Thorn (8 page)

I have a malicious wish to tell him I would have been more talkative had he spoken to me, but refrain in favor of a different statement. “Oh, quite well. But please, my lords, I beg you will not call me Lady Valka. It is too strange. My mother’s name is also Valka—I have always been called Lady Thoreena instead.”

“Why of course,” Filadon says, with a slight bow. Valka glares at me, her cheeks paling in anger.

“Thank you, my lords.” I smile at Valka, for I will be able to let her identity go while she must ever live with mine.

The rest of the day passes much as the morning did: the men and Valka conversing while I sit in my corner. We reach our night’s destination in good time, the sun still a handbreadth above the horizon. After washing up, I make my way around to the corral that holds the bulk of our horses. The hostlers have gone in for dinner, leaving the horses unattended, though visible from the kitchen door. At the far end of the corral I spot the white stallion. He watches me, head raised, bright eyes alert.

“I don’t know how I’m going to free you,” I tell him, resting my hand on the wooden rail. “Valka’s the sort that will send you to the knacker when she realizes she can’t ride you. I wish you’d gotten away when you could.”

“I chose to stay, Princess,” he replies, his voice deep and gentle. My mouth drops open. What? A talking horse?

“Your brother, by the by, is quite the fool,” he continues conversationally. “I’d lost almost all hope for humanity until you came along.”

At this I burst into laughter. I can hear a slight hysterical note and know I should stop, but it is all I can do to wipe the tears from my eyes: my brother called a fool by a talking horse, and I the hope for humanity!

The horse waits until my laughter dies away and I am left gasping for breath, leaning against the fence between us. “I stayed because I like you. You have something of justice and mercy in you.”

“That’s not a good reason,” I tell him, my voice rasping. “Whatever I may or may not have in me, I haven’t much power to protect you. And the princess will surely want you for her own…” I trail off.

“I know what happened to you, Princess. I had left your party and was in the woods further down the river when your life was taken from you and given to her. I had not the power to intervene, but I could act as witness and help you as I may.”

“And so you stayed with us,” I finish softly. “But tell me, what are you? Where do you come from truly?”

“I am a Horse as all horses once were. Your hostler was not too far off when he claimed I came from the Fethering Plains, for I was born not much farther south than that. That was long and long ago, even as humans measure time.”

He shakes his mane, glancing towards the kitchen door. “Have you thought on how to undo the spell?”

“Undo it.”

“Of course! You wish to undo it, don’t you?”

“I did initially, but—but I have had time to think about it, and I don’t want to anymore.”

“You don’t want to anymore.” He says the words carefully, as if they might change their meaning as he speaks them.

“No.”

“Why?” If a horse could look flabbergasted, I imagine it would look much like the white before me.

“I don’t have to be a princess. Don’t you see? I never was much of one, and I hate the court, and this is my chance to leave it all. I can choose my life!”

The white studies me, and when he speaks next it is with certain accents of disappointment. “You feel no duty towards your people?”

I feel a slight flush warm my cheeks. “My people I have left behind; even if I were a princess, I couldn’t help them from Menaiya.”

“The Menaiyans
are
your people. They have chosen you. Would you send them a viper in your place?”

I pause, thinking about Valka, about court life. “She could only do as much harm as the royal family permits; if they allow her anything, then they are probably just as bad. I wouldn’t know how to counter them. Besides, Valka will make a much better princess than I; she understands politics.”

“It is rare that someone who wants power truly deserves it. She will bring unhappiness to this land; you would do your best not to.” He is trying to be patient with me, I realize.

I shake my head. “Valka is not innately evil. She is simply unfeeling and petty. She will care more for her dresses and jewels than anything. As princess, she will have everything at her disposal. There are much worse things in a ruler than love of trinkets.”

“Do you care nothing for your own name and position?”

“There is more to life than names and positions,” I tell him angrily. “I have never truly been a princess.”

“Yes,” he agrees after a short pause. “You have never wanted your power; that only makes you a better princess than most.”

A contrary talking horse—who would have thought it possible? “Why do you care what position I hold?”

“I thought you would care. I think you still might, given time. And it seems that you will have as much as you wish.” He turns away, stepping past the other horses. “Come visit me again, Princess.”

I watch him, the way other horses take no notice of him at all: a talking horse with a sense of honor. I do not know what to make of that. I return to the inn, and spend dinner mulling over our conversation. If I barely notice Valka and her lords, I doubt they realize it. Even lying in bed I cannot quite fathom why the white would care when he had his own freedom at hand. Or hoof, as the case may be.

Eventually, I fall into an uneasy sleep and dream that I walk the plains. It is a moonless night, the land brightened only by starlight. The grasses seem deceptively short at first, but as I walk they rise up to stand shoulder to shoulder with me. It is hard walking and, while I travel a straight and purposeful path, I do not know where I go.

I come to the break so suddenly that I fall, sliding down its steep sides in a shower of shale. It is but a few paces wide, the rocky sides so sheer they tower like stone walls above me. I pick myself up, rubbing the grit from my hands, and look around. My eyes are drawn to a faint light glowing farther along the rift; when I reach it I find the opening of a tunnel.

The tunnel continues straight for a few paces with the light remaining steady, growing neither stronger nor weaker. I reach the end, turning the corner to step into bright lamplight. A spacious circular room has been hollowed out of the rock. Nothing adorns its walls; no furniture clutters the room. Only at the center stands a great, carved stone pedestal. Above it hangs the lamp. I approach cautiously, glancing around, but I am alone, the entrance I came through the only one.

I find a shallow pan filled with sparkling water set upon the stone. I peer into the water uncertainly, remembering the last time I looked for my reflection. But I see nothing strange, nothing but myself.

Myself. The face looking back is the face I have always worn. My breath escapes me with a grunt, as if I have been struck. My face! But as I watch, the water ripples from the touch of my breath and the image—shifts.

I see myself now, dressed in Menaiyan clothes, smiling a smile that is not mine. I walk through a stone courtyard towards a man. With a sickening lurch I realize it is the mage from my chamber; he smiles as he sees me, holding out a hand, but when the vision of myself reaches him, it is not my hand I give him. No, it is the blade of a dagger I place in his hand, wrapping his fingers around the sharp metal so that his blood flows down to stain the stones underfoot.

And then he is looking at me, dark eyes intent, and behind him I see the self-same walls that surround me now. His brow creases, shadows flickering across his face, and his lips move, shaping my name: Alyrra.

I shake my head, my fingers curled tight around the edge of the pedestal. The vision in the water fades and the face that looks back at me now is Valka’s. I stumble away from the pedestal, tripping over my own feet, falling towards the stone floor.

I wake with a start, my sheets tangled around my legs, my breath panting in my chest. I do not sleep again that night.

We descend from the mountains the following day. The Golden Plains stretch out as far as the eye can see, vast, waving, the grasses golden with the late summer heat. I note with relief that these grasses barely reach the horses’ knees, unlike those of my dream.

The villages we pass are spread out, the land surrounding them planted with crops: wheat and corn, as well as lower-growing vegetables, small orchards of fruit-bearing trees. Sometimes we pass great areas fenced all around, within which horses roam. These, Melkior tells the princess, are the ranches upon which some of Menaiya’s finest horses are bred.

After dinner, I make my way to the inn stables. The hostlers have yet to return from their meal, though a soldier stands guard outside the building. As I reach the white’s stall door, he turns towards me, head high and eyes bright. He wastes no times on courtesies. “Have you reconsidered your choice?”

I shrug noncommittally. “You’re very intent on—that,” I finish raggedly, the chain tightening around my neck. “What makes you think you can do anything?”

“I can’t,” he answers with complete frankness. “Only you can undo the spell.”

“Me?”

“You must either cast a counter spell of equal strength or you must convince her to lift it.”

“I am no sorceress,” I point out.

“Then you must find out what she meant to gain by attacking you.”

My thoughts fly to the dark-haired mage in my chamber. “Perhaps she has already gained it.” It was revenge she wanted against me, and that she has. The question has more to do with what the man thought to gain by talking to me: he had warned me, but why would it have mattered to him whether I lived to reach Menaiya or not? I am hardly a prize to be protected; there are five more princesses from stronger kingdoms than my own who would happily agree to such a match should I die. Though, as Daerilin had said, they will be missed where I will not.

“You have met her before.”

“Yes.”

A lone hostler enters the stable, pausing to bow when he sees me. “My lady, can I help you?”

I smile, happy to hear him speak my language. “No, thank you.” I leave the hostler to his work, returning to the inn for the night.

The next morning begins as any other. I do not suspect trouble until I catch Valka’s smirk as she steps out of the carriage to stretch her legs at mid-morning.

“Would you have my horse saddled?” she asks Captain Sarkor sweetly. “I am tired of the carriage.”

“Your Highness,” Sarkor replies, his usual curt if courteous self. He walks down the road to the end of our party, where the white is tied to the supply wagon. I watch after him surreptitiously.

“You will join me, my lords?” Valka turns a sunny smile on our companions.

“With pleasure,” Melkior says. Immediately a second soldier is dispatched for the lords’ mounts. I feel Filadon’s quick glance, but there is no fourth horse for me; had there been, I would have opted to ride long before this to escape Valka’s company. I wander away from their little group, watching as the hostlers unload the requisite saddles from the wagon. Daerilin had not given his daughter a horse to take with her; I wonder if she had asked for one, if it had occurred to either of them, or if he had simply refused her one.

A thin hostler with a crooked nose approaches the white, placing a saddle blanket across his back. The white snorts and steps away, his head snaking around, teeth bared. The hostler jumps back with a shout. The white rears in response, the blanket flying off his back like chaff, the whole wagon jerking as his lead snaps tight.

“Easy,” I cry, running towards them. The soldiers form a ring around the white at once, as if he had gone mad, their hands going to the hilts of their swords. He snorts and pulls at his lead, the muscles of his neck bulging. The wagon rolls back a foot, the horses at its front prancing nervously, the whites of their eyes showing.

“Easy,” I say again, darting between two soldiers to get to the white.

“Lady—get back,” Sarkor orders.

I hold out my hand to the white, willing him to listen to me. “Easy,” I repeat. He drops down to look at me. “Gently now.” The white stands perfectly still. “No one’s going to ride you,” I tell him. His ears flick towards Sarkor, who has begun to walk towards me. With two quick steps the white reaches me, dropping his nose into my hand.

“There,” I say, patting his cheek with my other hand. Sarkor’s hand closes on my elbow, pulling me back. “He just spooked,” I say, trying to pull out of the tight grip.

“Indeed,” Sarkor replies. “That is why I ordered you back.”

“They shouldn’t try to saddle him.” I let Sarkor guide me out of the ring, for his grip is like my brother’s and will brook no argument. Surely he will not strike me?

“They won’t,” he replies, and fires off a string of commands to his men in Menay. I glance over my shoulder: the men keep their distance from the horse, moving off to go about their duties.

Sarkor walks me away from the road, across the grass until we are no longer within earshot of the escort. They are still easily visible, but I am not sure enough of Sarkor to take comfort from that. His grip is tight, unyielding, but not painful. Yet.

“You fool,” he says, swinging me around to face him. He releases my elbow, his hands settling in fists at his waist. “What were you doing?”