Princess of Thorns

by Unknown

  “You’re not sober, either.” I take his arm. “Let’s go.”

  “No. I want more potatoes,” he says, jerking his arm free.

  “If you eat more potatoes, you’ll explode.” I reclaim his arm and tug him out of his chair. He pulls away again, only to stumble into the empty table next to ours, sending one of the chairs tipping over.

  “Uh-oh,” he says, staring at the chair with wide eyes.

  “Come on.” I tuck myself close to his side and wrap my arm around his waist. “Lean on me. I’ll help you.”

  “Maybe I am a little drunk,” he says, dropping a heavy hand on my shoulder and allowing me to lead him toward the stairs.

  “Maybe a little,” I agree in a mild voice, grateful no one seems to be paying us any attention. But I’m sure young men stumble drunk from this room all the time. Half the boys in armor were tripping over their own feet by the time they left for the tournaments, making me hope none of them planned to fight in that condition.

  “Sorry, Ror. Didn’t mean to.” Niklaas weaves slightly as we reach the first landing. “I never get drunk. Never. Iss the beer’s fault. I’m strong, but that beer must be sssssstrooo-oooong.”

  “You are strong,” I say, urging him up the last flight of stairs.

  “I am,” he says, sagging against me until I grunt beneath the added weight.

  “I know. I’m agreeing with you.” I half drag him down the hall, desperate to get him into his bed before he’s unconscious. If he passes out in the hall, I’ll never be able to carry him to his room.

  “You say that like a joke,” he says, “but it’s not. I am very, very ssstroong.”

  I resist the urge to laugh, but just barely. “Yes, Niklaas. You’re a massive, manly beast. Now where did you—” My words end in a squeal as Niklaas grabs me—one hand gripping the back of my neck, one clasped high on my thigh—and heaves me into the air above his head. I lift my hands to keep my face from smashing against the beams, but thankfully Niklaas’s arms are too short to lift me all the way to the ceiling.

  “See?” He lifts me up and down, up and down, as if I’m a log at a strongman contest.

  “Put me down, this second!” I hiss, wary of drawing the attention of anyone already locked in their room. There are a dozen rooms along the hallway and the innkeeper said all of them would be filled.

  “And I could lift someone heavier.” Niklaas spins in a circle so fast it’s hard not to squeal again. “You’re too light, Ror. Like a girl, all hollow inside.”

  “Girls are not hollow inside.” I slap my hands behind my back, aiming in the general direction of his big, drunken head. “And you’re going to be very, very dead if you don’t. Put. Me. Down!”

  “All right, don’t get snappish,” he says, setting me down so suddenly that the world spins and I grab onto the front of his shirt to steady myself.

  Unfortunately for us both, at the moment Niklaas isn’t the steadiest port in a storm. I tug at him and he staggers, and a moment later we hit the floor in a tangle of limbs—his elbow knocking my forehead, my knee slamming against his, and his heavy body pinning me to the ground beneath him.

  “Ow!” he groans. “What you tackle me for?”

  “I didn’t tackle you,” I grunt, shoving at his chest. “You fell over, you insufferable, drunk—”

  “Don’t start calling names.” Niklaas brings his hand down on my chest as he tries to right himself, his fingers brushing against the bandages covered only by the thin linen of my shirt.

  “Get off!” I snap, knocking his hand away.

  He hums beneath his breath. “What’s that? Are you—”

  “Get off of me!” I push at his chest until my arms tremble, trying not to panic. I planned on telling him the truth tomorrow anyway, but I don’t want him to find out I’m a girl like this, with his hands on me and his mouth perilously close to mine. In his drunken state, he might decide to kiss his newly female friend and doom himself to a fate worse than that death he’s so worried about.

  “All right, all right,” he says, coming to his knees before rocking back to sit with his shoulders braced against the door of his room. He’s breathing heavily by the time he’s upright but not panting the way I am. “Whass wrong? You hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, struggling to catch my breath as I scoot away from him.

  “But your chest.” He points at my stomach before closing one eye and adjusting the height of his finger. “I felt bandages.”

  “It’s a fairy thing.” I think fast, hoping he’s too drunk to see through a lie. “We wrap our chests to keep our shoulders strong. When we … fight.”

  Niklaas frowns. “Never heard of that.”

  “There are a lot of things you’ve never heard of. You’re only seventeen years old,” I say, throwing his words from earlier back at him as I come to my feet. “If you want to make it to eighteen, you should start drinking less.”

  Niklaas’s frown becomes a pout. “Serrsly, Ror. Haven’t been drunk since I was fifteen. Don’t know what … It’s … strange …” He yawns and his eyes begin to slide closed.

  “No you don’t,” I say, shaking his arm. “No sleeping until you’re in bed. Where’s your key?” I pat his cheek. “Niklaas? Niklaas! Where is your key?” I give up patting and slap his cheek. Hard.

  “Ow!” His eyes fly open. “You hit me!”

  “You picked me up and then fell on me like a sack of bricks,” I say, no longer in the frame of mind to be amused by his idiocy. “Now get up!”

  “I didn’t crush you, did I?” he asks as I haul him to his feet, worry replacing the outrage in his tone. “I’d feel turri-bull if I crushed you.”

  “No, you didn’t crush me,” I groan. Not yet, anyway, but he’s getting heavier by the moment, and if he falls on me again …

  “Thas good.” He pats me on the head like a puppy before letting his arm go limp, jabbing me in the eye as his arm falls back to his side. “I don’t want to crush you, Ror. You’re a decent little bass-turd.”

  “Give me your key, Niklaas.” I blink tears from my jabbed eye as I tighten my grip on his waist. “I need to get you into bed before you do one of us lasting damage.”

  “In my pocket,” he says, fumbling at the front of his shirt.

  I snatch the key from the pocket near his heart and slide it into the lock. The door falls inward and Niklaas and I stumble inside, half walking, half falling across the room to his bed, where I deposit him with an “oof” of relief.

  I stretch my arms above my head to get the crick out of my spine before reaching for his feet.

  “Thanks, Ror,” he mumbles as I tug off his boots, his eyes already closing again. “See you in the mmmumm … ing …”

  “See you in the morning, you rager.” I sigh as I heave his legs onto the bed.

  I consider trying to take his pants off to make him more comfortable but decide that’s better left alone. He’s going to find out I’m not a boy tomorrow, and I don’t want him knowing I’ve undressed him. He’ll already know that I’ve seen things I shouldn’t have that night at the spring. That night when he was standing in front of me as naked as the day he was born and I stared a little too long …

  He’s not nearly as attractive tonight, but I have to admit not even sloppy-drunk-and-snoring-like-a-moose completely disagrees with him.

  “Pity you,” I mutter, tugging the blanket up to his waist. “You should pity the women of the world. We’re defenseless against you.”

  He lets loose with an especially long snore, making me giggle as I brush the hair from his eyes then tug at the strands that have found their way into his parted mouth. The moonlight through the window falls on his face, accentuating the hollow above his upper lip and the proud angles of his cheekbones. He looks more serious without his dimples but younger, too, no longer a golden god but a boy standing at the gates of the
Land Beyond, staring into the blue light from which no human has ever returned, wondering what awaits him on the other side.

  “Whatever it is, you won’t find out for years and years to come,” I whisper, tracing the line of his jaw.

  I don’t know what has made Niklaas so certain his death is close—his father or some other monster—but I wish he could see himself the way I do. He isn’t just a prince, he’s a hero, the sort of person even death is hesitant to approach without a nod.

  “You will live, and you will change your fate.” I should pull my hand away, but I let my fingers brush across his lips instead. “I will help you, if you’ll let me.”

  Niklaas mumbles in his sleep and I take a guilty step back. We’ve slept on the same bedroll for a week, but I’ve never felt like I was invading his privacy the way I do now. I shouldn’t be touching him. I haven’t earned the right, and I never will.

  With one last check of the room—making sure the window is locked and a glass of water placed by Niklaas’s bed for when he wakes up with a mouth full of cotton—I let myself out, taking his key and locking the door behind me, figuring I’ll be up before he is and he’s better off locked in.

  Outside in the hall, I place my palm against the door, wishing I hadn’t asked for two rooms, wishing I didn’t feel so reluctant to crawl into bed alone, without Niklaas’s back pressed to mine and his irritating sleep sounds waking me in the night.

  Sad to miss a night of snoring. I must be losing my mind.

  With a sigh, I tuck Niklaas’s key into one pocket and pluck my own from the other.

  “Surely you’re not going to bed already.” The voice—and the low growl that follows it—comes from not ten hands behind me, making me jump and reach for my staff, cursing myself for letting my guard down for a moment.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Aurora

  I spin to find a girl in a red cloak leaning against my door. A shaggy white dog big enough to ride crouches beside her. The creature’s blue eyes narrow and its growl turns even more menacing as I point my staff at its lady.

  “It’s all right, Hund.” The girl runs her fingers idly back and forth along the beast’s back. “This boy won’t hurt us.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” I say, tightening my grip on my staff.

  “Easy, now. We only want to be friends.” She tosses her head, sending curls the color of hot chocolate tumbling around her shoulders.

  Her dark eyes consider me with a hungry look, while lips stained a deep red push into a pout every bit as seductive as Niklaas’s. She is his feminine counterpart, a girl so striking it’s impossible to believe she’s a mere mortal. She would turn heads dressed in an oat sack, but in her red cloak and tight black dress—displaying what I, for one, consider an aggressive amount of cleavage—with the scarlet leather belt at her waist, she might as well be parading around with a court trumpeter by her side.

  “You’ll want to hear what I have to say.” She brings a hand to her hip, emphasizing her curves, drawing my attention to the small axe hanging from the leather at her waist. It’s an unusual choice of weapon but a dangerous one, assuming she knows how to throw it. “I have a proposition for you.”

  A proposition, eh? I lift my eyes from the axe. This girl must have been sent by one of the madams, a treat to tempt the handsome boy on the white horse.

  I’m suddenly very glad Niklaas decided to drink too much. I wouldn’t want to see the way he’d look at this girl. I’d enjoy seeing him pull her into his room even less.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to sound it. “But I’m not interested, and my friend is too drunk to … um … perform.”

  “Perform?” Her eyebrow lifts.

  “Yes,” I say, blushing despite myself. I’ve heard about prostitutes and seen them at the mercenary camp, but I’ve never spoken with one. I’m finding it more awkward than I would have thought.

  What must it be like? To sell something so sacred? To have men look you over like a menu at a tavern and decide whether or not to … consume you?

  “You’re … you’re beautiful. Really.” My blush becomes a burning in my cheeks. “But we don’t have money to waste on … companions.”

  “Companions …” Her brow smoothes. “Oh my!” She throws her head back and laughs, displaying her flawless white throat before ducking her chin and tossing her hair.

  Her mane is like a luxurious fur, so glossy and thick and soft-looking that it begs to be touched. Even I wouldn’t mind twirling it around my finger, and I couldn’t be further from her usual customer. She must do quite well with real boys.

  “I see.” She presses two fingers to her lips in a gesture that does nothing to conceal her delighted smile. “You think I’m a whore. How sweet.”

  I blink. I wouldn’t call someone who had confused me for a whore “sweet,” but to each her own.

  I grip my staff, on guard once more. “If you’re not a whore, then who are you? And why are standing in front of my room?”

  “I just want to talk,” she says, ambling down the hall.

  The dog makes to follow her, but she stops him with a pointed finger and a sharp command in a language I don’t recognize. I’ve studied the major languages of Mataquin, but I can’t recall anything that sounds so guttural. She must be from the extreme north, even farther north than the man I fought today.

  A wave of uneasiness passes through me. Beyond the countries of Herth, on the far side of the Gefroren Mountains, mountains so tall the bodies of ancient giants are said to be buried beneath them, lies the last refuge of human witches, men and women born with magic in their blood instead of borrowed from the Fey or bartered from dark spirits, like the fate reader at the New Market.

  Centuries ago, human witches were hunted by the ogres, who gained a portion of the witches’ magic when they consumed their flesh. The ogres, craving more power, eventually turned their efforts toward stealing magic from the Fey, but not before they decimated the witches’ numbers and drove the few remaining men and women into hiding. The last of their people are a fiercely secretive and vengeful tribe, who only venture from their arctic home to kidnap children and pillage the harvests of Herth’s farmers. They can clear an orchard in a night, leaving behind only a few crystal-filled stones most farmers are too terrified to touch, let alone sell for profit.

  I wouldn’t be surprised to learn this girl is a witch. There is something … not right about her. She wears her beauty like a costume, something false she could shed at a moment’s notice. It isn’t a part of her, it’s a tool, a weapon every bit as dangerous as the axe at her waist.

  “Don’t come any closer,” I warn.

  “Don’t be afraid.” She keeps walking, hips swaying. “I want to be your friend, little prince.”

  “How do you know me?” I ask. “Who are you? Tell me or I’ll put you down.”

  “Threatening a woman?” The girl lifts her hands in the air, but she doesn’t seem frightened and doesn’t pause until I stop her with the end of my staff against her chest. Her dog growls, but the girl silences him with another guttural command.

  “This is no way to behave,” she says, turning back to me with wounded eyes. “You’ll have me trembling all over in another moment.”

  “I’ve asked you once,” I say in a humorless tone. “I’ll ask once more, and then I’ll knock you unconscious. Who are you, and how do you know me?”

  Her eyes widen further, but she looks more excited than frightened. “I’m with the exiles. I heard you were looking for a guide to the Feeding Hills.”

  The guide. Niklaas did say he had put a word in with a friend.

  “If that isn’t true, I’ll be on my way,” the girl says, drawing my attention back to her pouted mouth. “There’s no need to threaten me with your … weapon.” She reaches up, running her hand up and down my staff in a way that leaves me feeling vaguely ill.

 
I pull it out of her reach. “We are looking for a guide,” I say, mentally cursing Niklaas. Couldn’t he have found someone else? Someone less … busty?

  “Then I am at your service. My name is Crimsin,” she says, sidling closer.

  “Jor,” I say, withholding my nickname. I don’t want this girl getting hold of any intimate part of me. Or Niklaas.

  “That’s what I thought.” Crimsin smiles. “So what do you think, Prince Jor? Should we adjourn to your room for a chat? See if we can’t work out an arrangement?”

  She reaches for my warrior’s knot, but I stop her with a hand around her wrist. She’s not much taller than I am, but she’s thicker. My fingers barely wrap around her arm.

  “Tough, aren’t you?” Crimsin asks. “How old are you? Twelve? Thirteen?”

  “Fourteen,” I say through gritted teeth, not liking the look in her eye.

  “Fourteen.” Her eyebrows lift. “Then you know what to do with yourself, don’t you?” Before I can move away, her free hand darts out, quick as a snake slithering out of the grass, to grab the front of my britches.

  I knock her arm away and take a step back, suitably shocked at having been fondled by a stranger. She takes a mirror step back, apparently equally shocked not to have found what she was looking for in my pants.

  “I’m so sorry,” she breathes, the huskiness vanished from her tone. “I didn’t know—the messenger said …” She takes another step back. “Princess?”

  “I’ll answer questions when I have answers,” I say, though I have to admit to feeling less threatened now that she’s not trying to seduce me. “Shall we go to my room?”

  “Ye-yes. That would be best.” She takes a long look down the hall. “I don’t like to be seen with the travelers who hire me, and I especially don’t want to be seen with a Norvere royal. There was an ogre battalion in the city center yesterday. They’ve promised to kill anyone who even thinks about helping the lost prince reach the Kingdom in the Hills. I’m sure they’d be equally eager to capture the lost princess.”