Princess of Thorns (13 page)

The ancient fate reader who called my name from the side of the road points to where Ror has gone to seize the destiny she foretold for him.

I follow her crooked finger in time to see the boy entering a makeshift battle ring, looking like a doll plucked from a toy house compared to the man across from him. His opponent is a monster with a long black braid, a jaw hacked from a hunk of rock, and a bluish tinge about him, like all people raised in the extreme north. His veins are dark streams visible beneath his pale flesh, angry rivers pumping blood from forearms as big as Ror’s waist to shoulders twice the width of my own.

The fool’s going to die. He’s going to flaming die!

The thought is barely through my head before I’m digging my heels into Alama’s sides and she’s off, charging through the crowded market.

Shoppers leap out of my way with angry shouts and threats to my life, but I don’t rein Alama in. I have to reach Ror. The fights in the practice rings are supposed to end at first blood, but first blood can too easily become lifeblood. One firm jab in the wrong spot with the sword the northern man is lifting could be enough to end Ror’s life.

“Ror, stop!” I shout.

Ror turns at the sound of my voice, and the Northerner seizes on the boy’s momentary distraction.

The giant rushes forward and the world slows. My pulse lurches in half time as Ror faces his opponent, crouching down and sweeping his staff in a low circle across the dirt. The giant’s feet tangle in the wood and he begins to fall, but manages to keep his sword aimed at Ror’s chest, preparing to drive the blade through the boy’s leather armor with a single shove of his massive arms.

My insides seize, my mind already imagining Ror’s body split in two, when he dives forward. He rolls beneath the giant’s knees heartbeats before the other man falls to the dirt. The northerner is quick to recover, but not quick enough. Before he can turn, Ror brings his staff down on the man’s temple, hitting where the skin is thinnest, bursting the delicate flesh, drawing first blood.

I suck in a ragged breath as an enraged shout rises from the crowd, but the Northerner doesn’t seem to realize he’s lost. He surges to his feet with a bellow, swinging his sword around in a hacking motion that would have sliced Ror in half if he hadn’t leapt backward like a circus performer a second before.

Ror’s hands reach for the ground as his feet flip over his head—once, twice, three times, with his staff somehow still in his grasp—until he’s at the edge of the pen. He turns to leap over the side, but the men there grab the boy and throw him back in, straight into the path of the blue monster.

I decide then and there that if Ror dies, I will kill those men. I will slit their throats and watch their blood soak into the soil, without a moment of regret.

“Let the boy out! He’s drawn first blood!” I vault from Alama’s back and charge the pen, grabbing spectators and hurling them to one side with growls that send most stumbling away even before they turn and see that I’m a good head taller than they are.

Aside from the beast bringing his sword down to clash against Ror’s staff with an angry
thwack,
I’m the largest man near the practice ring. I flinch, expecting the staff to break, but it holds strong for several blows, long enough for me to part the crowd and jump the fence, drawing my sword as I enter the ring.

“Leave him alone!” I shout.

The northerner turns to me with a roar of outrage. I take advantage of his split focus, grabbing Ror by the back of his armor and shoving him behind me

“The boy drew first blood!” I lift my sword, preparing to meet the northerner if he refuses to admit defeat. “It’s running down your face, man. You’ve lost your bet. This boy’s death will serve no purpose.”

The man’s forehead wrinkles, but I’m not certain he’s understood me. I’ve begun to worry that he doesn’t speak the language of Norvere, and that this will end badly because I was too lazy to learn more than two of the Herth languages before abandoning my studies, when he lifts his hand to his temple and swipes his sausage fingers through the red running down his face. He stares at the blood for several long, tense moments before finally lowering his sword.

Still, I don’t dare pull in another breath until he trudges to the edge of the ring and climbs out of the pen, rejoining a group of his northern brothers. Only when I’m sure he’s gone for good do I snatch Ror up by the arm and drag him in the opposite direction.

“I won the match!” Ror shouts, digging in his heels. “I have to go again. I said I’d fight until I lost.”

“I don’t care what you said,” I growl through clenched teeth.

“I’m doing well. I drew first blood. I—”

“You’re lucky you weren’t killed!”

“At least let me collect my winnings!” Ror wrenches his arm free with that uncanny move of his, the one that feels as if he’s broken his arm in two only to reconnect it a second later.

I grab for him, but he’s already across the ring with his hand under the bet keeper’s nose. The weasel-faced man glares at Ror, his close-set eyes shining with rage, but he’s a more honorable sort than the men who threw Ror back into the ring. He has a business to run, one that will not continue to profit if it’s heard that the ringmaster refuses to pay out on occasions when a fighter wins against extraordinary odds.

The man counts off an impressive number of coins before dumping them into a small burlap sack and throwing them at Ror. The bag hits Ror in the chest, but he doesn’t flinch. He only clutches his winnings and inclines his head before turning to pin me with a look cold enough to freeze even the northerner’s frost-resistant skin.

“
Now
we can leave.” Ror crosses the pen and leaps the railing, shouldering his way through a cluster of men clearly not pleased to have lost their bets but unwilling to attack a boy who bloodied a man twice his size in thirty seconds flat.

Ror collects Button from where the horse is tied, while I fetch Alama and lead my good girl—she didn’t move a hoof from where she stood when I dismounted—over to join him. I dispense my own hard looks to the men glaring holes in Ror’s back, and by the time I reach the boy, most of the spectators have had the good sense to look away.

Ror waits until I’m close, but not too close, before leading Button out of the market. I follow, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from beginning my dressing-down before we’ve reached the road. It’s best if these men see Ror and me as united companions with no anger between us, but as soon as we’re out of earshot …

We mount up and set the horses toward Goreman proper at a brisk walk, but we’re barely a field from the market when I let go, unable to control myself a second longer.

“What the devil were you doing back there?” I demand, shocked by how enraged I sound. I can’t remember using this tone with anyone, not even Regiene when she announced her engagement to my father. “Do you have a death wish?”

“I was acquiring more gold for the journey.” Ror pulls my cloak from the saddlebag and shrugs it around his shoulders. “I was told I’d need it.”

“Told you’d need it,” I repeat, breathless with anger. “By some mad fortune-teller who thought it would be amusing to see a kid get his guts spilled!”

“It wasn’t like that,” he says, still utterly—infuriatingly—calm. “She knew things she couldn’t have known without real insight into the future.”

“It doesn’t take insight into the future to know—”

“And even if she was mad,” Ror pushes on, “I didn’t need a fate reader to know the odds were good that I would win.”

“Against trained warriors two times your size? With decades of fighting experience? You thought
those
were
good
—”

“Yes, I thought those were
good
odds,” he says, tugging his hood up over his head with a sharp jerk of his arm. “You saw me fight. I won. I drew first blood easily, and I would have done it again if you’d let me keep going to the next round.”

“Are you out of your head?” My voice cracks with disbelief. “Were you fighting the same fight I was watching? Those people threw you back into the ring. They would have kept throwing you back until the Northerner killed you if I hadn’t—”

“If you hadn’t distracted me, I would have been better prepared to begin the fight in the first place,” Ror says, heat finally coloring his tone. “And if you hadn’t stuck your sword in where it wasn’t needed, I would have kept at that man until he was unconscious or dead. I didn’t enter that ring intending to kill someone, but if he had given me no choice, I would have been able to defend myself. Until the death, if I had to.”

I shake my head, mumbling beneath my breath.

“Just say it,” Ror says. “I’d rather fight than hear you mutter for—”

“Maybe you’ll want to enroll in the blood tournaments, then,” I snap, the words making my chest ache. Ror is safe, I shouldn’t be so angry and afraid, but I am. “If you’re so eager to take a life, you’ll find ample opportunity there.”

“I’m not eager to take a life,” Ror says with a sigh. “I didn’t say that, I said—”

“My brother Usio fought in them.” I grit my jaw, remembering the way Usio would laugh when I begged him not to fight. Laugh, and then go to the ale tent right before his match to rub my concern for his life in my face. “Several times, no matter how I tried to convince him not to.”

“Why? You didn’t think he could handle himself, either?”

“No, I thought he was better than that,” I say, my voice revealing my hurt no matter how hard I try to hide it. “Better than our father and Ekeeta and other people who fight and kill when they don’t have to. I thought
you
were better than that, too.”

“Niklaas, be fair,” Ror implores his tone gentler than it was before. “I didn’t say I
wanted
to kill someone. Of course I don’t, but—”

“Then you shouldn’t have set foot in a ring, even a practice ring.” I turn, deciding I might finally be able to look him in the eye without wanting to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him. “Anytime you pick up a weapon, there’s a chance you or someone else could be killed. I think your sparring match back there made that clear.”

Ror stares up at me from the shadows of his hood, a hint of regret tightening the skin around his eyes. “I know, but I assumed … I didn’t know it would be like that.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” I say. “By the gods, you’re fourteen years old! If you want to live to see fifteen, you have to be more careful.”

“I
was
being careful,” he says. “It was a calculated risk. I know what I’m capable of, Niklaas. Truly I do. Can’t you trust me? I’m younger and smaller than you, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that I’m more foolish.”

“You risked your life for gold when I have more than enough to get us to the Feeding Hills!”

“But what about after? What will we do for money if the exiles turn us away?” he asks, making enough sense for me to pause to consider the question. “And even if we had enough gold,
you’re
risking
your
life for an introduction to a girl you’ve never met. I know you have your reasons, but you have to realize how foolish that seems to me.”

I don’t say a word, not wanting to admit he’s right, not wanting to start another argument about his sister or girls or marriage or anything relating to the three.

“But I trust you, regardless. You’ve earned my trust,” Ror continues. “I think I’ve earned the same benefit of the doubt. I’ve been nothing but cautious and reasonable since we escaped the ogres that first night.”

I grunt. “Luring me into a false sense of safety. I should have known better than to let my guard down. Fourteen is a dangerous age.”

“I will be dangerous at any age,” Ror says, a teasing note creeping into his voice. “I think that was apparent from my time in the ring as well, don’t you?”

My lips curve and my shoulders relax, my body ready to let go of anger even if my heart isn’t there yet.

“Come on, Niklaas,” Ror wheedles. “I was good, you can’t deny it.”

“Maybe.” I shrug one shoulder.

“Maybe?” He guides Button closer and puts a hand on my shoulder, sending a rush prickling along my nerves. It’s an odd …
aware
feeling—one I wouldn’t normally associate with being touched by a friend—but I thought the boy was going to die. It makes sense that my nerves are out of sorts. “Were you watching the same fight I was fighting?”

I shrug his hand off with a laugh. “You were good,” I concede. “Like a boneless monkey.”

Ror smiles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Where did you learn your tricks? I’ve seen Fey warriors spar, but nothing like that.”

“My friend Thyne taught me, starting when I was only eight,” he says, his dimples vanishing. “The island fairies are all fond of tricks, but Thyne was the first to add them into training with the staff. He’s an amazing fighter.”

“The only person who can out-monkey you?”

“No. I could beat him. If I wanted to.” He sounds too sad for the words to be a boast, but when he looks back up at me, he’s smiling again. “I have an idea.”