Page 44 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess

“Of course. You and your thrall are new to each other, yes?”

“Very new.”

“I can tell. You don’t touch him.”

Instead of answering, Ruelle sends me to fetch her some wine. I taste it first. It’s the best I’ve ever sampled, and I long for a glass, but I’m not offered one. My Princess, on the other hand, takes down three glasses. I haven’t seen her drink, except perhaps half a glass during dinner at the Royal Seat. She should pace herself.

After a while, Umari’s triplet Keb begins—petting me. Stroking my bare back, my arms, my hands. It feels all right, I suppose—a little awkward. I’m not used to such attention from another man.

“We should watch the two of them fuck, Princess,” murmurs Umari, puffing on ahannasstick while eyeing me and her thrall. “Imagine it.”

“Gods, I’m exhausted,” barks Ruelle. “I’m going to bed. Come, thrall.”

She stands abruptly, wobbles, and nearly falls. I rise quickly and catch her.

Yes, she’s very drunk. On the first night, amid all these watching eyes. She can’t possibly walk out of this room on her own two feet.

“Order me to carry you,” I whisper in her ear.

“Carry me, thrall,” she commands loudly. “Take me to bed.”

My face heats, but I manage a broad grin as I sweep her into my arms. “I am at the service of my Princess.”

I make a point of meeting Umari’s eyes and winking at her. And as I walk from the room, I catch the gaze of several more nobles, giving each my most suggestive smile.

Let them think I’m a whore for them all. But I belong to the girl in my arms.

Lord Bazra leans against the wall near the doorway, where pearly steps lead up to the second floor. His mouth goes lecherously crooked when he notices Ruelle’s head lolling against my shoulder.

“Drop her off in my room,” he says, low. “You can come get her later, when I’m done. She won’t remember a thing.”

Nearby, Lord Cowen bursts into raucous laughter. “A joke, of course. Good one, Baz. No need to repeat that amusing line, thrall—Lord Bazra would never suggest harming the princess, oh no. Only in jest, only for laughs. Ha, ha! Go on, then. Upstairs with your mistress.”

Only the limp weight of my Princess in my arms keeps me from throttling Lord Bazra. He’s staring at me, sneering, a clear challenge. Whether he meant what he said or was merely trying to rile me up, I can’t tell. Either way, he is now my enemy.

I am Ruelle’s prey, her prize—her pawn in this game. But maybe I am something else, too.

Her protector.

Meldare helps Ruelle prepare for bed while I wander through the immense suite, admiring the elaborate carved trim along the walls and the delicate strings of shells and crystals that hang from the chandelier. There are slatted folding doors of bleached wood leading out onto a balcony, and even though they’re closed, I can hear the distant rush of the ocean. I hoped we would go down to the shore today, but I was disappointed. Perhaps tomorrow, after the excursion to the waterfall.

Why would everyone go to an inland waterfall when the ocean is so nearby? I cannot understand it.

Ruelle’s voice, slurred and strident, rises in the bathing room. She’s so loud that I walk to the half-open door and peer in. “Everything all right?”

Meldare and the Princess both look flushed and frustrated.

“She is fussing over me,” protests the Princess. “Treating me like a child. I asked for my knives. I need my knives. Get me my knives, Ducayne.”

“And I told Her Highness that handling knives while drunk is not safe,” says Meldare.

“Go on to your room and get some rest,” I tell the maid. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Are you sure?” Meldare casts a sidelong look at the Princess, who’s sniffing each bar of scented soap in the tray by the huge copper tub and then pitching them across the tiled floor. Her cheeks are pink and her blond hair is coming out of the neat coiffure she wore to dinner. Her thin nightdress has slipped off one shoulder.

“I’m sure,” I tell the maid.

“The guards will be outside if she becomes dangerous,” mutters Meldare, but somehow Ruelle hears her.