.
“There may be an easier route further south,” Yudar said.
They walked along the ridge until they came across a less treacherous decline into the valley. But it was still steep and Jandu and Yudar stumbled frequently as they struggled with the chest.
“We have enough money to buy a horse and cart when we get to the village on the other side,” Jandu said.
“If we survive this short cut,” Baram grumbled. He slipped on the loose rocks but regained his balance, and then shouldered the chest and held out his hand for Suraya.
The path grew steeper towards the bottom of the valley, the palms and champak trees so thick along the slopes that they could barely make out their direction.
Suraya, breathless, flushed with exertion, hurried ahead. And then suddenly she tripped on an exposed root. She flew in the air, crashing on her face and extended belly, sliding down the hill headfirst until a large root stopped her slide.
“Suraya!” Baram dropped their chest of armor and ran to her side.
Suraya didn’t get up. Yudar and Jandu dropped their chest as well, running to her aid.
Suraya moaned. They turned her over to see what seemed like an impossible amount of blood coming from between her legs. She was completely white.
“No!” Baram began to cry as he stroked her face. Suraya writhed and convulsed. The last of the sun slipped behind the thickening clouds, and soon they were engulfed in shadow, the cries of the macaques reaching a hysterical screech.
Suraya cried out to her mother for help. Jandu helplessly groped in the darkness, feeling nothing but blood, until his hands suddenly closed on the deathly still body that emerged from between Suraya’s legs.
Chapter 27
TAREK’S TRIUMPHANT RETURN TO PRASTA WAS HERALDED with a celebration in the streets held in his honor, followed by a grand feast in the palace.
But all of this paled in comparison to the joy and love Tarek saw in Darvad’s eyes. Darvad greeted Tarek at the gates of the city himself, leaping from his chariot to hug Tarek.
“Don’t,” Tarek cautioned, although he wanted nothing more than to hold his friend closer. “I’m filthy with travel and I smell terrible.”
“I don’t mind,” Darvad said with a smile. He patted dust off of Tarek’s breastplate. “You look like victory.”
Darvad tailed Tarek through the palace and into Tarek’s private suites as Tarek bathed and shaved, desperate for every detail of Tarek’s most recent campaign.
Tarek had just led another show of force, this time in the small, feisty state of Bandari, where a group of Triya noblemen unfairly taxed the merchants and farmers well beyond the limitations established by King Darvad. Unlike previous confrontations, this one amounted to an exchange of forces. Darvad’s own men, fighting alongside Dragewan’s army, quickly quashed Bandari’s rebellion.
After Tarek cleaned up, he wanted nothing more than to lie in his bed and sleep for a straight day. Months of travel and endless hours in chariots racked his body with aches and made him yearn for the comfort of the palace.
But Darvad had other plans. As Tarek wiped his face of soap and prepared to change, Darvad gripped Tarek’s arm affectionately. There was a mischievous glint in Darvad’s eyes.
“Wait a moment. Don’t change into your nice clothes yet.”
“Why?”
“Let’s do something fun.”
Tarek swallowed. “What?”
“I want to enjoy myself in Prasta.”
“Doing what?”
“You’ll see.” Tarek saw laughter lines on Darvad’s face that he hadn’t noticed before. Darvad’s demeanor had changed in the Parans’ absence. Without the need to compete for superiority or attention, Darvad was a kinder, happier man. His spirit lifted in their absence; he seemed younger, lighter, and there was a spring in his step as he left Tarek’s rooms and returned with an armful of plain cotton clothes.
“Put these on,” Darvad said. He had his own bundle of cotton garments that he plopped on the bed. He undid the jewelry on his arms.
Tarek narrowed his eyes. “What are we doing?”
Darvad grinned. “We’re pretending to be merchants.”
“Oh?”
Darvad took off his necklace. “We’re going to anonymously explore the city and see what trouble we can find.”
Tarek’s lips twitched into a smile. He studied the cheap cotton cloth in his hands. “You know, pretending to be lower caste isn’t as thrilling to me as it probably is to you.”
Darvad laughed. “That’s true. But do it for me anyway. It will be fun. We can hand out money and be anonymous saviors to the people.”
“Anonymous saviors would never wear these clothes,” Tarek grumbled under his breath. Nevertheless, he put on the loose cotton blue vest that Darvad had given him.
Tarek tried not to stare as Darvad removed his fine white silk trousers. Tarek worked hard to cleanse his mind of unnatural, lustful thoughts. But they all came back as Darvad stood naked before him. Tarek had never seen his best friend without trousers on, and now that he saw the tightness of his back side, the firmness of his muscles, and how his legs tapered to his dark pubic hair, Tarek’s skin prickled with desire.
Darvad tied on a black dejaru. Tarek quickly pulled on his borrowed dark trousers, worried that Darvad might catch a glimpse of Tarek’s arousal.
Darvad giggled like a school boy as they completed their outfits with old shoes and dusty turbans. Tarek felt dirty and exhilarated. Dressing down was fun with Darvad by his side. They left the palace through the servant’s corridor. Darvad smelled nice. Even in dark cotton, he looked powerful and attractive.
Tarek had spent most of his life walking through squalor in cheap clothes, anonymous, and unnoticed. But Darvad hadn’t. His smile beamed as they made their way past fruit vendors and the meat market, and through the temple district, attracting no more attention than any other pair of raggedly dressed men in the streets.
But unlike the rest of the men wandering that sunny afternoon, Darvad and Tarek were on a mercy mission. Every time they came across a beggar, Darvad’s smile widened and he reached into his hidden purse to present the man or woman with gold coins. The looks on the recipient’s faces lifted Tarek from any lingering exhaustion from his seemingly endless crusade. Life was beautiful when people were made that happy. Men and women would bow before Darvad, hold his hand, hug him. And he ate it up. Darvad seemed to glow from within, and the same generosity that Darvad had showed to Tarek the day they first met now melted Tarek’s heart, made him remember why he had taken his vow to stand by this man’s side forever, why he loved Darvad so intensely.
Darvad tossed money into the streets, he pretended to read people’s palms, he bought food from street vendors and gave it out to children. That which he didn’t give away he splurged on Tarek and himself. They stuffed themselves with the grubby riches of street dining, the food tantalizing with its spicy smells and hot sauces.
Tarek took pity
on an ancient man vending large jugs of wine who looked as though his back was broken from years of hard labor. Tarek bought two jugs, one for Darvad and one for himself, and then gave the man ten times the asking price. The old man cried, telling Tarek that his generosity would save his family from starvation for the rest of the year.
Tarek and Darvad found a shady tree outside one of Prasta’s smaller Shentari temples and they drank wine from the bottle, making up stories of the lives of each of the passersby.
By the time the two of them stumbled back to the palace, they were drunk and giddy with all the good wishes they had been blessed with. They noisily navigated the palace corridors, arms around each other as they sang a lewd song the street kids of Prasta had taught them that afternoon. The servants and guards of the palace eyed them suspiciously, but Tarek didn’t care. He didn’t care what anyone in the palace thought of them, sloppily wasted in each other’s arms. It was as close to a dream coming true as Tarek ever had.
When they turned the corner from the servants’ hall to the royal suites, they literally ran into Mazar, who nearly fell to the floor. He glared at them as they started laughing. Mazar took in their clothing and shook his head, disapprovingly.
“What are you two doing?” Mazar asked, disgust clear on his face.
Tarek shrugged. “Singing.”
“Your clothes are stained,” Mazar pointed out.
Darvad clucked his tongue. “Can’t get anything past this guy, can we Tarek?”
Mazar shook his head again. “That is no way to speak to your teacher.”
“You haven’t taught me anything in ages,” Darvad pointed out. His finger wavered in the air as he pointed, his eyes lidded with inebriation.
Mazar straightened. “Years after he completed his training, Jandu used to announce himself as ‘Mazar’s pupil, Jandu Paran’ at every engagement he attended.”
Darvad’s joy seemed to be sucked from his body. He went rigid with insult. “Jandu better not be announcing himself anywhere right now.” His expression turned cold. “He could find it leading to three more years of banishment.”
“Nevertheless, the respect he shows for me as his former teacher has never waned, and yet yours has disappeared completely,” Mazar complained. He shook his head at his former pupil. “Your manners are deplorable.”
“I respect people who help me now,” Darvad said. He smiled at Tarek. “Tarek’s loyalty to me has never wavered. You, on the other hand, can’t sit through a meal at my table without mentioning those traitors to my face.” Darvad’s lip curled up, ugly and threatening. “You need a lesson in manners as much as I.”
Mazar looked poised to speak further, but Darvad grabbed Tarek’s hand and dragged him forward. “Let’s go.” Tarek allowed Darvad to lead him to his own suites.
That evening, Darvad held a private dinner for Tarek and invited his close allies within the palace. Tarek did not know these men; these were new friends of the king, people who Tarek had only been introduced to once or twice in the past. Druv was in Pagdesh, personally investigating a rumor of the Parans’ location, Firdaus was home in Chandamar, and Iyestar attended another function that evening. And while Tarek never really enjoyed sharing Darvad’s company with the other lords, at least he knew them and what to expect. This was an uncomfortable gathering, brash young diplomats who praised Darvad lavishly and pandered to his sense of humor. Tarek wondered how Darvad could not see through their slick ruse of false companionship. Then he realized that, even if he did see, Darvad had few choices.
Darvad summoned dancing girls once servants had cleared the food. Tarek sat beside him, his jealousy hidden. Darvad’s new friends were brash men weary of tradition, men who loved drinking and women as much as Darvad did. There were some things that Tarek could not share with his best friend, and, like so often with Darvad, Tarek felt lonely abandonment. He was a fool for loving a man who could never love him the same way in return.
Darvad laughed uproariously at the rude jokes his companions made, and they drank sweet grape wine as the musicians started another set and the scantily clad women dancers began their act.
Tarek drank. He watched the women undress more with each dance and he drank more. Darvad’s expression glazed over as the women stripped, and he and his friends hooted loudly as the girls shook their wares provocatively in the front of the room. Tarek wished he had gone to sleep after their afternoon together. He didn’t want to be sitting here, watching Darvad inelegantly lunge after the women who came within reaching distance.
It was deep into the night when the musicians finished playing. Darvad invited a few of them back to his private chambers for more drinks. Tarek knew he shouldn’t go but did so anyway, too drunk to stop drinking, to lonely to be away from Darvad’s side. In Darvad’s rooms, Tarek sat with the other men and drank until his mind blanked of feeling, until everything around him swam, blurry and distorted.
The last of the other guests left and it was just Tarek and Darvad, and two of the dancing girls. One of them sat on Darvad’s lap and kissed him. Tarek watched Darvad’s long finger snake along the girl’s collar bone, inching closer to her breast. The other girl sat next to Tarek, trying to strike up a conversation.
Tarek ignored her. He kept his eyes on Darvad, who deepened his kiss with the dancer. He wore no shirt and so Tarek could see all the muscles in Darvad’s stomach and back shift and tighten as he brought the girl into his embrace. He watched Darvad’s hips moved towards her, watched his eyes glaze with arousal, watched him fondle her breasts.
“I’m going to bed,” Tarek announced to no one in particular. Darvad and his girl didn’t notice. Tarek stumbled as he stood, his body spinning with drunkenness. The girl beside him offered to accompany him to his room, but he refused.
“I prefer sleeping alone,” he said to her. She looked hurt, but Tarek didn’t care. He took one last look at Darvad kissing the dancer, and then headed down the hall to his guest chambers for the night.
Tarek’s body raged with unspent desire. He felt like an arrow nocked into place—a breath of wind would set him loose, send him in a destructive path, flying with speed and anger. Tarek quivered with frustration as he made his way towards his rooms.
He heard footsteps coming around the corner and tensed. It was far too late for any of the older courtiers to be up, and the hallway only served Darvad’s personal chambers and the guest chambers that Tarek stayed in when in Prasta. That meant the person could be coming to see him, and he was in no mood to talk to anyone.
Tarek rounded the corner and saw Anant.
The young commander bowed respectfully and held out a scroll. He breathed heavily, apparently having rushed through the palace to pass on the urgent message. Tarek recognized the scroll seal as that of his chief minister. He stared at the seal with vague curiosity.
But he was more interested in the pink blush that washed over the commander’s face as he stood before Tarek.
Tarek reached out and grabbed Anant by his armor. He dragged him into his bedroom. Anant cried out in surprise. Tarek shut the door and locked it.
Anant stuttered. “My lord, I…”
Tarek pushed Anant against the wall with all his strength and kissed him, hard. All the heated lust, the jealousy, it poured from Tarek’s mouth into Anant’s. His tongue darted inside Anant’s hot mouth, to the back of his throat, to the soft, hot space deep within him.
Anant went very still.
Tarek, blind with sexual hunger, let his hands run over Anant’s body. He breathed quickly and deeply, taking in Anant’s strong masculine scent, a musky sweetness mixed with dirt and sweat. Tarek fumbled with Anant’s waist sash.
Tarek was afraid to look at Anant’s face, because he didn’t want to ask permission to do this. He had to fuck someone, right now, and if he saw fear or rejection in Anant’s eyes, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself from continuing. At last, however, he looked up and his gaze met with Anant’s. Tarek couldn’t read the expression in Anant’s glare. Was it
fear?
Tarek froze. What would Anant do? Run? Punch him? Tarek suddenly wished he would. He wanted Anant to understand how he was being used, a replacement for another, and he wanted Anant to beat him senseless.
But Anant leaned forward and kissed Tarek instead. Tarek responded with strength. He undid Anant’s dejaru as they kissed, running his fingers over Anant’s thighs, reaching between them to the warm, musky center of him.
Tarek closed his eyes. He thought of Darvad, the way his chest flexed and moved as he held the dancing girl. He visualized Darvad’s light flesh, the intensity of his brown eyes, his rich brown hair.
Tarek grabbed Anant’s shoulders and turned him around, pushing him against the wall. He brusquely kneed Anant’s legs apart, holding him pinned.
Anant’s breathing was quick and irregular. A tremor ran through Anant’s shoulders and legs. He put his palms against the wall to support himself.
Tarek untied his dejaru and spat on his hand, rubbing himself before pushing into Anant. Tarek made love to him with closed eyes, hearing Darvad laugh huskily in the other room, visualizing Darvad’s large hands. Tarek imagined his own hands resting on Darvad’s hips, imagined that the pliant flesh he pushed into was Darvad’s flesh, the cries Darvad’s cries.
Tarek shuddered and came quietly, gritting his teeth against the carnal yell in his throat. He pulled from Anant and realized, guiltily, that Anant had no part to play in Tarek’s thoughts. Anant faced the wall, panting heavily, unmoving.
Flush with guilt and sexual release, Tarek spun Anant around and then knelt. He brought Anant to climax with his mouth, quickly and uncontrollably, a quiet moan of surprise escaping Anant’s lips, as if this was his first time, as if he never knew this could be done to his body. Anant pushed himself deeper and then came hotly down Tarek’s throat.
Tarek stood and dressed himself. He forced himself to look Anant in the eye. “Thank you.”
Anant seemed unable to speak, unable to breathe.
Tarek finished tying his dejaru and stepped towards the door.
