Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

  ***

  Walking up to the palace with Rowan and Ash, I try to figure out how I will find Kestrin. Always before, it was a chance meeting or an arrangement through one of his men. I realize now that I don’t know how to contact him. Rowan and Ash leave me just below the gates, promising to wait until I return. I continue on, entering and turning right on instinct to follow the wall. I find a side door, and from there wend my way to the royal wing. Hopefully, Kestrin will be in his apartments when I knock. Not likely in early evening. More likely he is dining somewhere. A prince does not sit alone in his apartments of an evening.

  At my knock, a man I have never seen opens Kestrin’s door. He looks me over with growing disdain. “Yes?”

  “I wish to speak with the prince,” I say. Instead of sounding commanding, my voice has the weakness of a plea.

  “Ah. The prince … does not take petitioners in his apartments. How did you get here?”

  “I think he will see me, if you would ask him.”

  “Indeed.” The man’s voice is laden with contempt. “But he is not here now.”

  I bite my lip. I don’t want to demand entrance, nor do I want to go back and tell Rowan and Ash that I hadn’t even managed to see Kestrin.

  “Who is it?” a second voice calls.

  “A serving girl,” the man before me replies. “Wants to see His Highness.”

  “The foreigner?” The second man peers around the door, and his face lights with comprehension.

  “She seems to think the prince will see her.”

  “He will. Come in, my lady. The prince is at dinner, but we’ll let him know you’re waiting.”

  I smile as graciously as I can, stepping in as the first man gapes at me. The second man introduces himself as Ferin and seats me in the inner sitting room. I can hear him softly berating his companion once they close the door.

  A full hour slips by, the men—Kestrin’s attendants, I surmise—discreetly passing through the room once or twice. Finally, I hear the door open in the outer room, followed by lowered voices. A moment later, Kestrin enters, pulling the door shut behind him.

  “Lady,” he says, bowing to my curtsy.

  I forge ahead before he can ask. “I’m sorry to come like this, Your Highness, but I didn’t know how else to find you. I have something to speak to you about.”

  “I should have made an arrangement.” He grins, gesturing for me to sit. “I never imagined you would want to speak to me of your own accord.”

  I smile wanly. “Your Highness has heard that the hostler Violet was attacked two nights ago.”

  He sobers at once. “I have. A very unfortunate incident.”

  Incident? I make myself ignore the word and go on. “Her brothers came here today to ask for justice; they believe the men who attacked her can be found. They were turned away.”

  Kestrin frowns. “Who did they speak to?”

  “Second Captain Elann.”

  “On what grounds were they turned away?”

  “That the attackers could not be found. We know where she was left, Your Highness. It would only be a matter of looking for witnesses, listening to the men in the taverns.”

  Kestrin runs his hands through his hair. “I don’t know Elann, but my expectation is he knows what he is doing. I will look into the matter myself and see if anything further can be done. I can’t make any promise though, Thorn. It’s a terrible situation.”

  “Yes,” I agree. A cold anger has begun to grow in me, so that I think my bones have turned to steel, or that my voice will flash silver when I speak. It is all I can do to hold my anger in check.

  “How is the girl doing?”

  I meet his gaze. “She’s dying.” He stares, and I know in that moment that what I have said is true: that Violet, the Violet we have always known, is dead, and even if she were to open her eyes again now, she will only and ever be a shade of her former self.

  I move to the door, “I thank you, Your Highness.”

  “I will try,” Kestrin repeats as I leave. I make my way out without mishap, meeting Rowan and Ash in the shadow of the first building past the palace gates. We walk down to the stables in silence, the men throwing me the occasional unreadable glance, but I have nothing to tell them.

  ***

  The next day brings no improvement. After cleaning the goose barn, I sit by Violet while Laurel and the men ready horses to be sent up to the palace; with the weather warming up, the palace folk have begun afternoon excursions. I sing to Violet, wiping her face with a cool cloth. The bruises have begun to fade, but her fever rages on. Now she moans often, turning her head, shifting her body. Her stomach is bloated, tender to the touch. Her cuts have festered beneath the stitching, despite the ash we have rubbed into them. They weep drops of pus, discolored a murky gray by the ash, the skin around them streaked red.

  When Laurel comes in, I stand up. “I’m going to the temple.”

  Laurel nods. “Be back before dark.”

  “I won’t be long,” I promise.

  At the temple, I pray for Violet. Eventually, I lie down on my side, exhausted, half-numb with the worry and horror of the last days. I wonder if Kestrin will really do anything, if the attackers will be caught. I remember the cold anger I had felt when I spoke to him, and it sparks within me once more.

  I push myself up and begin the walk to Artemian’s. I knock three times on his door before accepting that he is not there. Crouching in the darkened hallway, my nose filled with the stench of urine and sweat, I open up my braid and use my teeth to snap enough hairs to make the thinnest of braids. I loop this around the doorknob and make my way back to the stables, wondering how much Red Hawk will do in payment of his debt, and whether he will accept payment from me for what goes beyond that.

  ***

  I wake in the middle of the night. Something is wrong, something is missing: the room is too quiet. I sit up with a jerk, throwing off my blanket, and Laurel wakes with a gasp.

  “Violet,” I say, reaching out. Her skin is cold.

  “No,” Laurel whispers. “Oh no.”

  Violet is dead.

  Chapter 28

  Oak and Ash leave at dawn, shovels over their shoulders. Laurel and I bathe Violet one last time, wiping away the ash and pus from her cuts with damp cloths. We bring down her spare dress from our room and gently dress her, then wrap her in a single sheet, tying it closed with cord. Joa pulls up a wagon, the bed softened with a layer of straw, and he and Rowan carry Violet out. The hostlers from the first stables join us, as well as a few people I don’t recognize, and with them also the pale face of Massenso. We ride beside Violet, Joa directing the horse out of the city gates and down West Road, turning north at the crossroads I have never taken before.

  Ash and Oak are still digging when we arrive. They switch off with Rowan and Massenso, taking turns until the grave is deep enough. When the men are done, her brothers lower Violet into the grave. We stand next to it while Oak, in a hoarse and broken voice, recites the Final Prayers, and then we each toss a handful of earth down into the grave. The dirt patters down on the white shroud, hardly audible among the rustling of so many people, and yet it echoes in my mind so that, even after the men have filled the grave, I can still hear those first small handfuls of earth falling down upon Violet.

  Violet’s brothers walk cross the road to the field there, Laurel with them. They return, each bearing a single rock and set this at the head of the grave. The whole of the graveyard is filled with these graves: small piles of rock, grave after grave, men, women and children, all the same in death.

  Joa drives us back to the stables, the wagon wheels rattling over the uneven road. It hardly seems possible that we are back by midmorning; the hostlers move away in small groups, their steps and voices slow. My body feels heavy now, my limbs weighing me down so that it is an effort to climb down from the wagon, to take one step and then another. I walk away from the stables, away from Laurel and the men, and habit carries me to the goose barn. I stop at
the inner gate and stare in at the empty space, the trampled straw and scattering of droppings.

  I let myself in, fetch a rake and set to work. Once I am done, I return to the stables, but I cannot bring myself to enter it. I cannot yet look at Oak or Laurel and see their grief written on their faces, for it is too fresh.

  “Thorn?” a small voice calls.I turn towards it. Torto peeks around the corner of the stable. “Thorn? Come here!”

  I trudge over to him. Behind him, Fen stands with arms crossed over his chest, staring at the ground.

  “We’re not supposed to be here,” Torto explains in a whisper. “Children aren’t allowed. But I’m supposed to find you and tell you to spend the afternoon in the temple.”

  “Thank you.” My voice sounds strange to me, as if it comes from someone who stands just behind me.

  “Are you okay?”

  As I look down at Torto, and at Fen standing silent beside him, the tears finally come to my eyes. “My friend—was attacked,” I explain. “We found her, but she died this morning.”

  Torto stares up at me, and it is Fen who pushes past him to hug me tightly, skinny arms wrapping around my waist. I kneel down and hold him back, and then Torto is hugging us as well, patting me on the back as my sobs break free. I wish that I could protect them, protect myself, from harm.

  Torto and Fen walk me up to the temple, each holding one of my hands.

  “We have to go,” Torto says when we reach the temple.

  “How is Tarkit?” I ask, holding on to Torto a moment longer.

  “He’s good. He’s apprenticed to that baker now, and when there’s burnt bread all the boys at the bakery split it. Once he even had some extra he gave us.”

  “Say hello to him from me.”

  “Okay,” Torto says. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I smooth his hair with my hand, offer him a final smile, and step into the temple, listening as Torto and Fen scuff their way down the alley.

  Time passes slowly. A young woman enters the temple, prays quietly at the front of it, and, with a nod to me, leaves. I hear children running by, their voices high with excitement. Finally, though, a boy enters; he is a few years older than Torto, and somewhat better dressed.

  “What’s your name?” His voice is as sharp and hard as his face.

  “Thorn.”

  He nods. “Go to the Curious Cat—that’s the big inn with the stable two alleys south of Hanging Square. Use the side door next to the kitchen—not through the kitchen, hear?—and go up the stairs there. Knock on the second door on the left. Got it?”

  I repeat his instructions back to his satisfaction and he leaves without a second glance.

  The Curious Cat, unlike the inn where I met Red Hawk, is a large establishment, the hallway and stairs wide and well lit by windows open to the spring air. I knock on the second door upstairs, and at once a voice calls for me to enter. The room holds just a bed and two chairs set by the window. I squint, looking towards the window, and make out a figure seated in one of the chairs. The man nods to me, so I walk over and sit in the companion chair, watching him. It is Red Hawk himself.

  “I did not expect to meet you again,” I say.

  He tilts his head as if equally surprised. “I am sorry about your friend. I heard this morning that she died.”

  “Yes.” I look away from him, back towards the door.

  “Is that why you are here?”

  “That’s why,” I admit and stop again. The silence stretches between us.

  “Lady, I would not have come to meet you myself if I did not believe there is more here than this. Tell me what you came to ask.” I look at him, taken aback at the gentleness in his voice. I cannot tell from the shadows touching his face whether it is a true kindness or a calculated one, but I find I do not particularly care.

  “I want to understand justice in this land. The men who hurt—who killed Violet can be found. Ash and Oak both believe it; they say that the men will talk, will boast, and that there will be witnesses. Yet when Ash and Oak went to petition the king for justice against Violet’s attackers, they were turned back. And no one even bothered to ask the guards to help search.”

  Red Hawk smiles, but it is a slow, sad thing. “I told you before: you are very idealistic.”

  “This is about justice.”

  “Justice for the poor?” He laughs, sitting back. “There is justice for the rich here, lady, and justice for the powerful. But for the rest of us there is very little of anything.”

  “Laurel told me that there are two laws here: the King’s Law and the thieves’ law. If the King’s Law only serves the rich, what of the thieves’ law?”

  His gaze sharpens, and I know he understand me, but he says only. “It is what we make of it.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “It is primarily only for thieves. It is somewhat less harsh than the King’s Law, and then again somewhat harsher.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Red Hawk gestures with his hand, as if he held something weighty in his palm. “Here is an example: if one thief steals from his brother, the first question asked is why.”

  “Isn’t stealing what thieves do?”

  “Aye, but between thieves there is a code of honor. We do not encroach on each other’s territory, nor steal from each other. If a man steals out of need, because his family was going hungry or the like, he is forgiven. But if he steals only to enrich himself, then the first time he is flogged. The second time, his hand is cut off so that he cannot steal again. By the King’s Law, the common thief is flogged, regardless of why he steals or how often.”

  “By the King’s Law, then, you are not a common thief.”

  “No,” he says, amusement warming his voice. “The uncommon thief is subject to special treatment.”

  “And what of men who do—what was done to Violet?”

  “By the King’s Law, those found guilty of rape and murder are hung.”

  I have to hold myself still, breathe deeply once, for it is the first time I have heard anyone name what was done to Violet. My voice cracks as I ask, “And under your thieves’ law?”

  “These are crimes that cannot be excused to necessity, so we are in agreement with the King’s Law: a public hanging. But before that the men would be flogged that their punishment not go too easily with them.”

  “It is very similar.”

  “Yes. Am I to guess that you wish Violet’s attackers brought to justice?”

  I meet his gaze. “I do. But I don’t know what I will owe you, for you have already repaid your debt many times over.”

  “The accounting is not quite clear,” he observes with a mock frown.

  “I helped you one night, your men helped me another. You helped us find Violet. Now I am asking something in addition.”

  “When a thief tries to grant you a favor, don’t protest it, lady. It is far too rare an occurrence to be disregarded.”

  I rub my cheeks and then pause, holding my head still, as if I might hold in the terror of the last few days, might somehow keep myself from breaking apart at the kindness of his words.

  “You are not well,” Red Hawk says.

  I shake my head, dropping my hands to my lap. “I am fine.”

  “You have not seen a death like this before.”

  “No,” I agree. “And I would not have believed that the only help to be had would be from those who evade the law, not swear to uphold it.”

  “I am sworn to my own law.”

  “You are. For that I am grateful.”

  “We can find Violet’s killers and bring them to justice. It is hardly an impossible task.”

  “What will I owe you?”

  He taps his fingers against the armrest. “Tell me, lady, what is the price of justice in your land?”

  I watch his fingers, thinking of Valka, of that day long ago and the sapphire brooch. “Justice in my land is very similar to the King’s Law here—it is to be had
for the rich and held against the poor. True justice,” I glance up to meet his eyes, “that would be priceless, I expect.” His lips twitch, and I wonder if he has held back a smile, and what that smile would mean.

  “Priceless,” he echoes. “Can you offer me something equally priceless in return?”

  “I have very little to offer—what I brought with me in my trunks from home; that is all,” I say humbly.

  “But there is more to you than just your belongings; what else can you offer?”

  My mouth goes suddenly dry; I cannot look away from him. I am aware in an awful, sickening way that we are in a bedroom. “I—I can’t,” I stumble.

  “Lady,” he reaches out and touches my sleeve lightly. I flinch away. “Do not look at me so. Have I ever given you true reason to fear me?”

  “I am sorry,” I whisper, looking down to hide my relief, my shame.

  “You feel for Violet because you too have been hurt before.”

  “I—no, not like Violet. I wasn’t hurt like her. I was just—it was nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  I close my eyes. “My brother used to beat me. He would threaten me.” The words sound strange to me, hanging in the air. Smaller than I expected. I have never voiced them before, have never admitted to anyone what my brother did. It did not matter if others knew or not, there was a safety in not speaking it aloud, admitting it to myself.

  “It is nothing—when you consider what was done to Violet, to others here,” I gasp into the silence. “A few bruises, that’s all.” I open my mouth and find that I cannot go on, that the words have robbed me of my breath. I cover my face with my hands, bending down, my back hunched. Hidden, my breath rasps back into me in a broken, strangled sob. I do not want Red Hawk to hear me, so I hold my breath, shaking, refusing to breathe again until I must.

  “Thorn,” he says, his voice the same soothing tone that hostlers use with a frightened colt. I hear him move away. He will leave now; he will look down on me for my weakness when so many others have carried burdens heavier than mine.