Thorn (3 page)

“It is a good alliance, daughter,” she replies smoothly.

“Then I accept.” The words rustle through the room, carried by the shifting of nobles, the soft exhalations of satisfaction, for none expected a different answer. I wonder, for a single fluttering moment, what might have happened had I refused—but I would have been made to accept in the end, and would have the king’s anger to contend with as well.

A court scribe lays a sheaf of papers on the table before me, placing beside it a quill and inkpot. I turn through the sheets quickly, noticing only that my mother has settled some border estates on me. The last page has but a few lines of writing, leaving space for our signatures. I sign carefully, vaguely pleased at how smoothly I write, at the way my hand does not tremble as I put down the quill and straighten.

The scribe places the papers before the king. As he reaches for the quill, he meets my gaze. I see neither satisfaction nor sorrow in his eyes, in the set of his features. There is nothing to tell me his emotions; his composure is complete. He leans forward to sign his name in lieu of his son’s, and then Lord Daerilin and another lord step forward to sign as witnesses, followed by the two lords accompanying the king. As the scribe collects the papers and steps back, the betrothal is complete.

The king turns to me once more and smiles, though I cannot tell whether it is a true smile or only a courtly one. “I am pleased to have gained a daughter,” he says, his words clear and carrying.

“I am honored to be welcomed to your family, my lord.” It is strange to me that I answer so easily, so well. My mother speaks then, about the honor such an alliance brings to our land, and a moment later she has dismissed me. I leave, barely aware of Jerash opening the door for me though my eyesight is clear. While I see everything—the way the soldiers at the door straighten as I pass, how Jerash steps out with me as if he wishes to speak and then thinks better of it—yet somehow I do not see it at all. I simply remember it afterwards, as if I watched from a distance.

The rest of the evening blurs together. Jilna dresses me for dinner, bringing with her jewels from the treasury for my neck and hair. My mother announces the betrothal to the Hall as soldiers and servants alike cheer. There are toasts made to the new couple’s good health, so many so that I am grateful for the juice that fills my goblet, watching as the men below grow more and more drunk. Even Lord Daerilin makes a speech on the long-standing friendship of our two kingdoms, yet I do not quite hear him, cannot quite recall the sound of his words a moment later, as if I live a long-ago memory.

I leave the Hall at the end of the meal, my head ringing with the din of so many people, my eyes tearing from exhaustion and smoke. I grow aware in a strange, detached way that there have been footsteps behind me for some time. It occurs to me to wonder who follows me, and then a hand closes on my arm and spins me around, shoving me against the wall.

“Think you’re something special now, don’t you?” My brother towers over me, his shoulders blocking out the light, his breath stinking of ale. His eyes are red-rimmed, narrowed with drink and anger.
 

“Brother,” I say. I do not immediately understand him. My fingers tingle with fear. His hands tighten on my arms, pressing me against the wall, his face hovering just above mine.

“Going to be queen, are you? You think you’re better than us now?” His fingers dig into my flesh, nails pressing through the thin fabric of my sleeves to gouge my skin with bruising intensity.

“No,” I waver.

“Of course not.” His hair falls over his forehead as he leans even closer, speaking into my ear. “You’re only doing what you’re told, aren’t you?”

I turn my face away; try to pull out of his grip. He laughs. “Oh no, I don’t think you’re going anywhere quite yet.”

“Brother—”

“Do you know what a prince does when he marries a little witch like you?” I squirm in his grip but he tightens his hold. “There are stories, lovely stories. The poor little princess is found floating in the well one morning, tripped and fell in quite by accident. Or they find her body beneath the castle walls: cast herself off in a fit of despair. These things happen, you see. Terribly sad. But the alliance stands strong, and the family mourns, and the prince remarries.” He laughs, winding his hand into the hair at the base of my neck, forcing my head back so that I must meet his gaze.

“I expect he’ll have his fun with you. Perhaps he’ll throw you to his soldiers and let you choose your future: a brothel or a knife for your throat. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Kestrin’s a good man for having some fun with a girl.”

“He’s not like that,” I whisper.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

I swallow a sob, shaking my head. His fingers yank at my hair.

“Do you think your betrothal will protect you from me, little sister? Do you dare to insult me?” His voice rises as he speaks, spittle spraying my cheek.

“Is the princess unwell?”

My brother starts, twisting to look over his shoulder. I sag against the wall as he drops his hand, my braid swinging free. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“If the princess requires an escort to her room, I would be pleased to provide it.”

I sidle sideways, past my brother, and find myself facing the Menaiyan captain. His face is all planes and hard angles in the dimness of the hall. I gaze at him wordlessly. Is he actually challenging my brother?

“Do you require an escort?” he asks with a slight dip of his head, as if he were my dancing partner. He has the same lilting accent as his king.

It takes me two tries to get my words out. “N-no. Thank you.” I take one step back, then another, the captain watching me impassively, and then I turn and begin walking, my feet uncertain beneath me. It is only a temporary escape; when my brother finds me again he will be doubly angry. Ruthless.

Behind me, I can hear the captain speaking, his voice too low to pick out the words. I can barely keep from breaking into a run as I turn the corner to my room. What if my brother has gotten away from him already? And then I do run, pelting down the hall to my room. I slam the door shut, shooting the bolt home. My breath rattles in my chest. I lean my forehead against the door, half-listening for the approach of booted feet.

When Jilna comes a half hour later, she knocks thrice, calling her name that I might know it is not my brother. I sit hunched on my bed, listening, but I do not let her in. She is used to me, used to these things, and when I do not answer she leaves. I undress slowly, awkwardly, running my fingers over the bruises on my arms, brushing out my hair, careful of the tender spots where my scalp still aches. But I cannot wipe my brother’s words from my memory, cannot escape the echoes of his voice.

It is long and long before I sleep.

Four Menaiyan soldiers snap to attention as I leave my room the following morning. I stop, staring at them. They flank my door and the opposite wall, making a perfectly balanced quad. All of the Menaiyan forces are broken down into quads: four men with a balance of skills between them. I had known this, but I had not thought of it when the king arrived with so many men. Yet here is a quad waiting outside my door. They neither look at me nor speak, and after an uncertain breath I continue on. They fall into step behind me.

No matter where I go, they stay with me. At first I wonder whether they mean to accost me or merely monitor my every action. By noon I know they are there to protect me: when I pass my brother in the hallway, the glance he gives me is filled with cold fury. The soldiers do not bother to bow to him, their step behind me steady. Only when I enter the Hall for lunch do they leave me, joining their table while I sit on the dais. Still, I can feel their eyes on me and I know that they will follow me out when I finish. Now I am theirs, as the king had said, and so they guard me from my brother.

After lunch, my mother calls me to her rooms to select fabric for my new wardrobe. She bides her time, waiting until the servants have been sent off on errands: one to find a matching trim, another to fetch ribbons, the third to call the cobbler to commission slippers.

“An interesting fact has come to my attention.” She taps her finger against a length of rose linen, frowns, and changes the subject. “Linen may be too common a cloth to wear at court; we’ll only have two traveling outfits made of it. Fetch a darker rose to match with this.”

“Yes, Mother.” She hands me the cloth, waving from her chair to where the remaining linens are piled.

“Not cream; the darker rose.” I let go of the cream with a twinge of regret, straightening as she says, “A quad of Menaiyan soldiers has been shadowing you.”

I lift up the next batch of cloth: precious cotton brought up from the south. “They were outside my door this morning.”

“Are they outside now?”

“They followed me here.”

“Do they think I will attack you? Or that we cannot keep you safe ourselves?” Mother rises and reaches for the cottons, eyes flashing.

I let her take them, feeling anger blossom in my breast. Mother has never kept me safe from my brother. The only time I can remember not fearing him was before my father’s death. “I expect so.”

She stiffens, drops the cloth, and slaps me. The blow is not hard—at least it does not have half the force of my brother’s blows. It jerks my face to the side, bringing tears to my eyes. But inwardly I am laughing. The sound bubbles up, bursting from my lips to fill the room.

My mother stands before me, her face flushed and blotchy, nostrils flared in anger. She does not look beautiful at all. I raise my hand to my mouth and press my lips closed, my shoulders shaking. Now I know my mother as I never have before. She is no different from my brother: no better and no worse. The same thoughts run through her, the same wishes propel her forward, the same passions guide her actions.

“Mother,” I tell her. “You are not as wise as my brother. He is careful not to leave marks that others might see.”

“I will not be treated thus by my own kin.”

“It is you who have struck me,” I point out insolently, “not the other way around.”

“You understand me perfectly.”

“I do.” I meet her gaze, aware that I have never fought her so before. I feel the same sweet rush as I did the first time I rode Fleet Wind through the forests alone.

She smiles suddenly, her mask settling into place. “I see there is more to you than I had thought. Very good, Alyrra. You will need your wits about you to survive in Menaiya.

“Pick up the cottons.” She returns to her seat, waiting as I bend to retrieve the cloth. Already the heady sense of success begins to fade. As I turn back to her it is Menaiya that fills my thoughts.

***

The rest of the day passes in the first flurry of preparations—after ordering my new wardrobe, which will be made in the Menaiyan fashion of a tunic and sash over a long skirt, there is my jewelry to see to, the commissioning of trunks, my trousseau—the list goes on and on. By evening, I am exhausted with it all. Jilna ignores my grumblings, hurrying me into one of my good gowns. I cannot even remember if I have worn this one before or not.

Jilna gives my cheeks a hard pinch to bring back their color.

“You look terrible,” she admonishes me. “Like yesterday’s porridge left out all night. You don’t want the king to think you’re unhappy with this, do you?”

I wince. “No.”

“Good then. Keep your chin up, smile, and get to the Hall at once. They’re holding the feast for you.”

I follow her injunctions, taking my seat at the high table with a smile that hurts my cheeks. Tonight is the official betrothal celebration; the food and drink will last till the darkest hours of night. A troupe of performers makes a grand entrance, somersaulting and leaping down the Hall to stand before the dais. They juggle apples and daggers in dizzying patterns, telling bawdy jokes and engaging in mock fights that show off their tumbling skills.
 

The Menaiyan warriors observe the performance with raised eyebrows, glancing at each other occasionally. Their faces when they laugh are not kind. I watch them, wondering what amusements they are used to, and wish that our old troubadour had made the night’s entertainment. Though his voice has begun to waver, his ballads are yet things of beauty.

By night’s end, the watching and wondering has drained me, leaving me brittle, empty. My quad slips away from their table as I leave the dais, following me back to my room. I dare not turn to look at them, and so I am not sure if they are the same soldiers who accompanied me through the day.

A bulky package waits for me in my room, wrapped in velvet, resting innocently on my bed. I stand before it warily, not wanting to know what it is. Or who sent it.

“What’s that?” Jilna asks when she sees it.

I shake my head.

“Open it, then,” she says impatiently.

I unwrap the cloth to find a winter cloak. It is woven of wool softer than any I have felt before, embroidered in the same shadow-dark hue as the cloak itself: a blue so deep it might be made of night. The wool is lined with the dark fur of a creature I have no name for. It is no ordinary cloak but a work of art and time, something that would have taken months to complete. I run my fingers over the cloth, the fur. I have never received such a gift before.