Page 42 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
Bazra snorts. “You see? Defiance.”
My stomach sickens. My thrall moved in defense of my honor; but by that single step, and the blaze in his eyes, Ducayne disrespected a high-ranking lord. I cannot let it pass.
“Ducayne,” I say. “Kneel, and bow to the Lord Bazra.”
He obeys, his arms rigid, fists tight.
“Lower,” I tell him, and he bends until his forehead touches the floor.
With a loud laugh, Bazra lifts his boot and sets it on Ducayne’s head. He presses hard, while my thrall’s pained breath puffs against the boards.
“Remember your place, thrall,” says Bazra.
With a final grind of his heel against Ducayne’s skull, he steps back. “If you need some help teaching him a lesson, Princess, I’m happy to oblige.”
“No need,” I say tightly. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go to my suite and freshen up. Please enjoy your game.”
Bazra gives me a brusque nod. Khal delivers a flourishing bow, and Umari curtsies.
“I’ll watch their game,” she says. “Until later, your Highness.”
As my retinue and I head deeper into the house, I overhear Bazra saying, “I can’t imagine a little thing like her controlling a big brute like that. He probably takes his pleasure on her whenever he wants. Who’s really the thrall, eh?” And he guffaws loudly.
“Hush,” comes a faint warning hiss from Umari.
Stuck-up, disrespectful bastard. How dare he, really? I’d like to see him on my torture table. I could carve the bravado right out of him. Peel back his skin slowly, lay bare the quivering muscle. I could change that mocking laugh to a tremulous scream of pain. I could—
“Fantasizing about torturing him?” murmurs Ducayne cheerfully.
“No, I wasn’t.” My face heats. “Maybe a little.”
“Ah, I thought so. You had that gleeful smirk you wear when you’re thinking of knives and pain. To be honest, I’d love to watch you teach him a lesson. He’s the one who let men piss on his thrall and use her freely, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Now hush, and behave yourself.” We’re entering a smaller room whose tall doors of crystalline glass open onto a lovely garden.
With Ducayne at my elbow, I drift outside, drawn by the fragrance of blooms and lush foliage, mingled with the soft sea breeze.
In the center of the small garden is a marble pool carpeted with water lilies. On the smooth grass around it stand a handful of wrought-iron tables, painted white and laden with porcelain dishes of cakes, diced raw vegetables, and sugared fruit. Dainty teacups hold amber tea with tiny purple flowers floating in it. My mouth waters.
But my sister occupies one of the tables. She has only Ethwyn and a single bodyguard with her—she must have dismissed the others to her suite.
Across from my sister sits a woman with angled features and bones as delicate as a bird’s. Her black hair looks almost blue where the sun shimmers on it. Between her legs sits a thrall—a curvy woman clad in a flowing robe.
The black-haired noblewoman is Imrissa of House Weilen, my sister’s best friend and occasional nemesis. I’ve heard Vienne complain about Imrissa many times at the dinner table, and I’ve met Imrissa at a few palace gatherings. She always gives me the same haughty, pitying little smile.
The only thing I like about Lady Imrissa is the way she treats her thrall, Gem. Even now, as Imrissa smirks in my direction, she’s absently stroking Gem’s lustrous hair, smoothing it back from her forehead and temples.
My sister lifts her hand, snapping her fingers. “There’s not enough wind. I want to smell the fucking sea!”
“Of course, your Highness.” A thin man steps forward from a shadowed nook of the garden and lifts his hands. Instantly the breeze grows stronger, bringing a fresh gust of salty fragrance from the ocean, which I can glimpse between the trees and hedges.
“Enzo is the finest wind-wielder in the area,” Vienne says without looking at me. “He’s from the port town we passed on the way in. He usually gives the ships a little boost when they set sail, or holds off bad weather so they can dock safely. But for three weeks he’s all ours. He’ll cool the house, bring the breezes, keep the skies clear—isn’t that right, Enzo?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” The man bows and smiles at her, and my sister blows him a kiss.
I want to laugh, or maybe vomit. Just wait until he can’t keep the rain away or his breeze stirs her hairstyle a little too strongly. Then she won’t be blowing him kisses.
“We have a water-wielder on hand, too,” Vienne continues. “I’ve worked with the Manager of Festivities to arrange everything, to make this a perfect three weeks. No one is going to ruin our fun.” She throws me a warning glare.
