The Red King Read Free

depth, shadow,
hidden places. He lay in a sort of box with raised sides. It felt
like a cradle, secure, with layer upon layer of soft fabric,
creating a nest more comfortable than any he had ever known.
    Andrew took stock of himself, too, noting
that he was, overall, unharmed. His face hurt in places, his wrists
ached and his throat felt swollen and sore, but he was whole.
Relief weakened him, and he felt tears sting his eyes. “You…you
came back for me,” he said, looking up at the man.
    And up and up, for this man was a giant,
surely. Sitting on a low stool, his bent knees rose above the edge
of the bed. His chest was as broad as a barrel, his shoulders,
perhaps two. His palm could cover Andrew’s face and the fingers
were like the top of a bulrush. Even his voice, so deep and
resonant that it rumbled in Andrew’s chest, felt big. “I did. It
was only right, seeing as I put you there.” The man’s accent was
much like his own, if a bit more northern. It was comforting to
hear.
    Andrew shook his head. “You didn’t, not
really.”
    “It felt that way, to my heart.”
    Andrew’s lips trembled, curling into a smile.
“My name is Andrew. Who are you?”
    “I’m Malik.”
    “Ma-leek,” Andrew repeated, the name foreign
sounding despite the man’s familiar Highland speech. “Thank you,
Malik.”
    “Do not thank him yet.”
    From the shadows past the foot of the bed
stepped a shade, an apparition from a dream. The man’s hair shone
like fire; Andrew fairly imagined he could feel heat from it. Yes,
there were the pale green eyes and high, finely cut cheeks rising
strong above the bearded jaw. There was little emotion there,
neither threat nor comfort, but Andrew felt a curious responding
tremor as he was observed.
    “Where am I?” Andrew asked.
    The man placed a gentle hand on Malik’s
shoulder. “Return to your duties.”
    “Aye, Captain.”
    The captain waited until Malik—twice as broad
and nearly a head taller—left the room. Once the drape had fallen
back into place, he lowered himself to the short stool. His arms
reached for Andrew, who instinctively withdrew as far as the
cradle-like bed would allow.
    “I only wish to help you sit up.”
    Reluctantly, Andrew nodded. He rose to his
elbows, looking down at his bare chest in surprise. He only now
noticed his lack of clothing. When those arms lifted him the rest
of the way, he shivered. Their strength was evident in the ease
with which he was handled, the movement of the muscles as they
pressed against Andrew’s bare flesh.
    Andrew held his breath. His heart was
pounding.
    A firm cushion was slipped behind his back.
Long-fingered hands tilted his face to the light, examining the
cuts healing there. Finally those hands slid down to Andrew’s
wrists, testing each by bending them slowly and carefully.
    This was the captain? This man who looked
like a barbarian but was tending his wounds with the gentle touch
of a Holy Sister? “Where am I?” Andrew asked again, pulling his
hands out of the man’s grasp. His touch, while gentle,
was…disturbing.
    “You’re thin. Did they feed you at all?”
    Abashedly glancing down at his smooth,
milk-white chest, Andrew crossed his arms. “Some bread, with
water.”
    “Mmm…I’ll wager that water was laced with
opium, as well…to keep you docile. Are you hungry now?”
    Swallowing, Andrew nodded. “I smell
apples.”
    The captain smirked, stood slowly and walked
the short distance to the table. Above it hung a basket and into
this he placed his hand. When he withdrew, he held a shiny, dark
red apple. He took the dagger from his belt and cut into the fruit.
“Take small bites, and chew carefully. Your throat is still not
fully healed,” he said, handing a small slice to Andrew.
    Mouth watering, Andrew took the pale fruit
and had a bite. Though he was famished, he obligingly chewed
slowly. He sat with his eyes closed, savoring the crisp texture,
the sweet juice. When he opened his eyes again, the captain