Princess of Thorns

by Stacey Jay

  Still, I don’t dare pull in another breath until he trudges to the edge of the ring and climbs out of the pen, rejoining a group of his northern brothers. Only when I’m sure he’s gone for good do I snatch Ror up by the arm and drag him in the opposite direction.

  “I won the match!” Ror shouts, digging in his heels. “I have to go again. I said I’d fight until I lost.”

  “I don’t care what you said,” I growl through clenched teeth.

  “I’m doing well. I drew first blood. I—”

  “You’re lucky you weren’t killed!”

  “At least let me collect my winnings!” Ror wrenches his arm free with that uncanny move of his, the one that feels as if he’s broken his arm in two only to reconnect it a second later.

  I grab for him, but he’s already across the ring with his hand under the bet keeper’s nose. The weasel-faced man glares at Ror, his close-set eyes shining with rage, but he’s a more honorable sort than the men who threw Ror back into the ring. He has a business to run, one that will not continue to profit if it’s heard that the ringmaster refuses to pay out on occasions when a fighter wins against extraordinary odds.

  The man counts off an impressive number of coins before dumping them into a small burlap sack and throwing them at Ror. The bag hits Ror in the chest, but he doesn’t flinch. He only clutches his winnings and inclines his head before turning to pin me with a look cold enough to freeze even the northerner’s frost-resistant skin.

  “Now we can leave.” Ror crosses the pen and leaps the railing, shouldering his way through a cluster of men clearly not pleased to have lost their bets but unwilling to attack a boy who bloodied a man twice his size in thirty seconds flat.

  Ror collects Button from where the horse is tied, while I fetch Alama and lead my good girl—she didn’t move a hoof from where she stood when I dismounted—over to join him. I dispense my own hard looks to the men glaring holes in Ror’s back, and by the time I reach the boy, most of the spectators have had the good sense to look away.

  Ror waits until I’m close, but not too close, before leading Button out of the market. I follow, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from beginning my dressing-down before we’ve reached the road. It’s best if these men see Ror and me as united companions with no anger between us, but as soon as we’re out of earshot …

  We mount up and set the horses toward Goreman proper at a brisk walk, but we’re barely a field from the market when I let go, unable to control myself a second longer.

  “What the devil were you doing back there?” I demand, shocked by how enraged I sound. I can’t remember using this tone with anyone, not even Regiene when she announced her engagement to my father. “Do you have a death wish?”

  “I was acquiring more gold for the journey.” Ror pulls my cloak from the saddlebag and shrugs it around his shoulders. “I was told I’d need it.”

  “Told you’d need it,” I repeat, breathless with anger. “By some mad fortune-teller who thought it would be amusing to see a kid get his guts spilled!”

  “It wasn’t like that,” he says, still utterly—infuriatingly—calm. “She knew things she couldn’t have known without real insight into the future.”

  “It doesn’t take insight into the future to know—”

  “And even if she was mad,” Ror pushes on, “I didn’t need a fate reader to know the odds were good that I would win.”

  “Against trained warriors two times your size? With decades of fighting experience? You thought those were good—”

  “Yes, I thought those were good odds,” he says, tugging his hood up over his head with a sharp jerk of his arm. “You saw me fight. I won. I drew first blood easily, and I would have done it again if you’d let me keep going to the next round.”

  “Are you out of your head?” My voice cracks with disbelief. “Were you fighting the same fight I was watching? Those people threw you back into the ring. They would have kept throwing you back until the Northerner killed you if I hadn’t—”

  “If you hadn’t distracted me, I would have been better prepared to begin the fight in the first place,” Ror says, heat finally coloring his tone. “And if you hadn’t stuck your sword in where it wasn’t needed, I would have kept at that man until he was unconscious or dead. I didn’t enter that ring intending to kill someone, but if he had given me no choice, I would have been able to defend myself. Until the death, if I had to.”

  I shake my head, mumbling beneath my breath.

  “Just say it,” Ror says. “I’d rather fight than hear you mutter for—”

  “Maybe you’ll want to enroll in the blood tournaments, then,” I snap, the words making my chest ache. Ror is safe, I shouldn’t be so angry and afraid, but I am. “If you’re so eager to take a life, you’ll find ample opportunity there.”

  “I’m not eager to take a life,” Ror says with a sigh. “I didn’t say that, I said—”

  “My brother Usio fought in them.” I grit my jaw, remembering the way Usio would laugh when I begged him not to fight. Laugh, and then go to the ale tent right before his match to rub my concern for his life in my face. “Several times, no matter how I tried to convince him not to.”

  “Why? You didn’t think he could handle himself, either?”

  “No, I thought he was better than that,” I say, my voice revealing my hurt no matter how hard I try to hide it. “Better than our father and Ekeeta and other people who fight and kill when they don’t have to. I thought you were better than that, too.”

  “Niklaas, be fair,” Ror implores his tone gentler than it was before. “I didn’t say I wanted to kill someone. Of course I don’t, but—”

  “Then you shouldn’t have set foot in a ring, even a practice ring.” I turn, deciding I might finally be able to look him in the eye without wanting to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him. “Anytime you pick up a weapon, there’s a chance you or someone else could be killed. I think your sparring match back there made that clear.”

  Ror stares up at me from the shadows of his hood, a hint of regret tightening the skin around his eyes. “I know, but I assumed … I didn’t know it would be like that.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know,” I say. “By the gods, you’re fourteen years old! If you want to live to see fifteen, you have to be more careful.”

  “I was being careful,” he says. “It was a calculated risk. I know what I’m capable of, Niklaas. Truly I do. Can’t you trust me? I’m younger and smaller than you, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that I’m more foolish.”

  “You risked your life for gold when I have more than enough to get us to the Feeding Hills!”

  “But what about after? What will we do for money if the exiles turn us away?” he asks, making enough sense for me to pause to consider the question. “And even if we had enough gold, you’re risking your life for an introduction to a girl you’ve never met. I know you have your reasons, but you have to realize how foolish that seems to me.”

  I don’t say a word, not wanting to admit he’s right, not wanting to start another argument about his sister or girls or marriage or anything relating to the three.

  “But I trust you, regardless. You’ve earned my trust,” Ror continues. “I think I’ve earned the same benefit of the doubt. I’ve been nothing but cautious and reasonable since we escaped the ogres that first night.”

  I grunt. “Luring me into a false sense of safety. I should have known better than to let my guard down. Fourteen is a dangerous age.”

  “I will be dangerous at any age,” Ror says, a teasing note creeping into his voice. “I think that was apparent from my time in the ring as well, don’t you?”

  My lips curve and my shoulders relax, my body ready to let go of anger even if my heart isn’t there yet.

  “Come on, Niklaas,” Ror wheedles. “I was good, you can’t deny it.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug one shoulder.

  “Maybe?” He guides Button closer and puts a hand on my shoulder, send
ing a rush prickling along my nerves. It’s an odd … aware feeling—one I wouldn’t normally associate with being touched by a friend—but I thought the boy was going to die. It makes sense that my nerves are out of sorts. “Were you watching the same fight I was fighting?”

  I shrug his hand off with a laugh. “You were good,” I concede. “Like a boneless monkey.”

  Ror smiles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Where did you learn your tricks? I’ve seen Fey warriors spar, but nothing like that.”

  “My friend Thyne taught me, starting when I was only eight,” he says, his dimples vanishing. “The island fairies are all fond of tricks, but Thyne was the first to add them into training with the staff. He’s an amazing fighter.”

  “The only person who can out-monkey you?”

  “No. I could beat him. If I wanted to.” He sounds too sad for the words to be a boast, but when he looks back up at me, he’s smiling again. “I have an idea.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  He punches me, his grin growing bigger. “Let’s celebrate tonight.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “Making it to Goreman, surviving the market, having enough gold to buy a second saddle.” Ror shrugs. “Take your pick.”

  “A second saddle sounds worth celebrating.”

  “Then I’m buying dinner,” he says, patting his new purse. “As much fish and corn and beer as you can stomach.”

  “And potatoes with onions,” I add, mouth already watering. “I can’t have fish and corn without potatoes and onions.”

  “And potatoes with onions,” he says, “though I think I’ll skip those. Smelling your pits day in and day out has killed my appetite for onions.”

  “All part of my plan,” I say, clapping Ror on the back. “Now I’ll be able to eat your portion as well.”

  “Devious,” he says.

  “When it comes to food? Always, my friend.”

  Ror’s laughter makes his eyes light up and his cheeks dimple, transforming his face into something a little too lovely. For the first time since seeing him in the ring, I appreciate what a clever thing he did, using his appearance against people who assumed a soft boy with a pretty face would be unable to hold his own.

  “What were the odds against you?” I ask, wondering how many coins are in his burlap purse.

  “Twenty-five to one,” he says. “I bet five of your gold pieces on myself.”

  “You should have bet twenty.”

  His eyes widen. “Twenty?”

  “You were sure you would win.”

  “Mostly sure.” He fidgets with the strings on the purse. “But I didn’t want to wager too much. Just in case.”

  “You were already wagering your life. Money is nothing compared to that.” I wait until he glances up and hold his eyes. “Next time, if you’re betting your life, feel free to bet as much of my gold as you like.”

  Ror is quiet for a long moment before giving a curt nod.

  “But there won’t be a next time, right?” I ask with a pointed look.

  “I’m not the sort who goes looking for a fight, Niklaas.”

  “Yes, you are,” I say. “You’re spoiling for a fight, anywhere, anytime, any way you can get one. I know you better than you think, too, you know.”

  Ror’s mouth quirks up on one side. “You think so?”

  “I know so,” I say, nudging Alama into an easy canter. “Come on. There’s a saddler near the mercantile. My ass says a saddle should be the first item on our list.”

  Button picks up his pace and Ror and I ride into Goreman side by side, crossing the final bridge into the town center, where the city of fighters, fisherman, and thieves is already bustling with preparations for the night’s tournaments.

  I spy more than a few pairs of brothers bargaining for new leather chest plates at the armory and standing in line to have their swords sharpened by a peddler with a whetstone and am grateful that Ror and I will be staying far away from the prize fights.

  It will be a relief to spend a night in Goreman without worrying that someone I care about is going to have their blood spilled before morning.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AURORA

  Niklaas and I finish our shopping and find a simple inn on the hill above the arena with stalls for the horses and two rooms to let—I insist on two, refusing to pass up what might be my last chance for a bath in only the gods know how long—and spend the rest of the afternoon soaking the aches and pains and filth of the road away.

  I wash my body three times and my hair twice before wrapping up in a towel and pulling the room’s wooden chair in front of the fire to comb out my tangles. I had the inn’s boy light the fire after he fetched up water for the bath. With the endless summer dragging on, it’s too warm for a fire, but I need the flames to get my hair dry enough to rebraid before supper. I’ve twisted it up wet before, but the weight gives me a headache, and I don’t want anything to distract me from enjoying my last night with Niklaas.

  I’ve decided to tell him the truth tomorrow, as soon as we hire our guide, and let him decide whether a journey into the Feeding Hills is worth his time once he’s in possession of all the facts. I trust him not to abduct me, the way I once feared he would. He might still consider it, but my performance in the ring today should leave no doubt that if I decide to fight for my freedom, it won’t be a fight that’s easy for him to win.

  And despite his size and strength and stubbornness, Niklaas is a peacemaker. He looks for the path of least resistance, he doesn’t go charging in with fists raised unless he has to. Like today—he only lifted his sword when he felt he must fight to save his friend.

  I didn’t require his help, but still … it warms something inside of me to know that Niklaas values my life more than his gold.

  “Values Ror’s life,” I mutter as I run my fingers through my long hair, holding segments up to the fire to dry.

  Once Niklaas knows the truth, he might have reasons aside from the revelation of my true identity to change his good opinion of me. I have lied to him. I have lied to him every day for seven days that feel like seven months. Our journey has brought us closer than two people usually would be after knowing each other only a week. It has made lies even more unforgivable. Niklaas hasn’t told me his entire truth, but he hasn’t deceived me, and if he had I would be livid.

  He may hate me come tomorrow.

  “All the more reason to enjoy tonight,” I mutter, wiggling my bare toes at the fire, considering my squat little feet, wondering if Niklaas would find them pretty.

  I banish the thought immediately, but the shame of thinking it lingers, making my cheeks hot for reasons that have nothing to do with the fire.

  “Fool.” I tug hard on a tangle, sending pain zinging along my scalp, knowing I deserve that punishment and more.

  I am a fool, and maybe I can’t help thinking foolish things, but I can help being cruel. I will never be cruel to Niklaas. I will never give him a reason to believe I’m curious, let alone that curiosity might develop into something more. I care about him, and I wouldn’t damn a man I hated, let alone a friend, to be my husband. I’ve already destroyed one strong, clever, beautiful boy, I won’t destroy another.

  By the time I’ve pulled on my things—new gray linen pants and a gray undershirt with my freshly oiled leather overshorts on top—I am Ror again, firmly back in my boy skin and no longer thinking anything about Niklaas except how awed he’ll be when I’m able to eat more fish than he can.

  I reach for my armor but decide to wear the new leather vest I purchased at the mercantile instead. The temptation of an evening without armor weighing on my shoulders is too much to resist. I’ve bound my chest beneath my undershirt, and the vest reaches my hips and will conceal my curves. I will look boyish enough, and if Niklaas hasn’t questioned my nature in the past seven days, it’s doubtful he’ll start tonight.

  I finish by pulling my mostly dry hair atop my head with a fresh strip of leathe
r, working the waist-long strands into three braids and wrapping the braids into a tight warrior’s knot that I secure with more leather.

  When I finally leave my room two hours after going in, I find Niklaas sitting in a patch of setting sun outside my door, his blue eyes slitted and a lazy smile on his face.

  He’s wearing his new clothes, too—a cream shirt that emphasizes the gold of his skin and tight brown pants that cling to his thighs more than his other pair, leaving no doubt that Niklaas’s lower half is as well muscled as the top. His hair has dried a lighter shade of lion mane than it looked when covered in dust and lies in shining waves to his shoulders. His cheeks and chin are freshly shaven, and his full lips once again dominate his face, drawing my attention no matter how I try to pull my eyes away.

  “Ready to eat?” I ask, my voice thankfully less breathless than I feel.

  “Past ready. I’ve already bathed, napped, checked on the horses, and put out the word to a trusted friend that we’re looking for a guide into the Feeding Hills.” He springs to his feet and claps me on the back hard enough to make me cough. “You, meanwhile, have wasted the afternoon away.”

  “The hair.” I motion to my warrior’s knot. “It takes a long time to dry.”

  “Then cut it.” He sets off toward the stairs and the tavern below the inn.

  The traditional Goreman meal—fish, sweet corn, and potatoes with onions—is on the menu tonight, which I suspect is the main reason Niklaas chose this inn over the others we passed, though he made a great show of inspecting several stables and declaring them unfit for his horse.

  “Fey men never cut their hair. Everyone knows that.” I bound after him, so much lighter in my new vest that I feel I might float away. It makes me hopeful. Hopeful that there will come a day when I will be back in my fairy dresses, with nothing but whisper-soft skirts to weigh me down. “They’d no more trim their hair than cut off a finger.”

  “You’re not Fey,” he says over his shoulder. “You’re human, and human men don’t waste two hours fussing with their hair.”