Princess of Thorns

  Niklaas grunts.

  My throat squeezes tighter. “At first I didn’t trust you enough to tell the truth, but then … I was afraid if you knew I was a girl, even a girl fairy-blessed with skill in battle, that you’d tell me to forget about saving my brother. And I was afraid that once you knew … once you learned I would never agree to marry you that—”

  Niklaas’s laugh is so sudden it makes me jump.

  My eyes dart back to his face and I watch nervously as he laughs and laughs. Laughs until his breath comes in a rhythm more akin to a sob, until his eyes shine and he covers his face with his hands and draws a long, ragged breath. “What a joke.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Me too.” He grins as he swipes the wet from his cheeks. “You were my last chance and now …” His grin grows wider as his eyes grow colder. “Now I wouldn’t marry you if your fairy mother came begging for me to take you off her hands.”

  I blink against the tears pressing at my eyes and fight to keep my lips from trembling. Niklaas has the right to be angry, and it’s good that he’s giving up his dream of making me his wife, but still … it hurts. It hurts to have him look at me with revulsion, to feel his disgust fouling the air between us.

  I suck my top lip between my teeth and bite down as I nod.

  Niklaas snorts, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to resume his nerve-mangling chortling, but instead he jumps to his feet and prowls to the edge of the limb.

  “Doesn’t look like the wolves are going anywhere,” he says, cursing. “We’ll have to stick to the trees. Unfortunately, I threw the pack down when I thought I’d have to carry you. All we have left are the flint, the waterskin, and a bag of gold that won’t do us a damned bit of good until we reach a village.”

  I struggle to my feet, careful of my arm, not knowing whether to be grateful or disappointed that Niklaas seems ready to stop fighting.

  At least for the moment.

  “I’m fine to walk,” I say, “but I’ll need help climbing when it’s time to move to another tree.” I slip my wounded arm through the cloak’s sleeve, swaying as a fresh wave of pain makes me gasp and my eyes squeeze shut.

  Niklaas steadies me with a hand on my good shoulder. My eyes open on his bare chest, a sight that sends a different sort of pain worming into my heart. He is as beautiful and untouchable as ever, but knowing I would never press my palm to his skin and feel the rhythm of his heart didn’t hurt this badly before. When I was Ror, I had Niklaas’s affection and friendship and respect. Now … I have nothing but his contempt.

  “Can you walk? Tell the truth.” Niklaas sighs as he realizes what he’s said. “I mean … I can carry you. I will if you need me to. We have to move quickly. The arrow was tipped with ogre blood. We only have a few days to get you to a healer.”

  I look up and see the kindness behind the hurt in his face, and my composure slips. “Please don’t hate me,” I whisper, eyes filling. “I care about you, Niklaas. That part was real. You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”

  “You were a friend to me, too,” he says in a strained voice. “When we were landing I kept thinking …”

  “Thinking what?” I ask softly, not wanting to ruin this opportunity to mend the rift between us.

  “That you were like a brother to me. A brother,” he says with a miserable laugh.

  “We can still be like brothers,” I say, trying to believe it, though the words feel like the worst kind of lie. A lie to myself, a lie my head is trying to sell my heart.

  “No, we can’t.” Niklaas’s hand falls and his features firm up, shutting me out once more. “You’re not who I thought you were. I don’t know who you are.”

  “Yes, you do! I’m still the same person.”

  “No, you’re not. And neither am I. That Niklaas had hope. I have none, and you to blame for the loss of it.” He clears his throat. “Now can you walk, or can’t you?”

  I lift my chin and take a deep breath, refusing to cry or beg or make any more of a fool of myself than I have already. It wouldn’t do any good—Niklaas is too angry to listen—and he’s right, we have to get moving.

  “I can walk. For now.” I pick up my staff with my good hand, silently vowing to find some way to convince Niklaas to forgive me. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

  He nods. “Maybe we’ll have some luck and the wolves will be too spooked to follow us.”

  My breath rushes out as I remember we’re standing on the arm of a monster. “Did you see that?” I ask, pointing toward the trunk. “The way the tree opened up and the ogres simply … walked in?”

  “It would have been hard to miss,” he says, crossing his arms at his chest.

  “I wonder what drew them in?” I peer over the edge. “Do you think they saw something we didn’t? Or maybe it was that smoke, some toxin in it that only ogres—”

  “I’m a dumb oaf, Aurora, too dim to know a girl from a boy. What would I know about Feeding Trees?” he asks, obviously not in the mood for talk. Or forgiveness.

  With one last glance at the wolves cringing before the Feeding Tree, bellies scraping the ground, I turn and start down the long limb, walking until it grows as thin as a canoe bed, then a horse’s back, then the ridge of a roof.

  A part of me wants to keep going, to see how far I can get before I lose my balance, but I am fairy blessed, not immortal. A drop from this height could end badly, and I’m sure a broken leg would probably hurt more than the wound my pride will suffer from asking for Niklaas’s grudging assistance.

  Probably.

  I stop, waiting for Niklaas to catch up and help me climb into the arms of another Feeding Tree, a baby monster with limbs barely long enough to deposit us onto a third branch leading deep into the forest. Beyond that, we rely on touch to find our way. It is too dark to see the trees or the ground or anything aside from the branches of the canopy shining silver in the moonlight.

  It’s too dark to see Niklaas’s broad back when he moves ahead to lead the way, or judge his expression when a fever begins to burn beneath my skin and I grow too dizzy to walk, necessitating being thrown over his shoulder. Too dark to see my hands gripping Feeding Tree bark when the ogre blood reaches my belly or to see if there is worry in Niklaas’s eyes when he asks if I am strong enough to hold on to him as he climbs down from the trees.

  Once on the ground, I stumble on for another hour or more, leaning heavily on Niklaas, keeping my leaden feet moving through force of pure stubbornness alone. I manage to keep my eyes open long enough to see the sun rise beyond the hills and to hear Niklaas promise that we are within a day’s walk of a village before fever claims me.

  I slide into a sleep like a shallow grave, my rest all too easily disturbed by the world above. Time passes in a blur of heat and pain and nightmares of the ogre queen leaning over my sickbed, spilling horrors into my sheets from her open mouth.

  I wake to Niklaas dribbling water between my lips and force myself to swallow before the fever pulls me under again. My eyes close on the needle-carpeted forest floor and open on a sky filled with vultures. They dive down to bite and claw at Niklaas’s back as he holds me on the saddle in front of him. He shouts for the horse beneath us to run faster, urging it on with heels digging into its sides.

  I struggle to keep my eyes open, determined to find my staff and help him, only to find I can’t move my hands. They have drawn into claws against my chest, the bones and muscles petrifying as the ogre venom continues to work its evil upon my body.

  “Nik … ,” I murmur, wanting to thank him for trying so hard to save me. To tell him I’m thankful and sorry and that he is a good friend, no matter what happens, but I can’t get enough breath inside of me to make the words I need.

  He glances down, seemingly relieved to see my eyes open. “We’re nearly to Frysk. Don’t you die before we get there. Don’t you dare.” His arm tightens around me, pressing me closer to a rough gray shirt he must have purchased with our horse.

&
nbsp; I am momentarily frightened by the knowledge that I have missed days of my life and further terrified by the worry in Niklaas’s shadowed eyes, but soon oblivion comes calling and I can’t resist taking his hand as I tumble into the dark.

  This time, there is no ogre queen waiting behind my closed eyes, only a tall, faceless man dressed in shadows who dances me across a field of stars, spinning me closer to a halo of light, whispering in my ear, assuring me it’s okay to dance away if I am tired of the pain.

  I look up and the shadows covering his face part, revealing gently wrinkled skin, a golden beard, and kind brown eyes. Three kind brown eyes, two in the usual places and one blinking in the center of his forehead.

  The golden god.

  I realize who he is and my heart jerks. “I can’t die,” I whisper, not knowing if this is a dream or something more, something real, a dance to a place from which I might never return.

  “You can, and you will. Everything does. Even gods.” The man smiles. “But you are young. There are adventures to be had beyond this pain. If you’re willing.”

  “I have to save my brother,” I say.

  “You have to save yourself,” the man corrects, swinging me in a circle.

  “No.” I strain to focus on his face. “Jor is in Ekeeta’s dungeon. I have to—”

  “Trust your gifts,” he says, spinning faster.

  “I don’t understand.” I squeeze my eyes shut, finding it makes the dizziness easier to bear. “What do you mean? I don’t—”

  Before I can finish, he releases me and I go flying, spinning into the void, the halo of light growing farther and farther away until it blinks out like an enormous eye.

  In the Castle at Mercar

  THE OGRE QUEEN

  The souls within rage like a tempest that will shatter us from the inside out. Our mind reels, our heart burns with a cold fire that leaves us trembling on the floor of our chambers, shivering as Illestros covers us with a blanket, but the blanket will not warm us. We are lost, staggering in the blinding light of an eternal dawn, alone with our failure and our shame.

  The girl has vanished from our sight, ventured into some bewitched country to which our creatures cannot follow and our soldiers cannot find. Vanished, with poison in her blood and her precious life slipping away.

  “If the fools were not dead already, we would kill them!” We shout, moaning as our souls churn within us. They will not remain settled when we are like this, but how can we cultivate peace when we have lost her, the prize so great there is no price we wouldn’t pay to have her safe within our walls?

  “They suffer a far worse fate,” Illestros says, stroking our bare head.

  We tore our wig off and threw it to the ground long ago, that first night, when through our wolves’ eyes we saw Aurora shot and realized one of our soldiers had forgotten to replace his bloodied arrows with bare ones.

  Fool, wretched fool!

  We should never have given the order to wound the princess. We were infected with Keetan’s desperation, tormented by doubt, and fearful of sending our cousins into the domain of the Feeding Trees. We lost faith and now redemption is lost to us.

  Goddess, please forgive us! we beg, but the goddess is as silent as ever.

  “This isn’t your failure, my queen,” Illestros says.

  “It is. We are afraid,” we confess, shoulders shaking as Illestros pulls our body into his lap. “We are afraid. Secretly. When we are alone. There are nights when we wish for this burden to be lifted, when we beg the goddess to spare our life.”

  “I know, my love.” Illestros kisses my cheek. “She doesn’t think less of you for it”

  “But we—”

  “Bravery isn’t the absence of fear but the willingness to stay the course in spite of it.” He shifts our body until we can look into amber eyes, so wise and filled with love. “You will have the chance to be brave. The princess is still alive.”

  “She is?” Our lungs draw a deep breath, but the souls within us refuse to settle.

  “She is. You are the goddess’s chosen daughter, and you may still prove you are worthy to sit at her right hand in the kingdom beneath.”

  We clutch our brother’s hand, wanting to believe and not to believe at the same time. “We will capture Aurora?”

  “We will,” he says. “Do not doubt. You must stay strong in your faith.”

  We nod. The words are meant to warn as well as comfort. “Bless you, brother.” We kiss the thin skin at the back of his hand, fighting to keep the dark whispers within our mind from solidifying into thought.

  “Bless you, sister.” He rises from the floor, pulling us with him. “Now, let us go to the boy and make good use of the time that remains.”

  We falter, hesitating. We do not wish to hurt the boy again, not when there is nothing to be gained from it.

  “We must ensure his terror is real,” Illestros says. “The prince’s fear is the key to ensuring Aurora plays her part in the ritual. We must be ready as soon as she is in our hands. There was frost on the roses this morning. Summer will not hold much longer.”

  Then it’s truly almost over. For better or worse.

  “For worse?” Illestros stills, his body going motionless except for his eyes, which slide back and forth as he searches our face. We swallow and think of what gown to wear to the prince’s chambers, how best to wring screams from his throat, but we know our brother isn’t fooled.

  “Is it only fear that plagues you, sister?” Illestros’s voice is soft, dangerous, a peach soaked in poison. “Or doubt as well? Do you doubt the prophecy revealed to me by the goddess?”

  “Of course not, brother.” We force a gentle smile, ignoring the racing of our heart. “It is only for worse if we fail to capture Aurora, or to win her cooperation. You’re right. We must make good use of the prince.” We snap our fingers at the slaves lurking in the corner. “Draw a bath and repair our hairpiece. We cannot appear before the boy in this state.”

  “I will fetch the instruments and meet you in the prince’s cell, my queen.” Illestros kisses our cheek, seemingly ready to put the fraught moment behind us.

  But we know better than to let our guard slip again.

  We keep smiling. We smile as we are bathed and dressed. We smile as we glide into the boy’s cell, baring our true teeth with no bone mouthpiece to give them human aspect. We smile as we strip the boy and lash him with a three-tailed whip before releasing the biting beetles to worry at the wounds.

  “Please! Please, no! No!” The boy’s shouts become wordless screams so sharp we can feel them lash at our own skin, but we stay and we smile, though his pain gives us no pleasure, and our secret, soft heart weeps for the prince.

  But Illestros is right. This is part of the Mother’s plan, and even suffering is made holy in her name. It must be made holy … Because if it isn’t—

  Our brother turns to watch us; we smile again.

  “We struggle, but we will find the Mother’s gentle darkness,” we say, wrapping our arm around his waist. “We do not truly doubt. Do not doubt us, brother.”

  “Never, my queen,” he whispers. “You will be the right hand of the goddess. And I will be your strength and comfort until the end.”

  The end. It draws so close we feel its fingers closing around our neck.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AURORA

  I awake on a bed, leaning over a woman’s sweet-smelling shoulder. I am warm all over, a little damp, and absolutely naked. I try to pull away and cover myself, but I am so weak I can barely manage a pitiful moan of protest.

  “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” the woman whispers, pulling a nightgown over my head and guiding my good arm through a sleeve. “You’re safe in Beschuttz. No one will hurt you here.”

  I bite my lip, stifling a moan as she works my wounded arm through the other sleeve and lays me back onto the bed. I rest my head on a pillow that smells of lavender and watch the smiling stranger pull the nightgown down my legs before covering me wit
h a heavy down blanket.

  “I’m Gettel,” she says. “It’s nice to finally get a good look at your eyes. You have lovely eyes.”

  Gettel is the one who’s lovely, with dark hair, sun-kissed cheeks, and a wide smile that crinkles the skin around her eyes. She has a motherly warmth about her that reminds me of Janin. She reminds me of someone else, too, but I can’t seem to remember …

  My mind is sluggish, my thoughts tangled, but at least my head is blessedly cool. My fever has broken. I’m going to live. I can feel it in my weary bones, no longer aching from ogre poison but simply utterly exhausted. I am so tired, all I want to do is close my eyes and sleep for a thousand years, but before I do, I have to know—

  “Niklaas,” I whisper, my voice scratchy. I lick my lips, working up the energy to ask where he is, if he’s safe, but Gettel spares me the trouble.

  “Niklaas is well, and eager to see you,” she says. “But rest first, poppet. When you wake, I’ll bring you milk with something in it for the pain and bread to eat.”

  Eat. The thought makes my stomach snarl and Gettel smile, but I am too tired to return her smile, or to stay awake … another …

  NIKLAAS

  I sit in a chair by the window of the sickroom and watch Aurora sleep, her cheeks pale now that fever no longer flushes her skin, her hair liberated from its warrior’s knot, free to spill in a yellow wave across the pillowcase and over the side of the bed.

  Gettel washed Aurora’s hair the day we arrived, three days past, when Aurora was still burning up and submerging her in tepid water was the only way to keep her cool. The fever broke yesterday, but she hasn’t remained conscious for more than a few minutes at a time. Gettel says she’s out of danger, but I won’t believe it until I look into her eyes and see something in them besides fever madness.