Princess of Thorns (4 page)

“Tell us!” we shout, bringing our fist down on the board beside his head.

“My queen.” Our brother’s voice reaches our ears a moment before his hand alights on our shoulder. “Come away from the boy.”

We shiver as we turn, meeting Illestros’s gaze. He is disappointed in us. We have failed our brother, the most powerful prophet the world has ever known, at the moment when our success means everything to our people.

We shiver again.

“Release him.” Illestros motions for our man to ease the tension on the ropes. “Take the prince to his cell and give him a restorative to drink.”

“We will try again later,” we whisper.

“There’s no need.” Illestros watches with pitying eyes as the solider unstraps Jor and leads the limping prince from the room. The boy casts a glance over his shoulder as he goes, his expression filled with a chilling mix of hatred and resolve. He may never confess, no matter how we torture him, and what will we do then?

“But we had no answer,” we say, shamed by our admission. “We must try again.”

“It would do no good, my queen. The boy has no answer to give.” Illestros strokes our back, soothing us with his touch before soothing us with his words. “He is not the fairy-blessed child. It is the girl.”

The girl.
Aurora.
We never imagined Rose would choose her daughter as her champion.

“A hawk brought word from the Locked Forest this morning,” Illestros says, handing over a small scroll. “The Boughtswords believe they have captured the lost prince of Norvere and are demanding his ransom be paid.”

“But the prince is here,” we mutter as we read the missive.

“We know this, but they do not,” Illestros says. “You were wise to keep the boy’s capture a secret. They say a boy dressed as a fairy attempted to hire them to attack the castle, and when they refused he put up such a fight twelve men were injured before he was contained.”

A frown tugs our brows together. “It could be a Fey boy. Surely the princess—”

“They sent a lock of hair,” Illestros says. “My divinations confirm it belongs to one briar-born.”

“Then it is the girl.” Our relief is tinged with only a hint of fear. “And she is blessed with strength in battle. Will this knowledge be enough?”

“Perhaps.” Illestros takes our hand, drawing us across the room and up the stairs, out of the blackness of the dungeon. “If not, there is still time to discover her secrets. I have sent word to Keetan and his men. They aren’t far from the Locked Forest. They will have her in hand by tonight.”

The Locked Forest. Only two days’ hard ride from the castle. We could have as little as two days left. We do our best to believe it will be enough.

I catch up with the boy a field before the splitting of the road and force him onto a deer trail in the woods. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem compelled to argue for argument’s sake and allows me to lead the way through a grove of southern beech trees and into the denser forest on the hillside.

We are halfway up the hill, barely out of sight, when the sound of hoofbeats pounding across hard dirt rumbles through the trees.

I motion for Jor to stop, straining for a sign that a rider has turned off to follow us. There wasn’t time to conceal the hoofprints leading into the woods. If the mercenaries are watching the ground, one of them will spot the place where we left the road.

But the hoofbeats soon fade, replaced by the silence of watchful woods. Jor lifts a pale brow, but I raise my hand, motioning for the boy to wait. Finally, when one bird and another resume their song, I urge Alama forward, thanking the gods for a bit of luck. Jor and his horse follow behind, and we travel in blessed silence for close to a quarter hour. I thank the gods for that as well.

My headache has blossomed into a carnivorous flower determined to devour my brainmeats from the inside out. The last thing I want is to be forced to make conversation with the Brat Prince.

But sadly, no reprieve lasts forever.

“I assume we’ll turn east when we reach the ridge?” Jor asks as the path grows steeper. His voice sounds even more feminine when drifting to my ears from behind than it did talking face to face.

You can tell the boy was raised among fairy folk, where the men and women act so much alike it can be hard to tell one from the other. The Fey have become reclusive in recent years, since Ekeeta placed a bounty on every fairy head, but I’ve run into enough fairy men to know that, despite their skill in battle, they’re far more interested in singing and dancing and fussing over their ancient plants than in any respectably masculine pursuit.

The manliest thing about Jor is the scar above his left eyebrow, that puckered bit of skin the only part of his face that isn’t smooth and pillowy. From his apple cheeks to his button of a nose to his smooth chin and mouth with the upper lip curving in a bow, the boy might as well be Fey himself. I’ve been called a pretty boy myself a time or two, but I was never as delicate as the boy behind me. Even my brother Valerio, who my father bitingly called his “firstborn daughter,” had the shadow of whiskers by fourteen.

“Did you hear me?” Jor asks, that uppity note creeping into his voice again.

“I heard you,” I grumble. Thank the gods I’m the youngest of my cursed brothers and accustomed to a certain degree of abuse. Nariano and Ninollo would have exercised their fists on anyone who dared to use that tone with their princely selves.

“And? Will we be turning east?”

“Considering turning west will take us closer to Mercar and people who want your head on a pike, I think east is best.” I close my eyes for a moment, knowing Alama will keep to the trail. “Unless, of course, your sister is hidden somewhere to the west …”

“I told you, I’m not taking you to Aurora until you—”

“Your army. I know.” I open my lids a crack and regret it immediately as the sun flickering through the canopy stabs its cruel rays into my eyes. “Have you thought of how you’re going to pay for that army? I notice you didn’t bother with your pack.”

“I was trying to hurry,” Jor says. “You said you had enough gold for both of us.”

“I have enough gold to keep us in food and drink and pay for an inn once we get close enough to a village to find one, not to hire an army.”

Jor sighs. “Well, I may not need gold. I’m told the people in the Feeding Hills are sympathetic to my cause.”

I grunt. I would wager the cowards in the Feeding Hills are sympathetic only to their own cause. The entire population is composed of nobles who swore loyalty to Ekeeta and her ogres during the takeover of Norvere—watching those who stood against the queen robbed of their souls and thrown into the sea—only to sneak away in the night in the months following to hide in the one place the ogres wouldn’t dare hunt them down.

The Feeding Hills are the birthplace of the ogres, the spot from which they emerged from the ooze to become the first beings walking the land. It is also said to be the location of their last surviving predators. The Feeding Trees atop the hills are as old as Mataquin itself, gnarled behemoths as big around as a farmer’s hut, with trunks that reach through the clouds. No human alive has ever seen them do anything but sprout needles, sway in the breeze, and other trees-going-about-their-business sort of things, but the ogre legends say the Feeding Trees house the spirits of the upstart gods who banished the Lost Mother to the underworld. In her last act of magic, the goddess transformed her enemies into trees.

Trees with a taste for vengeance …

Allegedly, the Feeding Trees use illusions to lure ogres into their trunks, where the creatures are digested over the course of a few hundred years. Fairy story or not, the ogres are spooked enough to leave the traitors living in the Feeding Hills alone, despite the fact that the exiles lead repeated raids on Ekeeta’s supply wagons and provided soldiers to help fight the last battle between Norvere and the Aligned Kingdoms of Herth, helping stave off Ekeeta’s takeover of the ten tiny countries.

“The exiles were paid to fight for Herth,” I say finally, knowing Jor needs to hear the truth. “Paid well. In gold and in betrothals for their children.”

Betrothals that have severely limited my own ability to find an eligible princess.

Not that I would have had much luck if the princesses of Herth were unspoken for. My father is Ekeeta’s ally, making him, and his offspring, the enemies of the Aligned Kingdoms of Herth. I spent months touring the countries of the north, but despite interest from the newly widowed Princess Gerace of Rinland and vows of undying devotion from the twin princesses of Pennly I didn’t get within spitting distance of the altar. The mothers and fathers wanted no part of the immortal king’s eleventh son.

Aurora is my last hope, the only unbetrothed princess who might see my lineage as a blessing rather than a curse. Norvere and Kanvasola were allies in her father’s time, and her father’s first wife was my aunt Ninia, a woman betrayed and slain by the ogre queen. We have a common history and a common enemy. A marriage between us could be a first step toward an alliance for the future of Mataquin.

“But the Kingdoms of Herth aren’t the exile’s homeland,” Jor says. “I’m second in line to the throne of Norvere. Surely they’ll be open to helping me out of loyalty alone.”

“You realize you’re talking about people who have a history of switching sides as easily as flipping a frying cake in a pan?”

Jor scowls. “One way or another, I will convince them to fight for me.”

“Succeed or fail, it’s no matter to me so long as you keep your end of our bargain,” I mutter, guiding Alama toward the sound of running water. “But as your future brother-in-law, I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t make it clear you’re making a dicey choice.”

“You’re terribly sure of yourself.” The path widens, and Jor urges his horse forward, pulling even with Alama. “My sister isn’t some simpering fool to be swept off her feet by a pretty face and bulging muscles. She’s clever and determined and—”

“And a girl.”

Jor rolls his eyes. “Well, of course she’s a girl.”

“And that’s all I need her to be. A girl with no father or mother standing in my way,” I say with a grin that I can tell gets under the boy’s skin.

Good. Let it. He’ll be even more piqued when I have his sister in my bed before we’ve been acquainted a fortnight.

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” I glance over at him, taking in his strong profile and clear skin. “You’re handsome enough, and some girls actually prefer waifish, fairy-looking boys.”

Jor surprises me by laughing so hard and loud that the horses startle and break into a trot.

“Goodness.” He soothes his horse with a stroke of its neck.

As much as I’d like to see him thrown simply so I could say “I told you so,” he seems to have a way with animals.

“You’re something, aren’t you?” he asks with a grin.

“Laugh while you can, runt.” I rein Alama in, not wanting her to twist an ankle on the increasingly rocky trail. “You’ll see I’m right. Just as you’ll see that the exiles will be harder to win over than you expect.”

Jor’s smile slips, banishing the dimples that had appeared on either side of his mouth. “At least they were once my people. I would have gone to them first, but I worried there wouldn’t be time. The matter for which I need the army is … pressing. We’ll have to ride long days and reach the Feeding Hills as soon as we can.”

I grunt in response and swing off Alama’s back. The creek is in sight across a bed of round gray stones she’ll cross more easily without a rider.

“That’s why I decided against the saddle.” Jor slides off his horse. “No saddle means less weight for Button to carry.”

“Button?” I shoot the animal Jor leads a pointed look. The horse’s back is higher than the top of the boy’s head. The beast is two hands taller than Alama, and she’s one of the largest horses—especially females—I’ve ever seen.

He shrugs. “It was my mother’s nickname for me. I hope it will bring me better luck than I’ve had so far,” he says, casting his eyes down as we reach the stream and the horses dip their whiskery noses into the water.

For the first time since I carried Jor from his makeshift prison—him whimpering in the middle of some nightmare—I feel for the boy. Everyone knows how the Sleeping Beauty died.

My own mother died shortly after Haanah was born. I was not quite two and don’t remember her at all, which I’ve always considered a cruel bit of fortune. But what would it be like to harbor the memory of your mother slitting her throat in front of your eyes? The boy must remember it. If he remembers his mother’s pet name, he must also remember her suicide.

“Jor …” I clear my throat, wondering how one offers condolences for such an old wound. “I’m—”

“My Fey family calls me Ror,” he interrupts, sparing me. “You can, too. It’s more familiar to me than my given name.”

I nod. “I would say you can call me Niki, but only my father does that, and I hate the man like toe rot and gangrene mixed together.”

Ror glances up with a smile I return before handing him one of my waterskins and squatting to fill the other. I chug as much liquid as I can hold, hoping the water will help ease the aching in my skull. Ror stoops beside me, pulling his staff from the sling fashioned into the back of his armor and placing it within reach as he fills his own skin.

I don’t think we’ll have cause to fight out here in the middle of the forest, but I appreciate that the boy is making an effort. It seems unavoidable that we’ll be traveling together, and I feel better knowing he has some instincts toward self-preservation.

“We’ll try to reach the edge of the woods before we make camp,” I say, wetting my sleeve and using it to wash the grit of yesterday’s ride from my face. “If we pace ourselves and walk the horses now and then, we’ll reach the petrified forest before nightfall. Assuming we keep putting in long days, that should bring us within a week’s journey of Goreman.”

“Goreman?” Ror wipes the water from his lip.

“It’s the closest place to hire a guide to the exile camp. They’re well hidden. We could wander the mountains for weeks and never find them.” I cap my skin and secure it to Alama’s saddle before reaching for Ror’s.

Ror takes one last drink. “All right. I suppose I have no choice but to trust you.”

“I’m flattered,” I say with a sour twist of my lips.

“I’m not being rude, I’m being truthful,” he says. “I’ve been in hiding with the Fey since I was four years old. I’ve lived my entire life on an island. I’ve studied Mataquin’s land and history, but I’m ignorant of many things about the human world.”

“Does that mean you’ll listen the next time I tell you not to do something?”

He glances up at the limbs swaying high above us. “I will take it under serious consideration.”

“That doesn’t sound like a promise.”

Ror’s grin has a hint of mischief in it. “You noticed.”

“I’m not as dumb as I look,” I say, “And I’d like a promise. I need you to stay alive long enough to lead me to your sister, little man.”

“How old are you, exactly?” he asks with a sigh.

“I’ll be eighteen in three weeks,” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t. Ror doesn’t seem to have heard the rumors about my family—not many people outside Eno City have; my father tends to kill those who share his secrets—but it’s best to be careful. I don’t want Ror or his sister realizing how much hinges on my making marriage to Aurora a reality before my eighteenth birthday.

Desperation isn’t attractive, and pity isn’t the emotion I want to inspire in my future wife.

“Eighteen.” Ror rolls his eyes. “You’re barely four years older than I am.”

I shrug as I lead Alama across the water to where the trail picks up on the other side. He’s right, but I feel eons older than this naive boy who assumes the world will be on his side. “Life has left me feeling older.”