Free By Divine Right by Patrick W. Carr

she could prevent what would surely come next, but the duke reveled in his element, his eyes wide, intoxicated by the exercise of his power. When I stepped toward him, the empty flagon lifted as if I could honor his request, Orlan flicked his eyes toward the man on my left.
    Every boy from the lowest commoner to the most exalted noble knew what would happen next: Orlan’s subordinate would trip me, causing me to fall into the duke, who would then use my perceived assault as cause to beat me.
    I kept my eyes on the duke, biting my lip. What I intended to do frightened me enough to send palsied tremors through my hands. Dear Aer, I hoped to live through it.
    Orlan’s man didn’t use half measures. His boot shot out, catching me in the shin hard enough to send me sprawling had I not expected it. I turned the leg to catch the kick on the meat of my calf.
    Even so the blow felt as if it might have cracked the bone. I screamed to keep every eye fastened on my humiliation and launched the empty flagon toward the duke and his brother.
    The flagon flew toward the duke and his brother, and I twisted midfall to watch it. The impact jarred my vision, but I saw the handle of the flagon nestle in the duke’s hand almost by magic. He stood, regarding me with contempt, holding the empty pitcher as if I’d handed it to him.
    In the background I heard the music grind to a halt with a cacophonous fall of notes accompanied by the clatter of daggers hitting the floor from the juggler’s direction.
    I jerked my head away and closed my eyes, hiding my revelation. The duke’s family, like most nobles, boasted the gift of craft. Their fortune had been built on the exercise of it and the ruthlessness that comes with a hunger for dominion. But that gift had never enabled any of its holders to do what I had just witnessed. Only a physical gift of beauty could do that, whether Ian’s or another’s.
    “Would you mind refilling my cup?” the duke’s brother asked, proffering his goblet.
    The duke’s face heated at the titters that swept the crowd, and he dropped the flagon to the floor, the clatter loud against the stones. His men pulled me up by my hair as the chamberlain rushed up, his face mottled with anger and shame. “Your Grace”—he bowed—“please forgive this lapse. I will ensure that this man is never in your presence again.”
    The duke laughed, and I breathed a sigh of relief even while I braced myself for what would come next. I locked what I’d seen away behind my eyes and kept my gaze upon the floor even as I reeled at its revelation.
    “On the contrary,” Duke Orlan said. “I insist that this servant be present in the throne room whenever I am.” He sighed in mock regret. “In a different time I could have had him killed for his ineptitude.” Orlan glanced toward the throne where Laidir looked on. “A pity those days are long behind us. In the absence of example, training will have to suffice.”
    His voice dipped into a lower register. “You seemed to have dropped your flagon, servant. You may pick it up now.”
    “Your Grace,” Gael said, “please allow me to administer his chastisement.”
    Orlan smiled at her attempt to intervene. “You are much too tender-hearted, my lady. Sometimes a firm hand is what is required.” He turned to the man I’d bumped. “Skerrit, I leave his correction in your hands.”
    The duke’s man grinned, holding an almost childlike joy at the opportunity to exercise his cruelty. He pulled a riding crop from within his tunic, slapping it across his palm. “Retrieve your wares, servant.”
    I bent to pick up the flagon at Orlan’s feet. The crack of impact reached my ears just before fire exploded across my back. For a moment of brief insanity I tried to clench my teeth around the pain, but the second and third stroke came so quickly that screams tore themselves from my throat. Spots swam in my vision and a warm flow of blood began to soak my tunic.
    I wondered absurdly if I