Page 8 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
The woman hands me a cup of water, which I drink eagerly. I thank her, but she doesn’t acknowledge it.
“Take him to the Princess,” she says. “Dinner is over. She’ll be in her room by now.”
My stomach hollows out at the mention of dinner. I’ve been poorly fed for the past two days.
“Do thralls get dinner?” I say with a smile.
“Your mistress will decide when, where, and what you eat from now on,” replies the manservant. “Come. I will blindfold you again for the walk through the palace. You are still an enemy, and will be treated as such until your mistress decides otherwise.”
I am disappointed. I’d hoped to see some of my new home, but apparently even that is being denied me. The dehumanization I just went through left me with even less hope, and little will to please my new mistress. Perhaps that was the intent.
I could rip off the blindfold and attack the servant who’s escorting me. But if my intent is to escape, I have no doubt the magic of my new tattoo will sense it and send a wave of warning agony through my system.
So I walk meekly, with my hand on the servant’s shoulder as he directed. By the slight tension of the chain attached to my neck, I assume he’s holding the other end, though he doesn’t tug on it.
The walk through the palace is a long one. Now and then I hear muffled whispers as servants or guards comment on my passing—I, a Captain of Yurstin, being trotted barefoot through the halls in my undershorts, decked out like a brothel wench.
We pass some opening—a hallway, perhaps—from which fragrant air flows, carrying the scent of fresh warm bread. My stomach growls loudly.
After a few twists and turns, we enter an area where the cold tiles and thin floor coverings give way to thick, plush carpet that squishes pleasantly under my feet. If I had to guess, we’re now in the wing where the royals reside.
A rap of knuckles on wood, and my escort’s voice, “Princess, if I may?”
A muffled voice. “Enter.”
A door creaks, and my companion presses a hand to my back, pushing me through into a space that smells of hot spiced cider, citrus, and fresh linens.
“Your new pleasure thrall, Your Highness,” says the servant beside me, and removes the blindfold.
My mind tries to encompass everything at once. The row of tall windows, one of them standing open onto a balcony. Blue velvet darkness outside. Night insects flicking their lights on and off, moths fluttering like the gauzy black curtains.
A room—furniture dark and elegant, candles flickering.
And framed by it all, dressed in a lacy black nightgown—a girl.
Slim, toned. Pale hair just past her shoulders. A pert, insolent face. Pouting lips, eyes narrow and green, serpentine, just like her voice when she says, “Why in Arawn’s Pit would you bring him in here?”
This is not the vivacious, capricious, blue-eyed redhead I was expecting. This voice belongs to the woman who tortured me, who cut my flesh as punctuation for her words.
Shock pounds through my blood as my brain makes the adjustment.
“You,” I say hoarsely. “You claimed me.”
5
Gods damn him, he’s beautiful.
I can’t look at him. So I look at the servant instead. “Why bring the thrall here? I thought you would find him a room for the night.”
“We certainly can, Your Highness,” says the servant. “But we thought you would want to begin training and enjoying him. Your sister always keeps a new thrall with her constantly during the first few weeks of training.”
“Does she?” That sounds terrible. I like to be alone.
“It is late, Your Highness,” says the servant mildly. “Should I take him elsewhere?”
My stomach keeps shifting or dipping every time I look at the prisoner—a strange sensation. Perhaps I am ill.
“Leave him here,” I concede.
