Princess of Thorns (18 page)

“No one did. Mother didn’t want people to feel sorry for her, or her children.” Ror cocks his head. “Are you sure your sister is dead? Is there a chance my father could have hidden her away as well?”

“No.” Crimsin rubs her eyes. “They found her body by the road a week after the king was murdered. No one knew what had happened. After … Mother was never the same. She sold everything we had to pay the king’s treasurer to take me with him when his family fled Mercar. She had nothing left. She died the next spring.”

“I wish I could take back what my father did to your family,” Ror says. “I wish I could make things better for you.”

“You already have.” This time, the passion in Crimsin’s voice has nothing to do with seduction. “I believe now that you will be a different sort of ruler. That’s why I can’t—”

A howl sounds from higher up the hillside, seeming to emerge from the guts of the mountain itself.

“Hund,” Crimsin mutters as she struggles to stand, a fearful look in her eyes. “He shouldn’t be here. The settlement is hours away.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, clutching my sword as I urge Alama over to where Ror is springing to his feet beside Crimsin, deciding it’s time the pair of them remember I’m still here.

“They must have sent an escort.” Crimsin shakes her hands in obvious panic before turning to Ror and grabbing him by the shoulders. “You have to run. Now!”

“What?” Ror asks. “But we—”

“Please.” Crimsin takes Ror’s hand and pulls him toward where Button is grazing. “Go northwest into Frysk, to the village of Beschuttz. It’s a hidden place, but I’ll send Hund with word to expect you. My mother’s sister, Gettel, watches over a valley there. She’s a powerful healer and magic-worker. She’ll keep you safe.”

“But what about the boy’s army?” I demand. “We haven’t come all this way to—”

“Please! You must leave these woods!” Crimsin turns to me, desperation written plainly on her face. “It isn’t safe for Ror here.”

“Come with us, then,” Ror says, vaulting into his saddle.

Before Crimsin can answer—or I caution Ror to think this through—the mountainside opens as if by magic, and mounted men in red exile cloaks spill from between two gray rocks. There are twenty riders, maybe more, each one heavily armed. They move between the trees with confidence as the stones ease closed behind them, sealing the hidden passage into the mountain.

My jaw drops. It’s a
gate
. A gate formed by slabs of granite as big as a fisherman’s ship. I know the exiles brought great wealth with them when they fled Norvere, but even with all the gold in the world, I can’t imagine how they constructed such a thing. The sight of those shifting stones makes me wary, though the men have yet to draw their swords or bows.

What other marvels might the exiles have at their disposal, and how could those wonders be used against us?

I drop my sword to my side but keep it tightly in hand. If Ror and I are to be forced to fight ten times our number, I’ll take any advantage I can get, even if it’s only the seconds it will take to draw my weapon.

Alama fidgets beneath me as the squat mountain horses stream down the tree-littered mountainside, led by a swarthy man with tightly curled silvering hair on a shaggy mount larger than the rest. The man wears heavy leather armor and a hack sword designed for making men into cuts of meat, but beneath his neatly trimmed beard a welcoming smile graces his dark face.

“We’ve found you!” he shouts, pulling his horse to a stop. “We hoped we would catch up before the hour grew too late.” His gaze alights on the unconscious Kanvasola soldier and his eyes narrow. “Looks as if you ran into trouble.”

“Nothing my new friends couldn’t handle,” Crimsin says in a light, teasing voice as she skips across the dirt toward the silver-haired man, her panic from a moment ago vanished without a trace.

“We’ve found heroes in these princes, Lord Heven.” Crimsin clutches his leg with the familiarity of a girl embracing a beloved uncle before motioning back to me with one hand. “Allow me to introduce Niklaas, the eleventh son of King Eldorio and protector of our prince. And Prince Jor Ronces of Norvere, second in line to the throne.”

“Your Majesties.” Heven smiles at me before inclining his head in Ror’s direction. “It is our honor to meet you both, especially you, Prince Jor. I am Lord Heven, former head of the treasury for your late father and leader of your exiled people. Our hearts, minds, and weaponry are at your disposal, my prince.”

“Thank you, Lord Heven,” Ror says with a regal nod my father would approve of. “Finding friends among you means more than I can say. I look forward to working together to take back what was stolen from our people.”

“As do I, my prince,” Lord Heven says. “But first we must ensure your safety. Our settlement is only a few hours’ ride. When we are secure behind our protections, we will feast in your honor and discuss how we may best serve you.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Ror says, still displaying no sign that he was ready to run from these people a few minutes ago.

“Excellent.” Lord Heven reaches a hand down to Crimsin and hauls her onto the saddle in front of him with a theatrical groan. “This one is a lot heavier than when I first took her into these mountains.”

He smiles as he lifts one arm, motioning for the horses behind him to turn. “I helped Crimsin escape western Norvere when she was little,” he says as Ror and I pull our horses alongside his. “She was eight, but so tiny I could hold her in one arm and still have room left over for a loaf of bread.” He chuckles as he urges his mount forward. “She slept most of the way, drooling on my arm like—”

“Please don’t embarrass me, my lord,” Crimsin says with an exaggerated pout. “I’ve convinced the princes to go swimming with my friends and me tomorrow morning. If you keep telling tales, they’ll decide they don’t want to come.”

“There won’t be much time for entertainment, Crimsin,” Lord Heven warns, affection still obvious in his voice. “There are serious matters to be discussed.”

“But surely you can spare the princes for an hour. I’ll take them to the swimming hole to the northwest,” she says, her eyes sliding my way. “It’s a magical spot.”

Northwest,
the direction she told Ror to run to meet her witch aunt.

I nod in recognition of her warning, my stomach beginning to clench all over again. Of all the words I’ve heard Crimsin speak, her insistence that these hills weren’t safe for Ror were the few that rang true. She was honestly afraid for her prince’s life.

She’s either crazy and should be locked away to spare the world her madness … or Lord Heven isn’t the kindly man he’s pretending to be.

The possibility makes a knot of foreboding tighten in my chest as I pull Alama to a stop next to Ror, awaiting my turn to be swallowed by the Feeding Hills.

There isn’t enough air to breathe.

The passage through the mountains narrows and the ceiling drops so severely that the men must dose the torches and file along one horse at a time, pressing onward through suffocating darkness. The utter lack of light weighs on me like a coat made of iron, making my bones ache and my breath wheeze in and out. I do my best to control my terror, but inside I feel like a child again, a seven-year-old girl trapped in a cell beneath the castle, with beetles tearing at my skin and Mother’s tears wetting our shared pillow.

I’m not a child, of course, but I might as well be. I’ve allowed myself to be drawn into danger like a babe who grips the finger of anyone who reaches into its crib. I’m not safe here. I feel the danger lurking beneath Lord Heven’s silken promises. I didn’t miss Crimsin’s second warning. I understood what she meant when she mentioned the northwest swimming hole. She meant that—no matter how at ease she seems—I am in danger, and that I must flee to her aunt in Frysk at the first opportunity.

The opportunity doesn’t come.

Even after we emerge from the tunnels, the trail is a perilous thing, a dusty scratch between a rock wall and a cliff so sheer the world seems to disappear beyond the brown grass tufted at the edge of the trail. There is nowhere to run. Even if I were to abandon Button and attempt to escape up the mountain, the exiles could easily pluck me from the rock wall before I climbed too high.

I have a feeling they would, too. Lord Heven has stayed close. Very close. So close Niklaas and I haven’t had the chance to exchange a word without being overheard.

I long to ask him what he’s feeling, if his gut is screaming for him to run the way mine is, but I can’t even shoot him a look without being observed. And so I ride and smile and do my best to pretend I am among friends, and wait. …

We reach the settlement—a gathering of cottages on the far side of a waterfall that rushes over the cliff with dizzying abandon—by midafternoon. The exiles cut off the flow of the water so that we may pass over the slick stones of the riverbed, but I’m too far back to see how the feat was managed, and there is no way even a sturdy horse could pass through the rushing water without being swept over the side. Once the water is allowed to resume its flow—again via means I can’t determine—Niklaas and I are truly caught. Trapped. The settlement is built on a promontory cut off from the land around it by the river on one side and sheer drops into a cavernous gorge on every other. There will be no way out except the way we came. Should the exiles decide to allow it.

I’m careful to conceal my rising panic as Niklaas and I are shown about the settlement and assigned rooms for the night. I smile and make polite chatter throughout the feast, and put on a show of being grateful for the armed men Lord Heven assures me will be ready to march on Mercar within a few days’ time. I don’t allow myself to fully experience my dread until I am alone in my room long after dark.

I lie fully clothed on my mattress, shredding a piece of paper from the writing table into pieces, wondering when the men in the common yard will go to bed and it will finally be safe to slip across the settlement to Niklaas.

They couldn’t have put our rooms farther apart. I am in a spacious suite at the back of Lord Heven’s home, while Niklaas sleeps in a cabin three fields up the mountain, where the unmarried men live in small homes perched along the cliffs, separate from the family dwellings on the main level of the settlement. The exiles are purposefully keeping Niklaas and me separated. I wasn’t even seated near him at the banquet.

I was placed to the right of Lord Heven, while Niklaas dined at the far end of the table, near Crimsin and a mob of giggling girls. Crimsin was dripping all over him like melted candle wax by the end of the meal. If I hadn’t felt the truth in her warning, I would have believed she was a girl without a care in the world aside from convincing a handsome prince to warm her bed.

Warm her bed.

I wish Niklaas were warming
my
bed. It’s freezing in this room, even with all my clothes on and a quilt pulled up to my chin. I haven’t felt this chilled since I visited Jor in the mountains two Harmontynes ago, when a blizzard trapped the mountain Fey and the island Fey together in the great hall and an epic forty-eight hours of drunken gaming ensued. Jor lost his entire allowance in three hours, while I took so much gold from a pair of mountain brothers that Janin made me give it back when everyone sobered up. But then, I’ve always been lucky at cards.

If only I could say the same about quests.

“Please,” I mutter to the shadows on the beamed ceiling, willing my luck to change. Being taken captive by mercenaries was bad enough, but if I’m taken captive by my own people …

I have to find a way out and take Niklaas with me. I can’t leave him to be ransomed to his father. We must both escape. Tonight. Together we’ll find a way through the Feeding Hills and cross over into Frysk, with or without our horses.

If only the exiles would go to sleep and give me the chance to fetch him!

But Crimsin was right about the young men of the settlement. They’re thrilled out of their minds by the prospect of going to war. They’ve been drinking to it for hours, singing battle songs and hurling Feeding Tree cones into a bonfire in the middle of the common yard, shouting like naughty children when the pods explode with a sizzle of sap.

They’re ridiculous … and saddening. I’ve never been to war, but I know it won’t be the adventure they’re imagining. Even if I believed Lord Heven’s promise to hand over his army, I wouldn’t want those boys joining the campaign. We’d be better off with a smaller force of older, seasoned warriors.

But at this point, it seems I’ll have to make due with no military force at all.

My eyes slide closed and a pained sound vibrates in my throat. No friends in the Feeding Hills means no army. It means Janin’s vision will come to pass and my brother will die come the changing of the leaves.

“No,” I whisper into the darkness. There is still time. It’s cold in the mountains, but it’s still summer in the west. I could have weeks before the leaves turn, and I will make the most of every day. I will find allies, I will secure an army, even if I have to—

The knock on the window shatters my thoughts.

I throw off my quilt and jump out of bed, staring hard at the shadow outside. I recognize the outline of Niklaas’s shoulders and my breath rushes out in relief.

“I was waiting to come to you,” I whisper as I open the pane.

“Are you alone?” he asks, peering past me into the room.

“Yes.” I motion him inside. “Did they see you crossing the common?”

“No, I climbed down the cliff from the cabins.” Niklaas shoves his pack through the window and then follows it, dropping down to crouch on the floor in a pool of moonlight. I squat beside him, not bothering to close the pane. If I have my way, we’ll be going back through it in a few moments.

“I couldn’t wait,” he says. “The sooner we leave, the better.”

“I agree,” I say, relieved he won’t require any convincing. “I don’t trust Crimsin—she’s too changeable—but something isn’t right. The young men seem to think we’re going to war, but Lord Heven and the other counselors are hiding something. I can feel it.”

“I feel it, too. In my gut.” Niklaas presses a fist to his stomach. “There were Vale Flowers in my drink again.”

“What?” I curse myself for not warning him to be careful. The counselors have hardly paid him any attention, but he’s still a prince with a price on his head.

“Are you ill?” I ask, searching his face in the dim light. “Can you travel?”

“I’m fine,” Niklaas says with a grimace that betrays his words. “Crimsin spilled the glass before it was half empty and warned me to fake a true poisoning.”

“I assumed the stumbling was an act,” I say, fetching my pack from beneath my bed and dragging it to the window. “It wasn’t nearly as convincing as the real thing. Better stick to princing. I don’t see a future on the stage.”

Niklaas doesn’t smile. “Crimsin was the one who drugged me. She was told to make sure I wouldn’t be up and about tomorrow. The counselors don’t want me interfering when the ogres come to collect you.”

My lips part. “But the ogres wouldn’t dare come here.”

“The exiles sent men to lead them in through the tunnels and keep them safe from the trees they’re so afraid of. Ekeeta thought this was the best way to capture you alive.”

“But why would they help her?” I ask, pulse speeding. “By the gods, what could Ekeeta have promised that—”

“She’s promised the Feeding Hills and the fertile flatlands to the east, all the way to the sea,” Niklaas says. “The exiles are to be recognized as their own nation, provided they turn you over to her general tomorrow morning.”

I shake my head, too numbed by betrayal to know what to say.

“This is my fault.” Niklaas grips my shoulder, a strained look on his face. “I knew the exiles were traitors. They change their allegiance like stockings. Probably
more often
than they change their stockings. I shouldn’t have let you come here. I should have found another way to your sister.”

“You couldn’t have known.” I cover his hand with mine. “According to everything I’ve ever heard, the exiles and the queen are enemies.”

“That’s the other thing. …” Niklaas pulls away with a sigh.

“What other thing?” I ask, not sure I can take more bad news.

“We weren’t as good at evading Ekeeta’s spies as we thought. Crimsin said the queen was watching our journey through her creatures the entire time.” He turns to dig in his pack. “That’s how Ekeeta knew to send word to the exiles, offering her deal and telling them to watch for us in Goreman.”

I sit back hard enough for the floorboards to bruise my bones through my thick overshorts. But the pain is a welcome distraction from the misery filling my heart. If this is true … If Ekeeta has been watching us all along …

Then there is no hope, no chance I’ll be able to outwit her and save Jor.

I cover my mouth with my hands, holding in the moan that tries to escape as I squeeze my eyes shut and curse every soul on this mountain. Everyone knows that the ogres require a briar-born child to fulfill their prophecy.

How could the exiles do this? How could they damn our world in exchange for lands that will be worthless when the ogres plunge all nations into darkness?

“They don’t believe,” I mumble into my hands.

Like Niklaas when we first met, the exiles must consider the ogre prophecy a mad legend. It’s the only explanation, unless …

Unless the exiles know Ekeeta has Jor and figure they might as well give the ogre queen a matching set, seeing as she already has one briar-born child locked in her dungeon. But even then, I can’t understand why they’d give up and await their own destruction rather than rage against it.

“They don’t believe,” Niklaas says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Or they simply don’t care. Either way, we need to be gone before morning.” He pulls a wad of cloth from his bag and tosses it into my lap. “Crimsin gave me something she thinks will help.”

“What’s this?” I lift the fabric between two fingers.

“It’s one of Crimsin’s dresses and a shawl. You’re about the same height. If you wrap the shawl around your head, it should hide the fact that you’re not her.”

I blink, drop my eyes to the dress, and blink again. “You want me to—”

“I want you to put on the dress,” Niklaas says. “And
Crimsin
and I are going to go for a walk. She’s gone swimming after dark before. If anyone sees us bound for the road, they shouldn’t question us, and if they do, you’ll look at the ground and giggle and let me do the talking. We’ll have to leave the horses, but this is our only chance.”

I’ll be a girl … pretending to be a boy … pretending to be a girl. The thought alone is enough to make me dizzy. “But how will we get across the falls?”

“There’s a lever set into a stone by the road that diverts the water. Crimsin described it well enough. I’ll be able to find it.”

I bite my lip. “You trust her?” I ask, hesitating. There’s no way I’ll be able to conceal my true identity from Niklaas wearing Crimsin’s dress. The plunging neckline will reveal my bound chest. I don’t have nearly as much to bind as Crimsin, but without my shirt to conceal the bandages, it will be obvious I’m a girl.

“Of course not,” Niklaas says, nervously running a hand through his hair. “But what reason would she have to lie about this?”

“None that I can think of.”

“I believed she was afraid for you when she told you to run. She didn’t want you trapped here,” he says, waiting until I look up before he continues. “You got to her. You made one of your subjects love you. Now get changed and let’s get out of here before you lose the chance to win over the rest of them.” He stands, moving to the window.

When he turns back, I’m still on the ground, the dreaded dress puddled in my lap.

“This is the only way we’ll get past the guards, Ror,” Niklaas says. “It’s a dress. It won’t bite.”

“I know.” But I don’t move. I’m frozen, rendered immobile by the force of my indecision. It’s not only that I hate for Niklaas to find out the truth this way. This is dangerous for Crimsin, as well. If someone sees me in her clothes, she’ll be implicated in our escape. But I can’t leave dressed as myself, and there’s only one way out.