Page 5 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
I wrench at the chains binding my wrists and ankles. I especially hate the metal band around my throat. But the more I struggle, the worse the pain gets, so I settle myself again.
Shit, I smell terrible—like dirt, death, and sweat. And this room smells like mildew and wet iron and oxidizing copper. At least when the Princess Bitch was here, there was a scent of oranges and honey, spiked with cinnamon.
The pain is constant, like tiny lashes flaring in a hundred different spots all over my body—but especially in my thigh, where she stabbed me, and across my abdomen, where she cut me. Sick wench.
And there is another kind of pain, low in my bowels. If she does not return soon and set me loose, I am going to piss myself on this torture table.
And that will truly be the lowest point of my life.
3
In Thannira, as in Yurstin, we serve a pantheon of gods, though we show our devotion in different ways.
For most Thannirans, the primary goddess is Beirgid, who represents fertility, lust, and love. Her statues and shrines are everywhere—in plazas, on street corners, in every household, and in my father’s great hall.
A giant statue of her stands behind his throne, between the two great arched windows that pour golden light around the royal seat. The effect of the sunlight is most devastatingly glorious now, at sunset, the time of lovers.
Smaller statues of two other gods flank my father’s solitary chair—Macha, the sun goddess, and Aine, the goddess of beauty, youth, and love.
I walk the pale green carpet toward the royal dais and its twelve steps. The arched windows behind the throne have complex starlike designs near their peaks, and the intricate shapes are cast in glowing gold on the carpet. When I was a child, and I approached my father this way, at this time of day, I was careful to avoid the golden panels on the floor, and to step only in the bars of shadow between them.
My father is alone. All supplicants have been dismissed for the day. Sometimes people come to him and leave with wealth and success, while others with nearly identical matters are flogged and thrown from the gates. It depends on his mood.
With the setting sun behind him, I can’t see my father’s face well. I’m not sure of his expression, or how I should best approach him. This is how he likes to appear—godlike, unapproachable, unknowable.
At the foot of the steps, I sink to my knees. Even from his daughters, he demands the utmost respect.
“Ruelle.” He’s a dark shape between the glare of the streaming rays, and his voice seems remote, disembodied.
“Your Glorious Majesty.” I curve forward in a brief bow, touching my forehead to the carpet. “Padra.”
“Have you obtained information from the prisoner?”
“Yes, my lord. Valuable information about the fleet and its location. I will have the scribe deliver the report to you.”
“What about the border? Where does the king of Yurstin plan to strike us next?”
“I don’t believe the Captain knows, Padra. He says the generals keep that information. But he did tell me about reinforcements at two watchpoints along the border.”
“You can get nothing else from him?”
“Not for the moment.”
“So we should kill him then.”
“With your permission, I wanted—that is, I had hoped—”
“What, child?” An edge creeps into his voice. Irritation. Danger.
“I claim him,” I burst out. “I want him as my first pleasure thrall. If it would please your Majesty.”
Silence. Such a long silence, while I wait, bowed over.
“You claim him?” My father sounds stunned.
“Summerglee is coming. I wish to have a powerful pleasure thrall, so I can make alliances, and—and friends.” I hate this. I hate sounding vulnerable. I hate speaking ofpleasureas if it’s something I need. I need no one but myself, nothing but the crystalline truth of pain.
“He is a powerful warrior,” says my father. “He may be difficult to train. Are you sure you don’t want someone easier, more malleable? You could go to the thrall market and choose a younger, more pliant man, one who already has some basic training.”
