Princess of Thorns

His panic. His rage. His … despair.

Illestros is listening as he readies the altar at the center of the hall. He shakes his head. I know what he’s thinking.

Our cousin should know better than to despair. The Lost Mother guides our steps. To despair is to doubt her presence and her plan and to turn his back on her love.

We stroke the oiled feathers of the raven in our lap. The bird nestles closer, a rattle of pleasure vibrating its throat. Outside, the night air is warm, but within the stone walls of the throne room it is always cool. Our friend is grateful for our warmth, our affection. It is a simple creature without doubt or fear of the future. Its presence settles us.

In recent nights—when the weight of the souls depending on our success has bowed our shoulders like a mantle made of lead—our creatures have been our only comfort.

We will circle back to the Borderland woods, our cousin says, his fear making the words echo uncomfortably within our mind. We will search every—

No, Keetan, you will take your men to Goreman. We use our gentlest voice, earning a smile from our brother. Our friends have shown us the princess and her Kanvasol protector. They travel northeast. Now that she has failed to hire a mercenary army, we believe she will appeal to the exiles.

Then we will overcome them on the road, my queen, and—

You will allow them to travel in peace. We stroke the raven with a firmer pressure. We feel the hand of the goddess in this. We will send a messenger, warning the exiles to expect the princess in disguise. We will grant them favors and they will lure her in and take her peacefully, without the risk of harming the girl.

Can the exiles be trusted, my queen? Keetan frets. If the princess remains sheltered in the Feeding Hills, we may be unable to fetch her out in time.

Do not doubt our wisdom, Keetan. We still our fingers, fighting a wave of anger. Illestros wasn’t pleased that we let our anger get the better of us with the prince. Anger is beneath us, anger is her emotion, her weakness, and one day soon it will be her downfall. There will come a night when we will wrestle in the darkness with the princess and her anger for the forever crown, but that night has not yet come to pass.

We have been chosen by the goddess, we continue in a tone as smooth as altar glass, and we carry a thousand souls within us.

Yes, my queen. Keetan’s shame is clear. He carries only fifty souls and possesses only a fraction of our magic and foresight. Every spirit held within us gives us power … along with great responsibility.

We must succeed. We must usher in the age of reaping and deliver every soul—ogre and mortal—into the paradise of the underworld. If we fail, it is not only our own life we will forfeit but the treasures held tight within us as well.

Go to Goreman and make your presence known. We stand, carrying our raven as we descend the steps leading to the dais. We will write a letter for it to carry to the exiles tonight. With its strong wings, the creature will deliver our message and return to us long before the princess reaches the Feeding Hills. If you don’t, the girl may suspect something is amiss. We will send word on how to proceed when we have received the exiles’ acceptance of our terms. Good journey, cousin.

Yes, my queen.

The pressure at our temples eases as Keetan severs contact. We cross the room to where Illestros stands before the altar, whispering sacred words over a goblet of mead. The golden liquid has already been blessed with a drop of the offering’s blood.

Tonight, the offering is a young woman convicted of stealing milk from her neighbor’s cow, an urchin who has not stopped whimpering since the moment she was brought in.

We look down at the peasant in her filthy brown dress, not surprised to see her cowering before us, tugging frantically at the chain binding her shackled foot to the floor. She is afraid, as they all are, but she needn’t be. The prick of her finger was the only pain she’ll feel tonight. The worst is over. After so many ceremonies, we are deft at teasing a spirit from its body. We will slide her soul away as easy as pulling a key from a lock and fit her neatly within us like a beloved book settled on a shelf.

Our pain will be worse. The traditional marking—the coin tattoo that represents the treasure taken—is etched upon the skin with a blunt bone needle. Illestros will drag it across our flesh when the deed is done, depositing umber deep beneath the surface. There is no room left upon our skull. Now the tattoos trail down our neck and onto our back and shoulders like sand stuck upon the skin after a day at the shore.

We sigh, remembering ru

Somewhere inside, at the core of ourselves, beneath the rustle of the souls filling us to the brim, beyond the murmurs and sighs, we are that girl still. We are simple Eke, too young to have earned the rest of our name. How ancient and silly the stories of the Lost Mother seemed to us then. Now, they are our only truth, and she our only comfort.

“My queen.” Illestros lifts the goblet, bowing as he offers it to us.

The raven caws in protest as we set it the floor and take up the cup.

“May you live and die in wisdom,” Illestros whispers, “and always blessed be.”

“Blessed be.” We lift the goblet and close our eyes, focusing as we prepare to draw the girl’s spirit into the altar glass.

“Please, please have mercy,” the girl shouts. “Please, wait!”

We open our eyes, though we know talk will do no good. This human has been fooled into worshipping false gods and ca

“What is it, child?” we ask.

“I stole the milk.” The girl’s grime-streaked throat ripples as she swallows. “But I only done it for the babe, muh lady. Mum says my milk won’t come if I don’t drink it while the babe’s inside, and our cow died last winter.”

We reach out to the girl with our magic, pressing past the layers of fear wavering around her like heat escaping from stone, until we sense the swift rhythm of her heart and, beneath it, the swifter pulse of the babe growing within her. It is a new life, not quite five months formed, but big enough that a spirit has come to dwell within it.

We close our eyes and send out a prayer of thanksgiving. Such bounty. Surely it is a sign that the Lost Mother blesses our plans.

“She tells the truth.” We meet Illestros’s gaze, nodding in answer to his unspoken question. He bows and turns to exit the throne room, going to fetch more ink. The umber pigment is a sacrament used sparingly. Illestros only ever brings enough for one coin. He will need more to mark me twice.

“Don’t be afraid, child. Your babe will dwell in peace and joy in the kingdom beneath and you along with it.” We sigh as we reach out with our magic, snatching the child’s soul away as easily as plucking an apple from a tree. Having had so little time to grow attached to its body, it comes to dance in the glass quite willingly.

The girl, however, proves more difficult. She seems to sense the departure of the child’s spirit, clutching her belly and moaning like the cow she thieved from. Her fearful whimpers become a wail of mourning, and then a scream of rage born of the love she felt for the unborn babe.