The Savage Principle

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Pompous ass.

  Raymond threw a withering glance behind him and made an effort to sit straighter in his gilded chair. Not that it mattered, his first look at Princess Ada would have brought him up straightaway.

  She was lovely, if in a remote and cold way.

  Raymond watched his intended float forward, a gown of the deepest blue, near-black, dragged behind her as a servant held the train. The season was warm, yet she wore velvet. It was a strange choice as summer had not yet fully waned. The sphere was somewhat permeable and did allow for a subtle change of seasons. When the snow fell Outside, the air became cool inside the sphere. Though not cold, it was cooler. Still, it was not yet cool enough for velvet. Raymond's eyes appraised her in the typical detached manner of the royals, his emotions carefully in check. She was thin to the point of boniness, her cheekbones too prominent in an angular face, eyes so deep a chocolate they looked like melted black candle wax. Her hair was her most outstanding feature, so deep a black it had a bruised quality under the glowing lights of gas that released their steam as she reached the base of the dais.

  Ada flicked her eyes to Raymond's and then gave a smooth and deep courtesy. Raymond stood automatically, holding out his hand. The deep navy satin of her gloved palm slid into his as she rose and he was a little taken aback by her height.

  It was very near Rowenna's. To his chagrin, he found his thoughts comparing, referencing, and just simply on her with more frequency than he was comfortable.

  He guided his future wife to her seat on the dais and before she could settle herself inside the confines of the throne that had stood empty for a decade, her maidservant was at her elbow with a goblet.

  Raymond frowned, it was a mite early for the beverage of grapes, he thought. On the heels of that he was troubled over her consuming a beverage that was typically had by persons of ten and eight or older. He knew Ada to be a mere ten and six. He gave an internal shrug. She was from another sphere, perhaps their cultural norms varied in this instance. Amongst others. Certainly there was some deviation as she was allowed to marry before ten and eight as was the habit in the Kingdom of Ohio.

  Advisor Pierce stood, happy to make a speech so he might hear his own insufferable words. Raymond gave a small groan of distaste that he was sure Ada heard as a small smile twitched at her lips and Raymond cupped his hand over his mouth, feigning clearing his throat when he really wished to laugh over the self-congratulatory Pierce.

  “We have come together this day to introduce the future Queen of our Kingdom.” Pierce gave Ada a look of deference that he would never bestow on Raymond, for Ada seemed most adept at protocol, royal and otherwise. Her back was ramrod straight, her deep ebony hair with every strand in perfect order and her dress covered even the hint of an ankle. Those long legs were curled and modestly tucked at attention in perfect alignment underneath the smaller version of the throne that Raymond held.

  She really was the perfect choice for the kingdom. As Uncle had extolled, They were the greediest sphere by far, and the least likely to be interbred. His eyebrows had raised and he had added, and she has agreed to the falsehood of the pregnancy.

  Now it was clear that the first child of the kingdom of Ohio would not be their biological child but Raymond's with a Savage of the Outside.

  He listened to the Kingdom's advisor drone on like a dying bee about the benefits of their union as Ada sat stiffly in the throne beside him.

  Raymond's thoughts were on another woman, in another time and place. So deeply entrenched were they that he almost embarrassed the entire kingdom by not taking his cue.

  “Prince Raymond,” Pierce said in a hectoring tone and Raymond realized his mind had wandered and that he had been addressed more than once.

  Thankfully, he had been drilled in royal protocol since toddlerhood and stood, as Ada's keenly intelligent eyes lit on his face, the question of his delay in leading her to the banquet table alive in those deep onyx pools.

  He held out his arm and she looped hers though it.

  When they arrived at the royal table, heaped high with foodstuffs of every variety, even the much-coveted tangerines, Raymond deferred to Ada as was customary. “Where shall we sit?” he asked.

  Ada's eyes were those of a hawk when she studied the table for a moment, her eyes catching the low sparkle of a cut glass decanter, the contents filling it like blood, then she answered, “At the head, of course.” Her voice was haughty with indifference.

  Raymond felt a frown slide into place between his brows, following her gaze, seeing that she had spied the deep red grapes used for the wine that came with every evening meal.

  His disquiet over her habits deepened. What had he entered into? And with whom?

  He would soon find out that his arrangement with Rowenna was the only one that held even a drop of happiness.

  Chapter 4

  Rowenna was hiding in one of the many places she went to when she wished to be alone in her thoughts. It was difficult to be female in the clans, more difficult still when one was a select.

  Her hair lay like a damp coil between her shoulder blades, she had barely taken the time to dry off with the small towel she kept at the ready in her rucksack. Alone time was precious.

  The smell of fresh hay and a mucked out stall soothed her. She lay back on the unused bales in the loft, listening to the sounds of the noises the animals made. Soft whinnies from the horses, a swish of a tail and a stomp of a hoof were the music of the great stable where the horses of the Band were housed.

  They were used each day to scout for Fragment. Oh... how Rowenna wished to be amongst them. She was female but as seasoned in daily sparring as any that rode after the vagrant group who pillaged everyone who was weaker, who did not have protectors. Rowenna had too many by far.

  She was the only select in her clan. There were three in the Clan of Massachusetts. She sighed. They were all proper females, courted, and after the Rite of the Select, busy tittering about their upcoming joining.

  Rowenna loved Rolland... yet, she was bright enough to know she was not in love. Aye, she had heard that therein lies the difference. She was not immune to feminine conversation and had come upon it from time to time. The females claimed that you could love a man or you could love the very air he breathed, suffocate without him in it.

  Rowenna had scoffed. The males were... something to be thankful for... as they kept the clan secure. They were Band and that was all. It really was not complicated to grab hold of. Yet, when love had struck her it had been vicious and unforeseen.

  “Rowenna!” Harland hissed from beneath her.

  Rowenna extracted the stiff strand of hay she had been chewing on and without moving answered, “What say you?” A fire lit deep within her belly at just the sound of his voice.

  She could almost see Harland's look of consternation. “They be looking all about for you. Rolland is settling into a panic...”

  Rowenna slapped her palms down on the rough wood with a huff. He certainly did not feel the least bit of panic when he stalked off earlier.

  She sprung up and walked to the ladder, looking down at the stable boy. Which was not entirely fair, he was much more than that, Rowenna knew. He had a decent amount of the blood of the Band, though he did not possess throat slits. No matter, he had the physique that was so reflective of the warriors who protected her people. Right now, his strong arms were crossed over his chest and he was glaring up at her.

  He also ignited the blood between them like a fire in the dry patches of fields that lay all around the clan where they lived.

  “Get down here and take care, Rowenna!” he said and turned away to afford her privacy as she descended because she had nothing on underneath her tunic save linen undergarments. Her lips curled into a smirk at his prim deference for she knew he wanted nothing more than to touch her, hold her... be with her. They fought their mutual biology like a siren's wail.

  As she shimmied down the ladder, Rowenna knew her mother would faint at her in men's
breeches in any event. However, Rowenna thought them a fine thing for riding a steed. Horsehair was itchy and uncomfortable against her bare legs; the linen afforded not the slightest barrier against the abrasion. She reached the end of the beaten and smooth rungs of the ladder with the easy movements of practice, hopping lightly to the ground that was littered with hay, the dirt packed hard from the animals' travels in and out of the large wooden building. The smell of stable and sea crashed into her, instantly lightening her spirits, the scents of her home a comfort.

  Harland turned, towering over her, all the height and strength of the Band yet relegated to tending the animals. Rowenna knew a secret which he did not: he would soon be moving to duties of the Band. He was not Band enough for scouting, yet he could offer the security that was so necessary right here in the clan. He did not complain, even though since they had been small Harland had watched the males go about their business of protection with an avid attention. The life of a half-breed was a difficult one. The blood manifested as it wished, without rhyme nor reason. Some of little Band descent acquired throat slits, but none of the physical prowess... it was very unpredictable. Rowenna thought it better to have all the blood of the Band or nothing. To be constrained to half duties or never mate with a female because they must all be with the warriors was a life of envy and existence, not fully living. She realized that more as time went on.

  Since she and Harland had come of age, she had kept a polite distance as pretense. It would not do for her to get close to any male who had Band running in his veins but could not take part in the Rite. Especially him. She felt the pull of him, she always had. Was it not possible that some blood called more strongly than others, though not a full-blood?

  Rowenna had always had doubts. She had been raised to believe that only full-bloods could partake in the Rite. The contention was that persons who were of mixed-blood simply could not expect to have that enigmatic response which brought the select and the male of the Band who was the correct mate for her.

  Rowenna no longer wondered if that were true, for Harland was very much Band. Except for the lack of throat slits, he could be a warrior. His father still ran the raids with the Band, his mother was a female from another clan, yet not select. Most females from the clans were alive simply because they possessed some blood of the Band. It was indeterminate how much Harland's mother possessed. No matter, it was but days until Harland discovered the animals would be tended by another. While he became part of securing the clan by the sea making his proximity to her all the more dangerous.

  Yet, again... she knew him to be so much more.

  Currently, he was giving her a tongue lashing as he paced in front of her and her lips twitched at his blatant irritation. “You are too important by far to give everyone a start...”

  She rolled her eyes, so perpetually tired of all the fuss over her beleaguered status as select. “Harland,” Rowenna interrupted his tirade in a throaty whisper.

  He stopped pacing and gave her a look, then shook his head, a dark chocolate strand of hair dropping to curl under his strong jaw. “No,” he rasped. “Do not look at me like that, Rowenna.” Harland's hands balled into fists as she prowled toward him. He could not help it, his eyes followed her svelte form, all curves of the female that were wrapped in the lithe skin of a warrior and swallowed over the sudden lump in his throat. Her sultry stroll as she walked closer ignited the flame he kept squelched at all times.

  How Harland wanted her, had always wanted her.

  She came to stand right in front of him and trailed a finger down the front of the tunic that he wore like all men of the Clan and he felt his hands clench into fists at her nearness. When her eyes sought his in the gloom their pale color, very like the sea appeared as a cat's, nearly reflective and he caught her finger in his hand. “Do not. Rolland is my friend.”

  “I do nothing.” Rowenna met his stare with impunity, feeling the heated awkwardness of their closeness, the impropriety running between them both.

  “Aye, you do. You know how I feel for you, that it is not allowed, yet you hide here in the stable, hiding from your parents, your intended, your... everything.”

  Rowenna ignored his truths. Instead she asked, “Did you tell them?”

  He shook his head, dropping her hand and stepping back as if burnt by her touch, his chestnut hair swept into a tight binding at his nape. “I have said nothing. I am the one out of the two of us that tries for fairness and the rational,” he said with more than a trace of sarcasm as his eyes stared into hers and she huffed, turning her back on him. When the silence stretched between the two of them he came to stand behind her. She felt his strong hands drop on her shoulders. “Rowenna.” His voice tickled beside the shell of her ear, his skin burning on hers.

  He moved her pale wheat-colored hair away from the sensitive skin of her neck and buried the tip of his nose against her throat. He spoke against her flesh, heat washing over them both, “In another time, another life, it might have been different between us.” His hands caressed the skin of her arms in a long pull that caused goosebumps to rise in response.

  All the heat of the Band yet none of the rights, she mourned in an embrace that felt tailored for her and her alone, customized for her soul.

  Rowenna let her head drop back against the one she really loved, a half-breed Band who loved her through a wall of glass. Their romance was strictly forbidden. She did feel that burn of the blood when she was held by Rolland, she felt a young woman's lust of a sort for the sphere-dweller yet that was by necessity, fueled by curiosity and his kindness.

  Yet it was Harland who made her flame with unrequited passion.

  Both heard the males of the Band calling her name and she turned and smoothly came to her tiptoes. She gripped the back of Harland's neck, her fingers tangling in his hair and kissed him.

  “I adore you,” she whispered, her lips releasing his, her forehead pressed against his.

  He said nothing, his hands latching onto her hips. Then with a gentle push, he set her away from him.

  “Go,” he whispered, his heart in his aqua eyes. Then he suddenly called out, “Wait!” Rowenna turned, her hair fanning around her at the sudden movement.

  “I must know.” His eyes drilled into her, burning twin holes like the sea on fire. “Did he touch you?” Harland asked.

  Their hearts beat in their eyes as they looked at each other.

  She shook her head and he breathed again, as did she.

  Whirling, she blurred to the door of the stable, slapping her palm against the warmth of the brass latch, she slid it aside and burst into the field, escaping what she could not have and her eyes met those of Rolland.

  His held anger.

  Hers held sadness.

  Inside the stable, a male who was far more Band than any knew, fought not to go after the female that he loved, the only one who he had ever loved. Yet he knew it was not to be. All knew that select mated with full Band.

  Lesser-bloods had no hope.

  Yet a length of hope hung just out of reach and Harland could not help but take a running leap toward the twine before it unraveled.

  *

  “What say you?” Rolland stomped to Rowenna, her arms already crossed and a glint in her eye.

  “I need time to be alone!” she said, stalking off and he grabbed her arm, turning her. “Be alone all you wish as long you are within the womb of the Band, Rowenna.”

  His eyes searched hers and she looked at where his hand lay like a brand upon her and he dropped it. “Must we always war with each other?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she hissed. “I have respect for all who are Band, but I am not a stupid, helpless female!” Rowenna snapped.

  Rolland glared at her. “Oh aye, I know that you are not stupid!” he raged. “No person could be this irritating if they were!”

  Rowenna's jaw dropped open. He was such... a swine, she supplied in high irritation.

  Then he was in her face, grabbing both her arms, ready to shake
her. “Yet helpless you be. If there were many of the Fragment about, how many would it take for them to make off with you, eh?” His dark eyes burned into her and she dropped hers. He shook her once, hard. “How many could you kill before they would overwhelm you Rowenna?” He dropped his hands from her body as other males approached and lowered his voice, the emotion vibrating in its tone. “What is the single greatest advantage the Fragment have?”

  Rowenna knew the answer and hated Rolland for reminding her of it.

  “It is numbers, my dear little fool...” Rolland answered softly for her, his voice trying for tenderness and Rowenna spun on her heel and ran. She ran from the man she was meant to be with, from the male she wished to be with, from the one who traveled a great distance that she must be with.

  Rowenna ran.

  Their eyes followed, but not their footsteps. Rowenna burst into her family's summer dwelling, tore past her mother and shut the flap that gave her the barest semblance of privacy and cried her eyes out.

  *

  Raymond suffered through the entire meal as he watched Princess Ada with growing horror.

  She was in obvious thrall over the cups. Her consumption was impressive given her size. It was all Raymond could do not to put his head in his hands then and there. This was his future Queen? A young woman who had a problem with the fruit of the vine. His eyes caught Peter's who stayed a discreet distance from the banquet table should he need something.

  Raymond did not. Yet he would give much to escape some of his obligation. Not all but some.

  Finally the supper came to an end, for which he was most grateful, as an unsteady and glaze-eyed Ada rose to her feet. She did not stagger and seemed to be alarmingly lucid despite her consumption of the beverage known for changing personalities in a matter of hours.