Princess of Thorns Read online

  A whisper is too much.

  I never imagined it would be like this, never thought a kiss could make my body feel as electric as the air before a thunderstorm, make my chest ache and my heart pound and my soul feel too giddy for my body to contain it.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, her lips teasing against mine.

  “I’m better than okay,” I whisper, sliding my hands down to grip her hips. “I’m perfect. You’re perfect.”

  And then I kiss her again, soft becoming hard, breath coming faster, until all our hesitation vanishes. She buries her fingers in my hair and I lift her into the air, drawing her up my body until her feet dangle and our lips are even with each other and the kiss grows deeper, until her breath is my breath and her taste fills my mouth and there is nothing but her, nothing but how much I want her.

  How much I want to please her, to do … whatever … it takes …

  Whatever … anything …

  Anything at all …

  My head spins sickly. I pull in a breath between kisses, but it doesn’t help. The ground is tilting beneath my feet, the wind whipping in from all sides, battering my body until I can’t tell which way is up. My heart lurches and my arms tremble, sending Aurora sliding to the ground as I grow too weak to hold her.

  “Niklaas?” she asks, panic in her voice. “Niklaas? What’s wrong?”

  I try to tell her that I’m okay, but my lips won’t move, and when I reach for her I stumble and fall. I land in the grass, sticks jabbing into my knees, but I barely feel them. I am outside my body and inside it at the same time, torn apart like a fruit from its peel, my mind and heart and soul screaming though my mouth refuses to utter a word.

  I am terrified and ripped and bleeding and broken and then suddenly the suffering parts of myself are gone, tossed away into the far beyond and I am as peaceful as a shell filled with the echo of the sea. I am a vessel, calm and empty, waiting to be filled.

  I think that I should be afraid, but I’m not and so the thought vanishes, swept away with the rest of my unnecessary thoughts and feelings. I can’t seem to feel anything aside from the overwhelming need to be with Aurora, to serve her in whatever way I am able. To show her that I …

  I … Who am I? I wonder, the notion of self confounding in a way it has never been before. I’ve always been so sure of who I am, but now … I am here with her. She is here with me. That’s all that matters. That’s all that will ever matter. The thought soothes me, banishing some of the dizziness, making it easier to breathe.

  “I’m sorry.” Aurora falls to the ground and wraps her arms around me, hugging me tight. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  “Of course,” I say, voice still weak, though the world has stopped spinning. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “Yes, there is,” she says, her eyes filling with tears. “I’ve done a terrible thing.”

  “No, you haven’t.” I take her hand in mine, wanting nothing more than to comfort her, to make her happy. It’s all that seems important, the only thing worth living for.

  “Yes, I have,” she says, then adds in a choked voice, “Don’t argue with me.”

  “All right,” I agree, tucking a lock of hair back into the arrangement on her head.

  “And don’t touch me.”

  I drop my hands to my lap with a smile. It feels good to do as she asks, so good I can scarcely remember why I ever wanted to quarrel with her.

  She shakes her head, her throat working as she fights to swallow. “It’s true, then. I was hoping, but I … I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, love.”

  My grin is so wide it feels like it will break my jaw. “I love you, too, Aurora.”

  “I know,” she says, sadness in her voice that I can’t understand. I can’t understand it, but it makes me sad, too, and when she begins to cry it feels as if the world has been plunged into darkness. I want nothing more than to comfort her, but she told me not to touch her and so I sit and watch, tears rolling silently from my eyes until she finally stops crying and swipes the damp from her face.

  “Come now, don’t you cry.” She brushes the tears from my face with a trembling finger before standing and reaching a hand down to me. “We’ll ask the village priest to marry us as soon as the lamps are lit. At least something good will come of this.”

  I hesitate until she sighs and shakes her head. “You can touch me. I’m sorry, I’d … forgotten.”

  “It’s all right.” My sadness vanishes as she leads me across the field. I follow her through the tall grass, utterly at peace. No misery can touch me so long as my love’s hand is in mine and she is happy with me and I am doing as she wishes.

  We hurry past the dancers to where Gettel and Kat are playing juggle sticks with some of the village children. Aurora squeezes my hand as we approach the healer, sending a wave of contentment surging through my body, rushing through the empty space left behind after the other parts of me were cut away, filling me with joy.

  I smile as Aurora explains that we want to be married and asks the healer to bear witness to our joining, but Gettel isn’t looking at Aurora. She’s looking at me, staring with a horrified expression that would trouble me if I cared what anyone but Aurora thought of me. But I don’t, and so I smile. I smile until she sends the children away and begins to shout at Aurora, demanding to know what’s she’s done, demanding she release me from whatever enchantment she’s worked upon me.

  I move forward, ready to defend my love, but she stops me with a hand on my arm and a softly whispered, “No, Niklaas, don’t interfere,” and I step back.

  I listen as Aurora explains a fairy curse she’s under and what it has done to me, but none of it makes sense until she swears that she did what she did so that we could be married, so she could save me from my own curse. Mention of our marriage makes me grin again. I can’t wait to be her husband, to be by her side, forever and always.

  “You can’t marry him now,” Gettel says, anger and sadness thick in her voice.

  “Yes, I can,” Aurora says. “I must! If I don’t, he only has eight days left.”

  “You don’t understand, child.” Gettel wipes at her eyes, sweeping away tears. “A true marriage can only occur when two souls freely choose to bind themselves together. Niklaas isn’t free. He’s incapable of making his own choices.”

  “But he can speak the vows,” Aurora says. “He can—”

  “Even if you find a priest willing to perform the ritual with him in that state,” Gettel says with another sad look in my direction, “the marriage will be invalid in the eyes of the gods.”

  “Damn the gods,” Aurora snaps. “I don’t believe in the gods, and even if I—”

  “Believe or don’t believe,” Gettel says, her tone harder than it was before. “There is a force that connects us all, binding us together. It is from that force that all magic arises, and the laws of that magic are absolute. Niklaas’s curse can not be lifted unless his will is his own.”

  “That’s not true.” Aurora shakes her head. “It can’t be.”

  “It is true,” Gettel says. “No one knows what it will take to banish a curse better than the one who placed it.”

  She lifts her arm, touching two fingers to my forehead, throwing open a door in my memory. Images from the night I met the witch in the shrine flood my mind. In each one of them it is Gettel’s face that looks up at me, Gettel’s voice that assures me there is a way to change my fate.

  “It’s you,” I say. “The witch, the one who took my armor.” I know I should be furious for the trick she played on me, outraged by the lies she’s told, but any emotion not tied to Aurora’s happiness is impossible to muster.

  “What?” Aurora’s eyes widen as glances between us. “What do you mean? Why didn’t he know that before?”

  “I banished the memory of my face so that Niklaas would trust me when we met again.” Gettel
turns to me. “And I took your armor to keep you from being spotted by your father’s guards on your way here. My magic told me you would come to me in Frysk, bringing a girl who would break your curse with you. I wanted that for you. That’s why I went to Kanvasola. To help you.”

  “Help him?” Aurora shouts. “You cursed him!”

  “If I hadn’t cursed him, his father would have found someone else to do it. At least I was merciful. Or tried to be.” Gettel rubs her forehead with a shaking hand. “But now, it’s too late. Niklaas will be transformed, like his brothers.”

  “No.” Aurora shakes her head. “I don’t believe you.”

  “As I said, it doesn’t matter what you believe; it’s the truth.” Gettel’s shoulders slump and suddenly she looks every one of her sixty-two years. “In eight days’ time, Niklaas will become a swan. There is nothing anyone can do to save him now.”

  “But there must be.” Aurora begins to cry again, filling me with despair. I can’t help but feel what she feels. It’s as if I have no heart of my own, only an echo of her heart, reverberating in the cavernous space within my chest. “I can’t have ruined him for nothing. I can’t!”

  “If only you’d spoken to me, I could have warned you.” Gettel pulls her shawl tighter. “He loved you. He would have realized the truth before it was too late. You only had to have faith.”

  “I wasn’t raised to have faith in love,” Aurora says, fingertips digging into her temples. “I was raised to have faith in the blood that blessed me and the power in my own two hands.”

  “Your mother died for love of you, and your Fey mother lived for it,” Gettel says, a chill in her words. “I’ve felt how old her magic is. She shouldn’t be walking the ground, but she is, and you are the reason. Her love for you. Her need to protect you.”

  “But I—”

  “My own niece risked her life for yours. I haven’t had word from Crimsin since you arrived. She could be dead, her life forfeited to protect her princess and the country she loves,” Gettel says, fresh tears rising in her eyes. “And this boy overcame extraordinary odds to protect you, when no one would have known if he had left you in the Feeding Hills to die. If all that hasn’t given you faith in love, then you will never have faith in anything, and when you face the ogre queen, you will fail us all.”

  Aurora sucks in a breath. I can feel how much Gettel has hurt her, but Aurora told me not to interfere, so I stay where I am.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I just meant that … love didn’t save my mother. Love isn’t going to keep my brother alive. I thought I had to act, I didn’t—”

  “Gram! Are you coming?” Kat shouts from the grass near the stage. “It’s almost time for my song!”

  Gettel holds up a finger. “One second, sugar,” she calls over her shoulder before turning back to Aurora. “You may still save your brother, but it will be harder without the true Niklaas by your side. You were stronger together than either of you are apart.” She casts a sad glance my way before taking Aurora’s hand and pressing it between both of hers. “Go back to the house, take anything you need for the journey. Take my horse, and an extra saddle. You’ll travel faster if you each have your own mount.”

  “We’ll leave tonight,” Aurora says, staring at the ground.

  “I think that’s best. There will moonlight enough to find your way. Take the southern road. About three hours out, you’ll see my daughter’s tower. There is a cabin two fields to the west, where I stay when I visit her. You can sleep there and get a fresh start in the morning.” Gettel releases Aurora’s hand. “The cabin is warded, but once you leave it, Ekeeta’s spies will be able to see you. Whatever your plan, you’d best have it in place by then. She’ll be watching.”

  “Thank you,” Aurora says, then adds in a miserable whisper, “I truly am sorry. More than you can imagine.”

  “I know.” Kindness mixes with the sadness in Gettel’s eyes as she kisses Aurora’s cheek. “But sorry doesn’t do anyone any good, least of all our Niklaas.” She tucks a flower back into Aurora’s hair and squeezes her shoulder, softening the words. “Trust in your fairy gifts. Trust in them and they will protect you. Rage against them, and you will be your own undoing.”

  Gettel walks away, crossing to the stage where the children are lining up to sing songs in honor of the dead who passed before they came of age. Usually the Children’s Requiem makes me sad, but tonight I don’t feel anything, can’t seem to focus on anything except Aurora and how best to please her.

  “I’m still sorry,” Aurora says. For a moment I think she’s talking to Gettel, but when I look down she’s staring up at me. “Whether it does any good or not.”

  “This means we aren’t getting married?” I ask, squeezing her hand.

  “No.” Aurora presses her lips together. “You don’t want to marry me,” she says, and suddenly it’s true. I don’t want to marry her. I don’t want anything that she doesn’t want.

  “But I can’t leave you,” I say, an emotion of my own rising inside of me for the first time since our kiss ended. The thought of being without her is crippling. “I don’t know who I am without you.”

  “This is even worse.” She pulls her fingers from mine and covers her mouth with both hands, pulling in a deep breath. “It’s even worse than with Thyne.”

  “What’s worse?”

  She swallows and shakes her head, sending fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.”

  “But I can stay with you?” I ask, needing reassurance to quiet the panic inside.

  “Yes,” she says, sniffing as she reclaims my hand. “Of course. I can’t do this without you. I need you to help me save Jor.”

  I smile, feeling as if the sun has come out from behind the clouds. To be needed, to be led, to please my love—it is all I want. No curse can frighten me with her by my side. “Anything you need,” I say. “Anything at all.”

  But for some reason, my words make Aurora sad again. When she turns to lead me back to the village, her shoulders shake and the sound of her sobs carries to my ears on the wind. I move closer, tucking her under my arm as we walk, promising I will devote myself to her happiness, but she only cries harder. She cries and cries, until it feels as if her misery will drown us both.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Aurora

  Once, when I was a little girl and still new to the island, I wanted nothing more than to learn to ride the waves the way the fairies did. I would watch them bobbing in the ocean beyond the reef on their sandalwood boards, waiting for a swell, and ache to be beside them, ready to hop to my feet when the perfect wave came and ride it like a bird riding the wind. I could imagine the taste of that kind of freedom, the giddy thrill of harnessing the power of the sea and dancing atop it.

  But Janin said I was too little and not a strong enough swimmer. She said I must wait until I was twelve, and no amount of swimming practice in the quiet cove where the babies learned to paddle and float could change her mind.

  So one morning, on a cool, rainy day, when not a single fairy was out drifting on the gray sea, I stole the smallest board I could find from the shelter and ran with it into the ocean. I made it out to where the waves were cresting and, after more tumbles than I’d imagined possible, finally caught a wave and rode it … all the way into the barrier reef.

  I knocked my head hard enough to leave a goose egg, slashed open both knees, and limped to shore with an abundance of bruises and scrapes, feeling terribly sorry for myself and angry at Janin for being right.

  “You have to be more careful, Aurora. You won’t always get a second chance,” Janin said to me later as she cleaned and dressed the wounds on my knees. “Some mistakes are for forever.”

  “You mean I could have died,” I said, wanting to show her that I was brave, that I wasn’t too little to handle scary words.

  “Yes. You
could have died. Or worse.” She brushed my sandy, salt-matted hair from my face, her expression so disappointed and fearful that I finally began to feel something other than sorry for myself. “Do you understand, Aurora?”

  “Yes, Janin, I’m sorry,” I mumbled, tucking my chin to my chest. “I understand.”

  But I didn’t understand. Not then, and not years from that day. Even when I was the mercenaries’ captive and feared I had failed my brother and my kingdom, there was still hope of redemption, still a second chance waiting around the corner.

  It is only now—with the shell of the boy who used to be Niklaas riding beside me and not a shred of hope of changing him back or saving him from his curse—that I truly understand. I understand and I ache like a rotting tooth that will never be pulled. There is no chance of relief. I have made a forever mistake, and now I will learn what it feels like to pay a price more terrible than death.

  “There’s the tower.” Niklaas points to the thin structure spiraling out of the mist that has settled in this part of the valley.

  I glance at it but quickly look away, not wanting to think about the girl held captive there, the girl I was so quick to judge and find lacking, when I am the last person who should ever turn up her nose at another’s failings. I am the lowest of the low, and I don’t even have Elsbeth’s Rose to blame for it. I have no one to blame but myself.

  “Aurora? Did you hear me? I said the tower is—”

  “Yes, I see it. We should reach the cabin soon,” I say, though I feel like I’m talking to myself. A part of me insists there’s no point in responding to this not-Niklaas, but to order him to be quiet would be like kicking a dog in the stomach for daring to wag his tail. Niklaas is not who he was, but he doesn’t deserve to suffer.

  “Good. I’m tired.” The real Niklaas would never admit to being tired. The real Niklaas was as defiant of bodily weakness as he was of me.