“I want his head mounted and placed in the gates, that I might remember him.”
“What you ask will cost money,” Joa says uneasily.
“I will pay.” One of the soldiers reaches out and unlatches the door, swinging it open. The other throws a harness to me. I catch it clumsily. “Joa, see that the blade is sharp, and it is done well. Gently.”
“I will,” he promises.
I turn back to Falada, holding the harness. He watches me, unmoving. I toss it into the back of the stall. “He has followed you once before and he will follow you now. He will not require a harness.” Joa nods. I glare at the soldiers. “Nor will he require direction.”
“Very well,” Joa says. “Let’s get this done.” He starts towards the stable doors, the two soldiers holding back for us to pass. Falada walks in step with me. When we reach the doors I put a hand on his crest. He looks down at me and then steps out, following Joa around the practice ring and out of sight, towards the knacker and his death.
***
I stay in Falada’s stall until I hear Joa return, the sound of hostlers calling greetings to him. He stops at the stall door, his face is grim; I do not think I have ever seen his eyes so hard. He studies my face in turn, though I cannot say what he sees. At length he says, “It was done well; he had an easy death. I am sorry for this, Thorn. He was a good horse.”
“Yes,” I say softly.
“His head will be hung as you ask. If you give me the money, I will see to it.”
“Yes.”
“Are you well?” His eyes flicker over my face uncertainly. I nod once, step out of the stall, and close the door.
In my room, I throw open the traveling trunk. Wrapped in a kerchief at the top are the paltry few copper coins I have earned working here. I push them to the side, knowing they are not enough, and search through the clothes. I know that I could take Valka’s jewelry, that I have only to open her trunks and look and I will find what her father gave her for her wedding, but I do not want anything of hers to touch Falada’s memory.
At the bottom of the trunk I find a pouch with the gift Jilna gave me many months ago. I tip the necklace into my hand, the silver chain and pendant shining in the dim light. I lift the chain, barely believing my eyes: it has been repaired, the chain mended, the pendant polished. Why? Why would he have gotten it fixed? For surely only Kestrin had had the opportunity to go through my trunks in his search for the cloak. Had he hoped I would find it soon after he returned the trunks? That I would take it as a sign of the kindness I had insisted he lacked? Or was it merely a token action, something to assuage a guilty conscience? I am grateful, suddenly and fiercely, that I did not find the necklace until now, did not have the chance to choose to wear it. I think of Jilna, with her tired face and her thin arms holding me tight, and I do not want that memory tainted. No, Jilna would have wanted this instead. I clench the necklace in my fist and go down to find Joa, hoping it will be enough.
***
Night enters the temple long before it settles upon the rest of the city. I would find the symbolic meaning amusing, I think, if it were not simply a practical reality: in a room with a single door for lighting, and that set off of an alley, sunlight rarely enters and shadows come early.
I sit hunched in the corner, my arms hugging my knees, and fill my mind with imagined meanings for the things around me: the faint sound of people on West Road, rustling in the stillness and then fading to nothing; the dirt that has accumulated on the mats so that, when I press my forehead to the floor in prayer, the grains stick to my skin; the way the wind whips into the little room at intervals, slapping my cheeks and snatching away what warmth I might have gained since it last entered. On occasion another worshipper enters, offering me a nod or smile before going about their devotions, departing in silence.
The hours have slipped away like this. Now, with night approaching, I cannot focus my thoughts on my surroundings. They fall away from me, sinking into darkness, and I am left holding tight to myself. I hear Falada’s voice echo in my mind, prodding me to accept Melkior’s dinner invitation. I thought I’d weighed all the risks. I had gained Kestrin’s word that nothing would harm me. But I had forgotten to speak for Falada.
I had thought I would cry, that I would mourn my friend with a river of tears, but I cannot. My throat aches so that it is difficult to swallow, my chest is tight, and my eyes are dry as bone. My breath hangs in the air before dissipating, coiling like gently before fading to nothing. I wonder what Falada would tell me now, if he were suddenly returned to me. As if he stood beside me, I hear his voice: What will you do?
What can I do? I bite my lip, holding it between my teeth and concentrating on the pin-prick of pain.
I can imagine Falada turning his head towards me, nostrils flaring in irritation, eyes sparking. Will you leave her to practice her mercy on the prince and all Menaiya?
I can’t face the Lady now. I don’t know what to do.
With a half-gasped laugh, I realize Falada’s response: I did not suggest you face the Lady.
I stand up, my joints creaking and popping. Outside, I look up at the sky; there is still a hint of light above. West Road bustles with end-of-day business, lantern light pouring out of open shops, the scent of food on the air. With so much activity, at least I need not fear for my safety.
I pass through the palace gates without glancing at the soldiers. If they note my passage, they say nothing. The main doors are closed against the cold. I follow the wall until I come to a servants’ entrance, the door propped open. I pass down strange corridors with quick steps, making my way in the general direction of the Receiving Hall. Once I reach familiar halls, I continue on to Valka’s apartments. Twice I pause before turning a corner, waiting for those already there to move on, their voices fading. Once I retrace my steps, hurrying before whoever approaches reaches me.
I drift to a stop when I reach the sweeping staircase up to the royal suites. I have not decided what I will say, only that I must address her. Now, standing before the stairs, I try to order my thoughts.
“Lady.” I jump, twisting to face the prince. It would be him of course. There is no one else I could possibly meet in this godforsaken place but him.
“Forgive me; I did not mean to startle you.”
“No,” I agree.
He looks at me sharply. What a contrast I must present to the last time we met: the tunic and skirt I wear are stained from work, threadbare at the seams. I cannot guess what he sees in my face.
“If you would accompany me, lady,” he says. He holds out his hand and I place my own in it without thinking. He turns me, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm, and leads me up the stairs. We pass Valka’s apartment without a word. He releases my hand only so that he may open a door, nodding for me to enter. I hesitate on the threshold. These are his rooms. I should not be here.
“Go in,” he says from behind me. I do not know where to go, pausing in the middle of the sitting room before moving toward the fire.
Kestrin does not speak at once. I hear him walk to a side table, then cross to me. He holds a goblet out to me. I take it mechanically and bring it to my lips, then stop. The heady, fruity scent assaults my nose. I do not need to look down to see what I hold.
“Drink it,” he says. I remain unmoving, the goblet nearly touching my lips, and I think of my brother, his breath sickly sweet as he towers over me. I step back, hurling the wine into the fire. It spits and smokes before flaring up brighter than before. Kestrin stands perfectly still. I hold the goblet out to him, my eyes trained on the fire. When he does not take it, I lift it up and set it on the mantle.
“You needed that,” he tells me.
“No.”
“Come sit down, my lady.”
“I would rather go.”
He laughs harshly. My eyes snap to him. “I am sure you would. I am always forcing you to speak with me.” He shakes his head, and his words now are a command, “Sit down.”
I meet his
gaze just long enough for him to know that I choose to obey before moving to a chair. The prince takes a seat beside me, watching the flames. A silence grows between us, allowing his words to dig their poisoned talons into me, injecting a bitterness into my blood that I can well nigh taste on my tongue.
“You did not force me to accept Melkior’s invitation,” I tell him, my words so soft they seem to get lost even as they leave my lips. I wonder if they reach him, for he makes no sign of having heard. I turn back to the fire. “That was my own stupidity.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Dearly.”
“That is why you are here?”
I should not be here at all. Not in his rooms. But I say only, “I would speak with the princess.”
“I suspected you were not seeking me.”
“No.”
“No,” he echoes. “What do you need of her?”
I shake my head.
He tries again. “Will you tell me what has happened?”
I do not look at him. I do not want to tell him that Valka found a way to reach past the protection he promised me. I would not know how to explain what Falada was to me without letting slip his secret.
“Something has happened, I can see that. It has leached the color from your face.” He purses his lips. “I gave you my word two nights ago that nothing would touch you. Now you appear in the palace like a ghost, with nothing to say but that you would see the princess. What did she do?” He half smiles. “Or has someone died?”
I start and turn away quickly. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Who’s dead?” His voice is hard, the question commanding an answer.
“No one—just a Horse—that is all.” A log cracks on the fire, sending a small shower of sparks across the grate. My eyes sting when I close them, but still I have no tears.
“The white? Who used to go everywhere with you?”
I nod.
“When?”
I grip my hands together in my lap. “This morning.”
“I see. You are sure the princess issued the orders?”
“Joa said so.”
“He could not have been mistaken?”
“I don’t know. I intend to speak with her.”
He studies me. “What will you say?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“She is expecting you.” I meet his gaze in surprise. “She has ordered her attendants to sleep in her antechamber tonight. You will not be able to pass through to see her in private.”
I close my eyes, remembering my first visit to Valka, her terror at waking to find me beside her. Yes, she expected me tonight. For all her tricks and power, she fears what I might do in private. I feel a smile twist my lips, and then I press my hand to my mouth, forcing the smile away. I swallow, opening my eyes to stare ahead of me. This is why, I think. This is why Falada told me not to avenge his death.
I stand up. “I’m going now.”
Kestrin raises his eyes to mine. “Are you sure it is wise?”
“I won’t speak to her.” I am so very tired of all this. “There is no justice to be had there. I am leaving.”
Kestrin stands. “Did you walk here alone from the stables?”
“I—yes.”
“I will arrange for a quad to escort you back down.”
I close my eyes for the space of a few breaths. When I open them again, I say, “You cannot protect me or mine from your enemies, Kestrin.” There is no protection to be had in this palace, I think, nor in all the land. I cross the room to the door.
“Thorn.” I look back at him, my fingers curling around the door handle. He stands with his back to the fire, watching me. “It is not for fear of my enemies that you need an escort.” He closes the distance between us. “It is because you are a woman alone in the city. Let me call my quad for you.”
I think of Red Hawk, and of Corbé, and know Kestrin speaks truth. “I thank you,” I say wearily.
Kestrin pulls an elegant, braided rope that hangs beside the door. I listen for the sound of a bell, but hear nothing. He reaches out, taking my hand and turning it to cradle in his own. He traces the calluses on my fingers, my palm. A shiver runs up my arm, curling in my belly, but I cannot move to pull my hand away. No one has touched me so before, as if I were precious. “I cannot protect you so far from the court,” he says. “Will you not return?”
His words release me from the spell of his touch. I pull my hand free. “There is nothing for me here,” I say, my voice shaking. The words hang in the air between us. I am not sure if I spoke them for him or for myself.
Kestrin does not answer. I hear the faint sound of boots. A knock at the door heralds my escort home.
Chapter 23
I spend the night in my upstairs room, alternately pacing a tight circuit or stretching out wide-eyed and exhausted on my sleeping mat. Although the room is warm and should have felt more comfortable than a stall, the four walls bear down on me through the darkness. I doze fitfully, falling asleep near dawn.
When I go down to the common room for breakfast, Laurel has already set bread and cheese on a plate for me. Violet sits at the table, pressing her thumb against the crumbs on her plate and licking them off.
“You look terrible,” she says without preamble.
“Violet!”
“Well, she does.” Violet turns back to me, “You’d better start eating regular again. You didn’t eat at all yesterday, and with this cold weather you’ll be sick as—as Harefoot is, if you aren’t careful.”
“Harefoot’s sick?” I ask, without much hope of distracting her.
“Like to die,” Violet informs me. “And you look like death waking up. I thought it was just the dark last night when I saw you coming in, but it’s actually you.” She grins as she speaks, but the gravity of her words won’t be undone.
“Thanks.”
“Violet,” Laurel explains, sitting down next to me at the table, “is worried about you.”
“And Laurel,” Violet responds, “sat up half the night listening to you stomp circles in your room not because she was worried about you but because she prefers to sleep sitting up with her eyes open.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say guiltily. “I didn’t realize I was that loud.”
“You weren’t; we just sleep next to you,” Laurel tells me.
“And the floorboards creak.” Violet points at my plate. “Eat your bread.” I take a bite to humor her, glancing at Laurel for help.
“We both agreed it wouldn’t do to speak to you in front of the boys,” Laurel says.
“That’s right.”
“But we know you had a close bond with that horse, and that he was killed because you went up to that dinner.” Laurel tips her head towards the palace. “If anything like that is like to happen again, you tell us and we’ll keep you and yours safe.”
I stare at her.
“Even,” Violet adds, “if that means making someone up there cross.”
“Especially if that means making someone up there cross.”
“Eat your cheese,” Violet finishes, smiling.
I obediently take a bite of cheese. With my mouth full, I stammer, “But that would be dangerous for you. And—”
“Dangerous? Dangerous? Did she say dangerous?” Violet cries. Laurel nods somberly, her eyes crinkled with amusement. “Thorn, let me tell you about dangerous. Dangerous is cutting your finger on a rusty nail and getting lockjaw. Dangerous is walking behind a skittish horse and getting kicked against a wall. Dangerous is walking anywhere in this city at night. Dangerous is not helping someone stay safe.”
I shake my head, thinking of helping Red Hawk, then of Valka’s vengeance. “If they’re willing to kill a horse, they won’t worry about hurting a servant as well.”
Violet lets her breath out in a gust of frustration. “Thorn. Of all the dangerous ways I could die that I meet with every day, I would much rather choose to die from helping someone. Weigh it,” she says
, holding her hands up in an imaginary scale. “Die helping someone, get kicked against a wall. Hmm, what would you prefer?”
I rub my hands over my face. “I don’t want any of you to get hurt.”
“So you want Laurel to die of lockjaw.”
I laugh despite myself. “You know I don’t! I don’t want you or Laurel or anyone else to get hurt because of me.”
“Very noble,” Laurel observes. “But we’re family here—we are, and your name fits right in with ours, so don’t doubt it for a minute. Family looks out for each other.”
Her words warm me like the glow of a friendly fire—family. This is what I had missed all my life: Laurel’s motherly touch, the boys’ concern, Violet’s love. They are everything I have ever wanted, and nothing like my own family. I can only grin foolishly in response.
“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Violet says, jumping up and heading for the door. “I’ve got to check on Harefoot again.”
“But—”
“Don’t even try,” she calls from the hallway.
Laurel smiles. “No more putting yourself in harm’s way, Thorn. You have trouble, you tell us.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “We mean it.”
Laurel shoos me off to the goose barn a few minutes later. Corbé has not yet arrived, so I open the doors and begin raking. I am grateful for his absence, working as fast as I can in hopes of missing him entirely, but just as I am shoveling the last of the dung into the barrel, he stumps through the gate.
I turn to him. “I did not come yesterday, so let me finish our work today. Then we will be even.”
He stands at the gate with his back to the light, making it hard to read his expression. I think perhaps he is surprised, but the emotion is fleeting, his face closed and contemptuous as always. “I do not leave my duties undone.”
I flush and shrug, turning away from him to stow the shovel. I hear him start towards me and instinctively I pivot back, holding the shovel ready. He pauses, then continues walking, passing me to climb up the ladder nailed to the back wall. He forks down straw from the loft while I replenish the food and water for the geese. Neither of us speaks again.
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