Page 12 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
The “something” shifts more after her sister leaves, when I help the Princess sit up, when she scowls, defiant, and spits out sharp words: “I don’t do pleasure. I don’t want it or need it.”
This woman is knives and bitterness, fierce willpower and a wicked tongue. But I have the sense that if I can get through the thorns and knives, if I don’t mind being scratched and bloodied a bit, I’ll find something at the core of her, something worth seeing—I’m not sure what, but I want to know.
She orders me food, and it is delicious—cold sliced turkey, cold salted potatoes sprinkled with bits of cheese, and an orange. She sits on her bed and watches me while I eat. I’m cross-legged on the thick rug near the broad stone hearth, enjoying myself for the first time in many days.
“What shall I call you?” she asks.
“Isn’t that up to you?” I throw her a challenging look.
“I was thinking of calling you ‘hulking brute’ or ‘shit-eating bastard,’ but those are a mouthful so…”
“Ducayne. I go by Ducayne.”
“Ducayne. And you’ll call me ‘your Highness,’ or ‘Princess,’ or ‘my lady.’ Any respectful terms or honorifics will do.”
“Noted. Your Highness.”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t say it likethat.”
“Like what?”
“In that sardonic tone. Say it with more respect.”
“Your Highness,” I say blandly.
“Better, I suppose.”
“Would you like me to refrain from speaking unless I’m spoken to?”
She taps her chin thoughtfully. It’s a round, stubborn little chin, the perfect shape for her delicate sharp-cornered jaw. The sudden urge to kiss that obstinate chin surprises me. To quell it I shove an entire potato into my mouth. And then I can barely chew.
The Princess stares at me, her lip curled in disgust. “Is that how they eat in your kingdom’s army?”
I can’t speak, so I wink at her.
“Don’t do that,” she says. “To answer your question, I don’t mind if you speak. But don’t contradict or interrupt me when we’re in public. That’s the rule for now, though if you keep annoying me, that might change.”
Once I manage to get the potato down, I venture another question. “What happens to thralls in this kingdom once they’re older?”
There’s a deeper hunger beneath the question—the desire to know if my present role has an end, and what that end might be. I need to know if I have anything to look forward to—some future besides being a sex slave in this enemy kingdom.
The Princess sighs, leaning back on her pillows. The black gauzy skirts of her nightdress have shifted, showing one long bare leg. A very pretty, very toned bare leg that needs someone’s hands running along it from ankle to hip.
“In Thannira, some couples give up their thralls when they marry,” she says. “They sell the thralls, trade them, or set them free. Other couples keep the thralls around to spice up the marriage. In some cases the thralls stay on until they’re past their physical prime, and then they transition to being regular household servants. Sometimes they are set free when they get older, or they’re sold to brothels who aren’t too choosy about the youth of their stock. And some thralls keep their positions for decades, if they please their owners well.”
“It’s the same in Yurstin,” I say. “I once saw a woman of sixty-five or so with a male thrall who must have been only a few years younger. They looked—happy.”
She eyes me quizzically. “We have a law in Thannira that owners can’t marry their thralls. If Yurstin has the same law, that might explain why the couple maintained their connection so long. They may have been unable to marry despite being in—in love.”
She says “love” as if it’s a sour cherry pit on her tongue.
“Yes, we have the same law,” I reply. I can’t help a smirk. “You don’t believe in love?”
“Oh, I believe in it. I believe that it’s a ridiculous infatuation which causes more pain than satisfaction, and is liable to fade away at the slightest provocation.”
“So you’ve never loved a man? Or a woman? Or anyone else?”
“Romantically?” She snorts. “No. And I don’t want to.”
