Thorn (11 page)

I turn to him before he can leave, pointing to myself. “Thoreena.”

“Thorné,” he echoes, the last part blending away so that it sounds to me almost as if he too has said, ‘thorn.’ He introduces himself as Joa, and with a nod departs.

“A fine fellow, that Joa,” Falada mutters darkly.

Chuckling, I turn back to him. “I’ll try to take you with me to watch the geese tomorrow. Would you like that?”

“It will be good to be out on the plains again.”

“Alright.” I turn to leave.

“Before you go, princess, there’s something you might want to consider.”

I glance at him quizzically. “What’s that?”

“Won’t your mother notice if you don’t write to her, or if, when you do, your script had changed?”

“She might,” I concede, the quiet of my day quickly slipping away. My mother’s voice, directing me to write often, echoes in my ears.

“You’d better figure out what to do then, hadn’t you?” The white watches me intently. I shrug. “Hadn’t you?”

“Yes,” I sigh. “I will.”

“When?”

“Tonight … I’ll go up to the palace and talk to—her.”

“You’ll tell me about it in the morning.”

“Yes,” I agree without enthusiasm and turn to the door.

The walk to the palace takes me half an hour. I see no one but a few drunkards; I hurry past, head bent, and though one or two call out, no one follows after me. Here and there an inn door stands open, light pouring out with the sound of voices.

The palace guards give me only a passing glance before waving me on through the gates. The Hall’s doors stand open, and as I ascend the steps I see that the palace still feasts. Great tables are set out across the Hall, stretching down the corridors created by the rows of pillars. The floor shines, for there are neither rushes nor dogs here. Instead, tiled mosaics spread across the floor: flowers and circles and vines, much more intricate than the courtyard I had seen. Far away, across the Hall, I can make out a dais at which the royal family and highest nobles sit. The lofty ceiling is lost in dim shadows.

A doorman steps forward and clears his throat as I stand gaping the in doorway. I drag my eyes away from the Hall. He speaks, but the words are in Menay and I can only shake my head in frustration.

“I am Lady Thoreena,” I say carefully in Menay. At least I have this much. “I must see the Princess Alyrra.” His brow creases as he deciphers what must, no doubt, be an atrocious accent, but then he nods, waving over a page. I follow the boy out of the Hall, through hallway after hallway, coming finally to a sweeping marble staircase that takes us up to a carpeted hallway of deep red, lit by small lamps set in carved niches along the wall. The woodwork rising from the floor, the mosaic walls, the carved ceilings here are like nothing I have seen before.

The sitting room the page shows me into is lavishly decorated. The floor is spread with a silk carpet depicting more flowers and vines as well as songbirds hiding in the greenery. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, fully lit, light shimmering through the hanging crystals. Low couches line the wall, and a series of ornate tables no higher than the couches are arranged at intervals, no doubt to bring refreshments easily to hand. There are two latticed windows in the far wall, the shutters drawn closed, and a fireplace to one side, empty and shielded from sight by a three-paneled painting of storks in flight. A large, many-sided table with an inset silver tray, exquisitely engraved, draws the eye to the center of the room and the crystal vase with its bouquet of flowers set upon it.

I stand gazing at the room as the page calls a greeting, wondering if I should feel regret. I feel a twinge of envy—how different is this room from my own in the stable! But I would not want to be princess.

A woman answers his call, entering from a connecting room. She looks like a lady of some import herself, but she is holding a folded tunic in her hand. A lady-in-waiting or attendant of some sort, I wonder? The page tells her who I am as well as, I believe, that I seek an audience with the princess. She considers me shrewdly, dismisses the page, and leads me across the room towards the window. A small chair has been set in the far corner, half-hidden behind a folding silk screen of mountains and snow. I thank her, sinking into the chair. She shrugs one shoulder and leaves, her expression a mix of contempt and amusement, and returns to her duties. I lean back, grateful. At least this way I have the chance to organize my thoughts without Valka present.

Some time later, I hear voices from the hallway, muffled by the door but vaguely recognizable. Then the door opens and closes, and Valka snaps, “Mina! Zaria! Where are you both?”

My mouth drops open in surprise. Surely her attendants are higher born than common maids. I would have expected some semblance of respect for them from Valka. They hurry into the room murmuring apologies, the words foreign but the sound familiar. Valka snaps at them again, her voice growing weaker as she moves into the other room. Still, I can hear her railing against the uselessness of attendants who hardly know her language.

Time passes gently, marred only by Valka’s grumping at her attendants. I close my eyes and think of the forests, the dell, my old friend the Wind. Eventually, the attendants emerge once more, closing the door softly behind them. I listen to their fluid voices, the whisper of their skirts as they walk. I wonder if they have forgotten me, but then the woman who had shown me my chair appears before me. She smiles as she gestures for me to go through to the next room. It is a cool, mocking smile, and the other woman hides a laugh behind her hand. They must not like Valka.

I thank them both, taking the lamp they offer me. They leave without another word, but I hear their muffled laughter as the door closes. The second room is another sitting room, this one smaller, simpler, and yet even more elegant. The third is Valka’s bedchamber.

I set the lamp down on a carved stand beside the low divan that serves as a bed. She snores softly. It is strange to see myself lying there among the pillows and silken sheets; in sleep, the emotions of the day have fallen from my features so that I look not so much arrogant or petulant as young.

“Princess,” I whisper to myself, and Valka opens her eyes.

She well near flies out of bed, face white. She faces me across the divan, one hand clutching her neck, her chest heaving. Brown hair, straight as always, falls over thin arms poking out of the sleeveless nightgown. My face is filling out, I note dispassionately.

“I’ll scream! Don’t you come near me!” she cries.

I almost laugh at that. “I’ve only come to talk to you. After all, I’ve no interest in being hung for a traitor.”

Her eyes flash. “I shall have you thrown out of the city. You forget that if it weren’t for me you would have nothing now.”

Does she think I have a great deal with my sleeping mat and stool? I meet her glare, trying not to rise to her bait. “Only a fool would send me away.”

“You insolent witch!”

“You need me for my knowledge,” I snap, my patience at an end.

She looks momentarily taken aback. “Oh?”

“I promised to write to my mother upon my arrival. She will wonder if she receives no word.”

“If that’s all, I’ll write her in the morning. I don’t need
you
for that.”

“You may have my body but you do not have my script,” I point out, seething.

Valka absorbs this without a hitch. “Then you shall write what I tell you, or I shall have you thrown out.”

“I shall write what I wish, or not write at all.”

We glare at each other over the divan. Valka is the first to look away. “How do I know you won’t betray me?” she asks sullenly.

“You’ll have the reading of every letter I write,” I say, as if offering a compromise.

“Every letter?”

“I will have to write regularly. My mother is concerned with the alliance this marriage is to make.”

“What is your price?” Valka asks tightly. I smile: like my brother, she gives little of her own and so expects avarice of others. It never occurred to her that I might not demand a payment.

“Only this: that you will leave me alone; and if I should ever need anything, you will provide me with it.”

A smile lights Valka’s face—it is frightening to me to see those features burning with greed and happiness. Her words are laughably conservative in comparison. “I suppose I can do that.”

She walks to a writing table and gathers up a sheaf of papers for me. “You are content to be a servant, then? You are more the fool than I thought.”

I ignore her words. “How will I get the letter to you?”

“I will send a page.”

“It will be ready in the morning.” I pause in the doorway. “And Valka? If you betray the prince to the Lady, I will kill you, cost me what it may.”

In the morning, I take a few minutes to go through my—or rather, Valka’s—trunks. They had been delivered the day before while I was out with the flock, but I hadn’t wanted to look at them after meeting Valka. The first trunk contains the clothes and belongings Valka brought with her, including a small box of jewelry; the second contains her trousseau. I sit back on my heels, my single-candle lantern throwing a dim light on the contents. Daerilin truly did not wish to see Valka again. She had been sent here, to Menaiya, to marry where she might and be forgotten. I remember my mother’s words and a sadness wells up inside of me for the future Valka had been faced with. I almost pity her.

I look through her belongings hesitantly for I do not want to take anything of hers, but my old slippers, caked in goose dung and sagging at the seams, will hardly last another day. And gloves for my hands, rubbed raw by the shoveling and raking, would be wonderful. Thankfully, I find a pair of riding boots that fit perfectly. The gloves are all silk and utterly useless.

As promised, a page knocks at my door a few moments later. He is dressed in a different version of the hostlers’ outfit: where they sport olive tunics and tan trousers, with a dark green sash at the waist, he is all blues and white. When I open the door, he bobs his head and says, “Letter.” I have folded the letter into an empty sheet of paper and closed it with a few drops of wax; Valka will be able to read it before sealing it with the royal crest. The page departs with a quick bow.

Once the goose barn is done, I seek out Joa. It takes a few broken phrases and plenty of gesturing before he understands me, for I have no wish to be mistaken for a thief. Eventually, he assents and I lead Falada away by his halter. Once through the city gates, I unbuckle the thing and he takes off, racing down the road and then trotting sedately back to walk with me.

“Feeling a little cooped up, were you?”

“Of all human inventions, stalls are by far the worst,” Falada informs me, humor tingeing his words. I grin and shrug noncommittally.

“Did you meet with that Valka woman?”

“We came to an agreement.” I am suddenly loathe to tell him more.

“Yes?” he prods.

“I’ll write letters home for her. In return, she’ll leave me alone.”

Falada jerks to a stop. “That’s all?”

“I did tell her I’d kill her if she betrayed the prince,” I admit, continuing down the road. After a moment, Falada follows.

“Would you?”

“No. I don’t know that I could kill anyone. But I thought the threat would make her think twice.”

He makes a slight sound of consideration—a hmm of horsely sorts—but lets my words pass. “Do you think this sorceress is after the prince as well?” he asks instead. I nod, feeling a tightness begin around my neck.

“Shouldn’t you warn him?”

“I’m sure he knows.”

“Are you? How?”

“I think she wanted me to betray him,” I reply slowly, one hand massaging my throat. “She saw that I wouldn’t, so she—” My breath stops in my throat with a jerk. I grab a handful of Falada’s mane as pain slices through my neck. The world sways around me. I close my eyes, clinging desperately to Falada. And then the chain loosens. I take a long, faltering breath, then another. Falada stands stone still beside me. I force myself to step away from him, smoothing down his mane with shaking fingers.

“My apologies,” I rasp.

“Let’s keep walking,” he murmurs. “If you are able.” I shuffle along beside him. I see the reason for Falada’s concern a moment later: a wagon approaches. The driver—a farmer with a load of ripe melons—watches us intently as we pass. We must make an odd picture: a small, foreign woman carrying a halter, accompanied by a white stallion wearing not a single piece of tack. The crunch of gravel beneath wagon wheels steadily dies away, to be replaced by the honking of the geese.

“You will have to tell me how the prince is involved,” Falada murmurs as we draw near the pasture. “Perhaps tonight.”

“We’ll see,” I say. I doubt he will think much of me once he knows.

The day passes in the same quiet rhythm of the day before. Falada grazes nearby. Corbé watches us darkly. I can almost feel his anger in the air. Even Falada, as he pauses next to me in the early afternoon, softly asks, “Your fellow goose boy doesn’t always look that black, does he?”

“No.” I reach up to scratch Falada behind his ears. “I don’t quite understand him.”