Rose & Thorn

by Sarah Prineas

  He didn’t comment.

  That was all right; I didn’t expect him to.

  I leaned closer, so only he could hear me. “I love you,” I whispered.

  He stared at me.

  “And you love me,” I went on. “It’s all right, you don’t have to say it. I know that you do. We love each other, and that is definitely not part of Story’s plan.” I grew more certain. “Story has made a mistake.”

  When he spoke, his voice was rough. “Story does not make mistakes.”

  “Yes, it does,” I insisted. “Here’s the irony of it, Griff. We can be certain that we love each other because of Story, because we broke the spindle curse. According to Story’s rules there’s only one way to break a curse like that.” My voice softened. “And that’s with a kiss of true love.”

  He frowned.

  “You are mine,” I finished. “And I am yours.”

  There was a long silence, long enough that I started to wonder if he was going to acknowledge my words at all. Finally he spoke. “No,” he said quietly. “The kiss of true love is only a device of Story.”

  “Not this time,” I told him. I remembered the moment when my love for him had surged up in me. “Our love is much more true and real than that.”

  “No,” he repeated. “You belong to Story, just as I do.” Then he turned his face away. I understood what that meant: he would not listen to anything more that I had to say.

  In the distance, I heard a deep rumbling sound. For a panicked moment I thought it might be Story, but then I remembered the waterfall, how it fell from the cliff at the edge of the City. I turned to peer over my shoulder to see if I could see it yet. The boats had just entered the wide lake from which the river flowed. At the other end of it, I could barely make out the dark wall of the cliff. Then it was veiled from my sight.

  Fog seeped from the Forest, creeping from the shore over the surface of the water. Damp tendrils encircled us, and, a moment later, the other boat had disappeared and we were completely enveloped in a white cloud.

  The sounds of oars splashing in the water, or knocking against the side of the boat, were louder; the roar of the waterfall was louder, too, and the air grew heavy with dampness.

  When we reached the end of the lake, the fog lifted. The waterfall pounded down, spraying us with cold droplets. The other boat was gone.

  I realized that the docks were deserted; there were no other boats or rafts or barges on the water. They should have been waiting to send supplies up the lift or receive finished goods to take down the river. The Forest had taken them all. The lift itself was silent, a dripping metal skeleton.

  Without Griff’s thimble, it might have taken our boat, too.

  The City, I realized, had been completely cut off from the outside world. It belonged to Story, alone.

  There was no help here. No hope.

  The keel of the boat grated on the graveled edge of the lake. A muted order from Griff, and the Watcher Luth pulled me from my seat and over the side of the boat; it scraped against my hip, and then I was standing on the shore. I was shaking with a combination of fright and cold; I could barely stay on my feet.

  Griff gave some orders in a low voice, and I was taken up to the City and through its silent, deserted streets, to the citadel.

  GRIFF’S FATHER, I knew, had been Story’s enemy, the City’s Lord Protector. Any hope I had that he was resisting Story’s takeover of the City was extinguished when I stepped through the door of his office in the citadel.

  The room was as bare and cold as it had been the first time I’d been brought there. The Watcher Luth untied my hands; then he and two of Story’s servants went to guard the door. Griff stood at my back.

  The Lord Protector sat behind his desk. As the door closed, his head jerked up. Seeing Griff, his face didn’t change; it stayed still and cold, and I realized why Story had found it so easy to corrupt him. It had probably been using him for years, without anyone’s knowledge. He had no warmth in him, no love; he wasn’t even glad to see his own son. “Ah,” he said. “We have been awaiting your return.” There was a hint of criticism in his voice.

  Griff stepped around me. The weariness that I’d seen before was gone; he was all sharpness and metal now. “The Forest has made its move. The City is cut off. It is time.”

  “Time . . . ,” the Lord Protector repeated. “Yes. All is ready.”

  “On your feet,” Griff ordered. “Have her taken up.”

  Like a clockwork man, the Lord Protector stood up from behind his desk. His head bowed as he acknowledged Griff’s command.

  “What are you going to do with me?” I asked. My voice sounded thin and desperate.

  Neither of them seemed to hear me. Clawed hands gripped my arms and dragged me out of the room. The guards’ footsteps were loud on the stone floors as they pulled me down empty hallways and then up darkened stairs to a huge room at the very top of the citadel. They thrust me into it and then slammed the door, leaving me alone.

  The room was bare, high-ceilinged, and made all of stone. The air was dry and cold. I could feel the heavy weight of Story here. On one side of the room was a wide opening, a window without glass; chilly air blew in. Shivering, I went to it and looked out over the City.

  The sky was gray. The City was gray; the Forest beyond it was muffled in fog. There was no color anywhere. Quirk was out there, with Timothy. I hoped they were all right, that they had escaped. There was nothing they could do to help me. Desolate, I wrapped my arms around myself. “Oh, Shoe,” I whispered. “What would you say if you could see me now?” He had raised me with love and happiness, and he had tried to save me from Story. But I didn’t think there was anything I could have done to keep myself from ending up right here.

  There was a noise at the door; I turned and saw Griff enter, then close the door behind him. He had changed out of his ragged coat and now wore the plain gray uniform of a Watcher.

  I started across the room toward him. He came to meet me. We stopped in the middle of the room. I saw the glint of the Godmother’s thimble on his finger.

  “Beauty,” he said.

  “Rose,” I corrected.

  He frowned.

  The floor shifted under my feet; I looked down and gasped. Gray, thorny, leafless vines were growing from the stone. They twined around my feet, holding me in place. Shadows gathered in the corners of the stone room. A faint thunder ground away at the edge of my hearing.

  “It is time for you to sleep.” He pulled something out of his tunic pocket.

  With sudden horror, I realized what was in his hand. He must have brought it with him from the castle. “No,” I breathed.

  His gray eyes fixed on me. He held out the spindle. “Take it.”

  I tried to pull away, but the vines held me in place. The air grew heavy; the thunder grew louder. “Griff . . . ,” I panted, desperate. “I can’t. Please don’t let Story do this.”

  “You are cursed,” he said quietly. “You must take it.”

  He held up the spindle. Its point was stained with dried blood. My blood.

  The spindle curse had been broken, though. It had no power over me now.

  Griff knew this, and he knew he still needed to use the spindle to activate the second curse.

  He reached out and took my hand, and his hand was so cold, as if he was made of ice and gears. I could hear the weight of Story shift. He turned my wrist to expose my birthmark, my faded rose. I knew what he meant by it—I was marked by Story; I belonged to it.

  I used the only weapon that I had left. “Kiss me,” I whispered. But it was too late.

  Griff brought the needle-sharp point to my fingertip. A single bead of blood, warm against my icy skin, and the second curse washed like a dark wave over me, pulling me down to drown in the roiling depths of sleep.

  CHAPTER

  34

  THE CITY SLEPT UNDER THE CURSE.

  Story’s weapon stood guard over the beauty. She slept on a bed of woven vines in the middl
e of the stone room. She lay as still as death, the curse her shroud. Her face was pale, colorless, framed by the muted gold of her hair. Her long lashes rested on her cheek, and her mouth was relaxed, almost smiling.

  She would sleep for a hundred years. Story would have its dominion over the City, growing in power as the years passed, until its chosen prince arrived to break the curse with a kiss. After that, not even the Forest would be able to contain it.

  He was Story’s weapon. He would wait, alone, on guard, as the City slept around him.

  He couldn’t bear to look at the beauty, sleeping, so he stood looking out over the City. At its outer wall, a second wall grew, a high barrier made of thick, gray, leafless vines woven together.

  The sun rose and set behind a heavy blanket of clouds. Days passed. Weeks. Snow fell. The City slipped into the long darkness of winter.

  Beauty’s guard welcomed the clarity of the cold. It froze his thoughts. His heart stilled in his chest. The cold struck with gleaming shards of ice at the odd spark that he held within him.

  Kiss me, she had said.

  And on the boat, as he’d brought her out of the Forest and into Story’s City. I love you.

  He paced, restless.

  The beauty slept on.

  IN THE CITY, something shifted.

  The angle of the light had changed. The long, dark winter was ending. Icicles dripped along the edge of the opening in the wall. One by one, as the air grew warmer, they broke off and fell, shattering on the stones far below. Snow melted and flowed into the gutters of the City streets. The river grew swollen, and the roar of the waterfall grew louder.

  The guard’s thoughts became troubled.

  Kiss me.

  He circled the room, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the dust that had settled over the stone floor.

  I love you.

  He shook his head, dipped into the pocket of his tunic, and took the thimble into his hand. It was a heavy, cold weight, and it steadied him.

  “I love you.”

  He froze and looked toward the bed. Had she spoken?

  No. She lay quiet, still. Too quiet?

  He stepped closer, studying her. To his relief, her chest rose and fell as she took a breath. The sleep curse that lay over her had thinned to a veil. At a touch, it would dissolve.

  And under that was the beauty. He went to his knees beside the low bed of vines. Story gathered in his bones, making him feel heavy, slow. At the edge of his hearing, its thunder awakened. Her beauty should have made her simply a construct of Story. A false, hollow person.

  But she wasn’t. She was vibrant, alive, warm. Herself.

  Rose. Her name was Rose.

  “Go ahead, lad,” came a half-familiar voice from behind him. “Kiss her.”

  He whirled away from the sleeping beauty, leaping to his feet and drawing his knife in one smooth motion.

  The Witch—Quirk was his name, he remembered—stood inside the doorway; the young woman, Timothy, was just behind him with her sword drawn, ready to defend him. Other Breakers waited outside on the stairs. He hadn’t heard their footsteps; he hadn’t heard the door opening.

  The Witch wore a green hat with a puff of yellow yarn on top of it. He had a long scratch crusted with blood across his cheek. He was unarmed.

  Except for his thimble, which glowed with a warm light on his finger. “We had to fight our way through the thorns to get here, Griff,” the Witch said, his voice tense, “and I can only hold it for a moment more.”

  Story, he meant. He could hear its rumble, feel its fury building. The walls of the stone room trembled; dust sifted down from overhead.

  The Witch’s face turned gray and drawn. “If you’re going to kiss her, lad, you’d better do it now.”

  Kiss her?

  Lowering his knife, the guard turned back to the beauty. The Witch said something else, but he didn’t hear him.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and set down the knife. She sighed, deeply asleep. Her lips parted.

  Kiss me.

  His arms went around her, and he pulled her closer, and after a moment that stretched almost to breaking, he lowered his lips to hers. Their kiss filled him with heat and light until she felt like a lick of flame in his arms, trembling. Her hands moved to cling to his shoulders. She gasped, and they broke the kiss.

  “My goodness,” she breathed.

  He looked down at her. She gazed at him, her eyes luminous. She sighed, and reached up to run her fingers along the edge of his jaw. At her touch, his whole body awakened to an awareness of her, her nearness, her warmth. It spread through him, until he could feel his heart beating again. Somehow tears had gotten onto his face. Pulling back a little from Rose, he wiped them away with the palm of his hand.

  “When ice melts,” he heard Quirk say dryly, “it makes a terrible mess.”

  Rose was smiling at him. “Kiss me,” she said softly. “Kiss me again.”

  And he did.

  CHAPTER

  35

  ALL AROUND US, THE STONE WALLS OF THE CITADEL WERE shaking.

  “I think we’d better get out of here,” Quirk said from behind us, interrupting our kiss.

  Griff nodded and pulled me to my feet. I should have been stiff after sleeping for what seemed like a long time, but I felt free and alive, and like laughing and crying at the same time.

  Timothy was saying something to Quirk, who nodded. Other Breakers were there, too; some of them turned and started hurrying down the stairs.

  “Story’s power here is breaking,” Quirk said, beckoning to us. “Come on.”

  The floor trembled under my feet as Griff and I, hand in hand, left the room; the shaking turned to shuddering and the grinding of stone over stone. We broke into a run, pelting down the stairs. The building was awakening around us; gray-coated Watchers fled, as did animals that had once been servants of Story, all of us rushing out of the citadel doors, spilling into the courtyard and then out into the City’s streets.

  I could hear shouts and screams and the rushing of water as the river surged out of its banks. The air tingled and the late afternoon sun burst brilliantly through the clouds. Still holding hands, Griff and I stumbled to a halt. From where we stood, we had a clear view down the main street that led to the edge of the City.

  Quirk climbed onto a chunk of stone to see better; Timothy stood beside him, steadying him so he wouldn’t fall. “Careful, sweetheart,” I heard her say.

  Behind us, the citadel was crumbling; there was a roar of stone collapsing, and dust filled the air. At the City wall, gray vines were melting away. As we watched, the wall itself fissured. For just a moment, the grim gray of the City seemed frozen, waiting.

  A flash of green caught my eye. “Look!” I said, pointing.

  A single blade of grass had appeared in the dust at our feet. Its vibrant green was very bright against the gray of the road.

  As we watched, the Forest flowed over the crumbling wall and into the City. It advanced as moss spreading and ferns uncurling at their tips, while young trees forced themselves up through the cobblestones. The air turned warm and moist, and rich with the smell of dirt and growing things.

  As night fell, the clouds drew together over the City, and a gentle rain sifted down.

  QUIRK AND THE Breakers established a kind of headquarters in one of the big, dilapidated houses that edged what had been a hard-packed, empty square and was now a park seething with new growth.

  I had only been awake for a few hours, but I felt suddenly exhausted, and ravenously hungry. I couldn’t seem to go more than a step away from Griff. He was quiet, but watched everything keenly. He said a few words to Timothy, who nodded, and then found us a quiet spot in a dusty attic at the very top of the house. We sat wearily down together. One of the Breakers brought us bread and cheese and a plate of salted potatoes. It was all I could do to take a few bites.

  As my eyes were closing, I jerked awake, suddenly remembering the third curse—had it been broken when Story was b
roken? I said something incoherent about it to Griff.

  “It’s all right, Rose,” he said, and I felt his arm come around me.

  I knew I was safe with him. I put my head on his shoulder and fell asleep.

  A FEW HOURS later, when I woke up, he was gone.

  I yawned, stiff from lying on the hard attic floor. As I stretched, the sleeve of my sweater fell back, exposing my wrist. My birthmark was still there, just the faintest outline of a fading rose. Despite Griff’s assurances, its lingering presence remained a worry. And where was he?

  Climbing to my feet, I made my way down the stairs, dodging groups of frightened people who had come to see the City’s new Protector and hear from the Breakers the story of how Story had come to fall.

  In a hallway I found Timothy, wearing a sword, giving orders to a few Watchers dressed in gray.

  Hearing my footsteps, she turned and grinned at me. “So you had a nice nap?”

  I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help smiling back at her. “It was a bit on the long side.”

  “People are already talking about how it ended,” Timothy said. She stepped closer and slung an arm across my shoulders, pulling me with her down the hallway. “You know, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to kiss that boy some more,” she said. “Just in case.”

  I blushed. The Breakers were spreading our story throughout the City, and it would be told and retold. I knew that our kiss, the kiss that had broken Story, would be remembered for many years to come.

  “Before you find Griff, you should talk to Quirk,” she said, pointing to a doorway.

  Speaking of Quirk . . . “Timothy, did I hear you call him sweetheart before?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, stepping back and holding up her hands. “We are not doing this, Rosie. We are not gossiping about a man.”

  “But that’s what friends do,” I assured her.