Page 79 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
I’ve always been fond of comforts and sensitive to smells. Not ideal for a military officer. But then again, I never had a choice as to my career. Perhaps I should have revolted against my mother’s plans long ago. I could have run off to be a bawd in some city brothel, or hired myself out as a lover for a rich woman. That is, essentially, what I am now. Except without the pay.
Ruelle has not yet yielded to me completely. And even when she does, I cannot let myself believe that it means what I hope for. She does not love me—she is merely beginning to trust me, relenting to her body’s cravings. As I keep telling myself—one step at a time.
But what if we keep taking steps, she and I, and she never truly loves me? What if she makes a good match—marries a noble man—and sells me, or keeps me on the side to pleasure them both? What if I have to watch someone else touch her, take her—
That would be a kind of torture I’m not sure I could endure.
Maybe my tattoo will erode enough to permit an escape. Though the royals will likely have me tattooed again if they notice it fading.
Would I leave her, if I could?
As the question rings in my brain, she turns around, pulling her hood back so she can look at me. Wisps of her wet blond hair lie across the front of the cloak like shiny ribbons. She doesn’t smile, but when I grin at her, her mouth tightens and she turns sharply, facing front again.
Too proud to show any softness. I shake my head, smiling.
Even if I could leave, where would I go? To the mother who doesn’t care about me? To the army who misdirected me and my company, abandoning us to death? To the kingdom of Yurstin, as devoted to the science of war as Thannira is dedicated to the worship of pleasure?
I have a home now. A strange one, to be sure—volatile and disturbing at times. But with Ruelle at its center, it is the best one I’ve ever had.
25
Worshipers carved the shrine of Arawn into the black stone of the hillside, shaping pillars and a lintel around the mouth of an existent cave. Veins of luminous green snake through the rain-slicked black rock.
Ducayne ties our horses beneath a clump of trees, while I stand at the mouth of the shrine, reveling in its dark beauty. Though the Veil of the Priestess was pretty, this kind of lethal loveliness sings to my soul in a different, deeper way. But I’m nervous, too, because the shrine is unlike any I’ve visited—desolate, untended, and wild in a way that makes me cautious. What if there are ghosts here?
My thrall comes to my side. By his very stance I can tell he doesn’t like this place, and that knowledge bothers me more than it should.
“Inside,” I order.
“Ladies first.”
“Obey me, thrall.”
“Ah, I see. You’re afraid it’s haunted.” He smirks at me from beneath his dripping hood. “Very well, then, I’ll go and oust any hapless ghosts who might be snoozing inside. Wait here.”
His cloaked form disappears into the shadows. Which leaves me standing outside in the muddy clearing, encircled by silent, rain-soaked forest. Overhead the clouds churn, dark with hints of purple and green, like a bruise. A snap of thunder makes me jump and dart into the cave.
“Ducayne?” I call.
The branching veins of glowing green minerals illuminate the passage eerily. I proceed along it, laying back my hood. The satchel with the incense and our lunch hangs heavy on my shoulder, beneath my cloak.
A cold waft of air, like icy breath. My fingers find one of the tiny knives concealed in my corset, and I draw it.
“Thrall?” I bark. “Where are you? If you’re trying to frighten me, I swear I will stab you.”
But the snarl that rips through the echoing tunnel isn’t one that Ducayne could make. And then I hear a distant yell of mortal terror. My thrall’s voice.
My heart pummels my breastbone. I throw off the cloak, drop the satchel, and run forward, pulling out another knife. “Ducayne!”
Nothing is going to eat him or kill him. He’s mine.
Another snarl, bouncing off green-laced walls. A shadow ripples over the emerald light and I whirl, trying to track it.
Something scuttles in the shadows, a scrape of claws, but I can’t see anything behind or ahead, or on either side. So I look up.
Six eyes blink open above me, and a curved tail with a swollen poison pod jabs toward my face. I scream, slashing wildly at it.
The creature runs sideways, a sickening chatter of jointed legs. It’s about the length of my forearm, broader than my hand, with a needle-sharp tail and quivering mouthparts.
