To The Princess Bound

by Sara King

  Softly, Dragomir said into her fur, “All right. But this will be the last. One last healing before I go.” Then…peace. No more nightmares. No more loneliness.

  When he received no Sign that Life would try to intervene again, Dragomir took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sank his consciousness into his core. The crystalline roar that followed left his body flooding with energy, pouring out his ramas and through his gi lines, setting his whole essence abuzz. Immediately, he drew that energy outward, sinking his mind into the horse’s stomach-rama.

  Immediately, the filly jerked and lifted her head high, eyes beginning to show white.

  “Shhh,” Dragomir whispered, eyes still closed. “Easy.” He gently rubbed his hand against the filly’s side as he infused her au with a rush of calm from his heart-rama. “You’ll be fine, girl. Just another minute or two.”

  The horse snorted in alarm as Dragomir began pumping energy into the lines of gi running along her intestines, forcing the lines back into place, spasming the muscles, loosening her bowels. Yet, despite the horrible feeling roiling through her insides—and the sudden fear rolling off of her—she held absolutely still under his touch.

  “It’s working, girl,” Dragomir murmured, still in trance. “Just hold on.” He watched as the blockage of dead worms began to spasm and squish as the intestines there clenched, then followed the mass with his eyes as it began to move through the horse’s system, jerky at first, but then with increasing rapidity, like mud being squeezed down a sausage wrapping. “Almost done…”

  With an indignant whinny, the horse lifted her tail and let out a long string of nuggets that became more and more runny as her bowels continued to release, eventually becoming a watery green slurry. A few moments later, the clump of worms slid free and spattered to the ground, a white mass of dead, rotting parasites about three times the size of Dragomir’s fist.

  The filly, for her part, was standing with her legs splayed, head low, panting.

  “I know,” Dragomir said, dropping to rub the animal behind the ears. “That felt real bad. But you’ll get better.”

  You’ll get better, Meggie… Immediately, Dragomir stiffened at the memory that followed. He ducked his head to the horse’s neck and closed his eyes, tears threatening again. She hadn’t gotten better. She had died, in his arms, and all his precious Emp powers that everyone loved so much hadn’t even made her lifeless body twitch, after the Praetorian had shot her in the face.

  “You’ll get better,” Dragomir whispered, once again seeing the scene. Beneath his grip, the gray started tugging at grass.

  Two hours later, when Brigamond and his two sons returned with the items Dragomir had specified, Dragomir was still squatting in the yard, staring down at the reins in his fist as the filly cropped the tufts of grass nearby.

  “What did you do?” the old man bellowed, before the three Borers were even within comfortable earshot.

  “Nothing,” Dragomir said, waiting until they came close enough to explain. He stood and handed Brigamond back the reins—and his purse. “Poor thing just took the biggest dump I’ve ever seen over there.” He gestured. “Think she got whatever it was out of her system, though.”

  Brigamond frowned at the horse, then at Dragomir, but made no move to take the items he was being given. “You didn’t do anything?”

  Dragomir shook his head. “Sorry I couldn’t help.”

  Brigamond frowned at the horse, then at Dragomir, then reluctantly took the purse back. Squatting over by the gigantic horse-patty, one of the two Borer boys cried, “Holy crap, Dad, it was full of worms!” He lifted a clump of them with a stick and they clung in limp, ivory-white strands, much like a morbid wad of spaghetti.

  Brigamond grunted. “Worms, huh?” He looked up at Dragomir, and for a split second, Dragomir thought he would try to give the money back. Then the curmudgeony old farmer shook his head and tossed the elderberries and bark he had gathered aside. “Knew I didn’t need to come all the way up here. Good breedstock, my ass.” He gave a disgusted snort and started to turn. Then, to Dragomir’s frustration, the old man hesitated and turned back. His cloudy old eyes fixed again on the door that Dragomir had pulled shut behind him. “You ain’t gotta be alone up here, Emp.”

  Immediately, Dragomir bristled. “I’m fine alone.”

  “My daughter’s looking for a husband. She knows the ways of a farm.”

  Dragomir could barely suppress a snarl when he said, “I’m not looking for another wife.”

  The old man laughed. “What, you’re just gonna sulk up here, waiting for the next girl of your dreams to what, wander through your front door? Handed to you on a silver platter? You gotta go look, boy. You ain’t been lookin’. You been up here mopin’. Like that halfbreed was the only fish in the sea.”

  Dragomir felt every muscle in his body stiffen at the word ‘next,’ but the last made his anger rise. “Brigamond,” he said stiffly, “get off my property.”

  “Leslie’s of good original stock,” Brigamond insisted. “All the Borers are. She ain’t too smart, and she ain’t got no problem with chores. She can cook, she can sew—”

  “She can pluck a chicken in like a minute flat,” one of the man’s boys laughed. “Have it on the table in two.”

  Brigamond nodded. “She’d bear you strong babes, unlike that barren half-Imperial weakling you marrie—”

  Dragomir, whose rage had been rising over the course of the conversation, grabbed Brigamond by the throat and lifted him off the ground with enough force that the old man was almost at eye-level with him, standing on his tiptoes. “Never,” Dragomir whispered, lowering his face to meet Brigamond’s, “assume I want your opinion. Ever. Again. If you don’t get off my property, now, I’m going to cut a few gi lines and leave you pissing yourself every time a rooster crows. ”

  Brigamond’s eyes widened and Dragomir shoved him backwards, away from him.

  “Boys!” Brigamond cried, stumbling backwards, deathly pale. His two sons were standing nervously beside the horse-patty, wide eyes on Dragomir, the worms forgotten. “We’ve got lambs to shear. We’re going. C’mon!” Then he was backing away from Dragomir, one hand clutching his throat. His boys fell in beside him and the three of them put distance between themselves and Dragomir, looking pale.

  “The offer’s open, Shipborn,” the man called, from a good fifty feet away. “All alone up here… Seems a real waste, you not passin’ on that genetic. At least go dally around in the village a bit. Make a few girls real happy. You ain’t gettin’ any younger, and the village is gonna need another Emp—”

  “Go!” Dragomir roared.

  Brigamond turned and led his boys away at a run.

  Dragomir watched them go, so angry he was shaking. He’d heard the same argument a thousand times from well-wishers, snoops, and even his own brother: Go make some bastards to pass on the lines. Like he was a prize damned stud.

  He waited until the Borers’ backs disappeared down the road back to the village before he turned back to his home and threw the door open again. Thor was up in the mountains on an ore run. Gold, tin, copper. His brother wouldn’t get back until nightfall three days hence. When he did, he—and all the other idiots in the village—wouldn’t have to feel obligated to tell him to spread his seed.

  Dragomir slammed the door shut, draping his home in darkness once more. Without Meggie, it had been a cold and desolate place. They had never managed to afford the windows she had wanted, in life, so there was still a horrible draft. Thor had tacked blankets over the openings, but Dragomir had torn them down. Meggie liked the sun.

  No curtains in my home, she had told him firmly. He’d hated that certainty, called her ‘bossy.’ He had complained every morning he could remember, waking up with the sun in his eyes. He’d wanted to put curtains in, and more than once, they had ended up sleeping in different rooms over the subject. Now, Dragomir couldn’t even stand anything sitting on the window-sill to block the light. The sun reminded him of her.
/>   He sat down at the table and lifted the overturned pot, revealing his brew. Without another moment to think about it—two hours had been more than enough—Dragomir wrapped his fist around the little warped cup, lifted it from the worn wooden table, and put it to his lips.

  I’ll see you soon, Meggie…

  The sudden blast of energy through his heart rama launched Dragomir backwards over his chair, dropping him to the floor in a wash of mead and flower petals. He lay there, dazed, staring up at the rough-hewn rafters of his ceiling, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of energy, wondering what the hell had just hit him. Like someone had reached out and grabbed him by the heart and tugged. He was pretty sure it hadn’t been the mead—his lips weren’t even wet.

  “Meggie?” Dragomir whispered, trying to feel for her spirit. “Was that you?” He didn’t think so. Meggie had never been a very strong being, and he doubted she had enough power, even dead, to hit him that hard. She’d been a younger soul, one he had shared only two previous lifetimes with out of thousands, and didn’t have the richness and depth that he felt in on that other end. Richness and depth and…hurt? Terror? Whose terror? It was slamming into him down the tendrils lashed to his heart. Dazed, disoriented, he weakly tried to grab the table-leg to pull himself back up, but his arms failed him and he slipped back to the wet earthen floor.

  “Who’s there?” Dragomir asked hoarsely. Silence answered him. His chest, always feeling pressured and burdened by the energy around him, now felt like it was roaring with power. Dragomir frowned and felt out the new gi pathway carved out of his heart-rama, twined out into the ether. More vast than anything he’d ever experienced before, yet infinitely delicate and…desperate. He groaned and dropped his head back to the earth.

  As the full force of the initial blast died down, Dragomir felt the power drain from the channel, leaving it an open sore, a dormant link between him and some stranger. He knew it wasn’t Meggie. Though ghosts could certainly touch the living lightly here or there, they could never leave the massive, vibrating lines that he now felt spinning out into the ether, connecting him to someone on the other side of the planet.

  The Princess’s Return

  Adjudicator Keene looked up as his son stepped through the expensive double-doors of his war-chamber at a brisk walk, slamming the huge portal wide and marring the exquisitely-carved mahogany trim. Seeing that, Keene made a face.

  For all its landmass, Mercy was cold, rocky, and grew very few lumber-worthy trees. Despite repeated imperial timber-farming experiments, Keene had been forced to import his mahogany, maple, and cherry from a planet closer to the central core at a cost of sixty slaves a ton, and that had been at an imperial discount. Regularly priced, the wood in his doors, end-tables, shelves, bed, and desk alone would have cost him an entire freighter of natives. The void-like marble floor, the soaring white marble pillars, the polished granite bathtub, and the carved jade statuary, however, had been free.

  Living betwixt the glittering granite spires and towering marble cliffs of Mercy, stone was the one thing the planet had in excess. Stone…and slaves.

  “What now, Matthias?” Keene sighed, lowering his pen to his desk. “You know I am not to be interrupted between the evening hours of five and nine.”

  Prince Matthias slowed with a grimace. Keene knew the prince had no more love for his father than Keene had for his son, and it showed in the distaste marring his handsome visage.

  His son, as a Second Generation Royal, unfortunately shared all the physical characteristics of Keene’s late wife, including her too-pale skin, her unruly black hair, her fine bones, and her deep green eyes. With such a striking outward physical resemblance to the useless woman, Keene could only hope that the boy retained the intellectual capacity of his First Generation sire, as opposed to his Fourth Generation dam.

  “We found her, milord,” Prince Matthias said. He stopped some distance from the desk, obviously reluctant to share breathing-space with his father. Good. All the best leaders cultured hatred for something. Keene was more than willing to fill that role for his son, if it gave him the discipline he needed to become Adjudicator when the time came.

  “Found who?” Keene demanded, irritated at the interruption. He didn’t remember sending the boy to find anyone. “Can’t you see I’m managing reports?” He gestured at his mass of paperwork.

  His son seemed shocked by his words, then angry. “Your daughter? The one who was captured by rebels?” Matthias’s green eyes seemed to have a dangerous glint in them, and his anger gave his pale features a healthy flush. It was exactly the type of deadly poise that would be required from the boy as the future ruler of Mercy.

  Then Keene realized what his son had said, and he frowned. His daughter? It took him a long moment to make the connection, so long ago had he lost that particular spawn to the war. It had been six years since the princess’s transport had been accosted by rebels, her escort murdered, herself captured. Once he did make the connection, Keene carefully set his glasses upon his priceless table, the vast mechanisms of his mind coming to a sputtering halt. “You found Victoria?”

  His son gave a stiff nod. “She’s been back a couple months. Thought you would want to know.” The prince turned brusquely to leave.

  “Stay here,” Keene barked. “Where was she? And why wasn’t I told?” He was infuriated at the boy’s impudence, hiding such a thing from him.

  Prince Matthias turned, a tenseness to his heavy shoulders that Keene didn’t like. “One of the villages in the Blackrock Hills. And you were told. I sent six different missives in the time she’s been back. The courier said you threw them in the fire.”

  Hmm. So he had. Keene made an indifferent gesture. “If you had wanted to talk to me, you could have done it in person,” he replied. “And burn the village that had her. Kill everyone. Then do the same to every village in a fifty-kilometer radius. Don’t bother taking slaves. We need to make a statement this time.”

  Prince Matthias’s face darkened as he turned back to face him fully, his broad shoulders almost filling the doorway. “One would think a father’s first question would be how his daughter fared her capture.”

  Keene waved a dismissive hand. “Just bring her here. I’ll question her myself.”

  His son’s face blackened to a thunderhead. “She was raped, Father. Staked out in one of the barbarians’ villages to be entered at will by anything with a cock.”

  “That happens in war,” Keene said. “You’ve taken a few women in your forays yourself, no doubt.” He retrieved his pen and went back to his charts, noticing a discrepancy between two of his balance-sheets.

  Prince Matthias’s disgust was thick in his voice as he softly said, “Victory’s eyes were glazed the entire voyage home. I don’t think she realized she was back in the palace until she was sitting on her bed and her maids were trying to pull her out of the tattered and…stained…rags she was draped in.”

  “Did you end any unwanted pregnancies?” Keene suggested, correcting one of the scribe’s transcribing errors. “Wouldn’t want a rebel bastard running around.”

  His son stared at him so long that Keene had to look up from his paperwork.

  “Are you even human?” his son asked.

  Keene laughed and went back to his work. Between figures, he said, “Remember to send your sister to speak with me. I must determine if she acquired any inside information on the rebel cause.”

  “No,” his son said.

  Adjudicator Keene paused and lifted his head, curious. “No?” He hadn’t had anyone tell him such a thing in thirty years.

  His son stood straighter, reaching almost six feet—still sadly well below Keene’s six-three. Yet another unfortunate indication of his Fourth Generation heritage that was painfully impossible to ignore. “She locked herself in her room and is refusing to come out. She’s been there two months. She screams and goes into shock when a male comes within fifteen feet of her.” When Keene looked, there was dampness in the corners of his son’s gre
en eyes. “Even me.”

  Keene grunted, the news surprising even him. “You and your twin were very close.”

  Prince Matthias narrowed his eyes. “You have no idea.”

  “Tell her it’s an order.” Keene flipped a page in his ledger and compared it to a chart representing Mercy’s strongest areas of cash-flow. “If she is to be a ruler, she certainly can’t be afraid of men. Tell her that.”

  His son stepped forward and slammed both heavy fists into his paperwork. “Listen to me, you bastard. Victory is teetering on insanity. I’ve looked into her eyes. I’ve seen her. She’s at the brink. Is that what you want? An insane Adjudicator to succeed you?”

  Keene eyed his son’s gloved fists in irritation. “I’ll be dead, so I don’t really care. Now please remove your hands before they blot the ink.” Already, he was going to have to have a scribe produce duplicates where the boy’s motion had smudged his ledger.

  “You need to give Victory time to heal,” Prince Matthias said. “If you try to bring her here, now, she’s only going to go into shock. She’s done it every time she’s seen a man in two months, with no change. The doctors think it’s permanent. Psychological trauma.”

  Keene had to laugh. “Permanent.” Seeing his son was going to make no move to obey, Keene retrieved his glass of wine—also imported—and took a sip. He peered into the deep crimson liquid, considering. If there was one thing that Keene enjoyed, it was a psychological puzzle. “You say she’s afraid of men?” he asked.

  His son straightened and gave him a sneer. “Wouldn’t you be, in her position?”

  “No,” Keene said, setting his glass down. “And no daughter of mine will be allowed to entertain such ridiculous fears.”

  Prince Matthias’s mouth dropped open. “Not allowed…?”

  “Go to the stables,” Keene said, his powerful mind already made up. “Find the biggest, most fearsome brute you can get. Affix a belt to Victoria’s waist and chain him to it. Naked. Make her drag the beast around everywhere she goes. Hobbled and restrained, of course. That should make her realize her fears are unfounded.”