by Sara King
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 set
tle 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.
“My father is trying to kill me,” Victory said. When the man didn’t laugh or look even remotely surprised, she squinted at him. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
He lowered his head until his forehead was resting against the bedpost. “I saw something in his au when you were yelling at him. I was hoping that wasn’t what I saw.” He sounded miserable and tired. Very tired.
Victory refused to feel sorry for him. “My exchange is this: Aside from my brother, I have no allies that my father cannot bribe or control. I have nowhere I can hide where he doesn’t have eyes and ears. But I do have something he hasn’t foreseen. I have you. An Emp. If you can keep me alive long enough for me to prove to the Imperium that my father is a murdering criminal, I shall send you home with enough wealth to turn your little village into a kingdom.”
His deep, pained sigh was not what she expected. “It would be easier to keep a rabbit alive in a den of lions with the tools that you’ve given me, Princess.”
Victory’s mouth fell open. She hadn’t actually thought he would refuse, and hearing it from his lips was a whole new humiliation. “You mean you won’t even try?”
For some time, he didn’t reply, merely stared at the chain connecting his throat to the bedframe. Then he turned his head where it rested on the post so that he could see her with one eye. “I have another exchange for you, Princess.”
She frowned at him. “You didn’t think mine was reasonable?”
“Disappear for awhile, come back to my village with me, and live there under my care and protection until such time as your father is brought to justice.”
Victory’s heart stopped. That was an alternative she hadn’t considered, having automatically written off all native territories in her mind as possible places of refuge, and hope suddenly rushed into her being. Considering what had been done to her, the last place her father would look would be one of the native villages. She felt excitement threading through her being, the first real optimism towards the whole affair that she had encountered since realizing her father was going to assassinate her.
Then she realized what living with the Emp would entail, and her eyes dropped to his arms. She felt herself stiffen. “You can’t be serious.”
“You can even bring a couple of your Praetorian,” the Emp said softly, watching her reaction. He gave her a weak grin. “Just to make sure I don’t do anything stupid like slap a princess’s hand away from my food.”
“Or tear off my clothes?” Victory growled.
He flinched and dropped his head back down to face the chain.
She hated to admit it, but he had given her the best alternative she had seen yet. Reluctantly, she leaned forward and unclipped him from the post. “Tell me more about your village,” she said, as she released the chain.
The slave groaned and slumped forward, his massive body stretching out on the floor on his stomach with a moan. He took several deep breaths, letting them out in relief, before he craned his neck to look at her. “It’s small,” he said. “About thirty families. Lots of children. We Mercerians have much larger families than those of the Imperium.”
“Because you breed like rabbits,” Victory snorted.
He gave her a long look. “Because we have to.”
Victory remembered the freighter’s cargo list, packed with over thirty thousand slaves, all for ‘Delinquent Account.’ With each slave worth a good two hundred thousand credits—often three-fifty to five-hundred for healthy males or attractive females—that one freighter alone would have been worth at least six billion credits.
She cleared her throat. “The people in your village… Would they not suspect something if three foreigners simply showed up with you?”
He shrugged his massive shoulders on the floor. “I’ll tell them I was rewarded for services rendered, a healing of one of their princesses. The Imperium deals in slaves.”
Victory frowned at him, not understanding. “My father would know instantly if I paraded you around as my slave in some native village.”
He gave her a sheepish look. His face reddened. “Uh.”
Suddenly, Victory understood what he was suggesting, and she lunged to her feet. “Never,” she growled.
He sighed. “It’s not like you haven’t done it before, Princess. At least a dozen lifetimes. I didn’t hurt you then, I won’t hurt you now.”
Lying there on his stomach, trussed up on the floor as he was, his promise was almost laughable. But Victory didn’t laugh. “You’re insane if you think—”
A heavy knock on her door stopped her. It was followed by a Praetorian stepping inside, a nervous look on her face. Victory frowned. “Yes?”
Lion was sweating, and worried. “As you commanded, milady, I have been keeping someone at the kitchen to watch it at all times, in plainclothes, registered as a cook’s assistant.”
Victory nodded.
“The woman died last night, inside the kitchen. It was said that she was stealing food and choked on a cherry. Her face was blue. It was found blocking her esophagus.”
Victory fought a horrible welling of dread. “She didn’t choke on a cherry.”
Lion shook her head. “Milady, she was allergic to most fruits. She couldn’t even touch them without a reaction.”
“Were there marks on her throat?” Victory demanded.
“Yes,” Lion said. “But the doctor said that such marks could be made by a woman trying to remove the object from her throat as she panicked. The case is being dropped, as no one is going to look deeper into the death of a servant.”
Victory’s eyes narrowed and she wondered if the doctor, too, might be taking payments from her father’s accounts.
“If we revealed she was a Praetorian, though…” Lion suggested.
“No,” Victory said. “We can’t let them know we suspect.”
Her captain’s mouth tightened, but she nodded. “The cherry was stemmed,” she growled. “Who puts a stemmed cherry into their mouths?”
“She was murdered,” Victory said. The coldness of her voice surprised even her. “Any idea what was disturbed in the kitchen?”
Lion’s face darkened. “The death was labeled an accident, milady, and no investigation took place. There was a great uproar about the new assistant, stealing food, and the Cook made much ado about finding good help. He shooed everyone from the room and refused to let anyone linger.”
It pained Victory to think that Cook was part of the conspiracy, but she nodded.
“I slipped back when he was off to the privy and had left the kitchen to his assistants. I entered the kitchen saying that milady was hungry, and that she needed a snack. No one would dare stop a Praetorian in full regalia. None of those fools, anyway. Your favorite cheese, milady. It was laced with tiny syringe-marks.”
Victory stood up. “I need to speak with my brother.”
Lion flushed. “He was out
on a barracks inspection, but he’s on his way. I hope you don’t mind, milady. I figured that you would want to speak with him.”
“I do,” Victory said, then she hesitated. The thought of her brother, coming here, was triggering another bout of nerves. She hadn’t been able to meet with him alone since she had caught him in the sunroom, still powered by raw fury. Aside from dinner, when she specifically chose seats at the table surrounded by women, she hadn’t seen him. In fact, aside from the slave, she hadn’t had to converse with a man in over three days.
She glanced again at Dragomir. She needed her wits about her for her brother’s visit, and there was only one way she knew to ensure that…
“Wait for him outside,” Victory told her Praetorian. “Don’t let him in until I am ready. I will…” She bit her lip. “…prepare.”
Lion followed her glance to the man on the floor, then her eyes widened and she bowed and backed away. A moment later, the door shut, leaving her alone with the native again.
“My brother is coming,” she said stiffly. “I will require my full faculties for my dealings with him. In return, I will allow you use of the bed while he and I talk.”
Hearing his native tongue once more, the slave craned his head again to glance at her, his blue eyes tired. He seemed to consider a moment. Then, softly, he said, “I’ll need my hands.”
Victory snorted. “You’ve proven you don’t.”
“That was before yet another nine hours of crouching on my knees while you slept,” he snarled. For the first time, Victory saw bitterness in his eyes.
Victory straightened, not about to be manipulated by a slave. “I command you to flush my fears aside for my brother’s visit.”
He snorted and dropped his chin back to the floor. To the stone, he said, “You can capture an artist, put a gun to his head and command him to paint, but he can do nothing if you leave him tied.”
Facing his disdain, Victory’s face hardened. “If you hate me so much, why did you fix my ankles again?”
