Prologue 1: A Peaceful Dove

His dreams were of blackness, always blackness. . . deep and devoid of sound, of movement, an empty dark vacuum of space. . . but his waking life was not much better.

All his life lived in the lonesome tower in the palace, no one around, save the silent women with dusky skin and soothing eyes who enter his room to serve him and brush his hair, businesslike, yet gentle. He asked them things. . . but they tell him nothing. He had known no other life than this. And probably never will.

This was the life of Dove, this was his life, the sadness, the loneliness, the supreme isolation, a solitary barred window his glimpse into the life down below. He buried himself in books, in fantasy worlds. . . of kings and knights and damsels in distress. He told himself always. . . *I'm not lonely. . . I'm not. I don't need anyone, I have my books, I have everything I need, who needs company, who needs life surrounded by people, who can say nasty things to you, who can hurt you.* But inside, he knew it was a lie.

Outside the window, the warmth of the sun shined down on sweaty skinned boys, just like him, frolicking in sparkling waters and in fragrant green gardens. . . laughing, touching, living. . .

But Dove tried not to think of those things. For him, it was not meant to be.

He brushed stray tendrils of hair from his face and rose from the bed, pulling the white shirt from the chair and buttoning it. As always, it was immaculate, crisp, clean, neatly pressed and ironed, and yet, he saw no one come in and replace it. He lived a life where others served him, and yet there was never anyone around. He moved to the small desk pressed awkwardly against the opposite curve of his tower room and sat down. He opened his journal.

Dove had vague memories of his absentee master. Time no longer existed for him in this opulent prison, but it seemed so long since he last visited. . . and yet his master never touched him. Ever. Not once. He didn't even recall his master's face. He remembered lying in bed. . . the door opening, a man illuminated at the door, staring down at Dove's quiet and still form on the small cot. Dove pretended to sleep, scared of this imposing stranger, and the man had stayed there, watching him for what seemed like hours. Later, after many unanswered questions, one of the servants had taken pity on him and told him that the man was his master. That was the master's first, last, and only visit.

Still, he was pampered, made to look beautiful everyday, on the slim chance that that day would be the day that the Master would actually make use of his expensive slave. But it never was. Dove stared down at the blank page in front of him, his loneliness a harsh ache in his chest. It never was the day. And he doubted it ever would be.

He picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink well. He hated to use pens. Dove started to write:

"Another day, another drop of sand in moving through the cylinder. . . and yet always, always everything stays the same. And the same questions echo through my mind, and my heart. Why does not my master come to visit me? Why does he not take me out to the garden to play, as the other boys' masters do? Why did he acquire a slave, if not to make use of him? Isn't he lonely? Doesn't he want company? Why else would he want a slave?

And who am I? I've been here for so long, all alone, maybe so long, that I've forgotten where I'm from, who my family is. I have no home, no friends, no family, no background. . . I have no one.

I'm so lonely. . . at night, I feel this strange aching. . . and my skin feels hot. And when I stare out of the window, I watch the boys play, and I feel it again.

The other day, I saw a boy in black shiny pants pull another boy with blond hair behind a bush. . . and when they thought no one was watching, they locked in a passionate embrace. I've only read about passionate embraces, but I've never seen one. Is that what a passionate embrace is like? It looks nice.

I want someone to touch me. . . I want to know what it would feel like. The servant women have touched me, and yet somehow, it's not the same.

I'm sick of looking out the window. I'm sick of living life in here, just me, my books. . . and my pen.

I'm sick of being alone."

Dove rose from the writing desk and closed the journal with a slam. If he continued on that vein, he would end up crying again, and he'd been doing enough of that lately. The servant women chastised him and told him if he kept doing that, his eyes would get puffy, but he didn't care. He pulled his chair over to the window and stared down at the currently empty garden. His knees rose and he tucked them against his chest, under the oversized white shirt, his chin cradled by the valley made by the press of his knees together. And he watched. . . and would continue to watch, until the sun set again. Dove felt a teardrop slip out of the corner of his eye, and he sighed.

"I am half sick of shadows. . . "

But the woman sat down at the edge of the cot and stared at Dove's seated form. She stared and stared and stared, as if waiting for Dove to make the first move. But Dove didn't know what she wanted. So he didn't say anything. Finally, the woman leaned forward, her voice careful and even. "Dove. . . "

Dove stared at her, startled. He'd never heard anyone say his name out loud like that before, not addressing him. He looked the woman over. She was dusky skinned and beautiful just like the servant women, but he knew that she wasn't one, because of the way she dressed and acted, and the air of authority that surrounded her.

"Dove," she said again. The sound of his name being said out loud caused a thrill of excitement down his spine. . . but he was wary, so wary. . . this woman would probably leave, just like the rest. But the woman continued to speak. "I'm here. . . to tell you some bad news, and some good news. Which would you like to hear first?"

This confused Dove. He had no concept of bad news and good news, since he had lived the same life for as long as he'd been conscious and aware. He just stared at the woman, not knowing what to say. The woman smiled pleasantly.

"I'll start with the bad news. . . that way, you can have some good news to cheer you up. The bad news is, your master is in a better place now. He passed away peacefully, in his sleep. It was a good way to go. And he lived a long and fruitful life, being ninety-seven years old." She waited for his reaction.

But Dove had none, because he'd never met his master anyway. Though now that he heard that the man was ninety-seven years old, he was slightly glad that the master never came to claim what was rightfully his. He had seen a ninety year old man in a book once. . . his skin was. . . all folded and ripply and saggy, just like a raisin. It wasn't a very nice picture and Dove hated to imagine how much worse a ninety-seven year old man would look like. Dove just shrugged, and turned back to the window.

The woman was perturbed by Dove's reaction, but she pushed onward. "The good news is. . . " she paused to arrange the folds of her pristine white suit beneath her, so as not to get it wrinkled. "that your master was a very rich man, and your master had no family and no heirs. . . and seeing that he loved you very much, your master has left all his money to you." The woman beamed happily, as if she had just handed Dove the key to the room and told him that he could go play in the garden. Dove stared at her, as if she was an alien with a long pointy head like he had seen in his books. What use had he for money? He got everything he wanted here, save companionship. He didn't need smelly old green paper.

The woman got agitated now, because Dove wasn't reacting at all, not saying a thing. So she pulled out the big guns. "Your master has also asked that you be given your freedom." She smiled when it got a rise out of Dove. He jumped out of his chair, the white shirt rising momentarily to give the woman a sneak peek of silky-skinned white buttocks. She blushed and said "Oh, my. . . " She started fanning herself with her hand.

"My. . . freedom?" Dove's voice was high and tense, because he couldn't believe it. This had to be a mean joke. "You mean. . . I'm not a slave any more?"

The woman smiled happily. "That's right. The palace expects you to clear out of this room by tomorrow. There will be a private jet to take you anywhere in the world that you want to go. Your late master had properties all over the world. . . a penthouse in New York, another in Madrid, a villa in Venice, a mansion in the countryside of Yorkshire, another in the Moors. . . it's your choice, just say the word, and we'll take you there." The woman jumped up from her precarious perch on the edge of the cot, all business now. "I'm to be your assistant, Mr. . . . uh. . . Dove. Just tell me what you want to do, and I'll do it." She stood up straight and waited for orders.

At first, Dove was elated. Freedom. . . free at last, to live, to love. . . to touch. . . but then, his face turned deathly white. He had to leave the palace. Leave the palace? He couldn't leave the palace. Not yet. He wasn't ready. He started to hyperventilate, and the woman shrieked and pulled a folded paper bag from her purse, telling Dove to blow into it. Dove did what he was told.

He couldn't leave yet. Not yet. Maybe in a year. . . or two. . . or five or ten, who knows, he never did know much about time anyway. The thing is, he needed to take small steps, small steps in his freedom, he couldn't jump on a plane and fly halfway around the world, right now, all he wanted was to play in the garden with the other boys. He couldn't leave. . . then he thought of a plan.

"How. . .how much money do I have?"

"You have close to a hundred billion dollars, Mr. Dove." Dove turned white again and blew into the bag. That was a lot of money, he knew, even if he'd never had to handle it before. People in books always got excited over a million dollars, but this was a lot more than a million dollars. "That's a lot of money," he whispered, when he was calm enough to talk.

"Yes, as I said, your master loved you very much. Why else would he fly from Toronto every day just to come and see you?"

"He did?" Dove was confused, but he did remember how often there was a shining light of the door opening. . . he thought it was just the servants coming to change his clothes for the next day while he slept. If the master loved him so. . . why didn't he ever say anything? Why did he just stand and watch? But he shook his head of those thoughts, plenty of time to think about that later, he had more pressing issues to deal with now, like not leaving the palace. "Is a hundred billion dollars enough money to buy a key at the palace?"

The woman blinked. "Er. . . yes."

Dove breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. I want to buy a key, please."

The woman nodded briskly. "Yes sir. What colour key would you like?"

Dove thought about it. He didn't really want a slave, he just wanted to stay in the palace. "The yellow key."

The woman shook her head. "I'm afraid that's not permissible sir. This room now has to be filled by another slave now that you've been given your freedom. You must choose a room that is occupied with a slave." She rummaged around in her massive briefcase and pulled out a list so long it was almost as tall as Dove himself. It was a list of keys. "Pick a key, sir."

Dove looked at the list. He didn't really care what key he got, just as long as he could stay in the palace. And all the boys he had seen in the garden seemed nice. "I'll take. . . the Iron Key."

The woman smiled; she seemed happier now that she had a purpose. "Done." She stepped quickly to the door, turning around startlingly fast when Dove called out to her.

"Can I bring my books and things?"

"Of course you can, sir," she said and smiled, then turned bright red when Dove bent over and picked up his books, revealing for the second time his above average and incredibly sexy posterior. "We'll have to see about getting him some clothes," she muttered under her breath, then gingerly began the long descent down the stairs in her impossibly high and incredibly expensive Italian heels.