Page 101 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
Vienne gestures to one of her guards, a stocky young man with cruel eyes. “Go and find the Lord Bazra. Ask him to come here.”
He bows and hurries away.
My limbs are trembling. I sink into a chair, digging my fingernails into the crescent-shaped marks I made in my palm the other day. They’re not fully healed, and they open easily, flushing my system with pain.
I’m sure I saw Thranwright kill Bazra and Nonni. It was him. Same heavyset frame, brown hair flecked with gray, strongly hewn features.
I uncurl my fingers. They’re quivering uncontrollably, and Vienne notices. “Look at you,” she says scornfully. “You’re a mess, from one hit ofcinnar.Pathetic. You couldn’t even hold one of your precious little knives right now.”
She keeps berating me for a while, then goes back to taunting Thranwright while sipping wine and playing cards.
Under my dress, I’m grimy with sweat, and my inner thighs feel sticky from the liquid arousal that has dried there. Guilt clutches my heart, but I know what happened in Ward’s room wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know I was smoking acinnarblend. I didn’t mean to take the extra hit—I was too dazed to push Ward away. He did that to me. Didn’t assault me, but gave me a substance against my will, one that forced me to orgasm.
I hate him. I will end him, if the killer doesn’t get him first.
And Ducayne—what would he think? Would he believe me, that it wasn’t my choice?
I grind my fist against my forehead, scrunching up my eyes. Why do I feel compelled to tell him about it at all? He’s my thrall, not my husband. Not my lover.
Gods, that guard is taking a long time to check Bazra’s room.
What if I did imagine it all? Maybe the guard is talking with Bazra, explaining what happened, having a laugh at my expense.
Maybe I should return to my rooms and sleep off the rest of that wretched blend.
I’m about to rise and totter out of the parlor when the guard Vienne sent charges back into the room, his eyes wide and his face taut with fear.
“Your Highness!” he shouts. “The Lord Bazra and his thrall—they’re dead.”
Silence captures the room. The shuffle of playing cards, the murmur of voices, the glug of drinks and the hum of music—all of it stills.
For a moment my sister doesn’t react.
She remains motionless as stone.
Then her head turns, very slowly, toward me.
“You did this.” Her voice is ice and bone. “You killed the man I planned to have as my consort. First you took the thrall from me, and now this. You will die for it, you insidious wretch.”
“I didn’t do this.” I lift my shaking hands. “You said it yourself—I couldn’t have held the knife.”
She stares at me a moment longer, then turns back to her guard.
“Bring everyone in the house to this room,” she says calmly. “Everyone. Servants, cooks, stable boys, guards, nobles, thralls, every fucking soul. Right here. To me.”
The parlor is crowded with people. Every maid and manservant in the place, all the thralls, stable-hands, noble guests, and guards. My sister’s personal guards stand around her chair, and she has ordered other guards, including mine, to block all the exits.
Her sword lies naked across her lap, and her long fingers tap the blade.
“You all know about the murders,” she says. “You know that some fiend has destroyed our wielders and trapped us in this house in order to slay us, one by one. The latest casualty is my beloved Lord Bazra, who was to take his place as my consort within three months.”
Ducayne shifts in his place at my feet and glances up at me. I can read his expression clearly.You were right. Did you know it would be that soon?
I shake my head slowly.
He cocks his head, his gaze penetrating mine, and my pulse quickens. He’s asking if I’m all right, and I’m not. I’m not.
I avert my eyes from his.
