The boy closed violet eyes, praying that the wall would not crumble beneath his fingers as he climbed. He was small and starved, making it easy to pull his weight up from one half formed handhold to another. The stone was cold under his hands and his fingers bled but it was nothing compared to the pain in his stomach as hunger worked steadily to end his life. His ears were strained for the slightest sound of passing guard or noble suffering from insomnia while his entire body shook from strain and fear.

And then the palm of his hand came down on the ledge and there was no more wall to climb.

Pressing himself against the corner where the wall met the castle he stared down into the garden. Laughter reached his eyes and he could make out a pair of guards, their hands darting out to snatch up dice and toss them in the flickering torchlight. Swords had been put aside and their spears stood forgotten against the wall.

Satisfied that they would not be diverted from their game by anything less than being tripped over he scrambled down from his perch, using the jutting supports from the wall to make the journey in a series of leaps. The moment his feet touched the solid ground he crept towards the nearest bush, eyeing the red fruit within.

Though his hunger was great he resisted the urge to plunge his hands into the thicket of thorns for he knew well enough that to do so meant death, though after days of unrelenting hunger he wondered if it wouldn’t be worth the pain to be able to die with a full stomach. But no, that would mean the hunger had won and they had been enemies for too long for him to allow it such an easy victory.

So he studied the bushes, trying to drum up the memory of the tales the other boys had whispered to each other as they tried to prove that their were better than their peers, though, in truth, they all starved the same as they struggled to survive on the streets. 

Pycona it was called, the King’s fruit, for only the kings of the city and their father, the All-King, were permitted to eat it. Crimson and round the object sheltered by the thorns looked as though it was about to burst and Dhakari’s mouth fair watered to think of bounty of tiny red fruits hidden within the crimson shell.

With a mental curse he tore his eyes from the prize and forced himself to focus on the problem. The thorns pointed in all directions, their black tips slick with the poison that oozed through the bush’s very core. Like the pycondra snake the plant had been named for, a single pick and the foolish person who had been lured by the bright fruit would fall dead within minutes.

Movement among the bushes made Dhakari tense and, when a pale form emerged between them, he leapt back, bearing his teeth like a feral thing.

The man before him paused, studying him silently. His pale golden hair was long and when he bent to set the basket he carried down Dhakari saw that it was bound back by leather thongs. The silver bracelets about his wrists tinkled against each other as the man stood and Dhakari was aware of another band of silver cinched about his neck. The man’s blue eyes studied him a bit longer before he turned and reached out. Thorns tore cruelly into his already bloody hands as he plucked the fruit from the center of the bush but he did not seem to care.

All these foreign things alone told Dhakari what he faced but strangely it was the ivory skin that fascinated him. It was pale with only the barest hint of gold to it, nothing like the dusky brown of a human’s, nor was it the paler brown of those who had been forced to endure the vampire’s kiss, becoming vampires themselves.

This was a true vampire. They were considered the oldest of the races, created by the Sun-Lord as his chosen people. But they had not been true to him and had given honor to other gods as well. In a rage the Sun-Lord had punished them, making it so that their skin burned when his rays fell upon them. The priests said that the vampires had grieved for the loss of their creator and that the other gods had taken pity on them.

The Night-Lord had accepted them with open arms so that they could roam while he ruled freely. The Sleep-Lord sought to soothe them by making their awareness of the sun weigh heavily upon their minds so that they slept in peaceful oblivion while their creator ruled the land. The Beast-Lord gave unto them the instincts and senses of the animals so that they could protect themselves against the other races the Sun-Lord embraced while the God of Pleasures gave unto them the a terrible lust so that they could breed with human women and create more of their kind.

Other gifts were given to them but in the end it was the Night-Lord who gave them the greatest gifts. It was because of this that humans could use silver to bind them when all other metals failed. In honor of the Sun-Lord who gave them life humans had hunted and trapped vampire lords, forcing them to serve them exclusively as the vampire lords had failed to serve their creator.

Later the priests of the Elemental Gods learned to use their magics to create bindings upon the vampire lords’ very skin, physically forcing them to obey. Dhakaricould see the results of that discovery spread across the vampire’s shoulders and riding over one hip above the simple cloth kilt he wore. The golden tail of hair covered the markings that trail Dhakari knew had been tattooed into his skin, folloing down his spine to meet up with the markings on his hips. It was a primal design that mimicked the thorns of the pycona bush for it was all twisting black shapes, outlined in gold, that ended in vicious points.

The vampire was adorned in a fortune in silver and spells cast as priests injected ink for the markings into the captive’s back that had to be redone every year lest the spell wear off and the creature’s body absorb the ink.

All this to keep a vampire docile.

Dhakari glanced down at the basket at the vampire’s feet, eyeing the bounty in fruit. Just one sold in private would earn him enough money to eat well for a season. Just one fruit would ensure that he survived this bout of winter feminine. This was fruit that was for the Kings that represented the gods alone. Many had wondered at its taste. He could find a buyer for it, he was sure.

But the fear of coming too close to the creature that was patiently working to extract his torn hands and plucked fruit kept him at bay.

Just as he was about to dart forward to make a grab for his salvation from starvation the vampire’s hand and the fruit clasped within came free. Blue eyes studied him a moment and he crouched back, not trusting the sudden scrutiny.

And then, to his surprise, the vampire stretched out his arm, the crimson fruit balanced on his open palm. For a moment all Dhakari could do was stare. Later he would always remember that moment, the way he could just barely make out the blood smeared upon the fruit’s skin and, most of all, he would remember the hand it sat upon for, unlike the rest of the vampire’s perfect body, they were swollen and red. He could see broken tips of thorns lodge beneath the skin and he could not comprehend the agony it must have caused the man, for the Lady of the Plants had turned her back upon his kind. Wood festered and burned inside of them, killing them if it were to infect a vital organ.

One of the guards called out, demanding to know what was taking the vampire so long to finish his task and the moment was gone. Snatching the fruit from the vampire’s hand Dhakari climbed the supports to the wall and fled back to the narrow streets that he had been thrown to when he had seen only seven summers go by.

The profits he received from the ill gotten fruit saw Dhakari through the winter famine and the summer months were surprisingly free of sickness so usually brought in by the influx of traders to their island city. He managed to put on some weight and used that to his advantage to lure the merchants and nobles who had a taste for boys younger than the city allowed to be employed by the brothels.

Dhakari profited well from these encounters and, though people lamented the continued absence of a King of Earthly Pleasures, he was grateful for it. With no king to oversee the businesses and goings on in the Red Quarter there was no one to patrol the streets making sure boys under the age deemed allowable by the priests of Zahi.

Still with winter came an even worse famine than the year before and, as the people of the city clamored to be given answers by the King of Plants, he found himself climbing the same stone wall.

The vampire was there as well and, as before, silently offered him what he sought. There was no food to be had in the markets and so he huddled against the corner of the wall, peeling the fruit with shaking hands and eating a portion of it to still his angry stomach. As he ate he watched the vampire pluck fruit after fruit from the bushes. As he neared the end of his task Dhakari saw the effortless grace disappear as his hands swelled until he could barely grip the fruit.

Finally the guards called a halt to it.

A sharp command left one of the guard’s lips and Dhakari blinked in surprise as the vampire dropped to his knees for it wasn’t the normal smooth movement of a servant kneeling to his superior but rather it was as though all the strength had left the vampire ’s legs and his back had been bowed by a strong hand.  As one guard collected the basket the other took the vampire’s hands, ruthlessly pulling the thorns and bits of wood from them. When he had finished the vampire’s hands bled freely until the first guard returned with a golden dish filled with water.

Into the water were plunged the vampire’s hands and Dhakari felt his heart stop at the cry of pain that escaped the golden haired man’s throat. He jerked back slightly but the second guard shouted another command and the vampire’s back stiffened. The guards laughed and Dhakari’s hands tightened about his gift as he watched them prod the panting vampire with their spears until he stumbled to his feet and through the small servant’s door into the castle.

The spring brought only floods and Dhakari was again forced to risk scaling the castle’s walls to retrieve fruits. One night, after his third visit in a row, he earned a very small smile from the vampire as he hungrily snatched the fruit from the ruined hand. Always he forced himself to stay, watching as the guards laughed at the vampire’s pain and using commands to trigger the markings upon his back’s magic to force him to obey.

It made him angry but, as the vampire was a slave and helpless to fight against his fate, so too was Dhakari, though it was the streets that were his cell and hunger that was his master.

Anduain knelt, silent as Khaniko studied his hands to be sure that all the thorns had been removed by the guards. They were still red and swollen but they were free of wooden shards and he let them fall away, turning his attention to his charge’s back. Angry red lines cut through the markings upon the vampire’s back but he could see no sign that the spell within the markings had been compromised from the beating the guards had given him. He sighed, unsure as to whether or not he should be relieved or angry. If they had broken the markings he would have had the excuse he needed to demand the guards stop beating his charge. Without it there was nothing he could say that they could not explain away with false tales of a defiant vampire slave that needed to be reminded of his place.

With a sharp command Anduain stood and present his arms.

As Khanikoclipped on the silver chains he heard a sniff from behind. A glance at Anduain showed tightness about the corners of his eyes, a telling sign of the vampire’s dislike for the originator of the sniff. Since Anduain reacted that way only among the guards, who never deemed to venture to the vampire stables, or the King of Kings's stable-master he could guess who was lurking over his shoulder.

“Is there something you require, master Yorich?” He asked, allowing Anduain to lower his bound hands as he checked to make sure the silver bands were still tight, though not cutting into the vampire’s flesh.

“There’ve been complaints about him . . . again.” The stable-master stated, leaning towards the vampire until they were barely a breath apart and staring into his eyes.

Anduain’s lips thinned and his eyes narrowed, either a serious breech of his training on their own. With a barely suppressed sigh Khaniko caught the thick tail of golden hair and yanked, the ancient command falling easily from his lips. The vampire fell, his lips parting as his back spasmed in pain from the triggered spells tattooed into his flesh. Gathering Anduain’s gag hanging on the wall of his stall he returned and only then did he murmur the counter-command, ending his charge’s pain.

At his side Yorich shook his head. “You should leave him like that for the day. He’s too proud, that one.”

Not trusting himself to look up, Khaniko touched the back of Anduain’s head gently, holding the leather bit to his lips. The vampire obediently opened his mouth and took it in until it rested snuggly behind his teeth. He smiled faintly as sharp fangs brushed his fingers, recalling the years of struggle it had taken him to get Anduain to take the bit without taking a chunk of flesh from his fingers as well. That Yorich thought him too proud now proved he had never seen Anduain’s like before he’d been properly trained.

“I could not leave him like that, master.” He replied, coaxing Anduain to his feet. “He would not sleep all day for the pain.”

The man snorted, arms folded over his beaded sash of rank. “A day spent awake and in pain would be good for him. You’re just getting soft. It’s a mistake to give a true vampire a permanent task-master. After a couple hundred of years with them you can’t possibly keep the professional distance a true task-master needs to keep with his slave.”

Khaniko mouthed the words almost exactly as the stable-master uttered them as he affixed Anduain’s silver bands to the chains within his stall. He’d heard them enough times to be well familiar with the argument but put little stock in it. He’d heard the same arguments for the last two hundred years uttered, both by men who were truly worried about the closeness and by men who were simply jealous that they had not been given permission by the King of Kings to partake in their charge’s blood regularly, thus giving unto them eternal life and a body untouched by time.

Yorich was of the second variety.

“It is not softness that stills my hand, master,” Khaniko said smoothly, sparing Anduain a smile to let him know that he wasn’t truly angry at his lapse, for in truth, it had been Yorich who had done the wrong by leaning in too close to him and trying to stare him down, a challenge no matter what species one was.

Stepping back and gathering Anduain’s kilt for cleaning he met Yorich’s dry gaze.

With a sigh he continued. “If Anduain were to be kept awake all day it would leave him cross come night. If he is cross he will not do his job properly and he would likely not take well to the guards’ lashes biting into his back. Do you want to be the one explaining to the King of Kings why his guards are nursing bites from a testy vampire? It has been seventy years since Anduain has bitten someone and that was because another stable-master punished him beyond what was proper to correct him when he slipped  in his training. Since then no stable-master has pushed him beyond his limit and nobody has gotten bitten.”

Yorich was silent, his hands tugging at one of his thick braids. Smiling Khaniko moved past him towards the door, only pausing to glance back at the stable-master eyeing his charge. “Both he and I are from a different time. He does his duty and I do mine. Do not fear him. I know him better than I know myself. If he was slipping his training, I would know.”

Yorich’s sour glance told him exactly how much stock the stable-master put both into his words and into his faith in trainings that had been changed as time went by. With a shrug Khaniko turned away, letting it go. In a few short years this stable-master would be gone and another would be given his beaded sash while he and Anduain went on as before.

 

Finally the God of Luck returned to the people of the city, though the King of Earthly Pleasure's small palace remained empty, and food once again grew plentifully. Dhakari found no need to dare the castle guards and, as his childhood ended, he was forced to take employment at a Red House. With his flawless skin the color of creamed coffee and smooth black hair he was taken in at one of the better houses. His clients loved the odd color of his eyes and he became adept at playing the captive prince for his lovers, for all the Kings in the city shared their father’s violet eyes.

With a place to live and a steady, if not meager, income Dhakari settled into his life and began to forget the hardships of his childhood though he could not catch a glimpse of the castle sitting high upon the hill without wondering about the vampire that had risked much to give a starving orphan the Kings’ Fruit.