Thorn (34 page)

“There’s two of them,” Ash tells me.

“That’s right,” says the man next to him. “We saw them go up—real fast and hard they did it, and then they were off. It was Red Hawk’s men, so they wouldn’t be waiting for the king’s men to get here. But they made some proclamation afore they did it.”

“Aye,” a woman glances back at us. “I heard it meself. They said the girl was an innocent, and the men done raped and murdered her, and it was a crying shame the king couldn’t do nothing for it, so Red Hawk figured he’d help him.”

“I’d like to see that old dog Melkior’s face when he hears that,” the man says, flashing a gap-toothed smile.

“Who was the girl?” asks a man who has come up behind us.

Before Ash can answer, the woman does: “She wasn’t nobody. Just some poor girl got caught out at night and the men thought they’d have their way with her. Didn’t think Red Hawk’d get involved, did they?”

“Come on,” Ash whispers. “I want to get closer.” I follow him through the crowd, keeping my head down, but when we reach the gallows I have to look up. The bodies twist slowly in the faint breeze, ropes creaking. Their hands are tied in front of them and their shirts have been stripped off to reveal welts crisscrossing their backs. I swallow down bile, wanting to turn away,
but
this is what I asked for.

I stare at the bodies until I have memorized each detail. The first man was barely older than Ash, with long black hair that sticks to the raw skin of his back. His mouth gapes open, eyes protruding, dark and unseeing. His arms are roped with muscles, long and sinewy. The other man was shorter in life, his feet barely reaching further than his friend’s knees. A dark beard covers his face, and his stomach hangs over his belt in fleshy rolls. The welts in his back have cut into the fat, leaving trails of blood that stain the back of his trousers. His hands are large and meaty; where his friend had muscle, this man had weight.

When I turn away, I think of Violet. I think of her terror as these men caught her. I think of her trying to fight them, of their bound hands binding her, cutting her, their limp, booted feet slamming into her ribs, her mouth, crushing her hands. I see her again as I first did when the healer uncovered her; see her lying broken and used in the corner of an alley. I stagger to the side and Ash reaches out to steady me.

“This is your doing,” Ash says, his voice beside my ear. “You’ve brought them to justice. There are women and children that will go free this month because you’ve made such men afraid of punishment. Put your head up, Thorn.” I force myself to meet his gaze.

“This is justice. Don’t be afraid to look at it.” He smiles, “It may not be pretty, but sometimes justice has to be hard to keep the rest of us straight and safe.” I nod, but I am not sure what I have done, even if I am glad of these deaths. He turns to look at the bodies again. “It’s done then.” I follow his gaze, and note for the first time the arrow stuck into the support beam of the gallows. A string dangles from its shaft, three feathers threaded to the end of it: they are the long bright feathers of a red-tailed hawk.

A commotion erupts at the far end of the Square. Ash catches hold of my hand. “That’ll be the king’s men. They’ll cut down the bodies and question everyone they can. Hurry.” I follow him as he threads through the crowd, his hand tight in mine. We take the back alleys, slowing to a walk as soon as we have left the Square behind. Ash matches his steps to mine, letting me take my time; I am still off balance from what I have seen.

At the stables, Ash leads me to the common room. “You’d better sit and have a bit of water,” he tells me. “You’re a touch too pale.” I take the water from him gratefully, sitting on the bench to drink. Ash takes a cup himself and sits down on a stool, leaning back to rest his head against the wall.

“Ash?” Oak’s voice carries down the hall.

Ash leaps up and goes to the door. “In here.”

Oak, Laurel and Rowan join us in the common room, each taking a turn of water. Laurel comes to sit next to me, wrapping her arm around my shoulders and squeezing.

“Our miracle-worker,” she says, and though her voice is not happy, some of the weight of the last week has lifted from it.

Rowan comes up to me, drops to his knees, and catches hold of my hand. “Lady Thorn.”

“Rowan, what are you doing?” I try to pull my hand back.

“Lady,” he says with all the gallantry of youth and seriousness, hanging on to my hand. “I swear to protect you as if you were my sister, so long as I live.”

“Amen,” Ash says from his stool, Oak echoing him a moment later. When I glance at Ash, his eyes are slitted, his face still as stone. Oak smiles at me, a kind, gentle look, and then glances down at his hands.

Rowan stands up and claims the end of the bench. “That’s all.”

“You’ve done a good thing, Thorn,” Laurel says. “It’s been a long time since folks saw something like this; mayhap there’re other Violets that will be safe because of you. I know our Violet would be glad of that.”

I push myself to my feet. “I have to get back to the geese.”

Ash nods. “I hear you won’t be with them much longer.”

“What’s that?” Laurel asks.

“Joa spoke to the Master of Horses. Thorn’ll be working with us as soon as they find another goose girl to take her place.”

Rowan lets out his breath in a whistle.

“Who told you that?” I ask Ash.

“Heard it this morning over at the first stable. You’ve jumped rank, you know; there’s a few others that have been waiting for the stables longer than you’ve been here at all.”

“I don’t want to upset anyone.”

“Don’t worry,” Ash says, grinning. “No one’s going to bother you while we’re around.”

“And we all know the best person gets the job here,” Rowan says.

I look down at my hands, wondering how much of my reputation has been built on my friendship with Falada. “I’d better get back to the barn,” I repeat, standing up. “I’ve still got to work those mares afterwards.”

I set off for the goose pasture only a little later than usual; it is strange to imagine that I was gone for only a short while, less than an hour. I feel as though the day should have stopped, cut short with the breath of the criminals. How could something so momentous take so short a gasp of breath to happen?

I slow as I reach the city gates, looking up to Falada’s head. It has grayed with damp and grime, his mane stiff and matted, but beyond that there is no change. I pause underneath, looking up.

“Falada,” I call. “I’m going to find a way.”

The head hangs still above me, the eyes sealed shut, stitches showing where his mouth has been sewn closed. I look down, take a step.

“Princess.” I jerk my head up, staring at Falada. He meets my gaze, his eyes open and seeing, bright with life. “Princess,” he says again, and the word is the warm embrace of a friend.

Behind me, I hear a half-swallowed cry. I spin around to see a guard standing at the mouth of the gate, staring up at Falada. As I turn, he drops his gaze to me, his face pale. For a moment, we stare at each other, then I turn my back and hurry through the gates, holding tight to my staff. I listen for the guard, for footsteps or a voice calling after me, but there is nothing. When I look back, the gate lies empty.

At the goose pasture, I drop down onto the grass, my legs tired. The geese are scattered as usual, Corbé seated at the other end of the stream. I set my staff across my crossed legs, watching him. He glances from me to the geese and does not look back again.

The Wind visits again in the late afternoon. I stroll through the grass in its company, watching the geese.

“I know what I need to do,” I tell the Wind. “I just don’t want to.” The Wind tugs at my skirt, as if it could hurry me along on the path I have chosen.

“Tomorrow,” I say, thinking of what that would mean: facing Kestrin, which would likely include questions about Red Hawk’s involvement in finding Violet’s attackers, and then also exposing Valka. And, in the end, it would mean leaving Laurel, Oak, Ash and Rowan.

“It would be so much easier to let Joa make me into a hostler,” I say, trying to smile.

“You’re no hostler,” a voice growls behind me. I jump, turning to find Corbé glaring down at me. I take a quick step back. “I heard the talk this morning,” he tells me, matching my step. “You’re not going to be a hostler before me.”

“I haven’t agreed to it,” I stammer, backing away further. He keeps walking towards me, his eyes glinting in the afternoon light.

“You think you can come in here with your rank and walk all over the rest of us?”

“No, I don’t!” I cry, sickeningly aware that I have left my staff by the tree, that Corbé is taller and stronger, and no doubt faster, than me.

“You won’t,” Corbé agrees, and he smiles. It is an ugly smile, a smile of knowing and hatred and jealousy all mixed together. “You’ve made someone angry up at the palace, but you know that, don’t you?” I shake my head, my breath rattling in my chest. “I’ve a promise that I can do what I like with you, and there won’t be any price to pay. What do you think of that, girl?”

“It’s not true!”

“But it is,” he purrs.

“Kestrin would punish you. She can’t protect you from Kestrin—or Melkior.”

“What would they care for a servant like you?” Corbé sneers, and though he is wrong it does not matter: what matters is that he believes this, believes that the law will not stoop to protect a servant.

“Red Hawk just hung the men who attacked Violet—he’ll come after you, too,” I nearly shout, stumbling away from Corbé as he continues to walk towards me, swinging his staff along.

“He won’t,” Corbé says. “You’re lying, but even if he did catch Violet’s friends, he won’t care anything for a foreigner.”

I turn and run. I hear Corbé laugh behind me, but I do not look, concentrating only on the possibility of getting away. I hear the thud of his boots gaining on me, hear him grunt, and then there is a low whistle and his staff knocks into my ribs. I stumble, pain lancing through me, and his staff slams into my legs, knocking me to the ground. I scrabble to my knees, my hands closing on dirt, on a rock, anything to use against him. His staff comes down again, before I can rise, but this time it is the end of the staff driving into the small of my back. My hands fly out from under me, my cheek slamming into the ground. I hold still, trying to breathe through the pain in my back. With my face sideways, I can see the geese honking and moving away from us.

Corbé winds his fingers into the roots of my braid, twisting my head around, his weight still pressing the staff down into my back. My mouth arcs in a grimace of pain.

“Don’t do this,” I whisper. Pain leeches the color from my vision, but I can still see his face, see the way the breeze lifts a lock of his hair.

“This is only the beginning,” he promises.

“Wind,” I whisper, watching his hair.

“What?” Corbé looks up, scanning the pasture, confusion touching his brow. I can hear a soft whistling that grows, building into a shrieking gale that rips over the stream, lifting water and rocks with it as it approaches. The geese erupt in a flurry of feathers, tumbling towards us, honking frantically.

Corbé swears, dropping his grip on me and stumbling back, his eyes wide. I curl into a ball, folding my arms over my face. The wind passes over me so gently it merely fans my back, and then it slams into Corbé. I hear his scream and I press my hands to my ears, shaking.

RUN.
The word echoes in my mind, the force of it driving me to my knees and then, staggering, to my feet. I do not turn to see where Corbé is, whether he has fallen or run away. I take one step forward, and then another, and then I am running, stumbling over the rocks of the streambed and clambering over the low stone wall, and running and running.

I do not know how long I run, or where. My eyes blur until I cannot see and I lose my balance, one foot tripping over the other, spilling me to the ground. I lay sprawled on the grass, gasping for breath, and it is a time before I realize that I am sobbing, that I cannot catch my breath because I am weeping. I see Corbé’s face above me, his features twisted by the blackness of his emotion, and there is Violet laid out on the floor, pale and unmoving, her face marred by dark bruises, and Falada hangs above me, a head only, fur dank and blackened by soot. I wrap my arms around myself and cry until my fear and guilt have spent themselves and I am left shivering on the ground, cold despite the warmth of the day.

Finally, I sit up, pain shooting through my back and chest. I press my hands against my ribs. They leave red smudges on my tunic; when I look at them they are scraped raw, though I do not remember flaying them against the ground as Corbé pinned me down. I stagger to my feet, my legs weak beneath me, but at least I am standing. I have only to walk home, I think, seeing Oak and Ash and Rowan in my mind’s eye. They will never let Corbé touch me again.

The wind whips past me and I follow it, turning my face to watch it turn, raising the dust of the plains into a swirling pillar. It is not my Wind, and as the dust it raises grows darker, funneling into the wind’s small vortex, I step back once, and then again. Out of the darkness at its center, steps the Lady.

I stare at her, hearing the rasping of breath in my lungs, loud now that the wind has gone. Faintly, I hear something beating, and I wonder if it is my heart, the pulse of my fear.
Not like this.
It is almost a prayer.
I am not ready.