damsel in distress

Chapter 18

I keep staring at the ornate dome flourishes on the ceiling of the room. A school of chattery handmaidens rush in out of the bath, some adding boiling water to my bath, some rubbing my hands and feet, one scrubbing my back, and one wringing out the frozen snow from my hair.
That one is Viola.

“And your prince expects her to marry him,” she says violently. A strand of my hair gets caught in her fingers and she tugs until I cry out in pain.

“Our prince is a generous man.” A handmaid mocks in reply. “Your saintess of a princess must have scorned him to garner such an extreme reaction.”

“Generous men do not violate noble women.”

“Noble women do not leave their chambers unchaperoned,” the handmaid retorts and rubs my feet harder. I wince. My head rolls on the basin.

Elephants and horses pulling chariots, men with their pointed ends of spears facing each other, scantily clad dancers striking beautiful poses, all these motifs are carved up in the tiered dome. A few glances at the pillars tell me of more elephants and more chariots. I am not sure what to think of.

The bath is dark, damp, with the dim sunlight reflected on the walls after passing through the pools of water. A translucent silk curtain parts the inner chambers from the entry, and all the handmaidens startle when a spears thud the floor three times, announcing the arrival of someone.

“My Lord.” All the girls bow down in synchrony. I glance first at my swollen, blue fingers, and then at the curtain.

Five soldiers led by a regally dressed man, on whose side stands a wolf. “Greetings, Princess Tara,” he says after a deep bow. “We overlooked your wardrobe while arranging your welcome. Please allow me to apologise for the same.” He claps his hands once and one soldier comes forth with a huge tray. “These are furs to keep you warm.” Second clap, second soldier and a second tray. “Oils and salves to preserve your body heat. Azov peaks may be cruel but us Sangyals are not.”

Had I not been busy looking at my swollen knuckles, I would have found his kind voice endearing enough to thank him.

“I am Asfandyar Sangyal, at your service. Do not consider yourself a hostage, your grace. You are our most respected war prize. Please do not hesitate to call for me,” he says.

“Your prince is a monster!” Viola retorts.

Asfandyar Sangyal simply bows down, apologises once more and leaves.

I shrug and turn back to my fingers. And with a chill down my spine, I remember how I thought it would have been better if Sorin had taken me. Or been more cruel. At least I would have died
Then I wouldn't have to bathe in steaming hot water until every extremity goes numb and I am reduced to a pathetic, limp doll.

Blessed are simple emotions, for they are only right or wrong. Light or dark. It is when these two mix, that all sorts of infernal monstrosities are born.

I wonder if this is what they meant when they said their body betrayed their minds. The protagonists, I mean.

*****

Sorin invites me for dinner in the evening. I wait for the pages to flip and end the waiting in the spaces, but time moves differently in this part of the world. His invitation was a bouquet of forget me nots, snowdrops and white rhododendrons, along with a white gown and matching furs.
I think of how Daphne used to worship a man who never loved her back. Stories were supposed to have happy endings for everyone. I wonder where she is. I wonder how unlucky she is. I wonder if my brother is happy.