Princess of Thorns

“What?” Niklaas asks.

“There must be another way out. The counselors wouldn’t trap themselves here with only one avenue of escape,” I whisper, sca

Lord Heven’s cottage is perched on the edge of the promontory, and has the best view in the settlement. There is nothing between my window and the wide expanse of snow-sifted mountains and dark valleys, but half a field of rock and an outhouse built of the same glossy wood as the lord’s cottage.

“If there’s another way, Crimsin didn’t mention it.” I hear frustration in Niklaas’s voice, but I don’t turn to look at him. I can’t pull my eyes from the outhouse. There is something strange about it, something …

“And we don’t have time to waste,” Niklaas continues. “Either put the dress on, or—”

“But there’s a privy at the left of the cottage,” I say, wondering why Lord Heven would need two privies when he no doubt has servants to empty his chamber pot.

“What’s wrong with you?” Niklaas growls beneath his breath. “Grow up and put the damn dress on, Ror. I’d wear the flaming thing myself if it would fit, but—”

“Come with me.” I snatch my pack from the ground, stuffing the dress into the top before slinging the strap over one arm and claiming my staff from against the wall. “I want to look at something. If my instincts are wrong, I’ll put the dress on and we’ll go.”

Right after you finish losing your mind when you realize you’ve been deceived.

Before Niklaas can argue, I lift my leg and climb out the window, landing softly on the ground outside and turning to look up. The windows on the second and third floors of the cottage are dark.

With a deep breath and a wish for luck, I pad silently across the rocks to the outhouse. As soon as I get within sniffing distance, I know it’s not what it appears to be. There’s no odor lingering in the air, only the cold, conifer-scented breeze blowing in from the mountains on the other side of the gorge.

“What are you doing?” Niklaas hisses as I tug open the heavy wooden door, revealing a circular staircase leading into the rock below our feet.

“Finding the other way out.” I glance back at Niklaas with a smile, a smile that vanishes when a lamp flares to life on the third floor of the cottage.

Chapter Seventeen

Niklaas

“Niklaas!” Ror grips my sleeve. “There’s a light in—”

Before he can finish, the bell atop Lord Heven’s home begins to ring, a deep, resounding gong, gong that foretells the end of the world.

Or the end of our escape, and of Ror’s life come morning.

“Go!” I shove him down the stairs ahead of me. The front of Lord Heven’s house is guarded and the common beyond teeming with people. There will be no chance of slipping by them u

I won’t think about what happens if it doesn’t. I won’t think about Ror dead or worse because I was too focused on saving my own skin to consider how dangerous a journey to the Feeding Hills could be for the prince of Norvere.

Ror rushes down the stairs carved through the mountain’s crust with his usual speed, moving so swiftly he seems to hover over the ground. I lose sight of him before we’ve spun around twice. By the time I reach the bottom, racing through an archway onto a ledge where kite-like contraptions sit in rows facing the gorge, Ror is across the field-sized expanse, throwing his pack to the ground before meeting two exile men with his staff.

I drop my pack and draw my sword, but before I reach his side Ror has knocked one man unconscious and sent the second sailing off the edge of the outcrop. The exile screams as he falls, a cringe-inspiring cry that seems to go on forever, leaving no doubt how deep the chasm is between this mountain and the next.

Ror stands staring over the side, breathing fast. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, turning to me with frightened eyes. “It was an accident, Niklaas. It was an—”

I grab him by the back of the neck and bring my face even with his. “It’s all right,” I say, willing strength into him, knowing there isn’t time for him to dwell on his first killing. “Don’t think about it. We have to escape, or it will be for nothing.”

Ror clenches his jaw and nods. I race back across the ledge, snatching Ror’s pack and my own in one hand before sprinting to the nearest oversized kite.

“It’s a glider,” Ror says. “We should be able to fly it off the edge.”

Fly it. That’s what I’d assumed, but still … By the gods … Fly.

Up close, the contraption is larger than it first appeared, with a wooden seat big enough for two and a basket underneath for luggage. The basket isn’t big enough for both packs, so I shove Ror’s beneath the seat and toss mine to the ground, knowing he has more gold in his purse than I do.

“Send the others over the side.” I move past Ror, slashing the ropes binding the machines to the ledge. Ror hurries behind me, hurling the contraptions, some even larger than the one we’ve chosen, over the side with surprising strength. But then fear makes everyone a little stronger, a little faster.

I pray it will make us fast enough.

I help Ror hurl the last glider into the gorge, and in a few minutes we’ve cleared the ledge, ensuring none of the exiles will be follow us off of it.

“Take a seat, I’ll push off,” I say, sheathing my sword as I jog back to the remaining glider, relieved to see the archway leading to the stairs still empty.

“No,” Ror says. “We have to—”

“Enough arguing!” I turn back to him, my scowl digging into my face like claws. “Do you want to die here?”

“No, but I don’t want to die on that thing, either!” He shoves his staff into its harness and reaches for the rope tying the glider to the ground, glaring at me as he tugs it free. “You don’t sit on it, you lie on your stomach to keep the weight balanced and give you access to the controls.”

“You’ve steered one before?” I ask, anger vanishing in a wave of relief.

“Not one so large.” He motions for me to help him lift the machine by the bar above the seat. “But the mountain Fey have gliders they use to travel from mountaintop to mountaintop. I’ve watched one being steered more than twice.”

“Watched?” I ask, backing up with Ror as he steps away from the ledge.

“Watched closely.”

“How closely?” I ask, pulse speeding.

“Closely enough … I think,” he says, blowing a breath out between pursed lips. “We’ll need to get a ru

Footsteps sound from the archway. The exiles are on the stairs, and we’re out of time.

“Run!” I shout, forcing myself to charge toward the edge.

Ror launches into motion beside me. “Reach for the lever on your side after we jump,” he pants. “The levers control the wings. I’ll tell you when to shift yours.”

I glance up, finding not one but two levers below the bar we’re holding. But before I can ask Ror what the extra lever is for, we’re taking our last step on solid ground and hurtling out into the breathless void.

I land on my stomach with a sizzle of nerves, like lightning skittering across water. My belly pitches and my throat squeezes tight, and then our momentum runs out and we begin to fall. The nose of the machine tilts down, down, aiming into the gorge while my muscles scream and my heart punches my chest like a fist. My mind’s eye flashes on the man Ror killed—bloodied lips peeled into a smile as he reaches dead arms out to greet me—and my vision swims, terror twisting my insides so fiercely I forget how to breathe.