Page 72 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
I motion for Ducayne to wait while Umari and I move to the other end of the parlor, out of earshot. The room we’re in is beautiful, with walls painted the deepest vivid green, gilded beams dividing the walls into panels, and gold lion’s-head emblems centered in each panel. Thick gold fringe decorates the heavy green curtains, and the chairs and sofas are richly patterned with burgundy and cream florals, touched with metallic gold.
“A lovely room,” I say.
“Such a lovely room,” she echoes.
“But a terrible day. A day I would never wish—or perpetrate—on anyone.”
She meets my gaze. “Some say otherwise.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“A younger brother. Too young to attend Summerglee.”
“Perhaps you know the rivalry that can exist between siblings. The arguments, the bloody brawls, the cruel accusations…” My voice trails off, because she’s staring at me with a disturbed kind of shock.
Perhaps other families do not behave as mine does.
“Never mind.” I try to smile. “Suffice it to say that I had nothing to do with any of the deaths that have occurred this week.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“And I was hoping you and I could reaffirm our friendship. I’m happy to lend you Ducayne tomorrow night, if you like."
Umari puckers her lips. “Tempting, your Highness. Very tempting. But I must decline. My own thralls are very fragile right now, and pleasuring me seems to calm them. I shall be occupied with them tonight and tomorrow night.”
“So you’ve decided to keep them?” I cut my gaze toward the two brothers, who are kneeling where she left them.
“For now.” Umari sighs as if their existence is the greatest imposition.
I’m not fooled, and she knows it. Her “excuse” is merely a way for her to avoid allying with me. Vienne’s toxic lies are poisoning all the ground I’ve gained at Summerglee.
I want to approach Cowen, but he’s playing a game of dice with Ward and some other nobles. I’ve never learned any group games.
Returning to Ducayne, I catch the thin gold leash attached to his collar and jerk it hard, ignoring the pain that twinges through my injured palm. My thrall jumps to his feet, wincing.
“Do you know that game they’re playing?” I whisper to him.
“It looks similar to one we play in Yurstin.”
“You’re going to play with them.”
“Will they allow that? I’m not a noble.”
“Thralls are allowed to stand in for their owners.” I pull him toward the table.
The other men don’t protest when I push Ducayne into an empty chair at the dice table and take my place behind him. They can’t openly deny me—I’m the damn Princess.
And before long, they forget all about me, because Ducayne is good at the game. Very good. He doesn’t win, but he pushes them hard, raising the stakes over and over until all of them are shouting, groaning, or cheering after every dice roll. His salacious comments set everyone laughing, until it’s almost as if they’ve forgotten he’s a thrall.
“You’re a slick one, Ducayne,” bellows Cowen, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Slick as the royal quim,” my thrall responds—and after a startled pause, the men roar with laughter.
“But which one?” Cowen splutters, laughing as he tips up his cup for another swallow of wine. “That’s the question.”
“There’s only one worth having, in my opinion.” Ducayne tips his head back, grinning at me.
My throat and face flood with violent heat.
