Princess of Thorns

The Feeding Hills are the birthplace of the ogres, the spot from which they emerged from the ooze to become the first beings walking the land. It is also said to be the location of their last surviving predators. The Feeding Trees atop the hills are as old as Mataquin itself, gnarled behemoths as big around as a farmer’s hut, with trunks that reach through the clouds. No human alive has ever seen them do anything but sprout needles, sway in the breeze, and other trees-going-about-their-business sort of things, but the ogre legends say the Feeding Trees house the spirits of the upstart gods who banished the Lost Mother to the underworld. In her last act of magic, the goddess transformed her enemies into trees.

Trees with a taste for vengeance …

Allegedly, the Feeding Trees use illusions to lure ogres into their trunks, where the creatures are digested over the course of a few hundred years. Fairy story or not, the ogres are spooked enough to leave the traitors living in the Feeding Hills alone, despite the fact that the exiles lead repeated raids on Ekeeta’s supply wagons and provided soldiers to help fight the last battle between Norvere and the Aligned Kingdoms of Herth, helping stave off Ekeeta’s takeover of the ten tiny countries.

“The exiles were paid to fight for Herth,” I say finally, knowing Jor needs to hear the truth. “Paid well. In gold and in betrothals for their children.”

Betrothals that have severely limited my own ability to find an eligible princess.

Not that I would have had much luck if the princesses of Herth were unspoken for. My father is Ekeeta’s ally, making him, and his offspring, the enemies of the Aligned Kingdoms of Herth. I spent months touring the countries of the north, but despite interest from the newly widowed Princess Gerace of Rinland and vows of undying devotion from the twin princesses of Pe

Aurora is my last hope, the only unbetrothed princess who might see my lineage as a blessing rather than a curse. Norvere and Kanvasola were allies in her father’s time, and her father’s first wife was my aunt Ninia, a woman betrayed and slain by the ogre queen. We have a common history and a common enemy. A marriage between us could be a first step toward an alliance for the future of Mataquin.

“But the Kingdoms of Herth aren’t the exile’s homeland,” Jor says. “I’m second in line to the throne of Norvere. Surely they’ll be open to helping me out of loyalty alone.”

“You realize you’re talking about people who have a history of switching sides as easily as flipping a frying cake in a pan?”

Jor scowls. “One way or another, I will convince them to fight for me.”

“Succeed or fail, it’s no matter to me so long as you keep your end of our bargain,” I mutter, guiding Alama toward the sound of ru

“You’re terribly sure of yourself.” The path widens, and Jor urges his horse forward, pulling even with Alama. “My sister isn’t some simpering fool to be swept off her feet by a pretty face and bulging muscles. She’s clever and determined and—”

“And a girl.”

Jor rolls his eyes. “Well, of course she’s a girl.”

“And that’s all I need her to be. A girl with no father or mother standing in my way,” I say with a grin that I can tell gets under the boy’s skin.

Good. Let it. He’ll be even more piqued when I have his sister in my bed before we’ve been acquainted a fortnight.

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” I glance over at him, taking in his strong profile and clear skin. “You’re handsome enough, and some girls actually prefer waifish, fairy-looking boys.”

Jor surprises me by laughing so hard and loud that the horses startle and break into a trot.

“Goodness.” He soothes his horse with a stroke of its neck.

As much as I’d like to see him thrown simply so I could say “I told you so,” he seems to have a way with animals.

“You’re something, aren’t you?” he asks with a grin.

“Laugh while you can, runt.” I rein Alama in, not wanting her to twist an ankle on the increasingly rocky trail. “You’ll see I’m right. Just as you’ll see that the exiles will be harder to win over than you expect.”

Jor’s smile slips, banishing the dimples that had appeared on either side of his mouth. “At least they were once my people. I would have gone to them first, but I worried there wouldn’t be time. The matter for which I need the army is … pressing. We’ll have to ride long days and reach the Feeding Hills as soon as we can.”

I grunt in response and swing off Alama’s back. The creek is in sight across a bed of round gray stones she’ll cross more easily without a rider.

“That’s why I decided against the saddle.” Jor slides off his horse. “No saddle means less weight for Button to carry.”

“Button?” I shoot the animal Jor leads a pointed look. The horse’s back is higher than the top of the boy’s head. The beast is two hands taller than Alama, and she’s one of the largest horses—especially females—I’ve ever seen.

He shrugs. “It was my mother’s nickname for me. I hope it will bring me better luck than I’ve had so far,” he says, casting his eyes down as we reach the stream and the horses dip their whiskery noses into the water.

For the first time since I carried Jor from his makeshift prison—him whimpering in the middle of some nightmare—I feel for the boy. Everyone knows how the Sleeping Beauty died.

My own mother died shortly after Haanah was born. I was not quite two and don’t remember her at all, which I’ve always considered a cruel bit of fortune. But what would it be like to harbor the memory of your mother slitting her throat in front of your eyes? The boy must remember it. If he remembers his mother’s pet name, he must also remember her suicide.

“Jor …” I clear my throat, wondering how one offers condolences for such an old wound. “I’m—”

“My Fey family calls me Ror,” he interrupts, sparing me. “You can, too. It’s more familiar to me than my given name.”

I nod. “I would say you can call me Niki, but only my father does that, and I hate the man like toe rot and gangrene mixed together.”

Ror glances up with a smile I return before handing him one of my waterskins and squatting to fill the other. I chug as much liquid as I can hold, hoping the water will help ease the aching in my skull. Ror stoops beside me, pulling his staff from the sling fashioned into the back of his armor and placing it within reach as he fills his own skin.

I don’t think we’ll have cause to fight out here in the middle of the forest, but I appreciate that the boy is making an effort. It seems unavoidable that we’ll be traveling together, and I feel better knowing he has some instincts toward self-preservation.

“We’ll try to reach the edge of the woods before we make camp,” I say, wetting my sleeve and using it to wash the grit of yesterday’s ride from my face. “If we pace ourselves and walk the horses now and then, we’ll reach the petrified forest before nightfall. Assuming we keep putting in long days, that should bring us within a week’s journey of Goreman.”

“Goreman?” Ror wipes the water from his lip.

“It’s the closest place to hire a guide to the exile camp. They’re well hidden. We could wander the mountains for weeks and never find them.” I cap my skin and secure it to Alama’s saddle before reaching for Ror’s.

Ror takes one last drink. “All right. I suppose I have no choice but to trust you.”

“I’m flattered,” I say with a sour twist of my lips.

“I’m not being rude, I’m being truthful,” he says. “I’ve been in hiding with the Fey since I was four years old. I’ve lived my entire life on an island. I’ve studied Mataquin’s land and history, but I’m ignorant of many things about the human world.”