Page 87 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“You’re going to get her killed,” he says.
He must mean Ruelle. “How do you figure that?”
“You have changed everything. When she wasn’t a threat, Vienne was happy to let her be. But when Ruelle claimed you, she showed an interest in power, in building alliances. Vienne is afraid she may try for the throne. And a frightened Crown Princess isn’t something any of us want.”
“Tell that to whoever is murdering thralls and wielders,” I mutter.
“I can protect Ruelle. She can marry me and return with me to our estate. We’ll be far from Vienne there, and she’ll be safe.”
Again I fight to hide my surprise. “Why do you care?”
“She and I share certain propensities, a certain preoccupation with death and the delicate workings of the human body and mind.” Ward takes a long pull at hishannas. “We would get along beautifully. We could study together and expand each other’s knowledge.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because clearly she is obsessed with you.” He pushes himself away from the door. “She craves you. She prostrated herself in front of Vienne, foryou. If you’ll speak to her and persuade her that a match with me is the best thing for all of us, we’ll keep you after the marriage. We’ll never sell you. You can take pleasure with her anytime she desires it. We can be happy, the three of us. Her wealth will rescue my family from ruin, enabling me to work on my cure for the plague. And that could save many lives.”
He approaches me, tucks the end of thehannasstick between my lips. “I’ve been with my thrall Anvel many times,” he says quietly. “I know everything about pleasuring men as well as women. Anything you want, I will do.”
I draw in a deep breath of thehannas. He retrieves the stick and fits his parted mouth to mine as I exhale. His tongue flicks between my teeth, teasing, testing. He tastes bitter, sour—there is a sickness in him that coats my tongue.
When he breaks the kiss, I say, “You’re dying, aren’t you?”
His jaw tightens. “Healers can’t fix me. I may have a decade or so left. That’s why I need her money and her mind to help me finish my work and enjoy my remaining years. Pleasure and purpose. That’s all I hope for. That, and perhaps a touch of vengeance.”
Something glitters in his eyes, sharp and malevolent. But it’s gone the next second.
He runs a hand along my abdomen, my chest. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “I envy you this body. It would be a pity to see it rot away in death. Speak to your Princess for me, will you?” And with a quick kiss to my cheek, he leaves the cell.
27
“Calm? Why should we stay calm?” Luthia’s voice rises to a shriek. Her olive skin looks a shade paler than usual, and her hair is an unfettered tangle. She’s running her fingers through it, over and over, pulling a strand out now and then.
Her thrall Sherad collects her hands in his, trying to stop her, but she shakes him off and shoves him back. “Don’t try to manage me, Sherad! Don’t you understand? We cannot get out of this wretched place! I can’t bear it. You know I cannot stand being trapped. Oh gods. Oh gods…”
“Shut her up, someone, or I will,” snaps Vienne from the couch where she’s lounging.
“Come on then,” Cowen says, beckoning to Luthia and Sherad. “Let’s find Ward. I’m sure he has something nice to settle you down, help you sleep. That’s what you need, isn’t it, dear? A nice sleep.”
The three of them leave the room.
Hennessy and Ethwyn have been standing quietly behind Vienne’s couch. As Luthia’s wails fade, Vienne catches Hennessy by his neck chain and pulls him down to her.
“Kiss me,” she orders. “And you, Ethwyn, come lie on me. Soothe me.”
Ethwyn drapes himself over her, settling his hip between her legs and fondling her breast. She sighs into Hennessy’s mouth while she strokes Ethwyn’s lovely hair.
What a queen, indulging herself while people are dying around her. I can barely restrain a disdainful laugh.
I rise from my own seat and walk to the window, watching purple lightning flash far away over the ocean. Vienne ordered me not to leave her sight. She wants to make sure I don’t go to Ducayne.
I hate my sister so much I can hardly breathe.
Lady Imrissa glides up beside me. Her thrall Gem is at her elbow. “Luthia is touched in the head,” she says lightly. “Imagine pulling out your own hair.” She smooths her glossy black tresses.
“She’s just nervous,” I mutter.
“She’salwaysnervous. At Wintertryst she could barely function without paper in her hands. Always folding and fiddling.” Imrissa laughs.
