Princess of Thorns (11 page)

“I can imagine,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Truly. Always right, always wise and sage, but no one will listen.”

I throw my wet linen at him, but he dodges it easily.

“Say I was right,” he says with a laugh.

I stick my tongue out in response, which only makes him laugh harder.

“Say I was right,” he says, “and I’ll let you have the saddle until we stop to water the horses.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised by the offer.

“As long as I hear something sweet,” he says, cupping a hand behind his ear.

“You were right.” Forget pride. There are more important things, like being able to feel my bottom at the end of the day. “Absolutely right.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Niklaas throws an arm around my shoulders and knuckles my head before bounding off to where the horses are tied as if he had slept sixteen hours instead of six.

No, it wasn’t hard, but I’ve had experience admitting I was wrong. Especially this past year, when everything I touch seems to turn to crypt dust beneath my hands. Admitting I’ve made a mistake comes easily these days.

I only hope it will be as easy for Niklaas when it’s his turn.

Our second day on the road passes much more peacefully than the first—thank all the gods and goddesses and the little baby demigods in their downy cradles. The most dangerous creature we encounter is a snake that slithers across Ror’s boot when the boy goes creeping into the woods to answer the call.

He’s an odd bird—with his craving for pissing and washing up in private when it’s only the two of us—but fourteen is a strange age. Usio stopped bathing for months around then, and I spent my fourteenth year sleeping in a hammock I’d hung above my bed because I was convinced sleeping in hammocks was good training for adventuring.

As if there were hammocks strung up in the trees along every roadside.

Fourteen-year-olds are idiots, but Ror proves himself less idiotic than most. When we ride beneath a swarm of crows near dawn on the third day, he is careful to keep his face covered, and when we rejoin the road and encounter the rare fellow traveler, he never speaks a word. He even obeys my order to stay hidden with the horses while I enter the one inn between the barrier woods and Goreman to take my evening meal alone before fetching out a dozen chicken legs and a sack of rolls for Ror.

Our third day ends in a cave a few fields from the road, where we find shelter just before a rain, and the fourth begins with leftover rolls shared between us next to the remains of our fire. The fifth and the sixth days pass in a blur of riding and watering the horses and getting off to walk the animals when they, or our own poor, abused asses, grow too tired for riding.

With each passing day, Ror becomes increasingly enjoyable company. His imperious, impatient side softens, and I learn that his crookedly clownish side is the more natural one for the boy.

We fall into a pattern of good-natured teasing, with the occasional sharing of something true about ourselves and our lives, and—by the time we awake on our seventh morning on the trail—I’m feeling positively affectionate toward the little bastard. I’ve never had a younger brother, but if I did, I’d want him to be like Ror: quick with a joke, slow to truly anger, loyal to his friends, skilled with his weapon of choice, gentle with his horse, and odd enough in his thoughts and habits to be interesting. I’ve come to like the idea of keeping Aurora’s little brother under my wing, of having someone to bully and teach and adventure with the way Usio and I once did. I think my blood brothers would like that, knowing their legacy was being passed on and their stories told.

It makes me even more determined to prove that the gloom that fills Ror’s eyes every time I mention his sister’s name is a storm made of empty clouds and not a drip of rain. No matter what he thinks, I believe I will be able to win Aurora. I
must
believe it.

“Is that smoke on the horizon?” Ror asks, standing up in the saddle he won the use of in a vicious game of dice between us the night before. He pulls my hood back far enough for his nose to peek out and sniffs the air.

“It is,” I say. “We’ll reach the outskirts of Goreman by noon.”

“We will?” Ror asks, excitement rising in his voice. “Then we may be able to hire a guide today instead of—”

“We’ll reach the New Market, where the looters and slave traders sell their scraps, by noon, but I wouldn’t stop there for a meal, let alone to make camp.”

“How long until we reach where we
will
be staying?”

“The best inns are another hour and a half by horse, over Long Bridge, past the cathedral ruins, on the cliffs above the shore,” I say, “but we’ll settle for something clean in the city center, near the arena. It’s always crowded there, and we should blend in with the other boys staying in the city for the blood tournaments.”

“I thought blood tournaments were outlawed.” Ror stretches taller in his saddle, as if he expects to be able to see all the way to the arena where young men risk their lives to win purses smaller than my monthly allowance. “My fairy mother said even Ekeeta signed the treaty.”

I snort. “She hates to see a human die before she’s claimed their soul, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Ror agrees. “Still … I wonder if she knows the tournaments are still being held in a corner of her country.”

“It’s Goreman,” I say with a shrug.

“It’s still part of Norvere.”

“A far-flung part that’s always made its own rules. It’s a feral place.”

“How feral?” Ror asks, concern coloring his tone.

“The elder council maintains a militia that keeps the streets safe enough, but you won’t see many women or children in the city, aside from the whores in their houses and the damaged things who sell themselves near the arena stables,” I say, wishing I could banish some of the sights I’ve seen near those stables from my mind—the little girls with their right hands painted red, meaning that their tiny fists were ready to service any twisted monster with a coin or two; the crippled girl with her shriveled leg, using her walking stick to brace herself as some stranger lifted her skirts in full view of half the men drinking at the beer tents.

If it had been my choice, a single trip to Goreman and its infamous arena would have been more than enough, but Usio had a sick appreciation for the blood tournaments. He even competed on occasion, fighting like a boy who knew he had only a little life left to lose. He always won, but that didn’t keep my heart from leaping into my throat and choking me half to death every time the arena announcer called his name.

“We won’t linger long.” I push my dark memories to the back of my mind. “Anyone who stays in Goreman more than a few days is asking for a knife in the gut.”

“Then why should we stay even a night?” Ror asks.

“Because we’re road-weary, filthy, and in need of a decent night’s sleep,” I say, resisting the temptation to slap the boy on the back of the head to knock some sense into him. “And a change of clothes and an extra bedroll wouldn’t be a bad idea, either. I’ll duck into the exchange and see about that and soap and razors and anything else we think we’ll need, and then we’ll find an inn where they won’t ask too many questions.”

“But we should still be settled before supper. That leaves several hours left to at least
start
looking for—”

“Several hours to take a long bath and have a leisurely shave.”

“Even a long bath and a
leh-sure-lay
shave,” he says, mocking the lazy vowels of my Kanvasol accent, “can’t take more than an hour.”

“I’ll be washing my hair as well.” I shove the ratty mess from my face. “I suggest you do the same. Your knot is getting ripe under that hood. I can’t decide what smells worse, you or the saddle blanket.”

Ror snorts. “How you can smell anything over the fried-onion reek of your own armpits and the cheese stink of your feet is what’s truly amazing.”

I laugh. “Then you agree we should spend the evening getting clean and fed and enjoying a well-earned rest after crossing half the damned country in barely a week?”

Ror settles back into the saddle with hunched shoulders. “Yes. Fine. All right.”

“What was that?”

“All right. You’re right,” he mumbles in a dejected voice that takes all the fun out of the words. “It makes sense to have a good night’s sleep.”

“It does. And it’s only a few extra hours,” I assure him. “We’ll go looking for a guide first thing tomorrow. Should be easier to spot one in the daylight anyway.”

“Why is that?”

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” I say with a grin. “Wouldn’t want you rushing off to find one on your own and wiggling out of your half of the bargain, now, would we?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Ror says, sounding genuinely hurt.

“There, there, little man, don’t get sniffly, I was only joking.”

“I’m not sniffly, and don’t call me that,” he says, his hands tightening on Button’s reins. “I swear I’m going to bite your arm the next time you call me ‘little’ anything. Give you a scar in the shape of my
‘wee tiny little’
teeth to remember me by!”

“All right,” I say, surprised by how sensitive he’s being. “I said I was sorry.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, I am.” I guide Alama close enough to Button that I can lay a hand on Ror’s shoulder. “Seriously. I was just taking it out on you, like usual.”

Ror sighs and relaxes beneath my hand, but he doesn’t say a word.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “You haven’t seemed yourself today.”

“I’m worried about my friend,” Ror says softly. “About what might be happening to him. I put it out of my mind while we were traveling, but now that we’re so close …”

I squeeze his shoulder, amazed again at how slight he is. No matter how I enjoy teasing him about his size, it’s easy to forget how little he is. His personality comes off much larger than nine or ten hands. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a guide tomorrow and, if all goes well, be in the Feeding Hills by tomorrow night.”

He looks up, the hood shadowing his features, making the hollows of his eyes look bruised with worry. “I know but … what if you’re right? What if the exiles refuse to help? What if we’ve traveled all this way for nothing?”

“Then you’ll think of something,” I say. “I’ll help, if you like, as soon as you—”

“Take you to see my sister.” He shrugs my hand off with a roll of his shoulder. “You’re like a parrot. A lazy parrot, who would only be trained with a single, stupid phrase.”

Normally, I would laugh, but it’s obvious Ror is still angry. “Being single-minded isn’t a sign of laziness,” I say in my most reasonable voice. “It’s a sign of being focused on getting what you want. I would think you would understand that.”

“I do,” he says, some of the heat leaving his tone. “But sometimes you can’t have what you want, no matter how you focus. Sometimes you have to give up and move on.”

“Are you going to give up?” I ask. “If the exiles tell you no?”

He blinks, as if I’ve said something that makes no sense at all.

“Well, will you?” I press.

“Of course not,” he says, brows furrowing with determination. “I won’t give up trying to save him until I know he’s dead. And then I still won’t give up. I’ll keep hunting for an army until I find someone willing to help me destroy Ekeeta for what she’s done.”

“Well then. Don’t expect me to give up, either.”

“Getting some girl to marry you isn’t a matter of life or death, Niklaas,” Ror says in his uppity voice, the one that reminds me of Haanah’s when she used to chastise me for wasting my time adventuring with Usio when, in her esteemed, feminine opinion I should have been hunting for a way out of the curse.

She didn’t understand how hard it was to
imagine
a way out, let alone go hunting for one. By that point, I’d seen nine brothers transformed, watched the painful shrinking of their bones and the obscene ripple of their flesh as their human skin was stolen away and replaced with a swan’s feathers. My fate seemed inescapable. It took time—and a meeting with the witch who cursed the males of my line—for me to learn how to hope.

Haanah didn’t understand that, just as Ror doesn’t understand that it is impossible for me to give up the hope I’ve fought so hard to possess.

“You don’t know what will be the life or death of me,” I say in a soft voice. “You don’t know me at all, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your opinions to yourself.”

“I know more than you think,” Ror says, ignoring my request.

“Is that right?” I don’t bother hiding the challenge in my voice.

“It is,” he says, a cunning note in his. “I know you’re not as happy or carefree as you pretend to be. And I know you’re kinder than you would have people believe.”

“I’m not kind,” I say. “I’m self-interested.”

“That too,” Ror agrees, guiding Button close enough to crowd Alama to one side of the road. “And fiercely secretive when you want to be. That’s how I
also
know that you’re
never
going to tell my sister the truth about why you want to marry her, no matter what you say. If you won’t tell me, you’re certainly not going to tell her.”

“You’re mad.” I give Alama a squeeze with my legs, urging her to pull ahead, deciding I’d rather not ride beside Ror for the next leg of the journey.

“Am I?” He nudges Button with his heels until the larger horse keeps pace. “I hear the way you talk. You think the girls you care for should be coddled and protected, the girls you lust after charmed until you grow tired of them, and none of them told what’s really going on in your head.”

I flinch, unnerved by how hard he’s hit upon the truth. It’s not as devilish and manipulative as he makes it sound, but still …

“And so,” he continues, “whether you decide to care for my sister or to lust after her, it won’t matter. You still won’t tell her the truth.”

“And how have you worked that out?” I ask with a bemused look in his direction.

“Well, if you care for her, you’ll lie to protect her from whatever it is you’re hiding.” I chuckle, and Ror pushes on with a stormy look. “And if you lust after her, you’ll seduce your way into getting what you want.”

“And seduction is a lie, too, I suppose?”

“Of course it is,” Ror says, sounding angrier by the minute. “Unless you mean the sweet things you whisper, seduction is the same demon wearing different clothes.”