Thorn (7 page)

The soldiers treat me as they had Valka, calling me “my lady” when they speak, but mostly they are distant and cold. They dislike me, I think, and it is a foggy moment before I realize it is Valka they dislike and not me. I do not know how the meal passes; I am stepping into the carriage almost before I realize I have eaten. Valka remains outside, watching the men pack up.

Tarina, the maid, enters the carriage, seating herself beside me. “My lady, are you feeling quite well?”

I nod, the motion jerky.

“Can I fetch you anything? A glass of wine, perhaps?” She has shown more concern for me in these few moments than in all our trip. But then, she thinks me Valka, not myself.

“No,” I force myself to say. “Thank you. It will pass.” Even though I know it will not. The sorceress is hardly one to let her plans go awry. Tarina, however, accepts my answer, asking nothing further.

The princess returns to the carriage when the soldiers are ready to move. Valka glances nonchalantly at me as she enters, but something in her stiffens. As she settles herself gingerly on the cushioned seat, I begin to understand: she too has lost her body. She feels the same revulsion, the same instinctual terror at the change of her hands, her hair. The cold anger I had felt growing in my breast when I faced the Lady reawakens, and I find myself swearing not to show my fear, my discomfort. So, looking at her, I smile. She flinches, and I laugh: a high-pitched, quick sound that is not my laugh at all, that comes from some distant place I cannot name, but her face pales.

“Stop it!” My own voice raised in anger against myself wrenches me to a halt. She raises her hand to her mouth, eyes bright and angry.

“Whatever happened to your voice?” My voice sounds smoother and sweeter to me than ever before, for it has now her honeyed tones. Tarina glances between us warily.

“Be silent! Or I shall—”

“What? What will you do?” I begin to feel a pressure around my neck, the golden chain—invisible, untouchable, yet there—pressing gently against my windpipe. I must not openly challenge her, I realize.

“I shall make you pay when we arrive in Tarinon.” I see myself angry, eyes flashing, face pale. But the expression is strange—it is molded to Valka and not myself.

“Perhaps,” I say, not really hearing her anymore, for another thought has occurred to me: in Tarinon I might finally meet the mage, the Lady’s enemy. He surely would be able to help me. I lean back against the seat, thinking of how I might find him. With Valka present, it may be impossible to reach the king, but surely she will not notice or care if I seek out one of his men?

***

We reach the Border house at sunset. Built at a rocky pass, it stands in mute testimony of the friendship (or simple indifference) of our two lands—rarely have we gone to war, never have we needed more than a stopping house here for Border patrols from either kingdom. Menaiya has had little interest in us until now, for the gem mines lie north of us, the fruited valleys south. Indeed, the Border house often lies empty through the winters, open for any who need it.

Now, the house overflows with light and men. They pour out of the building, filling the road. As the carriage pulls to a halt, two men stride forward. I cannot see them past Valka, who moves at once to the door, waiting impatiently to alight.

As she descends, Captain Sarkor addresses the princess with a bow. “Your Highness, may I present Lord Melkior, High Marshall of Menaiya, and Lord Filadon of Barinol.” The two men bow deeply to her; she inclines her head in return.

The men could not be more different. One has the sense of great height when looking at Melkior, though not all of it physical. He bears himself proudly and his eyes hold definite authority; he is used to his power, I think. So I understand at once why Filadon is mentioned second: he is slim and unassuming, his eyes gentle though shrewd and his lips used to smiling. He pauses to look past his new lady to where Tarina and I still sit in the carriage, and nods to us while Melkior addresses the princess.

“It is our great honor and privilege to welcome Your Highness to the Kingdom of Menaiya,” Melkior begins, and drones on at length, finishing with, “The prince himself wished to accompany us, but he has been taken ill of late and could not join us.”

“I pray he recovers his spirits,” Valka murmurs while I wonder what illness would so debilitate a young man in his prime.

Melkior smiles, revealing two lines of pearly white teeth. “By all report, he is recovering well. We have prepared a meal for you and your escort, Your Highness; we pray it will be to your liking.”

“That was most thoughtful of you, Lord Melkior,” Valka purrs. She starts forward and the two lords fall into step with her, accompanying her into the house. It is a strange thing to watch; she has not yet found the smooth pace of my mother, yet in these few hours she has developed her own walk. She moves with a certain confidence, her chin raised just high enough to require her to glance down as she reaches the threshold.

Tarina clears her throat, and I realize I am still standing in the carriage door. I jump down, hastily following them inside, Tarina right behind me. A rough table runs the width of the room, laden with silver platters of food and pitchers of both water and wine. I hesitate in the doorway, my eyes adjusting to the lamplight. The princess sits at the head of the table, a lord on each side. I must take my place now, I think with a sudden urgency, or I shall lose even that. I hurriedly seat myself next to Filadon, remembering his quiet smile.

Valka glares at me. I understand now more clearly than ever why neither my mother nor any of the courtiers took me seriously: my body does not lend itself to grandness. Valka, trying to look proud and above me, looks only petty and cross, a mere child of fifteen years. Still, she must introduce me before she can snub me, else her companions may not know whether they dare join her. Her words are laden with contempt. “My lords, allow me to introduce my companion, Lady—Valka.” Melkior and Filadon bow from the neck.

I dip my head in return. “My lords.”

“And my maid,” Valka finishes, nodding to where Tarina has taken up a station along the wall. So Valka has made me merely a lady-in-waiting, without known title or parentage, hardly worth mentioning before a maid. Neither lord addresses me more than to offer food or drink. Valka pointedly ignores me. By the end of the meal it is clear I will make no friends here.

The soldiers have prepared a back room for our use and Valka happily retires there after the meal, escorted as always by four soldiers, Matsin and Finnar among them. Tomorrow they will form a true quad, for our soldiers from home will leave. Tarina follows after her, as she used to with me, to help her change in her usual brusque manner. This time, though, she will remain and wait for me to enter, fluttering over me and granting me all the courtesies she showers on Valka. I do not want her mistaken kindnesses, or Valka’s sneers. I do not want to watch Valka change, or fumble with the new shape of my body. I rise and make my way outside, following the road to a stand of trees overlooking the pass. I find a seat on a stone, wrap my arms around my knees, and breathe in the clear mountain air.

The soldiers at the house quiet, the horses picketed outside lowering their heads to sleep. The night spreads its mantle over the world. I look up through the branches at the canopy of stars. It is cool, with a slight breeze blowing, and I left my cloak in the carriage when I hurried after Valka to the Border House.

Valka. I close my eyes. The fragile peace the night has constructed around me begins to fray at the edges. That is my name now. And I must think of her as—what? Alyrra? No, but neither traitor nor princess seem right. She is Valka, whatever body she may wear, just as I am still the girl who was princess this morning. While I cannot claim the name Alyrra, I will not be Valka either.

I am not the princess.
The unspoken words whisper through me, raising the hair at the back of my neck. They mean more than just that I have lost my body, lost the story of my life written upon it. I am not the princess. I will not be queen. I will not marry a foreign prince, nor live in a court where my language is barely spoken. I will not have to learn to politic, to question my friendships, to trust no one. I need fear my brother no more, nor the cold contempt of my mother, nor the prince who awaits me. I have before me now a new life, if I choose to take it.

I feel a ripple of something sweet and wonderful wash through me. I am done with that, I think. I wonder if it is joy I feel.

I leave our room before Valka wakes, stepping out for a quick walk. Tarina, yawning and eyeing me askance, had helped me dress, no doubt expecting me to grump as Valka does. She seemed taken aback when I refused her company for my walk. I wonder how close she and Valka are: clearly she does not suspect our switch, yet Valka had expected more of her and used her more than I ever had.

Melkior and Filadon stand together by the carriage, deep in discussion with Captain Sarkor, while the soldiers make ready to leave. They do not notice me and I do not disturb them. As I reach the end of our little party, I stop in dismay. There, already tethered to the supply wagon, stands the white.

I go to him, reaching out to offer him my hand. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I thought you had escaped. I didn’t even remember you till now—but you must never have gotten away.” He blows into my hand, one ear swiveled towards to the men loading the wagon. They hardly spare me a glance. “I’m sorry,” I say again before turning to take my little walk, but the pleasure of the morning has left me.

By the time I return, all that remains within the Border house is a tray with breakfast foods. I sit down and help myself to the cold meats and bread laid out. Eventually, Valka emerges. I had not truly seen her when I returned to the room last night, and so it is a shock to see myself, lips pursed, reaching for a piece of bread. I watch her eat, intrigued by the way she chews, by the play of light on forehead and cheeks. My own body lacks the softness of Valka’s, the shapely form and unscarred flesh. As Valka reaches for more food I touch the scar that curves across her knuckles, my own fingers pale against her skin. She jerks away from me.

“Do you know how you got that?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice is sharp.

“I was gathering rosehip to make a tisane for Jilna. I slipped at the top of a ravine and slid all the way down. There were brambles at the bottom and I sliced my knuckles open on them. Mother was furious.” I rub my own knuckles, remembering the pain. Valka stares at me silently; I cannot tell if she is frightened by my friendliness or merely disgusted. I rise and leave her, making my way out.

Lieutenant Balin and his soldiers have gathered before the door, ready to take their leave of the princess. They do not give me more than a passing glance as I walk to the carriage.

Valka emerges soon after, smiling radiantly as she addresses our escort from home. “Lieutenant Balin, I thank you and your men for the service you have done me on this journey.” She glances towards where I wait in the carriage. “I pray you will tell my mother you left me well.”

 
“Your Highness,” Balin bows deeply. “It has been the greatest honor to serve as your escort. I shall deliver your message to the Queen myself.” Within a few minutes the whole of our escort from home has mounted up and left, the horses’ hooves raising a fine cloud of dust that drifts across the road.

Valka enters our carriage, followed by Melkior and Filadon.

“Where is Tarina?” I ask in surprise as the carriage starts forward.

Valka flicks her fingers with disgust. “I sent her home. She has been rude and not particularly helpful. I saw no need to keep her.”

Of course. I look out the window, making no further comment. Tarina might have eventually realized something was amiss. Now Valka will be safe.

Valka and her two lords keep up a lively discussion through the morning. Their conversation is fraught with allusions to politics, to Tarinon and Menaiya. While there are the usual remarks on the weather and the view, they return always to matters of court.

“The prince took ill unexpectedly about a month ago,” Filadon says.

“He went hunting one day and the next—” Melkior begins.

“The king’s best healers have been attending him,” Filadon continues, as if Melkior had not spoken. Strange that he should override Melkior so. “They assure us he will recover.”

Melkior smiles amiably, but the press of his lips tells me that he is well aware of Filadon’s slight. As if to spite his younger, and lesser, peer, he goes on. “Prince Kestrin’s illness was not unlike what took the Queen. We were worried at first that we would lose him as well.”

“Then the Queen died quite suddenly?”

Melkior nods somberly, a brilliant act. “Took ill one day, and the next day she’d gone, dear lady. She was as good a queen as we’ve ever had.”

Filadon dips his head in agreement, but the tightness of his eyes betrays his contempt. I wonder what Filadon’s standing is in the court: he might snub Melkior in passing, but Melkior, rather than returning the snub, instead blathers on in concealed fury. As High Marshall, surely Melkior holds the most powerful position among all his peers. Who, then, is Filadon, and why was he chosen to meet us?

***

At midday we break for lunch. The rocky pass has given way to sparsely forested mountains once more. Now more and more we see open slopes with lush grasses and the last wildflowers of the season stretching between the thinning stands of pines and aspens. As the soldiers set out our meal at a makeshift table along the roadside, Filadon turns to me. “Lady Valka, you have been very quiet. I hope you are feeling quite well.”