Thorn (6 page)

We break at midday, stopping at a clearing by the roadside. A brook burbles at its edge, separating it from the surrounding forest. The soldiers spread a rug on the grass for Valka and me, bringing out platters of food brought from home. I watch them without enthusiasm; sharing my meals with Valka for the entire journey makes me want to fast.

“Come get some water with me,” Valka says, appearing beside me with a goblet in her hand. If it weren’t an invitation, it would have been a command.

“Oh,” I say, so surprised that I accept the goblet. I follow her to the stream, but she does not speak again. I think better of addressing her, unsure if her words were a token of peace or only a momentary lapse.

At least the stream is too shallow for her to drown me in. As I kneel to fill my goblet I measure its width: I might easily have leapt across it. I lift up the goblet, the forest water sweet on my tongue. Behind us, I can hear the Menaiyan soldiers speaking, their words mingling with the water’s voice. Valka stands further downstream, holding her own goblet. She looks at me strangely, anger and confusion playing over her features. When she meets my gaze she whirls and stalks back to our meal, never having tasted the water herself.

I carry the strangeness of her actions with me through the day, wondering if I might ever make peace with her. We stop for the night at a small inn nestled at a crossroad. I am grateful for the tiny room I am given, separate from Valka, but tranquility eludes me. Strange visions haunt my sleep, and twice I have woken expecting the Lady to have returned with her death-still eyes. Each time I find nothing but the darkness of my room, no sound but the creaking of old wood. I lie still and think of my nighttime visitor: surely he was a Menaiyan sorcerer? That would explain his appearance. Then again the Menaiyan soldiers watching my door may just as easily have allowed him to pass. But why had he kept his name secret when he expected I would meet him in Tarinon? And just how many sorcerers does the Menaiyan court boast?

At length I rise and dress myself, splashing water on my face from the basin. The cold of it makes my skin prickle. The pouch my mother gave me I hang around my neck, tucked under my gown. The cord looks odd next to Jilna’s thin silver chain and pendant; neither, I think, should be worn by a princess traveling to her wedding. One speaks of sorcery and deception, the other of friendship and love. I stand for a moment holding the cord and chain together in my fist, and then let them go.

A quad made up of a combination of our own guards and the Menaiyan soldiers trails me to the stables. Despite the early hour, the hostlers we brought with us are already awake and tending to the horses. The white stallion stands at the center of his stall, tail swishing, head turned towards me. One of the hostlers approaches me deferentially.

“Is this horse in your charge?” I ask.

“Yes, Your Highness.” The man is small but sturdy, his face broad and weatherworn; there is gentleness written in the lines by his eyes. I have seen him before in the stables, but rarely spoken to him.

“What is your name?”

“Westrin.”

Good then; this is Redna’s friend. I turn back to the stall. “What breed is he?”

“He’s from the Southeast—a special breed from the Fethering Plains. They’ve a fancy name, Highness, but I don’t know it. They’re known for their strength.” The man hesitates, glancing over his shoulder to where the guards wait at the door, and then whispers, “You won’t want to ride him, Highness.”

“Redna told me.” I watch the horse, aware that the man has gone as still as a wild creature scenting danger. “Can he be broken?” The white is in the prime of life, with a high crest and proud bearing. He tilts his head slightly, his ears swiveling to catch our conversation, his dark eyes shining in the faint light.

Westrin licks his lips. “He went wild when we tried to saddle him, and he isn’t young. Even so, it might be possible.”

I can hear the sound of people crossing the yard to the stables, and am mildly gratified when my guards step out to stop whoever approaches. “Can you free him?”

Westrin stares. “Free him?”

“He’s a wild creature—he deserves to go free.”

“I don’t know.” He wrings his hands.

“Try,” I suggest.

“We are too closely guarded,” he murmurs. My guards step back through the doorway, followed by two of the inn stable hands.

I keep my eyes on Westrin, but he will not meet my gaze. He is right; there is hardly a moment when the soldiers do not watch their charges. “Very well,” I say sadly, glancing back at the white.

Just past dawn we ride forth once more, Valka grumbling about the early hour. The maid, Tarina, makes commiserating sounds. As becomes Valka’s habit over the following days, she falls asleep soon after the carriage begins its slow, steady rumble. The road stretches out before us, cutting through the forest. The wind blows steadily, sifting through the horses’ manes, and cooling the hot riders, but it is not the Wind I have known all my life and that only aids in worrying me until I realize that my Wind may be as much of a homebody as I was, spending its wind-sprite life in the same dells and shaded glens where it was born. At night, my brother’s words echo through my dreams; his smile flashes before me, eyes hooded, and I see the way his mouth shapes the name “Kestrin,” and I hear his laughter. I wake in fear of seeing him, or the Lady.

Valka and I reach an unspoken agreement: we do not care for each other’s company, but we will endure it as well as we might. She makes no attempt at conversation, and after a few awkward efforts, I let her be. But sometimes, as we sit with the trees rolling gently past, I find her gazing at me with a look I have seen in the eyes of village children: hunger. Every day I trust her less, for wherever I turn she follows. She watches me continually, silently, coldly. It comes to me that I feel as a small bird might before the gaze of a viper. And yet I cannot imagine what Valka can do to me. She is not one of Menaiya’s secret enemies, but my own trouble.

On our last day with our guard from home, we break for lunch at a high mountain meadow. As I step down from the carriage, Lieutenant Balin approaches me. “Your Highness, there is a river running through the woods there, if you wish to refresh yourself before eating.”

On a whim, I turn to Valka and ask, “Are you going?”

“Yes,” she tells me. “Here is your goblet next to mine.” I take it with a half-smile, knowing better than to read friendship into her words, and start through the tall grasses towards the trees. Valka follows, and when I glance back she smiles at me. It is a strange, nervous smile, making me think of a girl going to her first ball.

As we pass the soldiers, I notice Westrin at the back of our little caravan. He watches the men nervously, and then lifts his hand to the white’s halter and slips the buckle open. The white drops his head and steps back, pulling at the suddenly loose halter. I look away as Westrin walks off to help with the soldiers’ horses. I hope the white makes his bid for freedom as softly as he can.

I reach the river, kneeling to fill my goblet, my thoughts still with the white. The water is sweet and pure. Setting the goblet aside, I scoop up water to wash my face, the crisp coolness driving away the heat of the day. Valka remains where she emerged along the bank; I can feel her eyes on my back and resolutely ignore her.

I reach to scoop up more water and then pause, staring. There is something odd about my reflection but I cannot make out what, for the water does not run smoothly but in ripples and eddies. I dip my fingers into the river, breaking the image. But it does not break.

A hand reaches up and closes around my wrist. I choke on a cry of terror, jerking away, but it pulls down—hard—and I lose my footing on the muddy bank, falling headfirst into the rushing waters. The world is strange, blunted, beneath water. I twist, striking out, but cannot quite find my attacker. The hand still holds my wrist in an iron grip. I kick, desperately trying to tear myself away, push my way to the surface. The air burns in my lungs, spots dancing before my eyes. Something touches my throat—a knife? I flail away from it, feel a slicing pain, and abruptly I am released. I find myself on my hands and knees, coughing up water, gentle waves lapping around my chest.

I look up in terror, my hair sending an arc of droplets flying over the quiet waters. The river runs clear. But the birds are silent. I struggle to my feet. On the bank, I see Valka smiling. For one sodden moment I think she smiles at me, but she is looking past me. A terrible fear settles in my stomach, as heavy and dark as lead.

The Lady stands in the water a few paces away. Her hair falls white as snow over her shoulders, framing pale skin, high cheekbones. Her dress seems made of water, her body beneath as indistinguishable as the sea’s bottom from a ship’s deck. It is her eyes I recognize, dark holes in her skull, fathomless, empty. She holds out her hand, a small, cruel smile flitting across her lips: a pouch swings over the water from the cord she holds. I stare at it entranced.

When I finally raise my eyes to meet the Lady’s, I recognize the look in her eyes. But when she speaks it is to Valka. “You have served me well.” Her voice has the whisper of daggers through night air. I raise my chin, refusing to look away from her.

“My Lady, I have,” Valka answers from the bank. “And you have promised me a reward.”

“You shall have your reward.” The Lady’s gaze remains on me. “You shall be princess.”

“No,” I say thickly, as if half-drunk and slow of wits.

“Be quiet,” Valka snaps. “You’ve no say in this. The Lady has promised: I shall be princess in your stead and none will know the truth.”

The Lady lets her hand fall to her side, the pouch melting into her dress. When she raises a hand again, it is the one from which a gem gleams. She makes a quick sweeping motion, her fingers flicking out exactly as I remember, and power washes over me. I stumble back, falling against the low bank. I hear a faint cry behind me—Valka—and then my bones twist within their sockets, my muscles shrieking, my eyes filling with flames. I open my mouth to scream and my tongue shrivels at the touch of air. And then the pain vanishes, departing as swiftly as it came. For a moment longer, I remain unmoving, huddled against the bank, the current tugging at my legs, and then I force myself to straighten, looking up to see Valka above me.

But it is not Valka. On the bank I see myself, straight brown hair braided back, small features pinched and tired, yet happy—happy because Valka is happy. As if in a dream, I catch hold of my braid and pull it around: red and curly. My breath rasps loud in my lungs as I stare at my hair, and then at my fingers, long and slender and soft.

“What have you done?” I cry, my voice high and wavering, staring at Valka-become-myself. Her lips turn back in a sneer. I feel a strange emotion coming to life within me; I wheel to face the Lady, my face tight. “You cannot do this!” I cry, as if I might prohibit the action, undo it with my outrage.

The Lady smiles. “Indeed I can, and I have, little princess. What will you do?”

“She will be found out as a fraud. I have only to tell …” my words die in Valka’s throat.

The Lady laughs: a fearful sound, pure and clear and cold. “You will never speak of this.” A second time her hand moves, sunlight glancing off the gem. A gold chain forms in the air and flies towards me, but I cannot move, rooted to the spot, frozen in an unfamiliar body. The chain wraps itself around my throat, tightening as if clasped.

“What?” I manage to gasp, and then it constricts, choking me. I fall against the bank, clawing at the thing, my vision filled with the dazzle of sunlight reflecting off water. Dimly, I hear my own laughter falling from Valka’s mouth. I stiffen, my anger cooling, hardening into a lump beneath my breast. The chain loosens but I can still feel it, hugging my skin, halfway up my neck.

“If ever you feel the urge to speak of this to another person,” the Lady murmurs, “the choker shall convince you otherwise. Farewell, dear princess.”

When I look up, one hand at my throat, the Lady is gone.

“Girl,” Valka says. I find I cannot meet her gaze, cannot bear to see her face, and so my eyes drop to her neck. A red mark shows bright against the paleness of her throat: it is where the Lady’s knife cut the pouch from my neck. “You will call me ‘Your Highness’ and treat me with all due respect from now on. If you try anything, I shall have you executed for treason.”

I do not really hear Valka, have no words for her. She turns to rejoin our escort, leaving me alone. A shudder runs through me. I look around at the river, the sand showing clear through the water. My eyes come to rest on a silver glint. Dimly, I realize my teeth are chattering. I clench my jaw to stop them, staring down at the sparkle in the riverbed. Slowly, I bend and reach into the water, closing my fist over the glinting sand. When I open my palm, I find Jilna’s silver necklace, the chain snapped but the rose pendant still there, caught in a loop. I close my fingers over it and pull myself up the riverbank.

As I stand, the water drains from the dress I wear—Valka’s dress—running in rivulets past my feet and back down into the river, leaving me bone dry. I shudder once, and close my eyes. Not my eyes, I think, and jerk them back open. Not my eyes. Not my sight or hearing or feeling. Not me.

I am shaking again. I wrap Valka’s arms around me and breathe slowly, staring at the ground, thinking only of the path before me leading between the trees and out through the tall grasses. With each step, a part of the clarity of what has happened slips away. I succumb to the enfolding grayness, letting myself drift up the path. It is a dream, a dream, naught but a nightmare.