Page 86 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
I’m hauled upright and shoved aside against the wall, out of the way. People are passing by me and the two guards—people carrying a body wrapped in a sheet. One arm dangles, a bandaged stump where the hand should be.
The water-wielder, dead as well. Gods, what is happening in this awful place?
I’m hustled on, pushed into a cell, and locked into cuffs spaced far apart on the floor. There’s enough slack for me to stand upright with my arms angled outward, or I can slump on the floor between the chains, which I do. My back is an avalanche of pain.
After throwing a few more insults at me, the guards tromp away. They don’t bother locking the cell door.
A few moments after they leave, lines of golden light slither between the bars of the door, illuminating the cell.
Groaning, I lift my head. “Healer?”
The Healer slips into my cell. “My name is Stefa.”
“Stefa. I’m—”
“Ducayne. I know.” Tendrils of her magic coil around to my back, beginning to knit the torn skin, soothing my pain. Her healing energy hums in the scratches Ruelle left on my cheek, and in the pockmarks from the scorpion-creatures’ feet.
“Who ordered this punishment?” the Healer asks.
“The Princess.”
Her face hardens. “I knew it. Her pity for you last time was an act. She is just as cruel as her sister.”
“No, Ruelle didn’t order it. Crown Princess Vienne did. I was disrespectful to her, and Ruelle had to beg her not to put out my eyes permanently. This was the substitute punishment. You shouldn’t heal me—Vienne will find out. She’ll punish you.”
“Whatever punishment she metes out to me will be temporary. I’m the most valuable Healer in the kingdom. I can mute my own physical pain, and I have nothing else she can take from me.”
There’s an ache in her tone, a distant wound.
“Have you served at Summerglee before?” I ask. “Have you ever seen anything like what’s happening here? All the deaths?”
“I served at last year’s Wintertryst for a week, before another healer took over,” Stefa says. “I healed Nonni after a brutal gang-rape sanctioned by her master. I saw the Crown Princess cut a man’s belly open for spilling wine on her best gown. I stuffed his organs back inside and sealed him up. Then I watched Lady Imrissa cut off a cook’s thumbs and serve them to him in a bowl of chowder, after which I regrew the digits for him so he could keep working. I witnessed the attempted poisoning of Lord Khal. The thrall who tested his food nearly died in his place. I have heard screams in the night, cries for mercy. But no, young thrall—I have not seen so many deaths at one of these events.”
Horror bites into my heart as deeply as the flogger cut into my back. “Ruelle—she wants to fit in with them. She believes she must, to survive.”
The healer releases a grim chuckle. “Perhaps the opposite is true.”
“Do you know something?” I get to my feet, working my back muscles. They feel almost normal again.
“Me? No.” She sighs. “I watch, and I wonder, the same as you. I repair the damage. A good night to you, Captain.”
She glides out of the room.
If she was lying, she’s good at it.
For hours I stand or sit in the cell, so bored I want to scream. It reminds me of hours spent on watch duty, except then I could walk and patrol.
There’s a torch burning brightly in a recess nearby, and I’m glad of it, because in the shadowed corners of the room I can see things moving from time to time. One of the things creeps out far enough for me to see that it’s a shell-rat—a furry, bucktoothed creature carrying the shell of a dead sea-creature on its back. Shell-rats are coastal scavengers and carrion-eaters, but I’ve heard that the ones who live in dungeons develop a taste for live human flesh, particularly toes, ears, and soft dangly parts.
I will not be sleeping tonight.
By angling my hips toward one of my manacled hands, I’m able to unfasten my pants and piss into a far corner of the cell. Not ideal, but wetting myself would be worse.
A scrape and tromp of boots echoes along the corridor, and I tense, preparing myself mentally for more abuse from the guards. At least I’m facing the door, so they can’t see my back. They won’t know I’ve been healed.
When Ward enters, I can barely conceal my shock.
He slinks in, closes the cell door, and props himself against it, staring at me with glassy eyes. He looks like a gaunt, broken puppet that a child forgot to put away. His fingers are quivering so much he can barely hold thehannasstick he’s smoking.
