Princess of Thorns

“Here, take this,” he says, untying my cloak from his shoulders and swinging it around my own, leaving his chest bare.

“No, you need it. It’s cold,” I say, clearing my throat as I realize there’s no need to drop my pitch. “You’ll need it,” I repeat in my natural voice, a high, floaty thing that feels unfamiliar after so long pretending to be someone I’m not.

Niklaas’s breath rushes out as he shakes his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see … You must have had a good laugh, eh?”

“No.” I reach for him, wincing as the muscles shift in my wounded shoulder, but he pulls away like my fingers are made of fire. Or feces. Fire and feces mixed together.

“No,” I repeat, ignoring the tightening in my ribs, the panic that courses through me at the thought of Niklaas hating me. “It wasn’t like that. I was going to tell you the truth so many times.”

“But what? You were having too much fun making a fool of me?”

“No! I … At first … I was afraid,” I confess, voice quavering.

“Right.” Niklaas’s laugh is bitter. “Afraid of what? I’ve seen you fight, Ror.”

I flinch at the venom in the last word. “I wasn’t … I was afraid you wouldn’t help me. Ekeeta has my brother,” I say, relieved to finally tell Niklaas the truth. “Jor was captured on his way to visit me. He and the mountain Fey made the journey safely every summer, but this year Ekeeta had ogres waiting at the port near Sifths. We don’t know how she learned they would be boarding a ship there, but … She took Jor and killed the fairies who fought to protect him.

“Not long after, Janin had a vision of Jor’s death. When the Hawthorne tree in the courtyard at Mercar turns red, Jor will die. Unless I change his fate.” I swallow the lump rising in my throat, dropping my eyes to the bark beneath my crossed legs. “I thought if I raised an army and marched on Mercar, Ekeeta might be convinced to give up Jor in exchange for my withdrawal. And if not, I pla

Niklaas grunts.

My throat squeezes tighter. “At first I didn’t trust you enough to tell the truth, but then … I was afraid if you knew I was a girl, even a girl fairy-blessed with skill in battle, that you’d tell me to forget about saving my brother. And I was afraid that once you knew … once you learned I would never agree to marry you that—”

Niklaas’s laugh is so sudden it makes me jump.

My eyes dart back to his face and I watch nervously as he laughs and laughs. Laughs until his breath comes in a rhythm more akin to a sob, until his eyes shine and he covers his face with his hands and draws a long, ragged breath. “What a joke.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Me too.” He grins as he swipes the wet from his cheeks. “You were my last chance and now …” His grin grows wider as his eyes grow colder. “Now I wouldn’t marry you if your fairy mother came begging for me to take you off her hands.”

I blink against the tears pressing at my eyes and fight to keep my lips from trembling. Niklaas has the right to be angry, and it’s good that he’s giving up his dream of making me his wife, but still … it hurts. It hurts to have him look at me with revulsion, to feel his disgust fouling the air between us.

I suck my top lip between my teeth and bite down as I nod.

Niklaas snorts, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to resume his nerve-mangling chortling, but instead he jumps to his feet and prowls to the edge of the limb.

“Doesn’t look like the wolves are going anywhere,” he says, cursing. “We’ll have to stick to the trees. Unfortunately, I threw the pack down when I thought I’d have to carry you. All we have left are the flint, the waterskin, and a bag of gold that won’t do us a damned bit of good until we reach a village.”

I struggle to my feet, careful of my arm, not knowing whether to be grateful or disappointed that Niklaas seems ready to stop fighting.

At least for the moment.

“I’m fine to walk,” I say, “but I’ll need help climbing when it’s time to move to another tree.” I slip my wounded arm through the cloak’s sleeve, swaying as a fresh wave of pain makes me gasp and my eyes squeeze shut.

Niklaas steadies me with a hand on my good shoulder. My eyes open on his bare chest, a sight that sends a different sort of pain worming into my heart. He is as beautiful and untouchable as ever, but knowing I would never press my palm to his skin and feel the rhythm of his heart didn’t hurt this badly before. When I was Ror, I had Niklaas’s affection and friendship and respect. Now … I have nothing but his contempt.

“Can you walk? Tell the truth.” Niklaas sighs as he realizes what he’s said. “I mean … I can carry you. I will if you need me to. We have to move quickly. The arrow was tipped with ogre blood. We only have a few days to get you to a healer.”

I look up and see the kindness behind the hurt in his face, and my composure slips. “Please don’t hate me,” I whisper, eyes filling. “I care about you, Niklaas. That part was real. You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”

“You were a friend to me, too,” he says in a strained voice. “When we were landing I kept thinking …”

“Thinking what?” I ask softly, not wanting to ruin this opportunity to mend the rift between us.

“That you were like a brother to me. A brother,” he says with a miserable laugh.

“We can still be like brothers,” I say, trying to believe it, though the words feel like the worst kind of lie. A lie to myself, a lie my head is trying to sell my heart.

“No, we can’t.” Niklaas’s hand falls and his features firm up, shutting me out once more. “You’re not who I thought you were. I don’t know who you are.”

“Yes, you do! I’m still the same person.”

“No, you’re not. And neither am I. That Niklaas had hope. I have none, and you to blame for the loss of it.” He clears his throat. “Now can you walk, or can’t you?”

I lift my chin and take a deep breath, refusing to cry or beg or make any more of a fool of myself than I have already. It wouldn’t do any good—Niklaas is too angry to listen—and he’s right, we have to get moving.

“I can walk. For now.” I pick up my staff with my good hand, silently vowing to find some way to convince Niklaas to forgive me. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

He nods. “Maybe we’ll have some luck and the wolves will be too spooked to follow us.”

My breath rushes out as I remember we’re standing on the arm of a monster. “Did you see that?” I ask, pointing toward the trunk. “The way the tree opened up and the ogres simply … walked in?”

“It would have been hard to miss,” he says, crossing his arms at his chest.

“I wonder what drew them in?” I peer over the edge. “Do you think they saw something we didn’t? Or maybe it was that smoke, some toxin in it that only ogres—”

“I’m a dumb oaf, Aurora, too dim to know a girl from a boy. What would I know about Feeding Trees?” he asks, obviously not in the mood for talk. Or forgiveness.

With one last glance at the wolves cringing before the Feeding Tree, bellies scraping the ground, I turn and start down the long limb, walking until it grows as thin as a canoe bed, then a horse’s back, then the ridge of a roof.

A part of me wants to keep going, to see how far I can get before I lose my balance, but I am fairy blessed, not immortal. A drop from this height could end badly, and I’m sure a broken leg would probably hurt more than the wound my pride will suffer from asking for Niklaas’s grudging assistance.

Probably.

I stop, waiting for Niklaas to catch up and help me climb into the arms of another Feeding Tree, a baby monster with limbs barely long enough to deposit us onto a third branch leading deep into the forest. Beyond that, we rely on touch to find our way. It is too dark to see the trees or the ground or anything aside from the branches of the canopy shining silver in the moonlight.