The last thing she remembered was the smell of something sickeningly sweet, disgusting, nauseating, and intoxicating. After inhaling, Sanda lost consciousness.
She woke up with a headache—wild, splitting, incredible, tearing her head apart like giant pincers. Sanda groaned, clutched her temples, and tried to sit up on the cot. A cot, because there was no luxurious bed with a silk coverlet, no polished parquet floors covered with expensive fur rugs. There were bare stone walls, a rough canvas mattress on a wooden cot. Next to the bed was a copper pot with a lid, leaving no doubt as to its purpose. On a chair nearby was a small jug, a piece of cold, stringy meat, and half a flatbread. That's all. Nothing extra.
Sanda looked around – a room ten by ten steps, a door bound with steel. A dungeon? Was she in a dungeon?
She leaned forward to see what was clinging to her leg. And she saw a bracelet. A thin steel chain ran from it to a hook set into the wall. She was chained! Like an animal! Like a dog guarding the house. And yet – she was naked! Completely naked! Not the nightgown Sanda had been wearing when she was kidnapped, not a dress – nothing.
To be fair, it must be said that the room wasn't cold. Cool, but not freezing. However, there was nothing to cover herself with. No sheets, no blankets. Naked, chained in a dungeon. Such is the "career" of a royal bastard!
She swung her legs off the cot and tried to reach the door, but she couldn't reach it. She sat down on the edge of the cot and picked up a suspicious piece of meat, weathered and dark. She thought about it, sniffed it—it smelled normal, like meat, just as normal meat should.
My stomach rumbled—I couldn't even remember the last time I'd eaten. And my head felt so heavy, it was hard to process. What memories were there?
She finally tore off a piece, placed it on the flatbread, popped it in her mouth, and began chewing. The salty meat was delicious; she devoured it all, washing it down with water—it was warm, slightly musty. At least she had this. Then she felt the urge to go potty, and for five minutes she agonized—was it worth it? What if, as soon as she sat down, someone came in and caught her doing it? Horrible! Then she laughed bitterly—sitting bare-bottomed on the trestle bed seemed like no big deal. But if someone saw her using the potty—what a tragedy! Did she really care? After all this time spinning in the millstones of intrigue, it was time to unlearn her shyness, rid herself of illusions, and get used to being passed around, sold, traded, like a thing, like a doll, like…
She sat down on the pot and tried to do her business as quickly as possible. Then she covered the pot with the lid and slid it under the cot. She quickly darted onto the cot—it seemed as if someone was walking behind the door. No, nothing. Apparently, her brain, yearning for sensations, sounds, and human speech, was playing tricks, pulling various illusions from her memories. After all, the room was absolutely silent, save for the crackling of the oil lantern burning on a shelf against the opposite wall. A wisp of soot drifted upward—there must have been some kind of ventilation, otherwise Sanda would have smelled burnt oil. The dim flame of the lantern barely pierced the gloom, and the corners of the room were lost in darkness.
She lay on her side, facing the wall, huddled like a child hiding under a blanket from a cruel world. After all, it's a well-known fact that there's no stronger barrier against nightmares, against the monsters lurking in the dark, than a good old blanket. No magic can penetrate it, and if you call on your mother, the one feared by all fears, for help…
But there was no blanket, no mother to protect her from fears and keep her safe. It turned out that the capricious but dear woman she considered her beloved mother didn't love her the way a daughter should be loved. Her own whims and desires were more important to her, and to achieve this, she was willing to spare her very own flesh and blood—her daughter, Sanda. And the man Sanda considered her father was no father at all. Incidentally, it was precisely him she remembered with great warmth and love. Her mother had become hateful to her. She had thrust Sanda into the thick of things and gone about her own pleasures, abandoning her daughter to her fate.
Sanda began to cry quietly, and Ned's face appeared before her eyes – so familiar, so close. If only he were here! If only he knew what was happening to her!
And then she thought: what if he really does find out? And then what? She's a traitor! She married while her husband was still alive, she lied in the face of the goddess Selera, becoming the wife of General Heverad. And nothing justifies her actions—not the fact that she was forced, not some kind of state needs—betrayal is betrayal. Now she is Heverad's wife before gods and men. Sanda would give anything to bring back those happy days when she was with Ned. And the nights... oh, the nights... And trade it all for the old general and the throne? What the hell does she need that throne for?! Money? She doesn't need much, a sergeant's salary would be enough! A roof over her head, clothes—she has everything. What more does she need?
She drifted along, caught in the current of intrigue like a sliver of wood, like a hapless mouse washed out of its hole, sluggishly shuffling her paws, choking in the murky waters. And there was no time, no opportunity to assess the situation. Perhaps they were drugging her with something? Why couldn't she think of a way out of this situation?
But was there a way out? Yeah, right—you could hang yourself, you could smash your head against the wall. But then what? Who would benefit? It was cowardice. It was betrayal of herself and of Ned, beloved Ned. So what's left to do—take the throne and sleep with Heverad? Bear him children, princes? And isn't that betrayal? To Ned? Okay, but what if I tell Heverad: I'll take the throne, but I won't sleep with you. I have others to sleep with. And then quietly to Ned...
Sanda sat down on the cot, biting her lip. "Why not?" Make a deal with Heverad—he's a smart man, after all, he only wants power, and nothing more! What, can't he find himself a woman? But will Ned agree to that?
Her leg itched beneath the bracelet, and Sanda, sliding it off, scratched the itchy spot for a minute, disgustedly thinking that it was probably full of lice. This was a dungeon, wasn't it? And if it was a dungeon, there had to be insects!
She shuddered with disgust, clutching her knees, pulling her legs up under her, as if insects might crawl into her most delicate places. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and wondered: how did she end up in this dungeon? Who would want to get her away from Heverad? Most likely, those who didn't want her to become queen. And who else? One thought warmed her soul: Heverad was a smart and powerful man. He was probably digging around the earth right now, trying to find her. And he would find her! And then all her enemies would be in trouble! By the way, he's not that old... quite a handsome man...
The door bolt rattled, and Sanda threw herself against the wall, curling into a ball, trying to cover as much as she could with her arms and legs. Unfortunately, it didn't quite work. If her palms had been the size of a bedsheet, then yes...
A woman entered—a beautiful woman with a short, boyish haircut. Her eyes looked at Sanda mockingly and intently, as if she were a mischievous child, as if deciding whether to spank the miscreant or let him run wild. She held a large, bright lantern in her hands, illuminating the entire unsightly abode of the captive.
She walked over to a large chair against the wall opposite the trestle bed and sat down, crossing her legs. The woman was dressed in the kind of culottes rich ladies wore when riding. She looked to be no more than thirty, and only her eyes betrayed her age—she was older, much older. Her full lips were pursed in a haughty smirk, as if this beauty knew everything about those around her—their shameful secrets, their petty sins—but she just didn't want to talk about it.
Having sat down, she remained silent for a long time, looking at the cowering girl. Then she said, twisting the corner of her mouth:
"You didn't succeed. Well, that happens. You're nothing, just a piece on a game board. Now they've put you in a box. Take comfort in the fact that you're still alive. You could have died..."
"Why do you need me?" Sanda decided to ask.
"Why? Just a backup plan. To put pressure on someone, if necessary. Don't count on the throne—it's not for you."
"Why did you strip me?" Sanda squeaked. "Are you going to sell me into slavery?"
"No," the woman chuckled, "that would be too easy. Well, that's an option, too. You'd fetch good money in a brothel..." The woman shamelessly examined Sanda's hips, her breasts visible beneath her slender arms. "A lovely woman, a man's dream. Why did you undress her? Well... that's how it's supposed to be. So you get used to it. You'll always be naked in the brothel, pleasing the men. So start getting used to it."
"Why are you scaring me?" Sanda said in a trembling voice. "And who are you going to pressure?"
"What a curious girl," the woman chuckled. "There's someone to put pressure on, yes… Heverad, for example. Or your ex-husband, Ned. You'll be useful. So—the brothel is off the table for now. However, perhaps you'd like some men? I can send a couple of guards to you, they'll please you properly. Come on, come on—how tender you are! Whenever something happens, you immediately burst into tears. I'm joking. Anyway, here's the deal. If you behave properly, obey, do what I say, you'll live. If not, you'll become rat food. Is that clear?"
Sanda thought bitterly that she had heard these words many times before, from different people. Apparently, she was cursed by the gods who had given her such a fate.