A Gift for the Emperor's Son

Many thanks to my advance readers and to user LaRascasse for their assistance with editing!

Content warning

: death of a family member, bodily mutilation, violence

***

Amali shivered in the crisp wind of early autumn. The sky was crystal blue with clouds wisping across its surface, the air smelling of churned-up earth. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine she were out riding on her favorite gelding, across the rolling hills of grass and bracken.

She shivered again, dressed in nothing more than a gauzy shift. Her hands were bound and the end of the rope tied to the saddle of that treacherous man Horan who had slit her father's throat. Her eyes burned with grief and rage, but she refused to cry in front of all these traitorous men.

"Over there!" came a shout, and she lifted her hands to shield her eyes from the bright sun.

Beyond Horan's warhorse, the hills dipped and rose, crisscrossing each other until they reached the horizon, where she could just make out the blood-red banners of the empire's imperial house.

The moorland had protected Berenul's eastern border for centuries, but no longer. The rest of Tauria had fallen, and now it was Berenul's turn to bow to the emperor of Serutus' bloodthirsty son. She knew that for the empire's mounted archers and swordsmen, Berenul's moors were as easy to traverse at the unforgiving steppe of the Serutusian homeland, far away to the southeast in the center of the continent.

Serutus was a young and war-hungry empire, named after the emperor's grandfather, who had conquered three neighboring kingdoms within as many decades. Berenul was one of the last few kingdoms standing, at the edge of the continent, hemmed in between the ever-nearing imperial army and the sea. Her people were strong in wool and ore and sailing, not in fighting. They hadn't needed to be; their corner of the world had reached an easy equilibrium centuries ago. But now Serutus' great-grandson was here to upend everything.

"Raise the flag!" Horan ordered, and a herald lifted a pike with a plain white square affixed to its end.

Amali gritted her teeth. Her family's own golden banners had been shredded the night before and dumped for all to see by the main gate of Lirean Castle. Only Horan's red-and-blue banners were visible now. She supposed he expected the emperor would let him keep his lands and title, perhaps even reward him with some of her family's own holdings for his betrayal.

The white flag rippled in the breeze, and in answer the imperial riders broke away from the horizon to gallop down the hillside out of view, racing toward them.

"They approach!" the herald cried.

"Let us go meet them!" Horan commanded, and Amali stumbled forward as he kicked his horse into a walk.

The coarse vegetation hurt her tender feet, but it was better than rocks and dirt, she supposed. She hadn't had the time to even don her robe before Horan's men barged into her bedchamber and hauled her away, let alone to put on her slippers, not that they would have helped much now. If only she'd had the presence of mind to reach for the knife beneath her pillow just a moment sooner, then she might at least have taken her own life and been spared this humiliation -- and whatever horror awaited her at the hands of the emperor's son.

He was said to charge into battle roaring like a dragon, freezing the blood of all who faced him. He could fire arrows one after another as quick as lightning and leap from his horse into the thick of battle without injury. So proficient was he at killing that he had suffered not even a scratch since first joining the battlefield when he came of age. That had been but a handful of years ago, and in that short space of time he had already laid low the northwest of the continent.

She didn't want to think on what such a fearsome man would do to her when he had her to himself. She knew it was the custom for Serutus' emperors to take the daughters of those they subdued as trophies, living little better than bed-slaves, their lives forfeit should their families ever step out of line. She no longer had any family to protect, which was a small mercy. But then, there was nothing to hold back the imperial prince from forcing himself on her at the earliest opportunity.

Amali shuddered at the thought, then tripped and fought to right herself before one of Horan's men tried to touch her under the guise of helping her stand. But she wasn't fast enough, and a gloved hand gripped her arm, yanking her up.

"Do forgive my rough manner,

princess

," the man sneered.

She hissed and pulled away from him, turning her eyes back to the path before her. She knew her face was flush with shame, and she tried to ignore the crass jokes of the armsmen surrounding her.

If she had known it would come to this, she would not have protested so publicly when the empire's delegation had announced their proposal: They would spare Berenul a short and bloody war, if only they handed over their kingdom's princess and sole heir to the throne. But would that alone have made a difference? Her father had been seething with anger and shouted the ambassador out of the throne room. Perhaps instead she should have begged him to consider the offer, or secretly ridden out and presented herself at the imperial war camp currently sitting on the edge of Berenul territory. Anything to protect him, whose body now hung outside the gates of Lirean Castle.

The red-cloaked riders came into view over the crest of the nearest hill, and Horan raised a hand to halt his entourage.

Amali shifted her stance, peeking past Horan's great warhorse to catch a glimpse of the approaching men. Which one was the imperial prince? She'd thought his horse would be outfitted in the imperial colors, that he'd be wearing the most sumptuous of garments amongst his men, as her father did. Was he not even here?

The imperial soldiers halted at a shouting distance, and then one lone rider stepped forward and hailed Horan. The traitor returned the gesture and nudged his horse slowly forward, Amali trailing behind. He stopped halfway between the two groups, his horse shifting uneasily.

Horan's voice rang loudly in the barren landscape. "I come to surrender, most esteemed son of House Underen."

Amali blanched. Was this really the prince? She dared not look.

"You made a wise choice." His words were clear despite the wind, with an undercurrent of power that made her shudder. She could only imagine how terrifying he would sound when he unleashed it fully.

"But why," he continued, "do I see only the banners of House Riotaz? Have you abandoned your king and come to surrender alone?" There was cold mirth in his voice now.

"King Orist is dead," Horan declared without preamble. "He refused your offer, but I would accept it in his place."

"Can you prove it?" the prince demanded.

"Indeed, your imperial highness." Without turning, Horan signaled to his men.

Amali looked over to see a rider step forward, proffering a leather satchel in his outstretched arm. One of the prince's men rode over and accepted it, looking inside at what could only be her father's head. She bit back a sob.

The man returned to the prince's side and showed it to him, face grim. They spoke a few words and the man nodded, closing the bag.

"I accept your proof." The prince's voice held a hard edge. "But my offer was not made in exchange for a dead king, but rather a living princess."

"That is why we brought her," Horan replied. "As a gift for your imperial highness."

"A gift?" the prince echoed. Amali couldn't discern the emotion underneath his words.

"Indeed." Horan jerked on the rope and Amali yelped as she was yanked forward, her wrists burning. He continued pulling until there was no more slack, and she could only stand, arms out taut, next to his saddle.

Amali stared at the ground, not wanting to face this man who had come to claim her.

Horan's boot met her back, shoving her forward. She whimpered as she stumbled yet again, then righted herself and stood. The wind shifted and she was suddenly leaning into it, and she felt a blush rise furiously over her face. Her figure was clearly outlined now as the thin cloth of her shift pressed against her body. She tried to pull her hands down to cover herself, but Horan refused to loosen his grip.

"How do you like her?" the traitor asked, and she could hear the lewd smile that was surely spread across his face.

The prince made no reply, instead dismounting and striding towards her. Amali cowered back as much as she could, acutely aware of her shift rubbing against her stiff nipples, streaming between her legs all the way up to her thighs. She fell to her knees and cried out in pain. Burning with shame, she pressed her lips together to keep any more sounds from escaping her mouth.

He was standing right in front of her now, his heavy boots not even a step away from her grazed knees.

"Look at me, princess," he said quietly.

Amali shivered at his tone, but refused to obey. He crouched down and she closed her eyes, feeling his hand lift her chin to face him.

"Look at me," he repeated firmly. "I won't ask again, princess."

She didn't want to, but she was more afraid of what he'd do to her if she defied him in front of all these men. Slowly she opened her eyes, her breath freezing in her lungs as his gaze locked on to hers.

Imperial Prince Kirilos Underen's eyes were as pale and cold as steel. He had tanned skin, heavy brows, and rose-dark lips, which were frowning as he peered into her eyes.

"They really are as dark as they say," he murmured, and she gritted her teeth and looked away.

Amali was well-known for her eyes as deep blue as indigo, and her auburn hair that was now blown all about her face. The prince tucked a strand of it behind her ear and caressed her cheek, and she flushed in embarrassment. This was the closest she'd ever been to any man other than her father, who was now dead and could no longer protect her.

More loudly, he said, "I accept your gift, Horan Riotaz. I will be taking her with me."

"It pleases me to hear so, your imperial highness," the man replied.

Amali blinked. Horan hadn't even given his name. Just how much did the emperor's son know about the lords of Berenul?

She was startled out of her thoughts when the prince drew a dagger from his belt. She flinched, raising her hands in a futile effort to shield herself. Then the ropes fell away. Surprised, she glanced up to see him scowling and averted her gaze once more.

"Don't try to run," he said, voice low but dangerous. "You

will

regret it. Do you understand?"

Amali curled her lip; did he really think she didn't comprehend her situation? But she nodded meekly, and he helped her stand. She moved to cover her breasts, but the prince unclasped his cloak and threw it around her shoulders. It was heavy and warm, and she slipped her hands through the arm slits gratefully as he fastened it above her chest.

"Come," he said, turning away without bothering to make sure she followed, as though he were entirely sure she would obey him. And she did. Limping slightly, she reached his great black stallion, which rolled its eyes at her.

"Easy, Tuma," he murmured to the horse, petting its neck.

Amali stepped forward slowly and breathed into the horse's nostrils by way of greeting, and his ears relaxed. She stepped back and saw the prince staring at her, and blushed anew. He looked as though he might say something, but instead only held out his arms. She braced her hands on his wide shoulders and he lifted her up, settling behind her only a moment later. He reached around her and took the reigns and she flushed once more, realizing her backside was practically kneading into his crotch.

"I thank you for this gift, Lord Riotaz," the prince said, his voice rumbling through her body.

Horan bowed in his saddle. "I only hope that she pleases you, your imperial highness."

"She does," he replied. "Greatly."

Amali shuddered at his words. The prince didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't care. Silently he urged his horse around, and his entourage followed, falling into formation around them.

She looked over at the man who still carried her father's head. She recognized him now; he was the ambassador the prince had sent to court not two months ago. She tried not to stare at the satchel, but couldn't help it, and the man caught her looking. He inclined his head politely, but said nothing. She supposed there was nothing to be said.

It was slow going, riding double. She eyed the sun, guessing it was about midday. Would they even reach the imperial camp by sunset?

Suddenly her stomach growled, and she remembered she hadn't eaten since suppertime the day before. She reddened under the curious gazes of the soldiers on either side of her, one of whom glanced at the prince, who held out a hand. The man searched through his saddlebags and offered up a pouch of some sort. The prince took it and shoved it in front of her, and she accepted it without a word. Peering inside, she found long, dried strips of what seemed to be meat. It was tough and hard to chew, but she ate it nonetheless.

Over the first hill they went, then the next. Amali was tired and sore, but dared not lean back against the prince, not wanting to touch him more than she had to. Every time she caught herself relaxing, she sat up straighter, refusing to sacrifice the last shreds of her dignity.

At long last they crested the final hill, and she gasped. Stretching out over the wide plain was a fortified encampment laid out as precisely as though it had been drawn with a straightedge on a map. There must thousands of tents, she realized, and many thousands of men to go with them.

"Impressed, princess?" he murmured in her ear. She didn't deign to reply.

It was indeed earlier than sunset, but not by much. The sun stretched low over the camp as they approached, with much less fanfare than Amali would have expected. The watchmen saluted as they entered, and the soldier who had given over his rations kneed his steed ahead of them, making a path for them to follow. The rest of the entourage seemed to melt away, here and there a soldier recognizing his prince and saluting. She wondered at how safe he must feel, surrounded by his men. Her father would never have mingled so easily among his common soldiers.

Up ahead she saw a tent larger than the rest, colored deep red, with space left empty all around it. The prince pulled his horse to a stop in front and dismounted. He reached up his arms to help her off, but she hesitated.

"Come down," he said, not unquietly, and around them a few people stopped to look.

Conscious of her skirts, Amali dismounted on her own, and the prince caught her as she stumbled hitting the ground. His warhorse was much taller than her own riding horses, and it had been foolish of her to refuse his help. She nearly opened her mouth to thank him and apologize, but bit her lip to stop herself.

He steered her into the open tent, which was dominated by a large bed. Seeing it made her blood run cold, and she turned away from him.

"This is my tent," he said unnecessarily. "You'll be staying here tonight."

Then he strode out, barking orders. The tent flaps were let down and Amali stood there alone in the evening light. The imperial colors made the whole tent glow an ominous deep red, and she held herself, trying not to think about what the night had in store for her.

Presently a pair of serving-women entered carrying a large tub, and then a train of them followed bearing hot water to fill it. As she watched the water rise, the sounds around the tent seemed to grow louder. Or perhaps that was just her imagination, and her fear. Her heart was beating loudly in her chest, and she knew any moment now the prince would return and undress himself and --

"My lady," said one of the women in a rough accent.

Amali blinked. She had forgotten that the people in Serutus' homeland spoke a different language than her own. The prince had been so fluent in Taurian that it had completely slipped her mind.

"My lady," the woman repeated. Amali turned to face her, and she put a hand to her chest and lowered her head, which was the Serutusian equivalent of a curtsy or a bow.

"His highness has instructed me to assist you with your bath," the woman said.

Amali's eyes widened, and she glanced at the curtains covering the entrance of the tent.

"Do not fear, my lady," the woman assured her. "His highness bade a screen be put up surrounding us, so no man will be able to see you."

That's what that noise had been. Amali felt her shoulders relax. But still....

"Thank you," she said, "but I have no need to bathe."

The woman's brows furrowed in confusion. "His highness commanded me to help you bathe," she said slowly, as though she doubted Amali had understood her the first time.

"What about his highness?" Amali asked her. "When will he return?"

The woman tilted her head. "I do not know." Eyeing Amali's tense frame, her hands clasped nervously around her body, she sighed and said, more gently, "I will ask. But first, you must bathe."

Amali gave in and undid the cloak, setting it on the bed, then stripped off her dirty, torn shift. The woman did up her hair in a simple bun, then helped her into the tub. She tried to stay alert for any sign that the prince might return, but the hot water was so soothing on her aching muscles, she couldn't help but sigh and close her eyes. The woman bade her lean back and then undid her hair, softly detangling it with a comb. This done, she braided Amali's hair and then began scrubbing her from head to toe. Her movements were so gentle and methodical, and Amali was so tired.

But no, she couldn't let down her guard. She fought to keep her eyes open as the woman massaged first her legs, then her arms, frowning at the rope burns on her wrists.

At last the woman declared her clean, helping her out of the bath. The cold evening air brought Amali back to her senses, even after she had been patted dry and helped into another shift and then a long robe over that.

"His highness bade me apologize on his behalf for the poor quality of these garments," the woman said. "He did not foresee he would need to provide you with clothes so soon."

Amali smoothed her hands over the fine linen robe. Of course he had expected she would come to him, with all her belongings, even after being turned down.

She froze as the tent flap opened, but it was just another woman bearing a tray of food. She set it down on a small table at the edge of the tent, and Amali sat down on the stool before it. She ate with more gusto than was proper for a princess, for she was famished. The food disappeared too quickly, and she suddenly realized this was the last thing separating her from the prince's certain return.

The thought made her queasy. She nodded absently as the serving-women bowed their heads and took their leave.

There was nothing to do now but wait.

Amali tried sitting, but her nerves were too tightly wound. She tried pacing, but this only made her more jittery. She was standing at the foot of the bed when the curtains gave way once more, and suddenly the prince was before her.

She swallowed, instinctively bringing her arms in tight beside her. He sighed and walked past her to the table, setting down a pitcher and two goblets.

"Would you like some wine, princess?" he asked her.

She shook her head. He made no reply to this, pouring out a cup for himself. He leaned back against the table, sipping his drink slowly as he regarded her. His long dark hair was tied back loosely, framing his chiseled face, and his eyes gleamed in the light of the candles the serving-women had lit as it grew dark. He'd removed his chain mail and leather armor, and a loose robe covered what she could see of his shirt. His sandaled feet peeked out from under the hem, which concealed whatever else he was wearing. If anything at all.