Chapter 10: Darlinalia

(Content Warning: This chapter is heavy on slavery themes, especially mdom and femsub.)

Scene 46

Zofia took deep, careful breaths. However fast her heart raced, she refused to let it show on the outside — whether her nerves or her excitement. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other, following her master Damascus deeper into the Library of Tisha.

It was an imposing building, all grey stone on the outside. In decades past, it had been a fortress; now, that strength was used to protect the kingdom’s gathered knowledge. To protect, but not hoard. Any of Zofia’s subjects could come to the library and learn — learn history, learn a trade, learn whatever they pleased.

Or at least, they hypothetically could. Even if it wasn’t intended as a hoard, the castle was still atop a defensible hill. Through the carriage ride, she’d mused that not all her subjects had the means to come all the way up, nor the time to dedicate to such classes. She’d have to speak with her aunt Monique about those observations. She was nominally in charge of managing the library, when she wasn’t ... otherwise occupied with her ‘social engagements’.

Zofia shivered. She’d never be able to speak against those engagements again, would she? Whatever festivities her aunt was known for, however much wine she could drink, she’d never spent a night with slavers.

Damascus had shown the card to one of the librarians, a mousy woman with short hair. Without a word, she led them down spiralling staircases into what had once been the castle’s dungeon. Like the rest of the library, it had been renovated for comfort: steady crystal lanterns instead of flaming torches on the walls, plush red carpet underfoot.

Then she opened the doors to Darlinalia.

The space had once been a block of cells. She could see the darkened window high on the opposite wall, where the warden would look down on the prisoners. The whole block had been refurbished: cells torn out, carpets laid. A fire crackled openly in a hearth. Stages had been erected against the walls — and on those stages stood stocks, crosses with cuffs at the corners, and other implements of callous bondage.

The party wasn’t in full swing, but even though they were exactly on time, there were already people gathered. A few men in sleek suits, one woman in a fine evening gown, all wearing bird masques. Waiters and waitresses in grey suits carried trays in circuits around the party. And all gathered together in an enclosure near the stages, several women in collars and brown dresses.

They just kept the slaves all together? How had that not already turned into a revolt? Zofia stared at them while one of the waitresses came and took her cloak, revealing the brown dress and black collar that marked her as one of them, and the leash hanging down along her back. Her master took hold, the sense of connection between them helping Zofia to breathe a little more easily. He donned his own masque, black and white, patterned after a magpie.

Jay sprang to his feet and slid over to greet them. He wore a bluejay masque, of course, but his smile was perfectly recognisable — as was the way his eyes lingered on Zofia’s body. “Damascus, so good to see you,” he said despite never even looking at him.

“It’s good to be here, Jay.” Damascus gestured around the once-dungeon. “Looks like the festivities haven’t started yet?”

“Soon,” Jay promised. “Let’s get her penned up, then we can talk about just how to get this party started.”

Damascus lightly tugged Zofia’s leash towards the enclosure, but raised an eyebrow. “We keep them all together like this?” ‘We’, first person. Doing everything possible to reinforce that he was already part of the group.

Jay opened the gate. Some of the slaves looked up, but none scrambled to attempt escape. There was practically no disturbance as Zofia stepped inside. “A couple of reasons,” Jay explained. “First, so much easier to keep an eye on them all. Second ... aren’t they just so pretty, all gathered together?”

Damascus barely glanced at the others. “I suppose. Though my Zofia is pretty enough all by herself.”

They lingered for a moment longer: Zofia standing just inside the corral, her leash extended to Damascus’ hand. They met each other’s eyes, the locked gaze communicating two simple words: Good luck.

Then Jay closed the gate, Damascus let the leash drop, and Zofia was alone among the slaves.

Scene 47

Damascus kept his smile plastered on his face as he followed Jay. Outwardly, he was just happy to be there, one of the Owls.

Inwardly, he kept his eyes sharp, scanning around him. Back when the place had been a dungeon, the only exits would have been those main doors and the one heading up to the warden’s office.

But now it was a lounge for the wealthy and debauched. That meant servants — those in grey suits making circuits of the lounge. And that meant a servant entrance, somewhere.

Jay’s cheerful voice called Damascus’ attention. “Have a seat, have a seat!” He was already seated on one of the plush couches.

Damascus slouched into another, the leather squealing beneath him, then looked around at the gathered group. Counting him and Jay, there were eight ‘masters’. “Is this everyone?”

“Almost,” Jay said. “She is going to be late, busy punishing a failure.”

People outside the Owls weren’t supposed to know, so Damascus blinked and gormlessly raised an eyebrow. “She?”

The show of ignorance drew a chorus of laughter. A man with a perfectly trimmed beard and a peacock mask raised his glass as if to toast the warden’s window. “The Queen of the Owls.”

“Wait, Queen?” Damascus sat up, acting like this information was completely new. “I thought the Owls just did whatever we wanted. I’ve never heard of a Queen before.”

“You weren’t meant to,” Peacock said. “Knowledge of her does not leave this room. If anyone has cause to ask, there is no Queen.”

Damascus let a bit more guile back into his smile. “If anyone asks, there are no Owls.”

Another chorus of laughs. “Right you are, right you are,” Jay said. “Yes, we largely do as we like. But like all nobility, we have to accept a certain hierarchy. The authority of the one who gives us our titles.”

It was an incredibly strange way of thinking for a bunch of criminals breaking the Crown’s dearest laws, but Damascus nodded like it made perfect, enlightened sense.

“But the important thing is the ‘do what we want’ part.” Jay flagged down a waitress with light brown hair and took a flute of sparkling wine. “What’s your vice, Damascus?”

He smiled playfully as he looked the waitress up and down: her dark grey slacks and waistcoat fit nicely to her petite frame. He reached up and touched the woman’s shoulder—

—and she immediately whirled on him, glaring. “I’m not one of the slaves, and I’m not interested in men. So unless you plan to turn into a leggy bluenette, let’s stick to drinks instead of making a wisecrack about women being your vice, hm?”

Damascus took his hands back and smiled apologetically. “I was going to ask if you had a dragonscale red.”

She scoffed. “Two minutes.” After passing drinks around the rest of the Owls, she left.

And they stopped holding back their laughter. Jay clapped him on the back. “Ahh, that’s Rachelle for you. Don’t worry, we have plenty of warmer women.”

Damascus didn’t mind the laughter. That little tap had accomplished three things. First, the Owls were a group that liked looking down on people; the more they could laugh at him, the more they’d want him around, and the less they’d scrutinise. Second, following Rachelle with his eyes led him to the unobtrusive side door the servants used, coloured to blend in with the wall.

Third ... well, he’d keep that up his sleeve for later.

A woman with a red robin mask and vivid, glossy lipstick pulled a pocket watch from her cleavage. “Any idea how much longer she’ll be, Jay?”

“You know what she can be like with a new toy.” Jay leaned to get a look at the watch. “But Her Majesty did say to get started without her if she took this long.” He sat up and smiled at the group. “Shall we start the negotiation?”

Robin sipped her wine. “You know my rule. Remember, my Felisity is a lesbian. She’ll play with your girls as long as I get to watch, but if you want to fuck her yourself?” She sniffed. “Three purses.”

“You know I’m good for it.” Peacock held open his jacket, showing an array of purses hanging from the inner lining. They were standard at Owl parties, Liz had said: each purse held as much silver as a whole week of wages for honest work, and the Owls spent them like coppers while drinking fine wine like water. “And I suppose you’ll want the usual, Jay?” Peacock continued.

“What can I say?” he replied. “Your Tiffani’s tits are too fine to pass up. How about a trade? My Melisa is fantastic with her mouth.”

Damascus kept on smiling, sipping his dragonscale red, doing nothing to show his disgust while the slavers merrily haggled and bartered over the use of their slaves’ bodies. He felt a special kind of offence because of his closeness to Liz and the girls of Lady Margaret’s. That wasn’t how prostitution should be done, curse it.

Eventually, all attention turned to him, the new face with the intriguing new slave.

He swirled his glass. “One purse to take her dress. Yours to keep, though I won’t auction her underwear.” He took a sip. “She doesn’t have any.” He let that image sit for a moment. “One purse if you want to get your hands on her — see how perfect royal skin and royal flesh feel. Same if you want her to touch you. Recently-virginal princess that she is, she’s still learning, but she’s... enthusiastic. If you want her mouth — if you want to be one of the first blowjobs that Princess Zofia Tourmaline has ever given — two purses. Same if you want to see how her breasts, wrapped around you, compare to the likes of Tiffani.”

By the time he was done, mouths were watering. Peacock was the first to speak up. “What if we wanted more?”

Damascus smiled at him. “Patience. Darlinalia goes for three nights; no need to hurry straight to the best part.”

Yet everyone wanted to hurry. He could see it in their eyes, how they all strayed to watch Zofia there in the enclosure.

After a moment, Jay cleared his throat. “Well! You know what’s on offer. What are we waiting for?” He clapped his hands. “Let’s get started!”

Scene 48

While Damascus was talking with the other masters, Zofia was in the slave corral, trying not to hyperventilate.

She was surrounded by women who’d had their freedom taken from them. Women collared like she was, their eyes downcast, faces gloomy. It tugged at her heartstrings.

Damn the plan. She needed to do something for these people now.

“Listen to me.” Her voice was urgent, but soft. She didn’t want to be overheard. “Damascus and I aren’t what you think. We will get you out of here. I swear on my crown and my sword, you will taste freedom again.”

The others looked at her, their eyes showing curiosity more than anything. Then when she was done, they looked away. Zofia wasn’t sure what reaction she expected, but that definitely wasn’t it.

Only one approached her: Melisa, her purple brow furrowed. “That man’s really done a number on you, hasn’t he? You think you’re really the princess.”

“I—” Zofia cut herself off with a sigh. There was no point in trying to convince her. Of course they believed she was a counterfeit; that was the point. “What about you, Melisa? You want to get out of here, don’t you?”

Melisa hesitated. Zofia could see the forlorn yearning in her eyes. But she shook her head. “You already heard my story. My family owed more than we could pay, and this was the price of freeing them from that debt. Now even if I could go back ... my own son wouldn’t even recognise me.”

Zofia’s heart softened. “How old is he?”

Melisa sighed wistfully. “He’s twenty this year.”

Zofia choked. Melisa herself barely looked twenty. How...?

Melisa shot her a look. “They did a number on me too. My master didn’t like me looking my age, and their Queen ... she’s good with potions.”