Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

  She smiles suddenly, her mask settling into place. “I see there is more to you than I had thought. Very good, Alyrra. You will need your wits about you to survive in Menaiya.

  “Pick up the cottons.” She returns to her seat, waiting as I bend to retrieve the cloth. Already the heady sense of success begins to fade. As I turn back to her it is Menaiya that fills my thoughts.

  ***

  The rest of the day passes in the first flurry of preparations—after ordering my new wardrobe, which will be made in the Menaiyan fashion of a tunic and sash over a long skirt, there is my jewelry to see to, the commissioning of trunks, my trousseau—the list goes on and on. By evening, I am exhausted with it all. Jilna ignores my grumblings, hurrying me into one of my good gowns. I cannot even remember if I have worn this one before or not.

  Jilna gives my cheeks a hard pinch to bring back their color.

  “You look terrible,” she admonishes me. “Like yesterday’s porridge left out all night. You don’t want the king to think you’re unhappy with this, do you?”

  I wince. “No.”

  “Good then. Keep your chin up, smile, and get to the Hall at once. They’re holding the feast for you.”

  I follow her injunctions, taking my seat at the high table with a smile that hurts my cheeks. Tonight is the official betrothal celebration; the food and drink will last till the darkest hours of night. A troupe of performers makes a grand entrance, somersaulting and leaping down the Hall to stand before the dais. They juggle apples and daggers in dizzying patterns, telling bawdy jokes and engaging in mock fights that show off their tumbling skills.

  The Menaiyan warriors observe the performance with raised eyebrows, glancing at each other occasionally. Their faces when they laugh are not kind. I watch them, wondering what amusements they are used to, and wish that our old troubadour had made the night’s entertainment. Though his voice has begun to waver, his ballads are yet things of beauty.

  By night’s end, the watching and wondering has drained me, leaving me brittle, empty. My quad slips away from their table as I leave the dais, following me back to my room. I dare not turn to look at them, and so I am not sure if they are the same soldiers who accompanied me through the day.

  A bulky package waits for me in my room, wrapped in velvet, resting innocently on my bed. I stand before it warily, not wanting to know what it is. Or who sent it.

  “What’s that?” Jilna asks when she sees it.

  I shake my head.

  “Open it, then,” she says impatiently.

  I unwrap the cloth to find a winter cloak. It is woven of wool softer than any I have felt before, embroidered in the same shadow-dark hue as the cloak itself: a blue so deep it might be made of night. The wool is lined with the dark fur of a creature I have no name for. It is no ordinary cloak but a work of art and time, something that would have taken months to complete. I run my fingers over the cloth, the fur. I have never received such a gift before.

  “That’ll be from the king,” Jilna says with evident satisfaction. “And high time he gave you a gift. It ought to be jewelry, but no doubt there’ll be plenty of that later.”

  I drop the cloth and turn to Jilna. “The king speaks our language.”

  She regards me curiously. “Aye.”

  “What of his soldiers?”

  “A few of them do, so I hear. And their captain. Sarkor’s his name.” I nod; he had spoken clearly enough last night.

  “And the prince?”

  “I haven’t heard,” she admits. “But don’t fret; Dara helps serve the Menaiyans’ tables. If she can’t find out, no one can.”

  I let Jilna pack up the cloak and hustle me into my nightdress. She blows out the lamp as she leaves, the room settling into darkness. Exhaustion tugs me down into sleep almost at once.

  I wake suddenly, yanked back from a land of vague and unformed dreams by a sound that has no place in my room. I sit up with the shock of it, my breath quick and loud in my ears.

  Silence.

  I lie back down. Perhaps it was only a dream-sound.

  A man clears his throat.

  I sit up again, half-paralyzed with fear, as sluggish as if I move underwater. Once more silence fills the room, laps at the window. But this time I know I am not alone and my first, terrified thought is that my brother has come for his vengeance. I hold the covers up to my chest as if they might protect me.

  “Who’s there?” Someone shifts with a faint whisper of cloth, but my eyes can make out nothing. “Show yourself,” I say, my voice high, pleading.

  Another soft whisper—I turn my head sharply toward the sound—and a flame leaps to life behind a cupped hand. It catches on the wick of a candle set on the mantle. The intruder steps back and with a rush of relief I realize it is not my brother at all, for this man has dark hair and sand-gold skin. He dresses in the Menaiyan fashion: a long dark tunic belted at the waist and loose pants tucked into riding boots. The light glints off metal at his side—a sword—and gleams in his eyes. He meets my gaze, and I have the uncanny feeling that he can see me perfectly well despite the dark.

  “What do you want here?” Fear has left me with the thought of my brother. I feel now only a quiet curiosity.

  “To speak with you.” His voice has the same telltale lilt as the king’s.

  “Why?”

  “You have changed your allegiances.”

  “I have gained new allegiances,” I agree carefully.

  He studies me a moment before asking, “What do you know of Menaiya?”

  “Very little: there are the king, his son, and a third person—a nephew, I think. The queen died one year ago.” I stop, unwilling to tell this stranger anything he would not already know. He waits, brooding in the shadows thrown by the single flame.

  “You have come a long way to test my knowledge.” He tilts his head, inviting me to continue. “You were not among the king’s soldiers. Indeed, you dress more carefully than any of them, except perhaps their captain. So you must have traveled here alone, and it is a long way for a man to come by himself.”

  He makes no response. I swallow and try another tact. “Will you not tell me your name? You know who I am.”

  “We will meet soon enough.”

  “In Menaiya,” I hazard. He nods. “And you have given your allegiance to the king?”

  “Yes.” He smiles, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. A foolish question then; he must be sworn to the king, here because of his oath.

  “What do you seek now that cannot wait till my arrival?”

  “I wished to see you myself,” he explains. “To warn you.” He crosses the room to the shuttered window, facing it silently before turning back to me. I smooth the sheets with my hands, surprised I am not more afraid. But he has not moved toward me.

  “Menaiya has many enemies, my lady. Now that you belong to Menaiya, those enemies are yours. You will need to be careful these next weeks. The king can offer you only so much protection until you reach his walls.”

  I swallow to ease the sudden dryness of my throat. “Menaiya is feared by its neighbors.”

  “And rightfully so,” he agrees, and again I hear amusement lighten his words. “I do not speak of the surrounding kingdoms.”

  “Then whom do you mean?”

  He hesitates. “I cannot say—not here. Not now.”

  A shiver runs under my skin. “How can I protect myself from a phantom?”

  He steps towards me, his voice grim. “You must beware. Do not put yourself in a vulnerable situation; do not walk alone; do not remain with anyone you do not trust.”

  I swallow a nervous laugh. “I don’t even know who I will travel with. How can I avoid them?”

  “Be vigilant,” he presses. I wonder if he even heard me. “Do you understand, my lady? You are in danger until you reach Tarinon. Even there, you may not truly be safe.”

  No, I think. There is the prince to worry about, and a court more powerful and sophisticated than ours, and no
one who speaks my language but the king and a sorcerer with veiled warnings.

  Behind him, the shutters crash open with the shrieking of wood, splinters and panels flying into the room. He cries out, spinning towards the window. Light explodes, outlining his profile in blazing white, momentarily blinding me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, huddling beneath the covers. When I open them again the light has diminished to bright moonlight. Amid its pale, cruel rays stands a woman. She is ancient, older than the very land. Her skin is smooth and pale as milk, her hair shining and dark. But her eyes—they are cavities in her face: deep, bottomless pits. They hold me tightly in their grasp and I cannot move to look away. Then she turns her gaze from me, dismissing me.

  I find myself gasping for breath. I realize dimly that I am still crouched in my bed, the man having backed up to the foot of it. They watch each other steadily. I sidle to the edge of the bed, glancing sideways at the man, seeing him clearly for the first time. He seems almost familiar now in the cold wash of moonlight, for he at least is human. Long night-dark hair tied back, high cheekbones, defined jaw—his profile imprints itself on my mind in the moment that I see him—and then my eyes fly back to the woman as she raises her hand and snaps it through the air. The man staggers sideways, towards me. I scrabble to my feet, shocked by the line of blood that appears on his cheek. His eyes pass mine, intense, turning back to the woman.

  “Leave,” the lady says. Her voice is the murmur of water on rocks, of snow falling on oaks. The man shakes his head, braced against another attack. “The girl is mine, as are you.”

  “No,” he says, but the word is that of a little boy’s plea. He falters under the woman’s gaze. Her eyes, I think. And then, he is not my enemy. It seems crystal clear to me with the moon shining in, lighting up the room with its strange whiteness.

  “No,” I agree, my voice strong and resonant in the stillness. “You are not welcome here. Leave us.”

  When I look into her eyes I see my death looking back.

  “I will teach you your place, girl,” she says tightly. Her hand comes up and I see the glint of a gem on her finger. Beside me the man shifts, bracing himself as if expecting a blow—or perhaps expecting to catch me as I fall.

  “No,” I reply, my voice trembling. “You cannot own me.” And then, as if the man has thrown the words to me like a lifeline, as if he has whispered them in the back of my mind, “You have no power over me.”

  For a moment that lasts a lifetime she stands unmoving, hand raised, and then she smiles: a terrible, terrible thing that turns my blood to ice in my veins. “No,” she agrees, “over you I have no power. But do not think you are safe; you are mine as surely as if your mother swore you to me before your birth.

  “Tonight it is not you I am concerned with.” She turns back to the man and her hand reaches out, gesturing elegantly towards him. “It is you.”

  He cries out, throwing his arm up to ward off her casual attack. Light envelopes him: bright, blinding light that sears my vision, scorches my mind—a light that floods the room and takes all detail with it. The lady, my room, all disappear, and I am falling through the shadows of my life further and further away from the moon.

  Chapter 4

  My last day at home passes in a whirl of errands—packing last items; reviewing my trousseau and jewelry with my mother a final time; receiving farewell visits from whichever court nobles wish to curry favor with my mother. It is late afternoon when I manage to slip off on my own. Only my quad notices, but then not much escapes them.

  When the king departed, he left me two quads as well as his captain. I have gotten to know the faces of the eight men of my quads, but they do not speak before me and rarely look at me directly. Most, I realize, do not speak our language. I have learned only two of their names: Matsin son of Körto and Finnar son of Hakin. These two are most often with me, and I wonder if they are captains in their own right, reassigned to their king’s escort and then to me, or just more able to understand my language and report what they hear.

  I stop through the kitchens and Cook gives me a teary-eyed smile, promising to send up my favorite meat pies as a treat in the morning. Dara and Ketsy catch my hands and dance me around the kitchen, the scullery maids giggling and the kitchen boys clapping. I finally break away from them, laughing. As I move to the door to the courtyard, my quad steps in from the hall, following me across the room. The kitchen falls unnaturally quiet, the only sound that of their boots. It is all I can do to cheerfully call my last good-byes.

  I find my old tutor, Bol, sitting in the herb gardens, much as Cook had advised me to do. Rather than looking like a lord at his ease, Bol looks like a bent old gardener kicking up his heels and enjoying the sun. He smiles as he sees me, holding out a hand.

  “Bol,” I say, going to him. “It’s good to see you out and about.”

  “I like the gardens, my lady. And the gardens don’t mind me.”

  I smile. I will miss Bol dearly.

  “You’ve come to say good-bye,” he says, drawing me down to sit beside him. I look out across the gardens to where my quad lounges. Here, where there is no cover for them, they look terribly conspicuous; the sight of them guarding the entryway, armed and watchful, would have been laughable had they not looked quite so dangerous.

  “I’ve a question for you.”

  “Aye?”

  “Has Menaiya any enemies?”

  Bol rubs his chin. “None that would openly attack. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered,” I say, my eyes on the soldiers. “Who would have cause to hate the royal family?”

  “More than a few people, I suspect,” Bol says with amusement. “But they haven’t had a war in over a hundred years. This king’s grandsire, I believe it was, took it into his head to cross the Winter Seas and loot the Far Steppes. Foolish of him.”

  “Why?”

  “The war followed him home and killed off most of the royal Family. The Family’s dwindled since then. Strength gone out of the bloodline, I suppose, though some call it a curse.”

  “Hmm,” I say, no closer to the answer I am looking for. After all, the sorceress I remember could hardly be so old, could she?

  After I leave Bol, I head for the stables, casting an anxious glance at the long shadows. It is getting late, but I cannot leave without this last farewell.

  Redna takes my hand and gives me a quick peck on the cheek, smelling of horse and leather. “I’m glad you came down here. Your brother’s got you a horse.” She glances to where my quad waits at the entrance.

  “A horse?”

  “Great white stallion, handsome as can be, but don’t you ride him. He won’t take a rider.”

  I grimace. “I see.”

  “We’re going to miss you something awful what with your brother’s idea of kindness.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I say lamely. “Just stay away from him.”

  “And when he’s king?”

  “Maybe he’ll fall off his horse and Cousin Derin will get the crown.”

  Redna snorts. “I’ll wish the queen long life, and hope I’m married and gone when the crown passes.” I nod. “There’s two hostlers will be going with your escort; I gave Westrin an earful and he’ll listen to you and keep that horse from causing trouble.”

  “And the other?”

  “He’s your brother’s man.”

  “Thank you, Redna.”

  “We’ll all be praying for you.” She squeezes my hand. “Them Menaiyans as came here seemed to be good men; they didn’t flirt with the girls and they didn’t kick the dogs. They’ve put a guard on you, but that’s kept your brother off, hasn’t it? I think your prince will be a good man as well.”

  I nod, and Redna hugs me tightly. I carry her words with me as I leave, but I cannot take much heart from them. Most of our guards are kinder men than my brother.

  Jilna is waiting to dress me for dinner: one final banquet in honor of the betrothal and my departure. She helps me into my gown, shaking
her head at the state of my hair. When I am ready, she turns to me almost hesitantly. “I’ve something for you—just a little thing to remember me by. I know you’re going to a great court, and you won’t have much use for the likes of this, but—”

  “Jilna,” I interrupt. “What is it?”

  She presses a pouch into my palm, then clasps her hands together tightly, watching me. I pour its contents into my palm. A small, worn silver pendant on a thin chain tumbles out, shining in the lamplight. At the center of the oval pendant is an engraved many-petaled rose. I swallow, my throat constricting. This is a family heirloom; a bit of wealth passed from mother to daughter through the generations. But Jilna has no daughter of her own to give it to.

  “It’s beautiful.” I close my hand around the gift. “Thank you.”

  Jilna looks back at me, her face alight, and then takes a quick step forward to wrap her arms around me. “Don’t cry, dear heart.”

  I take a few watery breaths, leaning into her, and then step back. She lets me go gently, watching as I fasten the chain around my neck. “I’ll treasure it always.”

  “Aye, well, if you lose it, I’ll send my spirit to haunt you the rest of your days,” Jilna warns. “That was my mother’s fore it was mine.”

  “Bring her with you then,” I say, grinning. “I’d like to meet her someday.”

  Jilna gives me a little shove. “Get on with you. You’ll be late for dinner.”

  I doubt anyone would notice or care, but I hurry out the door regardless. Afterwards, in the later hours of the night, I stand in my mother’s apartment, watching the flame-thrown shadows flicker across her face. She sits in a brocade armchair, a goblet of wine held loosely in her fingers. She looks to me like some dark predator—perhaps the fabled black cats of the Western Forests, as large as our wolfhounds. When she smiles, her teeth bared, I feel a chill run down my back.

  “I will ask you one last time,” my mother says without preamble. “What are you hiding from me? Why did the king have a guard set on you before anything happened?”