To The Princess Bound (23 page)

“You will act normally,” Victory said.

“I will be increasing the guard,” Lion said stubbornly.  “Eight on at a time.” 

“It must not look as if I suspect,” Victory said, “or he will merely set a different date.”

Lion’s face was hard.  “I will come up with some plausible excuse.”  Then she hesitated.  “But milady…  If the Adjudicator wants you dead, you are not safe in this building.”

Victory gave a disgusted snort.  “If he wants me dead, I’m not safe anywhere within the Imperium.”

“Then what will you do?” Lion asked.

“The Adjudicator is a criminal,” Victory said.  “I’m going to stay alive long enough to prove it.”

She ate dinner at her father’s table, and ordered a bowl of pig slops for her slave.  To her surprise, he didn’t complain.  When he wrinkled his nose and asked for help to eat it, however, she ignored him.  It was the delight of many of her father’s dinner-guests to watch his antics as he tried to bend over far enough to eat his slops without falling into it, face-first.

She watched the slave’s face burn, watched his body stiffen at their laughter, but throughout it all, he never complained.  He simply ate his dinner, then sat back, staring at the floor, waiting for her to finish.

Several times throughout the night, Victory caught her father watching her.  Each time, the darkness in his face left a cold spot in her soul before she pretended to turn her attention to a nearby conversation.

By the time Victory finally made it to her room, her anger had all but washed away under her father’s ominous stare, and without its strength to propel her, she felt deflated, hollow. 

He’s going to kill me,
Victory thought, the cold truth settling into the pit of her stomach like a stone. 
Just like he killed Mother.

Suddenly, the enormity of what she had done came crashing down around her, and her world seemed to collapse under its weight.  She looked to her slave, who had quietly stood near the center of the room in silence, then to the door and the Praetorian beyond, the only things standing between her and an assassin in her sleep.

She had to tell her brother. 

Then she hesitated.  Victory was more or less sure that her brother was safe—he was her father’s favorite, after all.  And, if she told her brother now, she was sure that he would try to do something drastic.  As the General Commander of Mercy’s Imperial Fleet, he would more than likely try to start a war with her father.  A war that, as soon as news of it reached the Core, the Imperium would send a fleet to execute him.  Inter-familial power-struggles were not tolerated by the Imperium, and were dealt with brutally and efficiently, the stability of the planet its upmost priority.

Feeling alone, scared, not knowing who to trust, she slumped to the floor against the wall, trying to ignore the throbbing in her ankles.  As her slave had promised, the pounding had come back over time, and, now that she had had a taste of what it had felt like to have them working perfectly again, it made the agony all that more excruciating.

She sent her Praetorian for a painkiller, but when the little pills came in their tiny cup, she reluctantly set them aside.  The doctors had found no cause for her mother’s death.  Who was to say that her planned assassination wasn’t a simple switch in medication, and her father’s surprise pleasure-cruise was simply a distraction to avoid suspicion from Imperium investigators?

It was too much.  The fury that had powered her through the day had thoroughly dispersed, leaving her mind free to be haunted by her creeping fears once more.  She once again recognized that she was alone with a naked man, once again found herself balking at the idea of leaving her room, of running into the men in the hallways.

“Gods,” she whimpered, dropping her face to her knees.  In a single tornado of a day, she had destroyed everything.  Her ankles throbbing, she carefully got up and moved around the slave, keeping at the end of the chain, and went to her bed.  Before crawling into the covers, she took the chain near his throat to a locking clasp on one of the head-posts of her bed.  It would force him to stay on his knees all night, but it would also allow her to close her eyes without worrying that he would try to assault her again.

And, with the many worries piling up around her, the last thing that Victory needed was to worry about her slave.

He knelt and let her clip him to the post without struggle, and didn’t bother to complain when he saw her settle under the covers for the night.  Still, Victoria had trouble falling asleep.  Every now and then, she heard him shift on his knees, obviously uncomfortable on the stone floor.  In addition to the small sounds of his discomfort, her ankles were like throbbing masses affixed to the ends of her legs, and it kept her awake long into the night.

A small, guilty part of her wondered if the slave was feeling something similar, in his shoulders.

Then she remembered the bath and decided she didn’t care.

The Golden Rule

Dragomir kept his head down and followed the princess through her daily routine for the next few days, feeling numb and defeated.

How could I have been so stupid?
he wondered, as he watched her icy mask go up whenever she looked at him.  She hadn’t said more than four words to him in as many days, and aside for the quick trips to the kitchen, to eat foods that she had her Praetorian prepare for her, and the one evening meal each night, she simply sat on her bed and stared off into space.

Something was bothering her, and it had something to do with the lying fat man behind the desk.  Dragomir, however, had not understood the conversation, and the princess had failed to enlighten him.  And he, quite convinced by the violence rolling under her surface that one false move would cost him his life, had kept his questions to himself.

Instead, he gritted his teeth and allowed himself to become the laughingstock of the palace.  Every time they went anywhere, now, servants would walk past him and make oinking noises, then run off giggling.  Dinner, however, was the worst.  He was fed a bowl of what looked like pig slops, and was given no way of eating it gracefully.  The one time he had asked for assistance, he had been completely ignored, so he had gritted his teeth and endured, his face crusting with dried food that no one bothered to wipe off.

Debased, humiliated, Dragomir still felt it dwarfed in comparison to the wrong he had done her.  Everything that he had been hoping to achieve in days past, every bit of progress that he had made at winning her trust, all of it had been utterly destroyed in those few moments of anger.

At the end of the day, he watched her step inside her chambers and lean against the door, relief flooding off of her in a cold wave.  Dragomir was beginning to think that she dreaded their nightly meal even more than he did.

He watched her prepare for sleep, stepping out of her clothes and into a robe, giving him no more regard than she would a piece of furniture.  As she walked to the bed, however, he watched her hobble, saw the blocked energy in her feet, knew it was hurting her more than she wanted to admit.

“Come, slave,” the princess said, pointing to the spot where she had begun chaining him to the bed while she slept.

Dragomir almost hesitated.  It hurt.  Hell, it was
excruciating
.  To kneel on a stone floor, with only an inch of wiggle in any direction, for eight hours at a stretch…  By morning, he had trouble getting back to his feet. 

But then he remembered how badly he had failed her trust, remembered her dead stare as she let him move her body about like a doll, once again saw Meggie’s eyes as the Praetorian ravaged her in front of him, and he went to the spot and knelt.

He did wince, though, when he heard the snap lock into place.

She must have been watching, because he thought he saw her hesitate, thought he felt a spasm of guilt jolt through her system, but then it was gone.  She climbed into bed and lay facing the ceiling, once more beginning her slow descent into sleep.

He heard her shift under the covers, saw the discomfort roiling in her ankles with his mind’s eye.  He had known for awhile what was keeping her awake, but had been too wrapped in self-pity to say anything.  Now, listening to her contortions throughout the night, he finally found the will to speak up.

“I can work your ankles again, if it would help you sleep.”

The tossing in the bed stopped.  For a long moment, the princess said nothing.  Then, in a sneer, she said, “If you think that I’m going to unshackle you again,
ever,
then you are deluding yourself.”

Dragomir lowered his forehead to the bedpost in despair.  “I can do it without.  Just put your foot in my hands.  I’ll work with them behind me.”

For a long time, there was utter silence from the bed.  Then, softly, he began to hear her slip from under the covers.  When he met her eyes, he saw raw determination there—as well as fear.  For a long moment, she simply sat beside him on the bed, saying nothing, just watching him.

“If you try anything, you are a dead man,” she finally said.

“I know,” he whispered.  He was so stricken by the coldness in her gaze that it tore at his heart.  “I’ll just make the hurt go away.  I swear.”

She watched him warily a moment longer, then stuck her foot into his hands.

With his shoulders and knees ablaze, it was all Dragomir could do to find his center.  Somehow, he sank to that crystal core and immersed himself in its humming song, then gingerly spread it outwards, through his hands, into her ankle.  Being unable to physically see the appendage, he had to go completely by feel, working the energy through the long-disused gi-lines, restoring the old patterns that had been cut off.

When he finished, he gently released her foot and waited.  After a long, wary moment, she dropped her other ankle into his grasp.  He repeated the process, renewing the old lines of gi, invigorating the energy there.  Then he let it drop.  “Done,” he whispered.

Without a word, the princess slid back under the covers.

Hopeful that he had gained some favor, unable to face the dread of another night on his knees in silence, Dragomir quietly asked, “Would you please allow me to stretch out on the floor, Princess?  You have my word that all I want to do is sleep.”

He watched her shut her eyes, heard her settle in to sleep.  Moments later, he heard her breath slow, felt her mind and body relax.

Dragomir lowered his head to the post and tried to not to feel the throbbing ache in his limbs.

That morning, Victory woke feeling more rested than she had in days.  In contrast, her slave was already awake, dark rings under his eyes, staring at the floor.  She wondered if he had slept at all in the last four nights, then quickly pushed that concern from her mind.  Why should she care if he slept or not?  Whatever feelings she might have felt for him had been utterly destroyed the moment he forcibly disrobed her.

Still…

With his talents, she knew he could help her.  Perhaps if she offered him a trade…

“Slave,” Victoria said.

When he lifted his head, there was exhaustion and defeat there.

“I’m going to offer you an exchange.”

She thought she saw hope flash in his eyes before his expression grew guarded.  “What kind of exchange?”  He had yet to add the ‘mistress’ or ‘Your Royal Highness’ to any of his statements, but he seemed cowed enough that Victory let it slide.