Princess of Thorns

by Unknown

  A quiet voice inside me whispers that I should feel terrible about continuing to lie to him, but the rest of me is relieved to have an excuse not to confess. I’m not ready to lose my friend. I need him too much, and he needs me.

  I close my eyes and drift, prepared for the fears that come to torment me in my sleep, but tonight I don’t dream of the crumbling castle or my brother’s screams. I dream of a picnic in the meadow behind Mother’s old house, of a blanket beneath the trees and honeysuckle thick in the air. I wear my white fairy dress with the silk flowers at the neck, and Niklaas is asleep with his head in my lap, while our friends play wickets in the meadow beyond.

  It is the most beautiful dream. I fight to hold on to it, to stay asleep even as the birds begin to sing and sunlight warms the bed. I fight until I hear Niklaas moan and the day begins with a hellish smell and the splatter of sickness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Niklaas

  Despite my aching head and foul-tempered stomach, I manage to pack my things and drag my wretched body out of the inn by ten o’clock. Ror, our new guide, and I reach the gates at Goreman’s northern edge an hour later.

  Two ogres with soul tattoos etched onto their gleaming bald heads guard the gate, but Crimsin—in her second skin of a dress, minus the red cloak that would give her away as an exile—distracts them while Ror, the horses, and I slip out of the city along with a group of lumber wagons bound for the lower forests.

  Ogre men are as susceptible to feminine charms as their human counterparts, and Crimsin certainly isn’t lacking in “charms.” If she hadn’t drugged me into the worst bout of sickness I’ve experienced since the night Usio and I ate bad oysters off the coast of northern Kanvasola, I’m sure I’d have a hard time keeping my eyes off her bosom.

  At the moment, however, I’m having a hard time resisting the urge to wring her pretty white neck.

  As Ror and I guide the horses into the trees beyond the city, another wave of sickness grips my midsection. I force it down with only the softest moan, but Ror seems to have especially keen ears this morning.

  “Try to make it a little farther,” Ror says, fussing over me like he’s done all morning. “Let’s get up the mountain. Then we’ll stop and you can have more water while we wait for Crimsin to catch up.”

  “I don’t want more water,” I say, forcing the words out through a clenched jaw.

  “You need to keep drinking,” he says. “If you don’t, you’ll never work the poison through. I could find some wild mint to calm your stomach if you think—”

  “Quit fussing. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. You’ve been—”

  “Leave me be, Ror,” I warn, voice rough from all the retching I’ve done since sunup.

  Blasted poison, blasted girl. If Crimsin weren’t the last guide in Goreman, I swear to the gods I would have kicked her out of the inn with a boot in her shapely backside.

  “I will not leave you be.” Ror pulls at Button’s reins, stopping the horse in the shade of two young Feeding Trees. “If you’re not able to keep water down, we shouldn’t have left the inn. It’s not safe to be—”

  “I’ll drink the raging water! But only if you’ll shut your flap for ten minutes at a time!” I snatch the waterskin from my saddle and tear off the cap, chugging as much as my miserable stomach can hold before plugging it with a glare in Ror’s direction. “I don’t know what’s worse. The sickness or your damned mother-henning.”

  Ror’s eyes tighten in an expression so wounded I immediately feel even worse.

  I sigh, running a trembling hand across my mouth, hating how weak I feel. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself. Thank you … for fussing, and for not leaving me behind.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t leave you,” Ror says, guiding Button closer. “I told you this morning, Niklaas. I want to help you. I want to keep you safe.”

  I grimace as my guts clench. My stomach quivers beneath my ribs, debating whether or not to send the water back the way it came. I hate feeling ill, but I hate Ror knowing the truth—even if it’s only a shadow of the truth—even more.

  Apparently, people on this side of Norvere believe my father murders his sons, and that he’s sent assassins to Goreman to seek me out before my eighteenth birthday. That’s the story Crimsin told Ror, anyway, and the reason the guide gave for feeling it necessary to drug me and leave me to sleep off the poison while she led Ror to the exiles.

  Perhaps the story is true. Perhaps my father does intend to kill me for the crime of attempting to change my fate. I don’t know how he would have learned of my quest or my new hope—Haanah is the only one who knows I found the witch who cursed our family, and she would never say a word—but he has his spies, as Ekeeta has hers. They may not be numerous, but they are clever and loyal and desperate to please their king, lest they end up dead like the men who have failed King Eldorio before them.

  “I consider you a friend,” Ror says, hurt still clear in his tone. “I would never leave a friend in danger. Deal or no deal.”

  “I consider you a friend, too.” I lay a hand on his back. “And I am sorry. You’re like a brother to me, runt, I told you that last night.”

  “You remember that?” Ror asks.

  “I do, though I admit everything after climbing the stairs is a blur. I have a vague recollection of lifting you over my head … but I’m hoping that was a dream.”

  Ror grins. “No. Not a dream. But I—”

  “Aren’t you two delightful?” Crimsin’s voice drifts through the trees, making my shoulder muscles bunch and my head ache. I pull my hand from Ror’s back to rub the tops of my eyes. “Is there anything sweeter than two boys in love?”

  “We’re friends,” Ror snaps, shooting Crimsin a look I don’t understand. I get the feeling something uncomfortable happened between the pair of them last night, though Ror insists they only spoke briefly before he came to watch over me in my sleep.

  “Forgive me, prince, I was only teasing.” Crimsin’s lips push into a pretty pout.

  She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years, but I don’t feel the slightest pull toward her, and not simply because she drugged me. There’s something false about Crimsin, something secretive in the way of water with sharp rocks lurking beneath the surface that makes me wish we’d been able to hire anyone else but this girl.

  “Now, what do your royal highnesses think?” Crimsin stops between the horses and tilts her head up, providing a scandalous view down the front of her dress. “Should I ride with Ror or with you, Niklaas?” she asks, hand coming to rest on my knee.

  “You’ll ride with me,” Ror says, anger simmering in his words. “My horse is larger, and Niklaas still doesn’t feel well.”

  “Maybe I could help him feel better.” Crimsin leans into my leg, pressing her body against my thigh. For a split second, I consider retching down onto her soft, shining hair, but decide the pain of being sick again isn’t worth the petty revenge.

  “Ror seems better able to tolerate you,” I say, nudging Alama forward with my heels, pretending not to notice when Crimsin has to scramble out of the way to avoid being stepped on.

  “Charming,” Crimsin says as Ror swings her onto the saddle behind him. “No wonder you were without a woman to warm your bed last night, Prince Niklaas.”

  I turn to tell the girl to keep her mouth shut unless she has something guide-worthy to say, when I see them—six sea-foam-colored Kanvasol horses surging through the gates of the city below, each one mounted by a knight wearing the blue coat of arms of my father’s innermost circle. They’re still a field away, but there’s no doubt the men have spotted us amidst the trees. They draw their swords as they spur their mounts forward, flashing steel promising a swift death to the last human prince of Kanvasola.

  It seems Crimsin was right, and I a fool for setting foot outside the inn while too weak to defend myself.r />
  “Go, ride ahead with Niklaas!” Ror slides to the ground, giving Button a swat on the behind. The horse leaps forward, making Crimsin squeal and clutch at the reins.

  “No!” Crimsin pulls the horse to a stop, the playful lilt vanishing from her voice. “You can’t fight them alone. They’ll kill you, and I—”

  “There’s no time!” Ror slaps the horse again, harder, sending Button dashing off through the woods.

  Ror turns to me. “Follow her. I’ll find you later. You’re not fit to fight.”

  “No, I won’t—”

  “Go!” Ror shouts. “You’ll only distract me if you stay. I can take them. Go! Run!”

  I reach for my sword—I don’t care what he says, I’m not leaving Ror alone against six armed men—but before I can draw my weapon, Ror whacks Alama on the rump and she bolts with a squeal, leaping after Button.

  I haul at the reins, but by the time I regain control and turn Alama around, Ror has already knocked three of the men from their horses and is using his staff to leverage his body into the air to avoid being trampled by the animals pressing in behind. I dig my heels into Alama’s sides and barrel down the mountain, heart racing as a sword swings within inches of Ror’s head, close enough to make his warrior’s knot bob as he kneels to swipe his staff in a wide arc, tripping a fourth horse and sending the man atop it sailing from his saddle.

  My swift pulse clears my head, and by the time I meet the last mounted man, my arm is strong. Our blades collide with a dull clang, a sound made familiar by days spent training with Father’s men. It makes me wonder if this knight was one of my teachers, or one of the boys who trained beside me. His armor conceals his face, but there’s a chance I know him, that the blood I’ll spill is the blood of a former friend.

  The thought should make me hesitate, but it doesn’t. I have to get to Ror, I have to save his life before he dies trying to save mine.

  I see a weakness in my opponent’s defense and seize upon it, sliding my sword into the unarmored place beneath his armpit, sending a rush of red spilling onto his blue surcoat. He drops his weapon; I lift my foot from the stirrup and kick him in the chest, sending him sliding off his horse with a strangled cry. I hesitate long enough to make sure he won’t be getting up to fight before urging Alama farther down the hill to where Ror is, miraculously, finishing off his final opponent.

  Three men lie unconscious on the ground while Ror bats at the last man, knocking his armor from his head before finding the same vulnerable place I found with my sword and shoving his staff inside hard enough to make the knight cry out as he drops his sword. After that, it’s only a matter of seconds before Ror sends the man crumpling to the ground with a sharp rap of his staff upside the unfortunate bastard’s skull.

  He watches the man fall and spins my way, only relaxing a fraction when he sees I’m not the enemy.

  “Are you all right? Where’s the other one?” He races up the hill so swiftly Alama dances nervously to the side. “There were six. I took four and you took the fifth, but—”

  He’s interrupted by a scream, a terrified cry that makes me feel something besides contempt for Crimsin for the first time since we were introduced over a chamber pot filled with my vomit.

  I reach a hand down and pull Ror into the saddle behind me. Alama moves quickly up the mountain, not seeming to suffer from the addition of Ror’s weight, but by the time we reach Crimsin, I fear we’re too late. The sixth man has her on her back, a blade pressed to her throat.

  I move to dismount before Alama comes to a stop, but Ror is even faster. He leaps from the saddle, landing with a hop that sends him into a front roll and back to his feet without breaking speed. He knocks Crimsin’s attacker to the ground before the man can turn to see who’s behind him, and a few blows later my father’s final assassin falls to the dirt with a miserable groan.

  Only when the man is unconscious does Ror drop his staff and reach for Crimsin. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m all right.” Her words end in a sob as she clutches Ror tight. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me,” Ror says, smoothing the girl’s hair from her face.

  “No, I do. I couldn’t get to my axe and he …” She swipes at the tears on her cheeks with a fist. “You risked your life for me.”

  Ror takes her hands in his. “You’re one of my people. It’s my duty to defend you.”

  The girl blinks. “You really believe that?”

  “What’s the point of having a ruler if he or she doesn’t protect the people?” Ror asks. “I know that’s not the way it’s been since Ekeeta took control, but—”

  “That’s not the way it was before, either.”

  “What do you mean?” Ror asks, a wary note in his tone.

  Crimsin bites her lip, hesitating a moment before she whispers, “I had an older sister. Fifteen years older. Gernin was … perfect.” She swipes at her damp cheeks again. “Beautiful and kind and always helping people. We thought she’d take over as the healer for our village one day, but then, the king came … and took my sister away.”

  “The king?” Ror gives a small shake of his head.

  “Your father.” Crimsin watches Ror, a cautious expression on her face. “He tried to win her at first, giving her silks and promising gold for her family if she would become his third wife, but it’s not the way of our people to have more than one wife and Gernin didn’t love him. She told him no.” Crimsin’s eyes shine, but when she speaks again her voice is flat, emotionless. “His men came to our house that night and stole her away. I never saw her alive again.”

  “You’re … That’s the truth?” Ror squeezes Crimsin’s hands. “You swear it?”

  “I swear it on my eternal soul,” Crimsin says with enough conviction that even I believe her. “The king took Gernin, and a few months later … she was dead.”

  Ror is quiet for a moment before he says, “I’m sorry.”

  Crimsin’s lips part. “You believe me?”

  “I do. My mother suspected …” Ror lets Crimsin’s hands slip through his fingers. “Mother didn’t know my father was already married until after I was born. Father kept her hidden in the woods for years. She still loved him after she found out the truth, but she hated him, too. I know she longed for another life.”

  Crimsin curses softly. “I didn’t know.”

  “No one did. Mother didn’t want people to feel sorry for her, or her children.” Ror cocks his head. “Are you sure your sister is dead? Is there a chance my father could have hidden her away as well?”

  “No.” Crimsin rubs her eyes. “They found her body by the road a week after the king was murdered. No one knew what had happened. After … Mother was never the same. She sold everything we had to pay the king’s treasurer to take me with him when his family fled Mercar. She had nothing left. She died the next spring.”

  “I wish I could take back what my father did to your family,” Ror says. “I wish I could make things better for you.”

  “You already have.” This time, the passion in Crimsin’s voice has nothing to do with seduction. “I believe now that you will be a different sort of ruler. That’s why I can’t—”

  A howl sounds from higher up the hillside, seeming to emerge from the guts of the mountain itself.

  “Hund,” Crimsin mutters as she struggles to stand, a fearful look in her eyes. “He shouldn’t be here. The settlement is hours away.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, clutching my sword as I urge Alama over to where Ror is springing to his feet beside Crimsin, deciding it’s time the pair of them remember I’m still here.

  “They must have sent an escort.” Crimsin shakes her hands in obvious panic before turning to Ror and grabbing him by the shoulders. “You have to run. Now!”

  “What?” Ror asks. “But we—”

  “Please.” Crimsin takes Ror’s hand and
pulls him toward where Button is grazing. “Go northwest into Frysk, to the village of Beschuttz. It’s a hidden place, but I’ll send Hund with word to expect you. My mother’s sister, Gettel, watches over a valley there. She’s a powerful healer and magic-worker. She’ll keep you safe.”

  “But what about the boy’s army?” I demand. “We haven’t come all this way to—”

  “Please! You must leave these woods!” Crimsin turns to me, desperation written plainly on her face. “It isn’t safe for Ror here.”

  “Come with us, then,” Ror says, vaulting into his saddle.

  Before Crimsin can answer—or I caution Ror to think this through—the mountainside opens as if by magic, and mounted men in red exile cloaks spill from between two gray rocks. There are twenty riders, maybe more, each one heavily armed. They move between the trees with confidence as the stones ease closed behind them, sealing the hidden passage into the mountain.

  My jaw drops. It’s a gate. A gate formed by slabs of granite as big as a fisherman’s ship. I know the exiles brought great wealth with them when they fled Norvere, but even with all the gold in the world, I can’t imagine how they constructed such a thing. The sight of those shifting stones makes me wary, though the men have yet to draw their swords or bows.

  What other marvels might the exiles have at their disposal, and how could those wonders be used against us?

  I drop my sword to my side but keep it tightly in hand. If Ror and I are to be forced to fight ten times our number, I’ll take any advantage I can get, even if it’s only the seconds it will take to draw my weapon.

  Alama fidgets beneath me as the squat mountain horses stream down the tree-littered mountainside, led by a swarthy man with tightly curled silvering hair on a shaggy mount larger than the rest. The man wears heavy leather armor and a hack sword designed for making men into cuts of meat, but beneath his neatly trimmed beard a welcoming smile graces his dark face.