Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

  “Yet you expect the same from me, don’t you? He would hurt a woman for the sake of inflicting pain. He has hurt you before.”

  I swallow, refusing to meet his gaze.

  “Your fear is a strange thing. You fear brutality from me more than you fear punishment within the law—and yet you are guilty of breaking the law. Why?”

  I cannot imagine that he does not know. How can he be so quick to grasp what I wish to hide and yet not see this? Or perhaps he only wishes to make me speak.

  “Lady?”

  I glance up at him. “You and your father are the law. Shouldn’t I fear you before I fear it?”

  “Perhaps.” We sit in silence. He reaches out to play with the jeweled knife absent-mindedly, then sets it down, raising his gaze to me. “This has been a most educational evening, Thorn. I thank you for it.”

  I stand, one hand gripping the table edge.

  “Tell me one more thing before you go: shall I trust you?”

  I remember how he had urged vigilance on my journey. How could he ask me this now? Unless it is a trap of words—for how can I say no and not meet a punishment, or say yes and not be called to account for failing to answer him earlier? But then his words echo back to me from our conversation. “Your Highness has long known of my reputation for dishonesty,” I say, my voice small with shame. “I cannot counsel you on this.”

  He does not answer me.

  Chapter 15

  I seek out the temple again the following night. Falada waits patiently while I linger inside, listening to the sounds of the city going to sleep. I sit cross-legged on a woven straw mat, the stone floor hard and cold beneath it. Closing my eyes, I sink into the quiet.

  What is it I truly wish for? I see Corbé, his lips curling back as he meets my glance every morning at the barn door, and I want safety from that look and its attendant meanings. I think of the books I used to read, and while I miss them I now have the time to think back over them, consider their arguments and opinions as I watch the flock; this I would not change. My life has the necessary comforts—food daily, work to keep me busy, time to reflect, and some small company to share it all with. While a hot bath might be nice, it is too small and irrelevant a thing to pray for.

  Then of course come the larger wishes: I wish safety for Kestrin, as little as I understand him—safety for him and from him. I wish Valka might be kept in check, her interests bound to the court and affecting the people not at all. I wish the Lady might find some peace within herself.

  I am roused from my meditative prayers by the distant echo of shouts, and then Falada’s voice, sharp with apprehension. “Alyrra! Quickly.”

  “What is it?”

  “Trouble,” comes the succinct reply as I reach the doorway. “We need to leave.”

  “My boots.” I struggle to pull them on, leaning against the doorframe for balance. “Ready.” I stamp my boot against the ground to get my foot the rest of the way in, and then the chase is upon us.

  A tall boy hurtles around the corner from the street, his cloak flapping behind him. The alley here is so narrow that he slams into Falada’s bulk before he can stop. He falls back, cursing. Shouts echo from the street, closing in. The boy stumbles to his feet awkwardly, cradling his arm in the folds of his cloak. Falada snorts, pressing towards me to give the boy space to pass. But the boy will never make it now.

  “Let him into the temple,” I order, side-stepping Falada before he can hem me into the doorway. The shouting is nearly upon us. The boy whips his head to the side to look at me, the motion making him stagger as if drunk. “There,” I snap, pointing to the shadowed interior. “Quickly. Rah!” Go!

  He bolts through the darkened doorway. “Falada, stand here beside me,” I hiss. Falada does, blocking the doorway with his flank. When I lift my hand to his neck, the muscles there are rock hard.

  A quad barrels around the corner. In the faint light of the alley I can see the glint of swords at the ready. They skid to a halt, the gleam of question and doubt in their eyes.

  “There,” I say in Menay, pointing to the where the alley opens out into another street. “There!” For a moment longer they pause, and I know that they will remember me. I only hope they will not blame me for having lost their prey.

  “Niroh,” the first soldier shouts and they are off once more, boots pounding the hard-packed earth.

  The moment they round the corner I duck my head into the temple. “Niroh,” I say, echoing the soldier. Let’s go.

  The boy approaches the door warily, turning his head first towards me, then Falada. Though I doubt he can see my expression, I smile as I unfasten my cloak.

  “Wear this.” I hand him the cloak. He understands at once, clumsily slinging it around his shoulder, its somber color masking the brightness of his own cloak. “What’s wrong with your hand?” I say sharply, reaching out to catch his arm. He pulls back, his breath hissing between his teeth. My hand comes away slick with blood.

  “Falada, he’s hurt!”

  Falada watches me mutely. Belligerently. He must be furious. I sigh. I have gotten myself into this, and I must get myself out—but not without helping this boy. And Falada will help me, despite himself.

  “We need somewhere quiet so I can see to his wound,” I say, careful not to look towards Falada. He snorts and starts towards the street. I hustle the boy along beside me as fast as possible. If the soldiers return they will certainly recognize Falada and I. To be caught helping their fugitive escape would be no small offense.

  Falada leads us from the street down another tight passageway and into a back alley behind a row of derelict buildings.

  “Show me your arm,” I say in Menay when we come to a stop. The boy stands unmoving, the cloak wrapped around him and his hood pulled up. He is taller than me, and I realize as I look at the shadowy place where his face should be that I have no idea as to his actual age, thought him a boy only because he was slim and quick.

  “Your arm,” I repeat, pointing in case I have the words wrong. He complies, holding out his arm, letting the cloak fall back. His sleeve is soaked in blood. I push it up to reveal the cut. The boy inhales sharply, and I hear Falada shift, his breath warming the back of my neck, but the boy makes no other move. With the sleeve pushed up, the wound is terribly clear—a deep gash almost the length of his forearm, from wrist to elbow, traveling along the outside of his arm. It bleeds freely, and I think he must have great restraint not to pull his arm away from me.

  I release his arm, my thoughts racing. I must staunch the bleeding. The boy squats down, his back against the wall, head bent. I yank at my sash, my fingers sticky with blood. The boy looks up, nodding when I mime my intent. He makes no sound as I wind it around his wound in a makeshift bandage. Immediately, the blood flow lessens.

  He cradles his arm against his chest as I move away. “Shurminan,” he murmurs, and I cannot make out the age of his voice either.

  “Ifnaal.” I lean against the wall, my legs weak beneath me.

  The boy stands and then staggers sideways, unbalanced. It is only Falada’s quick step up to him that prevents his falling. He hangs on to Falada, one hand thrown over his neck, gasping for breath. He will not be able to make his way to safety alone, nor can he walk hanging onto Falada, for Falada’s back is too high for comfort.

  So, when the boy raises his head to get his bearings once more, I take his arm from Falada’s neck and hang it over my shoulders.

  “Where?” I ask, wrapping my arm around his waist. He nods his head towards the end of the alley, and we begin to walk. It is a slow and awkward passage, with Falada following us like a phantom. I lose track of our path before long, for in the dark the buildings are hard to see, and the weight of the boy bears me down so that I look up only when he does, pausing at cross streets and the mouths of alleys. Occasionally someone passes us; always they hurry, eyes averted, keeping as far from us as possible. It is not a side of the city I have seen before.

  Twice I stop, depositing the boy on
the ground beside me before sinking down to rest. My legs and back ache fiercely with the strain of supporting him, as do my fingers when I uncurl them from their grip about his clothing.

  Finally, we come to a small wooden staircase running up to the second floor of a building. We shuffle to a halt, and a moment later my legs give out. I fall forward with the weight of the boy, slamming into the stairs. My head bounces off the wooden stairs, my arms too numb, too slow to break our fall. I blink my eyes to clear my vision and lever myself up painfully. The boy lies perfectly still.

  My heart fails me. What if he—what if I have—

  “Alyrra,” Falada murmurs behind me. I turn my head. A white pain streaks past my vision, splitting my skull. I whimper, then bite my tongue in shame. It is nothing compared to the boy’s wound.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper. “But he’s…”

  “Check.”

  I roll the boy onto his back, clumsily trying to shield his wounded arm. At least he doesn’t suffer the pain of it. I lay my hand uncertainly against his chest and feel it rise gently and fall back.

  “Unconscious.”

  “Get your cloak.” I pull the edges of my cloak out from under the boy, unwrapping it. “Come,” Falada says as I swing the cloak around my own shoulders. The edge of it flaps against my arm, soaked with blood. He turns back up the alley.

  “We can’t leave him here.” I hang onto the wooden rail for balance; standing, the pain in my head leaves me slightly off balance.

  “He’ll be fine. In a few hours it will be dawn, and whoever lives up there will find him. Come.”

  “No.”

  “Alyrra, this is no safe place for you.”

  My breath comes in short gasps as I stare at Falada. I pivot, gritting my teeth as the world swings with me, and start up the stairs.

  “Child,” Falada hisses after me. I ignore him, concentrating on making my legs move forward and up. The staircase ends at a small wooden platform. From the crack beneath the door comes the shine of lamplight. I rap twice on the door and step back. There is the muffled sound of movement on the other side of the door, and a voice calls out sharply with words I do not know.

  I glance down to where Falada stands beside the boy. Again, the voice orders an answer from me. The speaker has come up to the door.

  “I don’t know,” I say in Menay, hearing the high-pitched waver to my voice.

  The door crashes open. A hand flashes out, and in that hand is a sword. I stand perfectly still, listening to my blood thunder through my veins, echoing in my ears. The blade wavers in the air a bare hand’s breadth from my throat. I follow the shining length of metal down to the gloved hand that wraps around its hilt and up that arm with its long pale sleeve to the man’s face; it is a strange thing, all hard angles with a straight scar running from one corner of his mouth down his chin. His hair is cut short, lying gently against a high forehead.

  “Your friend,” I rasp in Menay, and move one hand to point down the stairs.

  “Yendro,” the man says. I blink at him. Another man steps up beside him to look at where I point. This second man says something I do not quite catch, the white of his teeth glinting in the lamplight. The sword wavers before me. I watch it, half hypnotized by the play of light upon it. Then it is lowered and the second man descends the stairs.

  The scar-faced man watches me while we wait, his gaze keen. My foreign clothes and scruffy appearance will not be lost on him, I realize unhappily. The second man calls out, his voice concerned. The scar-faced man sheathes his sword, starting down. I back into the corner made by the railings as he passes me.

  I can see into the room now; three more men stand around a table, their chairs hastily pushed back, hoods pulled up to hide their faces. They too wear swords. I wonder uneasily exactly who the boy is to have such friends.

  The two men lift my nighttime companion and maneuver him up the stairs. Their faces are grim as they pass me. As soon as they step past, I hurry down. One of the men calls after me. I glance back to see one of the hooded men, sword in hand. I pound down the stairs.

  “Stop!” he shouts.

  Falada stands at the bottom, waiting tensely. I throw myself at his back, scrabbling for a hold on his mane as I heave one leg over. He springs into a trot, then a canter, nearly knocking me off. I hang on determinedly. With each pounding step, pain jolts through my skull, bringing tears to my eyes. Behind me, I hear the man cursing, his voice disappearing beneath the beat of Falada’s hooves.

  We fall into a walk within a few blocks. I breathe a prayer of thanks and turn to slither from Falada’s back. He side steps up against a wall, stopping me. “Stay,” he says simply. “You are tired, and we will make better time this way.”

  “But…”

  “Quiet,” Falada says, and starts off once more, his gait gentle, smooth. Long before we reach the stables I fall into a doze, waking only to open the doors and let us in to Falada’s stall.

  ***

  “What’s wrong with your head?”

  “Nothing.” I cup my hand over the bump on my forehead, impressed despite myself that I understood the question.

  “Nothing?” Violet grabs my hand, breakfast forgotten. “By the One—what did you do? What happened?”

  “I fell.” I push her hands away. She mutters something in Menay and yanks my hand from my forehead.

  “What is it?” Ash asks from the door as Violet gasps. He sets down a bucket of water. “Something wrong?”

  Violet launches into a tirade of unknown words, and a few known but strung together so quickly that I cannot quite catch them, gesturing angrily at my head. Ash walks over, his eyes on the long lump at my hairline.

  “Who did it?” he asks me so quietly that at first Violet doesn’t realize he’s spoken.

  I shake my head. “I fell.”

  “That’s what she says,” Violet says. “Does that look—” she launches into another whirl of unknown words, turning to glare at Ash.

  “On stairs,” I explain, wishing for the umpteenth time I had greater dexterity with Menay. Ash reaches out and touches the tender skin around the hard central lump. I stiffen, but Violet stands next to me. She pats my shoulder comfortingly.

  “Okay,” Ash concedes. “Who pushed you?”

  “No one.” He looks skeptical. “I fell,” I repeat. I would swear it if I had the words.

  “Well.” He fetches the bucket and takes it to the counter.

  “Ash.” Violet stands with hands on her hips. He shrugs, speaking quickly, and she replies on the heels of his words, their sentences overlapping and cutting through each other. I slip out unnoticed, hurrying to the goose barn.

  “You’re happy this morning,” Falada observes as we walk down West Road soon after.

  I break off humming to grin at him. “I—well, yes, I am.” Deep inside, I hear Ash ask Who pushed you? I am amazed the sun does not shine.

  “I wouldn’t have thought a bump on the head would improve you so. The next time you walk around looking like a rainy day, I’m taking you to find another youth to save.”

  I laugh, and immediately regret it as pain laces across my forehead. “Was I that bad?”

  “Worse,” Falada tells me, stepping sideways to avoid my shove. “What happened?”

  I take a breath, let it out. “The hostlers are thinking to breed you.”

  “Are they? I shall be sorry to disappoint them. And how did you, with your limited vocabulary, learn of this new plan?”

  “The prince told me.”

  “Kestrin? Indeed.” And then, gently, “What else did he tell you?”

  “Only that he knows I am a fraud. He considers me a puzzle of sorts, not particularly important, perhaps entertaining enough to keep for a winter evening’s amusement to unravel.” Falada’s breath makes dragon smoke before us. “He had my belongings brought to him, and he found the cloak, as well as Valka’s trousseau. He knows I was never Valka.”

  “You do not wish him to find you out.”


  “No,” I agree quietly.

  “What do you think he will do when he does?”

  “I can’t say. Perhaps if he hasn’t guessed yet he won’t.”

  Falada eyes me askance. “He knows you have the princess’s signature.”

  I swallow a curse, furious with myself. Of course he knows I have her script. My own script. What maid could do that? If I’m not Valka, and I’m not a maid, that leaves only one other person: the princess herself. I shake my head in denial. I wish I had thought through my words to Kestrin. I wish I had been able to think at all.

  “Will you not be princess?”

  I hesitate. But Kestrin is both sorcerer and prince. He frightens me more than my own brother; at least I had understood my brother. “How could I marry him?” I ask Falada, leaving my fears unspoken. “What would I do as princess? I listen to Valka’s account of the court—I would no more fit there than a goose girl born and bred. I do this post more honor than I ever could that of princess.”

  “Every post is what you make of it. Valka may adorn the title of princess better, but you will put it to better use.”

  “How?” I ask plaintively.

  “You care for more than yourself,” Falada says. “That is an excellent start. You have grown much these past few months, since the king first came for you. You are certainly capable.”

  “I’m afraid of Kestrin,” I admit finally, keeping my head bent. “I’m afraid of what he might do to me.”

  “He won’t harm you,” Falada says confidently. “I’ve heard the talk of the court, and what is said about him; he is not a violent man.”

  “What a man does behind closed doors,” I say with a shrug.

  “He will never harm his wife,” Falada says patiently, “because if anyone learned of it, it would weaken his position as well. The king offered you his protection in your own home. They will grant you the same now.”

  I do not quite believe him, remembering Kestrin’s restrained anger. He had been close to violence. And fists aren’t Kestrin’s only weapon. “There are more ways than one to hurt. His wit is sharp as a blade. And … I am no princess.” I don’t know how to play at politics, or protect myself from him.