Selected for Sport Ch. 18

And then. Xanir's eyes burned, his mind returning to that sickening moment: Limaq's warning shout behind his shoulder just as Xanir had slipped on the blood-wet deck despatching one enemy; the sound of the cutlass whistling down as he had rolled, the sound of it cutting into flesh not his own. Even the moments to despatch the enemy had been too long, his sword-brother, his shield had already been gurgling his last when Xanir had dropped beside him, the sucking chest wound fatal. Limaq had gasped his last seconds in the Tahl's arms, gulping, "Forgive me. I took --the Tahl-maia..."

The witch.

His bride, the bewildering wanton who was still keeping silent about his movements. Still. Despite her pregnancy. Or maybe because of her pregnancy. She probably knew more of the danger she was in than he did.

"There is a possibility it might be yours?" asked Haman.

Xanir didn't speak; his throat too tight. Trust was thin on the ground right now. His first, furious reaction on reaching the besieged city and hearing Alanna was with child had been to secure her safety by playing the rumours, repudiating her and sending her to the Limaq, before news of a possible other father reached the palace. What Limaq himself had said -- it hurt. So much. But he would still make sure she was safe. And the child.

"Xan?"

Xanir turned, and looked at his oldest ally, eyes ablaze. Haman's gaze held his; one of the few who did when he was this angry. Xanir's voice was hoarse: "Limaq was begging for forgiveness when he died. And you know what the Shitraz said." He strode past his brother into his tent.

Haman dropped the hand he had lifted to his younger brother, and himself stared out over the camp-fires, biting his lip. Xanir had no hope of fathering further children. The Shitraz, the chief healer among their desert brethren, had pronounced this after healing the wound at the Tahl's groin just before Xanir had taken the throne when he was only twenty. They had determined to keep the knowledge secret for as long as possible, to keep the empire stable and the sole heir safe.

Haman's reason for keeping silent was selfish - he had no wish to be Tahl. No wish to be shouldered with these intolerable decisions. And his nephew was completely unsuitable; they both knew this.

He stepped into the tent doorway.

"I still cannot believe that Limaq would betray you," he began.

"He said so himself," snarled Xanir.

There was a long, burning silence while the Tahl slopped wine into two cups. Xanir's hand was shaking, as was his voice when he whispered, "Nor can I." He dumped the jug back onto the table, wine slopping over the side, and pinched the bridge of his nose, turning his back on his brother. A long sigh. "Fifteen years of fruitless marriages, scholar. You tell me what to think." He had not hurt like this in years. Limaq. Em Feliz. And her.

The silence prickled against the skin.

I think you like this one, Haman thought sombrely. She is a fitting match for you. Was.

"I prayed to Mikla for some way to keep her," Xanir murmured, staring down into his wine. "Any way."

Haman sucked in breath between his teeth. "Gifts from the goddess are always two-edged," he quoted, then let out a long sigh. Again: "What will you do?"

"She was so alone," Xanir's voice was quiet. "I knew she was, she never said as such, but Limaq told me also. And I awoke this need in her, the craving for touch -- I stoked it, built it, then left."

Haman stared, brows knitting together. Compassion? Never had he seen Xanir like this.

Then, a third time: "What will you do"

"Will you leave me alone?" The Great Tahl slammed his cup down onto a small table and began to unstrap his weapons.

"No. Not while I am trying to fill the shoes of Em Feliz, Mikla bring peace to his soul," retorted Haman quietly. "And we have only a very short window to decide."

Xanir snorted and lifted a hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose, hard. Em Feliz had fallen in a sortie, impersonating Xanir, only two days before he had arrived with the fleet to lift the siege. With the fleet that would have been sunk en route had Limaq not, enduring excruciating pain, faked his own hanging then ridden hell-for-leather to warn his Tahl. Zander was further South, leading the ghelber to hold back the second wave of invaders attacking the easier coastline. And now Alanna was unsafe, although he had sent her into the desert, to the Limaq, and he was misleading his brother, his oldest ally.

Haman blinked in astonishment, shaken into silence by the hint of moisture shining by his little brother's fingertips.

Xanir never cried; not since their father had been killed when he'd been fifteen. Never.

"I will join Zander in securing the Mumbet Coast," Xanir's voice was tired, and bitter. Going on five months of war, through siege, assault, betrayal and battle, and he had never sounded so defeated as now, after he had won the main front.

"It would further stabilise the realm if you reveal your presence in the palace that night, take the child as yours," Haman insisted quietly.

Xanir made a scornful noise, his throat too thick to reply, eyes burning as he glared down at the strip of bloody cloth tied around his left forearm. He didn't remember getting that cut.

"You know it would make sense," said Haman. "And a child of Limaq would be a blessing."

Xanir gritted his teeth. "It would also be hers. And nothing to do with her makes sense. Men become fools in her presence, loyal men. I do not wish to see her. Nor her child. I do not want her here."

Not true. Yes, part of him wanted to ravage her, destroy her as she had destroyed that gentle, joyous bud in his heart, lock her somewhere as cold and bleak and hopeless as the world to which Limaq's words had briefly returned him, but he wanted her with him to do so. Somewhere private where he could also train her in the more exotic, painful bed-skills, where his pleasure was assured by her fear of displeasing him.

But -- a tiny flame, refusing to die -- the Kjell princess was keeping silent about what was important. He wanted to ensure she was safe in return. She had not betrayed his plans when the invasion had been imminent, victory hanging by a thread; had even sent him word of the Sianese fleet.

Via her lover. One of his truest friends.

Xanir hissed, flicking his dagger to thud deep into the wood of the central pillar holding up his tent. He could believe in her infidelity; but not Limaq's. But Limaq would not have lied, and he had said -- it made no sense. Nor did he distrust his brother, but he was evading his questions, not sharing his thoughts, wary of who Haman might share them with. None of it made sense.

A cough at the tent door, and they both turned to see the gaunt, bedraggled figure of Xanir's body servant Raqi framed against the twilight. He was quivering with exhaustion, swaying from the desperate month riding to the capital and back with Xanir's orders. Xanir relaxed.

"She is with the Limaq," Raqi croaked, hoarse.

Corroborating the news embedded in the Tahl-Mat's letter. As Xanir's messenger, he had evidently got to the city first; but the Queen's rider had beaten him on the return -- something must have delayed him.

The Tahl snatched up his discarded wine cup and strode forwards. A hand on the man's shoulder to steady him, he urged him to drink.

Raqi spluttered at the liquid tipped down his throat, coughed and shook his head, his hand rising to grip Xanir's wrist fiercely and stop him.

Their eyes met. "She slipped me word," gasped Raqi. "There is a rumour that Em Feliz was taken alive." Raqi winced as the grip on his shoulder tightened.

"And her agent says that two days before news of your landfall reached the city another of Beguine's contacts -- skilled in torture -- met and left with one of Beguine's mercenaries who had ridden in with urgent news."

This was her, thought Xanir, heart pounding like a drum. Fuck the doubts, he was keeping her.

Eyes aflame, Xanir looked across the tent to his brother, growled, "You will take the army to Zander. Secure the south."

Haman might shun war and politics, but he was skilled at both. He had had to be, with his upbringing. He nodded.

The blazing eyes returned to Raqi. "I told you to stay with her," the Tahl snapped.

A small smile while his servant snagged the wine-cup from Xanir's hand. "You also told me to obey her in matters of policy. She told me to return to you and tell you this."

While Xanir hissed in a breath to lambast Raqi, the quiet eyes lifted without fear, "I dropped by the academy and swore in Alt Kurim; appointed him as her Zalmat-in-secret: he has been recalled for his brother's funeral rites. Did I do wrong?"

Xanir's breath hissed out again. He eyed his disobedient servant and answered gruffly, "Kurim is only eleven."

"Twelve," corrected Haman.

"And he is his father's son; a true Limaq: Alt Limaq, now," added Raqi. "Already a better guard than me."

The new Limaq heir. Pain creasing his features, Xanir grabbed the cup out of Raqi's hand and took a gulp, returning it equally brusquely before he turned to stride back across the tent and snatch up his sword.

"The Dhazan were chasing Beguine to the north?" he demanded over his shoulder.

"North north west," answered Haman. "I will send Zander to find you as soon as I reach him. Good hunting, Xan."

Xanir stared back at his brother, heart hot. "Drive them back from the Empire. And come back -- Sarah has another child on the way." He could trust his brother in this. A formal salute, fierce embrace, and Haman left the tent.

A long sigh, and Xanir turned back to Raqi, eyes wary, "How did she seem?"

A broad grin made him blink. "Surprisingly cheerful for someone who had been locked in the tower for ten weeks." Raqi recounted the tale of the slop-jar.

Xanir was striding up and down, fists clenching and unclenching. "She should not have to suffer such treatment! She should not have to protect herself."

"That's why I appointed Kurim."

"I should be protecting her," snarled Xanir.

"So secure the Empire," Raqi replied calmly. "Execute the traitors, sweep the last out of the palace, then she can rest safely beside the Ivory Throne. Your children can play, secure in the wife's wing."

Xanir halted. "She wants me to clear out the whole concubine wing," he muttered grumpily. He hadn't meant to say that.

Raqi looked up from the dregs of wine and laughed. "And you have not dismissed the idea out of hand? Maybe you should trial it -- she would be begging for their return after a month as your sole playmate."

Xanir grinned. Something both soft and fierce lit inside him, signalling how his decision had settled since Raqi had arrived back with her warning about Em Feliz: his playmate, his spymaster, his right hand. He was keeping her. And her child.

*

Just finishing the last chapter, 19 -- sorry about the long hiatus. Please vote and comment, I've found it hard to return to this and am not sure if it's working. But I'll still finish it.