To The Princess Bound

by Sara King

  Victory despised painting her face, and the makeup they used was just enough to cover up the dark rings of emaciation under her eyes that the doctors had insisted would go away with time, food, and rest.

  Once they had finished, they carried her silver, ermine-trimmed cloak over to her and draped it around her shoulders, fastening it in place with gold-and-emerald clasps. Her slippers were last, silver to match her cloak.

  When she was done, Victory stood and turned to the slave on her bed.

  Dragomir’s mouth was open. At her raised brow, however, he quickly shut it and looked at the embroidered black bedcovers between his legs.

  “Wrap him in a sheet,” Victory ordered. “Pin it closed with something nice.”

  Carrie, the more outgoing of her two handmaidens, giggled and moved to the other side of the bed to pick up the sheet that had fallen to the floor. Dragomir turned, warily, watching her.

  “Stand up,” Victory told him. “She’s going to give you something to wear.”

  Gingerly, he inched his way across the bed on his knees until he could slip his legs off the other side. Seeing the object swinging between his thighs, Victory quickly averted her eyes.

  Jolene, on the other hand, stared. “Oh my gods, milady, he’s…” Then she blushed and caught herself. On the other side of the room, Carrie giggled and stroked her hand across Dragomir’s rump. Dragomir stiffened, looking nervous. “…huge,” she finished, stopping to stand in front of the massive slave with an approving look. “Look at the muscles on him. Like an ox.” She reached up and casually slapped a big bicep, making Dragomir wince. “And his bits…” She reached for crux of his legs, and Dragomir tensed.

  Seeing her handmaiden grab the man’s genitals and heft them with no more concern than if she were judging the freshness of an apple, Victory fought a sudden rush of anger, remembering similar treatment at the hands of her own captors.

  “You forget yourself, girl,” Victory growled, not liking the anxious lines in Dragomir’s face. “That slave is mine.”

  Carrie gasped and quickly curtseyed low. “My apologies, milady. I just thought that—”

  “Whatever you thought, you were wrong,” Victory growled. “Finish affixing the sheet and leave.”

  Red-faced, head down, Carrie hurried to complete the task that had been given to her, fumbling three times with the little mermaid pin as her trembling hands tried to fasten the sheet to the man’s hips, then quickly excused herself.

  “I want it made clear,” Victory told Jolene, “That no slave of mine will suffer through what I once did.”

  “Yes, milady,” Jolene said, bowing low to follow her friend out. Then she paused at the door, a shy smile on her face. Her blue eyes drifted back to the slave and she nodded at him. “It’s good to see you so much…better…milady.” Then she turned and fled.

  Victory considered. She was doing better, wasn’t she? She glanced over her shoulder at the slave, considering.

  “What was that all about?” Dragomir asked. He had let out a breath once the sheet had been securely cinched around his waist, and some of the edge had left his stance.

  “Misguided staff,” Victory said. “It won’t happen again.”

  He gave her a look filled with such gratitude that Victory felt ashamed that she hadn’t given the order sooner. She cleared her throat to hide her embarrassment.

  “Let’s go,” Victory said. “My Father, damn him, is not going to let us eat until we face the world.” Even as she said it, she cringed at the open door and the Praetorian beyond.

  “I’m here,” the man said softly.

  Victory swung to face him, her irritation seeping into her voice despite her efforts to control it. “You have no idea what this is going to do to me. I’m a princess, and I’m probably going to end up bawling in a corner halfway to the breakfast table.”

  “No, you won’t,” he said.

  At the plaintive way he said, Victory froze. She looked him up and down, hope starting to work its way into her chest. “You can do that?” she asked, tentatively.

  “Would be better if I had my hands free, but I’ll do my best.” He gave her a shy smile. “Just make sure somebody feeds me soon. That kind of work uses up a lot of energy. Eggs would be nice. Sausage would be better.”

  “You keep me from embarrassing us both,” Victory said, “And you can have all the eggs and sausage you want.”

  He chuckled. “I’m going to hold you to that, Princess.”

  “My name is Victoria,” she said, hesitating as she tried to work up her courage to walk out the door. “You can call me Victory. My brother does.” Victory closed her eyes, steeled herself, and stepped through the threshold.

  Dragomir did his best to shuffle behind the princess, trying not to gape at what he saw. He had been blindfolded when the Praetorian had led him through the palace, and now that he was seeing it for the first time, he was suddenly feeling very provincial, indeed.

  The four Praetorian stationed outside the princess’s chambers fell in behind her on either side, flanking Dragomir, and together they walked down the hall to the spiral marble staircase leading to the next floor.

  Like everything about the palace, the staircase was composed of polished black marble, with white marble accents running along the walls and inlaid in fanciful dragon and phoenix designs on the floors. Gold laced the walls and ceiling in filigreed designs and patterns, each different for each area of rooms. While the princess’s hall bore golden images of the ocean and mermaids lounging upon rocks, the next hall down—the prince’s, he guessed—was decorated in a thousand different dragons, each golden shape carefully inlaid into the black marble with such precision that it seemed that the gold was standing out against the Void, leaving the dragons almost appearing alive.

  The craftsmanship was simply unbelievable, and left him gawking at the fantastical images. Dragomir had never seen such art before, and it left him humbled to realize that such things could be produced by a human hand.

  As if the walls, ceiling, and floors were not enough, every twelve feet, a statue had been placed along the balustrade overlooking the lower floor. In the princess’s hall, the statues were of mermaids in every possible position, each scene a breathtaking thing of beauty.

  “Like I said,” Victory said with a grimace. “I was fourteen when I was captured. I haven’t had time to redecorate.”

  The idea of removing the walls, ceiling, and statuary as ‘redecorating’ left Dragomir stunned. “I think they’re beautiful,” he blurted.

  Her face grew bitter. “Yes, well, I’m not a child anymore.” It was then that he saw the strain in her face, realized how much trouble she was having holding in her growing panic.

  “You’ll be fine,” he reassured her, sending her a wash of energy. “See? That Praetorian up there is clearing the way.” At the bottom of the stairs, six more black-clad, phoenix-emblazoned Praetorian had met them, and two had stayed to flank the princess, while four had run ahead to empty the halls.

  Victory gave the path ahead a dubious glance, but said nothing.

  Sure enough, the halls were clear all the way to the great dining hall, which was empty except for a long, ebony table, thirty-foot-long woven tapestries of forest and mountain scenes, and about a hundred jet-black ironwood chairs. Several plates of food sat upon the end of the table closest them, and a woman clad in black was waiting quietly beside it at attention, facing the far wall.

  It was the food on the table, however, that caught Dragomir’s attention. His stomach lurched hungrily.

  The princess, however, did not seem pleased. She barked a few comments to one of the Praetorian in Imperial, and the woman bowed deeply and replied with an apologetic look.

  “What’s going on?” Dragomir whispered, twisting again at his wrists, trying to ease the ache from his shoulders.

  “I was asking why they decided to serve me breakfast in the great hall, instead of the sun-room,” Victory told him. “Apparently, one of my father’s orde
rs was that my meals be served to me here, and only here.” She made a disgusted sound, as if being served an elegant breakfast in a majestic dining hall, surrounded by servants, was somehow highly disappointing.

  “You really should come visit me sometime,” Dragomir said. “I’ll sit you at my kitchen table and serve you roast chicken.” He started rolling his shoulders as he twisted his hands, trying to work out the nagging feeling that someone was driving nails through the joints there.

  One of the Praetorian slammed a fist into his elbow, almost breaking it. Dragomir hissed and jerked away from her, then stared down at the woman in incomprehension as she barked at him in Imperial while pointing to his hands and making a cutting motion at her neck.

  Victory snapped something at the woman, who immediately bowed and stepped aside, face utterly neutral.

  “Uh,” Dragomir asked, once the shouting had stopped, “What just happened?” His shoulder and elbow were both throbbing, but now he was afraid to move.

  “Lion was telling you to stop trying to escape,” Victory said. “I was telling her to mind her own damned business.”

  “My shoulders are killing me,” Dragomir said. “I don’t suppose you’ll free them so I can eat?”

  “The servant standing beside the table will serve you,” Victory said. She moved into the room and elegantly sat at the table head. Dragomir shuffled to a chair beside her and sat down.

  Immediately, a Praetorian jerked the chair out from under him, dropping him on his ass on the stone floor.

  “What the hell?!” Dragomir shouted at the woman, who was guarding the chair as if he had somehow stained it with his rear. He realized instantly that it had been a mistake. The woman—he thought of her as Loud Mouth—dropped the chair behind her and stalked toward him, her mailed fist ready for a swing that he knew was going to knock out teeth.

  A soft word from Victory stopped her. As quickly as a machine that had been shut off, the woman went back to stand beside the wall.

  “What the hell?” Dragomir asked the princess, softer.

  Victory sighed. “The Adjudicator’s table is only for those of noble blood or those loyal to the Imperium.”

  Dragomir felt a welling of shame within him. “So I’ve got to eat on the floor.”

  “You are a slave,” Victory told him.

  He glared at her, humiliated at the simple way she had said it—and the fact that she wasn’t going to try and correct his seating arrangements. “I’m bound and helpless,” he growled. “Not a slave.”

  She gave him a patronizing smile. “You’ll learn.”

  The words burned like coals in his mind. She honestly thinks I’m her property, Dragomir realized, disgusted. Just like that pretty necklace, or her fancy cloak. His lips formed a tight line and he scowled down at the floor, once again feeling shame burn through his chest. “You know,” he said, unable to stop himself, “That’s probably what they thought about you, when they took you off your ship.”

  The princess, who had been politely tapping the shell of an egg with her spoon, choked. She turned on him, giving him a look that would have singed off his shirt, had he been wearing one. “You dare to suggest…?” she began.

  He just raised an eyebrow at her.

  Red-faced, the princess went back to cracking at her egg, much more violently, now.

  It was at that point, however, that the servant who had been waiting beside the trays carefully lifted a food-covered tray into his lap, and the savory scents of egg, cheese, sausage, and pastry hit him at once. Dragomir groaned and waited impatiently as the servant knelt beside him and started cutting tiny, delicate chunks off of each item of food, then carefully began putting them in his mouth.

  At the first taste of a real meal in almost a week, Dragomir moaned. “Tell her to cut bigger chunks,” Dragomir said, impatient with how slowly the woman was feeding him.

  The princess spoke a few words and the pieces of food halved in size. She gave him a smug grin.

  Dragomir narrowed his eyes. “You are a pain in the ass.”

  The princess raised an eyebrow. “And you are lucky that none of the Praetorian speak your primitive native brogue, or else you would probably be dead for the comment.”

  Muttering, Dragomir returned his attention to his food. He ate as quickly as he could, with the tiny pieces that were being offered to him, willing the woman to speed up. She continued to be infuriatingly slow and methodical, however, and by the time the princess had finished with her meal, he was still only halfway through his.

  Grinning, the princess spoke another string of Imperial at the woman feeding him, and the bites quadrupled and sped up. Dragomir, giving the princess an irritated look, wolfed them down, eating until every dish was clean.

  “All right,” Victory said, “Let’s go. I’ve had about as much time out in the real world as I can handle, at the moment.” She turned to go.

  Two Praetorian were in the process of standing him up when doors slammed open on the other side of the hall and a man in black and red armor came striding through the far side, his body surrounded by the greenish haze of an energy shield. Behind him came a dozen male Praetorian bearing the golden dragon-and-phoenix insignias upon their breasts.

  Her father, Dragomir thought, The Adjudicator himself. The man was about six foot-three, but he carried himself as if he were nine. His eyes were a sharp, arrogant gray and his blonde hair was streaked with white.

  And, if it weren’t for the hazy green energy bubble around the man’s body, muddying Dragomir’s second sight, he could have saved Mercy a century of heartache by working a couple simple knots into the man’s flow of gi.

  Then he realized that Victory was frozen behind him. He could feel the fear welling up within her, and Dragomir frantically tried to wrap her in calm, wishing he could reach out and touch her.

  The Adjudicator bellowed something in Imperial and never slowed in his approach, and Victory shrank back against the wall, whimpering, her terror swirling upwards despite Dragomir’s attempt to calm it. He cursed, wishing he could get a hand free. Physical contact was the easiest, most direct method of pass calming energy to his patients, but his hands were literally tied.

  Just hold on, Dragomir said, closing his eyes infusing her au with as much peace as he could. Whatever’s going on, you can deal with it, Princess.

  The man strode up to Victory as if he didn’t even notice the way she was shrinking into a corner, dragging Dragomir with him. The man glanced at Dragomir, then began shouting something in Imperial, gesturing at his body.

  The male Praetorian behind him marched forward and, with a violence that snapped the pretty golden mermaid pin that the handmaiden had used to fasten it to his waist, yanked the sheet from Dragomir’s body, once more exposing his nakedness for all to see.

  Hot shame coursed through Dragomir under the stares of so many dispassionate eyes. The Adjudicator, in particular, made him feel as if he were a cow or a sheep up for perusal. The man walked around him, utterly unconcerned by the way that Victory was now screaming in the corner.

  Victory! Dragomir realized that the intensity of his shame had drowned out his feeling for her terror, and she had fallen into a full-fledged panic. He hurried to kneel beside her—if he could just get a hand on her, he knew he could help—but was brought up short and hard by a Praetorian’s sudden grip on the chain at his neck.

  Behind him, the Adjudicator barked a command. An instant later, a kick in his exposed manhood brought him gasping to his knees. Arcs of pain drove through his body as the Praetorian took turns kicking him, driving him into the stone floor with their blows. Dragomir groaned and tried to apologize, tried to explain, but if anything, his words made their attack more brutal. He heard his ribs snap, felt the explosion of pain and the sick feeling in his gut as their boots connected with his stomach. He tried to scrunch into a ball in desperation, but with his arms stuck behind his back, he could do little to protect himself. His face, chest, and groin were completely exposed to their as
sault.

  And, through it all, Victory screamed. I’m sorry, Dragomir thought, as he began to lose consciousness. I’m so sorry…

  Reliving the Past

  “Who told you that you could clothe the slave?” her father demanded, as Victory sank deeper into the wall, wildly trying to get a hold on her panic. She could feel Dragomir helping, but with so many men, so close, she was starting to lose control, and they both knew it. She started to whimper, unable to fashion an intelligible answer to her father’s question.

  “My orders were for the slave to be naked,” her father snarled. “Is this a game to you, Victoria?” He gestured furiously at a Praetorian. “Remove it from him. Now.”

  Victoria gasped as the first images started flooding her from within, triggered by her father’s angry face.

  Cold meat, untouched on a plate, congealed in grease, smelling of rancid rot. A furious face. “What, is my food not good enough for you, Princess? Maybe if you don’t wish to eat it, you can wear it, instead.” The cold, rancid meat sliding down her shirt, between her legs. Laughter at her cries. “Or maybe you’d like to use it, instead.” The feel of it rubbed back and forth, sliding between her delicate lips, until her own body had warmed it and the juices ran freely down her legs. The feel of it in her hair, on her skin…

  Distantly, she saw Dragomir stumble towards her, and, seeing his naked body, she was taken to another place, another time. She screamed for him to have mercy, that her baby was due within weeks.

  Distantly, she heard her father snort. “What’s she saying? She’s scared of that brute? Then give her a show. I want him groveling on the ground. Make her understand she’s being stupid.”

  Victory heard thumps and grunts, and watched as a dozen men held her down and used her, their wet scrotums slapping against her as she whimpered up at the falling snow.