The ballroom was bordered by several columns holding up an overhead balcony, just beyond them were archways leading down various hallways. Guests filtered in on the south side of the room, immediately greeted by a line of slaves that came in from behind Oly on the north side. He’d been directed to stand in the shadows of the archway, just to the left and slightly behind the throne so he could be easily called forward when the time came.
Oly's presentation was that of a tantalizing ornament on display. He wore the cloth pattern of a servant slave’s robes, but tailored in sheer blue silk instead. An opaque white sash and a long sleeveless undershirt made the outfit decent. He had midnight blue paint trailing and swirling along the lines and curves of his body, thankfully subtle enough that he didn’t look like a zebra. More than that, there was dark and heavy makeup around his eyes, and pale paint masterfully matched to his skin to hide his freckles. Though it’d been protected and made matte by a dusting of some chalky powder, he was still hyper-aware that moving carelessly would make it wear out, so he was stuck standing “at attention” and growing more bored by the minute.
At first, he occupied himself by surveying the ballroom. As much as he’d grown to dislike Kishalon on principal, he’d always liked the architecture. The floor was massive polished stone slabs, carved to create contrast between types of rocks he couldn’t even guess at to create the shape of the Kishalon royal crest. Scenes of successful hunts, battles, weddings, and treaties were carved into the pillars with their limbs and movements as fluid as a river, spiraling down the length. He saw one was freshly carved, but of all the historical events represented, he thought it was funny to neglect the time their sourthern neighbor started, won, and ended a war with Kishalon. He believed tonight was the ten-year anniversary of that treaty with Sundenta.
Guests milled around on the edges of the dance floor. When they passed nearby, Oly was able to fully admire their form and beauty, but when they were as far away as the other end of the ballroom, Oly could imagine that they were fluttering tropical birds. He could only still see on the other side because all these people were early arrivals, the king hadn’t even come out yet. The music matched the air of anticipation, energy beading on the lip of a glass.
Most people were dressed in the local high fashion, heavy with glass beads, warm skirts, and long coats. Others were nonlocal, with exposed arms and thin, flowing clothing. What really set them apart as Sundentan was the gorgeous geometric patterns in their cloth and embroidery. Some of their glittering hair ornaments framed and sculpted tight, dark curls, while others pinned a gathering of many braids in place.
Another group arrived, met by a swarm of slaves who came out to take their coats and serve snacks (his stomach rumbled for the smell of cookies, fruit, and chocolate every time they walked past.)
Finally, there were enough people that the dancing could begin. Though the door was hidden from his view by the throne itself, Oly knew the king entered the room by the sudden hush of the crowd. In the sudden silence he could hear King Vendon’s boots stepping up to the throne, and then the shift of sitting down.
“Esteemed friends,” He boomed, “Thank you for coming to the celebration of this auspicious day, and please enjoy yourself on the anniversary of the friendship between our two nations. Long may our peace last.”
Oly raised a brow. The last time they’d met, Oly noticed he made things awkward by making a dramatic entrance and following up with lukewarm words, but he hadn’t expected the king to write a five-second speech for a party of this occasion. Everyone else continued to look at the king as if expecting him to wrap up the speech, but all they got was a command. “Don’t just stare! Dance!” Vendon commanded. The party laughed with various levels of sincerity and did as they were told.
It was then that Oly encountered a problem he’d had since conception. He’d grown bored with holding still and found himself shifting restlessly from foot to foot, trying to resist the music. He was well and able to be nothing but a gently swaying statue to the waltzes, but the string ensemble started something quick and playful. He groaned quietly, gave a quick glance around, and assured himself that the only people looking at him were fellow slaves carrying trays away and onto the scene. He locked eyes with one waiting in the wings for the signal to bring out more wine, and started rhythmically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He bobbed his head, snapped his fingers, and pivoted his body on the beat without ever breaking his "at attention" posture. He managed to get a smile out of her.
"Don't sweat off your makeup." She whispered, then got pulled away by the almost inaudible chime of her summons.
"Oly!" His handler hissed, his hand raised as if to strike him. Oly flinched, but at that moment they both realized that Oly’s styling for this event was too meticulous to touch, much less mark. Oly smiled mischievously as his handler grimaced. “Your time is up. Go kneel at the foot of the throne—just as you were told. Nothing funny.”
“If my master wills it one last time.” Oly teased, bowing his head. Before he went, he caught a strange man in a black velvet cloak staring at him, the hood still on. Oly blanched. He caught a hint of a smile beneath the hood, warm and gentle, and the stranger raised a hand—to greet him? Dismiss him? Oly turned away and walked to the throne.
Oly only saw the king once before this when he was first bought, he was a pale, thin man in his 50s. Oly and his friends had been stripped naked and lined up in a row for his inspection. He proclaimed that Leon would have been his preference if not for his size, Oly and Jacivik were too tall and skinny, and the target had already rejected a girl, so he didn’t have high hopes for Laya and Mavani. “Do your magic, Ashel.” He’d intoned to the handler, and left the room. Oly approached now with his head bowed and a hand to his heart. He did not speak, nor did he expect the king to, he simply folded his legs under himself and sat beside the throne.
Oly found that sitting still was going about as well as standing still, but right as he’d begun to drum his fingers on his thigh, his boredom was swept away by the hooded stranger approaching the throne.
His black velvet cape glittered with intricate gold embroidery, designs like vines and leaves curled around a hexagonal lattice. First he carefully drew back the hood, and before the full effect could hit Oly, he was blown away by the flourish of unclasping the cloak and pulling it from his shoulders with one hand, billowing in the air before it neatly flipped over his attendant’s arm. The attendant bowed, and the man’s gilded hand gave him a gentle pat on the head.
The skin on his arms was fully exposed to reveal their winding, golden tattoos. When the designs waned, they augmented his dark sienna skin, and when they waxed, he was practically plated with gold. His flesh was etched with the symbols of his power, and his long braids were extended with gold wire and decorated chains. A section was broken off from the rest to be twisted in a bun at the back of his head, where a few of the chain’s ornaments created the array of his crown: a golden feather to hold it all in place with its quill, a sun to cap the bun, and pure amber carved to look like flowing honey to wrap around the base. Oly recognized him instantly.
The ruler of Sundenta, King Hesiat LonDwuat. So this was the man who caught him dancing. A sense of embarrassed dread settled heavy in his gut.
Oly had heard of the king, of course, and by all means they should have met before. King Hesiat was an honored guest to a peace talk of his parent's, ensuring a war wouldn't restart and spread. Oly was sick and unable to attend, but he certainly recognized him by the traditional tattoos and hair ornaments so prized among his people.
Oly glanced up at King Vendon, who was stroking his beard and still greeting his fellow king.
Everything slid into perfect clarity.
Kishalon lost the war when a spy leaked the weaknesses of King Vendon and his army. Queen Varola LonDafina perished in the penultimate battle, leaving only her heir. Vendon hoped the teenage prince would be too emotionally shattered by the death of his mother, so his final desperate attacks banked on weak leadership.
He received bloodlust instead.
King Hesiat had since softened his demands and garnered the favor of Kishalon’s people with gifts of free medicine and honey, but King Vendon tried to turn down most of it. Now, Oly could see the king’s strategy for exactly what it was: symmetrical retribution. A spy for a spy. A weakness for a weakness. A strike for a strike.
Dread and morbid anticipation rose up in equal measure. He never expected this role to be his first mark on world history.
---
Oly knew he was just up by the throne to artificially inflate the audience’s sense of value for him. Maybe it worked for everyone else in attendance, but personally it rang pretty hollow. It’d been made fairly explicit to him that he was the least valuable option to present to LonDwuat, if he’d indeed read the room right and that’s who he was going to be gifted to.
He couldn’t see why not. Several allied or neutral nations gave LonDwuat coronation gifts (Oly’s parents sent that amber hair ornament, he could dimly recognize it now), and there were rumors that some nation (Oly couldn’t bother to remember) sent a pleasure slave, more beautiful than a sunset at sea. Reports varied on whether he abused or spoiled her, whatever the gossip thought was juiciest at the time. Nevertheless, there was one consensus. He rarely touched her. That added up with what Vendon said about Laya and Mavani too, and it was a good reason to get a wide selection of slaves: If you didn’t like her, what do you like?
Stolen story; please report.
Regardless, he was only up here on display to generate mystery, and Oly had to admit that he was preening under all the attention and intrigued glances he was getting.
Oly sat up straight for as long as his energy would allow, but the restlessness inside him was desperately eager to lift off and join the fun. After a while he’d successfully shoved it all down, but then the voices of conversations he couldn't join grated on him, and the energy of a crowd he couldn’t dance with drained him. Maybe it was the sadness, but boredom felt much the same, and he found his eyes drifting shut after a few hours of looking at the forbidden.
“Olymarté.” Vendon snapped, making Oly jerk stick-straight again. He looked up at the gathering of men in front of him, his thoughts swimming into slow focus: Hesiat, his attendant, another man with a blue cane in regal Sundentan clothes, and Vendon. He blinked hard and smiled.
“Forgive me, gentlemen. The fun of watching you is exhausting.” He thought he saw a smile flicker across Hesiat’s lips, but Vendon sniffed and gestured for Oly to get up. The attendant offered his hand, which Oly gratefully took.
“Let’s move our discussion somewhere more private.”
---
The attendant and other guest (LonDwuat’s advisor, Oly guessed) did not join the room, so it was just him, Vendon, and LonDwuat. The lounge was dim with muted lamplight, and the furniture all had the lingering smell of pipe smoke. Vendon sat down in an armchair facing the door, gesturing for Oly to kneel on the floor in front of LonDwuat, where he was reclined in a loveseat. Despite being the visitor in unfamiliar territory, he had no qualms with taking up space with wide, open posture.
“What’s this about, Vendon?” He asked, trying to ignore Oly.
“It’s for you!” Vendon scoffed, just out of Oly's line of sight.
“I have to say,” the visiting king began, looking down at Oly with a halfway-concealed wary expression, “Given our history, a slave is a bold gift.”
“Do you dislike it?” Vendon asked airily. He put up the flawless appearance of relaxation, that pleasant state right after a few glasses of wine where logic remained but cold and worry left.
LonDwuat leaned forward and reached down to cup Oly’s chin in his hand, making the slave pull up to one knee so he could study his face. Oly's heart pounded like a war drum, and though he’d more than grown used to being inspected like this, he still felt his cheeks grow warm under the scrutiny.
“I’d heard of grey eyes, but I’ve never seen them. They glow like silver in this light.” He remarked, rubbing his thumb along Oly’s thin, strong jawline and gently directing him to look to the side. His hand left with a lingering touch to Oly’s throat. “Quite a find. What is he good for?”
Oly was careful to target his brief glare at the carpet. Oh, I’ll show you what I’m good for you arrogant piece of-
“Whatever you want. It has not gone unnoticed that you leave your current toy a bit cold, so there’s no obligation to engage with the boy carnally or sensually.” Boy? This idiot. Come to think of it, Oly was fairly certain he and LonDwuat were only a few years apart. “We focused its training on being pleasant company for you.”
Oly turned his gaze back to the foreign king, eyes fixed on LonDwuat's chest when he wasn’t looking up through his eyelashes with a shy little smile. When he caught LonDwuat looking down, he broke eye contact before it could be made with a coy bite to his lip. Will you like that, or do I have to pull out some of the better tricks?
“What do you mean by pleasant company?” LonDwuat’s voice was ever-so-slightly harder.
“Conversation, companionship, confidence. A pretty little thing to hang on your arm as you go about.”
“Confidence?” LonDwuat laughed, getting out of his seat. “A slave I’m meant to tell secrets to. I won’t spoil our night by saying it, but surely you can see how this looks, my friend?”
Oh, Oly could only imagine the look on Vendon’s face when LonDwuat called him friend. It made a smile curl onto his lips, even as the foreign king rested a hand on Oly’s head in an almost possessive gesture.
“A little thing like this isn’t worth your fear.” Vendon sighed. “If the gift scares you so, then you can think of any number of ways to keep it from betraying you.” With both men facing each other and his back to Vendon, Oly took a deep breath and pressed his lips thin. “Perhaps you could test its obedience? Is there anything you’d like it to do for you?”
LonDwuat’s touch abruptly left as he walked to the door. “No.”
He opened it and gestured for the two others to come in.
“So you’re turning it down?” Vendon asked, his voice deliberately wiped free of tone, but Oly felt a stone form in his throat and his heartbeat in his ears. He’d been so focused on making sure he could do the mission set out for him, he didn’t anticipate it being stillborn. His back ached with the dread.
“Oh, no, no. I have gifts for you as well, and much to discuss! Olymarté, was it?” Oly startled and turned his head to LonDwuat, trying not to seem too desperately hopeful. By the amused smile he got, he failed. “Could you please wait outside? I’m sure King Vendon has much to tell me about you, I’d hate to make you embarrassed.” Hesiat turned to the attendant outside and spoke, something about bringing in the gifts, while Oly was trying to stand up with any modicum of grace while he was numb with relief. He managed, though he swayed a little on the way to the door.
He did not bow or look at Vendon as he left the room, only Hesiat.
---
Oly wondered if he should mentally refer to the king as LonDwuat, or the literal translation: The Conqueror.
“I was expecting a gift, but I didn’t expect him to have the audacity to give me a confidant. Honestly.” LonDwuat shook his head as he spoke to his advisor, keeping up a fast stride. His considerably shorter attendant was keeping an admirable pace, but it was clear that his power-walk wouldn’t be tenable for long. Oly willfully kept his distance, being only a few centimeters shorter than the king and possessing oddly longer legs. He knew he should be trying to endear himself as soon as possible, but he was curious where he stood in the king’s eyes. Listening to this rant seemed to be the best way to find out. It took him a moment to remember why Hesiat might be irritated with the gift of a slave at all, especially when the king's own country was engaged with the trade as well. Oly's home wasn't, so the nuances of turning people into objects were lost on him. Then it hit him.
Sundenta had a ritual every 20 years to offer slaves a path to freedom, and giving a slave trained to forge long-term intimacy and keep secrets flew in the face of that sentiment. The rallying point for the war, in fact, was this difference in a slave’s rights, so Vendon’s gesture bordered on insult.
“If I use you, then I would be in danger if you decided to go-" Oly looked up from his ponderings with surprise, “If I don’t, then I insult Kishalon and do you a disservice.” LonDwuat looked over his shoulder to gauge Oly’s reaction to the conundrum, so he sent the king a playful, knowing smile.
“It’s not a disservice to sit with you, my king. Surely you won’t reveal ancient secrets by talking about the weather. Or shall I read to you?” He teased, not missing a beat. LonDwuat smirked, and Oly could feel a moment of tension—either he reeled the man in, or the line would snap, so Oly picked up the pace to be closer to his owner’s side.
“You can read?” LonDwuat chuckled. Oly grinned.
“I have more history than most know, literacy lies among it.”
“What kind of education have you had?”
Oly winked at him. “Perhaps we can maintain a balance of ancient secrets, my king. It only matters insofar as I can entertain you.”
“Entertain me?” LonDwuat raised a brow. Oly drew in as close as he could without disturbing his advisor. “What, can you juggle?”
Oly sighed dramatically. “Oh, if only I hadn’t skipped that class.”
“Sing?”
“That one too! The birds tried to teach me, but I was only in attendance for the ravens.”
“Dance.” LonDwuat’s voice was flat with impatience.
“I have been in the habit of practicing that one, at least.” He was mostly experienced with ballroom dances, both leading and being led, so he had a good sense of rhythm in his bones. His natural desire to be seen and heard meant he easily picked up the style meant for slaves to entertain guests with. Slow, sensual, hypnotic. Killer on the abs and thighs.
“Can you do anything other than read and practice dancing?”
“My king, you wound me.” He gave an imploring look to the attendant, who gratefully lagged behind so Oly could take his place on LonDwuat’s left. His voice deepened to a sultry purr, “I can keep a bed warm.”
LonDwuat looked away. “I have no interest in sleeping with a stranger.”
Oly held a hand to his chest, indignant. “I only think of your warmth, my king! Surely you understand an Aosan’s concern.”
“At this time of year? I have no use for warmth.”
“Under crueler suns, by raging fires, still, frost bites without your company.” Oly recited, taking in the other’s surprise. If Vendon would be so neglectful as to never give Oly a lowborn, unassuming identity, then he would use his classical education as he damn well pleased.
“Lionel, correct?” The king guessed.
“Correct! We all need warmth, my king. I’m happy to give you my company.”
LonDwuat snorted, though his eyes softened. “You can certainly recite poetry at me.”
“Exactly!” Oly met cynicism with earnestness. “Please, give my services a chance.” He reached out to touch LonDwuat’s arm, who moved it away with a pointed look. Ah, maybe too soon for Sir No-Strangers-In-Bed. Oly’s smile never wavered, only growing gentler from the gesture, as he bowed his head. “Apologies, my king. I only think of your satisfaction.” With that, he fell back and let the conversation lie.
The attendant took his place again with a nod to Oly as he passed.
Oly wasn’t addressed again for the rest of the walk. Although he paid mind to the conversations between LonDwuat and the other two, it didn’t seem to be anything of importance to him, so he only had a half a brain on them. The other half was on looking at the rose bushes standing guard by the path, vibrantly blue and iridescent to show off the organic magic Vendon could afford. He admired the ivy growing on artfully carved trellises, curled over the cobblestone walkway so its vines could give temporary shelter from the sun, though now the moonlight played on leaves like hammered gold. When they grew closer to the gate and the garden paths fell away, hedges lined the way out instead. They started low and got higher as they walked, trimmed to look like the currents of a brook with all its waves and eddies. The palace was tainted, but all this effort was probably the gardener’s pride and joy, not the work of the monsters within. He wanted to admire the veneer of “the evil he knew” before he was whisked away to yet another evil he didn’t.
LonDwuat spoke directly to Oly again when they reached the carriages, which really should have stopped catching him off-guard. “I don’t know why I asked you if you could dance.” The king remarked thoughtfully. Oly tilted his head to the side as the man hoisted himself up into the carriage car, a playful look in his eye. “From what I’ve seen, you move just fine.” He winked at Oly, then left him staring at the closed door. He felt more than a little lost as the attendant escorted Oly to his own car at the back of the caravan.