Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

  “Sirs, before I answer, tell me this: what is the punishment for witchcraft?”

  The wizard cracks his sizable knuckles. “Practiced by one trained by our own mages, and bound to the service of the king, there is no punishment. But practiced by one who has done neither,” the wizard pauses, looking at me meaningfully, “the punishment is to be burnt at the stake.”

  “Is it visited upon all who practice witchcraft in secret—peasant or prince?”

  The wizard and the captain bristle, but Filadon’s lips only tighten, his eyes glinting. That should tell him who sent the wind, unless Kestrin kept him in the dark as to the use of his study. Not likely.

  “Unbound witches are not tolerated here,” the captain says coldly.

  I nod. To explain the Wind, to even hint at its source, would be to betray Kestrin and his father even further. I doubt that the royal family could be taken to trial, but I do not doubt that such a revelation would further weaken the king’s power over his land, and shift the balance of power towards the Council of Mages. I know too little about them to be sure, but the occasional common room conversation has at least told me that there is a tension between the king and the Council. I think of Falada, going to his death with the secret of his people locked within him, refusing to run for fear of endangering me.

  “I have no explanation for you.”

  The wizard leans forward. “Then you admit to commanding the wind?”

  “No. I have no control over the wind.”

  “Do you admit that it came at your call?”

  I gaze at him silently.

  “She is guilty,” the captain says with a satisfied smile. He darts a look at Filadon.

  “I would agree,” the wizard says. He frowns as he looks at me. I feel a spark of disgust—what sort of wizard condemns a woman for witchcraft without even testing her for a talent?

  “I do not command the wind,” I repeat, my voice deepening with anger.

  “How did it come to you then?”

  “I cannot explain it.”

  The wizard glances to his left. “Well, my lord Filadon, we are decided. What is your verdict?”

  He studies me, the corners of his mouth tipped down. “I think the lady requires some time to consider her predicament. Perhaps she will find a way to offer us an explanation. Let us take our lunch and leave her here to consider her fate. When we return, I will hear her and give my verdict.”

  “There is nothing I can tell you,” I say quietly.

  “So you say,” he agrees, standing up.

  The captain shakes his head as he pushes back his chair. “The girl has as good as confessed. I see no value in delaying the inevitable, but it will be as you wish, my lord.”

  “Indeed.” Filadon follows the men, but he walks slowly and by the time they reach the door, he has only just reached me. He pauses. “Will you not speak the truth, lady?”

  He stands a full head taller than me, but his bearing is kind, reminding me of Oak when he used to speak to Violet. I shake my head. He sighs, and his eyes wander from me to the small fire burning in its grate. “If you will not tell us, then tell the fire—but do not go to your death without speaking the truth.”

  “What is the truth worth when there are no witnesses?”

  “Let the flames consume your story, lady.”

  “They will have me soon enough,” I point out bitterly.

  “You sentence has not yet been passed. If you will speak the truth, you may escape with a lighter punishment. Or none at all.”

  “The truth is not mine to share, my lord.”

  “Whose secret is it, then?”

  Surely he is not as dull as that? “You know that as well as I,” I tell him.

  He hesitates. “Speak the truth then, to this empty room. Perhaps you will find a way to defend yourself without betraying a confidence.”

  “If you know, then how can you not defend me?” I snap.

  “It is not for me defend,” he replies. “Only to judge. Find a way to give me something to judge. Tell your story,” he repeats, gesturing to the fireplace, “until you know what to tell me.”

  I shrug, caught between fury and despair. He leaves in silence. I wait, weighing the quiet, and when I am sure that the guards will not enter for me, I hurry to the judges’ table and pour myself a cup of water. I drink it down in three gulps, then pour myself another one, sipping this more slowly. My eyes flick to the fireplace. What a strange thing to say: let the fire consume your story. When he must know the story, or some part of it, himself. He only knows Kestrin is the Wind; he doesn’t know why Kestrin protected me. But the other judges will not hear any claims against Corbé; that much is also clear.

  I watch the flicker of the flames. I cannot imagine my skin charring as the logs do, my flesh eaten away and falling to ash. What will happen to Valka when I die, I wonder? If the skin I wear is destroyed, will it return to her charred past recognition, or healed? Or not at all?

  I approach the flames slowly, kneeling before the grate. “I am no witch.” The flames do not answer, crackling softly to themselves. I breathe in the scent of the wood, but I do not recognize it. We used to burn birch and pine at home, but even in the mountains of Menaiya there are few birches, and the pines are short and stunted.

  “Let us consider the charges.” I close my eyes, leaning my face forward into the heat that will claim my life. “Falada’s head speaks to me, calling me princess. He, a gift to the princess, allows only me to ride him. Which would make me something other than the Lady Valka, and him something more than a mere horse. Second, the wind protects me when I am attacked; that same wind that befriended me at home, that found me here, and that followed me out when I fled to the plains yesterday. The wind is not me,” I grind out to the flickering flames, “but Kestrin. Even if he is lost now, I will not betray him. That is the only story I have to tell, and I will not tell it here.”

  Something scrapes against stone, the sound rising up from the fireplace itself. I jerk up, eyes wide, but there is only the grate, the logs burning steadily. I stand, my gaze running frantically over the fireplace, the intricate brickwork: there are gaps between the bricks, and over the mantle a stone carving spreads, some portions standing forth, others recessed.

  “No.” I step back. Tell the fire. I shake my head. “Who listens?” I spin on my heel, scanning the room before coming back to the fireplace. “Who listens?”

  The king shoves the door open, striding into the room. I stare at him, unmoving. He comes to a stop a pace away, studying me, his face emotionless. In the darkness of his eyes I can see him sifting through the possibilities of what I told the fire.

  “Finish your story.”

  Behind him, Filadon steps into the room, shutting the door with a click.

  “Your Majesty,” I say.

  “What happened on the plains?”

  I swallow, studying him. Whether he knows his son as the Wind or not, this he has the right to know. “The prince came to find me, riding my lord Filadon’s horse. As he came, so did your enemy.”

  “Who is that?”

  “She is—not human. She wears always a long dress and a gem stone on her finger. She comes from a fall of moonlight, or flowing water.” Or a breath of dust in the air.

  His face pales. “And in this meeting yesterday, what happened?”

  “She offered him a choice, Your Majesty: my life or his.”

  The king makes no motion. I concentrate on my breathing, meeting his gaze, knowing that I cannot show doubt or fear now. He turns to Filadon abruptly. “Ride out with Sarkor and the royal quads. Comb the plains west of here. Follow Kestrin’s trail.”

  “Your Majesty,” Filadon says, bowing. He leaves without a glance.

  “For your sake, let us hope you are not lying, lady. Else the fate you will suffer will be much worse than a burning.”

  “Your Majesty.”

  As he turns his back my hands begin to tremble and it takes most of my concentration to keep them still
. I am alone for the space of a few breaths and then the guards swing the door open. “Lady,” one of them calls. “You’ll come with us.” I wonder what the king ordered, where I will be taken. He must have spoken to them or they would not have called me ‘lady.’

  They escort me to a small guest room, locking the door behind me and remaining on guard in the hallway. I pull the curtains back from the window; the view is of the palace wall, and, three stories below, the road that runs between. I pull one of the chairs to the window and sit, grateful for the thin rectangle of sunlight that falls on the floor, lighting the room.

  I rub my hands over my face, thinking of Kestrin, willing to give himself over to the Lady for me. Why? Was it guilt? Or did he truly care for me? I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking of all the times I have spoken to the Wind, all the secrets I have shared, the comfort I have taken from its presence. Kestrin. It hardly seems possible. And perhaps it isn’t. Perhaps the king does not truly believe me now because I am wrong, because Kestrin has never been the Wind, has only ever dabbled in magic, unbeknownst to his father. I drop my face into my hands. I can only try, I tell myself. And if I fail, at least Falada will be there to greet me in the end.

  Chapter 31

  “I’m to ready you for dinner.” The serving girl regards me coolly, unimpressed with her duty. I pull open the bundle she has dropped on the bed. The skirt and tunic are well made though simple—something a lady-in-waiting might wear.

  “Very well,” I say, my voice strangely calm to my ears. The girl helps me dress, hustling me out of my work clothes. She starts when she sees the dark purple bruises on my leg and side from Corbé’s staff, but she is well-trained enough not to speak. Still, I am glad to pull on the clothes she has brought, hiding myself from her eyes. At the bottom of the bundle lies a brush and an assortment of hair pins.

  “You’ll need help with your hair,” the girl remarks.

  I touch my braid; it is matted with dirt and straw, hair straggling out and frizzing into knots. She picks up the brush and waits silently for me to sit.

  It takes over an hour to brush out the tangles. The girl, with a muttered apology, has only enough time to wind it into a bun at the back of my neck before leaving. I return to my seat, wiggling my feet out of my new slippers. They pinch my toes but I doubt that it will matter. I won’t be wearing them more than a day or two. At least if I am to die I won’t look a complete disgrace. Mother would be pleased.

  My guards escort me to dinner barely a quarter of an hour later. The dining room is elegant, decorated with tapestries and lit by lamps set in wall sconces as well as an elaborate set of candelabra on the long central table. The guests are already seated; they turn to watch me as a page ushers me to my seat at the end of the table. At my right sits Filadon, his wife across from him, and across from me a lord I do not know. The foot of the table has no place setting, for which I am grateful. When I glance up to the top of the table, I meet first the king’s eyes, and then Valka’s. Her face is pale, her lips pressed together in cold fury. Across from her, I can just make out Lord Garrin, leaning forward to speak to her. She turns towards him and a smile flashes across her face as she replies.

  Filadon greets me quietly. I cannot tell from his voice, from the faint smile and nod, whether he found anything in his search. I dare not ask him here. He keeps up an animated conversation with the nobles seated beside him through most of the meal, while his wife engages the man across from me. She is young with a quick smile and quicker wit. I do not attempt to join them, for I know that Filadon does not want these men to know who I am yet. I take little of the food, and eat even less.

  As the last course is cleared, the king turns to Valka. “I have an interesting question for you, my dear. Would you mind my asking it?” He speaks in our language, but at his nod the interpreter standing at Valka’s elbow translates his question to Menay, capturing the full attention of the table.

  Valka smiles. “Of course not, Your Majesty.”

  “There is a story that accompanies it, and the story is simply this: a princess and her companion were traveling one day on their way to some unknown land. During the journey, the companion betrayed her mistress; furthermore, upon their arrival in that land she went to great lengths to turn all who were there against her lady. She brought false charges against the princess, and sought to undermine her authority. She even claimed to be the princess herself. My question is this: what punishment would such a woman deserve?”

  He leans back in his chair, smiling amiably at Valka. I realize that I am shaking.

  Valka glances down the table to me as the translator speaks, and in that look I see a terrible fate. Meeting the king’s gaze, she answers slowly, savoring each word. “Such a woman deserves no more than to be placed in a barrel that has been pounded through with nails and be dragged through the streets behind a brace of horses until she is dead.”

  The horror of it takes a moment to sink in. “No,” I whisper. Filadon turns towards me, but the rest do not hear, focused on the translator. I watch the king, willing him to refuse this sentence. My brother’s words whisper through me, speaking of the death Kestrin would mete out to me. His prophecy will come to pass after all.

  “That is the punishment you decree?” the king asks, as if she might rethink it.

  “Yes,” Valka says firmly.

  “Very well. You have chosen your death. Take her away.” At the king’s words a pair of guards step forward from the back of the room. As alarm spreads across Valka’s features, relief floods through me, leaving me lightheaded.

  “Your Majesty!” she cries, as the guards raise her from her seat. “What can you mean by this? I am the Princess Alyrra!”

  “On the contrary, lady, you are not.” The guards drag her from the room, still protesting, leaving behind a stunned silence. The king, at its center, seems utterly unconcerned.

  It is Melkior who speaks next. “Your Majesty, if that was the impostor, who is the true princess?”

  The king nods down the table, meeting my gaze. “The Lady Thoreena.”

  The table turns to stare at me. If I look at them I will lose what little composure I have. Instead, I hold the king’s gaze and say, “Your Majesty, the sentence that was chosen is far too brutal a death. I would ask that you ease it.”

  Even as I speak my plea, I remember the king’s words to me this morning: the fate you will suffer will be much worse than a burning. I doubt he will hear me.

  “The sentence chosen was for you. It is only just to visit it upon the traitor herself.”

  “Your Majesty,” I say, but I cannot find the words to make my argument.

  He shakes his head. This is Valka’s payment for betraying Kestrin. “Let it be, lady.”

  One of the ladies seated at the table leans forward. “Your Majesty, how could this happen? How was it not found out?”

  The king has not yet looked away from me. Now, instead of answering the lady, he says, “Lord Filadon, the Princess Alyrra has been through much today. Will you help her back to her rooms?” He stands as he speaks, forcing all those present to rise as well. Filadon’s hand comes under my elbow, urging me up.

  “Come,” he murmurs. I let him lead me out, aware that no one makes any move to follow us.

  In the hallway, I pause, bewildered. My quad is gone. “I don’t remember the way.”

  “It’s alright,” Filadon says. “The king wants you closer to the royal wing. I will take you there.”

  I glance back as we turn down a stairwell. “The rest have not left.”

  “The king will have to answer a few questions; he deemed it best that you not be there.”

  The words rub against me like flint against steel. “Why?”

  Filadon frowns. “He does not want them to question you until he has spoken with you.”

  “There are too many secrets to keep,” I say wearily, my anger dying.

  “There are, Your Highness.”

  I wince, the title jarring against my ears. I want to
tell him to call me Thorn. Instead I ask, “My lord, did you find any sign of the prince?”

  Filadon’s face grows sober. “We found his tracks easily enough, and yours leading back. The prince’s end where they meet yours.”

  “Yes.” I swallow. “I know you have the Family’s trust. If you know—if you are that closely in their confidence—then you will know how Kestrin can be helped.”

  “There is nothing to be done,” Filadon says, his face bleak. “She will never let him go. He went of his own volition; he cannot fight her now.”

  My stomach gives a lurch. He cannot die. Not like this. Not for me. “But surely there must be some way,” I plead.

  Filadon stops before a door, releasing my hand to open it. “She has taken the whole Family, one by one. If there were a way, we would have found it. I am sorry, Your Highness.”

  ***

  I cannot sleep. I lie awake in the great bed, listening to the silence that hangs in the suite of rooms, and I miss the sound of horses shifting and snorting somewhere nearby, of Laurel’s occasional snore and Violet’s sweet laughter. They are lost to me now. Violet is gone, and though I might visit the stables again, I will never again be the goose girl, able to share an evening in the common room or sing Laurel and myself to sleep.

  No, I am princess now, though what that means I have yet to decide. I wonder if Falada would be proud of me, and I think of his head hanging in the city gates. Even in death, he is a better friend to me than I have ever been to anyone. And, inevitably, I think of Kestrin, visiting me in the guise of the Wind since my childhood—his youth. Kestrin promising me a protection I did not believe he could provide, and coming to my aid in the goose pasture, knowing as he must have that the Lady would take his help as a sign of his concern for me. She must have known all along; she was only waiting for him to recognize the cost of his friendship. And, as with Falada, he had chosen death rather than betrayal. But this time there is something I can do.