Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

  “The lady whose brooch it was said if the girl didn’t return it, she’d have her hung. If she gave back the brooch, she’d only be flogged and thrown out of the Hall. The girl was weeping. She swore she was innocent but no one believed her.

  “So I said they were wrong. I’d never been more frightened in my life. I said I’d seen Valka with the brooch that morning, and that she’d put it in her pocket. Valka laughed and asked who could believe such a thing, and I—I told the guards to check. They did; they caught her and emptied her pockets, because I was the princess and ordered it, and the brooch fell on the floor in front of everyone.” I close my eyes thinking of that moment, of Valka’s face blotched with rage, and of my brother’s eyes, narrow and ugly, and the silence. The silence as the guards let the serving girl go, and as the guard who had emptied Valka’s pocket picked up the brooch and handed it to the lady, and the silence as she just stared at it and nodded.

  “Valka left the Hall that night. They would have hung the girl, and all they did to Valka was send her off in disgrace like a dog with its tail between its legs.” The serving girl had left the Hall as well, fleeing before anyone remembered her.

  The story spread like wildfire, borne on the tongues of servants and nobles alike. After that, the servants were always kind to me. With quick looks, flicks of their fingers, they warned me when my brother was nearby. I learned to value this, for it was the next day my brother first pushed me down a flight of stairs. His petty cruelties took on a sharper edge, and in my mother’s cold smiles and studied ignorance of his actions I learned the cost of turning upon my peer, my mother’s vassal.

  I do not look up now as I start towards the stable, but it is as if I can feel Falada’s gaze upon me. He had known Valka for what she was.

  “Princess.”

  I whirl around. Falada gazes down at me, dark eyes bright as stars in the shadow.

  “Falada,” I whisper.

  “Princess, what will you do?” he asks, as he always has.

  I close my eyes. A tear spills over my cheek. “Oh Falada, I don’t—”

  “You, girl!” a soldiers calls.

  I open my eyes. Above me, Falada’s head hangs as it has these many days, cold and stiff and so very dead.

  “What are you doing?” the soldier asks roughly. “I thought I heard voices.”

  “There’s no one,” I say, walking past him. “Only me and the dead horse’s head.”

  Chapter 25

  Matsin son of Körto pauses beside me on his way through the stable, purportedly inspecting the horse I am currying.

  “Come to the palace tonight as you are dressed,” he says. “I will meet you at the gates at sundown.”

  “Who—” I begin, but he has already moved on. It will be Kestrin anyway.

  At the temple, I sit against the wall, wrapped loosely in my cloak. The weather has begun to warm up, water trickling off of roofs, running in rivulets down the roads, churning the alleys to mud beneath the daily onslaught of wagon wheels, horses’ hooves and boots. If the weather holds, within a week Corbé and I will take the geese out to pasture again.

  I shift, listening for voices from the street. I have not seen Tarkit since the day I spent with him. I wonder if he has started his apprenticeship, and how his mother fares. I wonder what Kestrin intends, why he would send for me, specifying that I not dress up. At least he does not wish to attract attention to my arrival. I pick at the dirt beneath my fingernails. Does he intend for me to dress up when I arrive there? Or does he only wish for a private audience with me? I turn Matsin’s words over in my mind, trying to ferret out what Kestrin has in mind. I am still worrying at it as I make my way back to the stables. As I reach a cross street a few blocks from the stables, I run into Torto with Fen and a handful of other youngsters.

  “Thorn! Thorn!” cries Torto. “Lakmino says that you aren’t really from the country. Is it true?”

  I look at him, blink once to clear my mind. “In a way. I lived over the mountains in—”

  “Then you are the new princess’s serving girl!” Torto crows.

  “No,” I say sharply. “I was never her servant.” The children stare at me. “I only traveled with her,” I clarify.

  “You speak Menay really well,” says one of the other children. “The princess is terrible. I know because my aunt works in the palace and she’s seen her.”

  “I live out here. I had to learn Menay. There’s no one to translate for me here, is there?”

  “No,” Torto agrees. “But if you aren’t her servant, what are you?”

  “I told you that on the first day,” I say, trying not to sound overly peeved. “I’m the goose girl. I serve the king, just like the rest of you.”

  “But shouldn’t you serve the princess first?” asks one of the girls, Kiri by name. “After all, he’s our king, not yours.”

  “He gave me a job and a place to stay when I didn’t have either. I think I’ll stick with him.”

  Torto nods. “I’d do that too.”

  “Did you used to live at court?” pipes up one of the other children.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Yeah, what’d you eat there?”

  “Did you have a lot of dresses?” Kiri asks, wide-eyed.

  “Did you have a horse?” Torto asks.

  “One question at a time,” I say, laughing. “Walk with me and I’ll answer what I can before we get to the stables.”

  “Did you have a horse?” Torto asks again, grabbing my hand and pulling me past the other children.

  “I did. His name was Fleet Wind.” I translate the name for the children, then repeat it in my language. I describe what he looked like, and how often I rode him, and where I went, and also—at Kiri’s request—what I wore while riding him, which leads directly to the question of how many dresses I had.

  I leave the children at the edge of the road, promising to tell them more another day, and make my way up to my old room to rummage through my trunk and find something half-presentable to wear. Most of my simpler outfits are work-stained by now, the formal clothes far too fancy to be worn walking up to the palace. In the end, it is just a question of choosing the least-worn of my work clothes, brushing the straw out of my hair, and scrubbing my hands and face with water.

  As promised, Matsin meets me at the palace gates. He leads me through a side entrance, passing inner courtyards I do not recognize, then circling back through wood-paneled hallways. Finally, Matsin opens a small door set into a corner of a hallway. We enter an unused storage room at the back of which stands a second door. Matsin ushers me through this door into a narrow corridor lit only by a lamp hanging from the wall. He holds a finger up to his lips, then lifts down the lamp. His eyes are dark in the lamplight, his features still, uncompromising. Only the set of his jaw tells me that he is not as easy as he acts. We pass four doors before we reach one that Matsin opens. Again, he touches his finger to his lips before gesturing for me to enter.

  Light falls through the top half of the far wall, creating an eerie twilight in the room. I walk over to it curiously, looking down through the back of an elaborate wooden carving into a formal dining room. As I peer out from behind the carving, I realize that it circles the room. I wonder if there are more secret rooms hidden behind the carving at other points in the wall, or if this is the only one.

  My room acts as a balcony, the carving providing spaces just wide enough to view the dining room clearly. The table below is set for dinner. A single servant makes a last adjustment to the central candelabra and departs, his footsteps echoing up to me.

  I hear a faint snick and look up to find Matsin gone, the door closed. I wait, my eyes adjusting to the half-light left in the absence of the lamp. When I no longer hear Matsin’s boots, I walk back to the door and gently try the handle. The door does not give.

  I may as well enjoy the meal that has been provided me, I decide. At the center of my room, a table laden with platters waits. Only one ch
air sits at the table. A carpet rolled out beneath the table mutes the scrape of the chair, just as a tablecloth silences the dishes. I serve myself slowly, aware that there is more food here than I have seen in a week of dinners. I wish that I had a basket or bag that I might take some of the food back with me, share this bounty with my friends.

  It does not take me long to finish, my stomach bulging for all that I have eaten only a fraction of the food. I am not used to such heavy meals. I push myself up and go to sit in the chair overlooking the lower room, loosening my sash. Before long, I hear the faint voices of people approaching. A brace of servants step into the room through a set of double doors, standing at attention.

  Kestrin leads Valka in on his arm, escorting her to the top of the table. He seats her on the right side of the table, facing me, and then walks around to take the seat opposite her. Behind them follow a set of young couples, lords and ladies, walking sedately to their own places in a carefully orchestrated play of hierarchy. Last to enter are two pairs of young men and women who take up stations along the wall by the head of the table. I squint, studying them. At least one of the women I have met before: she is one of Valka’s attendants, who let me into her bedchamber while she slept.

  As the servants enter with the first course the conversation starts up, Valka commanding the table’s attention. Her grasp of Menay is limited, but a translator stands behind her chair, his clear, carrying voice cutting through the room as easily as Valka’s own more strident, authoritative tones. I frown, listening to the sound of it; I cannot imagine this voice having been mine. It is as foreign to me as the language of Menay once was.

  The conversation very nearly puts me to sleep. I lean forward, propping my chin on my fist, and try to focus. Between a long day’s work, a full belly, and the pointlessness of the conversation below, I must struggle to stay awake. Valka gives a snide critique of her afternoon spent with a lady not present, the other ladies tittering in response, then discusses the plans for a ball the following week, the dreariness of winter, the coming of spring, and oh! What plans for the wedding! All present agree it will be a truly festive event, the palace swept up in banquet after banquet, ball after ball.

  “And even the street children shall have something,” Valka says, with a glance at Kestrin.

  “You are so great-hearted, Your Highness,” one of the ladies coos.

  “With such a joyous event, even the common people should have the chance to join in the festivities,” Valka affirms, her interpreter translating.

  “And what does Your Highness intend to give the street children?” asks the man seated beside Valka. With a jolt I recognize Kestrin’s cousin, Lord Garrin.

  “Oh, some treats for them—what is it we’ve said, my lord?”

  “Apple cakes,” Kestrin says. I cannot quite place his tone.

  “How perfectly wonderful,” cries another lady. “They’ll love you for the rest of your life!”

  “It’s the least we can do,” Valka demurs. I stare at her. They are both right, of course. I have already seen Tarkit and Torto’s excitement over food, and can only imagine their ecstasy at having such a precious, unexpected treat as an apple cake. It would be something they would remember well. And, considering the opulence of what must be a normal dinner here before me, apple cakes are indeed the very smallest thing that might be given. They would hardly make a dent in the royal treasury, providing only a temporary relief to the pinched, perpetually hungry faces of the street children, and yet would guarantee their love.

  I stand up, my boots scraping soundlessly on the carpet as I go to the door. The handle turns in my hand, but the door remains locked. I lean against it, feeling a knot growing in my chest. I want to get out, get away, stop my ears from hearing anymore. My own words echo back to me, spoken earlier today: He gave me a job and a place to stay when I didn’t have either. I think I’ll stick with him. And Torto’s words, I’d do that too.

  I slide down against the door, crouched on the floor, my cheek pressed against the rough carpet. I think of Falada’s words in one of our first conversations, his surmise that I had been chosen to marry the prince because they could trust me, because I would grant them my unswerving loyalty in return for their kindness. Truly I would have been speechless with gratitude to find protection, a shelter at long last, however easy it might have been for the royal family to grant it. And for what a small price might the loyalties of the poor also be commanded—the price, I think, of providing just enough. I do not know where the tears come from, why they burn my cheeks or why my sobs seem stuck in my throat. I pull my cloak up, bunching it in front of my face to muffle the sound, and weep.

  Eventually, I sit back against the wall, listening to the ragged whisper of my breath slowly calm. The voices of the diners float up to me, but if I do not concentrate I cannot quite make them out. I heave myself to my feet and pour myself a cup of water at the table, drinking it slowly. I wet my hands and scrub my face, wipe away the traces of my tears. I slide into the waiting chair, staring at the cold remains of my dinner.

  I cannot tell how long I sit, how many minutes or hours creep by. At some point the diners rise and make their exit, and in their wake come servants, dishes clinking as they are piled and carried away. It is as if I listen to a ghost, a memory of people and actions, from my dark chamber.

  The sound of the servants clearing off below has nearly died away when I hear another faint noise: boots in the outer hallway. The lock clicks and Matsin pushes open the door, his face half-lit by the lamp he carries. I rise and follow him back down the secret hall.

  “Why do you think the prince asked you to bring me here?” I ask Matsin as we leave the storage room.

  He pauses, his gaze on the corridor ahead, and then he turns his head slowly to study me. “He asked me once what Lady Valka was like, if she could ever make a goose girl. I told him it would take a lady who dances through the kitchen with the scullery maids and hugs her hostler in farewell to accept such a fall with dignity and grace. Lady Valka was not such a woman.”

  “You,” I begin to say and cut myself off before the chain around my neck tightens. I should not be shocked. Hadn’t the Menaiyan quads attached to me had a fortnight to know my character before we ever started traveling? Of course they would have seen a difference. I had only assumed that they would not consider what it meant.

  “Yes,” Matsin says, his voice quiet. “So I beg you will speak with our prince, and meet with him.”

  “I come as he bids me.”

  Matsin’s lips form a grim line. “I wish it were more than that.”

  I shrug, glancing down the hall. “Perhaps it is best this way.”

  Matsin begins to walk again, taking my hint, but as we reach our destination, yet another carved door in a hall that looks only vaguely familiar, he says. “I do not believe that, my lady. Neither must you.”

  Kestrin rises from his seat as we enter, a fire crackling cheerfully in the grate. It is the same small sitting room where I wrote a letter to my mother, dictated by the prince. I drop into a curtsy, sense Matsin’s quick bow. With a quiet step he departs.

  Kestrin sketches me a bow. “My lady.”

  “Your Highness.”

  “I hope you have enjoyed your evening.”

  “It has been most interesting.”

  “As always,” he says, smiling. “Will you join me?”

  “As always,” I echo, taking the seat opposite him. He sits, his eyes lingering on my face. I watch the fire and find myself wondering wryly what I will do when the weather is too warm for fires: what will I have to look at then?

  I turn towards Kestrin. “Tell me, Your Highness, what you hope to gain from this little game of yours.”

  He meets my gaze. “I wish you to know my betrothed as I do.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  I shrug. “It is not treason for a prince to lie to his vassals.”

  “Do you consider yourself my va
ssal then?” he asks, his tone ironic.

  “A step below, Your Highness; I have made no oath of allegiance.”

  “None at all?”

  I tilt my head, evading the question. “I do not believe you, Your Highness, because I already know the princess, and you know that I do.”

  “Perhaps I thought to remind you.”

  “To what end?”

  He shrugs, opening his palms towards me. “Lady,” he says, then stops. “Lady, what can I offer you?”

  I look directly into his forest-shadow eyes. “Apple cakes.”

  He stares. I stand up and cross to the door.

  “Lady, wait,” he calls after me, rising.

  “Good evening, Your Highness.”

  “Wait.” His voice reverberates with authority. I turn back to him, aware that I am a servant again, that I must obey his orders, even that my clothes are appallingly shabby next to his.

  His features stiffen and he looks away. “Do what you will.”

  I hesitate, watching the fall of shadows on his face.

  “Get out then,” he snarls, starting towards me. “Flee back to your geese and forget I called you here.”

  I watch as he advances on me, watch the familiar mask slide into place over his features, the way his eyes seem almost black. He stops a bare hand span before me. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To get away from the court? Then run away, Thorn. I won’t stop you anymore.”

  “If I truly wanted that, Your Highness, I should have left Tarinon by now.”

  He takes a heavy breath and lets it out slowly. “You told me once that you could not find a way to leave, nor a place to go.”

  “I have found a way since,” I tell him, thinking of Red Hawk. He waits. I smile tiredly. “I still do not have a place to go. I suppose it could be arranged, but you understand as well as I that I cannot leave quite yet.”

  “You are waiting.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  He shakes his head in frustration. “What did you mean by ‘apple cakes’?”