Princess of Thorns

I sigh, ru

“Of course I wouldn’t leave you,” Ror says, guiding Button closer. “I told you this morning, Niklaas. I want to help you. I want to keep you safe.”

I grimace as my guts clench. My stomach quivers beneath my ribs, debating whether or not to send the water back the way it came. I hate feeling ill, but I hate Ror knowing the truth—even if it’s only a shadow of the truth—even more.

Apparently, people on this side of Norvere believe my father murders his sons, and that he’s sent assassins to Goreman to seek me out before my eighteenth birthday. That’s the story Crimsin told Ror, anyway, and the reason the guide gave for feeling it necessary to drug me and leave me to sleep off the poison while she led Ror to the exiles.

Perhaps the story is true. Perhaps my father does intend to kill me for the crime of attempting to change my fate. I don’t know how he would have learned of my quest or my new hope—Haanah is the only one who knows I found the witch who cursed our family, and she would never say a word—but he has his spies, as Ekeeta has hers. They may not be numerous, but they are clever and loyal and desperate to please their king, lest they end up dead like the men who have failed King Eldorio before them.

“I consider you a friend,” Ror says, hurt still clear in his tone. “I would never leave a friend in danger. Deal or no deal.”

“I consider you a friend, too.” I lay a hand on his back. “And I am sorry. You’re like a brother to me, runt, I told you that last night.”

“You remember that?” Ror asks.

“I do, though I admit everything after climbing the stairs is a blur. I have a vague recollection of lifting you over my head … but I’m hoping that was a dream.”

Ror grins. “No. Not a dream. But I—”

“Aren’t you two delightful?” Crimsin’s voice drifts through the trees, making my shoulder muscles bunch and my head ache. I pull my hand from Ror’s back to rub the tops of my eyes. “Is there anything sweeter than two boys in love?”

“We’re friends,” Ror snaps, shooting Crimsin a look I don’t understand. I get the feeling something uncomfortable happened between the pair of them last night, though Ror insists they only spoke briefly before he came to watch over me in my sleep.

“Forgive me, prince, I was only teasing.” Crimsin’s lips push into a pretty pout.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years, but I don’t feel the slightest pull toward her, and not simply because she drugged me. There’s something false about Crimsin, something secretive in the way of water with sharp rocks lurking beneath the surface that makes me wish we’d been able to hire anyone else but this girl.

“Now, what do your royal highnesses think?” Crimsin stops between the horses and tilts her head up, providing a scandalous view down the front of her dress. “Should I ride with Ror or with you, Niklaas?” she asks, hand coming to rest on my knee.

“You’ll ride with me,” Ror says, anger simmering in his words. “My horse is larger, and Niklaas still doesn’t feel well.”

“Maybe I could help him feel better.” Crimsin leans into my leg, pressing her body against my thigh. For a split second, I consider retching down onto her soft, shining hair, but decide the pain of being sick again isn’t worth the petty revenge.

“Ror seems better able to tolerate you,” I say, nudging Alama forward with my heels, pretending not to notice when Crimsin has to scramble out of the way to avoid being stepped on.

“Charming,” Crimsin says as Ror swings her onto the saddle behind him. “No wonder you were without a woman to warm your bed last night, Prince Niklaas.”

I turn to tell the girl to keep her mouth shut unless she has something guide-worthy to say, when I see them—six sea-foam-colored Kanvasol horses surging through the gates of the city below, each one mounted by a knight wearing the blue coat of arms of my father’s i

It seems Crimsin was right, and I a fool for setting foot outside the i

“Go, ride ahead with Niklaas!” Ror slides to the ground, giving Button a swat on the behind. The horse leaps forward, making Crimsin squeal and clutch at the reins.

“No!” Crimsin pulls the horse to a stop, the playful lilt vanishing from her voice. “You can’t fight them alone. They’ll kill you, and I—”

“There’s no time!” Ror slaps the horse again, harder, sending Button dashing off through the woods.

Ror turns to me. “Follow her. I’ll find you later. You’re not fit to fight.”

“No, I won’t—”

“Go!” Ror shouts. “You’ll only distract me if you stay. I can take them. Go! Run!”

I reach for my sword—I don’t care what he says, I’m not leaving Ror alone against six armed men—but before I can draw my weapon, Ror whacks Alama on the rump and she bolts with a squeal, leaping after Button.

I haul at the reins, but by the time I regain control and turn Alama around, Ror has already knocked three of the men from their horses and is using his staff to leverage his body into the air to avoid being trampled by the animals pressing in behind. I dig my heels into Alama’s sides and barrel down the mountain, heart racing as a sword swings within inches of Ror’s head, close enough to make his warrior’s knot bob as he kneels to swipe his staff in a wide arc, tripping a fourth horse and sending the man atop it sailing from his saddle.

My swift pulse clears my head, and by the time I meet the last mounted man, my arm is strong. Our blades collide with a dull clang, a sound made familiar by days spent training with Father’s men. It makes me wonder if this knight was one of my teachers, or one of the boys who trained beside me. His armor conceals his face, but there’s a chance I know him, that the blood I’ll spill is the blood of a former friend.

The thought should make me hesitate, but it doesn’t. I have to get to Ror, I have to save his life before he dies trying to save mine.

I see a weakness in my opponent’s defense and seize upon it, sliding my sword into the unarmored place beneath his armpit, sending a rush of red spilling onto his blue surcoat. He drops his weapon; I lift my foot from the stirrup and kick him in the chest, sending him sliding off his horse with a strangled cry. I hesitate long enough to make sure he won’t be getting up to fight before urging Alama farther down the hill to where Ror is, miraculously, finishing off his final opponent.

Three men lie unconscious on the ground while Ror bats at the last man, knocking his armor from his head before finding the same vulnerable place I found with my sword and shoving his staff inside hard enough to make the knight cry out as he drops his sword. After that, it’s only a matter of seconds before Ror sends the man crumpling to the ground with a sharp rap of his staff upside the unfortunate bastard’s skull.

He watches the man fall and spins my way, only relaxing a fraction when he sees I’m not the enemy.

“Are you all right? Where’s the other one?” He races up the hill so swiftly Alama dances nervously to the side. “There were six. I took four and you took the fifth, but—”

He’s interrupted by a scream, a terrified cry that makes me feel something besides contempt for Crimsin for the first time since we were introduced over a chamber pot filled with my vomit.

I reach a hand down and pull Ror into the saddle behind me. Alama moves quickly up the mountain, not seeming to suffer from the addition of Ror’s weight, but by the time we reach Crimsin, I fear we’re too late. The sixth man has her on her back, a blade pressed to her throat.