Thorn (36 page)

“Witnessed also by the goose boy?”

“Yes. Do you charge him with lying?” he asks, and I know from the very quietness of his question that this will damn me in his eyes. I dare not tell them what Corbé had done to bring the Wind against him.

I tamp down on my anger and answer as mildly as I can. “No sir. I am sure he reported what he understood as truth.”

“Was his understanding flawed?”

“It must be,” I say, smiling wanly, “for I am innocent.”

“What is your proof?”

I spread my hands before me. “The white horse could be saddled by our hostler from home. The trouble was that he was trained to answer to a single hostler and a single rider. Deprived of that, he had to be won over. I spent weeks with him before he began to forget his training; he allowed me to ride him but once or twice. Master Joa himself told me of horses trained this way from the South.”

“A neat explanation,” the wizard says, speaking for the first time. “Now explain how a dead horse speaks to you.”

I shake my head. “Perhaps the sound was that of the wind whistling through the gates, sir. Or my own voice—I spoke to the head as a man might speak to the portrait of his dead father. How could it answer?”

“It answered,” the captain says sharply.

“What did it say?”

The men regard me silently. I wonder if they understand that they have become witnesses to my identity. That Falada’s words, if accepted, should lead them to another truth.

Filadon taps the table with his fingers. “Explain your command of the wind and we may accept these other explanations.” The other two men stiffen but do not respond. So, he holds rank over them even here.

“I do not command the wind, my lord.”

The young captain smiles. “The evidence stands against you. A great wind came through your goose pasture, scattering the flock, flaying the skin of your fellow goose boy, and stripping the leaves from the trees. You yourself escaped unharmed. It is damning evidence.” He glances down the table to Filadon, and from his words I know that only truth will win me free.

“Sirs, before I answer, tell me this: what is the punishment for witchcraft?”

The wizard cracks his sizable knuckles. “Practiced by one trained by our own mages, and bound to the service of the king, there is no punishment. But practiced by one who has done neither,” the wizard pauses, looking at me meaningfully, “the punishment is to be burnt at the stake.”

“Is it visited upon all who practice witchcraft in secret—peasant or prince?”

The wizard and the captain bristle, but Filadon’s lips only tighten, his eyes glinting. That should tell him who sent the wind, unless Kestrin kept him in the dark as to the use of his study. Not likely.

“Unbound witches are not tolerated here,” the captain says coldly.

I nod. To explain the Wind, to even hint at its source, would be to betray Kestrin and his father even further. I doubt that the royal family could be taken to trial, but I do not doubt that such a revelation would further weaken the king’s power over his land, and shift the balance of power towards the Council of Mages. I know too little about them to be sure, but the occasional common room conversation has at least told me that there is a tension between the king and the Council. I think of Falada, going to his death with the secret of his people locked within him, refusing to run for fear of endangering me.

“I have no explanation for you.”

The wizard leans forward. “Then you admit to commanding the wind?”

“No. I have no control over the wind.”

“Do you admit that it came at your call?”

I gaze at him silently.

“She is guilty,” the captain says with a satisfied smile. He darts a look at Filadon.

“I would agree,” the wizard says. He frowns as he looks at me. I feel a spark of disgust—what sort of wizard condemns a woman for witchcraft without even testing her for a talent?

“I do not command the wind,” I repeat, my voice deepening with anger.

“How did it come to you then?”

“I cannot explain it.”

The wizard glances to his left. “Well, my lord Filadon, we are decided. What is your verdict?”

He studies me, the corners of his mouth tipped down. “I think the lady requires some time to consider her predicament. Perhaps she will find a way to offer us an explanation. Let us take our lunch and leave her here to consider her fate. When we return, I will hear her and give my verdict.”

“There is nothing I can tell you,” I say quietly.

“So you say,” he agrees, standing up.

The captain shakes his head as he pushes back his chair. “The girl has as good as confessed. I see no value in delaying the inevitable, but it will be as you wish, my lord.”

“Indeed.” Filadon follows the men, but he walks slowly and by the time they reach the door, he has only just reached me. He pauses. “Will you not speak the truth, lady?”

He stands a full head taller than me, but his bearing is kind, reminding me of Oak when he used to speak to Violet. I shake my head. He sighs, and his eyes wander from me to the small fire burning in its grate. “If you will not tell us, then tell the fire—but do not go to your death without speaking the truth.”

“What is the truth worth when there are no witnesses?”

“Let the flames consume your story, lady.”

“They will have me soon enough,” I point out bitterly.

“You sentence has not yet been passed. If you will speak the truth, you may escape with a lighter punishment. Or none at all.”

“The truth is not mine to share, my lord.”

“Whose secret is it, then?”

Surely he is not as dull as that? “You know that as well as I,” I tell him.

He hesitates. “Speak the truth then, to this empty room. Perhaps you will find a way to defend yourself without betraying a confidence.”

“If you know, then how can you not defend me?” I snap.

“It is not for me defend,” he replies. “Only to judge. Find a way to give me something to judge. Tell your story,” he repeats, gesturing to the fireplace, “until you know what to tell me.”

I shrug, caught between fury and despair. He leaves in silence. I wait, weighing the quiet, and when I am sure that the guards will not enter for me, I hurry to the judges’ table and pour myself a cup of water. I drink it down in three gulps, then pour myself another one, sipping this more slowly. My eyes flick to the fireplace. What a strange thing to say: let the fire consume your story. When he must know the story, or some part of it, himself.
He only knows Kestrin is the Wind; he doesn’t know why Kestrin protected me.
But the other judges will not hear any claims against Corbé; that much is also clear.

I watch the flicker of the flames. I cannot imagine my skin charring as the logs do, my flesh eaten away and falling to ash. What will happen to Valka when I die, I wonder? If the skin I wear is destroyed, will it return to her charred past recognition, or healed? Or not at all?

I approach the flames slowly, kneeling before the grate. “I am no witch.” The flames do not answer, crackling softly to themselves. I breathe in the scent of the wood, but I do not recognize it. We used to burn birch and pine at home, but even in the mountains of Menaiya there are few birches, and the pines are short and stunted.

“Let us consider the charges.” I close my eyes, leaning my face forward into the heat that will claim my life. “Falada’s head speaks to me, calling me princess. He, a gift to the princess, allows only me to ride him. Which would make me something other than the Lady Valka, and him something more than a mere horse. Second, the wind protects me when I am attacked; that same wind that befriended me at home, that found me here, and that followed me out when I fled to the plains yesterday. The wind is not me,” I grind out to the flickering flames, “but Kestrin. Even if he is lost now, I will not betray him. That is the only story I have to tell, and I will not tell it here.”

Something scrapes against stone, the sound rising up from the fireplace itself. I jerk up, eyes wide, but there is only the grate, the logs burning steadily. I stand, my gaze running frantically over the fireplace, the intricate brickwork: there are gaps between the bricks, and over the mantle a stone carving spreads, some portions standing forth, others recessed.

“No.” I step back. Tell the fire. I shake my head. “Who listens?” I spin on my heel, scanning the room before coming back to the fireplace. “
Who listens?
”

The king shoves the door open, striding into the room. I stare at him, unmoving. He comes to a stop a pace away, studying me, his face emotionless. In the darkness of his eyes I can see him sifting through the possibilities of what I told the fire.

“Finish your story.”

Behind him, Filadon steps into the room, shutting the door with a click.

“Your Majesty,” I say.

“What happened on the plains?”

I swallow, studying him. Whether he knows his son as the Wind or not, this he has the right to know. “The prince came to find me, riding my lord Filadon’s horse. As he came, so did your enemy.”

“Who is that?”

“She is—not human. She wears always a long dress and a gem stone on her finger. She comes from a fall of moonlight, or flowing water.” Or a breath of dust in the air.

His face pales. “And in this meeting yesterday, what happened?”

“She offered him a choice, Your Majesty: my life or his.”

The king makes no motion. I concentrate on my breathing, meeting his gaze, knowing that I cannot show doubt or fear now. He turns to Filadon abruptly. “Ride out with Sarkor and the royal quads. Comb the plains west of here. Follow Kestrin’s trail.”

“Your Majesty,” Filadon says, bowing. He leaves without a glance.

“For your sake, let us hope you are not lying, lady. Else the fate you will suffer will be much worse than a burning.”

“Your Majesty.”

As he turns his back my hands begin to tremble and it takes most of my concentration to keep them still. I am alone for the space of a few breaths and then the guards swing the door open. “Lady,” one of them calls. “You’ll come with us.” I wonder what the king ordered, where I will be taken. He must have spoken to them or they would not have called me ‘lady.’

They escort me to a small guest room, locking the door behind me and remaining on guard in the hallway. I pull the curtains back from the window; the view is of the palace wall, and, three stories below, the road that runs between. I pull one of the chairs to the window and sit, grateful for the thin rectangle of sunlight that falls on the floor, lighting the room.

I rub my hands over my face, thinking of Kestrin, willing to give himself over to the Lady for me.
Why?
Was it guilt? Or did he truly care for me? I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking of all the times I have spoken to the Wind, all the secrets I have shared, the comfort I have taken from its presence. Kestrin. It hardly seems possible. And perhaps it isn’t. Perhaps the king does not truly believe me now because I am wrong, because Kestrin has never been the Wind, has only ever dabbled in magic, unbeknownst to his father. I drop my face into my hands. I can only try, I tell myself. And if I fail, at least Falada will be there to greet me in the end.

 
“I’m to ready you for dinner.” The serving girl regards me coolly, unimpressed with her duty. I pull open the bundle she has dropped on the bed. The skirt and tunic are well made though simple—something a lady-in-waiting might wear.

“Very well,” I say, my voice strangely calm to my ears. The girl helps me dress, hustling me out of my work clothes. She starts when she sees the dark purple bruises on my leg and side from Corbé’s staff, but she is well-trained enough not to speak. Still, I am glad to pull on the clothes she has brought, hiding myself from her eyes. At the bottom of the bundle lies a brush and an assortment of hair pins.

“You’ll need help with your hair,” the girl remarks.

I touch my braid; it is matted with dirt and straw, hair straggling out and frizzing into knots. She picks up the brush and waits silently for me to sit.

It takes over an hour to brush out the tangles. The girl, with a muttered apology, has only enough time to wind it into a bun at the back of my neck before leaving. I return to my seat, wiggling my feet out of my new slippers. They pinch my toes but I doubt that it will matter. I won’t be wearing them more than a day or two. At least if I am to die I won’t look a complete disgrace. Mother would be pleased.

My guards escort me to dinner barely a quarter of an hour later. The dining room is elegant, decorated with tapestries and lit by lamps set in wall sconces as well as an elaborate set of candelabra on the long central table. The guests are already seated; they turn to watch me as a page ushers me to my seat at the end of the table. At my right sits Filadon, his wife across from him, and across from me a lord I do not know. The foot of the table has no place setting, for which I am grateful. When I glance up to the top of the table, I meet first the king’s eyes, and then Valka’s. Her face is pale, her lips pressed together in cold fury. Across from her, I can just make out Lord Garrin, leaning forward to speak to her. She turns towards him and a smile flashes across her face as she replies.