Princess of Thorns (12 page)

“Or no clothes at all,” I say, but the joke falls flat. I’m not amused by Ror’s assessment of my character, and he’s obviously not amused by me.

“And if you neither care for her nor lust after her,” he says, biting out the words, “then you’ll look straight past her. Like a shadow on the ground.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is not. I’ve listened to the stories you tell,” he says, that wounded note creeping into his voice again. “It’s obvious that any girl who isn’t bound to you by blood or affection—or
busty
enough to catch your eye—isn’t worth your time.”

“I couldn’t care less about the size of a girl’s bust,” I say, forcing another smile I don’t feel. “I prefer a shapely back end and pretty feet and soft—”

“Ugh!” Ror growls. “You’re impossible!”

“I’m not impossible,” I snap, close to losing my patience as well. “And I’m not the criminal you’re making me out to be.”

“I never said you were a criminal, I said—”

“This world preys on the weak,” I interrupt, tired of Ror’s preaching when he’s far too young to sit at the front of the chapel, let alone occupy the altar. “I’m bigger, stronger, and used to dealing with the rougher parts of life. I’m
obligated
to protect the women I love from the misery that awaits girls who have no protector. I can imagine what would have happened to Hannah if I hadn’t put myself between her and my father. I was happy to shield her from what misery I could. Why should she suffer? Why should any woman learn how wretched this world can be if they don’t have to?”

“Because they are strong enough to know the truth, and proving that to themselves will make them stronger.” Ror sits up straighter in his saddle. “And perhaps, if men were brought up to be gentler people, women wouldn’t have need of protectors. Have you ever thought of that?”

I shake my head. “Men aren’t going to change, Ror. Men are what they are.”

“And women are more than you allow them to be. Women can be strong, Niklaas. If given the chance, they can handle the world, maybe even handle it
better
than a man.”

“All right.” I snort. “If you say so, Ror.”

“I
do
say so.”

I look straight at him before I roll my eyes, wanting to make sure my opinion of his opinion is abundantly clear. “Maybe you’ve met girls like that in your many travels around your enchanted fairy island, but that’s not the way it is in the real world.”

“It isn’t, is it?” he asks, his hands beginning to tremble.

“No, it
isn’t.
”

“It
isn’t,
” he repeats with a strained laugh. “Well
you
wouldn’t know
real
if it came riding up to you and cut off your stupid, thick head!”

Ror digs his heels into Button, sending the horse bolting forward with a whinny of surprise. Button leaps down the road, breaking into a full canter toward the mouth of the canyon a few fields ahead. I give Ror a good head start before I nudge Alama, urging her to pick up her own pace. Whatever has crawled up his wee bottom and died has left him unfit company. I’ll happily let him lead the way and rejoin him when his snit has worked its way out. I’m not sure what provoked him, but I’m more certain than ever that his time among the Fey has made him daft when it comes to human affairs.

Still, his rant has given me new reason to hope. It’s clear he doesn’t understand normal, human women, and maybe not even his own sister. Aurora might want to be protected, to be sheltered and cherished and, yes,
lied to,
when necessary. She might appreciate the line of defense a man can offer from the harsh realities of the world.

And if not—if she wants to ride a horse astride and teach me wicked kissing tricks like a fairy girl—then I will make sure she knows I can appreciate that as well.

Ror is wrong on one thing for certain—Aurora will never be a shadow for me to step on; she will be the light at the end of my long, dark night.

I should slow down and let Niklaas catch up, but I’m too angry.

Pointlessly,
stupidly
angry.

Niklaas is the way he is, and I like him fine that way—so long as I’m Ror and not Aurora—and by the time he finds out I’m
not
a boy, I will be on my way to war and have no energy to waste being angry with anyone but the queen. I shouldn’t waste my energy with pointless anger now, but that doesn’t stop me from pushing Button to run faster.

We easily outdistance the other riders on the road, kicking up dust that swirls around the tired horses and heavily burdened carts trundling through the pass toward Goreman. Hard-faced men and boys turn to stare as I charge by, the wariness in their eyes making my skin prickle. It’s not smart to attract attention, even if my face is concealed, but I can’t seem to stop. It feels like I’m running away from something bigger than Niklaas or the pigheadedness of human men or even my own anger, something as inescapable as my skin that lurks within me, a weak, mewling thing curled behind my ribs with its head ducked beneath its paws.

There’s a part of me that longs to tell Niklaas the truth, naively hoping he’ll remain the same when I’m revealed to be the prey he’s hunting. I don’t want to lose my new friend to my true self, I don’t want to look into his eyes and see a rake intent on seduction in the place of my companion or a liar determined to “protect” me.

With every day that we’ve traveled, Niklaas has impressed me more. He is insufferable at times, but he is also a good, brave person with a kinder-than-average heart. I want him to truly be
my
friend,
Aurora’s
friend. A person Aurora can tease and confide in the way “Ror” has. I want to tell Niklaas the truth about Jor, and how vital it is I secure an army to free my brother. I want to tell him what it’s like for a girl to grow up with no one telling her she can’t be strong or wise or fierce. I want to tell him about Thyne and how I destroyed my best friend and how broken my heart is now, so broken that it will never—
can
never—be put back together again.

I want him to know that I’ve deceived him, and forgive me for it.

I want him to …

I want him …

I grit my teeth and push Button even harder, until we’re racing along so fast there’s no room in my head for anything but clinging to the reins and keeping my seat as Button strains toward the end of the pass. I refuse to let my thoughts take a single step down that road. It is a road to nowhere, with a cliff at its end and a long fall to crash against the jagged rocks of Things That Can Never Be.

Never, never, never,
I chant inside my mind, but still my heart beats faster, that canny thing realizing the truth no matter how determined the rest of me is to deny it.

By the time I reach the exit through the pass, it feels as if my chest will explode.

Button and I emerge from the narrow canyon and the land opens up like an enchanted storybook. The three hills of Goreman appear on the horizon, each one topped by tall stone buildings and taller onyx ruins that stab toward the sky like the crooked spine of a sleeping beast. Below the hills, the city folds down toward the sea, its bridges and towers and dozens of piers deceptively tame-looking from a distance. Even the arena—a stone hollow at the base of the first hill, a hole so perfectly round it’s as if a confectioner took a pudding scoop to the land—is a tidy, ordered thing.

Beyond the city, the Feeding Hills loom like giants, dwarfing even the largest of Goreman’s hills. They are monsters in dusty white hats, dressed in humorless gray robes of evergreen trees, Feeding trees—some young and relatively new, some tall enough for their trunks to stretch fields above the rest and old enough to be the stuff of ogre legend.

I long to aim Button toward those trees and ride until it’s safe to throw this cloak from my shoulders, to let my hair down to blow as I ride, to be free of Niklaas and my false self and the confusion twisting my insides into knots. Instead, I give Button’s reins a tug. He obeys with a snort and a twitch of his heaving sides, slowing to a walk as we reach the edges of the market.

As my horse catches his breath, I peer out from beneath the safety of my hood. The market is not as rough a place as I expected, but it’s rough enough. The hard men on the road look positively friendly compared to the adamantine men—and few women—occupying the stalls spreading like an inky rash across the flat land to the left of the road.

All the stalls are black. Black pens contain half-starved animals, black shelves hold food and drink and potion bottles like the ones Janin keeps locked in her trunk back home, and black canvas stretches over the tops of the stalls to keep the rain out.

The air is as dry as it has been for days, but it must have rained recently. The market has been pitched for a while—there is dust on the potion bottles, the shelves holding baskets of potatoes have sunk unevenly into the dirt, and the one-eyed woman squatting behind a table covered with fate cards looks as if she lives in her filthy stall—but the canvas has a shine to it, a glisten that gives the market sharp, dangerous edges.

The New Market looks like a good place to catch a curse or a knife in the ribs. Or maybe simply to have your purse stolen. If you’re lucky.

I’ve decided to keep going and wait until I reach the other side to let Button graze and Niklaas catch up, when I see the banner strung above a pen at the back of the market:

Practice Ring. Battle till first blood. Try your weapon before you give your life. A gold purse for every fight.

The pen sits farther off the road than the other stalls but not so far that I can’t see the two men going at each other within its confines—one with a sword, the other with a staff like my own. The man with the staff is winning. The swordsman is giving his best, swinging his weapon with the strength and enthusiasm of the young and newly trained, but he can’t get close enough to put his blade to use. After only a moment, I’m wagering on the staff for first blood, though judging from the shouts coming from the crowd circled around the pen I’m guessing most of the red-faced men screaming and waving bet slips put their money on the sword.

Just like that, I know. I know I’ve found a way to release the frustration building inside me and earn some coin in the process. It won’t be enough gold to tempt the people of the Feeding Hills—winnings from a practice ring won’t hold a candle to the purses at the blood tournaments, let alone the fairy jewel the mercenaries stole from me—but it should be enough to buy a pack and rations, things I will need to continue alone if the exiles refuse to help me and I must leave Niklaas behind.

And if I play it right …

Visions of a saddle of my own dance before my eyes, whispering sweetly to my aching backside, banishing the last of my hesitation.

After checking the sky and ground and finding no carrion creatures in sight, I untie my borrowed cloak, roll it up, and shove it into the saddlebag. I muss my hair, widen my eyes, and slouch as I turn Button toward the ring. It will go better for me if I look as small and defenseless as possible. I want the odds weighed decidedly in my opponent’s favor before I place my bet. I don’t have money of my own, but Niklaas won’t mind if I borrow a few coins, and surely he’ll be able to figure out where I’ve gone. No fourteen-year-old boy with “Ror’s” skill with a staff could resist a prizefight.

But in case he rides through without seeing the banner, I pause by the fate reader’s tent, clearing my throat until her one rheumy eye fixes on me.

“What do you want, boy?” she asks, her voice as gritty as the riverbed we left behind days ago. “You don’t look old enough to have a care for your fate.”

The pale blue eye is blanketed by a layer of milky white, cloudy with age and too much peering into realms where humans are better off not poking their noses, let alone their eyes. Still, she seems to see me well enough. Surely she’ll be able to spot a sun god parading through the market on a great white horse.

“My companion is behind me,” I say, nodding toward the pass. “A tall blond boy of nearly eighteen years riding a white horse bareback. If you’ll tell him I’ve gone to the practice ring, I’ll have a coin for you on my way back through the market.”

“How about a coin now?” She holds out a palm crisscrossed by miniature rivers of dirt. “I’m an old woman. I forget things, I do. A coin would help me remember.”

With a sigh, I fish a gold piece from Niklaas’s purse and slide off Button’s back. There’s no time to waste bargaining. The staff fighter has indeed won his match and acquired a new opponent, a monster of a man I wouldn’t mind being pitted against in the name of terribly weighted odds, but I want to be in the ring before Niklaas arrives. Niklaas has seen me use my staff once, but once might not have been enough to convince him that a “boy” of my size can handle himself against fully grown men.

“You’ll tell him, then?” I ask, dropping the gold into the woman’s palm.

“Aye, young master. I …” She trails off, then tilts her head and lifts her thin brows, as if listening to someone whispering over her shoulder. As she moves, the ratted bun pinned atop her head falls to one side, revealing an ear with part of the lobe chewed away, and a neck with bite marks scabbing the wrinkled flesh.

Before I can walk away—I know enough about dark spirits that feed on humans in exchange for supernatural favors to realize this woman is drowning in black magic and no one safe in her presence—she draws her arm back and flings the coin at my feet.

“I don’t want your gold.” Her hands tremble as she sets to picking at the wounds on her neck with a jagged nail. “I’ll tell the boy, but you’ll need the gold. You’ll need that and more if you hope to make it in time.”

I stoop to pick up the coin. I know I shouldn’t say a word, but I can’t keep from asking, “What do you mean?”

“You’ll lose that horse and need another, and horses don’t usually come for free, do they?” She barks with laughter before narrowing her cloudy eye in Button’s direction. “You won’t be lucky enough to
steal
one next time.”

I shiver, feeling naked beneath her all-seeing eye, and lay a hand on Button’s throat, hating the thought of losing him.

Unfortunately, there are bigger things to lose.

“You said something about making it in time,” I say, so desperate for assurance I stay put though every sensible bone in my body screams for me to run from this woman as fast as my fairy-blessed legs will carry me. “Will I? Will my brother live?”

“It remains to be seen.” She swallows something she must have had stored in her cheek before continuing. “There will be a choice. You must make the right one.”

“What choice? What must I—”

“A difficult choice. That’s all we see.” Shadows move behind her eye, and I suddenly feel even more watched than before. Watched by this woman, and by whatever dark forces dwell within her. “To look closer will draw her attention.”

The queen.

The fate reader nods as if I’ve spoken aloud. “Soon she will hunt you in earnest. You must be in green hills, near a bewitched stream, before that happens.” She begins to chew again, this time with her mouth open enough to catch a flash of inky flesh—flesh too black to be living yet still squirming as it’s crushed between her few remaining teeth.

I swallow hard, suppressing the revulsion tightening my stomach. “Please. Is there nothing more? I cannot fail. So much depends on my success.”

“Aye, it does. Not even the darklings will survive if the prophecy is fulfilled. Not even my beautiful darklings.” She seems to shrink, burrowing into her filthy purple robes. “Trust in the gifts your mother gave you, princess. If you don’t, it may be the end of us all.”

My heart races as I glance from side to side, terrified that someone has heard her use my title. But there is no one close. Even the roughest men seem content to give this booth a wide berth.

“Go to the ring,” she says, gathering her cards in a gnarled hand. “I’ll tell the boy where to find his
friend.
” She smiles, a wry baring of her teeth and gums. “Some prince,” she mutters. “Doesn’t recognize a princess when she’s sleeping curled up beside him.”

“Don’t tell him.” I adjust my grip on Button’s bridle, deciding I will look smaller if I walk to the ring leading a giant horse than riding one. “It is my secret to keep.”

“And his to discover.” The fate reader chuckles and the shadows behind her rheumy gaze writhe, as if they, too, are amused. “Sooner or later those pretty gray eyes will give you away, girl.”

I don’t respond. I won’t think about what my eyes might betray. I won’t think of anything but my brother and how desperately I need gold in my pocket. I will draw first blood before my opponent has a chance to lift his weapon. I can practically taste victory, hot and salty on my tongue.