Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

  To keep my brother off? But she would never believe that. “I don’t know. Perhaps he has enemies.”

  “Who would they be?”

  I shrug. “He wasn’t worried until after the betrothal.” It had been my Menaiyan quad that raised the alarm that night. In their story, a soldier had been passing down the hall when he heard a strange sound, as of wood shattering. Immediately, he knocked on my door to make sure all was well. When his hammering received no response, he tried the handle. By then his shouts had roused other guards (the rest of his quad who were standing beside him, I suspect) as well as those who slumbered in the rooms near mine; so it was a number of people who saw the broken shutters and the princess lying senseless by her bed.

  “You don’t know what happened that night?”

  I shake my head. Some believe an owl hit my shutters, but Jilna tells me that most believe the Fair Folk had come for me; the soldier’s knock and sudden entrance saved me from being carried off. The truth seems far less comprehensible to me than either of these possibilities.

  “Surely you remember something.”

  As I watch her, I think perhaps I should tell her, perhaps she would know something about the man and his unknown enemy … but surely she would have spoken had she any idea. Or would she? I lick my lips. “A woman came to my room and spoke to me, but I don’t remember her words. It could have been a dream.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes. She was—I thought she was a sorceress, but …”

  “You don’t remember what she said?” Mother leans forward in her chair, intent.

  “No,” I say firmly, hating the lie. “But she … didn’t seem quite human. I can’t imagine how she got there. It seemed like a piece of a dream.”

  Mother sits back, thoughtful. “Perhaps. Or perhaps Menaiya has enemies we don’t know of. If she is real, and is what you say, then no soldier could have protected you. This is a riddle indeed.”

  I look down at the carpet. The soldiers were assigned to protect me from my brother; it was only by chance that they heard the shutters break—or was it? And why had it taken so long for the soldier to enter? I remember clearly how long I stood facing the Lady, how she had spoken to both the man and myself; it had been much longer than the time it takes for a soldier to raise an alarm and open a door.

  “If she is real, what will I do?”

  “You will have to be careful. If this sorceress is an enemy of Menaiya, then she will want you to betray the royal Family to her somehow. Beware of her. This alliance hinges on you, Alyrra. If you betray it, you betray our land and put us at risk of war. If Menaiya attacks,” Mother shrugs elegantly, “we have no hope of victory. You know that.”

  I nod.

  “Do you remember nothing else?”

  I shake my head. Having said this much, I cannot tell her about the man, a sorcerer himself and from Menaiya. It would tell her nothing more than that, indeed, the Lady is an enemy; but it would bring to light my own dishonesty. It isn’t dishonesty, I tell myself tightly. It is that I do not trust Mother. How can I tell her everything?

  Mother sighs. “Jerash tells me you’ve ordered new tack for your horse; you won’t need it. Your brother has brought you a new horse.”

  “I know, but I’m taking Fleet Wind as well.”

  “No, you’re not,” she replies placidly. “If you want to push the matter, I’ll send the horse to the knacker to make meat for the dogs. Do you understand?”

  I nod, my hands curling into fists, buried within the folds of my skirts.

  “Good. As for your companion on the journey there, I have spoken with my Council of Lords. We have settled on Valka.”

  “Mother! Not Valka—”

  “Enough. She will be your companion until you reach Tarinon, at which point you can decide what you wish with her. You are not to send her back.”

  “But what would I do with her? You know what lies between us. How could Daerilin agree?” Even I can hear the desperation in my voice.

  My mother closes her eyes in long-suffering frustration, her voice laden with disgust. “Find her a husband, Alyrra. She must marry among peers and you destroyed such hopes here. It is up to you to get rid of her.”

  “Can no one else come?”

  “No.” Mother frowns. “As for the woman you dreamed of, come to me tomorrow morning. I may have some help for you.”

  She nods towards the door, dismissing me.

  I make my way to my room quickly, the steady tread of boots behind me no longer any comfort. I try to imagine what help she could give me as I undress, Jilna muttering about the late hour and my early departure tomorrow. What could my mother possibly offer against the Lady with her empty eyes and finger-flicked light? I lie down on my side, staring at the shuttered window. Sleep eludes me. I am unused to the new room Mother assigned me, the size befitting a princess who will one day be queen, the barred window assuring my safety. This, in addition to my quads and a speedy departure for Menaiya, are all compromises to appease the king’s concerns: I will winter in Tarinon, and in spring be wed.

  I do not remember falling asleep, but when I open my eyes the shutters are open. An owl, pearly white in the darkness, perches between the bars, its great eyes watching me. I return its gaze, feeling the slow rise and fall of my breast. Eventually it turns and flies away, dropping into the darkness. I sit up and light the lamp next to me. I remain watching for a long time, long after I have ascertained I am alone. Jilna finds me asleep, leaning against my pillows with the lamp still burning, when she comes to wake me.

  I dress quickly, aware of how well Jilna knows me, how she holds out the sleeves of my dress just so and brushes and braids my hair. She brings me the cloak the king gave me, that our nobles might see me wearing it. I take her hand as she pins the cloak closed and for a moment I am still the child she reared, the girl to whom she told stories every night and comforted when my brother was cruel. I hold her tightly to me and she in turn embraces me, and it is a strange good-bye, without words.

  My mother has prepared a different farewell for me in her apartments. The curtains are still drawn across her shuttered windows. She sits next to a carven desk, illuminated by a single lamp.

  “Well, Alyrra, you are off. Are you worried?” I incline my head in assent. “With good cause,” she agrees, her voice relaxed, sleepy. “I have devised some help for you against the sorceress, if she is truly a danger. It is a simple but potent spell.”

  I nearly choke—magic? Since when has my mother dabbled in magic? And how abysmally little I know her if I do not know this! She unfolds a square of white silk no larger than a kerchief.

  “Wh-what spell is that?” I manage to stammer.

  She smiles a slow cat smile. “Watch.”

  She picks up a needle that glints gold in the lamplight and pricks her finger. As the first drop wells up and falls to spread on the silk she begins to chant:

  “Heart’s blood, ruby drop

  Bind my love to you;

  Mind’s blood, dark drop,

  Bind my knowledge to you;

  Soul’s blood, last drop,

  Bind all strength to you.”

  A wave of dizziness passes over me. I stagger sideways, bumping into the edge of the desk. When I raise a hand to my face it comes away damp with sweat.

  “What have you done?”

  She folds the cloth and slips it into a pouch. “I should think it abundantly clear: I have bound my knowledge and love of you to the blood. When you meet the prince, find a way to dip this in a drink of his—a goblet of wine should work well. I expect you will have to wait a few weeks. Make sure no one sees you, especially not him.”

  “What will it do?”

  “Naught but make him aware of all that I know and what little I love of you.” I shake my head. Mothers frowns but elaborates further. “It will make him more your ally than anything else I can do. He will know who his enemies are; if he loves you even a little, he will try to protect you. Keep the pouch safely.”
She hands it to me. “I shall meet you in the courtyard in a few minutes.”

  “Mother,” I say hesitantly.

  “Leave be, child.”

  “What did the last line mean—about strength?”

  “I have bound your strength to it. What did you think? That’s why you mustn’t lose it. Now go; your escort is waiting.”

  Chapter 5

  I wait with Jerash and my brother at the Hall door. My brother does not speak, his eyes slitted against the bright morning light, his face a little too pale. For once, I am thankful for his penchant for drinking. When Mother arrives, we walk out together, pausing at the top of the steps. Mother smiles and wishes me health and happiness in a voice that carries to the farthest servant in the crowd. I curtsy to her, and my brother leads me down the stairs to the carriage, pausing as a hostler brings forth a white stallion.

  “My gift to you on your betrothal,” he says, his voice hoarse and grating. The horse stands tall, bright eyes turned towards me.

  “A noble creature,” I say, “and a beautiful gift. I thank you.”

  We continue on, my brother muttering a few words about how well trained the horse is. I try not to care. We pause again to greet our escort: Lieutenant Balin from our own guard will accompany us to the Border along with an armed escort. The Menaiyan quads, with their own captain—Sarkor—will ride with us as well. Sarkor bows to us but does not speak. Indeed, he has not spoken to me since the night he intercepted my brother and me in the hallway.

  My brother hands me into the carriage and steps back, smiling. Even now, when I am finally out of his reach, the veiled malice of his smile makes me stiffen. I sit down gratefully, noting that Valka is already seated opposite me, her face turned to the windows. My greeting dies on my lips as I note her stiff posture, her hands clenched tight. Beside her sits the maid we are to share for the journey. I do not recognize her, but by her cold expression as she bows from the neck, and her comfortable seat beside Valka, I guess that Valka was wiser than I in seeing to her journey companions.

  The carriage starts forward with a jerk. Mother raises her hand in farewell, the gesture empty, a mere show for the watching nobles. We turn out of the courtyard, the carriage rattling over the gravel, and as easily as that, my old life is gone.

  I settle back in my seat, glancing covertly at Valka. It might not be possible to be friends, but perhaps we might be courteous with one another. I should at least make the attempt.

  “How are you, Valka?”

  She ignores me, not a flicker of her eyes suggesting she might have heard my words. I sigh, looking out the windows to the passing trees. I wonder what I will miss from home. I am surprised to think I will miss Mother. Mostly, I will miss Jilna and Bol. I will miss Cook and Redna and the other servants, their smiles and small kindnesses. I will miss my rides in the forest, and the little dell where the Wind visits me.

  The Wind. I press my lips together. I have not spoken to it since my betrothal. When I tried two days ago it did not answer. Its silence is just another good-bye, another friend I know I must leave behind. Yet I had expected a clearer farewell; I expected to be the one to leave.

  We pass the better part of the morning in silence. I take off my cloak and set it aside. It is still too warm for these late summer days and far too fancy for traveling. The carriage rattles along the road, and slowly the forest changes from birch and elm in the morning to the occasional stand of pine or aspen as the day draws on. Sometimes the forest falls back from the road, giving way to grassy meadows and small herds of goats driven by village children, or small villages that turn out to watch us pass.

  We break at midday, stopping at a clearing by the roadside. A brook burbles at its edge, separating it from the surrounding forest. The soldiers spread a rug on the grass for Valka and me, bringing out platters of food brought from home. I watch them without enthusiasm; sharing my meals with Valka for the entire journey makes me want to fast.

  “Come get some water with me,” Valka says, appearing beside me with a goblet in her hand. If it weren’t an invitation, it would have been a command.

  “Oh,” I say, so surprised that I accept the goblet. I follow her to the stream, but she does not speak again. I think better of addressing her, unsure if her words were a token of peace or only a momentary lapse.

  At least the stream is too shallow for her to drown me in. As I kneel to fill my goblet I measure its width: I might easily have leapt across it. I lift up the goblet, the forest water sweet on my tongue. Behind us, I can hear the Menaiyan soldiers speaking, their words mingling with the water’s voice. Valka stands further downstream, holding her own goblet. She looks at me strangely, anger and confusion playing over her features. When she meets my gaze she whirls and stalks back to our meal, never having tasted the water herself.

  I carry the strangeness of her actions with me through the day, wondering if I might ever make peace with her. We stop for the night at a small inn nestled at a crossroad. I am grateful for the tiny room I am given, separate from Valka, but tranquility eludes me. Strange visions haunt my sleep, and twice I have woken expecting the Lady to have returned with her death-still eyes. Each time I find nothing but the darkness of my room, no sound but the creaking of old wood. I lie still and think of my nighttime visitor: surely he was a Menaiyan sorcerer? That would explain his appearance. Then again the Menaiyan soldiers watching my door may just as easily have allowed him to pass. But why had he kept his name secret when he expected I would meet him in Tarinon? And just how many sorcerers does the Menaiyan court boast?

  At length I rise and dress myself, splashing water on my face from the basin. The cold of it makes my skin prickle. The pouch my mother gave me I hang around my neck, tucked under my gown. The cord looks odd next to Jilna’s thin silver chain and pendant; neither, I think, should be worn by a princess traveling to her wedding. One speaks of sorcery and deception, the other of friendship and love. I stand for a moment holding the cord and chain together in my fist, and then let them go.

  A quad made up of a combination of our own guards and the Menaiyan soldiers trails me to the stables. Despite the early hour, the hostlers we brought with us are already awake and tending to the horses. The white stallion stands at the center of his stall, tail swishing, head turned towards me. One of the hostlers approaches me deferentially.

  “Is this horse in your charge?” I ask.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The man is small but sturdy, his face broad and weatherworn; there is gentleness written in the lines by his eyes. I have seen him before in the stables, but rarely spoken to him.

  “What is your name?”

  “Westrin.”

  Good then; this is Redna’s friend. I turn back to the stall. “What breed is he?”

  “He’s from the Southeast—a special breed from the Fethering Plains. They’ve a fancy name, Highness, but I don’t know it. They’re known for their strength.” The man hesitates, glancing over his shoulder to where the guards wait at the door, and then whispers, “You won’t want to ride him, Highness.”

  “Redna told me.” I watch the horse, aware that the man has gone as still as a wild creature scenting danger. “Can he be broken?” The white is in the prime of life, with a high crest and proud bearing. He tilts his head slightly, his ears swiveling to catch our conversation, his dark eyes shining in the faint light.

  Westrin licks his lips. “He went wild when we tried to saddle him, and he isn’t young. Even so, it might be possible.”

  I can hear the sound of people crossing the yard to the stables, and am mildly gratified when my guards step out to stop whoever approaches. “Can you free him?”

  Westrin stares. “Free him?”

  “He’s a wild creature—he deserves to go free.”

  “I don’t know.” He wrings his hands.

  “Try,” I suggest.

  “We are too closely guarded,” he murmurs. My guards step back through the doorway, followed by two of the inn stable hands.

 
; I keep my eyes on Westrin, but he will not meet my gaze. He is right; there is hardly a moment when the soldiers do not watch their charges. “Very well,” I say sadly, glancing back at the white.

  Just past dawn we ride forth once more, Valka grumbling about the early hour. The maid, Tarina, makes commiserating sounds. As becomes Valka’s habit over the following days, she falls asleep soon after the carriage begins its slow, steady rumble. The road stretches out before us, cutting through the forest. The wind blows steadily, sifting through the horses’ manes, and cooling the hot riders, but it is not the Wind I have known all my life and that only aids in worrying me until I realize that my Wind may be as much of a homebody as I was, spending its wind-sprite life in the same dells and shaded glens where it was born. At night, my brother’s words echo through my dreams; his smile flashes before me, eyes hooded, and I see the way his mouth shapes the name “Kestrin,” and I hear his laughter. I wake in fear of seeing him, or the Lady.

  Valka and I reach an unspoken agreement: we do not care for each other’s company, but we will endure it as well as we might. She makes no attempt at conversation, and after a few awkward efforts, I let her be. But sometimes, as we sit with the trees rolling gently past, I find her gazing at me with a look I have seen in the eyes of village children: hunger. Every day I trust her less, for wherever I turn she follows. She watches me continually, silently, coldly. It comes to me that I feel as a small bird might before the gaze of a viper. And yet I cannot imagine what Valka can do to me. She is not one of Menaiya’s secret enemies, but my own trouble.

  Chapter 6

  On our last day with our guard from home, we break for lunch at a high mountain meadow. As I step down from the carriage, Lieutenant Balin approaches me. “Your Highness, there is a river running through the woods there, if you wish to refresh yourself before eating.”

  On a whim, I turn to Valka and ask, “Are you going?”

  “Yes,” she tells me. “Here is your goblet next to mine.” I take it with a half-smile, knowing better than to read friendship into her words, and start through the tall grasses towards the trees. Valka follows, and when I glance back she smiles at me. It is a strange, nervous smile, making me think of a girl going to her first ball.