To The Princess Bound

by Sara King

  Terms of Mercy:

  To The

  Princess

  Bound

  Sara King

  Copyright © 2012

  All Rights Reserved

  Sara King

  Titles by Sara King

  Guardians of the First Realm: Alaskan Fire

  Guardians of the First Realm: Alaskan Fury

  Millennium Potion: Wings of Retribution

  Terms of Mercy: To the Princess Bound

  Forthcoming

  Outer Bounds: Tides of Fortune

  Outer Bounds: Lords of Fortune

  Outer Bounds: Fortune's Fall

  Guardians of the First Realm: Alaskan Fang

  Disclaimer

  At the time of publication, the human race did not have faster-than-light travel, psychic genetic mutations (that I know of), or colonies on other planets. In case you’re still not sure, yes, you are reading a work of fiction. The people and places in this story are not real, people. Really.

  Dedication

  For Kim Fangel Burling,

  Who has a way with plastic spoons.

  And who, with the help of her co-conspirators,

  snuck this book behind my back,

  read it, loved it, and gave it life.

  This one was all her, folks.

  For Amy Breshears,

  A wannabe copyeditor with some seriously mad skillz.

  For -----------,

  Who would rather remain anonymous because his buddies would mock him mercilessly if they found out he was reading and editing a romance novel. He pestered me for weeks (don’t you have ANYTHING else for me to read?) before I dug this one up off my harddrive for him. Turns out, we were both pleasantly surprised.

  And for David,

  My own personal Dragomir.

  Without whom, I would still be twiddling my thumbs.

  Foreword

  This is a romance novel. If you are one of my fans of Outer Bounds, Millennium Potion, After Earth, Form and Function, Alaskan Fire, or Alaskan Fury, this is not an adventure story with some romance woven in. In the hands of a traditional publisher, the cover would probably have a handsome, shirtless, dark-haired dude tugging on a chain linking him to a pretty, scantily-clad chick with a defiant look on her face. The teaser on the back would say something about “taming the beast within” and “lighting the fires of their passion.” It’s a romance novel.

  It’s also not a 225-page serial fluff book that you can read in 90 minutes, or blithely start reading in the middle, looking for a sex scene. It’s a novel, with a real plot and character-driven story. Please don’t expect to read it in one sitting and then gripe at me for making it take too long to get to the sex (which is at the end). I will gripe back.

  And, while To the Princess Bound is a romance, it has fantasy/sci-fi elements, it’s not set on Earth, and the male lead has psychic powers. It also tackles a taboo that most romances won’t touch with a ten-foot pole: This book contains the aftermath of a despicable off-scene gang-rape as part of the background story, with the act and its traumatic aftermath as a significant thematic element throughout the story. The act is in no way glorified or justified, but is prominent.

  On the other hand, there’s plenty of girl-power, (kickass Praetorian women, and a brainiac Princess-heir anyone?) and there’s no way someone could accuse me of advocating women being the weaker sex. Anyone who’s read my adventure novels could tell you that.

  Further, Dragomir is not your usual male hero, but he will win your heart, get your gi-lines humming properly, and promise you a toe-curling bathtub scene. There are also plenty of milk-out-the-nose-funny moments scattered throughout, moments where the characters will touch your heart as they learn and grow, and moments where you forget to breathe for fear of interrupting the scene. What’s more, the Terms of Mercy world is a fascinating new place you’ll want to visit again and again—and you will have the opportunity, as I have 3 other books in the series planned.

  And, despite a little darkness in the beginning, To the Princess Bound does have a really happy ending, because the best books don’t just portray characters who have perfect lives of cake and roses—they have characters who fall, and fall hard, and the real magic is in watching them pick themselves back up again despite impossible odds. Sound good? Then this one’s for you.

  Also, if To the Princess Bound whets your appetite for character-driven sci-fi or fantasy, check out my other books out for Kindle: My adventure sci-fi Millennium Potion: Wings of Retribution, plus my Alaskan paranormal adventure/romances Alaskan Fire, and Alaskan Fury. You can find me at http://www.facebook.com/kingfiction or http://www.kingfiction.com or email me at kingnovel@gmail.com to stay up-to-date with my current novel projects as they come out.

  -Sara King

  May 3, 2012

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: The Last Emp

  Chapter 2: The Princess’s Return

  Chapter 3: To the Princess Bound

  Chapter 4: Understanding

  Chapter 5: To Entertain a Princess

  Chapter 6: Reliving the Past

  Chapter 7: Touched by an Emp

  Chapter 8: The First Bath

  Chapter 9: The Golden Rule

  Chapter 10: Whip’s Close Call

  Chapter 11: At Home with an Emp

  Chapter 12: The Core Rama

  Chapter 13: Village Life

  Chapter 14: A Plan Foiled

  Chapter 15: The Womb Rama

  Chapter 16: An Open Heart

  Chapter 17: A Man Without Mercy

  Chapter 18: Trust

  Chapter 19: An Imperial Decree

  The Last Emp

  Dragomir watched the violet monkshood flowers and grainy white flecks of water hemlock swirl in the cup of amber mead. His wife had made the warped earthenware vessel two years ago, after a trip to the clay-mines down in the valley with the village women. He could still see the gentle impressions that her delicate fingers had scored into the edges of the mug as it had spun on the potter’s wheel. He traced them idly, remembering the graceful way her hands had worked the blue glacial clay. Once put into the village kiln, the cup had come out lopsided and orange, with black stripes where her glaze had accidentally run.

  Guess I’m a goatherd, not a potter, she had laughed, upon seeing the half-crumpled, deformed result that she had pulled from the kiln. She had thrown it away, but Dragomir had pulled it from the trash pit the next morning and filled it with flowers. She had found it on the window-sill and given him a scowl of disapproval, but he had seen her love and happiness overflowing in washes of green and pink within. Can’t lie to me, missy, he had said, kissing the wrinkle out of her forehead. Should know better than try to lie to an Emp.

  Dragomir ran his fingers around the drooping edge of the cup, tracing the paths her fingertips had taken. The liquid inside had been made by her, too. Almost eight months ago, now. One of the last batches in the fall, bottled only days before she had gone up into the mountains with him, to pick berries for winter. The monkshood floating within the mead began to blur as he remembered the way she had worn her hair that day. He’d asked her to leave it loose for the trip. Loose and free, because he loved the way the mountain air played with her beautiful auburn locks. She’d complained for almost an hour before he agreed to brush out all the tangles when they got back.

  True to his word, he’d brushed her hair for hours, afterwards. He’d combed the blood and bone away and braided it lovingly down her back…

  Voices in the front yard made him jerk. A moment later, his door began rattling in its frame with a heavy fist. “Got a sick horse for the healer,” the no-nonsense Brigamond Borer called from the front door. A moment later, he opened the door and peered inside, sil
houetted against the brilliant sunny day outside. “You in there, Emp?”

  Heart hammering, Dragomir jumped up and grabbed a pot from where it dangled above the stove and dropped it, upside-down, over the cup of mead. The sudden motion was too fast, and the clunk drew Brigamond’s attention. The old man peered into the darkness of Dragomir’s living-room, obviously trying to make out the source of the sound. Quickly wiping his face, Dragomir composed himself as Brigamond’s ancient eyes adjusted to the shadows.

  “Hey there, Emp,” Brigamond said, finally spotting him. “We got some business for you.”

  Dragomir nodded, not trusting his voice as he left the cup of mead behind. “I heard,” he managed, walking to the door. “Whatcha need, Brigamond?” Every ounce of him felt wracked with exhaustion. He was too tired for this. Soul-tired. Just walking to the front door took every ounce of energy he had.

  Brigamond Borer and his two eldest sons stood in his front yard with a sick horse. Dragomir could tell it was sick by the way its earthy lines of gi seemed stagnated in its bowels, coagulating there, creating a ball of murky darkness that was rapidly spreading outward, into the creature’s heart and lungs.

  He winced, recognizing the animal. A pretty gray, the Borer’s new prize filly, traded just a month ago from a village down the valley. Barely a year old, she was already full and heavy in the shoulder and rump, destined to be an excellent draft animal. She walked with her head down, having to be pulled forward, with none of the bounce that Dragomir had seen a week ago, when he’d visited Borer Farm to get Thunder shoed.

  The big man at the door glanced at the pot on the table, then up at Dragomir, a little frown on his face. “You okay in there?” Brigamond pressed, trying to peer past him. “Thor told me to keep an eye on you while he’s up in the mountains.”

  Immediately, Dragomir felt himself stiffen. Damn Thor and his meddling. Eight months of meddling, and now he had the entire village intruding on Dragomir’s affairs like they had every right to do so. He stepped through the entrance and pulled the door shut behind him, forcing the old man gently backwards with his body. Despite the fact that Brigamond and his two boys were six feet tall and built like gene-spliced oxen, they were still dwarfed by Dragomir’s six and a half, and today, Dragomir used it. “You said you’ve got a sick horse?” he said, with as much pointedness as he could manage without being rude.

  While the two Borer boys always carried an aura of awe and respect around Dragomir, the old man’s au, as always, was like a stiff sledgehammer of control, painful to be around. With a grunt, the old man said, “Yeah, sick. She stopped eating last night. We think she’s got colic.”

  “It’s worms,” Dragomir said, seeing the malignant energy lines balling backwards up the filly’s intestines and into the stomach like a blood clot. “How long’s she been like this?” When he got closer, he could see the sickly red-brown gi of a mass of roundworms in the filly’s small intestine, stopping up the flow of the horse’s bowels.

  Brigamond Borer gave him an irritated look. “She’s too old for worms. ‘Sides. We dewormed her, just to be safe. She’s got colic. Just ate something she shouldn’t have and we need you to help her pass it.” The old man sounded impatient and disgusted that he’d had to drag the horse up the road to see Dragomir in the first place. It was the fourth time this year that Brigamond had been forced to bring a horse to Dragomir’s farm to save it from certain death. Each time the old man had come trudging up his road, Dragomir could see the shame rolling off of him in great, unhealthy yellow waves, and he had been brusque and irritable and cantankerous in general.

  Dragomir knew that the self-sufficient jack-of-all-trades hated the fact that he had to seek out his help, and Dragomir suspected the Borer Farm rates of colic were actually a lot higher, but the old man could only bring himself to come to Dragomir when it was an especially valuable animal—like a prize mare. In fact, unlike most of the villagers of Sodstone—who would routinely bring him such tiny things as sick kittens and baby birds—horses were the only animals that Brigamond ever brought to him. After all, with all the other animals on his farm, Brigamond could just force saltwater down the creatures’ throats and make them retch up whatever was troubling them. Unfortunately, with horses, there was very little—if anything—a normal person could do to make them vomit.

  “So just make her vomit like you did the last one and I’ll be on my way,” Brigamond insisted. His fist was white-knuckled fingers as he shoved the filly’s reins at Dragomir. With the other hand, Brigamond dug into his pocket, then pushed a coinpurse at him. “There’s for your troubles.” Like Dragomir had set a price for his services, and Brigamond was disgusted because it was too high. As Dragomir gingerly reached out to take the reins and the purse from the farrier, the old man struck a posture of agitation, checking the sky.

  Dragomir grimaced down at the purse. He always found it difficult to deal with Brigamond. While the Dormuthian had been raised with a healthy respect for healers, the old man was proud of his independence, and didn’t understand the intricacies of an Emp’s sight. Clearing his throat, Dragomir glanced again at the malignant mass of dead and dying worms plugging up the horse’s gut. “Okay, Brigamond. What do you think she ate?”

  Of course, deworming the horse had probably loosened enough of the worms from the horse’s intestines that she was having a physiological reaction—an herbivore suddenly exposed to several pounds of rotting worm-meat—but he knew from experience he would not be able to change the old farrier’s mind.

  “Who knows?” Brigamond snorted disgustedly. “The headstrong hussy keeps jumping the fence and running off. Weeds, wood, metal—the monkshood just started flowering, too. Might’ve gotten a mouthful of the stuff.”

  Dragomir flinched at the last. He cleared his throat, hoping Brigamond hadn’t noticed. “There’s definitely a lot more monkshood up here than those villages lower in the valley,” Dragomir offered delicately. He patted the sick filly’s shoulder. “Maybe the poor girl never got acquainted with the stuff. Different climate down there in the lowlands. Terraforming took better, I hear.”

  Brigamon rolled his eyes. “Come on, Emp,” the old man said. He waved a hand at the big gray animal. “No need for pleasantries. Let’s get this over with.”

  Like he was a cobbler who was trying to talk him into buying shoes he didn’t need. Dragomir sighed and glanced down at the tufts of spring grass at his feet. He knew without asking that the old man was going to tell him to make his horse throw up, regardless of what he was seeing. He also knew that using up that kind of energy at the wrong end of the problem might kill the horse. He thought about it a moment, then nodded. “All right. I’m gonna need three wild geraniums, a bag of willowbark, a fistful of fireweed root, about fifty elderberries, and about a pound of pinecones from a white spruce. Must be a white spruce. Black spruce would have the opposite effect.”

  Brigamond made a face, obviously not looking forward to a jaunt through the woods. “I thought you just need to think about it real hard and she’ll vomit.”

  “I can,” Dragomir agreed, “but she’s eaten recently and this’ll help it come up smooth. We need it to come up smooth. Horses aren’t made to throw up. This’ll keep it from bunching up in the esophagus and choking her.”

  Brigamond grunted, then turned to his two boys. “You heard the healer. Go get—”

  “You should probably go with them,” Dragomir said, too tired to really care about decorum any longer. “It’s important to get it right. I’ll keep her alive until you and your boys get back.”

  The white-haired farrier gave the horse an irritated look. “Keep her alive, huh? She close, then?”

  “Close enough,” Dragomir said, running his hand down a long gray flank.

  Brigamond shook his head. “Some fine damned breedstock she’s turning out to be. Last time I buy from those bastards.” He gestured at his two sons. “Let’s go.” He turned, then paused a moment, turned back, and said, “Fifty elderberries?”

>   “Thereabouts,” Dragomir said. “More would be better, in any case.”

  Brigamond grunted and led his two boys away.

  Dragomir let out a breath of relief once the old man’s agitated, rigid energy had retreated. He glanced at the filly. “Better?”

  The filly, of course, did not understand him—communing with beasts was the realm of a Psi, not an Emp—but it relaxed nonetheless. Both of them breathed easier without the Brigamond’s au to agitate their gi lines. The filly lowered her head a bit further, completely uninterested in the green grass by her feet, panting. Dragomir could feel the hurt rolling off of her, and it was building into a sharp pain in his own gut.

  “You’re a lucky horse,” Dragomir said, tracing his hand down the horse’s side, to the area of the blockage. “Life got plans for you, girl?” He felt through the gi lines as he spoke, feeling out which ones were disturbed. “Got here just in the nick of time. You an important horse, eh? You gonna save some soldier from the Imperials someday?” He ran his hand down her ribcage, feeling the stagnated energy there, drawing it outward with his fingers, getting it moving again.

  For her part, the filly just shuddered under his touch, but didn’t fight him. Animals rarely did. It was the humans who got scared. Animals, despite the pain he put them through, knew he was there to help, and held still.

  He found the center of the problem, the two gi lines on either side of the blockage. They were turning black and shriveling from contact with the rotting wormflesh. His forehead touching the filly’s flank, now, Dragomir considered. The horse he could save, but this wasn’t the first time that Life had tried to stop him. He still remembered his brother in the middle of the night, running up the road in his underwear to cut him down.