Thorn (25 page)

“And Valka?”

“Valka deserves whatever she gets.”

“What will she do when the time comes?”

“What time?”

“The time for the Lady to kill Kestrin.”

I stand completely still at that, listening to the whisper of his words fade away. It is easy for me to suggest that the prince might die, but to hear Falada so bluntly refer to Kestrin’s eminent murder brings me back to myself.

“What will Valka do?” Falada prods.

“She will give him up,” I reply, hating her, hating myself.

“When?”

“Once she is well settled. Married, perhaps with child.”

“So she will not allow herself to be a pawn.”

“No.”

“Can you not find your own way and help Kestrin as well?”

“How? I’m a goose girl, Falada. I’m dispensable, a pawn by definition.”

“That is your choice.”

“You are impossible,” I snap. Falada sighs and turns back towards the city. When we reach the road again I hold out my hand to him, touching a wisp of his mane. “I can’t make the rules, Falada. This isn’t my game.”

“If you are in the game then you can make it yours.”

“I can’t learn magic. I don’t want to.”

Falada glances at me curiously. “No one has asked you to.”

“No,” I mutter. We walk the rest of the way to the city in silence, Falada throwing me the occasional unreadable glance. My mood follows me home, clinging like so much mud to my boots.

***

I dream of a brown forest, the sky overcast and gray. I find small corpses littering the ground, dried to husks, bones protruding: rabbits stretched full length behind skeletal bushes, foxes torn apart at the edges of clearings, little creatures—moles and squirrels—curled into death-still balls, cushioned on the fallen leaves.

I do not care. I am driven by thirst, my throat so parched it may bleed if I cannot find drink. Eventually, I stumble upon a flowing stream. When I bend to drink, my eyes encounter fish floating belly-up. I straighten, my gaze fastening on the stiff bodies of deer, half-submerged. When I open my mouth to scream, my throat tears and fills with blood, choking me.

I sit up gasping for breath, coming back by degrees to the stable and its smells, the soft whiffling of horses. Falada sleeps, undisturbed by my sudden waking. I watch the soft rise and fall of his chest, trace the clean curves of his body against the darkness of the far wall. It is a long time before I fall back to sleep.

***

Joa comes to the stall door at dawn. I had heard soldiers come through earlier, a strange occurrence, but they were far enough away that their muted conversation did not reach me. Now, from the look on Joa’s face, I wish I had tried harder to listen.

“What is it?”

“Orders from the princess,” Joa says, his face sallow in the half-light.

“I thought she was gone.”

“She returned yesterday.” He looks away. “She wants her horse put to death.”

I stare at him blankly. He nods past me, to Falada.

“No.” The word jerks from me as if a hand has yanked out my heart.

“I am sorry,” Joa says quietly.

“No! Falada isn’t hers. She can’t kill him.”

Joa shrugs, refusing to meet my gaze.

“When?” If there is enough time for Falada to get through the city gates—

He makes a helpless gesture. “They’re waiting.”

“Give me a moment,” I tell him. He leaves without a word. “Falada,” I whisper, turning to him. “If I ride you they won’t dare hurt you. We can get away—the city gates are right here.”

“No, child.”

“No? What do you mean,
no
?”

“They will shoot me and arrest you. We would be hunted even if we escaped the gates.”

“You cannot let them kill you.”

“If I struggle, they will know I am a thinking creature and I will endanger my people. If you struggle for this, you will endanger all that hangs in the balance.”

He is right. I feel perilously close to tears. “I will kill her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You will not attempt to avenge me. Do you understand?”

I cannot escape his gaze. “Yes.”

“Have my head hung in the city gates that I might see you.”

“What?” I stare at him, appalled.

“Do it.”

“As you wish.” I hear the sound of approaching boots. “Oh Falada,” I whisper, and step forward. He lowers his head, his chin resting on my shoulder. I throw my arms around his neck, burying my face in his mane. The boots stop outside our stall, silence rolling out to smother every other sound.

Falada lifts his head, disengaging himself, but as he does he brings his mouth to my ear and breathes softly, “Stay.” I nod, touching his cheek, then turn towards the men. I do not recognize the soldiers. I ignore them, addressing Joa instead.

“I want his head mounted and placed in the gates, that I might remember him.”

“What you ask will cost money,” Joa says uneasily.

“I will pay.” One of the soldiers reaches out and unlatches the door, swinging it open. The other throws a harness to me. I catch it clumsily. “Joa, see that the blade is sharp, and it is done well. Gently.”

“I will,” he promises.

I turn back to Falada, holding the harness. He watches me, unmoving. I toss it into the back of the stall. “He has followed you once before and he will follow you now. He will not require a harness.” Joa nods. I glare at the soldiers. “Nor will he require direction.”

“Very well,” Joa says. “Let’s get this done.” He starts towards the stable doors, the two soldiers holding back for us to pass. Falada walks in step with me. When we reach the doors I put a hand on his crest. He looks down at me and then steps out, following Joa around the practice ring and out of sight, towards the knacker and his death.

***

I stay in Falada’s stall until I hear Joa return, the sound of hostlers calling greetings to him. He stops at the stall door, his face is grim; I do not think I have ever seen his eyes so hard. He studies my face in turn, though I cannot say what he sees. At length he says, “It was done well; he had an easy death. I am sorry for this, Thorn. He was a good horse.”

“Yes,” I say softly.

“His head will be hung as you ask. If you give me the money, I will see to it.”

“Yes.”

“Are you well?” His eyes flicker over my face uncertainly. I nod once, step out of the stall, and close the door.

In my room, I throw open the traveling trunk. Wrapped in a kerchief at the top are the paltry few copper coins I have earned working here. I push them to the side, knowing they are not enough, and search through the clothes. I know that I could take Valka’s jewelry, that I have only to open her trunks and look and I will find what her father gave her for her wedding, but I do not want anything of hers to touch Falada’s memory.

At the bottom of the trunk I find a pouch with the gift Jilna gave me many months ago. I tip the necklace into my hand, the silver chain and pendant shining in the dim light. I lift the chain, barely believing my eyes: it has been repaired, the chain mended, the pendant polished. Why? Why would he have gotten it fixed? For surely only Kestrin had had the opportunity to go through my trunks in his search for the cloak. Had he hoped I would find it soon after he returned the trunks? That I would take it as a sign of the kindness I had insisted he lacked? Or was it merely a token action, something to assuage a guilty conscience? I am grateful, suddenly and fiercely, that I did not find the necklace until now, did not have the chance to choose to wear it. I think of Jilna, with her tired face and her thin arms holding me tight, and I do not want that memory tainted. No, Jilna would have wanted this instead. I clench the necklace in my fist and go down to find Joa, hoping it will be enough.

***

Night enters the temple long before it settles upon the rest of the city. I would find the symbolic meaning amusing, I think, if it were not simply a practical reality: in a room with a single door for lighting, and that set off of an alley, sunlight rarely enters and shadows come early.

I sit hunched in the corner, my arms hugging my knees, and fill my mind with imagined meanings for the things around me: the faint sound of people on West Road, rustling in the stillness and then fading to nothing; the dirt that has accumulated on the mats so that, when I press my forehead to the floor in prayer, the grains stick to my skin; the way the wind whips into the little room at intervals, slapping my cheeks and snatching away what warmth I might have gained since it last entered. On occasion another worshipper enters, offering me a nod or smile before going about their devotions, departing in silence.

The hours have slipped away like this. Now, with night approaching, I cannot focus my thoughts on my surroundings. They fall away from me, sinking into darkness, and I am left holding tight to myself. I hear Falada’s voice echo in my mind, prodding me to accept Melkior’s dinner invitation. I thought I’d weighed all the risks. I had gained Kestrin’s word that nothing would harm me. But I had forgotten to speak for Falada.

I had thought I would cry, that I would mourn my friend with a river of tears, but I cannot. My throat aches so that it is difficult to swallow, my chest is tight, and my eyes are dry as bone. My breath hangs in the air before dissipating, coiling like gently before fading to nothing. I wonder what Falada would tell me now, if he were suddenly returned to me. As if he stood beside me, I hear his voice:
What will you do?

What can I do?
I bite my lip, holding it between my teeth and concentrating on the pin-prick of pain.

I can imagine Falada turning his head towards me, nostrils flaring in irritation, eyes sparking.
Will you leave her to practice her mercy on the prince and all Menaiya?

I can’t face the Lady now. I don’t know what to do.

With a half-gasped laugh, I realize Falada’s response:
I did not suggest you face the Lady.

I stand up, my joints creaking and popping. Outside, I look up at the sky; there is still a hint of light above. West Road bustles with end-of-day business, lantern light pouring out of open shops, the scent of food on the air. With so much activity, at least I need not fear for my safety.

I pass through the palace gates without glancing at the soldiers. If they note my passage, they say nothing. The main doors are closed against the cold. I follow the wall until I come to a servants’ entrance, the door propped open. I pass down strange corridors with quick steps, making my way in the general direction of the Receiving Hall. Once I reach familiar halls, I continue on to Valka’s apartments. Twice I pause before turning a corner, waiting for those already there to move on, their voices fading. Once I retrace my steps, hurrying before whoever approaches reaches me.

I drift to a stop when I reach the sweeping staircase up to the royal suites. I have not decided what I will say, only that I must address her. Now, standing before the stairs, I try to order my thoughts.

“Lady.” I jump, twisting to face the prince. It would be him of course. There is no one else I could possibly meet in this godforsaken place but him.

“Forgive me; I did not mean to startle you.”

“No,” I agree.

He looks at me sharply. What a contrast I must present to the last time we met: the tunic and skirt I wear are stained from work, threadbare at the seams. I cannot guess what he sees in my face.

“If you would accompany me, lady,” he says. He holds out his hand and I place my own in it without thinking. He turns me, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm, and leads me up the stairs. We pass Valka’s apartment without a word. He releases my hand only so that he may open a door, nodding for me to enter. I hesitate on the threshold. These are his rooms. I should not be here.

“Go in,” he says from behind me. I do not know where to go, pausing in the middle of the sitting room before moving toward the fire.

Kestrin does not speak at once. I hear him walk to a side table, then cross to me. He holds a goblet out to me. I take it mechanically and bring it to my lips, then stop. The heady, fruity scent assaults my nose. I do not need to look down to see what I hold.

“Drink it,” he says. I remain unmoving, the goblet nearly touching my lips, and I think of my brother, his breath sickly sweet as he towers over me. I step back, hurling the wine into the fire. It spits and smokes before flaring up brighter than before. Kestrin stands perfectly still. I hold the goblet out to him, my eyes trained on the fire. When he does not take it, I lift it up and set it on the mantle.

“You needed that,” he tells me.

“No.”

“Come sit down, my lady.”

“I would rather go.”

He laughs harshly. My eyes snap to him. “I am sure you would. I am always forcing you to speak with me.” He shakes his head, and his words now are a command, “Sit down.”

I meet his gaze just long enough for him to know that I choose to obey before moving to a chair. The prince takes a seat beside me, watching the flames. A silence grows between us, allowing his words to dig their poisoned talons into me, injecting a bitterness into my blood that I can well nigh taste on my tongue.