Princess of Thorns

“He didn’t know about that. I was surprised Crimsin did,” I say, uncomfortable again. I hate the pity in Ror’s voice when he mentions my father. “No, King Thewen was still angry that Kanvasola refused to come to his aid during the war.” I shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad it didn’t work out. If I’d married Priscelle, I wouldn’t have met you or enjoyed all these wonderful adventures.”

Ror snorts again. “At least the di

“It was. And Priscelle and I weren’t a good match. She smelled of vinegar, refused to ride a horse, and had an u

“Cats?”

“She had six. Kept them in her bedroom,” I say with a mock shudder. “Long-haired cats, short-haired cats, even a bald bastard with wrinkly gray skin and yellow fangs.” I smile as Ror laughs. “Scariest thing I’ve seen in years. I never would have slept easy with that thing curled at the end of the bed like a goblin escaped from the Pit.”

Ror’s laugh becomes a giggle that reminds me that—no matter how determined or skilled a fighter he is—he is still so young. Now perhaps he’ll have the sense to go back into hiding until he has the chance to grow up.

“I’m sorry,” I say, watching his profile in the pale light of the half-moon. “I know you had high hopes for the Feeding Hills.”

“It’s all right.” Ror stares down at the trees drifting by beneath us. “Surely one of the rulers of Herth will be willing to aid an enemy of Ekeeta’s.”

I pause, momentarily speechless. “You’re joking.”

Ror glances up, his gray eyes silver in the moonlight. “No. There’s still time. I can’t give up.”

“And what about the ogre queen?” I struggle to keep my anger in check. “Do you think she’s going to stand back and let you roam around Herth hunting an army?”

“I know it will be difficult, but—”

“It will be impossible. You’ll be captured within a week,” I snap. “Your only hope is to find a place to hide, whether that’s in Frysk or back on that island you came from or wherever else the Fey can find to conceal you.”

“I can’t hide forever,” Ror says. “My friend—”

“Your friend will have to die.”

“Don’t say that,” Ror whispers, expression darkening.

I curse beneath my breath, amazed that he can still shock me with his stubbor

“They didn’t. I crept out when they weren’t watching,” Ror says, heat in his tone. “And I’m not out of my mind. What if it were your sister in Ekeeta’s dungeon? Would you give up on her so easily?”

“It’s not my sister. And it’s not yours, either.” I pause as a terrible suspicion worms its way into my mind. “Or were you lying to me? Is Aurora—”

“No, it’s not Aurora,” Ror says, but there is something coiled behind the denial, a secret lurking like a rat in the flour.

“Then tell me where she is,” I say. “You owe me an answer. I honored my half of our bargain. Now it’s time for you to honor yours.”

“Are you ready to go our separate ways, then?” Ror asks, voice trembling.

“I’ll see you to Beschuttz, but I want to know where your sister is hiding. I’ve earned the truth from you.”

“All right.” Ror’s hands tighten around the wooden bar. “I’ll tell you tonight. As soon as we find a place to rest.”

A part of me wants to keep pushing, but the wiser part advises to bide my time. What’s a few hours? I’ve waited a week, I can wait a little longer.

Ror and I fall silent except for the occasional word when a lever needs to be pulled, and after a time I find myself enjoying the flight. The vast expanse of trees is soothing, like a calm ocean stretching before the prow of a ship, and the sharp, herbal smell of the Feeding Trees refreshing. We drift long enough that our sail takes us a day closer to Mount Ever, when the wind gives out and the glider drifts toward the ground.

“We should put down on that lake.” Ror points to a horseshoe-shaped patch of black ahead. “We could make it farther, but we’ll risk being ripped apart by the trees when we land.”

The foliage surrounding the lake is thick, and the moon too low to light the surface of the water. The thought of landing in that inky black isn’t much more appealing than taking our chances with the treetops, but Ror is right. Wrestling a Feeding Tree would be a good way to break a bone or three, and we can’t risk it. We have to be ready to keep moving as soon as we hit the ground.

“Can you reach my pack?” Ror asks. “I’d rather be wearing it when we land.”

“I’ll wear it.” I grab the pack and swing it over one arm. “I was born on the coast and practically raised in the water.”

“I was raised on an island and swim almost as fast as I run.” Ror sounds crankier than he has in days. “Drop the lower lever a few fingers when you’re ready.”

“Aye, aye, little man.”

“You know, it’s good we’ll be together a little longer,” Ror says, ignoring my jab. “I’ll be able to protect you for a few more days.”

“You protect me?” I ask, nerves vanishing as I laugh. “I think you’ve forgotten who fetched your wee ass from its sling tonight.”

“I think you’ve forgotten who taught you to steer a glider.”

“And you’ve forgotten who told you not to go to the flaming Feeding Hills in the first place,” I say, my words ending in a gulp as the surface of the lake grows close enough to smell the mineral and moss scent of the water.

“We’ll be all right,” Ror says. “Get out from under the wings and swim for shore. Dump the pack if you have to. You’re worth more than the gold inside it.”

I realize Ror has paid me a compliment—and was likely provoking me to keep my mind off our landing—and then the lake is thirteen … ten … two hands away and we hit. We hit, toes sliding across the ice-cold surface for half a field before the last of our forward momentum runs out and we sink like knives through rotten fruit.

I hear Ror gasp as the water soaks into his clothes and then we are both under and I’m shocked still, paralyzed by snow-fed water so cold it stops every thought in my brain. My head throbs and my blood slows and for a moment I forget where I am, forget everything but the cold chilling my skin and bones, creeping icy fingers in to wrap around my heart.

But finally, after who knows how many frozen seconds, a stinging, aching, burning in my chest reminds me I have arms and legs and ought to be doing something with them. Fighting the sluggish feeling in my limbs, I kick for the surface, struggling against the added weight of the pack, my boots, and my sword tugging at my waist, breaking through just as my lungs are turning inside out with the need for breath.

I suck in air and cough through teeth that clack like hooves on cobblestones, echoing across the otherwise silent lake.

“R-r-ror?” I shove at the water, fighting to stay warm. “Ror? Ror, where—”

His gasp as he breaks through the surface is positively girlish, and his voice when he calls my name is an octave too high. “Niklaas?”

“I’m here. This way.” I would tease him about sounding like his stones have crawled inside his body if I weren’t losing sensation in my joints. Nothing is fu

I crawl onto the shoreline, sword dragging across the stones, vaguely sensing the sharp edges of rocks and shells beneath my hands, but too numb to be bothered by them. Once I’m a safe distance from the water, I shrug the pack off my back and pry it open. The dress Ror shoved into the top is soaking wet, but below it Ror’s second set of clothes, wrapped in the oilcloth cloak we purchased in Goreman, is relatively dry.

“He-here.” I clap him on the back as he crawls—coughing and shivering—onto the bank beside me. “Change your clothes. I’ll wrap up in your cloak.”