Princess of Thorns

by Stacey Jay

  “She’s there. By the double tree. Can you ride?”

  “Yes. Help me over. Hurry, the other riders aren’t far behind.” I wince as Ror’s hand wraps around my waist, brushing against where the skin has torn.

  “You’re bleeding,” he says, sliding his fingers higher on my ribs. “Are you—”

  “It’s nothing. The bruises from the fall will be worse.” I try to shift my weight away, but a flash of pain in my hip make me reach for Ror again, wrapping my arm around his narrow waist.

  He flinches and pulls my arm back to his shoulders. “It’s easier for me to bear your weight this way. Watch your step. Big rock.”

  I stare at the ground but can’t make out the rock’s outline until we’re on top of it. I can feel Ror’s staff snug in its sling beneath my arm, so I know it isn’t the stick he’s using to test the ground, which begs the question “How did you see that? From so far away?”

  “I don’t know. Back home the girls always beat the boys at hide-and-seek when we played at night,” he says, clearing his throat as we reach Alama’s side. “But of the boys, I did the best. Do you need help getting up?”

  “No, I can do it.” But when I try to pull myself into the saddle I find my left side unwilling to cooperate with my right and my torso too stiff to bend.

  “Let me help.” Ror grabs me around the legs and shoves his shoulder into my rear end, giving me enough of a boost that I’m able to slide my leg over Alama’s back with a pitiful groan.

  “You’d better take the lead,” I say, wincing as I reach down to rub Alama’s withers in comforting circles, thanking her for stopping. “If we find trouble on the road, you’re better equipped to fight. I’ll do what I can, but—”

  “If it comes to a fight, we’ll lose, with your sword or without it,” Ror says, vaulting onto Button’s back. “Stay close, and I’ll try to find a path through any resistance. The mercenaries have been riding all day and the ogres breed their horses for sustained speed, not short sprints. If we can get past them, we should be able to outpace either group and find a place to hide.”

  “All right,” I say, knowing he’s right. The Kanvasola-trained fighter in me shouts that we should make a stand and fight to the death, regardless of our odds, but the survivor in me knows better. Honor is well and good, but sometimes it’s more important to do what it takes to stay alive.

  Ror leads the way, setting a swift pace, but not quite as swift as the one that led to my fall. Still, we stay ahead of our pursuers and, not twenty minutes from where I fell, emerge onto a clear stretch of the low road lit by blue moonlight. A glance in either direction reveals we are alone, with not an ogre or a mercenary in sight.

  Ror glances over his shoulder with a relieved smile.

  “Let’s not put our good shoes on yet,” I say, though I can’t help but return his grin as I urge Alama into a gallop down the road. Every hoof-fall sends a jolt through my aching body, but breathing is easier and my voice carries clearly through the still night.

  “We’ll turn south at the fork and go into the water beneath the first bridge,” I say when Button pulls even with Alama, the pair of them running side by side like they’ve been traveling companions for years. “The water should be low this time of year. We can walk the horses up the bank and slip past anyone on the road.”

  Ror nods as he leans forward, shifting his weight until he seems to hover, weightless, above Button’s back. He adjusts so perfectly to the horse’s movement that he becomes a part of the creature, like a centaur from the ancient stories.

  Legends say the ogres hunted the centaur race to extinction in their lust for the creatures’ flesh, enchanted meat that gave the ogres extended life, allowing them to survive until the race of man grew plentiful enough to feed their hunger.

  In those times—so long ago man still spoke the language of the beasts—the ogres looked very different. They were giants covered in hair from head to foot, with sharp claws and sharper teeth and bulbous eyes that glowed at night, transfixing any man unfortunate enough to encounter them in the dark. But as centuries passed and humans gained power over fire and forged weapons with which to fend off their predators, the ogres began to shrink, growing slimmer and softer, coming to resemble the humans they hunted, to use deception to hunt their prey when brute strength was no longer sufficient.

  And when that trick, too, began to fail them, they stole magic from the human witches they consumed and learned to feed on human souls, to leave a corpse behind and no blood on their hands, no way to prove it was an ogre who killed the one you love.

  They are relentless in their quest for survival, and have already outlived every creature but the Fey by several centuries. Ror wasn’t foolish when he ran to hide from the slightest hint of ogre presence today, but hiding was too little, too late. We both need to be more careful, beginning with making it more difficult for Ekeeta’s creatures to spot the boy with the golden warrior’s knot atop his head.

  “Wait,” I call as the bridge comes into sight.

  Ror reins Button in, walking the horse back to where I’ve stopped, while I dig into my saddlebag and pull out my tightly rolled oilcloth cloak. It’s not heavy enough to offer warmth—I bring it for protection from the rain—but it has a hood that should more than cover Ror’s small head.

  “Put this on before we go down to the river,” I say, handing it over. “Cover as much of yourself as you can. Hopefully that will make things harder for Ekeeta’s spies.”

  “I should have asked if you had something sooner.” Ror wraps the cloak around his narrow shoulders. It’s so large that it hangs past his waist to cover his knees and a good portion of Button’s rump. “I had a cloak of my own, but I lost it at the mercenary camp.” He pulls the hood forward, completely obscuring his features. “How’s this?”

  “You’ve got a black hole for a face. It’s good.” I nudge Alama forward.

  Button falls in beside, innocent of the fact that his rider now resembles the headless demons said to bear the plague into villages in their saddlebags.

  “What?” Ror tugs the hood even lower. “Is something wrong?”

  “You’re ominous-looking is all,” I say. “Like a plague rider. Or Death’s little brother.”

  “Really?” Ror’s laughs drifts from the dark hole where his face should be, sending a prickle up my neck. “Are you scared?”

  “Terrified,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

  “Don’t be afraid, Niklaaaaasssss,” Ror hisses in a voice that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Death has not come for you tonight.”

  “Stop that.” I shudder in spite of myself and urge Alama to move faster, past ready to be off the road and beneath the bridge.

  “Why?” There’s a wicked merriment in Ror’s tone that makes his “Death” voice even more disturbing. “Death only wantssss to be friendsssss.”

  “There’s something damaged in that head of yours,” I say, leading the way down the rock-littered incline on the south side of the bridge, holding my breath as Alama skips through the loose gravel to land lightly on the hard-packed dirt and larger rocks of the riverbank. Come the winter rains, this sturdy blue clay will be underwater, but for now it is the perfect makeshift road. The clay is too hard to take prints easily and the rocks should help conceal any trail we do leave behind.

  “But has Death not saved your life tonight?” Ror asks as Button dances onto the bank. “Did I not shove your immense backside into your saddle? I shouldn’t scaaaaaare you.”

  “Keep it up and you’re going to scaaaaare the horses,” I say.

  Alama nickers in agreement, making Ror laugh as we set the animals to walking north, giving them a rest from the breakneck pace now that we’re off the road. We’re not out of danger yet—there’s always the chance the ogres will check the river—but it’s obvious we both feel safer down here, with the low water burbling over round stones, muffling the sound of our passage.

  “And my backside is hardly immense for a Kanvasol
prince,” I say. “I’m the runt back home. My brothers were all a hand or two taller.”

  “Were?” Ror finally abandons his Death voice. “Did something happen to them?”

  I open my mouth to lie, but for some reason the words won’t come. Maybe I’m too tired. Or maybe Ror has simply become enough of a friend that it feels wrong to lie to his face—even when I can’t see it.

  “I’d rather not talk about my brothers,” I say. “It’s … a painful thing.”

  We travel in silence for a moment, the only sounds the song of the river and the soft clop of the horses’ hooves, before Ror says, “I was only joking, you know. You’re not immense; I’m a runt, like you said. I’m only glad I was able to lift you.”

  “You’re not a runt,” I say, regretting the nickname.

  “Yes, I am.” He shrugs. “It’s all right. I’m resigned to it. There are worse things to be.”

  “There are,” I agree, thinking of the boys I trained with in Eno City when I was younger. They were as large and strong as my brothers, but not a single one would have stopped to put me back on my horse when their own lives were in danger. But then, they knew the truth. They knew I’m not long for this world, and hardly worth risking their own necks over.

  “Thank you,” I add after a moment. “I was sure I’d be the one pulling you up off the ground, but …”

  “I find it’s best never to be sure of anything,” Ror says with a weary sigh that seems out of place coming from someone his age. “It’s easier to avoid making a fool of myself that way.”

  “My pride is definitely more bruised than my body.”

  Ror pulls Button to a stop. “Your wound. I forgot. We should—”

  “The bleeding has stopped. It can keep.” I continue past him, around a bend in the river that grants a moonlit view of a long, lonely stretch of low water and wide bank. “Let’s keep going for another hour or two. Then we’ll find a place sleep for a few hours before moving on.”

  “All right, but as soon as we stop, I’ll clean you up,” Ror says, falling in beside me. “I’ll keep an eye out for Cavra leaves. The Fey use them to fight infection. I saw some on the road earlier. I should have grabbed them. You can never be too careful.”

  “I don’t think either of us were being nearly careful enough,” I say. “We’ll have to change that if we want to live to see the Feeding Hills.”

  “I know. No matter how much I want to keep going, I’ll need to rest as soon as it’s safe. I’m exhausted and a danger to us both.” Ror sighs another weary sigh. “If I hadn’t fallen asleep in the pool, none of this would have happened.”

  “No, if I’d taken your worries about the vultures seriously, this wouldn’t have happened.” I take in the seemingly peaceful landscape, wondering what dangers are hidden just out of sight. “But after all these years, with the ogres feeding on criminals and leaving the rest of us alone … I’d forgotten what determined blighters they are.”

  “That’s what they want,” Ror says. “They want everyone to forget. Until it’s too late and remembering won’t make a bit of difference.”

  He mumbles something that sounds equally ominous, but I don’t ask him to repeat himself. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. Not tonight, Tonight, I want to travel this seemingly peaceful road and hold on to hope that it’s leading to something better. If I give up that hope, there will be no reason to run from the ogres, no reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other, no reason to do anything at all.

  Without hope, I might as well lie down in the river and let it wash my worries away. Forever.

  Some day—or night, it’s always harder at night, when the darkness outside makes the darkness within harder to bear—it may come to that, but not tonight. Tonight Ror and I are the lucky ones.

  In the Castle at Mercar

  THE OGRE QUEEN

  We’ve lost them, my queen. Our cousin’s voice comes to us from far across the land. His battalion is three days’ ride from the castle, but we hear him clearly.

  His panic. His rage. His … despair.

  Illestros is listening as he readies the altar at the center of the hall. He shakes his head. I know what he’s thinking.

  Our cousin should know better than to despair. The Lost Mother guides our steps. To despair is to doubt her presence and her plan and to turn his back on her love.

  We stroke the oiled feathers of the raven in our lap. The bird nestles closer, a rattle of pleasure vibrating its throat. Outside, the night air is warm, but within the stone walls of the throne room it is always cool. Our friend is grateful for our warmth, our affection. It is a simple creature without doubt or fear of the future. Its presence settles us.

  In recent nights—when the weight of the souls depending on our success has bowed our shoulders like a mantle made of lead—our creatures have been our only comfort.

  We will circle back to the Borderland woods, our cousin says, his fear making the words echo uncomfortably within our mind. We will search every—

  No, Keetan, you will take your men to Goreman. We use our gentlest voice, earning a smile from our brother. Our friends have shown us the princess and her Kanvasol protector. They travel northeast. Now that she has failed to hire a mercenary army, we believe she will appeal to the exiles.

  Then we will overcome them on the road, my queen, and—

  You will allow them to travel in peace. We stroke the raven with a firmer pressure. We feel the hand of the goddess in this. We will send a messenger, warning the exiles to expect the princess in disguise. We will grant them favors and they will lure her in and take her peacefully, without the risk of harming the girl.

  Can the exiles be trusted, my queen? Keetan frets. If the princess remains sheltered in the Feeding Hills, we may be unable to fetch her out in time.

  Do not doubt our wisdom, Keetan. We still our fingers, fighting a wave of anger. Illestros wasn’t pleased that we let our anger get the better of us with the prince. Anger is beneath us, anger is her emotion, her weakness, and one day soon it will be her downfall. There will come a night when we will wrestle in the darkness with the princess and her anger for the forever crown, but that night has not yet come to pass.

  We have been chosen by the goddess, we continue in a tone as smooth as altar glass, and we carry a thousand souls within us.

  Yes, my queen. Keetan’s shame is clear. He carries only fifty souls and possesses only a fraction of our magic and foresight. Every spirit held within us gives us power … along with great responsibility.

  We must succeed. We must usher in the age of reaping and deliver every soul—ogre and mortal—into the paradise of the underworld. If we fail, it is not only our own life we will forfeit but the treasures held tight within us as well.

  Go to Goreman and make your presence known. We stand, carrying our raven as we descend the steps leading to the dais. We will write a letter for it to carry to the exiles tonight. With its strong wings, the creature will deliver our message and return to us long before the princess reaches the Feeding Hills. If you don’t, the girl may suspect something is amiss. We will send word on how to proceed when we have received the exiles’ acceptance of our terms. Good journey, cousin.

  Yes, my queen.

  The pressure at our temples eases as Keetan severs contact. We cross the room to where Illestros stands before the altar, whispering sacred words over a goblet of mead. The golden liquid has already been blessed with a drop of the offering’s blood.

  Tonight, the offering is a young woman convicted of stealing milk from her neighbor’s cow, an urchin who has not stopped whimpering since the moment she was brought in.

  We look down at the peasant in her filthy brown dress, not surprised to see her cowering before us, tugging frantically at the chain binding her shackled foot to the floor. She is afraid, as they all are, but she needn’t be. The prick of her finger was the only pain she’ll feel tonight. The worst is over. After so many ceremonies, we are deft at teasing a spirit from its body
. We will slide her soul away as easy as pulling a key from a lock and fit her neatly within us like a beloved book settled on a shelf.

  Our pain will be worse. The traditional marking—the coin tattoo that represents the treasure taken—is etched upon the skin with a blunt bone needle. Illestros will drag it across our flesh when the deed is done, depositing umber deep beneath the surface. There is no room left upon our skull. Now the tattoos trail down our neck and onto our back and shoulders like sand stuck upon the skin after a day at the shore.

  We sigh, remembering running naked on the beaches of Fata Madorna when we were young and alone in our body, no one to care for but ourselves, no worries but how long we would be allowed to stay out before Mother called us in for dinner. We ate the flesh of our father’s human cattle in those days, ignorant of the great wrong we did. The prophecy had yet to be revealed, and the time of the enlightened transition was decades away. Our family was innocent of how soon our world would change, or how great a role we would play in the goddess’s plan.

  Somewhere inside, at the core of ourselves, beneath the rustle of the souls filling us to the brim, beyond the murmurs and sighs, we are that girl still. We are simple Eke, too young to have earned the rest of our name. How ancient and silly the stories of the Lost Mother seemed to us then. Now, they are our only truth, and she our only comfort.

  “My queen.” Illestros lifts the goblet, bowing as he offers it to us.

  The raven caws in protest as we set it the floor and take up the cup.

  “May you live and die in wisdom,” Illestros whispers, “and always blessed be.”

  “Blessed be.” We lift the goblet and close our eyes, focusing as we prepare to draw the girl’s spirit into the altar glass.

  “Please, please have mercy,” the girl shouts. “Please, wait!”

  We open our eyes, though we know talk will do no good. This human has been fooled into worshipping false gods and cannot fathom the paradise that awaits her soul when we lay our treasures at the Lost Mother’s feet.