Thorn (26 page)

“You did not force me to accept Melkior’s invitation,” I tell him, my words so soft they seem to get lost even as they leave my lips. I wonder if they reach him, for he makes no sign of having heard. I turn back to the fire. “That was my own stupidity.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Dearly.”

“That is why you are here?”

I should not be here at all. Not in his rooms. But I say only, “I would speak with the princess.”

“I suspected you were not seeking me.”

“No.”

“No,” he echoes. “What do you need of her?”

I shake my head.

He tries again. “Will you tell me what has happened?”

I do not look at him. I do not want to tell him that Valka found a way to reach past the protection he promised me. I would not know how to explain what Falada was to me without letting slip his secret.

“Something has happened, I can see that. It has leached the color from your face.” He purses his lips. “I gave you my word two nights ago that nothing would touch you. Now you appear in the palace like a ghost, with nothing to say but that you would see the princess. What did she do?” He half smiles. “Or has someone died?”

I start and turn away quickly. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Who’s dead?” His voice is hard, the question commanding an answer.

“No one—just a Horse—that is all.” A log cracks on the fire, sending a small shower of sparks across the grate. My eyes sting when I close them, but still I have no tears.

“The white? Who used to go everywhere with you?”

I nod.

“When?”

I grip my hands together in my lap. “This morning.”

“I see. You are sure the princess issued the orders?”

“Joa said so.”

“He could not have been mistaken?”

“I don’t know. I intend to speak with her.”

He studies me. “What will you say?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“She is expecting you.” I meet his gaze in surprise. “She has ordered her attendants to sleep in her antechamber tonight. You will not be able to pass through to see her in private.”

I close my eyes, remembering my first visit to Valka, her terror at waking to find me beside her. Yes, she expected me tonight. For all her tricks and power, she fears what I might do in private. I feel a smile twist my lips, and then I press my hand to my mouth, forcing the smile away. I swallow, opening my eyes to stare ahead of me. This is why, I think. This is why Falada told me not to avenge his death.

I stand up. “I’m going now.”

Kestrin raises his eyes to mine. “Are you sure it is wise?”

“I won’t speak to her.” I am so very tired of all this. “There is no justice to be had there. I am leaving.”

Kestrin stands. “Did you walk here alone from the stables?”

“I—yes.”

“I will arrange for a quad to escort you back down.”

I close my eyes for the space of a few breaths. When I open them again, I say, “You cannot protect me or mine from your enemies, Kestrin.” There is no protection to be had in this palace, I think, nor in all the land. I cross the room to the door.

“Thorn.” I look back at him, my fingers curling around the door handle. He stands with his back to the fire, watching me. “It is not for fear of my enemies that you need an escort.” He closes the distance between us. “It is because you are a woman alone in the city. Let me call my quad for you.”

I think of Red Hawk, and of Corbé, and know Kestrin speaks truth. “I thank you,” I say wearily.

Kestrin pulls an elegant, braided rope that hangs beside the door. I listen for the sound of a bell, but hear nothing. He reaches out, taking my hand and turning it to cradle in his own. He traces the calluses on my fingers, my palm. A shiver runs up my arm, curling in my belly, but I cannot move to pull my hand away. No one has touched me so before, as if I were precious. “I cannot protect you so far from the court,” he says. “Will you not return?”

His words release me from the spell of his touch. I pull my hand free. “There is nothing for me here,” I say, my voice shaking. The words hang in the air between us. I am not sure if I spoke them for him or for myself.

Kestrin does not answer. I hear the faint sound of boots. A knock at the door heralds my escort home.

I spend the night in my upstairs room, alternately pacing a tight circuit or stretching out wide-eyed and exhausted on my sleeping mat. Although the room is warm and should have felt more comfortable than a stall, the four walls bear down on me through the darkness. I doze fitfully, falling asleep near dawn.

When I go down to the common room for breakfast, Laurel has already set bread and cheese on a plate for me. Violet sits at the table, pressing her thumb against the crumbs on her plate and licking them off.

“You look terrible,” she says without preamble.

“Violet!”

“Well, she does.” Violet turns back to me, “You’d better start eating regular again. You didn’t eat at all yesterday, and with this cold weather you’ll be sick as—as Harefoot is, if you aren’t careful.”

“Harefoot’s sick?” I ask, without much hope of distracting her.

“Like to die,” Violet informs me. “And you look like death waking up. I thought it was just the dark last night when I saw you coming in, but it’s actually you.” She grins as she speaks, but the gravity of her words won’t be undone.

“Thanks.”

“Violet,” Laurel explains, sitting down next to me at the table, “is worried about you.”

“And Laurel,” Violet responds, “sat up half the night listening to you stomp circles in your room not because she was worried about you but because she prefers to sleep sitting up with her eyes open.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say guiltily. “I didn’t realize I was that loud.”

“You weren’t; we just sleep next to you,” Laurel tells me.

“And the floorboards creak.” Violet points at my plate. “Eat your bread.” I take a bite to humor her, glancing at Laurel for help.

“We both agreed it wouldn’t do to speak to you in front of the boys,” Laurel says.

“That’s right.”

“But we know you had a close bond with that horse, and that he was killed because you went up to that dinner.” Laurel tips her head towards the palace. “If anything like that is like to happen again, you tell us and we’ll keep you and yours safe.”

I stare at her.

“Even,” Violet adds, “if that means making someone up there cross.”

“
Especially
if that means making someone up there cross.”

“Eat your cheese,” Violet finishes, smiling.

I obediently take a bite of cheese. With my mouth full, I stammer, “But that would be dangerous for you. And—”

“Dangerous?
Dangerous?
Did she say dangerous?” Violet cries. Laurel nods somberly, her eyes crinkled with amusement. “Thorn, let me tell you about dangerous. Dangerous is cutting your finger on a rusty nail and getting lockjaw. Dangerous is walking behind a skittish horse and getting kicked against a wall. Dangerous is walking anywhere in this city at night. Dangerous is
not
helping someone stay safe.”

I shake my head, thinking of helping Red Hawk, then of Valka’s vengeance. “If they’re willing to kill a horse, they won’t worry about hurting a servant as well.”

Violet lets her breath out in a gust of frustration. “Thorn. Of all the dangerous ways I could die that I meet with every day, I would much rather choose to die from helping someone. Weigh it,” she says, holding her hands up in an imaginary scale. “Die helping someone, get kicked against a wall. Hmm, what would you prefer?”

I rub my hands over my face. “I don’t want any of you to get hurt.”

“So you want Laurel to die of lockjaw.”

I laugh despite myself. “You know I don’t! I don’t want you or Laurel or anyone else to get hurt because of me.”

“Very noble,” Laurel observes. “But we’re family here—we are, and your name fits right in with ours, so don’t doubt it for a minute. Family looks out for each other.”

Her words warm me like the glow of a friendly fire—
family
. This is what I had missed all my life: Laurel’s motherly touch, the boys’ concern, Violet’s love. They are everything I have ever wanted, and nothing like my own family. I can only grin foolishly in response.

“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Violet says, jumping up and heading for the door. “I’ve got to check on Harefoot again.”

“But—”

“Don’t even try,” she calls from the hallway.

Laurel smiles. “No more putting yourself in harm’s way, Thorn. You have trouble, you tell us.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “We mean it.”

Laurel shoos me off to the goose barn a few minutes later. Corbé has not yet arrived, so I open the doors and begin raking. I am grateful for his absence, working as fast as I can in hopes of missing him entirely, but just as I am shoveling the last of the dung into the barrel, he stumps through the gate.

I turn to him. “I did not come yesterday, so let me finish our work today. Then we will be even.”

He stands at the gate with his back to the light, making it hard to read his expression. I think perhaps he is surprised, but the emotion is fleeting, his face closed and contemptuous as always. “I do not leave my duties undone.”

I flush and shrug, turning away from him to stow the shovel. I hear him start towards me and instinctively I pivot back, holding the shovel ready. He pauses, then continues walking, passing me to climb up the ladder nailed to the back wall. He forks down straw from the loft while I replenish the food and water for the geese. Neither of us speaks again.

Joa comes by to check on me as I muck out stalls in the afternoon, but after a quiet hello and how-are-you there is nothing left to say. I feel his eyes on me a more than once as I move between stalls, but he does not approach me.

After work, I walk up to the city gates. There, within the great stone passage, hangs Falada’s head. It has been mounted on a wooden board and nailed up, hanging an arm’s length above my head if not more. I stare up at it, feeling my stomach tighten painfully. His eyes and mouth have been sewn shut with great, ghastly stitches. The silken fur of his face already shows gray with damp. I turn away, back towards the stables.

Princess.

I jerk to stop, eyes flying up to Falada’s head. It hangs unmoving, the mane rimed with ice, as dead as if it had been carved from stone. And yet—surely I had heard the echo of a voice?

“Falada,” I whisper.

“What’s the problem there?” One of the guards walks towards me, hand on his sword. I force a smile and lift my hand in acknowledgement, hurrying back to the stables. The soldiers on duty watch as I pass them, but they say no further word.

***

Two days later, Valka sends a page for me. He leaves me to wait in her empty apartments. I walk through the rooms, taking my time, observing the changes. The first sitting room has been rearranged to allow for larger parties, with fewer tables and more couches. Does Valka entertain here? Surely she would prefer rooms with private entrances for servants, though perhaps she admits the favored few into the intimacy of her own sitting room.

In the second room, there are new baubles on the side tables: priceless glass globes, little golden boxes, ornately painted vases. I walk to the desk and open the compartment. Inside I find letters from my mother, a new one topmost. I leave this aside, knowing that Valka will give it to me when she arrives. Below them lies an artist’s sketch of Valka, poised for her portrait. I examine it, but the girl drawn there looks no more familiar to me than the face of any other court noble.

There are also two notes from Kestrin, hardly more than a line in length. I run my fingertips over his script. It is confident, smooth and well-practiced. The notes came attached to some gift, for they do little more than address the princess, suggest she might find pleasure in the contents of an unknown package, and end with his signature. I had not thought how Kestrin would handle his relationship with Valka, whether he would woo her or dismiss her. These two notes tell a tale I had not envisioned: Kestrin as the courtly lover, sending his betrothed trinkets. I imagine the occasional warm glance, the intimate smile, and feel my stomach clench.

I shove his notes back under the artist's sketch. Beneath them lie a few sheets of unused parchment. I lift these up, uncovering letters from home I have not seen before, letters from Daerilin. I pause, listening, but there is no sound yet of Valka. I open the first of these letters, and the next, and the third after that, skimming them quickly before returning them to the compartment. From Daerilin’s words to his daughter, it is clear he believes her part of the court, enjoying her time in Menaiya. Each gives some news of her family and some token pieces of advice regarding her position, followed by a fatherly adieu. They are relatively kind letters, Daerilin’s affection for his daughter apparent. But there is little of substance in them. He thinks his daughter well placed for marriage; that is the only news he wishes to hear from her.