22
AND SO HE DID
A pattern developed. All of Val’s things – what meager possessions he had been allowed to accumulate here at the palace – were shifted into the sultan’s suite. His had his own small chamber, one that adjoined, with his own small bed and washstand and gilt-edged mirror; more often than not, though, he slept with the sultan, in his massive four-poster. He didn’t attend Mehmet as a slave would – Arslan and the other boys still took care of that – but sometimes, if he was feeling playful, Mehmet would dismiss the boys and beckon for Val; have him slip a few buttons and unknot a few laces; put his hands on the skin he found beneath.
Val studied with a private tutor now, Mehmet’s own, a mullah who, to Val’s surprise, seemed pleased by his gentle curiosity and impeccable manners. He complimented him, sometimes: “Yes, that’s right;” “very good;” “your Turkish is flawless.” He hated himself for it, but he clung to those compliments.
Mehmet had compliments of his own. “You’re learning quickly.” “Yes, like that.” “Such a gorgeous boy.”
He worried. In the cool dark hours, once Mehmet had rolled over and begun to snore, after Val had snuffed all the candles and slid back beneath the covers, all the things he kept carefully lidded during the day pried loose and unspooled within him like dark streamers.
What of Stepan and Gregor, who clutched at his arms and asked him to describe things for them?
What of his family back home, Mother with her tears, and Mircea with his haunted, battle-weary look? Father in his study, poring over maps and treaties, his back against a wall like it hadn’t been since Rome.
Most of all he worried for Vlad. Logically, he knew he’d had no choice: Mehmet would never have accepted “no” for an answer. He would have pursued him, tortured him, until Val finally broke; finally gave him what he wanted. But still, he was haunted by the knowledge that it had taken only one night. Vlad would have lasted longer. Vlad would have died on a stake, choking on his own blood, hurling invectives to his last breath. And Val had given in, lay here now, in the sultan’s bed, watching his bare chest rise and fall as he slept.
He’d abandoned his older brother. And it didn’t matter if Mehmet said that Vlad didn’t ask for him, and didn’t love him: they were family. They were supposed to stick together.
One day, Val knew with certainty, Vlad would finally snap. The last of his limited patience would run out and he would do something atrocious and unforgivable. Val wanted, desperately, not to be the cause of it.
~*~
Mehmet brought him gifts.
Candlelight caught on the sapphire’s many facets, dazzling flashes as the pendant rotated slowly on the end of its chain.
“Do you like it? I picked it to match your eyes.” With his free hand, Mehmet cupped his chin and tipped his face up, smiling down at him with what had a become familiar expression, part-ownership, part-feral want, carefully hidden behind a screen of smugness.
“It’s lovely,” Val said, even though his eyes were much lighter than the gem, a clear blue, the pale, freshwater color of his mother’s Nordic people.
Mehmet fastened it around his neck, and his hands lingered afterward, combing through his hair, sweeping it back off his face. “You should grow it out longer.” It wasn’t a suggestion. He laced his fingers together at Val’s nap, and pressed with the whole of both hands. A signal: Val went down to his knees, the necklace heavy and cold at the center of his chest.
The sultan wore only a robe, fresh from the bath and still-warm. Val’s hands found the ties and undid them. His eyes closed as he leaned forward…and Mehmet’s hands tightened on the back of his head.
“No. Look at me.”
And so he did.
~*~
The slaves treated him like nobility. Hewasnobility, but they’d always handled him with considerate indifference. Now, though, they bowed and trembled and touched him with gentle reverence, the same way they did Mehmet. Arslan was the only one that Val could draw any kind of true response from.
“What do they say?”
It was late morning, and the hot water in the copper tub went a long way toward soothing Val’s sore muscles. He sat forward, his legs drawn up to his chest, his growing hair falling over his knees in wet mermaid waves. Behind him, Arslan paused, soapy cloth pressed to the top of his spine.
He resumed a moment later. “What does who say?”
“Everyone.” Val let the slow, circular motion of the cloth push him forward on every pass, the water lapping at the sides of the tub. “The palace gossips. What do they say of me?”
A telling pause. “They don’t talk of you,” Arslan said softly. Val had never heard him speak at normal volume.
Val turned his head a fraction. Over his shoulder, he could just see part of Arslan’s face, the way his brows were drawn together, the corner of his mouth turned down. “They don’t call me a whore?” he pressed. He didn’t know why he was asking; the truth could only hurt – not as badly as when Mehmet forced his way inside him. But. Still. “That I’m going to hell?”
Arslan sat back on his heels and applied more soap to the cloth. He sighed. “It isn’t my place to repeat such things, your grace.” He could be killed for doing so.
Properly chastened, Val faced forward again, gaze going toward the shifting apple branches beyond the open doors in the courtyard. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
