Thorn (14 page)

They are good people, I think, as I listen to them night after night. Not unlike Redna and Jilna, and nothing at all like my family, nor anyone I have met in the palace here. As the days pass, I find myself more and more grateful for their welcome, for a place safe from the court.

***

Valka sends for me when my mother’s response arrives. I am impressed by the change she has wrought: her hair shines in the lamplight, a deeper, more lustrous brown than I remember, her skin cream and rose in contrast. Her figure has begun to fill out, developing curves I never had the appetite to sustain. She has begun to look the part of princess.

“Here,” she says, thrusting the letter at me once her attendants have retreated to the outer room. I read it over with interest. It is short but surprisingly kind in tone:

  
‘Alyrra,

I am pleased to hear you are settling in. You must establish yourself well. Your behavior now will decide how your family will treat you in the future. I always considered you rather weak and stupid in politics, but perhaps you will prove me wrong.

I will expect another letter from you shortly. Describe your acquaintances as well as you can; I shall advise you as I am able. For now, keep your relations with Melkior and Filadon; do not offend but do not strive to please.

‘Mother’

When I look up from the letter, Valka rests her hands on her hips as if I were a naughty child. “When will you have the reply ready?”

I raise my eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. “How can I? I have no idea what you’ve been doing. You’ll have to tell me yourself.”

Valka purses her lips, eyes narrowed. “Alright.”

I seat myself at her writing table, straightening the papers there. “We’ll start with Filadon and Melkior,” I tell her as I dip the quill. “What have you seen of them this past month?”

It seems that both the lords have distanced themselves, Filadon receding to a bowing acquaintance while Melkior might pause to greet her before moving on. Their replacements I do not like the sound of: younger men and women who dance attendance upon her. The ladies join her most mornings to embroider (the princess is making a tunic for her betrothed), but from Valka’s description they are all gossipmongers vying with each other for her favor. She has accordingly used them to gather information on each person she meets, though most of it I distrust. How can one trust informants who care only for their own good graces? Surely they would not hesitate to blacken a rival’s reputation. But Valka seems oblivious to such possibilities, happily describing each of her companions as I listen and then laboriously write out the letter in my own words but without my perspective. It is a strange thing. I feel slightly ill by the end of her tale.

I make Valka seal the papers, her crest pressed into the wax. I pray the prince cannot replicate the seal and so will not read the letter. It has not occurred to Valka to fear for its security; she leaves it on the table and retires to her room without a second glance. She makes no provision for the possibility that her attendants may report on her to others, or that her belongings may not be inviolate. For the insidious politician she is showing herself to be, she is surprisingly naïve when it comes to this. Perhaps my mother’s letter to her was more applicable than might at first appear.

***

The following morning I find a thin carpet of ice over the ground. The trees at home would be nearly bare now, and the frost would have traced out the fine veins of the leaves, coating the pine needles with fairy dust. I know these things and yet I cannot quite remember the sight of the forest from the road, the trees of my little dell.

As I leave the goose barn, my cleaning done, I hear voices from the far side of the barn. I turn towards them, confused, for a wall runs between the king’s buildings and rest of the city. Only a narrow disused alley lies between the barn and the wall. I creep closer, listening curiously to the quick patter of conversation—I can hear a man’s voice clearly, and a second voice, quieter, responding, but they are low enough that I cannot make out the words. I hesitate at the corner, peek around uncertainly.

Violet stands deep in conversation with a young man. A single lock has escaped her braid and she plays with it absently as she speaks. The man listens to her intently, his head tilted and his eyes trained on the ground. Like the other hostlers, his hair is cut short, falling in a fringe by his chin, setting off the sharpness of his jaw, the fine line of his nose. He does not wear the hostlers’ uniform though, but his own clothes. When he answers her his words are measured, as steady and sure as a farm horse.

Violet makes a quick retort, the corner of her mouth dipping down in a mock frown. The man laughs, glancing at her sideways, and his whole being lightens. She looks up at him, eyes shining, her voice a question. I can see the answer in his eyes as he looks at her. I pull back, leaning against the wall, my eyes pressed shut. I can still hear the tone of their conversation: it is sweet and full, skipping ahead when Violet speaks, and dipping down to rest when the man does.

I walk away from them, my feet heavy, my boots scuffing the earth. I wish that I could watch them longer, could listen to the wonder that is their conversation—but it is not right. They sought the passage behind the goose barn for privacy, not to share their time with me. I swing open Falada’s door, mutely falling into step with him. What would it be like to speak to a man like that? To have him look at me so? I had never hoped for it before, knowing that my marriage would be a political match. I am not sure I dare hope for more now.

I am still thinking of Violet and her friend as we pass the guard house. I start with surprise at the sound of a familiar voice, looking up to see Captain Sarkor at the gates. His eyes flick to Falada, walking without halter or lead, and then back to me. He speaks a question, and the guards who stand with him turn towards us. I train my eyes on the ground, counting the steps it takes me to pass through the gates: eleven. I cannot make out the guards’ replies.

 
Falada walks beside me, eyes far away. I cannot tell if he noticed Sarkor at the gate. I wonder if Violet will marry the man she spoke to, or if he is only a good friend. I wonder if I will ever know more of Falada than he has already told me, for he shies away from questions about his race, rarely answering me directly.

“Do you miss your home?” I ask Falada finally, not wanting to be alone with my thoughts.

It takes him a moment to come back to me. “My home?”

“Is that what you’re thinking of?”

“My home,” he murmurs softly. “No, I wasn’t thinking of that. We Horses do not have a particular home: every open space is ours. But I was missing certain places,” he glances at me. “Certain other Horses.”

“You have a family,” I say disbelievingly.

“Of course, is that not how most creatures come into the world?”

“I don’t mean parents.”

“No,” he agrees. “I have two children, both grown.”

“And a wife?”

“Yes.”

“What is she like?”

“Selarina is always laughing. She is wise and gentle and more stubborn than anyone I have ever met.” His eyes twinkle. “Even you.”

“You should go back to her.”

“I choose to stay with you, Alyrra.”

“Won’t she worry?”

“No.”

I nod, careful not to press him with more questions. We all need our quiet, I think. We all have our unspoken wishes, hopes we cannot mention, choices we may yet regret.

Today the geese are pastured at the nearest meadow. I have learned by now that there are four different pastures for the geese, each with its own little stream or pond. We cycle through them, allowing each to grow back for a few days before returning. Most of the pastures lie within sight of the road, though the one we visit today sits in a slight dip of land, more like a shallow bowl than a valley in these flat plains. This pasture I like the least, for it is hard to see past the walls of the pasture; I am always most grateful for Falada’s presence here.

I sit perched upon a rock, brushing out my hair as I watch the geese, running through the words I have most recently learned from the hostlers. Violet, with a mischievous smile I can only now appreciate, has taught me “handsome” and “strong,” while Rowan took me through the painstaking process of counting to ten. Falada stands beside me, occasionally murmuring a correction.

I take my time brushing my hair. Every week I fetch a bucket of water to my room to bathe with, rubbing myself clean with a rag and then washing my hair. With the colder days and nights, Valka’s thick curls have little chance to dry out—either when braided or when tossed over my pillow at night. So I have taken to brushing my hair out while watching the geese. Falada does not like it, but I prefer this to developing a chill. We have agreed only that he will stand between myself and Corbé, blocking his view.

Corbé has improved not at all. Though we have kept each other’s company these past weeks, we have grown no friendlier than his dark looks and grunted greetings will allow. Falada has counseled me to refrain from more than my daily greeting, delivered with a progressively more strained smile. That I have taken his advice is no source of pride to myself.

I braid my hair up again quickly today, then sit with my knees drawn up, watching the flock. The geese ignore me, waddling across the ground digging for insects or pulling up grass with their beaks, or dipping into the stream. They are strange birds, I think. They care nothing for the humans among them. Or perhaps it is us who are strange, thinking so much of ourselves.

I am still thinking of the geese as I brush Falada down that night. He turns his head to watch me, and I wonder what he has thought of all day out in the pasture.

“What is it?” I whisper, though there are no hostlers in sight.

“Only this: if I should die—”

“Why would you die?”

He watches me calmly. “If I should die,” he repeats, “then keep a part of me near you.”

“Why?” I ask, coming to stand at his head.

“Because I ask it of you.”

“You’ll see your wife again,” I tell him. “I know it.”

He does not answer me.

***

Two nights later, when I enter my room on our return from the pastures, I find it empty, my belongings gone. All that remains is the small stool and the rolled sleeping mat. When I turn back to the door, I find Matsin and Finnar waiting for me.

“Come sit with me.” The prince lazes in his chair at the table, before him a silver platter heaped with fruit. As I sit down he picks out a peach and begins to cut it with a small, jeweled knife, setting each curving, golden slice down on a plate before him.

“Are you hungry?”

“I am well, Your Highness.” I drop my eyes from the peach to the tabletop. My stomach tightens as I think of Laurel and the others hostlers sharing their dinner, then of the peach. It must have come from afar, for winter draws near already.

He sets the last slice down on the plate before him, glances at me inquiringly. “Surely you miss such treats now?”

“I am grateful for what I have, Your Highness.”

“Hmm.” He spears a peach slice with the tip of his knife and lifts it up, meeting my gaze as he bites into it. I blink—when did I shift my gaze to him? I turn my face back to the table, waiting as he watches me.

“Yet you seem to have taken more than your share.”

“Your Highness.” It is not so much a question as an acknowledgement.

With studied casualness he says, “Explain how you neglected to mention you had the princess’s cloak in your keeping when last we spoke.”

I consider the angles. There are not many. With a small smile I reply, “Your Highness did not ask.”

“A clear failing on my part.” My eyes dart to him, catch the faint curl of amusement at the corners of his mouth.

“It is not the cloak that concerns you,” I hazard.

“It is not
only
the cloak the concerns me,” he corrects me. “I have taken the liberty of looking through your trunks.” I flush, embarrassed that he should have seen my clothes, or Valka’s. It is an unsettlingly intimate violation.

“Are you upset?” His voice is almost teasing, as if this were all a good joke among friends. But I do not count him a friend. Like my brother, he will either laugh at my anger or hold my impudence against me. I dare not answer him.

“Come now, lady. I thought we had gotten past the part where you sit still as stone and refuse to speak. Or have you turned to stone?”

“Your Highness?” I ask, unsure what he might ask next if I don’t answer.

“Ah, good; you have found your voice.” He taps the butt of his knife against the table. He is growing irritated with me, I think, a bitter taste on my tongue. “I was surprised to find you have a trousseau.”

“Yes.”

“Lord Daerilin expected you to marry?”

“Yes.” Whether he thought me Alyrra or Valka, he expected us both to marry.

“Yet he knew your prospects were not good. Your strained relationship with the princess would not have placed you well. Even we have heard of your reputation here. ”