Caged Princess: Whispers of Steam, #1

By Caylen McQueen

At age fourteen, Princess Mayra saw her entire family murdered in front of her. Now she's holding on to a secret that could destroy the world.

 

For five years, Mayra's enemies have been trying to force the secret out of her. She's been bullied, tortured, and caged like an animal. Only one man, Captain Jun Shiraishi, has ever been kind to her. His kindness is betrayed when Mayra commits and unspeakable act to escape her captors.

 

Mayra sneaks aboard an airship with an eclectic group of bounty hunters. Some of her new companions are slow to trust, and for good reason. A hostile fleet, led by Captain Shiraishi, is hunting her.

 

Caged Princess is the first book in the Whispers of Steam series, a steampunk-inspired fantasy where friends become enemies, enemies become lovers, and the most unlikely characters form bonds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caylen McQueen
• Release date: May 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393583332

Book preview

One

PRINCESS MAYRA BATTLED an intense urge to lean away as her fiance dragged a hand across her cheek. His skin was rough, much rougher than hers, and it left a trail of pinprick tingles on her flesh.

Princess, he spoke in a low voice. Princess, I want you to feel safe with me. Lord Euan had a voice like smoke, and his eyes embodied emptiness. His lips were an unmoving line, rarely expressing any emotion but boredom. Not even the prospect of a young wife could tempt a smile to his face.

When the timid princess said nothing, Lord Euan continued, This is as odd for me as it is for you. I held you on my lap when you were a baby... and now you're to be my wife. Does it make you uncomfortable?

Princess Mayra wasn't a fan of words. She was so quiet, her mother thought she was simple, but she was far from it. Her mind was always racing with thoughts, most too precious to share with others. No one was surprised when she shook her head or nodded instead of wasting breath. After a short pause, she answered her fiance's question with a forced smile and a shaking head.

Good. Her fiance stroked her cheek a few more times before pushing a lock of her honey brown hair behind her ear. Are you uncomfortable with my touch?

Though she preferred silence, Mayra knew a few words were necessary to sustain a conversation. No, my lord.

Wonderful. Your father told me you were uncomfortable with it. Is it true you don't like receiving hugs?

I... endure them, Mayra replied. I don't hate them.

Good. When he laid a hand on her shoulder, her body shivered in resistance. "I'll have none of this my lord nonsense. You're a princess, child. If anything, I should bend the knee to you."

Child. The word stuck in her mind like an echo. Lord Euan was the same age as her father, if not a few years older. In two days, the fourteen-year-old Princess of Nourmin would marry a man who was more than thirty years older than her. Her freedom was bartered to the king's best friend, and it was a fate she wished on no one.

I respect you, her fiance went on, and because I respect you, I won't force myself on you. I don't expect you to share yourself on our wedding night. Your bed and body will be yours. I will only come to you when you're comfortable.

Mayra didn't know how to reply, nor did she know if a reply was expected. Embarrassment seared her cheeks as she averted her gaze.

"You're so shy. You're always shy, noted a chuckling Lord Euan. It frustrates your father, but I've always found it endearing. Anyway... He offered an arm. Shall I escort you to the banquet, Princess? Our presence is expected. It is a celebration for us, after all."

Mayra accepted his arm and followed him to the Great Hall of Nourmin's grand castle. When the Hall's iron door rattled open, raucous voices of a hundred castle guests surged into the hallway. The noisy chatter subsided when Mayra entered the room with Lord Euan. All eyes snapped to the pubescent princess and her middle-aged beau.

Euan led her to the center of a long table, where Mayra's mother and father were already seated. Mayra sat next to Queen Sephonie, who found more than one reason to criticize her daughter.

Don't slouch. The queen's hissed command immediately straightened Mayra's back. And... for goodness sake, don't put your elbows on the table! How has basic etiquette not seeped into your head yet? You're hopeless, I swear.

Sorry. Mayra whispered the apology as she reached for her fork—and it was apparently the wrong one. Her mother corrected her with a grunt and shoved a different utensil into her daughter's hand. Mayra's blunders were common, but they were rarely corrected outside of a formal setting. She couldn't understand why table manners were so important. To her, every fork and spoon's function was the same.

The princess silently absorbed a mob of unfamiliar mustaches and balding pates. Ladies in motley dresses tested her eyes with a painful myriad of color. They had lofty coifs and double chins, which wagged behind fluttering fans. She felt judgment from every pair of eyes. Cousins, second cousins, aunts, and uncles had appeared to celebrate the worst day of her life. She only recognized a few. Insignificant lords with fat egos and high collars studied her with raised monocles and haughty sneers. She wanted to hide.

How are you getting along with Lord Euan? Sephonie asked. You haven't seen him in several months. Can you still carry a conversation with him? I know how you struggle.

We're getting along fine, Mayra replied.

Your father and I are proud of you, her mother reminded her. He may not be a king, but Euan is a good man. I have no doubt he'll take care of you.

Mayra gave her mother a sluggish nod, traded her fork for a spoon, and sampled her soup. The princess didn't often show emotion, but her misery should have been obvious to anyone. Her mother didn't see it. More than likely, her father didn't see it. He was too busy devouring his steak and enjoying a political debate with the dignitary at his side.

When her spoon stalled, Euan leaned toward her and asked, How is your soup? Is it not to your liking?

It's fine, Mayra replied.

You know, you're such a lovely girl. Everyone thinks so, her fiance said. I've always thought your freckles were especially fetching.

Mayra expressed her gratitude with a tiny, awkward smile.

Would you like to try the wine? Euan asked. If you're old enough to marry, I daresay you're old enough for a glass or two.

Mayra shielded her goblet from Euan's tilting bottle. No, thank you, she muttered.

You're missing out, my dear. Euan leaned back in his chair as he sipped from his cup. Your father always has the very best.

A dissatisfied sigh whistled from Mayra's nose as she stirred her soup. Droves of peas were swimming in the broth. She hated peas. They were so plentiful, her spoon couldn't evade the mushy green terrors. Every spoonful was cursed with one or two of them.

A few couples had assembled on the dance floor, so she set aside her spoon to watch them. Mayra never danced. She didn't even care to try. The thought of waltzing made her dizzy. She believed she was the most graceless, charmless princess in the world.

Duck and potatoes were presented as the main course, but her stomach couldn't handle either. She was too nervous about her upcoming wedding. Every time she glanced at the older man at her side, she wanted to scream.

What's wrong, my dear? Euan asked. You're not liking the duck either? You're not—

Blood burbled through her fiance's lips, dripped over his chin, and speckled the dining table. A haunting gasp shuddered from his throat. Mayra would remember that gasp forever.

"Euan?" Mayra's pink cheeks lost every trace of color as she shouted his name. He bucked and twitched in his chair, and when he reached for her, she never caught his hand. Her body was frozen with fear.

Pandemonium swept through the room, but for Mayra, time stood still. Her eyes swelled when her father's head dropped on the table. When she turned, she saw crimson foam bubbling from her mother's painted lips. The dancers dropped, one by one, some cradled in each other's arms. In less than three minutes, Mayra's life was forever changed.

When the Great Hall's door crashed open, Mayra dropped from her chair and cowered under the table. She clapped a hand to her mouth and listened to the dissonance of boots, marching out of unison. Her body forgot to breathe as she peered under the tablecloth to glimpse the new arrivals. There were about twenty of them. They wore the black cloaks of Alymane, her country's closet neighbor and most devoted enemy.

Everyone was dead. Everyone except for her. Her gaze snapped around the room in search of another survivor, but she saw no one else. It might have been wiser to pretend she was dead as well, but her instincts made her hide.

"Where's the princess? The question, growled by a hooded soldier, had Mayra's blood sizzling in her veins. We need to find her. King Owenth won't be happy if she isn't among the dead."

Mayra's heart thundered as she crawled closer to the exit, concealed by the table's cloth. On her hands and knees, she stepped over corpses, some still upright in their chairs. The Alymane soldiers flooded every corner of the room, but she needed to reach the door.

She needed to reach her brother. He was the only family she had left.

Keep searching, another soldier replied. She's got to be in here somewhere.

She should be at the table, right next to her ma.' Look, sir! There's an empty chair.

Should we search the rest of the castle for her? Maybe she went out for a piss.

As she listened to the knights' conversation, her heart hammered so hard, she half-expected it to tear through her chest. When she crawled as far as she could, she peeked under the tablecloth again. She saw enemy boots all around her, and they were way too close. She couldn't reach the door without getting spotted. There was no way.

Let's split up and search, suggested a bearded, girthy soldier. Six of us search the east wing, six search the west wing, and the rest of us will wait here.

Mayra could barely draw a breath as she waited for the knights to disperse. When their ranks thinned, and the nearest visible boots were on the other side of the room, she emerged from her hiding place and dashed to the door.

A soldier's shout confirmed her worst fear. She was spotted. Mayra ran so fast, her legs burned. Her sandaled feet smacked the marble floor, making too much noise. She jumped through the nearest door, closed it behind her, kicked off her shoes, and waited for her pursuers to pass.

They didn't see me enter... Mayra whispered. Her eyes were wide and wild as she snickered into the palm of her hand. Laughter wasn't appropriate, but she had lost her mind to the nightmare surrounding her. Shock usurped her sense.

When the soldiers' footsteps receded, she reemerged and turned in the direction of her baby brother's bedchamber. It was on the castle's second floor, but she had to travel down many corridors to reach it. The four-year-old prince was Mayra's favorite person in the world, and she refused to leave him behind.

As quietly as she could, she pattered down the hall and slipped into another room: the castle armory. She fussed with a crossbow, realized she had no idea how to load it, and exchanged it for a gun. When she failed to find ammunition, she settled on a small sword and returned to the door. Her hands were so slick with sweat, she almost lost her grip on the hilt.

Mayra cracked the door and peeked into the hall, making sure both ends were empty. Her eyes passed over the corpses of two castle servants, but she didn't make a sound when she saw them. The genocide in the Great Hall had diminished her reaction to death.

Mayra reached the stairs without incident, but an Alymane knight spotted her as she ascended. When she heard him yell to his comrades, she choked back a cry and increased her pace. She climbed the spiral steps as fast as she could, and by the time she reached her brother's room, she was breathless.

She had to fight—it was her only option. As she braced for battle, her panic-stricken eyes darted around the darkness in search of her brother.

She saw the blood before she saw the body.

Her brother Jadin, like the rest of her family, was murdered. A sword had ended his life as he slept. Mayra fell against the wall; her knees barely kept her aloft. As anguished whimpers poured from her throat, they were muffled by her damp, quivering hand.  

The door flew open. Two cloaked knights rushed into the room. Had her brother been alive, she would have fought for him. Even if she had