The Crown of Treason

Chapter 3. Gin Rundok Kedr (part 1.)

It was dark in the chamber around him. The heath of the day had finally cooled down to a more or less tolerable temperature. Weland fought against dehydration. It was a lopsided battle, the air was dry as a tinderbox. With every breath he took the air seemed to choke his throat, as if a strangling vail was wringing every last drop of moister from his body. Weland gave up. His swollen tongue made it impossible to continue sleeping. Reluctantly he slipped out of David's embrace.

'Wine!' he thougth. 'Quickly!'

Dozing in his sleep, his male concubine, or waghad, resisted his departure. Dream drunk he attempted to throw his arm back around Weland's body. He managed to escape in a second attempt, this time more agile. Reluctantly David rolled over to his other side. He vaguely mumbled words of sleep talk, barely leaving his lips in the hazy light of the star-springled night that reflected in the pearly drops of sweat on his young, hairless chest.

Weland felt the urge to lick the sweat from David's body.

Tempting, but too salty, he concluded.

Wine he needed. In the coolest corner of the room, he kept an amphora sweet Doshfathi wine for a quick nightly sip. It wasn't the first time this cursed choking-dry air had cost him his sleep.

Weland emptied the cup in one gulp. The liquor tasted lukewarm and stale. At any other moment, he probably would have turned up his nose to it, but right now his tongue thirsted for any moister it could swallow, just to wash the wry dust from his mouth. Nothing seemed to work
The very moment he put his cup down the strangling air gripped his throat again. A second cup wouldn't do him any good, still, he poured it. How could anyone ever get used to this cursed desert air that wrung every drop of saliva out of his throat like a burning hellfire? No matter how much he had fallen in love with the city, that would never change.

For five years he fought against the dry thirst. Five years already since he came to Hassan's Keep. He remembered those first days. Everything around him had been exciting, sometimes hostile, but exciting. Dark Doshfathi eyes staring at him like vultures looking at him from under colourful turbans, faces darkened by the sun often with scars hidden underneath finely cut beards. Weird customs, a hard indecipherable language, the willing and insistent smells of oils and spices, sweet dishes and dishes burning to the tongue, the nourishment of the gods that sometimes made him sick to his stomach for days, the obscure and complex patterns of snakes, hands and strange figures on the buildings, the burning sun on the white marble that blinded everyone who looked at the reflection, and then the horrible dry air that came blowing in from the dessert, ready to strangle him at a moment's notice. Everything he had gotten used to. Everything except that horrible desert air that never seemed to let go of him. Horrible!

Weland sipped his lips to the tepid liquid. His eyes wandered to the naked body of his waghad. David was one of his better finds, probably his best since his first love back in Cirte if he gave some thought to it. The Doshfathi boy could stir feeling in his chest he hadn't felt since his young love on the rocky beaches of his homeland, about thirty winters in the past. Weland stroked his fingers through David's thick black hair on his head, his eyes fluttering down towards his golden brown skin. Dark, melancholic eyes slept behind his eyelids. Salina had discovered him at the port of Jeras Maedena where he was working as a rope weaver. That's where he learned that strong, yet delicate touch in his hands. His nimble young fingers, together with his beautiful Thesirian looks made him a real treasure and part of Weland's household. Weland lusted after the young boy, like he hadn't lusted at anyone in a long time. He could work his skin like a freshly woven rope. On top of that, the boy was blessed with a near-perfect chest, set with lean muscles but still soft to the touch. And the rest of the boy, hmmmmm!