"Again."
The Empress folds her hands, clicking her long, painted nails together like claws. Her personal guard raises his riding crop above his head and lashes the back of my calves a second time. Pain explodes across my skin—a slicing, stinging pain. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut.
At the third lash, I stumble and fall to my knees, hoping for mercy but knowing better. The fourth forces a strangled cry from my lips. At the final lash, my legs are useless, shuddering with a raw, aching numbness. My knee-length skirt exposes the sickly, purple marks swelling over the flesh of my calves.
Crawling away on my hands and elbows, I cast a glance at the crystal vase of dead flowers sitting on the table in the center of the Empress's chambers. Even in death, a trace of their perfume still lingers in the room.
"Get that wretch out of my sight," the Empress commands. She closes her eyes and presses her fingers to her temples, gently massaging her painted skin. "This whole ordeal has brought on another raging ache in my mind."
"Yes, Your Radiant Highness."
The guard clamps his meaty hand on my shoulder and drags me across the lavish rug with its gold tassels and soft threads. In the entry hall of the Empress's chambers, the guard pulls open the massive gold door and flings me into the corridor. I land in a heap, a tangle of battered skin and sore limbs.
"Get yourself gone," the guard growls. "And consider yourself lucky. Those were light lashings."
A snarling smile comes to my lips, and even through the throbbing pain, I find my voice. "You'll have to try harder next time," I taunt.
The guard draws himself up, puffing out his chest. "Watch your tongue!" He tightens his grip on the horsewhip in his hand. I brace for the sixth lashing, digging my fingernails into the stone beneath me.
The guard cracks the riding crop against the floor, a hair's width away from my leg. A warning. He then jabs the crop in my face, hissing his threat to me.
"Next time, I break them."
He slams the door shut.
I manage to rise to all fours like an animal, but I'm forced to pause there, gasping in agony. My eyes water as I stare at my fingers, sucking in breaths through clenched teeth. Pain radiates through my legs like a dozen knives slowly driving into the meat of my calves. From the back of my throat, tiny whimpers struggle to emerge from my lips, but I swallow them down, burying them in my gut. Instead, I let out a low, guttural growl and hock a gob of spit at the golden door. Watching the dripping fleck of disrespect only mildly soothes the smoldering in my chest.
Once the worst of the stinging subsides, I use the stone wall of the corridor to pull myself up. Walking is a slow process, but my feet know where to go: this long corridor, take the door on the right, head down the hall for the servants, through another door, down a flight of narrow steps, around a corner, through another bustling hall, and finally into the kitchens.
The maids and butlers rush from room to room, taking on an air of annoyance as I slowly pass by. I glare at every person I see, daring them to scold me. They see me limping along. I know they see me even though their eyes never meet mine. I know they see me because yesterday it was someone else, today it's me, and tomorrow there'll be another thrall shambling through the underbelly of the palace like an injured rat retreating to its nest.
Down the staircase, I begin to smell it. Familiar scents waft into the servant halls from the kitchens—the earthen smell of yeast dough, the savory aroma of braising lamb, and the pungent whiff of exotic spices. Normally, my mouth would water at the thought of all the delicious food being prepared for the emissaries, but at the moment, my stomach is sick with pain. My steps are unsteady, and I grimace with each one.
A thrall with a platter of dried dates and figs steps out of the kitchen door and rushes off to serve the delicate mouths of our foreign guests. I slip through behind him, greeted by a blast of warm air and the sound of the cooks shouting to each other.
The chefs have been at work without pause ever since the foreign dignitaries arrived several days ago to negotiate some sort of deal with the Emperor. Endless luxuries have been showered upon the visitors. We're all in a state of near panic, rushing through the hidden halls and doorways of the palace like blood through the veins of a body—chaotic yet organized down to the last detail.
The butchery block is in an alcove separated from the rest of the kitchens by a swinging door that only comes up to my waist. In the small room, there's a table against one wall, a huge basin for pumping water against another, and a large waste bucket beside a door leading to the trash heaps. A sweetly accented voice greets me as I limp through the swinging door.
"Finished tending to Her Heavenly Eminence already?"
Baden looks up from his chopping block. As he wipes his hands on a blood-stained rag and brushes off his dhoti, his eyes travel the length of my battered figure, noting my wobbling steps. He appraises me silently, but his brow furrows over his dark brown eyes, and he crosses his arms, tensing the hardened muscles of his forearms.
"What happened?"
I give a sharp laugh as I lower myself onto a rickety stool beside his chopping table. I try not to, but I wince at the pain in my legs, hissing through my teeth. In no mood to explain, I shoot back, "What always happens, Baden?"
"You run your mouth."
I shoot him a glare, but he turns away, moving to the basin and plunging his hands into the cool, clear water. He scrubs away the guts and gore from his palms.
"She's in a cruel mood today," I remark, casting a glance towards the kitchens. Even though we can't be heard above the din of clanking pots and sizzling meats, the walls of the palace have been known to betray more than one disrespectful thrall. I lower my voice to a whisper. "She didn't even bother to strike me herself. She made a guard do it."
Baden shakes his head, trying to cool my glowering mood. "It doesn't matter," he says. "I'd rather it was her guard. He holds back his beatings. You know he could've just as easily crippled you."
"A true hero," I scoff, rolling my eyes. "I'd rather it was none of it!"
Baden frowns. "You're acting like this is your first day at the bottom of the Order. This is how things are."
"It shouldn't be," I grumble.
"You make everything harder on yourself," he insists. "You don't need a witty response to everything. Just put your head down and ignore it."
Fixing him with a hardened stare, I maintain a steadfast tone. "I'd rather have the welts."
After a moment of silence, Baden shrugs and bends to open a cabinet beneath his workstation. He withdraws a large box and sets it on the table. The box has writing on it, but I can't read it. He yanks the lid open and takes out a squat, little bottle with some sort of salve inside it. He holds the bottle out to me.
"Put that on your bruises before you sleep tonight, and they'll be bearable tomorrow."
I mumble my thanks and take the bottle. Reaching beneath the collar of my threadbare blouse, I draw out a small leather pouch. I loosen the pouch strings and place the bottle inside. As thralls, we're forbidden from having our own possessions so everything must remain hidden. A horse would not own its own bridle and saddle—those are for its master to keep. Property cannot own property. At least, that's what they tell us.
Sighing, Baden wipes his hands on his apron again and returns his box of cures to the cabinet. I rise from the rickety chair, testing the strength of my stance. My muscles have lamed up, coiling themselves in tight masses beneath the purple bruises. I groan. Every movement brings on a dull throbbing in my legs, but at least the worst of the stinging pain has subsided.
When I look back at Baden, his eyes hold mine with an unreadable expression. The stoic stillness in his mannerisms has always been a source of both annoyance and comfort to me, like an anchor shackling me in place while also protecting me from the crushing ocean waves.
Breaking the stillness between us, Baden reaches out, smoothing the edge of the cotton silk headwrap holding up my thick mess of hair. The uncharacteristic gesture makes the skin along the back of my neck bristle.
"I'll never understand you," I say, stepping out of his reach. "How can you think we're lucky simply because there are worse fates?"
"Because we are," he answers simply.
I shake my head. "I refuse to believe that."
"We're alive, aren't we?"
"Barely."
Baden sighs. I know what he's thinking. I know how he feels. We've had this discussion more times than I care to count.
"There's an entire world outside this hell of a palace." My eyes move beyond Baden, recalling a paradise from my memories, a place I once knew but now can only see in my dreams. "There's so much more than this!"
The rising passion in my voice makes Baden chuckle softly.
I pick up his butcher's knife, thoughtfully wrapping my fingers around the handle. "I remember the land of our ancestors, far to the north. In a place like that, beyond these walls and across the desert, we could be kings and queens!"
Amused, Baden raises an eyebrow. "I've had my fill of royalty, thank you."
In a grand gesture of my imagined power, I stand on the rickety stool and nobly thrust the carving knife towards the ceiling like a magnificent sword. "You could be Baden the Powerful! No... Baden the Great! Yes, I like how that sounds."
"Then you like the sound of foolishness." He laughs, trying to look unimpressed with me.
I put my hands on my hips and take another regal pose. "From butcher to king! Bards will compose ballads for centuries. And maybe there will be a lyric or two about me as they recount your grand rise to power."
"How thoughtful." He rolls his eyes, still chuckling. "Now, get down from there. And give me that!" He snatches back his butcher's knife as I step down from the chair, immediately regretting my antics as my calf muscles protest all the movement.
"You'd better get back to your chores," Baden says. "I don't want the Keeper coming after you." In a more tender tone, he mutters, "I'll come by your shed tonight. With the dignitaries here, everyone's too busy to notice a few table scraps missing. You're beginning to look thin again."
I push against his arm playfully, my strength barely able to shove him an inch. "What about you? You're thin too!"
"Worrying about you makes me forget to eat," he teases.
I open my mouth, a quick retort on my lips, but a sudden silence fills the kitchens. The absence of noise alerts us as much as a violent crash or an ear-splitting shout.
Baden grasps my arm, pulling me to the doorway of his butcher's alcove. Pots on the stoves are boiling over, pans are burning their contents, and breads are crisping in the ovens, but none of the cooks take any notice. Everyone is staring. Baden grows rigid and takes a small step forward, partially hiding me. I follow his gaze.
Two elite men-at-arms stand on either side of the Thrall Keeper. Straight-backed and carrying a horsewhip, the Keeper appears ready for war or—far more likely—one of his drunken rampages. My muscles cringe out of habit, yet one look at his eyes tells me he's in complete control of himself. He wears his usual pitiless expression, but there's something not quite right. In his eyes especially, I see something. The room darkens, and I shrink behind Baden.
In the Keeper's eyes, I see fear.
"All female thralls below thirty winters will be escorted to the Grand Throne Room immediately." His voice is pinched, and it grates on my ears. He does his best to make himself sound authoritative, but a hollowness edges his tone. Something is wrong.
Baden tightens his grip on my arm. I flick my eyes between him, the two soldiers, and the knife in his hand, watching his muscles coil in response to whatever foolish thought he's considering. Before Baden can react, I step forward and mutter into his ear, hardly moving my lips.
"I'll be fine."
I walk towards the door with several other thrall girls.
The Keeper nods with unfeeling approval. "You're going before Our Blessed Harbinger so remember your place," he snaps at us. And without another word, he turns on his heel and disappears through the kitchen doorway. One soldier takes his place at the front of the line while the other soldier walks behind us.
With the Keeper gone, the kitchen resumes its frantic bustle. I look back over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of Baden standing motionless in a sea of chaos. I try to flash a reassuring smile, but I don't think he sees it. He only stands there, his dark eyes staring after me as the guard closes the kitchen.
***
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Any support or feedback is greatly appreciated.
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