Princess of Thorns Page 11

  Still, his rant has given me new reason to hope. It’s clear he doesn’t understand normal, human women, and maybe not even his own sister. Aurora might want to be protected, to be sheltered and cherished and, yes, lied to, when necessary. She might appreciate the line of defense a man can offer from the harsh realities of the world.

  And if not—if she wants to ride a horse astride and teach me wicked kissing tricks like a fairy girl—then I will make sure she knows I can appreciate that as well.

  Ror is wrong on one thing for certain—Aurora will never be a shadow for me to step on; she will be the light at the end of my long, dark night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AURORA

  I should slow down and let Niklaas catch up, but I’m too angry.

  Pointlessly, stupidly angry.

  Niklaas is the way he is, and I like him fine that way—so long as I’m Ror and not Aurora—and by the time he finds out I’m not a boy, I will be on my way to war and have no energy to waste being angry with anyone but the queen. I shouldn’t waste my energy with pointless anger now, but that doesn’t stop me from pushing Button to run faster.

  We easily outdistance the other riders on the road, kicking up dust that swirls around the tired horses and heavily burdened carts trundling through the pass toward Goreman. Hard-faced men and boys turn to stare as I charge by, the wariness in their eyes making my skin prickle. It’s not smart to attract attention, even if my face is concealed, but I can’t seem to stop. It feels like I’m running away from something bigger than Niklaas or the pigheadedness of human men or even my own anger, something as inescapable as my skin that lurks within me, a weak, mewling thing curled behind my ribs with its head ducked beneath its paws.

  There’s a part of me that longs to tell Niklaas the truth, naively hoping he’ll remain the same when I’m revealed to be the prey he’s hunting. I don’t want to lose my new friend to my true self, I don’t want to look into his eyes and see a rake intent on seduction in the place of my companion or a liar determined to “protect” me.

  With every day that we’ve traveled, Niklaas has impressed me more. He is insufferable at times, but he is also a good, brave person with a kinder-than-average heart. I want him to truly be my friend, Aurora’s friend. A person Aurora can tease and confide in the way “Ror” has. I want to tell Niklaas the truth about Jor, and how vital it is I secure an army to free my brother. I want to tell him what it’s like for a girl to grow up with no one telling her she can’t be strong or wise or fierce. I want to tell him about Thyne and how I destroyed my best friend and how broken my heart is now, so broken that it will never—can never—be put back together again.

  I want him to know that I’ve deceived him, and forgive me for it.

  I want him to …

  I want him …

  I grit my teeth and push Button even harder, until we’re racing along so fast there’s no room in my head for anything but clinging to the reins and keeping my seat as Button strains toward the end of the pass. I refuse to let my thoughts take a single step down that road. It is a road to nowhere, with a cliff at its end and a long fall to crash against the jagged rocks of Things That Can Never Be.

  Never, never, never, I chant inside my mind, but still my heart beats faster, that canny thing realizing the truth no matter how determined the rest of me is to deny it.

  By the time I reach the exit through the pass, it feels as if my chest will explode.

  Button and I emerge from the narrow canyon and the land opens up like an enchanted storybook. The three hills of Goreman appear on the horizon, each one topped by tall stone buildings and taller onyx ruins that stab toward the sky like the crooked spine of a sleeping beast. Below the hills, the city folds down toward the sea, its bridges and towers and dozens of piers deceptively tame-looking from a distance. Even the arena—a stone hollow at the base of the first hill, a hole so perfectly round it’s as if a confectioner took a pudding scoop to the land—is a tidy, ordered thing.

  Beyond the city, the Feeding Hills loom like giants, dwarfing even the largest of Goreman’s hills. They are monsters in dusty white hats, dressed in humorless gray robes of evergreen trees, Feeding trees—some young and relatively new, some tall enough for their trunks to stretch fields above the rest and old enough to be the stuff of ogre legend.

  I long to aim Button toward those trees and ride until it’s safe to throw this cloak from my shoulders, to let my hair down to blow as I ride, to be free of Niklaas and my false self and the confusion twisting my insides into knots. Instead, I give Button’s reins a tug. He obeys with a snort and a twitch of his heaving sides, slowing to a walk as we reach the edges of the market.

  As my horse catches his breath, I peer out from beneath the safety of my hood. The market is not as rough a place as I expected, but it’s rough enough. The hard men on the road look positively friendly compared to the adamantine men—and few women—occupying the stalls spreading like an inky rash across the flat land to the left of the road.

  All the stalls are black. Black pens contain half-starved animals, black shelves hold food and drink and potion bottles like the ones Janin keeps locked in her trunk back home, and black canvas stretches over the tops of the stalls to keep the rain out.

  The air is as dry as it has been for days, but it must have rained recently. The market has been pitched for a while—there is dust on the potion bottles, the shelves holding baskets of potatoes have sunk unevenly into the dirt, and the one-eyed woman squatting behind a table covered with fate cards looks as if she lives in her filthy stall—but the canvas has a shine to it, a glisten that gives the market sharp, dangerous edges.

  The New Market looks like a good place to catch a curse or a knife in the ribs. Or maybe simply to have your purse stolen. If you’re lucky.

  I’ve decided to keep going and wait until I reach the other side to let Button graze and Niklaas catch up, when I see the banner strung above a pen at the back of the market:

  Practice Ring. Battle till first blood. Try your weapon before you give your life. A gold purse for every fight.

  The pen sits farther off the road than the other stalls but not so far that I can’t see the two men going at each other within its confines—one with a sword, the other with a staff like my own. The man with the staff is winning. The swordsman is giving his best, swinging his weapon with the strength and enthusiasm of the young and newly trained, but he can’t get close enough to put his blade to use. After only a moment, I’m wagering on the staff for first blood, though judging from the shouts coming from the crowd circled around the pen I’m guessing most of the red-faced men screaming and waving bet slips put their money on the sword.

  Just like that, I know. I know I’ve found a way to release the frustration building inside me and earn some coin in the process. It won’t be enough gold to tempt the people of the Feeding Hills—winnings from a practice ring won’t hold a candle to the purses at the blood tournaments, let alone the fairy jewel the mercenaries stole from me—but it should be enough to buy a pack and rations, things I will need to continue alone if the exiles refuse to help me and I must leave Niklaas behind.

  And if I play it right …

  Visions of a saddle of my own dance before my eyes, whispering sweetly to my aching backside, banishing the last of my hesitation.

  After checking the sky and ground and finding no carrion creatures in sight, I untie my borrowed cloak, roll it up, and shove it into the saddlebag. I muss my hair, widen my eyes, and slouch as I turn Button toward the ring. It will go better for me if I look as small and defenseless as possible. I want the odds weighed decidedly in my opponent’s favor before I place my bet. I don’t have money of my own, but Niklaas won’t mind if I borrow a few coins, and surely he’ll be able to figure out where I’ve gone. No fourteen-year-old boy with “Ror’s” skill with a staff could resist a prizefight.

  But in case he rides through without seeing the banner, I pause by the fate reader’s tent, clearing my throat un
til her one rheumy eye fixes on me.

  “What do you want, boy?” she asks, her voice as gritty as the riverbed we left behind days ago. “You don’t look old enough to have a care for your fate.”

  The pale blue eye is blanketed by a layer of milky white, cloudy with age and too much peering into realms where humans are better off not poking their noses, let alone their eyes. Still, she seems to see me well enough. Surely she’ll be able to spot a sun god parading through the market on a great white horse.

  “My companion is behind me,” I say, nodding toward the pass. “A tall blond boy of nearly eighteen years riding a white horse bareback. If you’ll tell him I’ve gone to the practice ring, I’ll have a coin for you on my way back through the market.”

  “How about a coin now?” She holds out a palm crisscrossed by miniature rivers of dirt. “I’m an old woman. I forget things, I do. A coin would help me remember.”

  With a sigh, I fish a gold piece from Niklaas’s purse and slide off Button’s back. There’s no time to waste bargaining. The staff fighter has indeed won his match and acquired a new opponent, a monster of a man I wouldn’t mind being pitted against in the name of terribly weighted odds, but I want to be in the ring before Niklaas arrives. Niklaas has seen me use my staff once, but once might not have been enough to convince him that a “boy” of my size can handle himself against fully grown men.

  “You’ll tell him, then?” I ask, dropping the gold into the woman’s palm.

  “Aye, young master. I …” She trails off, then tilts her head and lifts her thin brows, as if listening to someone whispering over her shoulder. As she moves, the ratted bun pinned atop her head falls to one side, revealing an ear with part of the lobe chewed away, and a neck with bite marks scabbing the wrinkled flesh.

  Before I can walk away—I know enough about dark spirits that feed on humans in exchange for supernatural favors to realize this woman is drowning in black magic and no one safe in her presence—she draws her arm back and flings the coin at my feet.

  “I don’t want your gold.” Her hands tremble as she sets to picking at the wounds on her neck with a jagged nail. “I’ll tell the boy, but you’ll need the gold. You’ll need that and more if you hope to make it in time.”

  I stoop to pick up the coin. I know I shouldn’t say a word, but I can’t keep from asking, “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll lose that horse and need another, and horses don’t usually come for free, do they?” She barks with laughter before narrowing her cloudy eye in Button’s direction. “You won’t be lucky enough to steal one next time.”

  I shiver, feeling naked beneath her all-seeing eye, and lay a hand on Button’s throat, hating the thought of losing him.

  Unfortunately, there are bigger things to lose.

  “You said something about making it in time,” I say, so desperate for assurance I stay put though every sensible bone in my body screams for me to run from this woman as fast as my fairy-blessed legs will carry me. “Will I? Will my brother live?”

  “It remains to be seen.” She swallows something she must have had stored in her cheek before continuing. “There will be a choice. You must make the right one.”

  “What choice? What must I—”

  “A difficult choice. That’s all we see.” Shadows move behind her eye, and I suddenly feel even more watched than before. Watched by this woman, and by whatever dark forces dwell within her. “To look closer will draw her attention.”

  The queen.

  The fate reader nods as if I’ve spoken aloud. “Soon she will hunt you in earnest. You must be in green hills, near a bewitched stream, before that happens.” She begins to chew again, this time with her mouth open enough to catch a flash of inky flesh—flesh too black to be living yet still squirming as it’s crushed between her few remaining teeth.

  I swallow hard, suppressing the revulsion tightening my stomach. “Please. Is there nothing more? I cannot fail. So much depends on my success.”

  “Aye, it does. Not even the darklings will survive if the prophecy is fulfilled. Not even my beautiful darklings.” She seems to shrink, burrowing into her filthy purple robes. “Trust in the gifts your mother gave you, princess. If you don’t, it may be the end of us all.”

  My heart races as I glance from side to side, terrified that someone has heard her use my title. But there is no one close. Even the roughest men seem content to give this booth a wide berth.

  “Go to the ring,” she says, gathering her cards in a gnarled hand. “I’ll tell the boy where to find his friend.” She smiles, a wry baring of her teeth and gums. “Some prince,” she mutters. “Doesn’t recognize a princess when she’s sleeping curled up beside him.”

  “Don’t tell him.” I adjust my grip on Button’s bridle, deciding I will look smaller if I walk to the ring leading a giant horse than riding one. “It is my secret to keep.”

  “And his to discover.” The fate reader chuckles and the shadows behind her rheumy gaze writhe, as if they, too, are amused. “Sooner or later those pretty gray eyes will give you away, girl.”

  I don’t respond. I won’t think about what my eyes might betray. I won’t think of anything but my brother and how desperately I need gold in my pocket. I will draw first blood before my opponent has a chance to lift his weapon. I can practically taste victory, hot and salty on my tongue.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  NIKLAAS

  The ancient fate reader who called my name from the side of the road points to where Ror has gone to seize the destiny she foretold for him.

  I follow her crooked finger in time to see the boy entering a makeshift battle ring, looking like a doll plucked from a toy house compared to the man across from him. His opponent is a monster with a long black braid, a jaw hacked from a hunk of rock, and a bluish tinge about him, like all people raised in the extreme north. His veins are dark streams visible beneath his pale flesh, angry rivers pumping blood from forearms as big as Ror’s waist to shoulders twice the width of my own.

  The fool’s going to die. He’s going to flaming die!

  The thought is barely through my head before I’m digging my heels into Alama’s sides and she’s off, charging through the crowded market.

  Shoppers leap out of my way with angry shouts and threats to my life, but I don’t rein Alama in. I have to reach Ror. The fights in the practice rings are supposed to end at first blood, but first blood can too easily become lifeblood. One firm jab in the wrong spot with the sword the northern man is lifting could be enough to end Ror’s life.

  “Ror, stop!” I shout.

  Ror turns at the sound of my voice, and the Northerner seizes on the boy’s momentary distraction.

  The giant rushes forward and the world slows. My pulse lurches in half time as Ror faces his opponent, crouching down and sweeping his staff in a low circle across the dirt. The giant’s feet tangle in the wood and he begins to fall, but manages to keep his sword aimed at Ror’s chest, preparing to drive the blade through the boy’s leather armor with a single shove of his massive arms.

  My insides seize, my mind already imagining Ror’s body split in two, when he dives forward. He rolls beneath the giant’s knees heartbeats before the other man falls to the dirt. The northerner is quick to recover, but not quick enough. Before he can turn, Ror brings his staff down on the man’s temple, hitting where the skin is thinnest, bursting the delicate flesh, drawing first blood.

  I suck in a ragged breath as an enraged shout rises from the crowd, but the Northerner doesn’t seem to realize he’s lost. He surges to his feet with a bellow, swinging his sword around in a hacking motion that would have sliced Ror in half if he hadn’t leapt backward like a circus performer a second before.

  Ror’s hands reach for the ground as his feet flip over his head—once, twice, three times, with his staff somehow still in his grasp—until he’s at the edge of the pen. He turns to leap over the side, but the men there grab the boy and throw him back in, straight into the path of the blue
monster.

  I decide then and there that if Ror dies, I will kill those men. I will slit their throats and watch their blood soak into the soil, without a moment of regret.

  “Let the boy out! He’s drawn first blood!” I vault from Alama’s back and charge the pen, grabbing spectators and hurling them to one side with growls that send most stumbling away even before they turn and see that I’m a good head taller than they are.

  Aside from the beast bringing his sword down to clash against Ror’s staff with an angry thwack, I’m the largest man near the practice ring. I flinch, expecting the staff to break, but it holds strong for several blows, long enough for me to part the crowd and jump the fence, drawing my sword as I enter the ring.

  “Leave him alone!” I shout.

  The northerner turns to me with a roar of outrage. I take advantage of his split focus, grabbing Ror by the back of his armor and shoving him behind me

  “The boy drew first blood!” I lift my sword, preparing to meet the northerner if he refuses to admit defeat. “It’s running down your face, man. You’ve lost your bet. This boy’s death will serve no purpose.”

  The man’s forehead wrinkles, but I’m not certain he’s understood me. I’ve begun to worry that he doesn’t speak the language of Norvere, and that this will end badly because I was too lazy to learn more than two of the Herth languages before abandoning my studies, when he lifts his hand to his temple and swipes his sausage fingers through the red running down his face. He stares at the blood for several long, tense moments before finally lowering his sword.