Page 107 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
Ruelle snarls and slashes his cheek.
Cowen squeals. “All right, all right. ‘Joke’ may be the wrong word.”
Ward claws his way upright, hugging the half-empty wine bottle in one arm. “Cowen?” His voice shakes. “Cowen, you—you’re dead. You burned, brother—burned up in the fireplace. I saw your body.”
“Didn’t touch it though, did you?” Cowen grins. “Didn’t check to make sure the pulse was gone. Left that up to the healer—everyone did.”
“No.” Ruelle slices along his collarbone, and Cowen yells. “No, don’t skip ahead. Start at the beginning of the story—no jokes, no secrets. You talk first, Stefa, and Cowen can fill in the gaps. Quickly now.” She takes hold of Cowen’s ear, setting the knife against the rigid cartilage.
“Go on then, Stefa, my love—tell the Second Princess what she wants to know.” Cowen’s voice is shriller than usual.
Ward is shaking his head, sinking to the floor again, whimpering. “No, no, no. Worst blend I’ve ever made, making me see things. Can’t get out of this dream. Got to wake up.”
Stefa looks up at me, and in her gaunt, worn face I see hints of beauty—elegant bone structure, lovely eyes. But she is a shadow of what she must once have been. A woman carved hollow by the terrors of Thannira’s upper society.
In my mind’s eye I see Ruelle’s face, overlaid with the same long agony, worn to the bone, just like the healer’s.
Whatever story these two may tell, it will not change what I must do.
I must get my Princess away from this wretched land, before it eats her alive.
Stefa holds Ruelle’s gaze as she begins to speak. “As I already told your thrall, I have seen the young nobles of Thannira commit the worst cruelty human minds can devise. I’ve been forced to repair the damage every time, so they can do it again.
“Long ago, I took a healer’s vow, to help and not harm. But that vow is useless in this wretched kingdom. It is useless when you are only healing wounds so they can be reopened, when you cannot mend the minds and spirits damaged by the pain. I became sick of it, revolted by everyone in this kingdom, including myself.
“And then I met Cowen at Wintertryst, right after the incident with Nonni. She nearly died, you know, because of what they did to her. Not just the men.”
She pauses, glancing over at Cowen. He nods to her.
“Cowen and I spoke of many things,” Stefa continues. “We discovered that we shared a common disgust with the nobility of our nation, and a hatred for the institution of thralldom. Once I knew I could trust Cowen, I told him of my skill as a Changer, and I enhanced his genitals for him. Well, partly for him, and partly for my pleasure.”
“You—you’re with her?” Ward gapes, looking disgusted.
“And why not?” says Cowen.
“Can she change her own appearance?” Ward asks hopefully. “Prettier features, larger breasts, a new pussy every time—”
“Fuck you.” I step away from Stefa long enough to kick him. He cringes against the cupboards, hugging his wine bottle.
“No, I can’t change myself,” Stefa says. “I am who I am. And I’m loved as I am. Cowen and I developed a bond—more than a bond—a plan to punish the nobility for their sins. To end the cruel debauchery of Wintertryst and Summerglee, and to begin the downfall of thralldom in Thannira.”
I set the knife to her throat again. “I’m not a patient man at the best of times, and I’m eager to make an end of this and leave this accursed palace for better lodgings. So tell me why, in the names of all the gods, you killed off thralls as well as their owners? Why not set the thralls free?”
“Every thrall who has been under the dominion of a noble is wounded beyond repair,” Stefa says. “Keb was the first—a mercy killing.”
Cowen speaks up. “When I found him suffering in that clearing near the waterfall, I knew he had to be our first. And I wanted to take something away from that bitch Umari, after the things she said to Ruelle about my sexual performance. Then we took care of poor Lombard. His mind was sorely damaged from Jilleen’s abuse, from the things she forced him to do to himself and others in the past.”
“I handed you the sun potions they used,” Stefa tells Ruelle. “Both portions were imbued with a slow-acting toxin, and you passed them along like a dutiful Princess.”
Ruelle cuts a tiny slice into the cartilage of Cowen’s ear. He’s panting, terrified, as she shifts the tip of the blade to a new spot. “The wielders,” Ruelle says tightly. “What about them? They weren’t part of your crusade against thralldom. Why should they die?”
“Wielders are just as much slaves to the nobility as the thralls are,” says the healer. “You saw how your sister treated them. They were an unfortunate cost to secure the privacy we needed to complete our task, to keep anyone from leaving during the storm.”
“The storm was a stroke of luck,” Cowen interjects. “A sign it was, truly. A glorious sign from the gods that our cause was just and our efforts were being blessed.”
“You’re insane,” I mutter, grazing the healer’s skin with the knife. It’s been days since I handled a weapon. I forgot the power it imparts, the sense of strength.
“We had planned to kill off the nobles slowly, making them suffer the agony of fear and suspense as long as possible,” Cowen says. “But I granted Luthia the mercy of an early death in her thrall’s arms. She was a sensitive soul. She had suffered enough. I dosed them both with poison from Ward’s stash and then smothered them with pillows.
