Page 55 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
No one will care if I am falsely accused and sentenced for his death. The Crown Princess could kill me right now. There is no one to stop her.
“Are you deaf, thrall?” snaps Vienne. “Lick. My. Foot. All over. Slowly.”
My mouth tastes like blood. I swallow as best I can, put out my tongue, and begin to lick the Crown Princess’s toes. They’re small, white, and salty, with nails painted scarlet.
“Keep licking,” she says, so I scoot forward a little, licking the knuckles of her toes, the top of her foot. After pausing to swallow, I sweep my tongue along her arch and bathe her ankle bones in my saliva.
“Very good, thrall,” she says, pulling back her foot. “And now, you’ll lick Lord Bazra’s feet. They’re very dirty, aren’t they, my lord? They need cleaning by a nasty foreign thrall.”
He grins at her before snapping his fingers at his thrall. “Nonni, your knee.”
The redhaired girl goes down on one knee. He props a foot on her raised thigh, and she removes his leather shoe for him. Then he gives her the other shoe to remove.
“One moment,” he says. “I took a shit nearby earlier. Let me find it—ah yes, under this bush.”
He sticks his feet under the bush, smearing them with his own excrement. And then he walks up to me.
There are gasps from the other nobles, and more than one retching sound. But Bazra and Vienne look violently gleeful.
“Put your boot on the thrall’s back,” Vienne orders one of the guards. “Hold him in place.”
A heavy boot thumps between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the ground. Bazra’s stinking foot approaches my mouth, and I fight the urge to vomit.
“Lick my shit, thrall,” he says.
“Or die,” adds Vienne.
I sink my fingers into the turf, steel my courage, and open my lips.
And then a quiet, poisonous voice slithers through the trees, perfectly audible in spite of the waterfall.
“Get your fucking foot away from my thrall, or I’ll cut it off.”
17
I stalk out of the trees. I’m still wearing my scanty, lacy swim clothes, but I try to walk as if I’m wearing my best gown.
The guard removes his foot from Ducayne’s back immediately. Bazra retreats a step, too. Because I am the Second Princess.
“Your thrall may have killed a man. We are punishing him.” Vienne’s blue eyes meet mine, fury and challenge swirling in them.
I’ve been curled up on a ledge high above the waterfall for nearly two hours, trying to cope with what happened between me and Ducayne in the pool. Due to the thick foliage, I couldn’t see much beyond the waterfall and the area around the pool, despite my vantage point. Maybe I wandered a bit. Maybe I went back to my satchel for a knife, so I could feel secure. Maybe—
None of that is her business.
“He killed no one. I answer for him. Lord Bazra, go wash your feet. I can smell them from here. But don’t wash them in the pool, because that would disrespect Beirgid.”
He gives me a virulent sneer, then snaps his fingers at his thrall. “Nonni! Water and soap.”
Nonni hurries away to fetch the necessary supplies. I’m relieved he didn’t make her lick his feet clean. He’s horribly abusive to her, and I hate it. There’s a difference between what I do to my torture subjects—clean cuts with a clear purpose—and what he does, which is purposeful cruelty and gross humiliation.
“So you answer for your thrall, then, Ruelle?” asks my sister.
“Yes.”
“And you,” she continues, “with your knives and your soft footfalls—where were you when this man was killed, dear sister?”
“Are you accusing me of killing him?”
