Page 64 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess

I walk until I’m waist-deep in the surf. And then I bend over and vomit.

Ducayne snatches my hair just in time, twisting it, pulling it out of the way.

When I’m done, we keep walking, away from the sick swirling in the water, away from the wielder who is beginning to perform for everyone.

“My kingdom is full of sadistic fiends,” I choke out.

“So is mine.”

I stop, clutching Ducayne’s wrists with frantic strength, my nails digging into his skin. “Sometimes I think I’m one of them.”

A wave thunders in, cresting near us and breaking into foam around my waist and his hips.

A white bird soars overhead, lightning-bright against the blue.

“You’re not one of them yet,” Ducayne says quietly. “But if you keep trying to please them, you will be.”

Ducayne and I meander through the foam, away from the others, while my bodyguards follow a parallel route along the sand. We don’t speak, but my thrall picks up pretty shells to show me. I snatch them from his palm and toss them back into the sea, until at last he holds out a flawless cowrie shell, glossy black, with creamy flecks like stars in a midnight sky.

When I reach for it, he pulls back his hand a little. I meet his eyes, reading the plea there.

Don’t throw it away.

I make no promises. I wait.

Salt wind whips his dark hair. Slowly he extends his hand again. Yielding.

I pluck the shell from his palm and stroke its surface. Then I wrap my fingers tightly around it.

Ducayne moves to face me. Trails his wet fingers down my forearm.

For a moment, I am suspended, existing only in flashes of sensation. A wave gushing over us both, drenching us afresh. My feet, sunk in thick sand that sucks around my toes. Salt drops beading on my lips. Sun, painfully bright in my eyes.

Male fingers stroking my wrist. The smooth, rounded shape of the cowrie against my palm.

But there are other flashes, too—a thrall’s throat, sliced open. A man’s genitals crushed into a cage—his body twitching, mouth foaming before he eases into blessed death.

Blood-soaked sand. Blood staining the healer’s knees.

I glance back. Far behind us, the water-wielder is gathering huge waves, rolling them along for the pleasure of Bazra and some of the other nobles. Bazra is standing on a narrow board, knees bent, riding along the curled interior of a giant wave. Meanwhile, long tentacles of water writhe into the sky, forming spirals and shapes.

The wielder is extremely talented, and he’s expending a vast amount of energy to keep them all entertained. As I watch, more of the nobles run into the water with their thralls—distant shapes with arms raised, joyful and carefree.

I did not know Keb or Lombard personally. But for someone like me, who prays to Death Himself, their passing cannot be ignored.

“I will go to the shrine of Arawn tomorrow,” I say, and Ducayne bends closer to catch my words over the rushing waves. “To burn incense for the dead thralls. Will you come with me?”

“I will follow you anywhere,” he replies. I look up at him, startled. He glances away quickly, adding, “Because you’re my mistress, and you can command it.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“And even if you didn’t, I—”

“You what?” My chest is tightening, burning, my heart throbbing so loudly I’m sure he must hear it.

“I—” He laughs, short and breathless, and runs a trembling hand through the damp waves of his hair. “Can you swim, Highness?”

“I’m an excellent swimmer.”