Princess of Thorns

by Unknown

  I catch a smell, like ancient dust and heat rising from long-baked bones, accompanied by the tang of sap nearly turned to syrup before the wood groans and the passage into the tree’s belly begins to shake closed. It is nearly a human sound, that groan, a mixture of vengeance and relief, succor and restitution that makes me shiver. It’s a cry of satisfaction after being too long from what you crave, a feast after too many months of famine.

  Or years … or centuries …

  Who knows when this tree last had a meal, but if the legends are true, it should have a few human lifetimes to enjoy tonight’s spoils. The Feeding Trees are said to take centuries to digest, leaving their ogre prey alive for a hundred years or more before the hardy monsters finally succumb to starvation.

  The thought is almost enough to make me pity the ogres who shot me. Almost.

  “Aurora!” Niklaas calls over the moaning as the tree rearranges its bark, sealing itself so completely no one would guess there had been a gaping hole at its center a moment ago.

  I look up, blinking into his worried face, my heart racing though the ogres are gone and the wolves crouched in the shadow of the tree, whining in shock and confusion. My arm has begun to go numb, and the pain that was overwhelming is now a manageable misery, but for some reason I’m still afraid.

  “Take my hand,” Niklaas demands, reaching his other hand down for mine. “I need it to pull you up.”

  “Niklaas.” I gasp his name as I reach for his hand, as confused and panicked as I was a moment ago. Something is wrong, something—

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve got you, Aurora.”

  Aurora. Aurora.

  He knows. I don’t know whether to be outraged or terrified, to weep with relief or demand that he keep calling me Ror, that nothing be allowed to change now that my secret has been revealed.

  But that would be stupid, pointless.

  Everything has changed. I can hear it in Niklaas’s voice, feel it in the careful way he pulls me up and over the edge of the limb.

  The skin below my bandaged chest scrapes against bark as I slide, revealing what gave me away. As soon as Niklaas releases me, I clutch my torn shirt with my good hand and pull it up, for modesty’s sake. It’s too late for anything else. Too late to tell Niklaas the truth the way I wanted to tell it, too late to make him understand that not everything between us was a lie, that he is still my friend whether I am a prince or a princess.

  “Here, take this,” he says, untying my cloak from his shoulders and swinging it around my own, leaving his chest bare.

  “No, you need it. It’s cold,” I say, clearing my throat as I realize there’s no need to drop my pitch. “You’ll need it,” I repeat in my natural voice, a high, floaty thing that feels unfamiliar after so long pretending to be someone I’m not.

  Niklaas’s breath rushes out as he shakes his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see … You must have had a good laugh, eh?”

  “No.” I reach for him, wincing as the muscles shift in my wounded shoulder, but he pulls away like my fingers are made of fire. Or feces. Fire and feces mixed together.

  “No,” I repeat, ignoring the tightening in my ribs, the panic that courses through me at the thought of Niklaas hating me. “It wasn’t like that. I was going to tell you the truth so many times.”

  “But what? You were having too much fun making a fool of me?”

  “No! I … At first … I was afraid,” I confess, voice quavering.

  “Right.” Niklaas’s laugh is bitter. “Afraid of what? I’ve seen you fight, Ror.”

  I flinch at the venom in the last word. “I wasn’t … I was afraid you wouldn’t help me. Ekeeta has my brother,” I say, relieved to finally tell Niklaas the truth. “Jor was captured on his way to visit me. He and the mountain Fey made the journey safely every summer, but this year Ekeeta had ogres waiting at the port near Sifths. We don’t know how she learned they would be boarding a ship there, but … She took Jor and killed the fairies who fought to protect him.

  “Not long after, Janin had a vision of Jor’s death. When the Hawthorne tree in the courtyard at Mercar turns red, Jor will die. Unless I change his fate.” I swallow the lump rising in my throat, dropping my eyes to the bark beneath my crossed legs. “I thought if I raised an army and marched on Mercar, Ekeeta might be convinced to give up Jor in exchange for my withdrawal. And if not, I planned to send my forces to attack the gates, while I crept into the city to free my brother myself.”

  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.

  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 s
ays.

  “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.”