Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

  So the rest of our journey passes pleasantly enough. We reach the city in late afternoon, having watched the great walls rise before us for nearly an hour. The whole of the city lies crowded within these stone walls, built up into many floored buildings of yellow brick. Today, people fill the streets, overflowing into alleys, hanging off of stairwells. Children perch on lower rooftops, barefoot and laughing. I watch them from where I sit across from Valka. She, smiling and laughing, waves to the people as we drive through the streets. Melkior and Filadon both ride before the carriage and the soldiers flank us, their horses keeping the crowds back.

  The crowds end abruptly at the palace gates. We clatter into a gleaming courtyard, the horses’ hooves ringing on the cobblestones. Valka rises as we roll to a stop, stepping to the door even as the footman moves forward to open it. She descends at once, eagerness written in every move.

  “Your Majesty, the Princess Alyrra ka Rosen,” Melkior intones, having dismounted bare moments before, and Valka drops into a curtsy.

  I stare past her, my breath stilled in my lungs. Standing beside the king is his son. They are equally tall, with the same dark hair as all their people, but where the king has curved, hawk-like features, his son has the more feminine high cheekbones. Still, they share the same defined jaw, the same air of natural authority. The prince stands stiffly, as if he still battles illness and fears to let any sign of weakness slip him. His shadowdark eyes flicker once to the carriage and then back to Valka.

  “Alyrra, may I introduce my son, Prince Kestrin,” the king says, and the sorcerer from my chamber bows to Valka’s curtsy. When she meets his gaze she smiles and looks away coyly. He watches her, his emotions so well hidden I cannot say whether her behavior strikes him as strange.

  I want desperately to step forward, to tell him: do not trust her. I understand; it is you the Lady wants, and she will use Valka to betray you. She meant only to get me out of the way. But even as the words form in my mind, the chain tightens around my neck. My fingers scrabble at it uselessly, finding only skin.

  The prince leads his lady across the courtyard towards a set of doors, huge, intricately carved and elaborately inlaid with brass. I stare at them numbly, thinking of the big double doors to our Hall at home that I had once thought so great with their iron bands and blue and white paint. They would look like a piece from a child’s play house here, small and ridiculously simple.

  At the king’s nod the doors are thrown open in welcome. But instead of entering he pauses on the threshold, turns around. Melkior and Filadon step back so as not to crowd their king, as do the other nobles around them. I see his eyes come to rest on me, and he speaks to Valka where she stands with the prince. I step down from the carriage carefully, my legs creaking, as if I had turned old in the time since we arrived. I am too late, I know, though I do not know what for. I cannot hear their words, but Valka glances at me once and then they continue into the Hall.

  I am lost in a sea of sound and movement. Our horses are led away, hooves clattering over stone; the soldiers call greetings across the courtyard; servants bustle past; and the remaining nobles retreat to the Hall. Everywhere there is the sound of talking: laughing, shouting, swearing. All, all in Menay. And the one ally I thought I had, the one man whose enemy I share, is no ally at all but my betrothed. I feel as if at any moment parts of me might start breaking away, my soul splintering beneath the sudden onslaught of knowledge.

  “Lady?” A short, severe-looking man stands at my elbow. I turn to him as one drowning reaches for aid. “Follow me.” His voice is deep, his accent so thick it nearly obscures his words. I latch onto his face: well shaven but dark with bushy eyebrows and sharp brown eyes. His hair, unlike the soldiers’, is cropped short. I follow him across the courtyard to a side door, and then down hallway after hallway. I follow blindly, not caring where I walk. Finally, the man stops and opens a door, gesturing for me to enter.

  “Thank you.” I step into a small bed chamber. Behind me the door click shuts, the man’s tread fading into silence. After a time, I walk to the small chair set beside the window and sit down. I smooth the fabric of my skirts over my lap, arrange my hands carefully. I know the white stallion will be well cared for, that my trunks will not be lost, that the only thing, truly, that may be lost is the prince, and of him I will not think.

  Chapter 9

  Evening gathers in the corners of the courtyard below, soft blue shadows spreading their wings over the mosaic tiled floor. The floor looks like a tapestry of flowers and circles interwoven and spread across the ground, too exquisite to set foot on. This courtyard alone, set away and barely used, makes me wonder why the king had done more than glance within the roughly cobbled yard of our Hall before moving on.

  I do not know how long I sit. Eventually, a knock comes on my door: a confident tap-tap-tap. I turn towards it, gazing through the half-remembered scape of my darkened room. I rise and move to the door, opening it hesitantly, squinting against the sudden wash of lamplight.

  Captain Sarkor stands in the hall, accompanied by a soldier. I think it must be Matsin son of Körto, but he keeps his chin down. Sarkor sketches a slight bow. He looks ancient to me, his eyes grim, his lips straight. His is a face of strength and intellect; I wish suddenly that I had not angered him the day Valka wished to ride the white. Had I not, I might be able to speak to him now.

  “Lady, the king requests your presence.”

  I slip out to follow them. The hallways are lit by sconces set in the wall, evenly spaced. At first the halls strike me as rich, with wood floors and a band of mosaic tile towards the ceiling, but as we walk the corridors grow richer, more exquisite, with woodwork and carving on the walls, meeting with mosaics at shoulder level that rise to meet the carved ceiling, the doors ornately worked. I can hear the quiet rumble of many people, distant laughter, music drifting through the halls.

  We stop before a door of carved and inlaid wood. Sarkor knocks. Where I had crept to the door, here a voice answers: a short, distinct command.

  Sarkor opens the door, stepping in to bow. “Your Majesty, may I present the Lady Valka, called Thoreena, companion of the Princess Alyrra.”

  I enter and curtsy, my eyes resting on the carpet. Despite the light of numerous lamps, the colors of the weaving seem dark to me, and what might be reds and blues and greens present themselves as black. Sarkor steps back and I hear the door click shut.

  “Lady Thoreena,” the king says, and I rise from my curtsy. He is dressed in a cream tunic trimmed with beige and gold; his sword belt replaced by a gold sash. He does not need a weapon at hand here, I think. At least, not one of metal. In one hand he holds a goblet, fingers curling gently around the delicate gold stem. I drop my gaze to his feet and see that he wears slender leather slippers, embroidered, with a long curled toe. I stare at his shoes, mortified. He had thought our Hall filthy. Obviously—from cobbled yard to scuffed floors to the rushes and dogs in the Hall itself. He must have. He had never worn anything but boots during his visit.

  “I hope you have been made comfortable here.”

  “Quite,” I say, and then catch myself. “Y-your Majesty.”

  The liquid in his goblet twirls as he considers me. I have not changed or washed since my arrival, and feel a slight blush warm my cheeks. He lets my words pass. “You are aware that you have displeased the Princess.”

  “Your Majesty,” I agree, unsurprised.

  “She has asked me to find you some work, to make use of you.” He pauses, but I make no reply as I watch his fingers on the goblet. The cup cradled by the gold stem is glass: that fragile, glorious stuff. “Can you tell me what has so displeased her?”

  “She has said nothing?” I ask, half-caught between the detached swirling of wine and the shame of seeing his shoes. Valka is not the type to pass up a chance to express displeasure.

  “She has said very little,” the king replies. “I would hear more.” I consider him. In the half-lit room, my thoughts are more lucid to me than the drea
m of this conversation. I think: he is trying to bluff me into speaking the truth, believing that Valka has already spoken half of it. But he has no idea of the truth, any more than Sarkor who watched the Princess’s every move but one.

  “I would not say more than the Princess herself wishes to tell.”

  He smiles a lovely though empty smile. “I have spoken to Steward Helántor in the hopes of finding some employ for you. All we have to offer is the job of goose girl. I assume you will accept it.” He lifts the goblet to his mouth, takes a sip. I think of Redna and her horses, and of Dara and Ketsy—now I will be among their number. I could almost smile.

  “Unless you are able to provide an escort for yourself,” the king adds casually.

  “An escort?” I echo.

  “You cannot make the journey alone. While I might offer you one, I would want to know more before I did.”

  “Your Majesty.” There is nothing for me at home: that much I know. Daerilin would easily find me out as an impostor, but would never believe me to be myself. The king waits, watching me. I am aware of the hardness of his gaze, and I think faintly that he is not unlike my mother. I wonder what he sees in me, what it was that Valka said.

  He turns away, sets his goblet down on a small table. “Helántor will come for you in the morning.” His words are cold, half-bored. I curtsy and turn to leave. His voice stops my hand on the handle. “If you decide you would like to speak with me again, he will arrange it.”

  I dip my head in acknowledgement and slip out the door. Sarkor and Matsin guide me back to my room in silence. I feel ill with the words I have heard tonight, with the coldness of the king and the ruby red of the wine in the goblet. At least I know now what I had feared: that the king is like my mother, and so his son must be as well.

  ***

  Helántor turns out to be the same man who showed me to my room. I follow him down to a courtyard where a carriage awaits us early the following morning. We drive down one of the main roads, though I cannot be sure if it is the same one I traveled yesterday. Within sight of the city gates the carriage turns and rumbles past a large stable before coming to a stop before a second stable. I have to bite my lip to keep from gaping. Two royal stables, of such size?

  Inside, we climb a dim stairwell by the door. Two doors face the stairs; Helántor opens one of these to reveal a small, bare room. “This is your room,” he explains. “Your trunks we will bring here. This is the key.” He hands me a small key; I curl my fingers around the cold iron. “Come.”

  I take one last look around the room. In the dim light from the tiny, shuttered window I can make out only a rolled mat and a stool.

  Outside once more, we walk to the next building. It is smaller than the stables, and while the doors are open a second low gate closes off the inside. A milling, honking flock of geese fill the barn.

  “Corbé!” calls Helántor from the gate. A figure makes its way towards us from the depths of the building, shooing geese out of his way with a staff.

  “Ayah?” The word is abrupt, harsh. Helántor replies in Menay. They talk for a few minutes, but my coming is clearly no surprise to Corbé. He looks at me once, a long measured, measuring look, and I think that I do not like his eyes but I am not sure why. He is well built, with stocky shoulders and big hands; he must be a few years older than me and a head taller to boot.

  Helántor turns to me. “First, you and Corbé take these geese outside. Then you return and clean this barn. Corbé will show you. Then you will go back to the geese. At night, you help bring the geese in.” He turns once more to Corbé. A few more words and, without a backward glance, Helántor leaves.

  Corbé opens the gate for me. I step in, following him across the enclosure. The floor is covered with straw and feathers and goose droppings. I grimace, my slippers squelching in filth hidden beneath the straw. The barn itself smells so strongly of both goose and droppings I have to hold my breath to keep my stomach settled.

  On the back wall hang shovels, rakes, a pitchfork and a variety of staffs. Corbé mimes raking the ground to collect droppings, points to the shovel to lift them, and then shows me a barrel by the door to dump them in. A ladder against the wall leads to the loft, and Corbé points to a trapdoor towards the center of the loft and mimes throwing down more straw. Finally, he points to the staffs and then myself, holding up his own so that I understand him.

  With a shout he rouses the geese, driving them towards the gate. I grab a staff and hurry ahead, opening the door at his nod. The geese pour past me into the open yard. With another shout and a few pebbles expertly thrown, Corbé herds them around the corner of the stable opposite, towards the city gates, gesturing for me to follow behind. I do, hesitantly using my staff to hurry along the stragglers. A few of the geese try to nip me, turning and honking at me when my staff comes too close to them; I have to push them with it harder than I like in order to get them to follow after their brethren.

  It seems like a long walk around the stables, through the city gates, and on down the road to their pasture. The land here lies untilled, kept as meadowland for the king’s geese and other livestock, sheep or goats. The same low stone walls run along the road, occasionally dividing one pasture from the other. We come to a crossroad and I pause, looking up and down, but I cannot tell where it runs. By the time we finally leave the road for a narrow path between two short stone walls, and from there turn through a break to a pasture, I am heartily sick of the geese, having received several hard pecks.

  Back in the barn I rake up the goose droppings. The work is tiring and dirty, and by the time I am done and ready to shovel the mess into the barrel, I am drenched with sweat. It is noon before I have thrown down more straw and raked it out evenly. My arms and back ache with the unaccustomed lifting. I push a tendril of red hair behind my ear, the feeling of wrongness so slight now that my hand hardly wavers before completing the movement.

  Before I leave for the pasture, I return to the stables hoping to find a common room like the one I remember from home. I see two of the hostler men in the hall, talking together as they look in at a horse. They glance curiously at me as I pass, and a moment later the elder of the two—perhaps ten years my senior and built like a bear—sticks his head into the common room to check on me. I freeze as if caught stealing, but he takes a glance at the small piece of flatbread I have found, and nods with understanding. He produces a burlap shoulder sack from a cabinet, as well as some cheese wrapped in a cloth and two apples. He adds a tin cup, and hands the sack to me with a smile.

  “Shurminan,” I say belatedly, as he steps through the door.

  “Ifnaal,” he replies. You are welcome.

  ***

  I reach the goose pasture after only one or two false turns onto likely looking paths from the main road. Corbé does not even glance at me. I cross to the geese wondering if I have inadvertently offended him. I can’t think of a thing.

  The geese have congregated around a small stream running through the pasture, resting and splashing by the water. A goose opens her clipped wings and flaps them in vain, beating at the air, straining with all her might and managing only to ripple the water around her. My fingers graze a bruise on my thigh from a peck this morning, but still, watching the geese now, I pity them.

  The afternoon passes quietly. I eat my lunch, sitting in the shade of a tree that has grown up alongside the wall. I must doze off at some point, for I rouse to the sound of Corbé shouting to bring the geese together.

  Out return is slow going; Corbé ignores wherever I am and so I must constantly turn aside for wandering geese. It is only when we reach the city gates that Corbé takes full control of the flock, gesturing once for me to go ahead to the barn and then turning them into the yard. I hurry past the stables to open the gate and let the feathery crowds in. Corbé considers my morning’s work while I put away my staff. He nods once, almost sullenly, and turns his back on me.

  I open my mouth to speak and then close it. None of my language tuitions ever i
ncluded the words to ask a goose boy why he dislikes me; or whether I had not done a good job cleaning a barn. I return to the second stable, my feet dragging. The sounds of voices raised in conversation carry down the hall from the common room. I peek in from the doorway. A group of hostlers sit together over their dinner. They laugh as they converse, their manner easy and assured.

  One of the women glances up as I waver on the threshold. Her eyes are a gentle brown, laughter lines softening them just as age has softened the skin of her cheeks, left her fingers gnarled and callused. She raises her hand in greeting, and at once the attention of the room flits to me.

  I rub a fold of my skirt with my thumb, gripping it tightly in my hand. They bob their heads and then wait, watching me. I feel as out of place among them as one of my charges might among theirs. They are all of them certain in themselves, strong and purposeful, their movements sure.

  The gentle-eyed woman stands up and pulls a stool to the table, speaking words that shuffle across the distance between us and slip out the door behind me. How useless are the courtly words and phrases I have learned! She gestures to the stool, then places her hand on her breast and speaks one word: “Darilaya.”

  I smile hesitantly, point to myself. “My name is Al—“ The choker snaps tight around my neck, and I break off, shocked at the pain, at the way the walls spin, that I should so easily have given this woman my name.

  A hand closes over my elbow, and as I begin to cough, regaining my breath, I find that I have been hustled to the stool. The woman pushes a cup of water into my hands. I smile gratefully, sip the water as I recover myself. The hostlers eye me cautiously, as if I might fall over before them.