The Adamantists (The Crown Prophecy Book 2)

by M. D. Laird

  The princess did not reply. He walked beside her in silence. He should probably just stop her, that would be the sensible thing to do. Stop her contact with the stable boy and stop her meeting the rebels. Whatever she said, however careful she was, it was never going to stay a secret that a princess was part of the resistance. No movement succeeded without support within the opposing faction. Her station would be used to increase support for the rebels, and before he knew it, he would be hauled up in front of the king to be questioned about his part.

  So what was stopping him? Why was he prepared to let her go? He could not really answer that. Even though he disliked the king, it did not really concern him who was in power or how they abused it. He was not interested in seeing a new rule.

  He figured he was perhaps curious to see how things would play out, though he would be careful to distance himself from the princess when she got in over her head. The situation might amuse him, but he was not going to have anything more than an objective interest and would certainly not take any of the fall for the rebels or the princess. “Let’s go back,” he said. “We’ll see if they have calmed down.”

  “We’re not going,” said Thomas.

  “Why not?” whined the princess. “We could go for a little while.”

  “I don’t want to go to a party.”

  “Just let me go on my own then.”

  “No,” he said, “I don’t trust you to keep your mouth shut about my quest.”

  “I never get to go to parties,” she complained. “My father never let me attend any of his celebrations.”

  “For good reason, it seems,” said Thomas. “He knew you couldn’t keep your mouth shut as well.”

  “You might be done by then,” she said. “If not, you might have the opportunity to work on your quest at the party.”

  “Don’t try to manipulate me, Princess,” he snapped. “I have said no.”

  The princess sat back in the seat of the aerial vector the queen had lent them to take them to Axandria after the princess complained about having Thomas fly her across the ocean. Although he hated Arkazatine technology, he had to admit that it beat flying and was faster.

  The vehicle looked like a flying version of Arkazatine land vehicles and, once programmed with the destination, propelled itself at great speeds. Thomas and the princess had been in Arkazatinia for two days when Thomas received a message via a lolite stone summoning them back to the Guild of Sonneillon to receive the king’s attendant who was being sent to check on the princess’ well-being later that day. This had irritated Thomas. He was not accustomed to being at the king’s beck and call and that, coupled with the princess’ constant complaints, was making him detest married life.

  Thomas’ mood was not improved after learning that the attendant had already arrived ahead of them and was waiting in the parlour.

  “Good afternoon, Your Highness,” the attendant greeted the princess as she and Thomas entered the parlour.

  “Good afternoon, Victor,” she replied coldly.

  Victor frowned. “You should address me by my title, Your Highness.”

  The princess sneered. “Ah yes, what is it now? Master Torturer? Administrator of Brutality? Chief Subservient and Unwavering Complaisant of the King’s Whims?”

  Thomas grinned. Despite the princess’ complaints, he did find her brazenness amusing.

  “Captain of House and Effector of the King’s Edict,” Victor announced proudly.

  The princess laughed. “Yes, that’s it. I knew it was something ridiculous.”

  Victor looked furious, but settled his rage and raised his chin. “I am here at the direction of the king. He wishes me to check on your well-being each week.”

  “Well, as you can see, I am quite well. You may return and tell the king.”

  “I shall need to interview you without the prince’s presence,” said Victor formally before turning to Thomas. “You can bring us some tea.”

  Thomas was about to growl a response when the princess did it for him. “You have no jurisdiction in this guild, Victor. You do not get to give Sonneillon Prince Thomas of the First Order commands.”

  Victor bristled. Thomas chuckled before bowing towards the princess and leaving the room.

  “Well?” said Eleanor, taking a seat in one of the parlour’s comfortable armchairs.

  “The king wishes to know how you have settled into the Guild of Sonneillon and if the prince is treating you well,” said Victor, seating himself opposite her.

  “You can tell my father that I am very well and the prince is a kind and thoughtful husband.”

  Victor frowned. “You must speak honestly, Your Highness,” he said. “Unless you’re afraid of the consequences?”

  “No,” said Eleanor. “The prince has provided for my every need. I have a lovely room, a generous allowance, my own attendant to bring me meals and refreshments, which include biscuits, puddings and wine, and he buys me whatever I wish. I am allowed to paint whatever I like, read whatever I like, and I don’t have to hide away for fear of angering him. In short, Victor, you may tell the king that I am treated more kindly here than I have ever been treated.”

  “That can’t be the truth,” pressed Victor. “Has the prince ordered you to say this?”

  “He has not.”

  “What about in the bedroom? Demons are known for their aggressive and overly…enthusiastic tendencies.”

  “That is none of your business,” snapped Eleanor.

  “I need to know.”

  “The prince has been kind and considerate in all aspects of our marriage except the whole thing being initiated against my will in the first place; however, the blame for that rests with my father.”

  “Perhaps you could write something down if you are afraid of being heard,” he said, sliding a pen and paper across the table towards her.

  She slid it back. “I have to wonder,” she said coldly. “If my father is so concerned with how the prince may treat me, why did he marry me to him in the first place?”

  “The king has difficult choices to make, and the prince’s loyalty is important to him. That does not mean he is not concerned for you and that is why he has instructed me to check on you regularly to make sure you are happy. Just between us, Your Highness, I am quite appalled at the king’s decision and it is me pressing for information rather than the king. He merely asked me to check on you. It is my own concern for your safety that is making me so thorough in the task. I have known you all of your life, and I would hate to see you come to any harm.”

  “Is that so?” Eleanor smirked slyly. “I don’t recall you being so concerned for my safety when you beat me at the king’s command.”

  “I was following my orders, Your Highness. I have a duty to serve the king.”

  The princess laughed again. “And you did not relish those orders at all. When my father says to ‘beat her until she’s unconscious or you get bored, whichever comes first’ I am always unconscious long before you get bored.”

  “You are being unfair, Your Highness. You also forget that you received punishment for a good reason. A father has a right to discipline his daughter if she is insubordinate and you deserved to be beaten.”

  Ramiel entered the parlour carrying a tea tray.

  “At last,” grumbled Victor. “It took you long enough.”

  Ramiel gave a small smirk and placed the tray in front of Eleanor. “This is for you, Your Highness,” he said. The tray was only prepared for one.

  Victor glowered at Ramiel who gave the princess a bow before leaving the room. “These demons clearly have no respect for nobility.”

  “They seem to respect me perfectly,” said Eleanor, stirring the tea and then helping herself to the freshly baked biscuits. “These are delicious…and still warm.” Victor glared at her. “If there is nothing else you wish to ask on behalf of my father, then I think this interview is over.”

  “Very well,” he said, rising from h
is seat. He paused. “Are you not going to curtsy to me?”

  “Why? I am a Princess of Axandria and wife of Sonneillon Prince Thomas of the First Order. I do not need to curtsy to my father’s lackey.”

  Victor fumed at her. “I shall return in a week, Your Highness. If you have any concerns that you are too afraid to mention, then please pen them down and hand them to me then.” She waved her hand and started to pour her tea. Victor’s nostrils flared as he bowed resentfully towards her and left the room.

  Prince Thomas entered the room as Victor left. He sprawled in the seat opposite her and grinned. “I did not expect you to speak so favourably of me, Princess. You could almost pass for a doting wife.”

  “You were eavesdropping?”

  “Not intentionally. I have sensitive hearing.”

  She scowled at him. “I suppose what I said shall add to your arrogance.”

  “Indeed.” Arakiel entered with another tray of tea for one and placed it in front of the prince. The prince picked up his tea cup. “May I help myself to your tea? It has already brewed.” She nodded. “As you think so fondly of me, Princess, have you given any further thought to taking me to your bed? I shall, of course, be as kind and considerate as I am in all aspects of our marriage and rein in my aggressive and overly enthusiastic tendencies.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t know what my father was thinking sending that man.”

  “He wants to check up on me,” said Thomas, sipping his tea. “He wants to check that I have not dragged his daughter down to the fires of Hell to torture her or whatever it is he imagines demons might do.”

  “Which again begs the question why he married me to you in the first place. However, I meant his choice in who to send to check on you. He has had that man torment me my entire life. Sending him was a message.”

  “I thought you hated me until I heard you speak to him, now you seem positively warm and fuzzy. I’m sure it won’t be long before you’re madly in love with me.”

  She smirked despite herself. “Yes. You’re quite right. I have actually made a start and have written ‘I love Prince Thomas’ and ‘Mrs Prince Thomas’ all over my diary.”

  He grinned wickedly. “You keep a diary? Is that where you keep your fantasies of you and me? I should like to read it.”

  “I shall tell you about them.”

  “Please do.”

  “They involve me strangling you.”

  “Really?” he said, his eyes widening. “Perhaps I don’t need to rein in my aggressive and overly enthusiastic tendencies after all.”

  Eleanor blushed. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “Too late, Princess.” He winked. “I already have that image in my head.”

  She shook her head and tried to hide the smile that was threatening her lips.

  Eleanor found a reply from James in her room. James was a good deal more careful than she had been and had written his response in code. His note was brief. He had learned from his father that she had been forced to marry and was saddened by the news. He was concerned about contacting her and thought his father seemed odd when he informed him of the news. He was worried that his father may have suspicions of their affair and asked that she avoid making further contact and he would contact her when it was safe to do so. She sighed. She really missed him. He had signed off the note by telling her how much he loved and missed her.

  Maol had spent three more days in the baking pits watching others come and go before he was hauled from them. The pit masters sent down a cage, which was heaved up using a system of pulleys. He was shackled before he was released from the cage and was led away from the pit by a pit master and several guards.

  “We’ve been saving you.” The pit master laughed.

  I knew it!

  “She’ll like you.”

  She?

  “You’re a lucky bastard,” the pit master said gruffly. “This fate is too good for you—you should be shovelling shit—but money is money, and none of those rakes are going to take her fancy.”

  “Who?” Maol replied hoarsely. He had not spoken since his altercation with the slave on his arrival, and his throat felt sore and gravelly when he spoke now. He coughed to clear his throat.

  The pit master laughed and directed Maol into a yard that was bricked off from the rest of the slavers enclosure. When the gate was closed, the shackles were removed. “Strip,” he commanded.

  Maol stood his ground.

  “Now.” The pit master growled. “She won’t want you stinking like that.”

  Maol slowly removed his clothing and stood expectantly. He was then handed a bar of soap by a guard and told to scrub after a bucket of water was thrown over him. The water was freezing, but Maol was relieved for the chance to cool off and get clean and scrubbed himself vigorously before another bucket was tipped over him to rinse away the soap. He was given rags to dry himself and then handed clean pants and boots. He was then ordered to sit on a crate, and his hands were shackled behind his back. One of the guards gave him a shave whilst another trimmed his hair.

  The pit master declared that he would do and indicated for him to stand.

  “I need a shirt,” said Maol.

  The master smirked. “She’ll prefer you without,” he said slyly. “Flex your muscles for her. She’ll like that.”

  Maol frowned.

  Who the hell is this woman?

  Still, he found himself taking notice of his physique. He had lost condition whilst he lacked exercise and proper food in prison and the pits, but he still had good muscle structure, and he was still strong.

  With his hands still shackled behind him, Maol was led from the yard towards the buildings situated at the edge of the enclosure. Inside was a thorian female dressed in travelling clothes, she appeared to be well-born and was accompanied by a contingent of thorian guards.

  “A thorian.” She smiled gleefully at the pit master. “Well, well, well. How did he end up in the pits?”

  “He was the Captain of the King’s Guard until he bumped someone off,” said the master.

  The woman grinned. “How interesting.” She smiled. “He is very tall, and he looks very strong… Lovely. How much?”

  “He’s going to be more expensive than hominem. He can work for longer and will never lose his looks, so that has to be reflected in the price.”

  “How much?” she repeated.

  The pit master shuffled on his feet. “Ten thousand.”

  “Ten thousand!” exclaimed the woman. “I have never paid more than a hundred for the hominem.”

  “You’ll recoup it in no time—who else in Vernasia has a thorian slave? He’s a succedent as well, not a changeling—you’ll have good breeding stock should it take your fancy.” The master winked at her.

  “Eight thousand.”

  “He’s the son of a lord.”

  “Eight thousand.”

  “I paid a lot for him, I won’t turn enough profit at eight.”

  The woman looked at Maol and frowned. “The ladies will love him,” she admitted. “Heck, I might even have him myself at that price.” She bit her lip. “Will you throw in a few hominem as well?”

  “Sure, though we have nothing else as fine as this one at the moment.”

  The woman shrugged. “I need kitchen staff—the youngest will do.”

  “Splendid.” The master grinned widely.

  The woman’s guards took Maol to her wagon whilst the pit master took the woman to pay and sign the relevant paperwork. Maol strained against his shackles. He had learned enough about what the woman wanted him for and was less than thrilled. The pit master had called him a lucky bastard. It sounded like he was to service lots of ladies, including his new owner! Surely that wouldn’t be so bad.

  It’s not like I’m a virgin and I do enjoy it.

  Except he liked it because he wanted to do it not because he had to. He leant his head back on the wall of the cage as the door
opened and three slaves from his pit were thrown in. The guards had not bothered to clean these three, and the wagon was suddenly filled with their stench.

  The thorian woman returned. “No, no,” she said. “I want the thorian in a separate wagon—I want to become better acquainted with my new investment on our journey.”

  Maol was told to move out of the wagon and climb on board another. The party had three wagons that were big enough for ten or twelve men, though Maol assumed that the woman had spent her budget on him as she did not buy any more slaves. Maol was chained to the walls of the wagon until he could barely move and was locked inside with the woman. She grinned at him as the caravan started to move. She began to prowl towards him, and he shifted in his chains.

  He growled. “Don’t come anywhere near me.”

  “Is that how you intend to treat the woman who has saved you from a lifetime of hard labour?” She smiled at him, running her fingers down his chest to his abdomen.

  “Get your hands off me!” he roared.

  She grinned again and ran her hand lower and slipped it just below his waistband. She didn’t go any lower but kept her hand on him.

  “I won’t become your whore.” He snarled. “You’re not going to breed from me like some prize bull.”

  Her arrogant smirk faded into a softer smile and she withdrew her hand. “That’s not what I want you for,” she said. “The brothels are a ruse, so I have a reason to buy slaves.”

  Maol glared at her. “What do you want?”

  “I attend slave markets looking for healthy young men who have their lives ahead of them.”

  “For what?”

  “To free them from slavery.”

  “You expect me to believe that? Slaves are criminals—why would you want to release a bunch of criminals?”

  “Lots of reasons,” she said. “Firstly, I don’t agree that justice is served by sentencing a person to a lifetime of slavery. Secondly, there are plenty of thorian criminals who do not meet this fate—it seems to be another way to exploit hominem—and lastly…well, I have another reason that I will tell you about when I know you better. I need to be able to trust you.”