Outside, the sun's rays made the silver buttons on Dara’s new uniform shirt shine as the prince led him down a path towards the training grounds. It was a place Dara always avoided due to the violent purpose of it, but it wasn't an issue worth defying the prince over.

As they got closer, pain prickled and then sparked at the edge of Dara's mind. Someone was hurt. His eyes soon registered what his body had felt: there was a public whipping taking place. The whip cracked on bare flesh, searing a line across it, and it scorched Dara inside somewhere deep and intimate. His stomach cramped with nausea and he forced himself to swallow down the saliva his mouth was making in excess.

By the time they were directly in front of the whipping post, Dara could hardly think through the secondhand pain, but as Burch scowled down at him from where he was bound Dara finally pieced together what was happening. The other two guards who had tormented Dara were being held off to the side, awaiting their turns.

Was this the surprise the prince had mentioned? Did he think this was something he was doing for Dara, that it was something he would want to see, or had he brought Dara here to remind him what he was capable of? The whip landed again and Dara flinched.

The prince glanced over at Dara and then frowned. Dara imagined he must have looked a mess. Pale, sweating, and following the next lash, shaking. Another strike pushed Dara past the edge, and he pulled away from the prince and ran to the nearest bush. He promptly regurgitated his breakfast.

The prince walked over slowly, and by the time he reached Dara, Dara was done. He still wasn't far enough away from the violence, though. He could feel and hear each time the tail of the whip connected with flesh, each strike making his shoulders jerk involuntarily.

The prince pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Dara, then placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him back the way they’d come. “Not quite the reaction I’d been expecting.”

“Sorry, your highness,” Dara murmured.

The prince shook his head. “I’ve never met a slave who’s so much work.”

“Well, now you know why they didn’t bother you with me.”

The prince’s eyes cut to him and Dara knew he had made a mistake. Being self pitying, reminding the prince that he was damaged goods, none of it would earn him any favour. Dara hugged his jacket against his chest and stared intently at the ground as they walked. He half expected the prince to decide he’d had enough of him, to turn them around and let Dara have a taste of the whip to remind him of his place.

But he didn’t, and part of Dara had known he wouldn’t. 

Out front of the castle was a crowd of blue uniforms and horses ready for riding. Dara had hoped for a horse of his own like he used to have, but of course a bed slave wasn’t worth such things. The prince had one of his men move a few of the crates around in the back of a covered wagon until there was enough room for Dara.

Dara laid his jacket out in the small space and sat down on it. It had come in handy after all.

#

Brayan leant against the side of the wagon and stared down at Maric’s new bed slave, who was taking tiny sips from a cup of water. He wasn’t what Brayan had expected.

From the way Maric had been quietly obsessing about the young man for days, Brayan had expected him to have a coy charm about him, the kind of feigned innocence some bed slaves had mastered. This slave was hunch-shouldered and withdrawn.

Though handsome, yes. He had that going for him.

But perhaps Brayan shouldn’t have been surprised. Maric could have the best things, but they weren’t always what interested him. Maric had found the horse he now exclusively rode, a mare the bright reddish orange of autumn leaves he’d named Farah, wandering alone near the border. She was a fiery, bitey beast, but she’d once kicked a man’s skull in when he’d tried to attack Maric from behind, so on balance… no, on balance she was still a poor match for a prince. But Maric adored her.

The finely bred, well trained pure white stallion Maric had brought with him when he’d joined the military was now Brayan’s, an arrangement Brayan was perfectly happy with. His name was Luce and he was brave and strong and loyal, but he had come from the king’s stables, so Maric had never taken to him.

The slave in front of him had also come from Maric’s father, but perhaps the fact that the young man was pitiful and broken instead of proud and perfect made all the difference.

Brayan reached a hand out to tilt the slave’s head up to get a better look at his face. The slave started to pull back, then froze, allowed his chin to be lifted, and met Brayan’s gaze. His expression didn’t noticeably shift, but somehow irritation managed to bleed through it. Brayan frowned as he pulled his hand back. What was Maric getting himself into?

Maric returned, leading Farah along with him. Brayan had been considering bringing up some of his concerns about the slave, but one look at Maric’s face told him that wasn’t a good idea.

“He’s very handsome,” Brayan said instead.

Maric turned to Brayan and opened his mouth to respond, and Farah took advantage of the moment of distraction to lunge towards the slave. Maric moved to pull her back, but then he paused and watched as she harmlessly sniffed at the slave’s hair.

The slave whistled, short and low, and Farah leant in to nuzzle affectionately at the top of his head.

Maric still looked tense, ready to intervene, but Farah was continuing to be uncharacteristically friendly. “She doesn’t normally like strangers.”

That was an understatement. She didn’t like anyone except Maric. She tolerated other people she knew, as long as they didn’t do the slightest thing to offend her. She despised strangers.

The slave’s lips curved up at the corners as he ducked his head away from Farah’s affection. “Well, she’s an Eth yenkarth. Where did you get her?”

“I found her wandering alone near the border,” Maric said. “I’m surprised she survived on her own with the wolves that live in the mountains.”

“I’m not,” Brayan said. “That horse is a hell bitch. She would fight a wolf and she would win.”

“No, you’re right,” the slave said. “Yenkarth, it’s… wolfhorse? Wolfing horse? I don’t know the exact translation, but they’re bred to fight wolves.” Farah tried to get her lips around the slave’s ear and he laughed quietly and twisted his head away. “The wolves follow horses along the mountain trails, wait until they reach a narrow point with a long drop, then try to startle them into falling and laming themselves. Yenkarth don’t startle. They stand their ground and fight. Most wolves know better than to even try to take one on.”

The slave had seemed timid at first glance, but he spoke like a free man would to another. Not like a slave should talk to his master, to a prince. Maric had always preferred to keep things informal with the men who served under him, but a slave was a different matter. Besides, he wasn’t acting this way simply to please Maric. He couldn’t have become comfortable with speaking freely so quickly. 

For a long moment Maric just watched the slave, and Brayan thought that surely he would remind the slave of his place, but when he finally spoke he said, “That’s interesting. I didn’t know that.”

The slave’s eyes leapt between Maric and Brayan, keenly aware of the tension, and he dropped his gaze as he scratched Farah’s neck. “You’re lucky to have found her. They’re an uncommon breed, especially on this side of the border.”

“Nobody else seems to think so.” Maric turned to Brayan and for a moment Brayan thought he was going to acknowledge the issue, but instead he said, “I’m ready to leave, Brayan. Make sure everyone is accounted for and then let’s get out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” Brayan said. If Maric wanted to tackle this one on his own, that was his decision.

#

As Brayan shouted orders and got everyone organised, Dara settled into his spot in the back of the wagon. The space was cramped and he couldn’t find a way to sit where something didn’t jab into his back, but at least he had his jacket with him to make things a little more comfortable.

The prince didn’t pay him any mind now that he had his men to talk to, but that was hardly a surprise. There wasn’t much for Dara to do except look at trees and get lost in his own thoughts, but every now and then one of the men would ride a bit closer to the back of the wagon and they’d look at Dara for a little while. They were just curious, Dara knew that, and they weren’t being actively unkind, but he hated it. The way they stared at him but never looked him in the eye, never so much as smiled at him, made him feel like they didn’t think he was real in the same way they were.

That was something most slaves had to deal with, of course, but once upon a time Dara had been in a position of special immunity. He had been a slave since he was ten, but a healer was a special category. Though technically still a slave, he’d had more power, more freedom than most free men did. His every need, his every desire, had been provided for, because a happy healer was an effective healer. Even the prince would have been expected to treat him with respect.

But all of that was gone now and had been for years. He had to let go of it and stop believing he was too good for all of this. He wasn’t. Without the ability to heal others, he was no better than any other slave. Worse, in fact, because at least they were good at their jobs.