Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

  “Perhaps your sources erred,” I suggest, half-amused.

  He looks at me sharply. “They could not have.”

  “Your Highness, you have seen enough of the world to know that there is never only one truth, one side of a story. Perhaps your sources are true; I do not doubt they faithfully reported what they understood. But perhaps I am also telling you some part of the truth. To say that your sources lied, or that I do now, is to claim knowledge of the unknown.

  “The princess and I spent our childhood together at the Hall. Your sources can verify that. We shared our tutor. How your sources have interpreted our friendship beyond that I cannot guess, but you must remember it is only their interpretation. That we had a disagreement no one will deny; perhaps you will understand that we have now made a certain peace between ourselves.”

  “After she banished you to a life of hard labor.”

  I wince and then catch myself. Kestrin gives me a sad smile. “There is another thing I do not understand,” he says.

  I wait.

  “Why did you use her script just now?”

  For a long moment I can only stare, like a hare watching the falcon’s descent. Then I stammer, “I did not think.”

  He turns his gaze away, quiet. “Be more careful in the future, lady,” he finally warns me. “I doubt the princess will like how lightly you use her script.”

  I feel myself hunch down, afraid suddenly that he might tell Valka himself. Afraid that he will ask other questions of me, keep asking until I have tied my story in knots.

  “Go,” he says with a wave of his hand. “My quad will see you home.”

  I leave before he changes his mind.

  ***

  The following morning, I tell Falada about my interview with Kestrin. His response is just what I expect.

  “You told him you were her closest friend? Are you mad?”

  “It was the closest I could get to the truth.” I pause to brush a piece of straw from my skirts, glancing down West Road.

  “The truth! You call that truth?”

  “Until the journey, the princess and I were inseparable,” I point out. “I certainly wrote everything for her and signed her name. And Valka and I shared our tutors, though she was more my brother’s friend than mine.”

  “Sometimes,” Falada tells me, “half a truth does more damage than any lie.”

  “I didn’t want to lie, Falada, and I had to say something. What else could I tell him?”

  “That you could not speak of it—that if he wanted an answer he should ask that woman.”

  “He wouldn’t have let me be. I had to tell him something.” I hesitate, then admit, “And I owe it to him to make him suspicious of the two of us. If he doubts my story even a little, he will doubt her too.”

  Falada shakes his head. “If you want to help him, then regain your position.”

  “Enough,” I say, throwing up my hands.

  “What good will it do him to learn that you and Valka were hardly friends—which he will, once he looks into the matter. He’ll think less of you, not her.”

  Kestrin hadn’t believed all my story, but I’m not sure that he held that against me. He had let me go. “He will question both of us,” I say. “So long as he questions her, I don’t mind what he thinks of me. Please, Falada, let it be.”

  Falada’s hooves kick up puffs of dust that hang in the still morning air. Finally, as we near the flock, he asks, “What will you do about the cloak?”

  “Hide it. I put it at the bottom of Valka’s trunk last night. I’ll find somewhere safer for it later. Mother will write back saying she doesn’t have it, that I wore it when I left. Valka will have to say she lost it and that will be that.”

  “It would be better if you got it to her somehow,” Falada says worriedly.

  “How? She’ll never admit that she overlooked it or accidentally misplaced it. The only other way is to send it to her, and I can’t replicate a courier from my mother.”

  “Then get rid of it. Don’t keep it,” Falada urges me. “If anyone finds it, you’ll have a much harder time explaining yourself than you did yesterday.”

  “I know.” I chew my lip. “I can’t sell it; people will remember me too well. I can’t return it to her. I’ll have to figure out something else.”

  “Yes,” Falada agrees, and then we are too close to Corbé to speak.

  Chapter 13

  With each passing day, I learn a little more of Menaiya: that the quads stationed at the city gates never grow lax, continuously drilling and practicing; that the bakers’ boys bring their goods out into the street, crying their wares as they walk beneath buildings; that the children are often playing, but their clothes are ragged and they seldom wear shoes. From Laurel and Violet, I learn the words of our meals: bread, porridge, nutmeg, water. From Joa, who sometimes meets me when I bring Falada in, I learn to speak of the stables: harness, lead rope, saddle. I practice them during the day as I watch the geese, Falada murmuring corrections and helping me with phrases I do not know how to ask for.

  The hostlers listen to me patiently when I do ask, pointing to different objects, and they speak carefully that I might hear each inflection, each accent. I am surprised at the time they take, even Ash and Oak, listening to me, making me repeat a word until I have it right. How can it benefit them to help me, to offer in their own carefully distant way some form of friendship and comfort? For I know that my story must have been publicly canvassed, passed around the dinner table until it grew stale with the telling.

  "They like you," Falada notes one evening after Joa has stopped by.

  I pause, currycomb in hand. "Why would they?"

  "Same reason I do." I have begun to recognize certain expressions in his eyes, the way they settle around his mouth—now I see humor twinkling from his eye.

  "They see me as the last hope for humanity?" I quip, sliding the comb through his coat.

  He gives a soft huff, a horse laugh, and returns, "Perhaps not that. But you are quiet and easy to get along with, and you do not shirk your duties."

  "Being a goose girl is not all that rigorous."

  "You carry it off with great aplomb. Not every high-born lady would sing ballads while raking goose dung."

  "Hmm." I return the currycomb to the bucket of brushes, bending to hide my blush. It had not occurred to me that anyone would hear my singing, or that it might be discussed to the point that Falada should hear of it in the stables. It had seemed only natural, after a few days, to sing as I worked. I would never make a minstrel—Valka’s voice is too uncertain for that—but I still enjoy a short ballad by myself. My own voice, which I remember now as faintly as an echo, was too husky for most songs. So, either way, it is a good thing I was not born to a musical profession.

  After a moment or two of rooting around in the bucket, I come up with a hoof pick. Falada cooperatively lifts a hoof, and I start working the day's rocks and muck out.

  "I want to walk around the city," I tell him. "At home there was only the village below the Hall. I can't imagine what such a number of people would find to do in one place. Would you like to come with me?" I set his hoof down and straighten, stretching my back. "I'm not sure I want to go alone."

  "Certainly," Falada says.

  I kneel, reaching for the next hoof. "Tomorrow?"

  "I don't believe I have any other pressing engagements," he says wryly. I rest my head against his leg and laugh.

  ***

  We start up West Road towards the palace, but I haven’t much interest in walking the same—the only—road I know, and strike off on a side road almost at once. To my surprise, the streets are full of life despite the nearing dusk: children shout and chase each other, women meet in doorways and on corners, men shoulder their way into taverns. The alleys we follow break off the main road to twist and turn between ancient stone and brick buildings. Wide doorways glowing with lantern light invite customers into shops selling everything from baskets to knives to cloth.

&nbs
p; “It’s so strange,” I murmur to Falada as the alley we follow takes a sharp left turn, proceeds down a set of wide, cobbled stairs, and then turns right before intersecting with another alley. “I always thought of roads as straight. Or curved. But not,” I wave my hand as the alley appears to take another turn leading us back in the direction we came, “not like this.”

  Thankfully, between Falada’s memory and mine, we find our way back out again before darkness descends. Just off West Road, tucked behind a building and facing into a narrow alley, I find what I had not realized I was seeking: a temple. It is a quaint thing, no larger than my room in the stables. A simple arch in the wall acts as a doorway, with a mat beside it for worshippers to leave their shoes. Best of all, it is barely a five minute walk from the stables. I follow Falada home, my steps light.

  That evening, tired from the long walk, I linger in the stable common room after dinner, and discover that my fellow hostlers spend the evenings together as well. They pull out the boys’ sleeping mats—normally rolled and stored in a cabinet—throw out a few cushions, and settle on the floor. Violet calls me over to sit beside her as I hesitate by the table, putting a saddle blanket with an unraveling hem in my hands for repair. The others all settle with their own small tasks, and take up their conversation once more.

  So, over the polishing and repairing of tack, I listen to the discussion of each day’s events, the newest rumors, the happenings in the city and the court. Every night as I lie in my room, I think through what I have heard, and day by day, night by night, I begin to understand more, begin to piece together Menay. The words I do not understand I commit to memory and ask Falada about as we walk to and from the pasture; he translates most of them easily, teaching me their use and helping me to understand the basic rules of Menaiyan grammar.

  In addition to language, I learn what kind of people I live with. Oak, of all of the hostlers, is the shyest, sitting in the furthest corner of the room bent over his work and only offering occasional tidbits to the conversation, his deep voice booming up from the darkness. Ash, tall and lithe to his elder brother’s barrel-chest, does everything with quick, sure strokes; his laughter flashes through the room, his words, in all matters, are given at once and affirmed continually thereafter. Rowan is the youngest of the brothers, still in his final growth, his elbows sharp and likely to knock against things, his crow’s nest hair throwing a tangle of shadows over his earnest face.

  In comparison, Violet shines as a jewel in their care, her gentle brown eyes clear and untroubled, glowing with a light that softens her features and is reflected in the way her hands flicker across her skirt when she is upset, in the way a gentle touch and soft word to a troubled mare will soothe away anxiety. Laurel, I learn, is also a relation of sorts: their aunt by a degree or two of separation. She watches over them as a mother eagle over her nestlings. She rarely flexes her wings, a sharp look enough to quell Ash’s protestations, or Oak’s hesitant suggestion of an idea she disapproves.

  They are good people, I think, as I listen to them night after night. Not unlike Redna and Jilna, and nothing at all like my family, nor anyone I have met in the palace here. As the days pass, I find myself more and more grateful for their welcome, for a place safe from the court.

  ***

  Valka sends for me when my mother’s response arrives. I am impressed by the change she has wrought: her hair shines in the lamplight, a deeper, more lustrous brown than I remember, her skin cream and rose in contrast. Her figure has begun to fill out, developing curves I never had the appetite to sustain. She has begun to look the part of princess.

  “Here,” she says, thrusting the letter at me once her attendants have retreated to the outer room. I read it over with interest. It is short but surprisingly kind in tone:

  ‘Alyrra,

  I am pleased to hear you are settling in. You must establish yourself well. Your behavior now will decide how your family will treat you in the future. I always considered you rather weak and stupid in politics, but perhaps you will prove me wrong.

  I will expect another letter from you shortly. Describe your acquaintances as well as you can; I shall advise you as I am able. For now, keep your relations with Melkior and Filadon; do not offend but do not strive to please.

  ‘Mother’

  When I look up from the letter, Valka rests her hands on her hips as if I were a naughty child. “When will you have the reply ready?”

  I raise my eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. “How can I? I have no idea what you’ve been doing. You’ll have to tell me yourself.”

  Valka purses her lips, eyes narrowed. “Alright.”

  I seat myself at her writing table, straightening the papers there. “We’ll start with Filadon and Melkior,” I tell her as I dip the quill. “What have you seen of them this past month?”

  It seems that both the lords have distanced themselves, Filadon receding to a bowing acquaintance while Melkior might pause to greet her before moving on. Their replacements I do not like the sound of: younger men and women who dance attendance upon her. The ladies join her most mornings to embroider (the princess is making a tunic for her betrothed), but from Valka’s description they are all gossipmongers vying with each other for her favor. She has accordingly used them to gather information on each person she meets, though most of it I distrust. How can one trust informants who care only for their own good graces? Surely they would not hesitate to blacken a rival’s reputation. But Valka seems oblivious to such possibilities, happily describing each of her companions as I listen and then laboriously write out the letter in my own words but without my perspective. It is a strange thing. I feel slightly ill by the end of her tale.

  I make Valka seal the papers, her crest pressed into the wax. I pray the prince cannot replicate the seal and so will not read the letter. It has not occurred to Valka to fear for its security; she leaves it on the table and retires to her room without a second glance. She makes no provision for the possibility that her attendants may report on her to others, or that her belongings may not be inviolate. For the insidious politician she is showing herself to be, she is surprisingly naïve when it comes to this. Perhaps my mother’s letter to her was more applicable than might at first appear.

  ***

  The following morning I find a thin carpet of ice over the ground. The trees at home would be nearly bare now, and the frost would have traced out the fine veins of the leaves, coating the pine needles with fairy dust. I know these things and yet I cannot quite remember the sight of the forest from the road, the trees of my little dell.

  As I leave the goose barn, my cleaning done, I hear voices from the far side of the barn. I turn towards them, confused, for a wall runs between the king’s buildings and rest of the city. Only a narrow disused alley lies between the barn and the wall. I creep closer, listening curiously to the quick patter of conversation—I can hear a man’s voice clearly, and a second voice, quieter, responding, but they are low enough that I cannot make out the words. I hesitate at the corner, peek around uncertainly.

  Violet stands deep in conversation with a young man. A single lock has escaped her braid and she plays with it absently as she speaks. The man listens to her intently, his head tilted and his eyes trained on the ground. Like the other hostlers, his hair is cut short, falling in a fringe by his chin, setting off the sharpness of his jaw, the fine line of his nose. He does not wear the hostlers’ uniform though, but his own clothes. When he answers her his words are measured, as steady and sure as a farm horse.

  Violet makes a quick retort, the corner of her mouth dipping down in a mock frown. The man laughs, glancing at her sideways, and his whole being lightens. She looks up at him, eyes shining, her voice a question. I can see the answer in his eyes as he looks at her. I pull back, leaning against the wall, my eyes pressed shut. I can still hear the tone of their conversation: it is sweet and full, skipping ahead when Violet speaks, and dipping down to rest when the man does.

  I walk away from them, my fee
t heavy, my boots scuffing the earth. I wish that I could watch them longer, could listen to the wonder that is their conversation—but it is not right. They sought the passage behind the goose barn for privacy, not to share their time with me. I swing open Falada’s door, mutely falling into step with him. What would it be like to speak to a man like that? To have him look at me so? I had never hoped for it before, knowing that my marriage would be a political match. I am not sure I dare hope for more now.

  I am still thinking of Violet and her friend as we pass the guard house. I start with surprise at the sound of a familiar voice, looking up to see Captain Sarkor at the gates. His eyes flick to Falada, walking without halter or lead, and then back to me. He speaks a question, and the guards who stand with him turn towards us. I train my eyes on the ground, counting the steps it takes me to pass through the gates: eleven. I cannot make out the guards’ replies.

  Falada walks beside me, eyes far away. I cannot tell if he noticed Sarkor at the gate. I wonder if Violet will marry the man she spoke to, or if he is only a good friend. I wonder if I will ever know more of Falada than he has already told me, for he shies away from questions about his race, rarely answering me directly.

  “Do you miss your home?” I ask Falada finally, not wanting to be alone with my thoughts.

  It takes him a moment to come back to me. “My home?”

  “Is that what you’re thinking of?”

  “My home,” he murmurs softly. “No, I wasn’t thinking of that. We Horses do not have a particular home: every open space is ours. But I was missing certain places,” he glances at me. “Certain other Horses.”

  “You have a family,” I say disbelievingly.

  “Of course, is that not how most creatures come into the world?”

  “I don’t mean parents.”