Page 111 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“I don’t like people, Ducayne. I don’t like meetings and strategizing.” Her breath is speeding up, turning shallow and quick. “I don’t want to run a country or handle one war, let alone two. I don’t want to wither away from the strain of it all, trapped in the royal city, hated by everyone. I’ll probably be assassinated before I can make a difference, anyway. I don’t want the throne, Ducayne. I don’t. I won’t be Queen. I refuse, I refuse.”
I take her trembling form in my arms and pull her to me. There are no tears, but she’s shaking so hard I fear she might fall apart.
“Try to breathe, sweetheart,” I tell her, rubbing her back. “It’s all right. It will be all right.”
After a few minutes, her breathing slows to a more normal cadence, and she pulls out of my embrace with an impatient little jerk of her shoulders.
“They are beyond saving, these people,” she says, low. “Maybe someone better than me could do it, but I am not better. I am very selfish, and I want to leave. I want freedom for myself. This kingdom has hurt me, Ducayne. I am my father’s sole heir now, but he—he damaged me. And he won’t ever talk about it, or apologize, because he doesn’t care. So I won’t relieve him from the burden of rulership. I don’t owe him my forgiveness, or a line of succession, or anything else.”
Part of me wants her to be that heroic person, the noble queen rising above the past and setting right all that’s wrong in this nation. She might be capable of it, but it might also destroy her.
“You’re thinking ill of me, aren’t you?” She peers into my face. “I’m sure you wish you could take it back.”
“Take what back?”
“You know what.”
“You mean, when I told you I love you?” I step forward, placing my hands on her waist. “I will never take that back, even if you command me.”
Even now my love for her swells in my chest, like an ocean surging against my ribs, a nearly unbearable pressure.
She pushes my hands away. “I don’t do this, Ducayne,” she says. “Soft looks, sentimental words—they make my skin crawl.”
“Then we won’t do this,” I tell her, with a lightness I don’t feel. “Instead let’s prepare a death rite for Meldare and your sister. And then, if you really wish to leave, we should go, before someone comes up to the palace with fresh supplies and finds this carnage.”
We do not bury the dead. When the massacre is discovered, the bodies will need to be counted by the officials and then buried with the proper rites. But I drag Vienne and Meldare onto the veranda, where Ruelle burns incense over them and chants the death hymn of Arawn.
The storm is breaking at last, and bright golden rays stream from the smoky blue-gray of the clouds. The sand stretches invitingly into the distance, while a fresh, crisp wind blows inland from the rushing surf.
After the death rite, Ruelle and I walk down the steps from the veranda. We remove our shoes without speaking and curl our toes into the sand, side by side, watching the dip of gulls over the sea.
“I’ve decided what to do with Ward, Stefa, and Cowen,” Ruelle says. “We’ll leave them in the cells, with some food and water, and then we’ll go. They said they had a plan to ship out from the Oleyra port, so they must have fake travel papers stashed somewhere. We can find those and use them to book passage on a vessel.”
“Let’s hope they have convincing travel papers.” I poke a wet clump of sand with my toe. “Their murder plans were a bit clumsy. Haphazard, especially at the end. I could have done better.”
Ruelle stares at me. “You? You would start smirking and give everything away.”
“And you would look so sour and mysterious everyone would suspect you immediately. Which they did.”
Her mouth quivers, curves. “Stop. I hate you for making me smile when this place is full of dead people.” She glances up at the pillared beauty of the beach palace. “People we met, Ducayne. People we spoke with, ate with. All dead.” Her fingers drift to her chest. “I should feel worse about it.”
“Why?” I stretch out my arms to the breeze. “We didn’t know or like most of them. And the ones who were decently likeable were still awful.” I tilt my head back, relishing the sensation of warm sun on my skin. “When you’re with awful people, it’s easy to become like them without realizing it, even while you believe yourself to be better than they are. You and I—we’re no better. We’re callous. This is the second mass killing I’ve seen in a month, and look at me—enjoying the beach. I’m not even pretending—I’m sincerely enjoying myself.”
“You’re a monster,” says Ruelle, but her voice is warm.
“So are you, sweetheart.”
After returning indoors, we untie Cowen from the kitchen table and hustle him down to the cells. He fights, but I’m feeling stronger, and Ruelle has no compassion for him. Between my strength and her blades, we manage to get him locked up near the other two.
While I tote food and water down to the cells, Ruelle goes upstairs to hunt for the travel papers.
“You’ll never find them,” taunts Cowen, during one of my trips down to the dungeon.
“We will,” I assure him. “Well—that, or my Princess will become very frustrated with her search, and she’ll come down here for another torture session with you. I wouldn’t be surprised if she cut your precious dick into neat little slices.”
“Stefa will heal me. She always does,” says Cowen.
“You might be right. She could probably heal you, since she’s in the cell next door. But what if we lock you in a cell farther down the hall? How far do you think her magic can reach?” I smile at him, hefting the jugs of water in my hands. “Or maybe I’ll save us all some time and make a bargain with you. I’ll leave you an extra jug of water if you tell me where the travel papers are.”
