Princess of Thorns

Even the way he spits is overly confident. The boy is entirely too sure of himself. He deserves to be taken down a notch or two, and discovering he’s gotten the worst of our bargain isn’t the most terrible way to learn a lesson. Maybe once he’s learned it, he will be less insufferable, and the next girl he goes after will like him better.

But even as I think it, I don’t believe it. I imagine most girls like Niklaas just fine the way he is.

I sneak a peek at him from the corner of my eye to see a pained expression flash across his face. His wound must be hurting more than he let on.

“We can put more Cavra leaves on for the ride,” I say.

“What?” he asks, not shifting his gaze from the treetops on the opposite side of the bank. I look up to see three white swans, a mother and two adolescents, flying east, their elegant bodies alabaster against the azure sky.

“You look like you’re hurting,” I say, shifting my attention back to Niklaas. “The Cavra leaves will help with the pain.”

“I don’t think so.” He turns to me with a smile, but there’s something sad behind it, and his eyes seem dimmer than they did before. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? It won’t take—”

“I’m sure,” he says with a wider smile. “You ready to get back in the saddle?”

“I wish.” I moan, unable to conceal my misery at the thought of subjecting my aching muscles to another day of riding bareback.

“Should have taken the time to fetch a saddle.” Niklaas sighs a put-upon sigh. “It’s hard being right. All the flaming time.”

“I can imagine,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Truly. Always right, always wise and sage, but no one will listen.”

I throw my wet linen at him, but he dodges it easily.

“Say I was right,” he says with a laugh.

I stick my tongue out in response, which only makes him laugh harder.

“Say I was right,” he says, “and I’ll let you have the saddle until we stop to water the horses.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised by the offer.

“As long as I hear something sweet,” he says, cupping a hand behind his ear.

“You were right.” Forget pride. There are more important things, like being able to feel my bottom at the end of the day. “Absolutely right.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Niklaas throws an arm around my shoulders and knuckles my head before bounding off to where the horses are tied as if he had slept sixteen hours instead of six.

No, it wasn’t hard, but I’ve had experience admitting I was wrong. Especially this past year, when everything I touch seems to turn to crypt dust beneath my hands. Admitting I’ve made a mistake comes easily these days.

I only hope it will be as easy for Niklaas when it’s his turn.

Chapter Ten

Niklaas

Our second day on the road passes much more peacefully than the first—thank all the gods and goddesses and the little baby demigods in their downy cradles. The most dangerous creature we encounter is a snake that slithers across Ror’s boot when the boy goes creeping into the woods to answer the call.

He’s an odd bird—with his craving for pissing and washing up in private when it’s only the two of us—but fourteen is a strange age. Usio stopped bathing for months around then, and I spent my fourteenth year sleeping in a hammock I’d hung above my bed because I was convinced sleeping in hammocks was good training for adventuring.

As if there were hammocks strung up in the trees along every roadside.

Fourteen-year-olds are idiots, but Ror proves himself less idiotic than most. When we ride beneath a swarm of crows near dawn on the third day, he is careful to keep his face covered, and when we rejoin the road and encounter the rare fellow traveler, he never speaks a word. He even obeys my order to stay hidden with the horses while I enter the one i

Our third day ends in a cave a few fields from the road, where we find shelter just before a rain, and the fourth begins with leftover rolls shared between us next to the remains of our fire. The fifth and the sixth days pass in a blur of riding and watering the horses and getting off to walk the animals when they, or our own poor, abused asses, grow too tired for riding.

With each passing day, Ror becomes increasingly enjoyable company. His imperious, impatient side softens, and I learn that his crookedly clownish side is the more natural one for the boy.

We fall into a pattern of good-natured teasing, with the occasional sharing of something true about ourselves and our lives, and—by the time we awake on our seventh morning on the trail—I’m feeling positively affectionate toward the little bastard. I’ve never had a younger brother, but if I did, I’d want him to be like Ror: quick with a joke, slow to truly anger, loyal to his friends, skilled with his weapon of choice, gentle with his horse, and odd enough in his thoughts and habits to be interesting. I’ve come to like the idea of keeping Aurora’s little brother under my wing, of having someone to bully and teach and adventure with the way Usio and I once did. I think my blood brothers would like that, knowing their legacy was being passed on and their stories told.

It makes me even more determined to prove that the gloom that fills Ror’s eyes every time I mention his sister’s name is a storm made of empty clouds and not a drip of rain. No matter what he thinks, I believe I will be able to win Aurora. I must believe it.

“Is that smoke on the horizon?” Ror asks, standing up in the saddle he won the use of in a vicious game of dice between us the night before. He pulls my hood back far enough for his nose to peek out and sniffs the air.

“It is,” I say. “We’ll reach the outskirts of Goreman by noon.”

“We will?” Ror asks, excitement rising in his voice. “Then we may be able to hire a guide today instead of—”

“We’ll reach the New Market, where the looters and slave traders sell their scraps, by noon, but I wouldn’t stop there for a meal, let alone to make camp.”

“How long until we reach where we will be staying?”

“The best i

“I thought blood tournaments were outlawed.” Ror stretches taller in his saddle, as if he expects to be able to see all the way to the arena where young men risk their lives to win purses smaller than my monthly allowance. “My fairy mother said even Ekeeta signed the treaty.”

I snort. “She hates to see a human die before she’s claimed their soul, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Ror agrees. “Still … I wonder if she knows the tournaments are still being held in a corner of her country.”

“It’s Goreman,” I say with a shrug.

“It’s still part of Norvere.”

“A far-flung part that’s always made its own rules. It’s a feral place.”

“How feral?” Ror asks, concern coloring his tone.

“The elder council maintains a militia that keeps the streets safe enough, but you won’t see many women or children in the city, aside from the whores in their houses and the damaged things who sell themselves near the arena stables,” I say, wishing I could banish some of the sights I’ve seen near those stables from my mind—the little girls with their right hands painted red, meaning that their tiny fists were ready to service any twisted monster with a coin or two; the crippled girl with her shriveled leg, using her walking stick to brace herself as some stranger lifted her skirts in full view of half the men drinking at the beer tents.