A Curse of Thorns

by Nicole Mainardi

  That was when the darkness swallowed me whole.

  Chapter 7

  More Dead Than Alive

  BASTIAN

  B elle’s blood coated my fur as I ran back to my castle. I could tell she was losing a lot of it, and quickly—her neck was pushed up against my arm and I felt her pulse slowing. I had to get her to Sophie; she could fix this. She had to fix this. My magic could only heal surface wounds, not broken legs. Not gashes so deep that I could see the bone.

  I’d gotten there too late. I could tell that she knew I was there; it was the only explanation for why she’d kept looking over her shoulder. So I’d backed off. And the forest wolves, they—they must’ve been waiting for that, for when I could barely sense her, to make their move. It was what I would’ve done.

  Finally, the castle came into view. The wrought-iron gates opened at my silent command and I rushed through the orange grove, past the tomatoes and squash I’d been growing with my magic during the winter months, and into the castle.

  “Sophie!” I boomed, nearly running again as I made my way to the infirmary, the torches on the walls lighting themselves as I thundered past them.

  Suddenly, Sophie appeared in front of me in her nightgown and robe, and I almost dropped Belle.

  “Bastian, what—?” Then her sleepy gaze settled on the dying girl in my arms and she threw her hands over her mouth. “My stars,” she gasped.

  “Infirmary,” I barked. “Now.”

  Sophie, who was always stronger than I gave her credit for, straightened. Tying her robe around her waist, she led the rest of the way to the castle’s infirmary.

  Belle’s pulse was a ghost of a thing now—fading fast with each passing moment. I placed her down carefully on one of the cots, watching her chest move slightly and hearing each shallow breath pass her frozen lips as Sophie hurried to get the ointment ready. It was a magic-based concoction I’d created when I’d started hunting out in the Black Forest and had often come back hurt. Almost as hurt as Belle was now, at times.

  Seeing her injured like this, I clenched by jaw and my empty hands twisted into fists. She couldn’t die—not now. Not when I…

  Turning, I punched the stone wall, bits of it plinking to the ground and scattering across the room. I was so angry with myself, I could barely hear anything but the rushing in my ears. If she died because of me—

  “Get out of here,” I heard Sophie say.

  Turning, I looked at her in confusion. There was no way I was leaving Belle alone, not when she could die.

  “I don’t think she’d want you to see her…” She trailed off, and I realized that Sophie was going to have to cut off her clothes to get to the wounds. “And your brooding is very distracting.”

  I took one last look at Belle: I didn’t want to leave her side, but something told me that she was going to be okay, that Sophie would take care of her—and that if she ever found out I’d seen her without her clothes on, she’d never speak to me.

  Without looking at Sophie, I backed out of the room, not taking my eyes off of Belle, even as Sophie began cutting off her bloodied shirt. When I turned the corner, I looked at the wall emptily, listening for a cry of pain or a soft intake of breath at least, but there was only silence.

  Chapter 8

  This Vast and Splendid Place

  BELLE

  I dreamt of home in springtime.

  The small garden strewn along the edges of our cottage was teeming with ripe vegetables and fragrant herbs, and the grass around it didn’t have a single brown patch like it usually did from the Regime rationing the water supply. The corner of our roof that had always been missing large pieces of wood but had gone unfixed over the years looked brand new, and the windows were clean and polished, letting in the golden afternoon light. Even the trees on the edge of the Black Forest looked lighter—as if the dark magic that had turned them had never existed.

  But the cottage was empty.

  I found myself sitting at the dinner table, clutching a cup of tea that had gone cold. Looking around me, I saw that nothing lined the shelves. There was no rug, no chairs, no mantle over the fireplace. I strained to hear a single sound over the quietness, but there was nothing. Not even the chirping of birds or a slight rustling of the wind through the trees.

  “Belle,” a soft voice called to me, breaking the silence. I peered into the stifling emptiness, but still there was nothing.

  Then, through the open back door, there appeared a woman. She was bathed in a bright, glowing light—it was almost painful to look at her. The loose shift hanging onto her thin frame was a robin-egg blue, tied at the waist with a silver-thread ribbon, and her hair was the golden color of wheat in the summer. Strands of it flew away from her face and caught easily in the sunlight.

  As she stepped inside, I noticed that she was barefoot, though it looked like no dirt had ever touched her feet. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, and something about her reminded me of my mother.

  She smiled at me, and the next words she spoke sounded like honey, soft and warm and sweet. “My dearest Beauty, you are too good.”

  I blinked at her, and opened my mouth to answer. But my jaw wouldn’t budge. I tried to make a sound deep in my throat, and still nothing came out.

  The woman tilted her head down sadly at me. “I do apologize, lovely, but it’s better if you only listen. We don’t have much time.”

  I nodded reluctantly, setting down my cold cup of tea shakily and waiting for her to speak again. Despite not being able to talk, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this kind of peace.

  “You don’t know me, child, but I’ve been watching over you for a very long time. Your mother was always good to the fair folk, and we haven’t forgotten.”

  Fair folk? I thought. Where have I heard that before?

  Then I remembered reading something about fairies in one of the pre-Regime books I’d come across in Alinder’s collection a few years ago. Most of them were just little people who could do small bits of magic, but some were extremely powerful. This woman appeared to be the latter. I wished I could ask her more about who she was, but my jaw remained immovable.

  She gracefully sat in the chair opposite mine that had only just appeared, as if out of thin air. The light around her dimmed, and I could see now that her eyes were as green as the spring grass, and her face held no blemishes. She took my hand and warmth flooded me.

  “Choosing to go after the cursed ring, to sacrifice your life for your sisters’—it has pleased me greatly. Your mother would’ve been so proud.”

  I clenched my jaw to keep the tears away as they burned behind my eyes. This woman—this creature—had known my mother. But how?

  “Your sacrifice will not go unrewarded,” she tells me further. “Though not many know that magic still exists in this world, you’ll find out very soon that it does, and has existed for as long as the world can remember. Unfortunately, I can say no more, and you won’t remember any of this until the rightful king has taken back his kingdom once more.”

  She reached with her other hand to touch mine, softly, as if with a feather. “If the Emperor knew that the fey were still alive in Briar, he’d destroy the entire village and everyone in it.”

  She squeezed my hand and stood as my head pounded. “Have courage, Belle, and above all, forget not who you are. For you are brave and strong and bright, and despite the fate that’s been dealt to you, you haven’t forgotten to love those nearest you.”

  Tears slid down my cheeks at her words, unbidden, but I didn’t wipe them away. Instead, the woman reached towards me and touched a part of the scar that marred my cheek; I felt the wet tears stick beneath her fingers.

  “Your mother named you Belle for a reason. The world nowadays lacks much salvageable beauty, but one day you’ll restore it. You see the splendor in things that have none in others’ eyes, though your lot in life has sought to jade you. And that is something to be rewarded.”

  Her fingers brushed the
tops of my eyelids and I felt them flutter closed on their own. “Sleep now child. There is much pain ahead of you, but there is also love.”

  In the darkness of my mind, I felt her fingers leave my eyes, and I became enveloped in the cold of winter.

  ~

  When I awoke, I was lying flat on something that gave into my weight, and felt a smooth material beneath my fingertips.

  My eyes flew open, flitting hurriedly over my surroundings. At first glance, I saw that I was in a very large room that was probably twice the size of our cottage. My vision blurred slightly, and I reached for the leather jacket around my shoulders, but it wasn’t there.

  Where are my things?

  It didn’t take long to find them. Propped against one of the wooden double doors beside me was my bow and quiver, along with my jacket that I now remembered dropping in the Black Forest, and my pack that didn’t look too worse for wear. I sighed in relief.

  But my relief left me quickly. Squinting against the sunlight that filtered in through the half-stained-glass window at the head of the bed, leaving warm silhouettes of colored light on the gray-stone floor, I found myself trying to sit up to get a better look at where I was. Without thinking, I propped myself up against the pillows in one quick motion. But my arm screamed in protest as I did, and so I was forced to lay back down.

  My heart beat loudly in my chest as I tried to remember how I’d gotten to this strange place—I’d never seen anything like it before. Across from the foot of the bed was a wide set of teal-painted wood drawers, and a space above it that left a shaded imprint, as if a painting or a mirror might’ve hung there once. Further into the room was a love seat made of purple velvet settled next to a dark-stained wooden coffee table, and beyond that: a large door-less closet filled with fabric and another partially-open door that looked like it led to a bathroom. Porcelain and gold trim gleamed from there in the morning light.

  No one in Briar had a home like this, especially with this kind of extravagance. My pulse stuttered as I realized where I was:

  Somehow, I’d made it to the Beast’s castle.

  My gut reaction was panic, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe: How the hell had I even gotten here? The last thing I remembered was bleeding out on the forest floor, waiting to get torn apart by the wolves. I remembered being lifted up by what had felt like human hands...but then whose had they been when the Beast wasn’t supposed to be human at all? Who would be senseless enough to live in the Black Forest?

  I looked over at my pack, wondering if everything inside had survived the wolf attack, and whatever had happened afterwards. Using my good arm, I tried to push myself towards where it sat against the door, but I groaned loudly as pain shot through my entire body. I threw the covers off in frustration and, looking down, saw that I was dressed in a black tunic so large that it hung off one shoulder and went past my knees—and nothing else. A strange heated panic rose to my cheeks at the idea of the Beast undressing me, even if it was to save my life.

  I took a deep breath to calm myself; that was the least of my worries.

  The calf that had gotten shredded by the wolf’s claws was bandaged up to my knee, and my arm was wrapped in the same bandages. My other leg—the broken one—was in some sort of splinted cast.

  I felt a small pang of appreciation for the Beast.

  But, no matter how well I’d been bandaged up, I needed to get out of this bed to see how bad the damage was. I’d thought I was dead, and now I wasn’t. And there was no real reason for it.

  Ignoring that last thought, I swung my legs off the bed; they felt stiff and ached terribly as I set my feet down on the ornate rug that lay there. I sucked in a quick breath as I put some weight on them and tried to stand. I could hear my heart beating too loudly in my ears again and blood rushed to my head, making me dizzy as the pain spread.

  That was why I didn’t hear the footsteps swiftly approaching the double doors until the handle began to turn.

  Despite the throbbing ache, I lunged for my bow and plucked out an arrow from the quiver. I would not be caught defenseless—not if the stories about the king turned out to be true. I pressed myself against the wall, leaning on my one leg as the doors swung open, nearly crushing me. Shakily bringing an arrow back in my bow, I watched as an elderly woman in maid’s wear entered. She looked toward the bed, saw I was no longer unconscious in its tangled sheets, and tensed.

  I came out from behind the door, having a hard time keeping my shooting elbow up. Or staying on my feet at all. Every movement was draining me, and I found that I was putting too much pressure on the shredded leg. My knees started to buckle.

  “Who are you?” I demanded in a strangled voice, and she turned to me quickly, shock written across her dropped jaw and wide eyes.

  My whole body trembled with the effort of standing, and I could no longer keep my shooting arm up. I grabbed for the golden filigreed door handle to keep my balance as the world swayed in front of me, and my stomach turned.

  Trying to focus on the woman so that I wouldn’t pass out, I realized that she was much older than I’d originally thought. Even though she moved towards me with surprising agility, her face was pocked and wrinkled almost beyond recognition, and her hair was stark white beneath her frilly gray cap. Her uniform was a faded canary yellow with white lace adornments that looked like it had been washed far too many times.

  She approached me as flitting black shadows swarmed across my vision.

  “Oh no, Bastian won’t be happy about this,” she chided in a raspy-sweet voice, though whether she was talking to herself or to me I couldn’t be sure. “Come child, I’ll start a warm bath for you. He wants you to look your best for dinner.”

  I gave her a look that said I thought her mad, but she ignored it and smiled close-lipped—a smile that didn’t quite reach her emerald eyes. Grabbing my uninjured arm, she practically carried me with startling strength and cold, bony fingers to what I’d been right to think was the bathroom.

  I gawked at it. It was as large as my room back home and much cleaner, the room bathed in white stone and porcelain finishings.

  The old woman sat me down on a padded woven stool, but I immediately began to slump to the left as black spots obscured my sight. Without a word, she reached for me, picked me up, and placed me in the bathtub. I tried to feel a sense of propriety when she pulled the tunic up over my head, but I was too drained to feel much of anything besides pain.

  Once the tunic was gone, the porcelain tub was flush against my skin—it was freezing, I knew, but my body didn’t register the feeling before the hot water from the golden tap began to fill it. Propping both of my legs up outside the tub to keep the bandages from getting wet, she opened a few of the colorful glass bottles placed on a shelf nearby; she poured them gently into the bathwater, and fragrances of lavender and rose and something more pungent filled my senses. She reached behind me to pull my long brown hair from its disheveled braid, and it fell around me in gnarled tangles.

  Remembering myself as she reached for my hair with sudsy hands, I told her, “I can do it.”

  She peered down at me and pursed her lips, but wordlessly handed me the bottle she’d been using. I grasped the green-colored glass with weak fingers and tipped the white translucent liquid into my hands. It pooled easily in my palm, and I sighed from the simple feeling. When I went to reach up to put it in my hair, though, I hissed at the stinging sensation that seared up my bad arm. The old woman wasted no time reaching for the bottle again with an expressionless face, and I reluctantly handed it back to her.

  “This will heal you,” was all she said, and I realized that she had a strange lilt to her voice. I’d been distracted when we’d first met, unsure if she was there to kill me or not, but now that I had supposed her to be mostly harmless, I could hear that she had an accent that was distinctly French.

  It didn’t take long for the old woman to wash my hair, and, after I protested again, she allowed me to wash my body with my good arm. I was espec
ially thorough with the places that had been injured, even though it burned something fierce to do so. She left the cast on my broken leg, which was still awkwardly slung over the side of the tub, but unraveled the wrapping around the other so that I could wash that too. I refused to look at it, and it stung like it was being ravaged by a thousand angry wasps when I put it in the soapy water.

  After I was through, she held out a white towel for me that looked like it could fit me and my sisters. Sagging onto the stool after she helped me out of the tub, I realized that I did feel better. I shivered slightly, wrapping the luxurious material tightly around myself, and looked at her expectantly.

  She bowed in understanding, and I thought I saw a slight smile tug at her lips. “I’ll leave the dress that the king expects you to wear to dinner tonight on your bed.”

  He expects me to wear? I thought. I tried to stand in protest, but she turned on her heel and shut the bathroom door behind her. Sighing, I dropped back to the stool, and let the towel fall around me so that I could inspect my wounds properly. I turned over my left arm and saw large chunks of skin missing where the bark must’ve embedded itself when I’d tried to grab onto the tree branch. But the wound already looked like it was at least a week old.

  How long have I been asleep? I wondered.

  I looked down and, unable to get a good look at my leg, searched the bathroom for a mirror. Again, there was none. I awkwardly got to my feet and peered behind me at the back of my leg, seeing that it too looked like it’d had time to heal for more than a few days. I’d have new angry silver scars, but that didn’t matter.

  I slumped back down and put my head in my hands, threading uneasy fingers through my wet hair. I was exactly where I’d set out to be, but I had no idea how long I’d been here, or how I’d even gotten to the castle in the first place.