Thorn (17 page)

“You’re happy this morning,” Falada observes as we walk down West Road soon after.

I break off humming to grin at him. “I—well, yes, I am.” Deep inside, I hear Ash ask
Who pushed you?
I am amazed the sun does not shine.

“I wouldn’t have thought a bump on the head would improve you so. The next time you walk around looking like a rainy day, I’m taking you to find another youth to save.”

I laugh, and immediately regret it as pain laces across my forehead. “Was I that bad?”

“Worse,” Falada tells me, stepping sideways to avoid my shove. “What happened?”

I take a breath, let it out. “The hostlers are thinking to breed you.”

“Are they? I shall be sorry to disappoint them. And how did you, with your limited vocabulary, learn of this new plan?”

“The prince told me.”

“Kestrin? Indeed.” And then, gently, “What else did he tell you?”

“Only that he knows I am a fraud. He considers me a puzzle of sorts, not particularly important, perhaps entertaining enough to keep for a winter evening’s amusement to unravel.” Falada’s breath makes dragon smoke before us. “He had my belongings brought to him, and he found the cloak, as well as Valka’s trousseau. He knows I was never Valka.”

“You do not wish him to find you out.”

“No,” I agree quietly.

“What do you think he will do when he does?”

“I can’t say. Perhaps if he hasn’t guessed yet he won’t.”

Falada eyes me askance. “He knows you have the princess’s signature.”

I swallow a curse, furious with myself. Of course he knows I have her script. My own script. What maid could do that? If I’m not Valka, and I’m not a maid, that leaves only one other person: the princess herself. I shake my head in denial. I wish I had thought through my words to Kestrin. I wish I had been able to think at all.

“Will you not be princess?”

I hesitate. But Kestrin is both sorcerer and prince. He frightens me more than my own brother; at least I had understood my brother. “How could I marry him?” I ask Falada, leaving my fears unspoken. “What would I do as princess? I listen to Valka’s account of the court—I would no more fit there than a goose girl born and bred. I do this post more honor than I ever could that of princess.”

“Every post is what you make of it. Valka may adorn the title of princess better, but you will put it to better use.”

“How?” I ask plaintively.

“You care for more than yourself,” Falada says. “That is an excellent start. You have grown much these past few months, since the king first came for you. You are certainly capable.”

“I’m afraid of Kestrin,” I admit finally, keeping my head bent. “I’m afraid of what he might do to me.”

“He won’t harm you,” Falada says confidently. “I’ve heard the talk of the court, and what is said about him; he is not a violent man.”

“What a man does behind closed doors,” I say with a shrug.

“He will never harm his wife,” Falada says patiently, “because if anyone learned of it, it would weaken his position as well. The king offered you his protection in your own home. They will grant you the same now.”

I do not quite believe him, remembering Kestrin’s restrained anger. He had been close to violence. And fists aren’t Kestrin’s only weapon. “There are more ways than one to hurt. His wit is sharp as a blade. And … I am no princess.” I don’t know how to play at politics, or protect myself from him.

Falada makes a sound of frustration.

I take another tack. “Kestrin may not wish me harm, but he cannot even protect himself from the Lady. She would never forgive me if—”

“If you fought back against her?” Falada interrupts.

“Well, yes.”

“Not very long ago you felt you owed the prince for having betrayed him to the Lady through Valka. What we discuss now is an alliance with him. Don’t you owe him that?”

“I told him to beware; that’s enough. I
owe
him nothing.”

“Don’t you?”

“Why should I give more?” I ask angrily. It was all Kestrin gave me—useless warnings.

“At some point you must take responsibility for your life, Alyrra. No one, you least of all, has the right to betray a person who has implicitly trusted you.”

“There is no trust between us. He would be a fool to trust me or the stranger that is his bride …” I trail off. I had stood beside him against the Lady that night, an excellent reason for him to trust Valka now. Or to trust whoever he suspects to be princess.

Falada does not notice my uncertainty. “When he knows who you are, he will expect you to act with honor, to keep the trust you agreed to when you signed your betrothal papers.”

“He can have Valka instead. He’ll know her for a fraud and can do what he likes from there. It isn’t my concern,” I argue, though I am not sure I believe myself.

“Can you in clear conscience name Valka your successor?”

If only Valka weren’t who she is. But then, if she had been a better person, she would not have betrayed me to the Lady. Having betrayed me, I don’t doubt she will betray Kestrin. Unless he discovers her first. I rub the back of my neck, my muscles tight. At least he does not trust her.

“Think on it then, if you will,” Falada tells me. “You still have a little time.”

“And then the choice will be made for me,” I say. I have a fleeting thought to run away, but I don’t know where I would go or how I would survive.

Falada touches my shoulder with his nose, a gentle tap. “You will always have a choice.”

I don’t answer. We continue on towards the goose pasture in silence. As we near the boundary wall, I ask hesitantly, “Will you stay with me?”

“Only so long as you need me, and then I will leave.”

“Where will you go?”

“South of the Fethering Plains.”

“To your family,” I murmur.

“Yes.” He throws me a sharp look. “You are stronger than you think. I could leave today, and I expect in the end it would be the same with you.”

“No!” I say fiercely. “Don’t leave me now.”

“I won’t.”

The following days dawn in shades of gray, layers of clouds obscuring the sun from sight. A cold wind blows from the mountains, rustling across the plains and whistling through the walls of the city. For a week or perhaps longer they withhold their promise of rain or snow, I know not which. I miss the crisp coldness of the forest winters I have known. I daydream of warm bread and mittens and the weight of snow on pine trees. The winter here is a different creature all together, lying heavily over my shoulders and stealing into my bones.

Today a hunting party rides out. A line of horses wait, tethered to the practice ring fence; they are outfitted with sleek hunting saddles, or else richly caparisoned in gold and silver for the ladies who will accompany the hunt. Young men in palace uniforms rush in and out of the stables, pestering the hostlers and checking the horses’ gear.

Done with my cleaning, I slip into Falada’s stall, going to stand by his head. “It’s too busy to take you out, isn’t it?” I whisper.

“You do not want to attract undue attention from Valka’s quarter,” Falada concurs. “The hunt might pass the pasture.”

Unsaddled, unbridled, and in the company of a servant, Falada would attract as much attention from the palace folk as the appearance of a gryphon strolling through the city gates. “We’ll go for a walk together tonight,” I promise.

The flock is settled into the hidden pasture, set back from West Road. I cast a quick glance at our charges to ascertain none are in danger of casually wandering off, select a stone seat some distance from Corbé, and unbraid my hair. It is still wet from last night’s washing, and the curls have tangled abominably despite the braid, or perhaps because of it. Even as cold as the day is, my hair could do with a good airing out. I open up the first short span and spread each lock over my knees to work the comb through it a handbreadth at a time.

I think of a hundred things as I brush: that the hem of my skirt will require mending; that I would have liked to ride through the plains and see more of them; that I do not yet know the plants of this land; that I no longer like to sleep in my room though my trunks have reappeared as quietly as they vanished, only the cloak gone.

It takes a moment for the crunch of pebbles beneath booted feet to make its way to my ears. I turn to see Corbé advancing towards me. I stumble to my feet, my hand clenched tightly around my staff as he closes the distance between us. He smiles, and it is a smile that turns my stomach to ice. I glance around in panic for Falada, for anyone, but there is no one here.

“You’re a pretty thing,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “I’ve been wanting to get a hold of that hair.”

“No.” I back away. I do not know the right words, can’t think of how to tell him to stay back. He darts forward to catch hold of my braid, hauling me towards him. For a moment it is not him I see but my brother, eyes glittering, lips drawn back in sneering enjoyment. I feel the whistle of my staff through the air and then the satisfying jolt of wood in my hand, hard against my palms.

Corbé roars, his face twisting in pain. I raise the staff and bring it back again, watch the way the dark pole meets his cheek. Blood spurts from his nose, droplets spattering my face as his head jerks back. He shouts words I have not yet learned, loosing my braid to clutch his face.

It is only when I feel the shape of my mouth as I gaze at him that I realize what I have done. I gain the crest ringing the meadow in moments, throwing all my mind and energy into one thing: to run. If all that I am and have been and can be is focused into this one reality of running, perhaps I can escape all that I may be. It is the only thought I will allow myself.

I run until the plains are strange to my eyes. Though I cast my gaze back, I cannot see how far I have come for there are no landmarks but the city itself, a dark blot on the plains. I have left the farms behind, stumbling now through the plains themselves. Still I think that should I run so far that I reach the sea I should not have run far enough, for the thing I run from rides on my back and in my blood and will not be shaken.

Finally, exhaustion takes over my limbs and I drop into a shuffling walk. Once more I feel the grain of the wooden staff in my hands, the way it swings so easily—as if I had practiced such a move in so close quarters more often than I have drawn breath. Blood lifts in the air, arcing away, taking my breath with it. My lips twist in a vicious smile. Again and again. So it is that, though the world is still bright with light, I do not see the ridge until I set my foot upon the air where the ground should have continued.

I swallow my cry as I fall, rolling and skidding to the bottom of the rocky ravine. A shower of pebbles comes loose, pelting me like so many memories. I huddle there, pressing myself into a ball and concentrating on the pain of my hands rubbed raw by the fall, my scraped knees and the cut across my shins. These things are real, their pain deserved. I realize dimly that someone is sobbing: the sound comes from far away, echoing through my mind as if down dark stone corridors.

I lie there long enough for the ragged weeping to still, long enough for my blood to close up the scratch on my shin. I sit up slowly, propping myself on my hands, using my tattered cloak as a cushion for my bloodied palms. The rift walls rise around me, twice as tall as a man. The sides are a mixture of dirt and rock, sheer enough that few grasses grow here. The first drops of rain from the clouds overhead spot the ground. I doubt I will be able to claw my way back up now, certainly not if the rocks grow slippery.

I will walk then, until I find a way back up. The going is slow. I dropped my staff in the first frantic moments of flight and even now when it might have helped me I am no longer sure I want it. The rain falls steadily, weighing down my cloak and skirt, wet folds sticking to my legs. Cracks in the stone begin to appear, shallow fissures barely an arm length deep. A breeze whips through the rift, cutting through my clothes. When I look at my fingers, they are white with cold. My teeth chatter uncontrollably. Yet I do not think it can really be that cold. There is no sleet, no ice.

I pause finally at a fissure tucked between two slabs of rock. It has the vague comfort of a half-remembered haunt, and seems deep enough to offer some shelter. When I stoop to enter, I realize that the fissure has been hollowed out, the tunnel behind it cutting up through the rock so that I can move without bending over. I stand for a moment in the twilight of the tunnel, listening to the moan of the wind, the patter of raindrops on stone. The air lies still here. I rub my hands over my face as if I could wake myself from yet another nightmare. But the tunnel remains, neutral in its reality, and behind me the rift.

I make myself follow the tunnel, one hand trailing along the rock wall. It makes a single turn and ends at a slab of rock as smooth as a baby’s cheek. I rest my forehead against it, wrapping my arms across my chest. Darkness surrounds me, leaching away detail, leaving only the slightest trace of reality. I know already what I will find. Closing my eyes, I press my palms against the rock.

The stone door swings back, moving smoothly on hidden hinges. I put one hand on the doorframe, peering in. I can make out nothing of the room before me. What dim light illumined the stone door fails at this point, but my dream-memory serves me well enough: it will be a round room, the circular walls smooth and unmarked. At the center stands a stone pedestal, hanging from the ceiling above it an ornate lamp.