Princess of Thieves

by Bella Beaumont

  Catera was a peaceful person by nature—graceful in her movements, beautiful and fair—but more and more she was having violent, wretched daydreams and night terrors.

  She thought of her father, Torace Contrus, the former king of the Contrus Kingdom who had been overthrown years ago—deposed by Cartherus Sefyr. Her father had not been seen since, and Catera worried that he either lay rotting away in a prison cell somewhere, or had already been secretly murdered by her stepfather.

  Once Torace had been overthrown, Cartherus Sefyr had become king, and he’d quickly nullified many of the laws and statutes of the land that Torace had enacted. He married Catera’s mother, Queen Yira, and changed the very name of the kingdom to reflect his position.

  Where Catera’s father had been peaceful, like her, Cartherus was bloodthirsty. He was obsessed with conquest, and it was entirely his fault that the Sefyr Kingdom was at war with their neighbors, the Geread Kingdom.

  The land of Geread was rich in natural resources, and Cartherus wanted them. It was as simple as that. But the newly appointed king hadn’t been prepared for the military force of his neighbors—he hadn’t expected such a prolonged fight, or the zeal that the Gereads brought to the defense of their homeland.

  And now the war had dragged on for months, soon a year. Recruitment drives were sprouting up all over the kingdom, consigning mercenaries and peasants and failing merchants alike to take part in the gruesome conflict.

  On top of all that, Cartherus Sefyr had certain . . . desires . . . that he demanded be met at all times. Catera knew that her younger sister, Princess Ocena, had already fallen prey to those animalistic impulses, and she wished she could do something about it. She knew it was Ocena’s punishment for the ploy she had attempted—and failed—to achieve.

  Catera couldn’t believe that her mother Yira would marry or support such a horrendous man.

  Does she know what goes on behind closed doors, between her husband and her own flesh and blood—her youngest daughter? Catera wondered while she paced. Does she simply turn a blind eye to the evil that inhabits this castle?

  Or . . . does Mother simply not care?

  Yira had seemed to have forgotten about her first husband as quickly as anyone in the kingdom. Once Torace had been deposed, and his named wiped from the annals of Contrus historical records, it was like he’d never existed. Indeed, his own land was renamed to erase his presence from the memories of the citizens.

  But that’s my father! And Mother’s first love and husband! How can she be so cruel? How can she simply go along with the depraved whims of Cartherus Sefyr? I’ll never call that man my father, no matter if he calls me his daughter or not.

  Torace will always be the only father I’ll ever have. And I, for one, won’t forget his memory.

  Taking a seat on the edge of her giant bed, Catera sighed. She stared down at her lap, at the white dress covering her body, and for some inexplicable reason she grew angry with the beautiful clothes. She tore them off and went into her closet, picking out simpler clothes.

  If only there was something I could do about all of this . . . some way to alert important people as to the goings-on inside this castle!

  She rummaged through her clothes in the closet, finally settling on a mundane nightgown and a warm winter coat.

  There must be something I can do . . .

  Her thoughts kept returning to that.

  She suddenly had the urge to speak with her sister, to ask her a few pointed questions. She left her room, nodded to the two guards positioned outside on either side of the door, and walked down the hallway.

  Ocena’s room was not guarded like her own, and though Cena thought little of it, Catera knew the dark reason behind that: Ocena was not as important as Catera. Being the younger princess, she was not next in line to the throne.

  As long as Catera lived, she was the heir-apparent of the Sefyr Kingdom. At least, unless their mother gave birth to a male . . . but that seemed more and more unlikely as the days passed and she continued to advance in age.

  Catera’s status as the “important” offspring was reason enough for Ocena to hate her, but she was too sweet of a person for that. The sisters loved each other—Ocena would never think of harming Catera in order to jump in line on the hierarchy.

  Even before knocking lightly on Ocena’s door, Catera put her ear against the wood and could hear sobbing.

  Arching her brow sadly, Catera opened the door and popped her head in. “C-Cena?” she said meekly.

  The younger woman was seated on the edge of her bed, much like Catera had been before deciding to come visit. Ocena had flowing orange hair the color of a summer bonfire, curly and reaching halfway down her back. Her face was even fairer than Catera’s, translucent in its paleness, and freckles dotted her face. Her cheeks were red from weeping, and tears tracked down to her chin.

  “May I come in, Sister?” Catera asked.

  She received a quick nod, and Catera hurried inside and then shut the door. “Why are you weeping, Cena?” she asked, a sadness enveloping her that threatened to overwhelm. She hated seeing her sister unhappy, but she was becoming used to it—almost numb—because it was such a frequent event.

  Ocena sniffled, her body racking with sobs as she tried to get a hold of herself. Finally, her body stopped trembling and she sniffled some more. “I-I . . . I can’t stop thinking about him, Cat!”

  Catera frowned, her face twisting. She knew who Ocena was talking about without needing to ask. “He’s in a better place now, Cena. You must believe that.”

  “Dead?” Cena spat. “Dead and rotting in the mud? You think that’s a better place than by my side, Sister?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  “Exactly. Don’t try to get me to calm down—you don’t know what it’s like!”

  Her chest heaved, her small breasts rising and falling rapidly underneath her thin dress. She was close to hysterics once more, her voice rising as she spoke to her older sister.

  “I’m not, Cena. I would never,” Catera assured her.

  “Good.” Ocena looked down to the elegant rugs on the floor, then up to her sister, tilting her head. “Why have you come to see me?”

  Taking a step forward, Catera couldn’t help but fidget her fingers in front of her stomach. “I seek advice, Cena. I’d like to know the route you planned to take . . . had you been able to escape.”

  “Before me and my lover were caught, you mean?”

  Catera nodded.

  Ocena sighed. “Oh, it’s hopeless, Cat, don’t you see that? There are too many guards in this damned castle—especially for you! You are practically watched all hours of the day and night. At least for me, I thought no one would notice I was gone . . . and by the time they did, it would be too late.”

  The younger sibling spoke of her attempted escape from Sefyr Castle from a few months prior. Ocena had tried to flee the keep with her peasant lover, to make off for the sunset in a romantic gesture.

  But they had been caught before even managing to step foot outside the castle walls. King Cartherus had made sure to punish Ocena’s lover, torturing him before executing him as a treasonous worm to the Sefyr Kingdom.

  Ocena had been forced to watch, allegedly in secret, while her beloved was ruined both physically and spiritually, and then killed in front of her. Queen Yira even stepped in to beg the king’s mercy, but he was not a merciful man.

  And ever since that fateful day, Ocena had never been the same. She’d been lost, often seen roaming the halls of the castle like a dazed ghost. If she wasn’t wandering aimlessly, she was crying in her bedchamber.

  But Catera saw a strength in the younger woman—she had at least tried to change her unfortunate predicament. She looked up to her younger sibling because of her attempted escape, even though she’d failed.

  And she wanted to pry some answers from the young woman . . . because Catera didn’t have a lover to hold her back.

  Yes, she had been promised to a wealthy, noble suitor,
by the name of Sir Arinus Balfrey, but she scoffed at the man. He was weak-willed, utterly entitled, and would never be a true man.

  Catera thought very little of Sir Balfrey, despite his family’s vast land and estates, and his incredible wealth. What did a princess need with wealth, after all, when the entire kingdom’s coffers would one day be hers?

  She couldn’t understand her stepfather’s insistence on the union—there seemed to be little political motivation for it—other than to maybe keep tabs on his stepdaughter. Was Sir Balfrey a spy tending to the king? The thought had crossed Catera’s mind on numerous occasions, because otherwise the nobleman seemed useless, even from a monetary and political perspective.

  She shook her head, fighting away the thoughts of the sad little man.

  “You’ll never make it, Sister,” Ocena said flatly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you that.”

  Catera frowned. “You’re probably right, Cena, but I can’t live my entire life without trying. I want to be like you.”

  “L-Like . . . me?”

  “Yes. You at least had the stones to try to run. I’ve been cooped up here all my life!”

  Ocena’s face briefly lit up, before sinking again. “That’s sweet to hear, but look what it’s done for me. I have even less leeway to exit the castle gates now than I did before. I am a slave. A highborn, rich slave. Quite ironic, isn’t it?” She smiled in a humorless way. “Although if you were caught, I doubt the king would order the same torture that I go through every night . . .”

  “Please, Cena, just tell me . . . who made the plans? If you had managed to get on the other side of these walls, what would you have done—”

  “Cena!” a booming voice surged through the hallway, filling the entire level of the castle. It was rough, raspy, and loud enough for every man and woman on the second story of the keep to hear.

  It was the voice of King Cartherus Sefyr.

  Upon hearing her name belted from the proverbial mountaintop, Ocena instinctively went taut, her neck muscles flexing. A frightened look overcame her as her eyes bulged wide.

  “Oh no . . .” she muttered.

  “It’s time!” the voice called again.

  Catera said, “Wait, Cena, I’m sure we can stay his hand, at least for the moment. Please! Talk to me!”

  But Ocena was already standing, a dejected look written all over her body. As she wandered toward the door with that terrified face, her gait was lethargic, tired.

  She had become used to her purpose in the castle—numbed to the horrors of life.

  Tears came to the corners of Catera’s eyes as she saw the way that Ocena stepped toward her door like a dead thing. A ghoul. A mere shadow of her former self.

  A moment later, the door opened and two royal guards stood before the shorter woman, stern looks on their faces. Catera thought she saw . . . pity . . . in one of the men’s eyes, shadowed beneath his helmet, but she couldn’t be sure.

  Is there a soul in this castle who doesn’t pity the fate of Princess Ocena Sefyr? If there’s a single sympathetic bone in your body . . . then I think not.

  Catera watched as Ocena disappeared around the corner of the door, into the hallway.

  Gone to perform her nightly duty.

  Duty. What a disgusting word.

  Catera stayed seated on Ocena’s bed for a moment, growing sadder as the minutes passed. Eventually, she got up and dejectedly returned to her own chambers.

  And down the hall, she could hear the telltale noise coming from the king’s chambers—the muffled moans, the thumping of the bed against the wall, the manly laughing and faked girlish cries of pleasure.

  Princess Ocena, the whore of Sefyr. The plaything of her very own stepfather. The disappointment of the realm.

  The sounds picked up in pace and severity. Something creaked along the floor—like the moving legs of the bed—sending out jarring stabs of sound that made Princess Catera’s skin crawl with goose bumps, the hair on the nape of her neck on edge.

  The tears flowed freely now from Catera’s eyes, as she stopped in front of her door, in front of the stoic guards, and listened to that horrid cacophony of noises emanating from down the hall, reverberating against the walls and tapestries, filling the keep with a vague sense of debauchery, sorrow, and loveless desire.

  No, Catera told herself. If I’m any kind of sister at all, then I cannot live my life knowing this is happening . . . letting it happen to my poor sister! And right under my nose!

  Everyone in this damned castle is complicit. My mother the queen, the guards, the nobles . . . they all know what’s happening here. I cannot seek help inside this wretched place.

  So I must seek help outside these stone walls.

  If I am to ever bring aid and relief to poor Cena, I must search for it elsewhere!

  I must flee this place!

  WITH LITTLE FANFARE, Stecker and his three companions had made it to the sneaky thief’s hidey-hole underneath the dark awning. They stood in different pockets of shadow, patiently waiting for something to happen at the northern relief gate ahead.

  Handsome Dered clutched his elbows, cupping them, his knuckles turning white. It was all he could do to keep from stamping his feet with impatience.

  Big strong Sala had the patience of a gargoyle, and she stood like one, frozen as a statue. It was an odd turn of events from her formerly drunken state at the tavern, where she’d wobbled in place and looked ready to fall over. It was like she could turn her inebriation on and off with a switch. And now, it was business time.

  Flamboyant Filtray sighed loud enough so only he could hear. He didn’t like his flair to be diminished or deadened, and that’s exactly what was happening while he waited in the damnable shadows. He wanted to curse his comrades, but he knew they all worked toward the same purpose. And he would outshine them all, in the end, showing that he could handle the peace and quiet while Nemya did her thing.

  Alberus was too old to come along for field missions these days, so he simply waited back at the tavern, no doubt pacing and fussing, worried about his foster children.

  The whites of Stecker’s eyes pierced up to the silhouetted duo at the gate. Waiting. Ever waiting.

  And then the hourglass, feminine silhouette seemed to move a bit closer to the stocky figure next to her.

  Stecker grunted. “Be ready, gang. I think it’s coming . . .”

  Chapter Four

  Nemya sighed loudly, and not for the first time that night. She looked outward from the gate into the murky blackness of the city, seeing flickering torchlight smearing the sky every so often. Eventually, she leaned up against the archway of her side of the gate, the cold stone rough against her back.

  She wore a military-issued breastplate that she barely fit into, and it was starting to become uncomfortable.

  If I have to be a soldier longer than . . . a night . . . I don’t know if I’ll ever make it, she thought, groaning inwardly at the melodrama. I’ll surely die, suffocated by my own stupid armor.

  Her eyes glanced over to the bulky man standing erect to her right. He stood so straight that it looked like a strong wind would blow him over, but his legs were sturdy and well-muscled underneath his hide leather trousers. He stared unwaveringly out at the city, not bothering to blink. He was indeed a statue.

  A bearded statue, with a bushy brown mop of prickly hair sticking out from his chin, down to his chest. The rest of his face was practically hidden underneath his opened helmet.

  Not particularly ugly or off-putting, Nemya thought.

  She sighed again. She was making a point of making as many annoying sounds as possible.

  “If I had known they would place me here, at this dreary corner of the world, I don’t think I would’ve ever joined the Royal Army,” she said in a low voice.

  The man did not respond. She wondered if he was even alive, or awake, though his eyes were open.

  “What about you? Calas, isn’t it?”

  The man gr
unted. “We go where the army puts us.”

  Nemya frowned. She drummed her fingers on her thigh. “We’ve been out here for hours, staring at the boring blackness, and those are the first words I’ve heard from your rugged mouth.”

  Calas grunted again.

  “Are you happy about your position, Calas?”

  “Happy? Irrelevant. This is our duty.”

  “And why aren’t you out in the frontlines, sir? You seem quite strong . . . toned in all the right places . . . not meek in the least bit.” Nemya’s voice changed in tone, becoming something breathy and heavy.

  Calas made a sound with his nostrils, close to a snort. It was clear that he wasn’t too happy about his posting, either. “We go where the army puts us,” he repeated.

  Nemya rolled her eyes. Strong and stoic, yes, but unbelievably dull. Why did I have to get stuck with a dullard?

  Oh well, I’ll make the most of it.

  “It’s just so boring over here,” Nemya said, trying to continue the conversation.

  “That’s the life of a soldier, private.”

  “Oh? I expect you have more experience in such things than me. Please, tell me more about the life of a soldier.”

  A pause. Then, Calas said, “No. You’ll learn.”

  Nemya clamped her jaw and bared her teeth. Calas didn’t see it, of course, because he stared away from her, outward.

  “Would you like to know what I do have experience in, though, soldier?”

  Calas made no effort to respond.

  Nemya stepped closer to the burly man, looking up at him, then rested a hand on his strong shoulder. He flexed instinctively.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, a hint of alarm in his voice.

  “Trying to kill this boredom, clearly,” Nemya drawled. Her fingertips danced over the leather shoulder pad, then slunk down to his bulky bicep. She could feel his taut muscle beneath his shirt.

  “S-Stop it,” Calas said, trying to shrug away. But he had nowhere to go. And once Nemya’s hand was forcibly removed, it returned within moments.