Thorn (2 page)

“I understood it was an affair of state.” I set down the goblet with shaking fingers.

“How you are related to your mother is beyond me.” Daerilin grimaces, reaching for his knife. A servant steps forward and serves him, carving three slices of roast goat and placing them on his plate before serving me. I can only hope the king’s soldiers haven’t noticed; Daerilin long ago bribed the man into serving him first as a slight to me. I never really cared, until tonight.

I glance towards the soldiers’ tables surreptitiously. The foreign soldiers stand out like hawks among sparrows, their light armor glinting in the firelight, their ebony hair pulled up into tight knots. Our own warriors and women look pale and washed out beside them, our skin and hair so much lighter. And while our men wear their swords and daggers as well, with friendship bands binding hilt to scabbard, they have none of the practiced grace of the Menaiyans when they walk.

As I study them, I catch the eye of the foreign captain. Like the other soldiers, he wears his long hair in a smooth knot. Without a fall of hair to soften his features, he looks weathered and hard, his eyes flat, ungiving. I look away quickly, turning back to Daerilin.

“Why has the king come to visit us, then?” I ask, now that my fingers have stopped trembling.

Daerilin tosses back the last of his wine and waves his goblet in the air. “To find a bride for his son, little princess. How would you like to marry the Menaiyan prince?”

My chest feels hollow. I force myself to breathe, to keep my expression still. From the corner of my eye, I can see the king’s long-fingered hand lifting his goblet. He speaks with my mother quietly; I can only just catch the faint lilt of his voice, the resonating strangeness of his accent.

“We are hardly a strong ally for them,” I whisper.

“Perhaps they’re just looking for a mouse to snap up,” Daerilin replies as the servant fills his goblet. “Their women do seem to die young. They wouldn’t want to upset their closer allies by accidentally killing off the bride.” Daerilin smirks. “I daresay no one would raise an outcry if something were to happen. To you.”

I stare down at my plate, the roast still untouched. I have lost my appetite. Perhaps Daerilin is only baiting me; God knows he has enjoyed his taunts these last years. But surely he would not make this up? Surely the king had not come for me?

“I hear,” Daerilin observes momentarily, “that Prince Kestrin is not one to be crossed. Quite a temper he has when he is displeased.”

I wish that I could come up with a snide rejoinder, but my wits fail me. If Daerilin is right, then the Menaiyan prince is no better than my brother. He may be infinitely worse, used as he is to commanding a much greater court than ours.

I spend the rest of my meal in silence. When I make no further response, Daerilin turns to discuss a territorial dispute in the south with the lady to his left. My eyes are drawn often to the foreign warriors. Their captain eats sparingly, one hand resting on the hilt of his dagger as if by habit. He watches me continually, unapologetically, as if he intends to take his full measure of me this night. No matter how long I look away, when I glance back I find his eyes on me. Eventually I lay down my knife and give up all pretense of eating, turning my gaze instead to the motion of the servants through the Hall.

The following morning I wait on my mother as she dresses for a second day of meetings with the king. She waves her maids away at last, peering into the oval mirror that hangs on her wall. It is one of her prize possessions, framed in silver and polished to a shine, just large enough to show her face. She smoothes her hair, checking for stray hairs.

“To what do I owe the honor of your presence?” she asks with cool amusement.

I gather my courage. “I wish to enquire as to the king’s purpose in visiting us.”

“Oh?” Mother flicks a glance at me, her hazel eyes hooded. “Has it finally occurred to you to ask?”

I clasp my hands together and stare at the ground, waiting. She sighs.

“Prince Kestrin is of an age to marry. His father has come to assess your worth as a bride.”

“My worth?” I echo, my throat dry. Daerilin had not lied. “What is that?”

“Not much,” Mother says brutally. “It is the only issue that gives me pause. We cannot be sure why he would settle for you.” She purses her lips. She has discussed this in detail with her Council of Lords, I realize, and they can find no reason for the king’s interest. The thought raises the hair at the back of my neck. Perhaps Daerilin is right: they seek a bride no one will miss should she die unexpectedly.

“I hope we will reach an agreement by tomorrow,” she continues. She is beautiful in the sunlight falling through the windows, her hair glowing deep brown, her features smooth, emotionless. I can find nothing to say, looking at her and trying to understand. Tomorrow? Betrothed?

“Stay out of the way for now,” she says, turning back to her mirror. When I do not move, she gestures sharply to the door. “Go on, then. I’ve more than enough to worry about with you underfoot. And do not speak to the king if you can avoid him. I do not want him realizing what a simpleton you are.”

***

I ride out on Fleet Wind, taking the path that cuts away from the village to the woods. The trees stand spaced apart, the leaf-littered floor dappled with late summer sunlight. I guide Fleet Wind to a dell we have often visited. I have brought nothing with me to do, nor do I seek any of the herbs that grow among the trees and in the clearings for our wise woman’s use. Instead, I sit on a sun-warmed stone, listening to the soft buzz of insects and the swish of Fleet Wind’s tail as he grazes. As morning ebbs to noontime, a light breeze starts up.

“Old friend,” I say, turning my head towards it. “Is that you?”

The Wind answers me with a puff of summer,
Here
.

I smile. “The King of Menaiya has come to visit.”

The Wind ruffles my skirts. From my perch on a rock, I watch the few blades of grass bend over beneath its gentle influence.

“Mother hopes he will betroth me to his son. Prince Kestrin.” I think of Menaiya with its sweeping plains and tongue-twisting language—a language of which I have only a rudimentary knowledge. I cannot imagine living there, with no forests to wander, no one to speak with, no one but a prince I do not know. When I lift my hand to pat down a stray lock of hair, I realize my fingers are trembling. I clench my hands together tightly, pressing them into my lap.

The Wind lifts up and brushes my hair back.
Do not fear.
I cock my head, considering. It is rare for the Wind to string words together, which means it must find this situation of grave importance. I smile: what could the Wind know of marriage?

“I’ve always expected that I’d have to marry eventually, to someone I didn’t really know. But I thought it would be someone from hereabouts, not a prince from a great court in a faraway kingdom. Not,” I add, “someone who may not even speak my language.”

I think of the captain’s cold assessment, and the distant court, and find it suddenly difficult to breathe. “I am afraid,” I finally admit to the Wind, “of what will happen to me there.” If I can survive, I add silently. As the other women of their royal family have not.

The Wind falls still. I wonder if it can understand, or if it too is lost for words.

I return to the Hall for lunch, the Wind whispering through the woods with me, leaving me only as the path reaches the main road. Redna greets me with a nod as I enter the gates, deftly reaching for Fleet Wind’s bridle to help me dismount.

“They’re still in the meeting rooms,” she tells me. “But word is your brother’s been looking for you.”

This time, Cook does not send me away. Instead, she gestures to a stool beside one of the tables, informs me I’m not to work, and leaves me there. I stay, listening to the other girls gossiping and occasionally teasing Cook. No one here will mention my presence outside of the kitchen, not with the king here and my brother on the prowl.

I go to my rooms only just in time to change for dinner and hurry down to the Hall, meeting my mother and brother only bare moments before the king joins us. Mother looks at me only once, a measuring look that fades to contempt before she turns away. What does she expect me to do? To ask? If she has nothing to tell me now, then they haven’t reached an agreement yet. She would not bother to take any of my own wishes into account, even if I did ask. The only wish I do have is not to marry the foreign prince, and for that she would laugh in my face.

This time, when the king enters, I do not meet his gaze. It would tell me nothing if I did. Instead, I watch his boots, following silently after my family as we go in to dinner.

***

The following morning I make a mistake. I had assumed the meetings would continue, that I could pass down the hall without concern, but just as I reach the entrance to the meeting room, the door swings open. I step back, my stomach lurching as I meet my brother’s eyes. He smiles.

“Alyrra, what a surprise.” He crosses the hall, his hand closing tightly around my forearm. “Why don’t we walk a little?”

I nod woodenly, aware that I don’t dare pull away before the curious gazes of the other men leaving the meeting room. My brother leads me down the hall, the pressure of his grip a warning of what is to come.

“Princess Alyrra,” a voice says from behind us. My brother and I turn together, for the accent is Menaiyan. The king strides towards us. “I see you wish to converse with your brother. I hope you will not mind my taking a few minutes of your time?”

“Of course not,” my brother says for me, releasing my arm. “We can always speak later, my lord.”

The king nods towards my brother, but the expression in his eyes makes me suddenly wish that it was still my brother I was walking with. I fall into step with the king, and we quickly leave behind the others.

“Do you have gardens here?” he asks. “Somewhere quiet to speak?”

“Only herb gardens, my lord.”

“Good enough,” he says, his teeth flashing between his lips. I lead him down to the back entrance to the gardens, and we walk along between plots of oregano, rosemary and mint.

“How much does your mother confide in you?”

I slide a look at him from the corner of my eye. “Enough. My lord.”

His lips quirk, the first true smile I have seen from him. “Is that honest?”

I pause beside a bed of thyme. “How much do I need to know, my lord? You are here seeking a wife for your son.”

“I am,” he agrees. “How often do you normally participate in the discussions between your mother and her Council?”

“I don’t, my lord. You should know I am not …” I hesitate, aware that I have no place telling this king what he should or should not know. Or jeopardizing such an alliance for my land.

“Not what?”

I struggle to find an appropriate way to finish. “Not—it is not thought my place to attend.”

“You would never inherit?”

I pause, at a loss. I could inherit, it is true, but I doubt the Council would allow it. They would pass over me in favor of our nearest cousin. “It is unlikely,” I say.

“I doubt that,” the king says. “It has been my experience that even young men die. What you mean to say is your Council would not accept you. Why?”

If he knows all the answers, why is he asking? I look him in the eye and quip, “Perhaps I am too honest, my lord.”

He laughs. “And too straightforward. You will have to learn to play with your words more.” He reaches out, his fingertips brushing my arm where my brother had held me. I flinch back reflexively, as if the bruises have already darkened. As if he could see them through my sleeve. He watches me, his eyes glinting in the sunlight. I have no words for him. “Once you are Menaiya’s,” he says, “your brother will never hurt you again.”

He dips his head in a bow and leaves me standing among the herbs.

***

I wait in my chamber all the following day. I do not know how long such negotiations take, how much my mother will hope to gain from this marriage and what she will have to give up. When the knock I have been dreading sounds, it is late afternoon. I remain still for a moment, thinking,
perhaps it is only Jilna,
but she only knocks when I have locked the door.

Steward Jerash waits patiently in the corridor. “Highness, the queen requests your presence in the meeting rooms.”

“Of course,” I say, and follow after him.

Jerash announces my entrance to the room, bowing low. I feel at once the sharpness of my mother’s gaze, the hooded coldness of my brother’s. They sit together with the king at a great table at the head of the room. Before them, seated in chairs or standing respectfully, are arrayed my mother’s closest vassals as well as the king’s own retainers. I curtsy. When I rise I meet my mother’s gaze, she smiles at me, the smile of a merchant having sold her wares.

“Alyrra, the King of Menaiya has offered a match for you with his son. Will you accept?”

At least I have had the morning to find the words for my answer. “I will do only as you wish, Mother.”

My brother, sitting beside her, frowns. The corner of the king’s lips curl upward faintly, as if he were faintly amused.