Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

  “I will not judge you.” I feel him turn towards me, his eyes resting on my face. “I cannot judge you.”

  “Do you think that will make it easier for me?” His voice is hard; I have to keep myself from flinching away.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know what will ease your way or make things harder.”

  He buries his face in his hands, his hair falling forward to hide his features. Then his hands slide through his hair to curl around the back of his neck. I wonder if his eyes rest on the marble tiles underfoot, or if they are turned elsewhere, deep inside himself.

  “Can you be happy here?”

  I feel the strangest tingling sensation in my chest; I think that I might cry. “Does it matter?”

  He straightens, dropping his hands, but still he does not look at me. “You can return home if you wish. You have been through enough to warrant breaking the betrothal without endangering our kingdoms’ friendship.”

  “I told you once before, there is nothing for me there.”

  “You did.”

  “I have come to love your land and your people very much, my lord. I would not leave by choice.”

  Finally, he turns to me, and there is a flicker of hope in his eye. “There is—would you walk with me, lady? I would like to show you something.”

  I take his arm, following him back into the maze of hallways. “It is a little ways from here,” Kestrin explains, and then falls silent. We reach a part of the palace I have never seen before, moving through quiet corridors until we come to another set of wide doors leading into a square. But this square is unlike anything I have seen in Menaiya: there are no marble tiles, no mosaics, no elegant fountains. Here grows a wood.

  I stand frozen on the threshold, gazing at the trees—pine and birch and a few slender aspens. They are silvered in the moonlight, their leaves rustling in a faint breeze, filling the air with the scent of the forest: leaves, and beneath that damp earth and moss. I move forward in a dream, reaching out to touch the rough bark of a pine tree. A gravel path wanders off through the grove, curving, for there are no straight lines in a forest. I want nothing more than to walk it, to lose sight of the palace even as I stand in the belly of it, surrounded once more by trees.

  “Do you like it?” Kestrin asks from behind me.

  I had forgotten him, dropped his arm and walked forward without a thought. Now, with an embarrassed smile, I turn back to him. “It’s lovely. Who planted it?”

  “I did—or rather,” he says with uncharacteristic humility, “the gardeners did. But I planned it. For you.”

  My hand rests against the tree. “This garden has been here some time. These trees aren’t newly planted.”

  “I was very sure of myself,” he says with a mocking smile. “At least it served one purpose: when I brought the impostor here, she glanced at it once, thought it quaint, and wished to go on to a lunch party.”

  “You knew.”

  “I knew she wasn’t you. But I didn’t know who she was, or who you were.” He crosses to me. “I knew that, as happy as you might be here, you would still like a memory of home.”

  How close we are, I think, gazing at him. And yet how far. He will not cross this final distance, will not or can not. So I will have to. I reach out, brushing his arm with my fingertips. “I am home, Kestrin.”

  His hand reaches up to touch mine, and we clasp hands, awkwardly, uncertainly.

  “It’s strange.” I smile sadly. “I trusted you completely, you know. When I followed after the sorceress. I knew you wouldn’t kill me. You might rage, you might act like a bully—”

  He swallows a laugh.

  “But I knew you wouldn’t kill me.”

  “I wouldn’t have been so sure.”

  “You protected me and helped me.”

  His mouth twists.

  “Remember that, Kestrin. I do.”

  “Do you remember also that you have seen the wasteland that is my heart? Could you marry such a man?”

  I hesitate, trying to find the right words, but I must take too long for he adds, “Could you ever come to love me?”

  I respect him, I trust him, and I have come to think of him as more than just an ally, a friend. Perhaps love will flow from that. “I don’t know,” I admit. “But I know that there is more to your heart than those places the Lady allowed you to wander. Look around,” I gesture to the trees around us, the myriad sleeping creatures hidden in the grove, “this too is a part of your heart. How could it not be?”

  “Do you believe that?”

  I take a step forward, so that I am barely a handspan away from him, and rest my other hand on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of each breath. “I have no doubt of it,” I say, because I cannot yet tell him I love him, because we need more time without games and deceit between us to find such love.

  He looks at me wonderingly, and then, hesitantly, brings his other arm around me, drawing me to him. We stand there a long time together, his cheek resting on the top of my head, my own against his chest. I close my eyes and listen to the steady beating of his heart and the gentle rustle of leaves overhead.

  Chapter 35

  Laurel waits for me in the palace courtyard, her hand on a horse’s bridle. The mare is a gentle creature, Solace, who could be trusted to children and idiots. I almost laugh. Laurel’s eyes widen as she sees me, her legs bending in an awkward curtsy. I ignore it, wrapping my good arm around her.

  “Your Highness,” she stammers.

  “Laurel,” I whisper. “I’m still Thorn.” She embraces me then, and though her hold is gentle, she makes no move to release me until I step back myself. The courtyard is filled with nobles and hostlers leading their charges, not a few of whom watch our exchange.

  “How are the others?”

  “Ash and Rowan are here, but I’m not sure they’ll be able to get close.” Laurel turns the mare and holds the stirrup for me. “Oak may decide to stay on at the farm.”

  I pat Solace’s shoulder, my sleeve falling back to expose the bandage wrapped around my wrist. Laurel glances at me. “They say you were hurt after you came up here, when you disappeared those days.”

  “Just a few scratches,” I say through gritted teeth, and heave myself up. My arm shrieks its dissension at that, but, thankfully, Laurel makes herself busy checking my stirrups and smoothing my skirts, and does not notice the set of my face until I have managed to rearrange it.

  “Are Ash and Rowan well?”

  “Well enough,” she says. “You’ve heard Corbé’s gone? He lit out of here like a dog with its tail on fire as soon as the news reached the stables.” Laurel smiles humorlessly. “Mind you, that was after Ash and Rowan beat the living daylights out of him and Joa fired him.”

  “I hadn’t heard.”

  “It would be foolish of him to stay after all he’s done against you, wouldn’t it? We were expecting you’d send someone after him.”

  I watch Solace’s ears flick back to listen to us, the morning light catching in the soft, fuzzy fur of her inner ear. “I suppose I should.”

  “Aye,” Laurel says. “A man as attacks a woman shouldn’t be allowed off like that.”

  “There’s many more in the city that have done much worse than him.”

  “Start somewhere and keep going,” Laurel suggests practically. I nod, wishing it were as easy as that. And perhaps it is. She reaches up and pats my hand hesitantly, as if unsure that she has the right to anymore.

  Kestrin walks his mount up next to us, dipping his chin to Laurel.

  “Your Highness,” she murmurs, and with a curtsy hurries away.

  “She’s your friend from the stables,” Kestrin observes.

  “Laurel,” I agree.

  “You miss them.”

  “Of course.”

  “You could ask them to join you here,” he suggests, his voice pitched so that only I may hear. “Good friends are hard to come by.”

  “Perhaps,” I say, wondering if Laurel would come. I
remember how tired she has been, how little her heart has been in her work since Violet’s death. Perhaps she would welcome the change. I feel myself beginning to smile, but I don’t want to lose the thread of this conversation quite so fast. “I was wondering, my lord, how my attendants were selected.”

  “They are the younger daughters of some of lesser noble households.”

  “I know that,” I say, amused. “I meant them in particular. As you said, good friends are hard to come by. I would like an attendant who does not have prior allegiances that are stronger than what she holds for me.”

  Kestrin meets my gaze. “That will take some doing.”

  “Of course.”

  He grins and dips his head. He is pleased that I have asked this of him, because it means I trust him to do it well. And I do, for though it is a different thing to trust him not to kill me, I find that I have great faith in him to keep my trust now.

  We ride down in procession: an honor guard, the king, then myself and Kestrin, follow by Lord Garrin and the king’s closest vassals, all of us flanked by more guards. I feel faintly foolish riding with so many eyes on me, with so many men surrounding me as if I were afraid of the people. I have never seen Kestrin ride through the city without a guard; I wonder now if I will ever again roam these streets with only a horse for company. It seems unlikely.

  Valka has preceded us to Hanging Square. She stands at the front of the platform, flanked by guards, and it is all the guards in the Square can do to keep control of the people. As I watch, a piece of rotten fruit flies through the air, splattering against the wood at Valka’s feet. She does not flinch, does not even look, her chin high and her eyes trained on an unseen spot in the middle distance. She wears the clothes I sent her, a simple skirt and tunic set that Mina found for her. Her hands are bound before her, and her hair wisps free of its braid.

  We come to a halt beside the platform. The king holds up his hand to the people. The crowd quiets in expectation, until all that can be heard is the faint shouting of a group of children.

  “Lady Valka, you stand accused of high treason and attempted murder of a royal person. You have been found guilty. Have you any last words?”

  Valka maintains a stony silence, her eyes finding mine. I tried, I want to tell her. Why couldn’t you have helped me more? In her eyes, I see my own guilt, see the same betrayed, hateful look as that day, years ago, when I trumpeted her theft of the brooch to everyone. If only I had sought justice more kindly.

  The king nods his head, and Valka is led to the gibbet, guided up onto the bench waiting below it. The executioner fits the rope around her neck, pulling her braid through it, and then steps back. She does not take her eyes from me and so I do not see the king gesture, or the executioner step forward to kick away the bench. I see only the way her head snaps back, caught by the rope, the jolt as her body’s fall is broken with the breaking of her neck.

  A coldness slides in past my skin, burning off my flesh. I watch her body swaying before me through a whirl of colorless cloud, her feet jerking in spasms. Solace sidles sideways, swinging her head around to watch me, the whites of her eyes showing. The princess. Look at the princess. The crowd backs away. I feel the change shudder through me, twisting my bones and squeezing the breath from my lungs. At my throat, the choker I have worn so many months burns to ash, as if it had never been. As I watch Valka’s bent head, her hair writhes, the brown running to golden red, her clothes blown by an unknown wind, whipping around until they are no longer the tunic and skirt I sent her but the stiff, embroidered set gifted to me by the king.

  I turn my head as the wind calms, looking out over the crowd. They stare back, a sea of faces. At the very back, standing casually against a wall, I find Red Hawk. He meets my gaze and then he smiles, a kind, encouraging smile that has nothing of the death I have just caused in it. He bows slightly, his fingers touching his heart, and then he steps to the side and is lost in the crowd.

  “My lady, are you well?” Kestrin touches my elbow, eyes flickering over me. I would have laughed had I the heart; in his quick glance I see a growing fear: was it truly Valka who died?

  “We are both still here,” I remind him. His shoulders slump in relief even as he watches me, but I give him no further reply.

  The king waits on his horse, observing me as well. I raise my voice over the growing murmur of the crowd, knowing that I must give him a reason to allow Valka’s burial. “Your Majesty, Lady Valka was the daughter of a high vassal of my mother’s realm. Though she betrayed her oath of fealty, her father has remained true. For his sake, I ask that you grant her a quick burial.”

  My words do not meet with the crowd’s approval.

  “Leave the traitor to rot,” one man cries, and then they are all shouting their suggestions, their anger.

  “Your Majesty,” I repeat, my voice now only for our small party. “She has paid the price of her treachery. Do not make her actions cost my queen mother more than they already have.” It is the only argument he will understand, and so I use it. I cannot bear the thought of Valka’s body abused and left unburied.

  “Is that your wish?”

  “It is.”

  The king nods, gesturing to Captain Sarkor behind us. I turn Solace away so that I will not have to watch as Valka is cut down and carted off. I wonder where she will be buried, and before me flashes a vision of the graveyard where Violet now lies. Valka’s grave will be just another grave there, just another small heap of stones in a field where all are nameless.

  The ride back to the palace passes in a dream of quiet. Everywhere I look I see people I have known these last months, these years of my life; they smile and turn towards us, and in their eyes I see the lives of unborn children, the certain strength of the young, the lingering illnesses of the elderly. In the palace courtyard I dismount awkwardly, patting Solace until Laurel reaches us.

  “You must be glad to have your old face back,” she observes.

  “I rather like not having a burnt wrist anymore,” I agree, grinning. In truth, my body feels strange to me once more, like a half-remembered haunt, a childhood home. It has filled out, grown taller, grown softer, while Valka cared for it.

  Laurel laughs grimly, shaking her head as she leads Solace away. As I turn my hand, though, I can feel the same raw pain beneath my new skin that I felt beneath the charred remains of my old one; and as I had dismounted, I felt my arm muscles cry out beneath the new seal of my skin. It will heal faster, I think; but the damage has not been undone, only removed from sight. In that, I suppose there is much to be grateful for: without the scars between us, perhaps Kestrin and I might truly find a way to look at each other without guilt or pain.

  “My lady,” Kestrin says, approaching me. “Will you come in?”

  I take his arm as I am expected to, turning with him towards the great Hall with its doors thrown open. A stray breeze flits through the courtyard, wrapping around me and then lifting the loose locks of my hair up as it rushes towards the Hall. I glance sharply at Kestrin. He raises his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth quirked upward, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. I let my breath out in a quiet laugh, squeezing his arm beneath my hand, and together we walk up the steps to the Hall.

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  I hope you enjoyed reading Thorn as much as I did writing it. Please consider leaving a review at your favorite e-retailer or online bookshelf. To find out about new releases, giveaways and events, or to just say hello, you can also connect with me online:

  My website: http://www.thornthenovel.com

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  Acknowledgements

  This book wouldn’t have reached readers without the encouragement of my family and friends. Special thanks to my husband, who has always supported my writing and first suggested I self-publish. Thanks also to my beta readers, who innocently suggested sweeping revisions: my mom, writing circle cronies Han
nah Kutcher and Janelle White, early reader Rima Dabdoub, and my husband, who alone read multiple drafts of Thorn. Extra gratitude to Hannah, Chief Techie Friend, House #3 Publishing, for her tech support and humor as I navigated the publishing process. And of course, thanks to my readers, without whom this book would be very lonely.

  About the Author

  Intisar Khanani grew up a nomad and world traveler. Born in Wisconsin, she has lived in five different states as well as in Jeddah on the coast of the Red Sea. She first remembers seeing snow on a wintry street in Zurich, Switzerland, and vaguely recollects having breakfast with the orangutans at the Singapore Zoo when she was five. She now resides in Cincinnati, Ohio, with her husband and young daughter. Intisar writes grants and develops projects to address community health with the Cincinnati Health Department, which is as close as she can get to saving the world. Her approach to writing fantasy reflects her lifelong passion for stories from different cultures. She is currently writing a trilogy set in the same world as Thorn. This is her first novel.