Prisoner of the Crown

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Helva sighed, a dreamy expression on her face, while Inga studied me with somewhat more cynicism. “Rumor is that you’ve requested an audience with your mother.”

  No secrets in the seraglio. I sipped my almond-milk sweetened tea. “I have. It’s traditional for a bride to seek advice from her mother on her wedding day.”

  Inga nodded, studying her own tea, wrapping her hands around it. “Be careful, sister mine,” she murmured.

  Tempted to tell her I was beyond caring, I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Don’t mourn me before I’m gone,” I said, allowing my meaning to filter through it.

  She turned her hand over, clutching mine in return. To my surprise, her lovely aqua eyes swam with tears. Helva looked between us, bewildered, and growing frightened. “What’s wrong—what aren’t you two telling me?”

  “Nothing,” I reassured her, releasing Inga’s hand. “We’re simply missing each other already.”

  “But we’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Helva said, almost a question in it. “You’ll return here to sleep as all the noble ladies do, yes? At least until you travel to your new home. We have a week before we have to say goodbye.” Her voice rose perilously and we shushed her.

  “Of course you’ll see me tomorrow morning,” I said, forcing a smile. I couldn’t imagine that Rodolf would part with that tradition and not allow me to return. The seraglio was our sanctuary, our refuge. The one place where men could not go. I would be back later tonight, no matter what else transpired.

  Helva smiled with artless relief, oblivious to the undercurrents. “And you can tell us all about it, what it’s really like.”

  Inga snorted. “You know what sex is about. Sól knows we’ve had countless lessons in the sensual arts.”

  “But that’s all theory, with ivory implements. Don’t you ever get the idea they’re not telling us everything?” Helva insisted.

  “If I did,” Inga said reprovingly, “I would not be so foolish as to speak those words aloud.”

  Chastened, Helva subsided, picking sullenly at her disassembled pastry.

  “Your Imperial Highness Princess Jenna,” Hede said from behind me, bowing when I turned. “Her Imperial Majesty will receive you now.”

  “Thank you, Hede.” I rose, making sure to first wipe my lips of any crumbs. I’d dressed for breakfast, and had my girls fix my hair in a casual style, in anticipation that she’d call me early. The afternoon would be filled with preparations for the wedding ceremony.

  “Good luck,” Inga said, catching and holding my gaze.

  I nodded. I would need all the good fortune I could capture.

  * * * *

  “Ah, here she is. The beautiful bride, pearl of the empire,” my mother commented when her girl ushered me in. Something in her tone smacked of sarcasm—or envy, perhaps—but for my mother, she sounded almost cheerful.

  “Your Imperial Majesty.” I spoke as reverently as I could muster, sinking into a deep curtsey, calling on my dancer’s grace, as I knew it would please her.

  “Sit.” She gestured to the pillows opposite her low table. “Have some tea.”

  I’d long since learned that my mother’s “tea” was actually mjed, and not watered down. Women weren’t supposed to drink mjed, as the fiery brew would overbalance our more delicate, watery constitutions, but few rules applied to the empress. And she would think me weak if I refused. So, despite the early hour, I allowed her girl to pour me a cup, and sipped from it, the fiery honey liquor a welcome burn.

  “You’ve done very well,” mother said. Though her beautifully angled face remained impassive and icy, the compliment warmed me. Her opos pipe sat quietly. She would not smoke her opos until later that night, only when she’d returned to the seraglio for the evening and could afford to set aside her formidable wits. “Better than I expected. Your dancing was without flaw. Both His Imperial Majesty and His Highness King Rodolf are more than impressed with you. Your father is proud and your future husband utterly besotted. Even your brothers were dazzled.”

  She sounded dry, a hint of scorn in her voice despite the compliments. But I thanked her as graciously as I could.

  “Tonight you wed Rodolf,” she continued, unbending a bit as her girls apparently disappeared. She held all her servants in an iron grip of discipline and fear, making this room relatively safe for sharing secrets. No one—including me—had the spine to betray her in even the smallest gesture. “At last everything you’ve worked for is within your grasp. Tomorrow you’ll be a queen and set your feet on the next step of our journey to restoring our family to glory.”

  I took a breath. Let it out. Perhaps I didn’t dare say anything. Certainly I couldn’t confess my fear.

  “What is it?” she prodded impatiently. “Surely this wasn’t a surprise. You knew I hoped to secure the King of Arynherk for you.”

  “Yes, Mother.” I’d gone shivering and timid, as I always did in her presence. In this room where she’d taught me the brutal lessons of obedience and the price for failing her. “Though he is somewhat other than I expected.”

  She laughed, not cruelly, but in genuine amusement. “Don’t tell me you had some girlish fantasy of prince charming—someone young and handsome who might kiss your feet and worship at your innocent loins? Oh, yes, I can see you did. How odd. I can’t imagine how I could have gone so wrong. I thought you were smart enough to understand that this marriage is not for some poetic ideal of love but for the only thing that’s real in this world: power.”

  I did understand that. I hadn’t expected love. But I had thought my husband would be someone I wouldn’t fear with gut-watering dread.

  “Remember, too,” she continued, “the great advantage of an elderly husband. I have given you a tremendous gift which you seem to lack the wit to recognize. He surely cannot live many more years. You will outlast him, if you’re not a fool about it, and then you will be a widow—both free of him and in possession of all he owns. We have planned all of this with exquisite care. Trust in that.”

  “Yes, Mother.” It made sense. If only I could outlast him. “But there are rumors.”

  “There are always rumors in the seraglio,” she scoffed. “It is the lifeblood that warms the waters and brightens the lives of fools with nothing better to think about. Are you one of those empty-minded idiots who gives credence to every whisper and innuendo?”

  Of course, I didn’t dare reveal my source. My mother—and possibly the emperor—would deal harshly with my little brothers for their well-intentioned warnings. “No, Mother,” I replied, casting about for my next step. I’d had such bold speeches planned, but they’d all fled from my mind.

  “Of course not,” she replied, most satisfied. “For you are my daughter, through and through. This is a brilliant match for you. We are so close, my darling girl. Don’t lose heart now.”

  Her words made me look up, feeling somewhat encouraged, and I fancied I glimpsed something of sympathy in her face. “We all endure,” she said softly. “That is the woman’s burden in this world. We must endure the pawings of men, for only through them can we express our power. I wish it could be otherwise—believe me, you have no idea how much I wish it so—but it’s simply not. This is the way of things. If you stay here, an eternal virgin, safe and warm among other women, you will never be anything more than you are. A waste of all your promise. With your beauty, talent, intelligence, and fortitude, you can become the most powerful woman in the world. But not by staying here.”

  I stared at her, rapt. She’d never been so honest with me. Nor so complimentary. She gave me a wry smile, and poured us both more mjed, a rare gesture for her, to do it herself. “Tell me what rumors have unsettled you.”

  No slithering out of that one. She’d know if I lied and she’d never relent until I confessed. “I’ve heard his four previous wives all died, very young.”

  She shrugged, as if that matter
ed not at all. “True. Rodolf has a reputation for being … hard on his brides.” She smiled without mirth, blue eyes drilling into me. “Do you imagine yourself so easily broken?”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. She leaned in, a glimpse of teeth before she closed her lips over them. The opos smoke had stained her teeth over the years, despite the many remedies she attempted and commanded her girls to discover. She’d developed the closed-lipped smile to hide them, reminding me ever of that jeweled lizard I’d loved, even after it bit me.

  “You are of my body,” she said, deep blue eyes intent on mine. “More, you are trained by me. Did you imagine I taught you pain for no reason? I have crafted you from my flesh and molded you with my will. What can Rodolf do to you that you have not already withstood? Nothing.” She sat back, eyes going to her pipe, fingers twitching for it, before she mastered the urge and tapped her nails on the cup of mjed instead. “Besides, you are an imperial princess. He won’t dare to kill you as he did the others. Your father is intensely pleased with you—I take credit for that, but you deserve some as well—and as long as you behave impeccably, he’ll continue to regard you as a priceless treasure. Keep on your father’s good side, and your life will be safe.”

  And my body? I dared not speak that aloud.

  “Jenna,” my mother said, calling me by my name, as she so rarely did. My father had chosen it and it was not an Elskadyr name, something that rankled in her. “On this, your wedding day, I’ll let you in on one last secret. For all that we’ve taught you the sensual arts to practice, they are largely unnecessary. It’s easy for a woman, because she needs only submit to her husband’s lust. Meekly accept what he wishes to do to you, and remember that it’s only flesh. You are your mind and your will. That cannot be broken unless you are so weak as to allow it. And you, my pearl, are not weak, are you?”

  “No, Mother, I’m not.” I met her gaze, feeling a slow burn of anger somewhere near my heart. She returned the stare, a flicker of something else in it.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she replied. “Your obedience does honor to your family. Now, go prepare for your wedding.”

  * * * *

  The actual wedding ceremony, the ritual that bound me forever into Rodolf’s possession, lasted a very short time. Not that there hadn’t been days of contract negotiations and various ceremonies to solemnize my transference from my father’s responsibility to Rodolf’s, but my presence at those had been unnecessary.

  For a woman without protection, without a father or brothers to speak for her and look after her best interests, such negotiations can work badly against her. Such women often become rekjabrel or lower servants. I’ve heard tales and they are hair-raising indeed. So, the audience with my mother had provided some comfort after all. No reprieve from my fate, but I’d hardly dared even entertain a flicker of hope for that. Instead, she’d reminded me that I am not alone in this world. I have a family who treasures me and cares for my well-being.

  The emperor would see to it that his gift to Rodolf would be well looked after. I needed to trust in that.

  So, the role I played in my own wedding was a small one. Hours of dressing and being decorated led me to a scant few minutes. My father, the emperor himself, performed the final ceremony. He lifted my veils, smiling broadly, and kissed me on the forehead. The first and last kiss I received from my father. Turning me to Rodolf, he presented me, waiting for my husband’s formal acknowledgment of my identity. Dasnarian tales are rife with such trickeries, with other women, or even farm animals substituted for the promised bride.

  But then, there are also tales of vows of eternal and undying love. Of lovers pledging themselves to each other, refusing the wishes of their families, running off together to live in happiness in mythical lands. Those are obviously also nothing but stories as absurd as those about men accidentally marrying sheep disguised as brides.

  Making his promises to care for me, to give me food and shelter, to honor me as first wife and Queen of Arynherk, Rodolf fastened the wedding bracelets on me. Like the betrothal ring, the bracelets were old, prized jewels of the Arynherk kingdom and his ruling family. Wrapped in gold and silver, encrusted with diamonds, they weighed on me as heavy as the ring, which attached to the bracelet on my right hand with a set of three chains—gold, silver, and iron—delicately wrought and symbolic of my binding.

  Fortunately, I didn’t need to speak, only accept the bracelets and fastening of the chains. If I’d been required to speak, to vocalize my acceptance of this man, whose very proximity made my skin crawl with phantom spiders, I might not have gotten through it. As it was, I retreated into that cool bubble inside myself, the space my mother had taught me to develop and refine. Once inside, I felt nothing. I could be the pearl on the surface, shimmering and without blemish, passed from one hand to another.

  The final ceremony, of course, would be when my husband claimed my virginity, making my body his and his alone. Thus we went directly from the marriage binding to his bedchamber. There would be a party for me the next day, in the seraglio, to celebrate my passage into womanhood. Inga and Helva had it all planned, keeping the details secret in their delight. I only knew they’d invited Ada and a few other visiting ladies, too.

  I hadn’t decided how I felt about speaking with Ada again. I’d spotted her in the wedding gathering. But when we had an opportunity to speak again, I would be Rodolf’s wife in every way, so her seeds of doubt would find no purchase in my mind.

  Besides which, I had taken refuge in thinking of nothing. That allowed me to be as meek as my mother dictated, my hand wrapped through the crook of Rodolf’s arm as he led me to his grand chambers, his hand hot and damp with sweat as it covered mine. He breathed in short bursts of lustful excitement, and I briefly entertained an enticing wish that he might expire as he plowed my body and attempted to plant his seed.

  A happy thought, as I might end up a queen, a mother, and a widow for one night of trouble. If only.

  We entered his rooms, grand and foreign to my eye. The rekjabrel had described the beds the men slept in, but my mind’s eye hadn’t painted them exactly. Nothing like our silk-draped couches and piles of pillows, this bed loomed with masculine presence, large and straight-lined, bordered by posts at the four corners.

  The servant girls that accompanied us relieved me of my veils and the heavily brocaded overdress of ivory satin decorated with a fortune in pearls. They carried it off, closing the door as Rodolf commanded, leaving me in only the transparent wisp of a sheath, and the dubious shield of my unbound hair. I kept my face averted and my eyes closed, grateful for the custom that allowed me to avoid looking at him.

  Grateful, too, perhaps for my mother’s harsh training over the years, that enabled me to remain rooted to the spot, despite the instincts that urged me to run as far and fast as I could.

  But I couldn’t contain my trembling. All that kept me from voiding my bladder in all that old remembered terror was that I hadn’t eaten or drunk more than bare sips of water since lunch the day before. Fasting made me clean inside and out, for whatever orifice my husband wished to take. And I could only be glad for the women who’d gone before me, in their wisdom in keeping the bladder empty, too.

  I would submit, but at least I would not humiliate myself in that way.

  Rodolf ripped the delicate silk from me, tossing the shift into the fire, then stirring the dregs to make sure it burnt completely. I would be naked until he clothed me. He returned to me, walking around me, looking and making little grunts of delight. I cracked my eyes open enough to track his movements, so I’d be ready for whatever came next.

  He’d shed his own robe, his corpulent flesh jiggling rather unpleasantly as he circled me. Beneath his prodigious belly, his rather less than prodigious manhood remained flaccid, not at all aroused enough to perform the deed required. To be truthful, it didn’t look large enough to penetrate my body and plant his seed—nothing lik
e the illustrations—though I knew from lessons that it should increase in length considerably, once aroused.

  With some men, being with a woman, seeing her naked, that was enough. Others required more stimulation.

  Thus, when Rodolf wrapped his fist in my hair and forced me to my knees, I wasn’t surprised. I’d practiced this, on carved phalluses, and set to work—steeling my stomach against the stink of him. He kept up the grunting, thrusting against me so his belly smacked my forehead, making it difficult for me to stay in position. I slid my hands up his legs, keeping my touch sensual as I’d been taught, hoping to use the leverage for purchase.

  Wrong move. With a cry of rage, he backhanded me. I fell to the plush carpet, recovering my senses.

  “You do what I tell you, wife,” he growled. Seizing me by the rope of my hair, he dragged me to the bed. Though I tried hard not to resist, he yanked me off balance, making it difficult to keep up. He hauled me to my feet and fastened my wedding bracelets to a chain dangling from one of the crosspieces. My toes barely touched, the metal cutting into my wrists.

  Now he fondled me, hands clammy soft and also surprisingly painful in their pinching. Though I tried to remain pliant, I couldn’t help flinching away now and again. When I cried out, he laughed. And his manhood finally lengthened.

  So, that is how it would be.

  “So sensitive,” he mused. “All of this lovely skin for me to learn and use against you for my pleasure. You’ll learn discipline from me, imperial princess. Let’s start with a little whipping.”

  After that, it only got worse.

  ~ 11 ~

  Do you need to be rescued?

  The question seeped through and around in my dreams. Dreams of pain, suffering, and humiliation such as I’d never anticipated. When I’d first collapsed into sleep—when Rodolf had finally tired of me and sent me home to the seraglio—I’d seized the bliss of unconsciousness with profound gratitude.