Page 100 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
I venture toward the balustrade, planning to lean over it and wet my face in the rain. Maybe that will clarify my thoughts.
My palms press against the wet stone. I begin to lean outward, but the world is tilting again, turning watery. No colors this time, only rain-streaked darkness.
A muffled squeal from behind a door. I turn, listening.
A thump, and another squeal.
Shaking my head, I make my way toward the sound.
It’s coming from behind a door whose handle won’t turn, but the lock is rusty, so I wrench harder and it gives way. A thumping crash from inside the room covers the sound of my entrance.
As the door opens, my mind tries to take in what I’m seeing.
Lord Bazra, gagged and bound to a chair. A corkscrew device encircling his genitals, squeezing them so tightly it looks as if something might pop.
His thrall Nonni, also bound, but she has tipped her chair over, and her gag is askew. Someone is kneeling beside her, bent over her, fiddling with the gag.
The kneeling person is stocky, with gray-sprinkled hair—
He looks up at me.
Master Thranwright. The Manager of Festivities.
At first I think maybe he’s trying to help Nonni, maybe remove her gag.
And then, with a grunt of frustration, he draws a broad-bladed knife from his belt and slices her throat, ear to ear.
Bazra roars into his gag.
Master Thranwright steps over to him and opens his throat as well. The blood has barely started spurting before I’m gone, running back along the balcony. I yank open a door—any door—it leads into a dark, empty room. I stagger through it, throw open the door beyond—a hallway. I run along it, shaking, sweating—but the hallway seems to lengthen as I go—impossible, interminable, stretching on and on. I glance back once, but no one is following me.
Murder. Murder. I saw him—the murderer.
I pelt down a set of stairs—I’m on the first floor now. No servants. They’ll be laying low or staying in groups today, scared out of their minds like everyone else.
My brain is still spiraling, the aftereffects of thehannasskewing my thoughts and tearing at my emotions. I choke on a sob and run faster.
I break out into one of the larger gathering rooms, dodge past startled servants, skirt around tables—and race up to my sister where she sits in a throne-like armchair.
She looks up, eyeing me with vague, icy interest. “What’s all this, Ruelle?”
“I’ve seen him,” I gasp. “I’ve seen the murderer. He—he killed Bazra and Nonni. Just now. Cut their throats with a big knife.”
Vienne is on her feet, white-faced. “What?”
“It’s Thranwright,” I sob. “Master Thranwright, the Manager of Ceremonies. He killed Bazra and Nonni—I thought he might kill me, and I was running—”
But my sister’s face is changing, her mouth curling into a cold sneer. She sinks into her chair again. “Have you taken any of Ward’s blends today?”
“What? No. I mean, yes, but that has nothing to do with—”
“Look.” Vienne points to someone standing a few steps away. Well, not standing, exactly—he’s bound to a wooden frame, his arms and legs stretched to their limits, his paunchy frame slicked with sweat. He’s naked, a fuzz of gray hair encircling his privates.
It’s Master Thranwright.
“He’s been here for the past hour, suffering the consequences for not finding me answers,” Vienne says. “So he couldn’t have killed anyone. You hallucinated the whole thing. That’s what happens when you take a full dose ofcinnarwithout easing your way in.”
“No.” I scrunch my eyes shut, shaking my head. “I know what I saw. Bazra and his thrall are dead.”
