Authors: Intisar Khanani
“Your Highness,” she stammers.
“Laurel,” I whisper. “I’m still Thorn.” She embraces me then, and though her hold is gentle, she makes no move to release me until I step back myself. The courtyard is filled with nobles and hostlers leading their charges, not a few of whom watch our exchange.
“How are the others?”
“Ash and Rowan are here, but I’m not sure they’ll be able to get close.” Laurel turns the mare and holds the stirrup for me. “Oak may decide to stay on at the farm.”
I pat Solace’s shoulder, my sleeve falling back to expose the bandage wrapped around my wrist. Laurel glances at me. “They say you were hurt after you came up here, when you disappeared those days.”
“Just a few scratches,” I say through gritted teeth, and heave myself up. My arm shrieks its dissension at that, but, thankfully, Laurel makes herself busy checking my stirrups and smoothing my skirts, and does not notice the set of my face until I have managed to rearrange it.
“Are Ash and Rowan well?”
“Well enough,” she says. “You’ve heard Corbé’s gone? He lit out of here like a dog with its tail on fire as soon as the news reached the stables.” Laurel smiles humorlessly. “Mind you, that was after Ash and Rowan beat the living daylights out of him and Joa fired him.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“It would be foolish of him to stay after all he’s done against you, wouldn’t it? We were expecting you’d send someone after him.”
I watch Solace’s ears flick back to listen to us, the morning light catching in the soft, fuzzy fur of her inner ear. “I suppose I should.”
“Aye,” Laurel says. “A man as attacks a woman shouldn’t be allowed off like that.”
“There’s many more in the city that have done much worse than him.”
“Start somewhere and keep going,” Laurel suggests practically. I nod, wishing it were as easy as that. And perhaps it is. She reaches up and pats my hand hesitantly, as if unsure that she has the right to anymore.
Kestrin walks his mount up next to us, dipping his chin to Laurel.
“Your Highness,” she murmurs, and with a curtsy hurries away.
“She’s your friend from the stables,” Kestrin observes.
“Laurel,” I agree.
“You miss them.”
“Of course.”
“You could ask them to join you here,” he suggests, his voice pitched so that only I may hear. “Good friends are hard to come by.”
“Perhaps,” I say, wondering if Laurel would come. I remember how tired she has been, how little her heart has been in her work since Violet’s death. Perhaps she would welcome the change. I feel myself beginning to smile, but I don’t want to lose the thread of this conversation quite so fast. “I was wondering, my lord, how my attendants were selected.”
“They are the younger daughters of some of lesser noble households.”
“I know that,” I say, amused. “I meant them in particular. As you said, good friends are hard to come by. I would like an attendant who does not have prior allegiances that are stronger than what she holds for me.”
Kestrin meets my gaze. “That will take some doing.”
“Of course.”
He grins and dips his head. He is pleased that I have asked this of him, because it means I trust him to do it well. And I do, for though it is a different thing to trust him not to kill me, I find that I have great faith in him to keep my trust now.
We ride down in procession: an honor guard, the king, then myself and Kestrin, follow by Lord Garrin and the king’s closest vassals, all of us flanked by more guards. I feel faintly foolish riding with so many eyes on me, with so many men surrounding me as if I were afraid of the people. I have never seen Kestrin ride through the city without a guard; I wonder now if I will ever again roam these streets with only a horse for company. It seems unlikely.
Valka has preceded us to Hanging Square. She stands at the front of the platform, flanked by guards, and it is all the guards in the Square can do to keep control of the people. As I watch, a piece of rotten fruit flies through the air, splattering against the wood at Valka’s feet. She does not flinch, does not even look, her chin high and her eyes trained on an unseen spot in the middle distance. She wears the clothes I sent her, a simple skirt and tunic set that Mina found for her. Her hands are bound before her, and her hair wisps free of its braid.
We come to a halt beside the platform. The king holds up his hand to the people. The crowd quiets in expectation, until all that can be heard is the faint shouting of a group of children.
“Lady Valka, you stand accused of high treason and attempted murder of a royal person. You have been found guilty. Have you any last words?”
Valka maintains a stony silence, her eyes finding mine. I tried, I want to tell her. Why couldn’t you have helped me more? In her eyes, I see my own guilt, see the same betrayed, hateful look as that day, years ago, when I trumpeted her theft of the brooch to everyone. If only I had sought justice more kindly.
The king nods his head, and Valka is led to the gibbet, guided up onto the bench waiting below it. The executioner fits the rope around her neck, pulling her braid through it, and then steps back. She does not take her eyes from me and so I do not see the king gesture, or the executioner step forward to kick away the bench. I see only the way her head snaps back, caught by the rope, the jolt as her body’s fall is broken with the breaking of her neck.
A coldness slides in past my skin, burning off my flesh. I watch her body swaying before me through a whirl of colorless cloud, her feet jerking in spasms. Solace sidles sideways, swinging her head around to watch me, the whites of her eyes showing.
The princess. Look at the princess.
The crowd backs away. I feel the change shudder through me, twisting my bones and squeezing the breath from my lungs. At my throat, the choker I have worn so many months burns to ash, as if it had never been. As I watch Valka’s bent head, her hair writhes, the brown running to golden red, her clothes blown by an unknown wind, whipping around until they are no longer the tunic and skirt I sent her but the stiff, embroidered set gifted to me by the king.
I turn my head as the wind calms, looking out over the crowd. They stare back, a sea of faces. At the very back, standing casually against a wall, I find Red Hawk. He meets my gaze and then he smiles, a kind, encouraging smile that has nothing of the death I have just caused in it. He bows slightly, his fingers touching his heart, and then he steps to the side and is lost in the crowd.
“My lady, are you well?” Kestrin touches my elbow, eyes flickering over me. I would have laughed had I the heart; in his quick glance I see a growing fear: was it truly Valka who died?
“We are both still here,” I remind him. His shoulders slump in relief even as he watches me, but I give him no further reply.
The king waits on his horse, observing me as well. I raise my voice over the growing murmur of the crowd, knowing that I must give him a reason to allow Valka’s burial. “Your Majesty, Lady Valka was the daughter of a high vassal of my mother’s realm. Though she betrayed her oath of fealty, her father has remained true. For his sake, I ask that you grant her a quick burial.”
My words do not meet with the crowd’s approval.
“Leave the traitor to rot,” one man cries, and then they are all shouting their suggestions, their anger.
“Your Majesty,” I repeat, my voice now only for our small party. “She has paid the price of her treachery. Do not make her actions cost my queen mother more than they already have.” It is the only argument he will understand, and so I use it. I cannot bear the thought of Valka’s body abused and left unburied.
“Is that your wish?”
“It is.”
The king nods, gesturing to Captain Sarkor behind us. I turn Solace away so that I will not have to watch as Valka is cut down and carted off. I wonder where she will be buried, and before me flashes a vision of the graveyard where Violet now lies. Valka’s grave will be just another grave there, just another small heap of stones in a field where all are nameless.
The ride back to the palace passes in a dream of quiet. Everywhere I look I see people I have known these last months, these years of my life; they smile and turn towards us, and in their eyes I see the lives of unborn children, the certain strength of the young, the lingering illnesses of the elderly. In the palace courtyard I dismount awkwardly, patting Solace until Laurel reaches us.
“You must be glad to have your old face back,” she observes.
“I rather like not having a burnt wrist anymore,” I agree, grinning. In truth, my body feels strange to me once more, like a half-remembered haunt, a childhood home. It has filled out, grown taller, grown softer, while Valka cared for it.
Laurel laughs grimly, shaking her head as she leads Solace away. As I turn my hand, though, I can feel the same raw pain beneath my new skin that I felt beneath the charred remains of my old one; and as I had dismounted, I felt my arm muscles cry out beneath the new seal of my skin. It will heal faster, I think; but the damage has not been undone, only removed from sight. In that, I suppose there is much to be grateful for: without the scars between us, perhaps Kestrin and I might truly find a way to look at each other without guilt or pain.
“My lady,” Kestrin says, approaching me. “Will you come in?”
I take his arm as I am expected to, turning with him towards the great Hall with its doors thrown open. A stray breeze flits through the courtyard, wrapping around me and then lifting the loose locks of my hair up as it rushes towards the Hall. I glance sharply at Kestrin. He raises his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth quirked upward, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. I let my breath out in a quiet laugh, squeezing his arm beneath my hand, and together we walk up the steps to the Hall.
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I hope you enjoyed reading
Thorn
as much as I did writing it. Please consider leaving a review at your favorite e-retailer or online bookshelf. To find out about new releases, giveaways and events, or to just say hello, you can also connect with me online:
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Acknowledgements
This book wouldn’t have reached readers without the encouragement of my family and friends. Special thanks to my husband, who has always supported my writing and first suggested I self-publish. Thanks also to my beta readers, who innocently suggested sweeping revisions: my mom, writing circle cronies Hannah Kutcher and Janelle White, early reader Rima Dabdoub, and my husband, who alone read multiple drafts of Thorn. Extra gratitude to Hannah, Chief Techie Friend, House #3 Publishing, for her tech support and humor as I navigated the publishing process. And of course, thanks to my readers, without whom this book would be very lonely.
About the Author
Intisar Khanani grew up a nomad and world traveler. Born in Wisconsin, she has lived in five different states as well as in Jeddah on the coast of the Red Sea. She first remembers seeing snow on a wintry street in Zurich, Switzerland, and vaguely recollects having breakfast with the orangutans at the Singapore Zoo when she was five. She now resides in Cincinnati, Ohio, with her husband and young daughter. Intisar writes grants and develops projects to address community health with the Cincinnati Health Department, which is as close as she can get to saving the world. Her approach to writing fantasy reflects her lifelong passion for stories from different cultures. She is currently writing a trilogy set in the same world as
Thorn
. This is her first novel.