Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

  Falada makes a sound of frustration.

  I take another tack. “Kestrin may not wish me harm, but he cannot even protect himself from the Lady. She would never forgive me if—”

  “If you fought back against her?” Falada interrupts.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Not very long ago you felt you owed the prince for having betrayed him to the Lady through Valka. What we discuss now is an alliance with him. Don’t you owe him that?”

  “I told him to beware; that’s enough. I owe him nothing.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Why should I give more?” I ask angrily. It was all Kestrin gave me—useless warnings.

  “At some point you must take responsibility for your life, Alyrra. No one, you least of all, has the right to betray a person who has implicitly trusted you.”

  “There is no trust between us. He would be a fool to trust me or the stranger that is his bride …” I trail off. I had stood beside him against the Lady that night, an excellent reason for him to trust Valka now. Or to trust whoever he suspects to be princess.

  Falada does not notice my uncertainty. “When he knows who you are, he will expect you to act with honor, to keep the trust you agreed to when you signed your betrothal papers.”

  “He can have Valka instead. He’ll know her for a fraud and can do what he likes from there. It isn’t my concern,” I argue, though I am not sure I believe myself.

  “Can you in clear conscience name Valka your successor?”

  If only Valka weren’t who she is. But then, if she had been a better person, she would not have betrayed me to the Lady. Having betrayed me, I don’t doubt she will betray Kestrin. Unless he discovers her first. I rub the back of my neck, my muscles tight. At least he does not trust her.

  “Think on it then, if you will,” Falada tells me. “You still have a little time.”

  “And then the choice will be made for me,” I say. I have a fleeting thought to run away, but I don’t know where I would go or how I would survive.

  Falada touches my shoulder with his nose, a gentle tap. “You will always have a choice.”

  I don’t answer. We continue on towards the goose pasture in silence. As we near the boundary wall, I ask hesitantly, “Will you stay with me?”

  “Only so long as you need me, and then I will leave.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “South of the Fethering Plains.”

  “To your family,” I murmur.

  “Yes.” He throws me a sharp look. “You are stronger than you think. I could leave today, and I expect in the end it would be the same with you.”

  “No!” I say fiercely. “Don’t leave me now.”

  “I won’t.”

  Chapter 16

  The following days dawn in shades of gray, layers of clouds obscuring the sun from sight. A cold wind blows from the mountains, rustling across the plains and whistling through the walls of the city. For a week or perhaps longer they withhold their promise of rain or snow, I know not which. I miss the crisp coldness of the forest winters I have known. I daydream of warm bread and mittens and the weight of snow on pine trees. The winter here is a different creature all together, lying heavily over my shoulders and stealing into my bones.

  Today a hunting party rides out. A line of horses wait, tethered to the practice ring fence; they are outfitted with sleek hunting saddles, or else richly caparisoned in gold and silver for the ladies who will accompany the hunt. Young men in palace uniforms rush in and out of the stables, pestering the hostlers and checking the horses’ gear.

  Done with my cleaning, I slip into Falada’s stall, going to stand by his head. “It’s too busy to take you out, isn’t it?” I whisper.

  “You do not want to attract undue attention from Valka’s quarter,” Falada concurs. “The hunt might pass the pasture.”

  Unsaddled, unbridled, and in the company of a servant, Falada would attract as much attention from the palace folk as the appearance of a gryphon strolling through the city gates. “We’ll go for a walk together tonight,” I promise.

  The flock is settled into the hidden pasture, set back from West Road. I cast a quick glance at our charges to ascertain none are in danger of casually wandering off, select a stone seat some distance from Corbé, and unbraid my hair. It is still wet from last night’s washing, and the curls have tangled abominably despite the braid, or perhaps because of it. Even as cold as the day is, my hair could do with a good airing out. I open up the first short span and spread each lock over my knees to work the comb through it a handbreadth at a time.

  I think of a hundred things as I brush: that the hem of my skirt will require mending; that I would have liked to ride through the plains and see more of them; that I do not yet know the plants of this land; that I no longer like to sleep in my room though my trunks have reappeared as quietly as they vanished, only the cloak gone.

  It takes a moment for the crunch of pebbles beneath booted feet to make its way to my ears. I turn to see Corbé advancing towards me. I stumble to my feet, my hand clenched tightly around my staff as he closes the distance between us. He smiles, and it is a smile that turns my stomach to ice. I glance around in panic for Falada, for anyone, but there is no one here.

  “You’re a pretty thing,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “I’ve been wanting to get a hold of that hair.”

  “No.” I back away. I do not know the right words, can’t think of how to tell him to stay back. He darts forward to catch hold of my braid, hauling me towards him. For a moment it is not him I see but my brother, eyes glittering, lips drawn back in sneering enjoyment. I feel the whistle of my staff through the air and then the satisfying jolt of wood in my hand, hard against my palms.

  Corbé roars, his face twisting in pain. I raise the staff and bring it back again, watch the way the dark pole meets his cheek. Blood spurts from his nose, droplets spattering my face as his head jerks back. He shouts words I have not yet learned, loosing my braid to clutch his face.

  It is only when I feel the shape of my mouth as I gaze at him that I realize what I have done. I gain the crest ringing the meadow in moments, throwing all my mind and energy into one thing: to run. If all that I am and have been and can be is focused into this one reality of running, perhaps I can escape all that I may be. It is the only thought I will allow myself.

  I run until the plains are strange to my eyes. Though I cast my gaze back, I cannot see how far I have come for there are no landmarks but the city itself, a dark blot on the plains. I have left the farms behind, stumbling now through the plains themselves. Still I think that should I run so far that I reach the sea I should not have run far enough, for the thing I run from rides on my back and in my blood and will not be shaken.

  Finally, exhaustion takes over my limbs and I drop into a shuffling walk. Once more I feel the grain of the wooden staff in my hands, the way it swings so easily—as if I had practiced such a move in so close quarters more often than I have drawn breath. Blood lifts in the air, arcing away, taking my breath with it. My lips twist in a vicious smile. Again and again. So it is that, though the world is still bright with light, I do not see the ridge until I set my foot upon the air where the ground should have continued.

  I swallow my cry as I fall, rolling and skidding to the bottom of the rocky ravine. A shower of pebbles comes loose, pelting me like so many memories. I huddle there, pressing myself into a ball and concentrating on the pain of my hands rubbed raw by the fall, my scraped knees and the cut across my shins. These things are real, their pain deserved. I realize dimly that someone is sobbing: the sound comes from far away, echoing through my mind as if down dark stone corridors.

  I lie there long enough for the ragged weeping to still, long enough for my blood to close up the scratch on my shin. I sit up slowly, propping myself on my hands, using my tattered cloak as a cushion for my bloodied palms. The rift walls rise around me, twice as tall as a man. The sides are a mixture of dirt and rock, sheer enough
that few grasses grow here. The first drops of rain from the clouds overhead spot the ground. I doubt I will be able to claw my way back up now, certainly not if the rocks grow slippery.

  I will walk then, until I find a way back up. The going is slow. I dropped my staff in the first frantic moments of flight and even now when it might have helped me I am no longer sure I want it. The rain falls steadily, weighing down my cloak and skirt, wet folds sticking to my legs. Cracks in the stone begin to appear, shallow fissures barely an arm length deep. A breeze whips through the rift, cutting through my clothes. When I look at my fingers, they are white with cold. My teeth chatter uncontrollably. Yet I do not think it can really be that cold. There is no sleet, no ice.

  I pause finally at a fissure tucked between two slabs of rock. It has the vague comfort of a half-remembered haunt, and seems deep enough to offer some shelter. When I stoop to enter, I realize that the fissure has been hollowed out, the tunnel behind it cutting up through the rock so that I can move without bending over. I stand for a moment in the twilight of the tunnel, listening to the moan of the wind, the patter of raindrops on stone. The air lies still here. I rub my hands over my face as if I could wake myself from yet another nightmare. But the tunnel remains, neutral in its reality, and behind me the rift.

  I make myself follow the tunnel, one hand trailing along the rock wall. It makes a single turn and ends at a slab of rock as smooth as a baby’s cheek. I rest my forehead against it, wrapping my arms across my chest. Darkness surrounds me, leaching away detail, leaving only the slightest trace of reality. I know already what I will find. Closing my eyes, I press my palms against the rock.

  The stone door swings back, moving smoothly on hidden hinges. I put one hand on the doorframe, peering in. I can make out nothing of the room before me. What dim light illumined the stone door fails at this point, but my dream-memory serves me well enough: it will be a round room, the circular walls smooth and unmarked. At the center stands a stone pedestal, hanging from the ceiling above it an ornate lamp.

  I scrabble to pull the stone door shut once more. The dream had been from Kestrin. I swallow down a wave of nausea. He had called me here, meaning to call the princess—I remember the confusion in his eyes when he had looked up at me from the basin of water. I clasp my hands together to still their trembling, take a deep breath, and then let them wander over the stone door until they encounter what they must: a well-disguised handle that has pulled the door shut countless times before.

  I shuffle towards the mouth of the tunnel. I am but a pace away when I hear voices—men’s voices, the words unintelligible, thrown about by the wind. Instinctively I back away. Where to hide? I dare not return to the room. The tunnel itself offers perilous little cover. Still, there is a slight outcropping of stone between the mouth of the fissure and the turning point in the tunnel. I seat myself in the fold created by the stone, pushing myself back as far as I will go, knees to my chest, and spread the dark folds of my cloak over my skirt and boots. It is not much of a hiding place.

  The voices echo into the tunnel. I tuck my hands behind my knees. A few more words, the sound of boots on the stone floor, and then a cloaked figure passes me. He walks confidently, looking neither to the right nor the left. Moments after he disappears around the corner, lamplight flowers, filtering out into the tunnel, then narrowing to a sliver as he shuts the door. I venture only one look towards the tunnel mouth—a figure sits on guard, blocking the entry.

  The cold of the stone climbs up through my legs from the ground and wraps around my chest, sliding like a knife between my ribs. I think my blood must freeze in my veins. I cross my arms over my knees and rest my head on them, partly for the comfort of moving my back away from the stone, and partly to muffle the sound of my teeth chattering. Eventually, though, they stop of their own accord. I think that I have been waiting a hundred years; almost I cannot remember what for or why. I let my eyelids fall shut, listening to the half-heard sound of my heart.

  “Lady.”

  The word makes its persistent way through the foggy tunnels of my mind.

  “Lady, wake up. Wake up.”

  I have the distinct feeling of being shaken—a disjointed, unreal sensation, for I cannot quite remember the way of my body.

  “Thorn.”

  I force my eyes open, focusing on a pair of dark eyes. They are the gentle brown of a forest stream-bed, dappled with sunlight. I wonder if I am home again; if the darkness I have surfaced from has carried me to another time and place so that, when I step forth fully from the depths, I will find myself in woods once more.

  “Here now, drink this.” A liquid pours into my mouth. I swallow reflexively. Water, deliciously warm, flows through my chest, cascading over my ribs to settle in a warm pool in my belly. When I look up again, I do not see his eyes anymore—I see him.

  “More?” Kestrin asks. I nod wordlessly; it was the lamplight in his eyes that glittered gold. He moves away, going to a small brazier of coals with a pot over it. Kneeling by it is a second man, dressed in hunting clothes much like the prince. He looks vaguely familiar but I cannot place his name, staring blearily at his fine features, the dark hair curling around his collar.

  I don’t know how long I remain there sipping water. The prince wraps my hands around the warmth of the mug and helps me to drink at intervals. I realize gradually that I am nearly dry, that I am wrapped in various layers—blankets as well as cloaks. I have begun to shake again.

  “She is too weak to leave on her own.” The prince kneels beside his companion, though I do not recall him leaving me.

  “It is not cold enough for her to have frozen,” the man says, his voice stirring echoes. Where do I know him from?

  “No,” Kestrin agrees. “It is not the weather she fights.”

  The man looks towards me. His face is too bright to focus on, the lamplight falling directly on him. “She has had a shock.”

  Kestrin nods, dropping his voice as he answers.

  I look around, observe bleakly that I have seen this room with its smooth walls and stone pedestal before, though the tables pushed against the walls, the candles and bookshelves and sheaves of scrolls seem strangely out of place. The room looks used now, has the feel of a study rather than an ancient, forgotten sorcerer’s room.

  Sorcerer.

  The word echoes in my mind, as if I had spoken it out loud. I close my eyes against it.

  “Thorn.” Kestrin touches my hand. I start. How did I not notice him approaching? “We must get you to the city. Can you stand?”

  I nod uncertainly, and Kestrin holds my arm to help me up. The other I use to push off the stone wall. It is an awkward process, but finally I gain my feet. The room twists around me, light streaked with darkness. I gasp, stumbling sideways against the wall. Kestrin has done with courtesies at that. He picks me up as one might a child: one arm beneath my knees, the other behind my shoulders.

  Somehow Kestrin and his companion carry me to the top of the rift. I do not realize that the rain has touched me until I feel a cloth dabbing my face dry. I look up to find that I sit sideways, and that the man that holds me before him is not the prince at all.

  “Where?” I gasp.

  “Easy,” his friend says soothingly. I look around dazedly. “The prince returned to the hunt,” he explains. “I am taking you to the palace.”

  “But I live—in the stables.”

  “There are no fires in the stable to warm you. Softly now.”

  I close my eyes, too tired to argue, and sink into oblivion.

  Chapter 17

  “Awake?” A gray-haired woman leans toward me, meeting my bewildered gaze. She sits on a mat in a well-kept room with mosaics on the wall. I lie on a low divan, swathed in blankets.

  “Good,” she says, though I have not answered. “The prince wants to see you. Let’s get you dressed.”

  I sit up with the shock of my memories returning, but the woman gives me no chance to worry about them. She whisks me into my clothes w
ith alarming efficiency. They have all been washed, fraying hems darned, and smell delightfully of lemon. There is a new sash as well, replacing the one I used to bind the wounded boy’s arm. Even my boots have been repaired and polished.

  “How long did I sleep?” I ask as she surveys me critically. It has taken me that long to remember my Menay.

  “A day or so,” she says, absently. “You’ll do. Come along.”

  She sets a brisk pace from the room. My body aches, and I feel more tired than I would have thought possible. Have I really slept a full day? What must Falada think?

  The woman ushers me through a narrow door at the end of the hall, down a servants’ corridor, and into a private library through the servants’ entrance. Kestrin sits alone at a table, intent on the book before him, three more piled beside him.

  He looks up at the sound of my entrance and smiles. There is neither mockery nor flattery nor cruelty in it. It is the quick, instinctive smile of a man whose gaze alights on something he likes. It shocks me to my core.

  “Thorn,” he says, rising. “You are feeling better?”

  I nod mutely, still unnerved by that look.

  “Will you return to the stables?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” What else would I do?

  He hesitates. “I thought you might consider a position here, in the palace.”

  He knows. I feel the blood drain from my face and it is all I can do not to flee. No no no. Panic churns in my stomach. I won’t. I won’t.

  “Lady?”

  “No.” I clench my jaw to keep the other words in: Please. I don’t want this. Leave me alone.

  A silence draws out between us. I train my gaze on the table, afraid of what he might see if he looks in my eyes. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps he means only to offer a distressed servant a change in employment.

  “What were you running from?” he asks, surprising me. “On the plains?”