Page 94 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“Long ago, the gods were born from the eternal essence of the universe. Beirgid, goddess of lust and fertility, came from the pulsing heart of a red star. Aine, goddess of youth and beauty, burst from the sparkling fragments of a yellow star. Macha, goddess of war, broke out of the ruins of two stars that had collided. And Arawn was born from the darkness between the stars.”
Ducayne clears his throat. “So he was born from nothing. What about all the other gods and goddesses? Where did they—”
I press my palm over his mouth and continue. “The other gods were born of stars, and they did not understand Arawn, who was made of the darkness. When the other gods created a world full of living creatures, Arawn cultivated dark plants with thorns and poisons. He said that danger would make the humans and animals live more carefully, and help them value their existence all the more.
“But humans are foolish. And instead of living carefully, or valuing their existence, they became greedy and brutish. One day, twelve men pursued a beautiful stag through the forest, intent on capturing it and taking its horns. At that time, death did not exist, and no human tongue had yet tasted meat. But the men craved the splendid antlers of the stag, and so they dragged it down and began to saw the antlers off. The stag cried out, but the other gods did not like to hear any sound except joy from their creations, and they stopped their ears.
“The stag cried again, and Arawn heard his cry. Arawn sent a wall of poisonous, thorny vines to encircle the twelve hunters. Eleven of them abandoned their prey and tried to escape. Each one was poisoned by the thorns and died. The twelfth hunter cut the whole head off the stag and used the antlers to shove his way through the vines to safety.
“The souls of the eleven hunters slipped from their bodies and circled the thicket of thorns, wailing. When the other gods saw what had happened, they blamed Arawn for causing the first eleven human deaths. They told him he must make a place for the souls to go, where no one could hear their noise. And so he made the land of Unlife, Annwn. Entrances to his world appear as pits lined with writhing black vines, and they appear only in the deepest, oldest forests. The dead pass through these pits into Arawn’s world, where they are judged in his furnace of souls and then sent to their eternal resting place in Annwn.”
Ducayne frowns, turning his head to free his mouth from my grip. “But what about the twelfth hunter? The one who cut off the stag’s head?”
“Patience,” I snap. “That hunter went back to the thicket with an ax and chopped away the vines. He dragged the stag’s carcass to his village and began to burn it—but then he discovered that it smelled delicious, and he tasted some of the meat. He shared the venison with other humans, and they began to look at other creatures, not as their companions, but as prey.
“But Arawn would not let the twelfth hunter’s crimes go unpunished. He transformed the souls of the other eleven hunters into fierce death-hounds with eyes of fire, and together they chased down the one who had taken the stag’s head. While his hounds chewed the last hunter to bits, Arawn himself took the head of the stag and fashioned it into a mask—the mask of the Horned King. By doing so he honored the stag, and he became a symbol of fear and death to all humans who would commit violence.”
I told the dark tale of Arawn well. And I do not appreciate the warm smile that spreads over Ducayne’s face when I’m done. After all, whenhetold a dreadful tale I was suitably terrified—I mean, affected.
“Why in Arawn’s Pit are you smiling, thrall?” I hiss.
“Because that tale explains everything so perfectly. You worship Arawn not because you are morbidly fascinated with death, but because you feel a kinship with him. He was the outsider among his kind, the one who listened to painful truth when others did not. The one who blended compassion with harsh justice. He suits you so perfectly, Highness.”
“Perhaps I should go on a pilgrimage to find him then,” I growl, settling myself astride his lap. “I’ll beg to be his queen, and you can be my eternal footstool.”
“That might be a problem,” Ducayne says, with a cocky half-smile. “Everyone will wonder why you keep fucking your footstool.”
“I can resist you,” I whisper against his soft lips. “I resisted you for a long time—”
“For a whole handful of days,” he whispers back. “Such a bastion of restraint you are, Highness.”
“It seemed like longer.”
“So much longer.” He kisses me, writhing his hot tongue into my mouth. I welcome it, pressing my breasts to his naked chest. My tunic has ridden up around my waist, and I rub my bare mound against his lower belly, yearning for friction, for pressure.
“Gods,” he gasps. “I’m getting hard again. And so soon.”
“We’ve been talking for hours,” I breathe.
“Have we? The time passed so quickly.” He merges his lips with mine again, and for long moments we do nothing but kiss, and kiss, and kiss deeper. The slick curl of his tongue over mine, the firm pressure of his lips, the heat of his breath—I can hardly inhale, can hardly think through the haze of lust burning through my body.
I lurch off him. Pull him to his feet, tear his pants down. His cock juts out, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip.
“Sit, thrall,” I order, and when he does, I kneel astride that beautiful cock, taking it between my fingers and rubbing its broad head along my slippery folds. The sensation sends a ripple of goosebumps over my skin, and I whimper, I moan, I mew for him.
His breath is quick, desperate, but he lets me use him to tease myself.
“Gods, Ruelle,” he murmurs at last, brokenly. “How are you so beautiful? I—”
Terrified that he’ll repeat what he said earlier, I tuck him quickly inside me and sink down to the hilt.
He barks a hoarse sound of shocked ecstasy, and I grin, snuggling onto his cock. There’s a strange, settled comfort, just having him deep inside me.
Flexing my thighs, I rise, letting his length glide partly out—and then I slam down again. Up and down, a steady rhythm that soon has us both filmed in sweat, panting, surging, moaning, cresting to the peak together—
A voice from the cell doorway startles us both. “I thought I might find you here, my lady.”
I twist around, and it’s Penn, my bodyguard, looking awkward yet grim.
