This gorgeous fantasy about a princess submitting to a public caning is written and read by Pandora Blake. It originally appeared on Dreams of Spanking and is being reproduced here with permission. Note: contains extreme caning, humiliation,
The road to Zadir was dry and dusty. Sometimes they would stop at one of the walled caravanserais lining the spice road, and Tabina would rinse the sand from her hair and enjoy a day or two of feeling relatively fresh. But no sooner were they on the road again than the wind would start to slap against the canvas coverings, and they would snap and flap until a corner was tugged away, and then the dust and sand would swirl in and they would both be covered all over again.
It was only the two of them sharing the carriage, Tabina and her old nursemaid Anar, who had scolded her and told her stories since before she was weaned. For once, on this journey Tabina was glad of her company. Apart from the honour guard riding alongside, the old nurse would be the only person she knew in her new married life. Tabina only sometimes wished for a companion better informed about the Zadine people, with whom she could have talked about their politics and mythology. But even the stories Anar had told twenty times before were welcome on those long, hot, tedious days.
Tabina had ample time to review what she knew about their destination. It was less than she would have liked, but more than people might expect. Her father had an extensive library, and he had always insisted that a princess should know how to read and write, study history and economics, and be able to tell when her advisers were lying or misinformed. Tabina had never been as accomplished as the other court ladies at singing or embroidery, but she could sit a horse better than any of them, and she was certainly educated enough to sit on her prince’s council – if he would have her.
“Are you sure they don’t say anything else about Mihran?” she asked.
Anar looked up from her sewing. “Khanzada Mihran – and I daresay they do, rani, but not where I’ve heard it. I’ve told you what I know. He’s the youngest son of the noble Khafalid dynasty, and he became heir when his brother was killed on the banks of the river Jarun. He’s a skilled swordsman. They say that since the death of the khanzada no one has been able to defeat him.”
Or no one wanted to, Tabina thought. People behaved strangely around you after you’d lost a brother. She hoped that fighting wasn’t all Mihran could do. Of course a king needed to command the respect of his lords, but he also needed to be able to negotiate. Still, if a king was not so skilled at diplomacy – well, that was why he had a queen.
Tabina picked dirt out of her fingernails. “I just hope we get a chance to bathe before we’re presented at court.” She would need to before being introduced to her husband-to-be in state. She’d seen her father receive ambassadors from other kingdoms to his durbar, watched them arrange their retinues so as to have the best possible impact. One old nursemaid and an armed escort wasn’t much of an entourage. If Tabina had her way, she’d have been accompanied by zamindars and jagirdars, nobles of high birth and great renown. But all the Karathi lords were needed back home, to help Raja Selim rebuild the kingdom after the war.
Her parents had worked almost as hard during the treaty negotiations as they had during the war, she knew. It had taken all their bargaining power to arrange this marriage, and with it the hope of a peace between Karatha and Zadir. Everything depended on it now; everything depended on her. People said she should have married sooner, but her parents hadn’t wanted to rush into a match. After Damush died she became their heir, and her little sister was still only ten, too young to marry. They had held her in reserve as their most powerful bargaining chip. Now, she was tasked with her first serious diplomatic mission: to be her country’s ambassador at the Zadine court; her prince’s advisor. It was of utmost importance that she make a good impression.
She hoped that the gifts would suffice. Her guards surrounded an entire carriage full of riches to be presented on their arrival. A polished spear of teak and steel for the crown prince, and an embroidered robe of the type that only married Zadine men could wear. For his mother the Khatan Jalapuya, an emerald necklace that had belonged to her grandmother, and a gold-embroidered veil beaded with carnelian and jasper. Khan Emed would receive a handsome turban and an ornate curved sword, the blade engraved with animals and flowers, with a sheath of black velvet, tipped in bronze. The carriage was also packed with bolts of silk and casks of wine, spices and saffron. Her father may have haggled long and hard over the treaty, but no-one could describe the dowry as ungenerous. Of course, Tabina herself was the most valuable gift of them all.
It seemed as if they’d been on the road for weeks when the domes and minarets of the great city of Shiradan appeared on the horizon. For a few days it felt like they weren’t getting any closer, and then suddenly they were almost at the gates.
The bearded lord dressed in flowing silks who met them on the road introduced himself as Akartha, vizier to Khan Emed. He was accompanied by an armed guard wearing the distinctive spiked Zadine helmets, and he was unfailingly courteous.
“Most gracious Rani Tabinayanti, I am your humble servant. It is my greatest pleasure to welcome you to our city. Many sacrifices have been made in hopes of your safe arrival.”
“My lord Vizier Akartha.” Watching the way he looked at her, Tabina was grateful for the small privacy afforded by her veil. “It is delightful to be here at last. We met little danger on the road, although little variation in the view, either. Sand and more sand.”
He didn’t smile. She hoped he wasn’t insulted. “The preparations have all been made for your glorious presentation at our humble court,” Akartha announced. “You will shine like the full moon, and hold eternal sway over the domains of beauty.” At least, she thought that was what he said; she’d spent many months studying the Zadine language, but would not be fluent until she’d lived among native speakers.
“I thank you for your kindness, my lord. This moon will shine all the brighter once she has washed off the dust from the road.”
If she was mispronouncing anything, he was being very polite about it.
They rode into the city together: her personal guard, the Zadine escort, both carriages and the vizier. She lost count of the number of gates they passed through. Somewhere within the palace, she realised her guards were no longer with them. Even Anar had been whisked away, presumably to her own accommodations.
The vizier personally escorted her to a suite furnished with carved rosewood and intricately patterned carpets. Tabina wondered if these were to be her rooms, but she did not see her baggage anywhere. Still, there was a bathtub with jasmine scented steam rising from it, and that was good enough for now.
She was so tired she had to remember to smile at the two young palace servants who were provided to help her bathe. She wished she could linger in the fragrant water forever. They washed her hair and brushed it until it was as glossy as a blackbird’s wing, and dabbed perfume at her throat and wrists. After weeks under canvas her copper brown skin had faded to olive; she wasn’t sure whether to wear the jade green dhoti for her presentation at court, as planned, or whether the peacock blue would suit her better now. Both had matching veils, and her green and silver silk wrap would go as well with either.
Her baggage still hadn’t arrived. Presumably it was in her rooms, wherever they were. She would need to send a servant to fetch some clothing for her. She wondered if these girls were to be her handmaidens, but it seemed impolite to ask.
“Which colour will the esteemed Khanzada Mihran prefer, do you think – jade or peacock?”
The maids seemed perplexed. “Most gracious lady,” one of them said, “robes have been provided for the ceremony.”
“Oh, you mean the exchange of gifts?”
They exchanged glances. “Were you not informed, khatani?”
Tabina rose from the bath. “What ceremony is this? Tell me.” Whichever of the local marriage rituals it was, she needed to prepare. She hoped it wasn’t the one where the bride gives her swaddling cloth to the wedding fire, because she hadn’t brought hers with her.
“Gracious khatani, this is not a common wedding.” She learned more as the handmaids dried her limbs with polished curves of wood. The ceremony had not taken place for more than two hundred years. A political marriage alliance hadn’t ended hostilities since the civil war, when Musavi, sole daughter and heir of the victorious House of Khafalid, wed Ayed, son of the House of Sammir. Ayed married the Khafalid claim, but before putting a Sammir on the throne they decreed that Ayed must perform a ritual atonement for the atrocities committed by his deceased father and generals.
“There was no other way,” the taller one explained. “The Khafalids needed the Sammiri to support Musavi’s claim. But how else could the son of the traitor be accepted, unless he was ritually cleansed and forgiven?”
She had read something about that. The marriage had ended the civil war. Songs had been sung about the humility and dignity with which Ayed endured a whipping in front of the eyes of the court, and he went on to become a just and honourable Khan.
“But Khanzada Mihran has his own claim,” said Tabina, “he doesn’t need to marry mine. And I won’t go on to rule. Our terms were more than fair, and my dowry represents atonement enough.”
“Your gifts are gracious,” the girl replied solemnly, “but your people have done us great wrong. You will bear the next heir of Zadir. How can our khanzada accept you into his bed, tainted as you are by blood? How can the Khan and Khatan welcome you into their household? Only blood can pay for blood. You must pay the same price as Ayed.”
Tabina had time to think on this, as they braided her hair and painted her nails. Why hadn’t she been told?
They had planned this all along. This was what Akartha had meant by her “presentation at court”. They had toyed with her, and now she was trapped.
Her parents would never have agreed to the marriage if they’d known. They would not have accepted this condition. Although perhaps they should have; she would have, if she’d only been forewarned.
Or maybe they had known. Maybe everyone had known all along, maybe it was only she who had been kept ignorant. She hadn’t signed the treaty agreement. They had presumably wanted to spare her from needless worry, but she would have appreciated the chance to read up on what was expected of her.
If they didn’t know, what would they think when they found out? It was a great insult, of course. Perhaps the gifts were too generous after all. She wished her father was here to advise her, her mother to help her think it through. What would a diplomat do?
Tabina knew the answer as soon as she asked herself the question. A diplomat would smile, and bow, and do what must be done. A diplomat would courteously endure any number of indignities in order to procure peace. What, did she think her father had had an easier time at war? Had Damush died so that she could flinch away from the one task assigned to her? Would a public whipping be as bad as childbirth, as hard as losing an eldest son and two babies before they were named? No.
To endure this would demonstrate her honour and humility in the eyes of the court. It was expected of her; refusing would be arrogant and cowardly. She would return in disgrace, having failed at the greatest responsibility she had been given.
The robe that had been provided was plain cotton, dyed dark red (so the blood won’t show, Tabina wondered). She was permitted some adornment: the handmaids tied a belt of gold links around her waist, hung gold hoops from her ears, slid bangles onto her arms and embroidered slippers onto her feet. A golden veil was draped lightly over her hair, and made the whole world shimmer. She was ready.
Guards stepped out behind her as she left the bathing room. They were not her men. She wondered what Ravi, the brave captain of her guard, thought about that. She imagined him arguing with court officials, insisting on being returned to his rani’s side.
Vizier Akartha met her at the first courtyard with a sweeping bow. “Many a beautiful star have I seen, gracious glory of the heavens; but you are something unique.”
Tabina tried not to glower at him. She arranged her face into a smile as he fell in step beside her. “My lord, I feel much refreshed by your generous hospitality. I’m greatly looking forward to presenting the gifts we have brought, as gestures of our esteem for your noble house. Will there be time after the ceremony?”
Did his moustache twitch as she mentioned it? Yes, he replied; after the ceremony she would be formally presented to the crown prince and to the Khan and Khatan, and gifts would be exchanged. Her attendants were making the requisite preparations. Once she was officially accepted she would sit beside Khanzada Mihran on the dais, and all the Zadine lords and ladies would pay court to her. The rest of the day would be spent in feasting and celebration.
She wanted to ask him about the ceremony itself, but didn’t dare. They were acting as if she already knew about it, and she was minded to play along. She was determined not to let them believe they had the advantage.
They were joined by attendants, and a robed man who seemed to be a priest. At the entrance to the hall where the Khan received his audiences a crier announced her: “Presenting Rani Tabinayanti of Karatha, daughter of Raja Selim, heir of the House of Kuru.” The hum of conversation quietened for a moment as she stepped inside, then started up again; waves of talk rising from a brightly-coloured sea of courtiers. From somewhere came the sound of a singer, accompanied by flute and tanbur. She glanced at faces as she passed, but it was difficult to identify members of the noble Zadine houses through the blur of gold gauze.
After a few paces she finally saw her honour guard, surrounded by a much greater number of palace soldiers. Her captain Ravi looked stricken and furious all at once. Tabina guessed that he found out at much the same time she did. She gave him a small nod, making a mental note to find him later and reassure him.
The dais was a long way away. She wanted to catch a glimpse of Mihran, but instead she concentrated on walking gracefully along the richly-patterned carpet, keeping pace behind the priest, eyes not roaming overmuch. She hoped the incense filling the air wouldn’t make her too dizzy.
Between her and the dais was set a block of dark wood, smoothly polished and curved like half a barrel. The priests parted around it, and she stood before it for half a minute before she realised what she was looking at.
Once she was sure her face was under control, she checked to see if there were any leather straps or ropes attached to it. She would endure this with good grace; she couldn’t bear to be restrained, as if she were unwilling. To her relief, there were none. At least, Tabina told herself, there was no established precedent she must follow. No-one else would have witnessed anything like this in their lifetime. They wouldn’t know what to expect any more than she did. Infinite god, but she hated having to do anything in public unprepared.
The priest was talking now, in an archaic form of the language that was hard for her to follow. Sitting on the dais, beyond the block, she could see Khan Emed in his high turban, and the glittering jewels at the Khatan’s throat. That must be Mihran wearing white beside her, but it was hard to see clearly from this distance.
She had seen a public whipping once at the palace, ordered by the Rani her mother. The thief was tied upright to a wooden frame, and the blood ran along channels in the flagstones. He had screamed at first, but after a while he had just sort of hung there.
Tabina had of course been thrashed in the nursery (admittedly, not as much as some of her cousins), but not since her betrothal. And only ever in the privacy of the household, among family and servants. Back home, for an adult of high birth to be publicly flogged was the height of disgrace, the end of their political existence.
It was ironic that in Zadir, it would mark the beginning of hers.
By the block stood a man dressed like an executioner, looking somewhat incongruous holding a cane rather than a sword. She had seen children and servants punished with such rods, but this was longer and thicker, more akin to those used by officers of the law. Ah; so she was to be beaten as if she were a criminal. She couldn’t fault the symbolism.
The priest’s speech was clear enough for Tabina to understand when she was asked for her consent. She gave it, with as much courtesy as she could muster. She was a step away from the block when an attendant moved forward.
“Most gracious lady, it is customary that you remove your veil.”
Tabina had half-expected this, but revealing herself was the worst thing so far. She handed it to the attendant, and the room seemed to buzz more loudly and brightly once her head was bared. At least I don’t have to worry about it falling off during the whipping. She could see more clearly now – except she couldn’t see at all, everything was a blur.
Heart pounding in her throat, the toes of her gold slippers found the solid curve of wood. As she leaned over, the smoothness of it against her belly and thighs was cool through the cotton robe. She saw handles discreetly set into the wood below her, and reached forward. Her heels lifted off the floor as she grasped them, leaving her poised on tiptoe.
Someone behind her lifted her robe. Tabina was not sure which awareness struck her first – relief that her betrothed and his family could not see her nakedness, or shame that the whole court could. First her veil, and now this! They might as well take the robe off and be done with it. She wanted to tell them that she was willing to be humble; they didn’t need to force additional humilities on her.
Being bent over was hard. She would have liked to lift her head proudly, to look out over the crowd and not be seen to flinch. But a small, shameful part of her was glad to be able to hide her eyes. And what if she did flinch?
She realised that it was very possible that she might flinch.
Everyone watching was someone she would need to work with; the same nobles who would shortly be paying her their respects. She was going to have to learn their every strength and weakness. Right now, however, they were anonymous, and she was exposed before them.
She was trembling; she hoped not visibly. Her hands were slippery with sweat. Oh, come on, she thought, let’s get this over with.
The first stroke was so hard it expelled the breath from her lungs. She grunted – and then she would have screamed if she hadn’t clamped her mouth shut and groaned through her teeth instead. This was her battle, she reminded herself fiercely. Did warriors scream on the battlefield? Actually, she suspected they probably did.
The next one seemed to be even harder. Each cut felt like a brand had been put to her, a fierce high pitched slice of pain. By the sixth she was aware that her neck was damp with sweat, loose strands of hair clinging to her skin. She nursed a growing terror that the next one would wrench a scream from her. Tabina counted the strikes in her head, biting down on the numbers under her breath. When she realised that she was also shouting curse words silently to herself, she forced herself to think thank you after each stroke instead, thank you, thank you, in case she accidentally yelled the words out loud. It would not do to shout abuse at the whole court.
Between each stroke her whole backside seemed to pulse and throb, feeling twice its usual size. Her legs were shaking with the effort of holding herself on tiptoe, and the robe was drenched in sweat. Anger rose up in her alongside the bloody weals rising on her skin. She raged that she had been chosen for this, used like this, that she could not just have married some nice highborn Karathi boy. The welts were burning appallingly, so raw that the merest whisper of air seemed to inflame them. Then the next stroke would slam her hips against the hard wood, and she would sense deep slabs of bruise forming under the skin.
Those standing on either side of the block could almost certainly see the screams her mouth was forming, although so far she had restrained from crying out. Blood roared in her ears. When a low cut sliced into her upper thighs she genuinely believed, for a moment, that the cane had been swapped for a sword.
Her breath was coming in ragged gasps. It was too much, unbearable. She wasn’t getting enough air – she was going to faint.
Fiercely, she clung to the spar of her rage. She forced herself to focus not on the pain, but on her anger at those who had brought her here; with everyone who had fought in the war; with the captains and the soldiers who had desecrated Zadine temples and burned their villages. It should be those captains here, stripped and made to suffer before the court. It should not be her. All she had ever done was what she was told.
The last number she had remembered to count was twenty eight, and that had been some time ago.
By the end she did scream, a little. It was ripped out of her despite her best efforts at self control, but once it was out she thought sod it, and gave it a good yell. Better a yell than a sob. And who knew, maybe if she hadn’t made a murmur they wouldn’t have considered the ceremony to have had the desired effect. Who could tell whether screams or silence would be more appropriate? There was no precedent for this. She was the precedent.
She bet Khanzada Ayed yelled when they scourged him.
She was waiting for the next stroke to land, eyes screwed shut and breath coming very loud, when she realised it had stopped. She opened her eyes. She had to blink tears, or maybe sweat, out of her eyes. Wetness prickled on her cheeks, and she could feel a drop of sweat crawling down the back of one leg – except of course perhaps it was blood. She couldn’t tell.
Suddenly, she realised it wasn’t just blood thundering in her veins she was hearing, but shouting and cheering. The anger surged up again: how dare they cheer her disgrace! But it wasn’t disgrace, not any more. She’d made it through, she’d survived. Would you have preferred it if they’d booed? They were cheering her success. It meant they had accepted her.
Experimentally, she tried to unclench her hands, and slowly unpeeled her stiff fingers from the wooden handles. They looked pinched and bloodless, and tingled sharply as the blood returned. Her backside was one great throb of hurt. The saddle had never made her feel this sore. She squeezed her hands open and shut a few times and then rested her palms on the block, pressing against the smooth wood to push herself upright. The wood was warm where her body had rested against it. Suddenly she was grateful for the simple comfort of the cotton robe, without any sequins or stiff thread to dig into her skin. Hands at her elbows guided her upright, and the robe slipped back down her legs to the floor. She glanced at her feet quickly, but couldn’t see any drops of blood, so perhaps it had just been sweat after all.
Someone lightly pressed a hand on her shoulder, which she guessed meant she should kneel, so she did. It wasn’t easy – all the muscles in her backside felt knotted and stiff, and twinged horribly as she tried to use them. She felt very exposed with her head uncovered. Her hair was damp, and the braids fell across her face as she bowed her head.
The priest scattered petals and perfumed water over her hair and said, “Your suffering has cleansed of the blood spilled by your people.” He touched water to her forehead, her lips. “Be relieved of your burden of guilt. No vengeance shall be sought for past wrongs. You have atoned.” He met her eyes then and almost smiled, and she guessed that meant she could stand up.
She was a bit unsteady on her feet, and pain was swelling up from her bottom through her entire body. An attendant stepped forward with a bowl of water, and she splashed her face and took a swallow or two. Another held out the gold veil. Once the shimmering fabric was arranged over her hair she felt better. This was her armour.
Tabina stood a little taller and wiped her hands on the robe. She supposed she should say something, and she struggled to remember the words she’d come up with earlier in the bathing room.
“I thank you for the blessing of forgiveness,” she said loudly, and encouraged by the pause that followed, continued: “It is most gracious of you to grant me this opportunity to demonstrate my goodwill towards your people, and my commitment to this marriage. I look forward with great eagerness to be presented to your most royal Khan, and to set eyes on the noble prince who is to be my husband. I hope this heralds the beginning of a new age of peace, and a lasting friendship between our houses.” They were cheering again – that was good, she supposed. She was swaying a bit.
The priest said something else and then the vizier, Akartha, was by her side, a cool hand on her elbow. “Very pretty, princess,” he said.
“The whipping?”
“The words. And your glorious self, of course.”
“The court seems happy.”
“They do. It seems to have gone rather well, don’t you think?”
I was about to ask you that, she thought, but she was reassured nonetheless. He led her around the block, which she hoped wasn’t a permanent feature as she would prefer never to look at it again, and towards the dais. The Khan and Khatan had stood up, the queen very elegant in her long gown, and was that a welcoming smile on her face? Mihran was standing too, his body language uncomfortable. I bet he’s more comfortable than me, she thought fiercely, but she lifted her chin and carried herself proudly as she walked that final stretch of carpet towards her new family.
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