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This gesture piqued the interests of the courtiers who had been milling about in the stands nearby, watching the exchange with sideways glances, their hot wines sloshing. Small gasps broke out as those gathered saw what was making its way through the crowd toward the dais.
A well-clad pageboy — clearly Jarlen’s — holding a delicate gold chain in one hand. Behind the pageboy, their wrists bound and attached to the chain were a pair of scantily dressed men.
They wore flimsy gold cloths across their hips, and jewels adorned their fingers and hair. Heavy fur cloaks fell over their shoulders, shielding them from the worst of the weather. Their bare chests were utterly hairless. They were fair-skinned and lovely and close to Elma’s age. Her gaze alighted on the delicate bindings about their wrists and the chain. She didn’t look away.
“For you, Princess Elma,” said Jarlen, bowing again.
Elma said nothing.
“They are bed slaves,” said the king, looking at her sidelong. “No small gift.”
“And well trained,” said Jarlen. He snapped his fingers, and at once, the two beautiful men drewtoward one another, embracing, exploring one another as if the entire court of Frost weren’t watching.
It was obvious from the gasps and titters that those present did not object to this display.
Elma swallowed, her mouth suddenly far too dry. This felt somehow obscene, even compared to the Death Games’ letting of blood for enjoyment.
“From Slödava?” The king’s voice rang out over the arena’s noise.
The snow had begun to fall thicker now, giving their covered section of the stands an almost cave-like feeling.
“Where else?” said Jarlen, his confidence seemingly growing. “They’re beautiful, are they not? Pure white hair and made for pleasure. We only feed them once a day; they’re far too weak to fight. The princess would be utterly safe.”
Slödava. Elma had seen the elusive northern men before, captured spies and assassins from that remote enemy enclave. Slödava was a city-state swathed in shadow and ice, a place that Elma might not have believed existed at all were it not for the prisoners she’d seen.
I don’t want them, Elma wanted to say, unable to look at the bed slaves.Get them away from me. But she rarely spoke in front of the court. The less she interacted with the people of Frost, the less she believed she might one day rule them.
“Would Her Highness like further demonstration?” Jarlen asked, snapping his fingers again.
At that, the slaves began to kiss, slow and deep. Elma watched, horrified, as their hips rocked together, as their breaths grew shallow. Public displays of intimacy, even orgies, were not uncommon in the Court of Frost. Elma had attended but only observed, yet she had never seen two peopleforcedto touch one another. Forced to become aroused.
“That will be enough,” said the king.
Jarlen snapped his fingers, and the slaves drew apart. Elma turned her eyes away from their obvious shared arousal, though she knew she was one of the few who did. His demonstration finished, the lordling continued to watch Elma with an uneasy eagerness.
“Your Highness,” he said, almost vibrating like an excited child, “does my gift please you?”
Elma sighed. So,thiswas the point of all that flaunting, all that bowing, and the ridiculously showy gift. Lord Jarlen had not taken his eyes off her, and she ought to have recognized his intent immediately. Men of Rothen had been courting her since her arrival at the citadel, and Elma had refused each of them out of hand. Jarlen would be no exception.
A flaming brazier near them, an enormous thing that could have housed a whole family, roared hotly. Elma felt its heat too keenly.
The king shifted, lowering his meaty hand from his chin.
Everyone was waiting for her to respond. To say something. Just one word would do.
Countless glazed eyes gazed at her from the stands nearby, drunk on bloodshed and wine, all in celebration of their princess. Elma Volta, a woman who wanted nothing to do with them. Who might have given anything to be rid of them, of this life.
“No,” said Elma. Her voice, rough from an evening of disuse, was hoarse. “Your gift does not please me.”
Jarlen’s grin crumpled. Amidst the low hubbub, the gasps and muttering that fanned out through the seated courtiers, Jarlen gestured at his pageboy to take the slaves away. Elma heard his hissed commands, though she couldn’t parse the words.
King Rafe frowned but said nothing. Perhaps, Elma thought, he was recalling the time he hadforced a fiancé upon her, only for the man to be poisoned in his sleep within a fortnight.
This place is a grave. Fed up and miserable, as she was on each of her birthdays, Elma stood to go.
The attending courtiers rustled in response, a whisper of fabric as they stood and bowed low, as hats were removed from heads, as skirts spread out around bent knees.
“Thank you for coming,” Elma said, trying to speak above the sound of battle and death below. She considered saying something about a headache, or asking her father for permission to leave, but it would make no difference. He would be in a rage the next morning, and she’d face the consequences of her insolence one way or another.
