To the Princess Bound (Terms of Mercy)

by Sara King

  As she felt the warmth start to build under his hand, she whimpered.

  He made a soft sound, soothing. “Not going to hurt you,” he whispered. “It will be like last time. The pressure will build, likely start to hurt, then the rama will snap open. You’ll face all those moments that blocked the flow of gi through its center, experience them over again, and then release them. I’ll be here the whole time.”

  “I don’t want to experience them again!” Victory cried, trying to struggle away again.

  But his arm might as well have been made of titanium for all the budge it gave. “It’s going to make you feel better, Princess,” he swore, “I promise.”

  After another few moments of struggle, she eventually dropped back to the bed in resignation. Victory found herself staring at the window, tense, as the warmth began to build within her womb, heating and spreading outwards until her whole abdomen felt like someone had dropped a hot coal amidst her guts. “It hurts,” she whimpered, but she didn’t try to fight him again. The sensation was so deeply intimate, leaving her feeling so terrifyingly exposed.

  “I’m a healer,” he whispered, as the pressure built. “I’ll be here, and this is going to make you feel better. Trust me.”

  And then, just like last time, the dam broke. She felt the energy rush into her body, the images once again clogging up her mind.

  Her father, giving her a disappointed scowl when she showed him her first picture, in wax-stick. “Don’t you have problem sets to be doing, girl?”

  Her father, yanking her half-finished afghan from her lap and throwing it into the fire. “You will not waste your time on such useless projects in my house.”

  Her father, taking her journal from her when he discovered she was writing stories in it. “Kiara told you no fiction. A ruler does not have the leisure to engage in such frivolousness. Learn that, or you will never touch a writing instrument again.” He had then taken the electronic device and smashed it once against his desk, cracking the screen in half, then threw it out the window, to dash against the Gorgarian Cliffs below.

  Her captors, mistaking her poetry scribbles on the sides of her cell for messages for help. Beating her until blood was running from her mouth and she couldn’t move. Making her wash them off afterwards with broken fingers.

  A stone-faced native doctor, reaching inside her, pulling her baby free, dropping it, still kicking, into the trash.

  Like last time, Victory found herself turned to his chest, sobbing in the Emp’s arms as the wave of images finally swept away, leaving anguish and horror in their place.

  “Why?” she whimpered, as he held her.

  “I had to, sweet.” There was a tremble in his voice this time. When she looked, she saw tears in his blue eyes. He gingerly reached up and moved a strand of hair from her face. His hand was shaking. She saw the sincerity in his eyes when he said, “I want you to be whole.”

  He means it, she thought, shocked. Suddenly, all the torments, all the discomforts and inconveniences took on a new meaning. He wants to help me.

  Then, Why? All I’ve done is make him miserable.

  A little discomfited, Victory closed her eyes and just allowed him to hold her, finding strength in the solidness of his body, calm in the rise and fall of his chest. He hadn’t really hurt her, she realized. Throughout it all, he hadn’t given her any reason to distrust him. And, while the memories had opened a wound in her mind that she had hoped never to revisit, the constant tightness in her lower abdomen was gone, leaving her feeling freer than she had in years.

  “Thank you,” she whispered into his chest.

  She felt him tighten his embrace and let out a breath he had been holding. For several breaths, he said nothing. Then, softly, “Don’t thank me until I’m finished. It’s going to be…difficult…for you. You have three ramas left. Throat, heart, and liver.”

  Victory said nothing. She was thinking about the fistfuls of hard, clumpy mucous, sliding from the girl’s throat, plopping onto the floor. He’s a healer, she thought. He’s not going to hurt me.

  Softly, she said, “You can take the chain off, now.”

  Though she didn’t open her eyes, she felt Dragomir look at her. She felt his internal struggle as he considered. Then, like a mountain moving, he rolled, still holding her, and reached under the bed, his fingers following the wooden frame that held the mattress. When he rolled back, he had two tiny brass keys in his hand.

  Victory stared at the tiny piece of toothed brass. “You had it all this time…?” Mouth open, she glanced at the edge of the bed. “Right there?”

  He grinned, his cerulean eyes twinkling. In reply, he stuck the key into the padlock and twisted. The chain fell to the bed between them. Gently, he unhooked the loop of the lock from the collar at her throat, then set it on the bed between them. He then proceeded to remove the chain from his body and set it aside.

  “There,” he said, sounding nervous. “I’m trusting you, now.”

  Victory looked up, feeling tears biting at her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  Then Dragomir’s face hardened. “But if you do anything stupid, like try to free Lion—”

  She laughed and hugged him, then, relief taking the place of her tears. Reluctantly, Dragomir wrapped his arms back around her, bringing her tight against his chest. “I’m serious,” he grumbled. “You’re not healed yet, and it would be detrimental to your recovery if your healer suddenly found a sword lodged in his chest.”

  “From what I hear, you would probably survive it,” Victory said, giggling, remembering the gunshot scar.

  But Dragomir stiffened above her. “What did you say?”

  Frowning at his tone, Victory said, “The two Cooper boys were just telling me about how you tried to kill yourself after Megg—”

  Dragomir released her with a roar and got out of bed.

  “Where are you going?” Victory cried.

  But he was already gone, his big back disappearing down the hall. A moment later, she heard him boom, “Todd! Erik! Get your skinny asses back home and out of my house! Now! Before I tan the both of you, you gossiping little bastards!”

  “Sorry, Mr. Shipborn!” Victory heard the thunder of running feet and the startled snort of a mule. Then the cart, creaking as it rumbled over rocks and ruts.

  Frowning, she got up and looked out the window.

  The Cooper boys were leading the mule toward the fence at a jog, looking over their shoulders like they were afraid Death himself were going to change his mind and come devour their souls. A little curious, Victory followed Dragomir down the hall.

  The Emp was pacing the living-room, snarling under his breath, as his brother looked on. Then, seeing Victory, he slumped into a chair beside Lion, gave the Praetorian a dark look, and then glowered at the open door.

  “She was going to find out sooner or later,” Thor said. He shrugged. “So you lost your mind a little… It happens.”

  “Shut up,” Dragomir growled. Then he lifted his gaze, his blue eyes settling on Victory. “You hungry?” he barked.

  A little startled, Victory nodded.

  “Eggs or potatoes?” he growled.

  The way he said it, he might as well have been asking if she wanted her hand cut off and fed to her in individual digits or in large chunks.

  “Um,” Victory said, “Large chunks.”

  Dragomir blinked at her, his anger dropping away suddenly in his confusion. “What?”

  Victory, realizing what she’d said, blushed hard. “Um. I mean eggs. Please. Sir.”

  Dragomir’s eyes narrowed at the last. Even his brother’s head jerked up to frown at Victory. They stared at her so long that Victory felt squished under their combined gazes.

  “Did she just call you ‘sir’?” Thor finally asked. His face was wrought with disbelief.

  “It’s a form of polite address!” Victory cried, keeping her spine as straight as possible. She also would never consider using it on a no-status native covered in dirt and sweat whose grea
test asset was a herd of mangy, flea-bitten goats, but quietly kept that to herself. “It connotes respect.”

  Dragomir continued to scowl at her, as did his brother.

  “It’s true!” she cried, when it was obvious they did not believe her. She did everything she could not to squirm under their gazes.

  Finally, peering at her, Thor said, “I think she’s hiding something.”

  “Damn straight she is,” Dragomir said, frowning. “I don’t think she’s been polite to me since her brother dumped me in her room in chains.

  Victory lifted her chin. “We came to an agreement,” she said. She gestured at her neck and his waist. “You would stop being an uncouth cad, and I would stop treating you like one.”

  Thor chortled. Looking at his brother, he said, “Sorry, Princess, but if you think he’s given up his cadly ways, you’re in for a pretty big shock.”

  But Dragomir grunted, the suspicion fading from his face. Heaving himself onto his feet, he went to the stove, where there were several eggs sitting on a towel. The ubiquitous boiled potatoes were sitting nearby, along with the sack of salt and a bowl of congealed fat. Dragomir slapped a spoonful of fat into the frying pan. Then picking up an egg, turned to Thor. “You and yours had breakfast yet?” He indicated Whip, who was sitting quietly on the couch, watching the exchange with alert gray eyes.

  “Was about to have the boys make us some food,” Thor said. “But you got to them first.”

  Victory caught Dragomir’s glance at her over his shoulder, the tenseness in his shoulders before he turned away again. He cracked several more eggs in silence before he growled, “How much did they tell her?”

  “From what I heard, most of it,” Thor said. He glanced at Victory. “’Cept for the part where you went dangling from a tree. Twice.”

  “Gods damn it, Thor!” Dragomir slammed a big hand into the counter. Scowling at his brother over a shoulder, he snarled, “Go check the herd while I make breakfast.” It wasn’t a request.

  Sighing, Thor eased his huge body out of the chair, gave his brother a shake of his head, and strode out the door, leaving Whip and Lion seated together in the squalid living-room.

  Cursing, Dragomir went back to cracking eggs.

  “Why were you hanging from a tree?” Victory asked.

  Dragomir’s hand hesitated above the skillet, the egg in his palm unbroken. After a moment, he cracked it, then dumped it into the pan with the rest. “Not important,” he muttered.

  Remembering what Dragomir had told the resistance fighter about stringing men up by their testicles, she narrowed her eyes. “You rape a girl?”

  Dragomir twisted, eyes wide with shock. “What?”

  Victory gestured in the direction of Sodstone. “You said the people of this village hang rapists up by their balls.”

  Understanding washed across Dragomir’s face. He shook his head and went back to preparing their meal.

  “Then what?” Victory demanded. “Why would they hang you from a—”

  “He tried to kill himself again,” Thor said, his big body leaning against the frame of the door. “Only like the tenth time after Meggie.”

  “Thor!” Dragomir snarled at his brother, his gaze deadly.

  Thor shrugged. “She’s gonna find out eventually.” To Victory, he continued, “Your friend the Emp’s a coward. I had to cut his ass down twice ‘cause he’d decided to stretch his neck.”

  Dragomir cracked the next egg so hard it spilled its contents over the hot iron stove, then just left it there, bubbling and burning, scowling at Thor.

  Thor ignored his brother’s glare. To Victory, he said, “He was bad off when your brother got hold of him. So bad I spent the first night with your Praetorian, hunched outside in the rain, watching the house, thinking his newfound interest in Life was some sort of bluff. Didn’t wanna show up the next morning and find his stupid ass back in a tree. Good thing I did, too. Lover boy, here, was gonna do it.” He gestured disgustedly at Dragomir.

  “You watched me?” Dragomir sputtered.

  Thor gave him a flat look. “You weren’t gonna do it?”

  Dragomir narrowed his eyes. “No.”

  “Oh?” his brother asked. “And when you wandered out into the rain and leaned against the fence? You were simply contemplating how delightful your current existence is?”

  Dragomir turned away from the stove, facing his brother completely. “This is none of your business.” His voice was low, deadly. “Get your nose out of it while you still can.”

  “Imagine my surprise,” Thor said, giving his brother a cold look, “When you grabbed that rope out of the barn and carried it over to the base of that big birch. Of course, you must have been planning to hitch Thunder to it, gonna re-shoe him in the rain.” Then he cocked his head. “No, wait. You were making fence repairs. That’s what the noose was for.”

  Beside the stove, Dragomir had started to shake. “I’m not going to warn you again.”

  “But no,” Thor growled, “You just threw it over the branch and stood there with it in your hands, staring at it, too much of a damned coward to put it to good use.”

  Dragomir let out a bellowing roar and rushed his brother, hitting him head-on and carrying them both out into the yard, scattering chickens in all directions. Thor let out a startled grunt when his back connected with the ground, and a moment later, Dragomir was on top of him, aiming his big fist for his brother’s face.

  Roaring, Thor threw his brother off of him as easily as he was throwing aside a sack of potatoes. As Dragomir rolled aside, he started getting to his feet. “I’m going home, Drago. You wanna go string yourself up?” He flung an arm at the side of the house. “Go ahead. I hid the rope behind the rain barrel.” He turned to go.

  Dragomir caught him by an ankle and yanked him off his feet.

  The struggle that ensued reminded Victory of a fight that she had once witnessed between a couple of male tigers in her father’s menagerie. It was brutal, long, and both came out of it utterly exhausted, bloody and panting. They lay in the yard for some time, staring at the sky, bleeding, as chickens warily returned to peck at the scuffed and beaten ground around them.

  “Almost looks like it might rain,” Thor commented.

  “Fields could use it,” Dragomir agreed.

  “They’re forecasting lots of snow this winter.”

  Dragomir wiped a trickle of blood from his face. “I’ll need to get some feed stored up. Little buggers have trouble getting around in the deep stuff.”

  “Think there’s a couple families in the lower valley who have extra feed this year.”

  “Yep.”

  “Could call in a favor.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You ruined that nice black silk suit,” Thor said, still peering at the clouds.

  Dragomir grunted. “You check the goats yet this morning?”

  “Nah. Wanted to see what kind of lies you were gonna tell the poor wench.”

  “Well, she knows now,” Dragomir said. He heaved himself off the ground with a sigh. “Thanks.” He offered his brother a hand.

  “She woulda found out eventually,” Thor said, taking his brother’s hand and pulling himself to his feet. “Figure it’s better she knows she’s dealing with a panty-waist drama-queen now, before she gets too involved.”

  Dragomir’s eyes narrowed, and his bloody knuckles whitened where they were clenching his brother’s hand. “You still hungry?” he grated, squeezing. Victory heard joints pop.

  Thor met his gaze over their grip, and his fingers tightened. “Depends,” he said evenly. “Whatcha cookin?”

  “Eggs.” Dragomir bit off the word in a snarl.

  “Eggs sound great,” Thor growled back. His face, Victory noticed, was reddening. “You using salt?”

  “Got some chicken fat in there,” Dragomir replied. Blood was dripping from his face onto his arm. He didn’t notice.

  “Sounds good.” More popping of joints.

  “Good.”

&n
bsp; “Fine then. Go cook it.”

  “I will.” But Draomir made no more to turn, continuing to stare his brother down. His face, Victory noted, was almost crimson, and both of their arms were trembling with the strain, their clasped fists white and shaking.

  Suddenly, Thor cursed and loosened his grip. “You prick,” he growled, yanking his hand away. He started shaking it out, wincing at the white finger-prints that Dragomir had left behind.

  Dragomir grunted and turned back to the house. He hesitated only briefly when he saw Victory staring at him, then, growling, ducked back into the hovel.

  Thor sighed, then caught Victory’s horrified look. He grinned, wiping a blood smear across one cheek. “Guy stuff,” he said. Then he followed his brother inside.

  They were savages, Victory decided, watching them with a sort of morbid curiosity. They took turns cooking while they washed and bandaged themselves up. The water bucket was a grisly crimson by the time they had tended to their numerous cuts, wounds, and, in Thor’s case, breaks.

  The healer, it seemed, wasn’t incapable of holding his own.

  “By the gods’ sweaty nutsacks, Drago,” Thor growled, holding his nose in place over a towel. “That’s the third damned time.”

  Dragomir didn’t even look up from his food. “Grow a stronger nose.”

  Thor made a disgusted sound and glanced at Victory over his fingers. “You hear that? You see how unreasonable he is?”

  Victory laughed. “I’ve been dealing with it for a couple weeks, now.”

  “If only I were that lucky.” Thor growled and dunked the towel in the bucket again. Seeing how opaque red it had become, he grimaced and picked it up. “I’m taking this out to the river for fresh. You better have those eggs done soon or I’ll come back here and gnaw off your damned arm.” Still grumbling, he pushed through the doorway and headed around the house, towards the stream.

  “Milady,” Whip asked from the sofa, “What just happened?”

  “Brotherly dispute,” Victory said, disgusted.

  “Some dispute,” Lion commented. “It sounded like they were killing each other.”

  “Pity,” Whip said. Her gray eyes, however, were amused.