Page 37 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“And here.” I dampen a washing cloth and hand it to him. “Wipe that blood under your chin.”
“Of course, Princess.”
When he leaves the privy, I look into the mirror above the washstand.
I barely recognize myself, because I’m smiling.
12
“A gold cape?” I ask. “Are you sure, Princess? The gold bracelets, gold anklets, gold earcuffs, gold rings—they aren’t enough?”
“Oh, hush now,” says the maid Meldare. She’s leaning close to my face, applying fresh liner to my eyelids. “By the gods, if only this blasted carriage would ride smoothly for half a moment. No more complaints, boy. We’re nearly there. The Princess wants you to look your best, make a good impression, all that sort of thing."
“I’m well aware that I must appear eminently fuckable,” I say dryly, with a sidelong glance at the Princess. She’s holding the cape in question, a gaudy metallic thing. My fellow soldiers of Yurstin would roar with laughter if they could see me now, in jewelry and makeup and a scrap of a loincloth, preparing to play the bawdy slave for the young nobility of Thannira.
“The cape might be too much.” The Princess’s fingers twitch against the shimmery material. I think of those slim, strong fingers constricting my throat while her knife slit my skin. Those two things drove me to climax, yes, but it was more than that. It was simply—her. Her eyes, her pain, her passion, her form, her violence. When I touch the sore spots on her heart, she reacts so savagely. I love it. And with every reaction I am creating hairline cracks in her defenses. Sooner or later she will have to let me in.
I am not even sure why I want to get inside her so badly. Not just her body, but deeper. I crave the triumph. I will do anything to achieve it.
“I will wear the cape if my Princess wishes it, of course,” I say. “We have a little time before we arrive—tell me, my lady, whom you would like me to charm first.”
She puckers her lips. “Meldare spoke with one of my sister’s maids before we left this morning and gleaned some information that changes my plans a little. Isn’t that right, Meldare? Vienne has been trying to keep me in the dark about everything, but I always have ways of gleaning information.”
“Yes, my lady,” the maid says, tucking away the pot of eyeliner. “This year’s Summerglee has far fewer guests than usual. At the moment, there are not as many nobles as one might think who fall between twenty and thirty-five years. Most are older or younger. And of those who qualify, a number have been declared in poor standing with His Majesty the King, due to unpaid taxes or failure to appear at court at least once per season. Among those in good standing, not all are in good health, due to the putrepox that has been running rampant through the northwest regions.”
“Beyond that, there are a few who dislike Summerglee and its brand of activities,” adds the Princess. “Several of the nobles I had thought to approach are not attending. In fact, I’m not very familiar with anyone who will be there. I can put faces with most of the names, but I know little about their leanings or personal tastes.”
She seems downcast, almost dispirited.
“Think about their families, then,” I suggest. “Perhaps you don’t know them individually, but I’ll wager you know something of each guest’s lineage, their holdings, their inherited place at court. Let that be your guide for whom to target. That, and your own instincts. You can read people, Princess. Human beings bare their souls to your knife on that torture table. You’ll be able to discern whom you want as an ally and friend, and who is most likely to betray your trust.”
Meldare and the Princess are both staring at me. Perhaps I spoke too earnestly.
“By Aine,” says Meldare. “You sound as if you have some experience with politics.”
“Strategy, yes, and a bit of military politics.” I nod to her. “Find the people you want to link your fortunes with, your Highness, and I shall weaken their knees and soften their minds with pleasure.”
The Princess’s tongue passes over her lips, wetting them. Why am I so fascinated with her mouth and her fingers today?
For that matter, how exactly am I going to soften minds and weaken knees? In the past, my face and my uniform were enough to lure the women I wanted—and once I had them in bed, I made sure they left happy and satisfied.
But those were mostly middle or lower-class girls from towns near our training camps and military bases. The people I must entice at Summerglee are nobles, accustomed to the company of beautiful thralls.
What if they want me to do exotic acts I’ve never heard of? What if they hurt me? I’ve heard stories of sadistic sexual proclivities, much darker than my own recently developed liking for the Princess’s hand on my throat.
Tonight, once the Princess and I are alone again, after we have met everyone, I must ask her in more detail how this thrall-sharing is done—what agreements are made, and how much say I will have in what happens to me. Now that we are nearly at the beach palace, the reality of my position is sinking deeper into my soul, chilling my heart.
“I appreciate your strategic thoughts, Ducayne,” says the Princess. “But I must remind you to stay in your place when we’re among others, and don’t presume to advise me or rebel against me.”
“Of course, mistress.” I bow my head to her.
“From what I’ve heard, these nobles go out of their way to show how subdued and obedient their thralls are. At Wintertryst last year, one of the young nobles, Lord Bazra, bent his thrall Nonni over a table and left her there for hours, naked, free for anyone’s use.” The Princess’s voice is tight, pained. “The year before that, he let the men piss on her.”
Nausea rolls in my gut. I hate this Bazra character already.
“I will never go that far with you, not without your consent,” she says. “But I need you to show abject submission to me at all times. You are mine alone, to be yielded to another’s bed at my discretion. Do not speak to any of the nobles, or look at them, unless I permit it. It is not your role to charm them with your personality or your mind—only your body. You exist as an object, a desirable possession of mine. You are currency, paid as I see fit, to further my goals.”
The words grate on me.Desirable possession. Currency. Abject Submission.
