Page 2 of Veiled Flames
“Make use of yourself.” One of the footmen kicks her. “The King needs a piss.”
Confusion floods me, but the girl kneels and reaches up to fumble with the dozens of buttons holding the front flap of the man’s velvet breeches. Is this the King of Khotor?
What is his name?
I fight to recall facts from my brothers’ kingscraft lessons, but my brain is fogged—first with confusion and then with disgust. The girl’s upper body jerks to the side, narrowly avoiding a stream of piss that arcs from below the fat king’s belly.
“Gently! Gently!” he yells. Then, in contrast to his demands of her, he slaps the young wench so hard her head nearly snaps off her neck. And still, somehow, she continues to hold the king’s sausage as he soaks the mud with steaming piss.
The King nods back toward the open carriage door. “Our new piss wench is clumsy. Luckily, I’ll soon have a new wife to perform such duties.”
The girl bows her head, in despair I imagine, and I coax Sky Stallion toward the edge of the bank, looking for a way down that won’t risk breaking his leg or my neck. King of Khotor or not, this man is in Achotia, and we don’t tolerate such abhorrent mistreatment of servants—not even those who have the misfortune to be born female.
“Unhand me, wench!” the King shouts. “Can’t you see that I’m finished?” He pushes the servant face first into the urine-soaked mud and then kicks her with the toe of his pointed boot. The rest of the party laughs.
Anger builds inside me. “Stop that!” I shout.
Not a single head turns. The strong evening winds are blowing toward me, and that, combined with the acoustics of the gorge, prevents my voice from carrying down, although I hear their every word.
“Perhaps the wench enjoys handling the royal cock.” Another man emerges from the carriage. He too is dressed in the finery of a royal personage but is closer in age to my father. Is this the Crown Prince of Khotor?
The presumed prince laughs. “Methinks the wench seeks another good drilling.” He pats his trouser flap.
I’m not certain what he means by drilling, but everything about this prince’s demeanor is even worse than the king’s. This man is malice personified.
“A fine idea.” The King drops to sit on the back of the footman, still posed as a step in front of the carriage door. “Get on with it.” He gestures toward one of his footmen. “One of you drill her. And do it right here, so she can hold my rod as I watch. I expect to see every hard poke show in her eyes.”
One of the footmen lifts the servant girl out of the mud and places her on her feet in front of the old man.
“She has soiled herself!” shouts the King. “She must be cleansed before her hands again approach the royal member.”
The footman carries the girl to the river, drops her into the rushing water and holds her under. Her arms flail in protest, but before she drowns, he carries her dripping body back toward the King. Pushing on her neck and tugging back on her hips, the footman forces the girl to bend forward. Her hands fall onto the King’s knees, and her head strikes his bulbous belly. One footman lifts her skirts from behind, while another fumbles with the flap of his leather breeches.
“Enough!” I shout into the wind. I’m not certain what’s going on, or what drilling means, but I can tell that it’s bad. I think again of the red stain on her skirts and question its origins.
Eying a possible path, I prepare to scramble down the riverbank on foot. Even if I tumble, the commotion might be enough distraction to stop this.
Another man on a fine-looking horse gallops from the other side of the bridge. “The sun will soon set,” he calls out. “We don’t have time for this business. Toss the piss wench back in the cart.”
As the man’s words drift up, I test a thick root, considering whether I should descend the bank backward or forward. One way or the other I’ll likely fall, but I must do something to help this poor girl.
Arms like steel lift me from behind.
Someone strong and huge drags me away from the edge.
“Put me down.” I struggle against whoever has grabbed me. “Unhand me!”
A large hand clamps over my mouth as another arm holds me so firmly it forces all the air from my chest. Sky Stallion snorts and backs a few steps away. The horse’s behavior is disappointingly ungallant, but I suppose I should be grateful that he’s not yet abandoned me. On foot, I won’t make it home before dark.
My captor drags me into the woods. His hold loosens and he drops me onto my feet. I brace to run, but he lifts me and presses my back against a large owk tree, and the impact once again steels my breath.
The stranger’s heavy cloak covers a tall broad body, and his head, positioned at least a full hand span above mine, is shrouded under a dark hood that shadows his features in the waning light.
Does this dark stranger evenhavefeatures? Is this a demon, or other creature of Darkness?
No. I calm my worst fears. Such evil creatures, if any exist on this side of the veil, abhor the light, and the sun has not yet set. But even if this stranger is human, he is a man.
Nurse warned me never to be alone with a man. She’s always refused to provide specifics, but claimed if a man ever caught me alone, he would do terrible things to me. Things that would cause physical pain and ruin my future, especially any chance of a marriage.
