Page 3 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“Good.” He huffs out a breath. “Now, I’ll tell you about the fleet, if you tell me about Summerglee.”
I call in a scribe to take notes while the Captain tells me about the Yurstin fleet. He mentions two watchpoints where reinforcements are being sent, probably in preparation for another incursion across the no-man’s-land between our kingdoms’ borders.
He’s being surprisingly communicative. I suppose he understands that there’s no escape for him now. He’ll spend the rest of his virile years as a fucktoy for my sister and her friends—and since he looks about twenty-four or so, his enslavement will be a long one. Unless she tires of him and kills him one day, out of sheer boredom. She’s done it before.
“Our bargain?” the prisoner reminds me.
“Wait outside.” I jerk my head at the scribe, and he scuttles out of the room.
The servants and citizens fear me almost as much as they fear my sister, but it’s a different flavor of terror. There’s a watchful revulsion in their eyes when I pass by. They don’t love and fear me—theydespiseand fear me. I have never been able to understand why. Nor do I care.
With the tip of my knife, I toy with edge of the Captain’s blindfold. “Summerglee happens every other year in this kingdom,” I tell him. “During the off years, there is Wintertryst. Both events are three-week celebrations of hedonism and lechery, which take place either at the seaside or in the snowy mountains, depending on the season. This year, Summerglee is being held at our beach palace in Oleyra, on the far eastern coast.”
I draw a long breath before continuing. I can smell the prisoner—body odor and sweat mixed with a raw, heavy musk. A deeply masculine smell, a warm animal smell that contrasts with the chilly, metallic odor of the torture room.
I almost lean closer to his skin, but I stop myself.
“Summerglee was created to bring the young nobles of Thannira together, to promote connection and harmony, to secure a stable future.” I deliver the memorized words in a monotone. I’ve heard them so many times from my father. “This will be its fifty-third year. All the young, unmarried people between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, of noble blood and in good standing with the crown, are invited to attend. They swim, play games, enjoy massages and salt baths, and visit each other’s beds. They also bring their pleasure thralls to share. There is lots of drinking, and some of them smokehannasor take powderedcinnar.”
“You sound as if you despise the whole concept,” he says. “Have you never been allowed to go?”
“I was sick during Wintertryst last year,” I retort. “This will be my first year attending.”
And I will be overshadowed, as usual, by Vienne.
“But you have no thralls,” says the Captain. “For royals and nobles in my country, owning no thralls is a mark of disgrace. Is it not the same here in Thannira?”
I grip his jaw. “Hush, prisoner.”
But he is right. I have no pleasure thralls, while the Captain will be Vienne’s ninth. For nobles of our age, the number of pleasure thralls one owns is a measure of status and popularity. The more healthy, personable, well-trained, and beautiful the thralls are, the greater the glory to their master or mistress.
And the importance of thralls goes beyond personal pleasure or public status. Thralls are traded or briefly shared in exchange for political favors, for alliances, to confirm bonds of friendship that last for decades.
“I do not need a thrall,” I say firmly. “I plan to spend the three weeks of Summerglee keeping to myself—swimming, rock-climbing, doing some archery. I will steer clear of the orgies, the thrall-sharing, and the bed-swapping shenanigans.”
My father and the other noble parents smile indulgently on those activities or even encourage them, claiming that such intimacy promotes loyalty, friendship, and a stronger national bond. Thanks to the wide use of contraceptive tonics, no babies have resulted from the events. A small mercy, I suppose.
“It sounds as if your summer will be a delight,” the Captain says dryly. “I suppose you’d better inform your sister that she can take possession of me now. I won’t be giving you any additional military secrets.”
My grip on his chin tightens. I could make him yield, bleat out more information while he writhes under my knife, while blood leaks from this firm flesh of his.
But leaning over him, with his scent filling my nose and his scruff grating against my fingers, I have an entirely different idea.
What if the person striding into the coastal palace leading a powerful Captain by a chain isn’t Vienne?
What if it’s me?
What if I claim this prisoner first, before my sister can?
It would be the only real victory I’ve ever had over her. The one thing she has wanted that I’ve gotten instead. A prize she craves,minefor once. Not to mention the respect the other noble sons and daughters will have to pay me. I close my eyes, imagining how many people will want time with this beautiful man, this fallen leader of his people’s armies. What favors I could ask for, what alliances I could win!
I try to ignore the niggling guilt in my heart, the discomfort I’ve always had with the idea of thralls. True, most of them seem to thoroughly enjoy their duties, but I’ve seen them beaten, bruised, mistreated. It is beneath me to care about them, so I try not to wonder how they feel about being traded and used.
Pity is an infirmity of the soul.My father’s words echo in my head.It corrupts, confuses, and controls. If you sense it, root it out. Focus always on your power, your purpose, your plan.
I shift my thumb, dragging it across my victim’s mouth. He has thin lips, soft and pliant, prone to wry twists and, I suspect, rebellious smirks. My sister will train the smirks and sarcasm right out of him. He will be a doe-eyed drone in her service, crawling at her command, his glorious body bent over before her chair as a footrest.
Or he could be mine.
