Thorn (9 page)

“He wouldn’t hurt me.”

“You’ve seen less of that horse than the princess has,” Sarkor snaps. “He went wild and you
approached
him. Against my orders.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he growls. I stand completely still, my eyes on his chest barely two hand spans before me. I wish he would step back; I dare not move. “You heard me and you did as you wished. Had you been harmed, I would have been called to account.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“As long as you ride with me, you ride under my command. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I have sworn to deliver your princess, along with her companions, to Tarinon in safety. If you endanger your lady or any of my men again, I will see that the king deals with you. He will not be pleased.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, my voice wavering. “I didn’t mean to endanger anyone.”

Sarkor hardly looks appeased. “Do not draw my attention again.”

“I won’t,” I promise with all my heart.

He turns and strides back to the road, leaving me alone in the grass. I wait until my hands stop trembling before I follow.

***

Three days later our caravan reaches Tarinon, our destination. The days have passed quietly, with no further incident. Valka has not tried to ride again, though both Filadon and Melkior have offered her their mounts.

Filadon has surprised me. Whenever he and I find ourselves alone together for a few moments—waiting in the inn yard before a departure or arriving at breakfast before the others—he has spoken to me kindly. He has not asked about Valka, or our relationship, or given any indication that he has a motive in befriending me. Nor does he dismiss me as Melkior has; even in company with the princess, he has a smile for me, and will offer me food or drink before I think to ask. Valka has had to bite her lip more than once, for how can she be angry with Filadon for such small attentions when he has tendered her no insult? I wonder if this was why Filadon was chosen to meet me: because, at heart, he is a kind man.

So the rest of our journey passes pleasantly enough. We reach the city in late afternoon, having watched the great walls rise before us for nearly an hour. The whole of the city lies crowded within these stone walls, built up into many floored buildings of yellow brick. Today, people fill the streets, overflowing into alleys, hanging off of stairwells. Children perch on lower rooftops, barefoot and laughing. I watch them from where I sit across from Valka. She, smiling and laughing, waves to the people as we drive through the streets. Melkior and Filadon both ride before the carriage and the soldiers flank us, their horses keeping the crowds back.

The crowds end abruptly at the palace gates. We clatter into a gleaming courtyard, the horses’ hooves ringing on the cobblestones. Valka rises as we roll to a stop, stepping to the door even as the footman moves forward to open it. She descends at once, eagerness written in every move.

“Your Majesty, the Princess Alyrra ka Rosen,” Melkior intones, having dismounted bare moments before, and Valka drops into a curtsy.

I stare past her, my breath stilled in my lungs. Standing beside the king is his son. They are equally tall, with the same dark hair as all their people, but where the king has curved, hawk-like features, his son has the more feminine high cheekbones. Still, they share the same defined jaw, the same air of natural authority. The prince stands stiffly, as if he still battles illness and fears to let any sign of weakness slip him. His shadowdark eyes flicker once to the carriage and then back to Valka.

“Alyrra, may I introduce my son, Prince Kestrin,” the king says, and the sorcerer from my chamber bows to Valka’s curtsy. When she meets his gaze she smiles and looks away coyly. He watches her, his emotions so well hidden I cannot say whether her behavior strikes him as strange.

I want desperately to step forward, to tell him: do not trust her. I understand; it is you the Lady wants, and she will use Valka to betray you. She meant only to get me out of the way. But even as the words form in my mind, the chain tightens around my neck. My fingers scrabble at it uselessly, finding only skin.

The prince leads his lady across the courtyard towards a set of doors, huge, intricately carved and elaborately inlaid with brass. I stare at them numbly, thinking of the big double doors to our Hall at home that I had once thought so great with their iron bands and blue and white paint. They would look like a piece from a child’s play house here, small and ridiculously simple.

At the king’s nod the doors are thrown open in welcome. But instead of entering he pauses on the threshold, turns around. Melkior and Filadon step back so as not to crowd their king, as do the other nobles around them. I see his eyes come to rest on me, and he speaks to Valka where she stands with the prince. I step down from the carriage carefully, my legs creaking, as if I had turned old in the time since we arrived. I am too late, I know, though I do not know what for. I cannot hear their words, but Valka glances at me once and then they continue into the Hall.

I am lost in a sea of sound and movement. Our horses are led away, hooves clattering over stone; the soldiers call greetings across the courtyard; servants bustle past; and the remaining nobles retreat to the Hall. Everywhere there is the sound of talking: laughing, shouting, swearing. All, all in Menay. And the one ally I thought I had, the one man whose enemy I share, is no ally at all but my betrothed. I feel as if at any moment parts of me might start breaking away, my soul splintering beneath the sudden onslaught of knowledge.

“Lady?” A short, severe-looking man stands at my elbow. I turn to him as one drowning reaches for aid. “Follow me.” His voice is deep, his accent so thick it nearly obscures his words. I latch onto his face: well shaven but dark with bushy eyebrows and sharp brown eyes. His hair, unlike the soldiers’, is cropped short. I follow him across the courtyard to a side door, and then down hallway after hallway. I follow blindly, not caring where I walk. Finally, the man stops and opens a door, gesturing for me to enter.

“Thank you.” I step into a small bed chamber. Behind me the door click shuts, the man’s tread fading into silence. After a time, I walk to the small chair set beside the window and sit down. I smooth the fabric of my skirts over my lap, arrange my hands carefully. I know the white stallion will be well cared for, that my trunks will not be lost, that the only thing, truly, that may be lost is the prince, and of him I will not think.

Evening gathers in the corners of the courtyard below, soft blue shadows spreading their wings over the mosaic tiled floor. The floor looks like a tapestry of flowers and circles interwoven and spread across the ground, too exquisite to set foot on. This courtyard alone, set away and barely used, makes me wonder why the king had done more than glance within the roughly cobbled yard of our Hall before moving on.

I do not know how long I sit. Eventually, a knock comes on my door: a confident tap-tap-tap. I turn towards it, gazing through the half-remembered scape of my darkened room. I rise and move to the door, opening it hesitantly, squinting against the sudden wash of lamplight.

Captain Sarkor stands in the hall, accompanied by a soldier. I think it must be Matsin son of Körto, but he keeps his chin down. Sarkor sketches a slight bow. He looks ancient to me, his eyes grim, his lips straight. His is a face of strength and intellect; I wish suddenly that I had not angered him the day Valka wished to ride the white. Had I not, I might be able to speak to him now.

“Lady, the king requests your presence.”

I slip out to follow them. The hallways are lit by sconces set in the wall, evenly spaced. At first the halls strike me as rich, with wood floors and a band of mosaic tile towards the ceiling, but as we walk the corridors grow richer, more exquisite, with woodwork and carving on the walls, meeting with mosaics at shoulder level that rise to meet the carved ceiling, the doors ornately worked. I can hear the quiet rumble of many people, distant laughter, music drifting through the halls.
 

We stop before a door of carved and inlaid wood. Sarkor knocks. Where I had crept to the door, here a voice answers: a short, distinct command.

Sarkor opens the door, stepping in to bow. “Your Majesty, may I present the Lady Valka, called Thoreena, companion of the Princess Alyrra.”

I enter and curtsy, my eyes resting on the carpet. Despite the light of numerous lamps, the colors of the weaving seem dark to me, and what might be reds and blues and greens present themselves as black. Sarkor steps back and I hear the door click shut.

“Lady Thoreena,” the king says, and I rise from my curtsy. He is dressed in a cream tunic trimmed with beige and gold; his sword belt replaced by a gold sash. He does not need a weapon at hand here, I think. At least, not one of metal. In one hand he holds a goblet, fingers curling gently around the delicate gold stem. I drop my gaze to his feet and see that he wears slender leather slippers, embroidered, with a long curled toe. I stare at his shoes, mortified. He had thought our Hall filthy. Obviously—from cobbled yard to scuffed floors to the rushes and dogs in the Hall itself. He must have. He had never worn anything but boots during his visit.

“I hope you have been made comfortable here.”

“Quite,” I say, and then catch myself. “Y-your Majesty.”

The liquid in his goblet twirls as he considers me. I have not changed or washed since my arrival, and feel a slight blush warm my cheeks. He lets my words pass. “You are aware that you have displeased the Princess.”

“Your Majesty,” I agree, unsurprised.

“She has asked me to find you some work, to make use of you.” He pauses, but I make no reply as I watch his fingers on the goblet. The cup cradled by the gold stem is glass: that fragile, glorious stuff. “Can you tell me what has so displeased her?”

“She has said nothing?” I ask, half-caught between the detached swirling of wine and the shame of seeing his shoes. Valka is not the type to pass up a chance to express displeasure.

“She has said very little,” the king replies. “I would hear more.” I consider him. In the half-lit room, my thoughts are more lucid to me than the dream of this conversation. I think: he is trying to bluff me into speaking the truth, believing that Valka has already spoken half of it. But he has no idea of the truth, any more than Sarkor who watched the Princess’s every move but one.

“I would not say more than the Princess herself wishes to tell.”

He smiles a lovely though empty smile. “I have spoken to Steward Helántor in the hopes of finding some employ for you. All we have to offer is the job of goose girl. I assume you will accept it.” He lifts the goblet to his mouth, takes a sip. I think of Redna and her horses, and of Dara and Ketsy—now I will be among their number. I could almost smile.

“Unless you are able to provide an escort for yourself,” the king adds casually.

“An escort?” I echo.

“You cannot make the journey alone. While I might offer you one, I would want to know more before I did.”

“Your Majesty.” There is nothing for me at home: that much I know. Daerilin would easily find me out as an impostor, but would never believe me to be myself. The king waits, watching me. I am aware of the hardness of his gaze, and I think faintly that he is not unlike my mother. I wonder what he sees in me, what it was that Valka said.

He turns away, sets his goblet down on a small table. “Helántor will come for you in the morning.” His words are cold, half-bored. I curtsy and turn to leave. His voice stops my hand on the handle. “If you decide you would like to speak with me again, he will arrange it.”

I dip my head in acknowledgement and slip out the door. Sarkor and Matsin guide me back to my room in silence. I feel ill with the words I have heard tonight, with the coldness of the king and the ruby red of the wine in the goblet. At least I know now what I had feared: that the king is like my mother, and so his son must be as well.

***

Helántor turns out to be the same man who showed me to my room. I follow him down to a courtyard where a carriage awaits us early the following morning. We drive down one of the main roads, though I cannot be sure if it is the same one I traveled yesterday. Within sight of the city gates the carriage turns and rumbles past a large stable before coming to a stop before a second stable. I have to bite my lip to keep from gaping.
Two
royal stables, of such size?

Inside, we climb a dim stairwell by the door. Two doors face the stairs; Helántor opens one of these to reveal a small, bare room. “This is your room,” he explains. “Your trunks we will bring here. This is the key.” He hands me a small key; I curl my fingers around the cold iron. “Come.”

I take one last look around the room. In the dim light from the tiny, shuttered window I can make out only a rolled mat and a stool.

Outside once more, we walk to the next building. It is smaller than the stables, and while the doors are open a second low gate closes off the inside. A milling, honking flock of geese fill the barn.

“Corbé!” calls Helántor from the gate. A figure makes its way towards us from the depths of the building, shooing geese out of his way with a staff.

“Ayah?” The word is abrupt, harsh. Helántor replies in Menay. They talk for a few minutes, but my coming is clearly no surprise to Corbé. He looks at me once, a long measured, measuring look, and I think that I do not like his eyes but I am not sure why. He is well built, with stocky shoulders and big hands; he must be a few years older than me and a head taller to boot.