Princess of Thorns

I’ll be alone and friendless again if Niklaas leaves, but I’ll be alone and friendless and free to do my business like a girl whenever and wherever I feel like it.

“Small comforts,” I mutter as I hitch up my britches and set off to the river to wash up.

By the time I scrub my hands and face, scrape the fuzz from my teeth, decide the messy knot on my head can last one more day before I need to brush, braid, and reknot it, and return to our hiding place, Niklaas is awake.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the bedroll, thoughtfully gnawing a handful of jerky. He greets me with a squint of his eyes, which seem even bluer after his rest.

“Sleep well?” I ask, still a little shy for some reason.

“Like a stone. And woke up hungry to the spine.” He smiles and holds out a piece of jerky. “There are blackberries across the way. I’ll pick some once I get my strength up.”

I take the offered jerky and gnaw the salty meat. Despite its leathery texture it’s surprisingly delicious, even better than yesterday. Or maybe I’m half-starved. I’m not sure which, but I know I’d give a toe or two for a bow and arrows to hunt with as we travel. A rabbit for supper would go a long way to renewing my faith in the future of this quest.

My stomach growls loudly enough to be heard over the rustling of the alder leaves, and Niklaas chuckles. “Should I fetch out the last of the crackers?”

“No,” I say, knowing we have to ration the food. “Ignore it. My stomach’s a spoiled thing. It’s usually had two meals and as many treats by this time of day.”

“Fairy food, eh?” he asks, brows lifting. “I thought humans who ate fairy food had to stay with the Fey forever or else they get all shriveled and ancient as soon as they leave fairy lands.”

“It’s true,” I say with a serious nod. “I’m shriveled and ancient over most of my body. Luckily it’s the part covered by my clothes.”

He grins. “So that’s why you wouldn’t get in the spring with me.”

I shrug. “I wasn’t sure you were ready for the majesty of my raisiny bits.”

Niklaas laughs, chucking his last piece of jerky at me. I catch it before it hits the ground and pop it into my mouth to hide my own smile.

“When we get to Goreman, I’m going to eat my weight in fish. Sweet corn and potatoes and fish and cold beer until my stomach explodes.” He hops to his feet, wincing as he stretches his arms above his head.

“How is your stomach?” I motion toward where his gray shirt is stained black with dried blood. “Did the leaves stay on overnight?”

“I think so. It feels better, anyway.” Niklaas lifts his shirt, revealing his wound. The leaves have fallen off, but the skin beneath looks calm and smooth. I step toward him and lean down for a closer look, probing the flesh around the wound with gentle fingers.

“There’s no swelling or heat, and it has closed well,” I say, ignoring the tingle in my fingertips as some girlish part of me notes how unexpectedly soft his skin is above the firm muscle beneath. “The risk of infection should be gone, but I’ll keep an eye out for more leaves. It wouldn’t hurt to keep that covered for another night or two.”

“All right.” Niklaas drops his shirt and I stand up, grateful for the hood that conceals my heated cheeks. “I’m going to pick some blackberries and wash up. I’ve got linen and mint and rosemary ash in the saddlebag. You should use it.”

I make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort of surprise. “Are you saying my breath smells?”

“I’m saying it’s important to take care of your teeth,” he says with a wink. “You’ll never get a girl to kiss you if you’ve got a mouth full of rot.”

My smile slips. “That reminds me … About my sister, I—”

Niklaas stops me with one hand over my mouth while the other makes a slicing motion across his throat. I recognize my exhaustion-crazed gesture from last night and grunt. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, voice muffled beneath his palm.

“It means I don’t want to hear it,” he says, removing his hand and smoothing his sleep-rumpled hair from his face. “I’d rather things stay the way they are.”

“But—”

“We made a deal and I’m holding you to it.”

“But—”

“Uh-uh!” He points an accusing finger at my face. “A deal’s a deal. I honor my half, and then you honor yours.”

“I’m not saying I won’t honor it,” I say, frustration rising. “I’m saying that—”

“Nope.” He covers his ears and closes his eyes. “Not listening.”

“But—”

“Not. Listening!”

“Fine!” I snap. “But don’t come complaining when—”

“La la la la, la la loo-la lay.” He takes off toward the blackberry bushes on the opposite bank, singing his ridiculous song loud enough for it to carry. I think about shouting for him to be still—we could still have ogres and mercenaries on our trail—but shouting would defeat the purpose, and I know there’s no real reason to be quiet.

Last night, we forced ourselves to keep riding until we were in the middle of nowhere. We’re fields and fields away from any of the main roads. The river is low now, but Niklaas says this entire valley is prone to dangerous flooding in the spring. As a result, the trail to Goreman was cut on higher ground to the north and all but the most daring farmers have built their houses in the foothills. The chances that there is anyone close enough to hear me shout or Niklaas sing are slim to none.

Out here, it’s only the creatures loyal to Ekeeta I have to worry about, and so far I haven’t seen any animals behaving strangely. There are no vultures circling or crows lurking in the trees overhead. No wild dogs or pink tails or swarms of corpse flies or …

I realize my knowledge of the creatures that feed upon the dead is probably incomplete and tug my ear as I fetch the linen and cleaning ash from Niklaas’s pack. Hopefully, if I keep my face hidden until we reach the Feeding Hills, where no ogre soldier would dare follow, it won’t matter.

I return to the river and attend to my teeth. Niklaas—still busy in the blackberry bushes—has switched to a different tune, a song I don’t recognize about summer and lovely girls with long black hair, but that is pleasant all the same. His voice isn’t particularly pretty—fairy boys have lovelier voices, and Jor sings in a tenor as pure as spring water—but there’s a warmth to Niklaas’s tone that makes it special. His pitch might be off and his rhythm wobbly, but his song makes me feel something. It has heart.

Unlike you. You should have forced him to listen.

I ignore the guilty voice in my head. I tried to tell Niklaas the truth; it’s not my fault he doesn’t want to hear it. He’s old enough to make his own dumb decisions, and so long as we steer clear of ogres, I might be doing him a favor, keeping him from hunting down a bride for a few weeks. Maybe it will give him time to come to his senses. He’s too young to be married. He can’t even grow a proper beard. What business does he have taking a wife?

“Get in there, Ror. That jerky mouth isn’t going to take care of itself.” Niklaas appears at my side with his own linen and snatches the ash from the rock beside me.

“You should shave when you’re finished,” I say, determined to give as good as I get. “You look like you’ve contracted mange.”

“Don’t be jealous, little prince.” Niklaas laughs. “Your face should get prickly soon. Even fairy boys grow whiskers eventually, right?”

I want to tell him that fairy boys grow lovely whiskers, perfect whiskers that would never dare grow in looking like a half-burned field of grass, but I bite my lip. Boys don’t go around admiring the perfect whiskers of other boys, or if they do, they don’t admit it out loud. I nearly slipped last night when I mentioned girls seeing better in the dark when I used to play hide-and-seek. I need to remember that being careful includes watching myself around Niklaas.

“I’ll shave when we reach Goreman.” Niklaas spits into the river before rinsing his cloth. “No one to be pretty for until then.”