Princess of Thorns Read online

  “What must I do to save them?” I ask. “I want them both spared.”

  “That is within my power, so long as you do as you’re told,” Illestros says. “You will await my signal. When I raise my cup above the altar to begin the ritual, you will drive this knife into my sister’s heart.”

  He motions with his free hand, and a moment later, Ekeeta, her arms bound and mouth gagged with a strip of her own torn dress, is shoved onto the stones before me. She kneels as she did in the bedroom, looking up at me with eyes that beg me not to what her brother demands.

  “You want me to kill your sister,” I echo.

  “Yes.” Illestros holds out the dagger. My fingers reach for it, wrapping around the hilt without my conscious permission.

  I imagine it, the way it would feel to drive the dagger into Ekeeta’s heart, to destroy the woman I hate. It should fill me with savage anticipation to have the justice I’ve hungered for finally within my grasp. Only minutes ago, I was aching to destroy her, or at least I thought I was, but now … with the reality of Ekeeta helpless before me …

  I don’t want to kill her. I don’t want to kill anyone. I just want to take my brother and Niklaas and go home.

  “It is the only way to open the gates to paradise,” Illestros continues, “and she’s done her share of killing your kind.” He fists his hand in Ekeeta’s wig and pulls it away, revealing her bare skull and so many soul tattoos I can’t begin to count them.

  My jaw drops. The markings spread across her skin like a rash, old and new crowded together along every inch of her skull until they spill down her neck and crawl beneath the collar of her dress.

  “She has glutted herself in preparation for this day,” Illestros says, “but she was willing to betray the humans’ sacrifice to spare her own life.”

  So that’s the reason for her change of heart. Ekeeta must have known she was destined to die.

  “She deserves death,” Illestros continues. “Yours will be the hand of justice.”

  I shake my head. “No, I … I can’t.”

  “You are gentle, then, like your brother.” Illestros hums beneath his breath. “I understand, but I will tell you, his gentle ways earned him no mercy from my sister. She whipped him. Whipped him and set beetles free to infect his wounds. They have likely laid eggs. When they hatch, the young will burrow from his flesh, causing great pain. Perhaps it’s better for him to die quickly.”

  He turns away, leaving me with the dagger—knowing there is no risk in leaving me armed when I’m surrounded by guards—and circles around the fire, bowing to the other priests before climbing the steps to the scaffold.

  The platform is elevated, allowing everyone in the room a clear view. I realize this method of execution was likely chosen for that exact reason, but then Illestros stops beside my brother and I lose the ability to think of anything but Jor’s life so close to being lost. A single push and he will fall through the hole in the boards and choke to death and there will be nothing left to do but mourn.

  I look to Jor, but his eyes are closed. He is prepared to die. I should let him. I should honor his wishes, respect his bravery and his willingness to sacrifice himself for our people, but I can’t. I can’t sit by and watch my brother and Niklaas be killed. I am weak and selfish and I don’t want to live to see a world without them.

  “Don’t do this!” I beg. “Please! Kill me instead!”

  “Impossible,” Illestros says, his calm voice carrying clearly across the room. “In order for the prophecy to be fulfilled you must kill the queen. You are the briar-born child with fairy blessings.”

  The prophecy fulfilled. I can’t help him plunge our world into darkness, but I can’t let him destroy my brother, either. I can’t think straight, I don’t know what to do. I need more time, time to think of a way to—

  Illestros lays his hands on Jor’s shoulders and I scream, “Wait! I can’t kill her! I’m blessed with mercy. I can’t kill someone who isn’t fighting back.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?” Illestros shoves Jor, sending him stumbling forward. My brother falls through the hole in the planks with a terrible choking, gasping, suffering sound and I scream as if the rope grips my own throat.

  I surge toward the scaffold but make it only a few steps before I’m captured by guards who grip my arms, ensuring I can do them no damage with the dagger in my hand.

  “Give Ekeeta a knife and I’ll fight her,” I shout as Illestros descends the dais and Jor writhes at the end of the rope and my soul dies a little with every passing second. “I’ll win! I’ll kill her and win, I swear it, but please—”

  “Kill her now and Reende will pull the boy up.” Illestros takes a cup from an awaiting priest and holds it above the altar, meeting my eyes across the flames. “Kill her, child. It isn’t too late.”

  The guards release me and I turn to face Ekeeta, the knife clutched in my sweating hand. I take two frantic steps toward her, the dagger lifted level with my eyes, ready to slaughter her like a pig if that is what it takes to save Jor, but as soon as I tense to drive the blade home, my muscles seize with such force that my spine arches and my breath freezes in my chest.

  I fall to the ground, knees slamming into stone as the knife goes skittering across the floor. I scramble after it, panting against the pulse of angry magic burning beneath my skin.

  My hand closes around the knife and I spin on hands and knees to see Jor still moving, but just barely. “Please! Pull him up!” I scream. “Give me time!”

  “There is no time.” Illestros lifts his arm and crooks two fingers. On the scaffold, a soldier moves closer to Niklaas.

  “No!” I wail as I crawl back to Ekeeta.

  She has fallen to her side on the stones, knocking the gag from her mouth. She cries out as I flip her onto her back and lift the dagger, but I can’t understand her. I can’t hear anything over the hurricane of terror swirling inside of me, the howling of magic fighting to do as it was bidden, to honor its rules as stubbornly as anything born of the natural world.

  But it is not natural to allow your brother to be murdered. I can’t do it, I won’t! I will kill Ekeeta, even if it kills me.

  And it might. My body feels ravaged by lightning, every inch of my interior scalded and raw and my head on fire, filled with smoke and wailing so loud I don’t realize I am screaming until I thrust the dagger down—shoving it into Ekeeta’s beating heart—and the world goes silent.

  So quiet. Quiet as the center of a storm, as the breath before dying.

  I gasp as I sag to the ground, but it’s as if there is no air left in the room. I roll onto my back, clawed hands clutching at my chest as the lightning storm within me rushes out to sea, streaming from my body, leaving me alone and friendless and empty as a pocket. Emptier. Within only a few moments, there is not even an echo of magic left inside of me, only a weak, whimpering, sweating husk of a girl.

  A girl mortal in every way.

  The magic is gone. I have betrayed the laws of my fairy blessings and now they have abandoned me. I know it as sure as I know I am a murderer and a fool.

  “Jor,” I moan, rolling onto my side, clutching my aching core with both hands. I look up, but I can’t see the scaffold from the floor. I can’t see anything but the fire and the shadows it casts. I don’t know if Jor is alive, I don’t—

  “Please … listen,” Ekeeta whispers from my other side.

  “Jor!” I cry out in a strangled voice, but there is still no answer, only shouting from the scaffold and footsteps thumping back and forth across the boards.

  “Aurora, please.” Ekeeta gasps, a liquid sound that makes my stomach roil.

  I roll over, tears streaming from my eyes, hating myself for what I’ve done even before I see the black cloud filling the air around the ogre queen, spreading out like ink in water. The blood pouring from her chest is turning to black smoke that swirls away
, swept up on some unfelt breeze to hover above the room like an ominous cloud.

  The living darkness. Ekeeta is becoming the living darkness, and I’ve made the transformation come to pass. I can feel the magic shivering in the smoke, the same magic that once pulsed beneath my skin.

  Fairy blessings can only leave a person in blood. I’ve known that truth since I was a child, but I didn’t stop to think that the blood might not have to be my own, or that a murder would serve as well as a suicide.

  “I’m sorry.” I touch Ekeeta’s cheek. It is still whole, her eyes full of life though she is dying. Bleeding, dying … murdered. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” she whispers. “I forgive you.”

  I sob as she lifts her hand to my cheek, mirroring my caress. I’m surprised to find her hand still warm and her touch so gentle and … human.

  She smiles and I cry even harder. “It’s all right. The … Fey army … at the gates … told my guard to help them.”

  “What?” I ask, hope and grief twisting inside of me.

  “I tried … to tell you.” She sips in air with a labored rasp. “They will … break through. I … only wish …” She swallows with obvious pain. “Forgive me?”

  She doesn’t have long, soon she will die and I will have committed murder—real murder, not an accident made while defending myself—and the entire world will suffer for my failure.

  Our failure. Hers and mine. We are both wicked and selfish, we were both weak when we most needed to be strong. She is my enemy, but she is also … my sister.

  “I forgive you,” I say, meaning it with my entire heart. “I forgive you for everything.” I bite my lip, tasting misery salty on my skin.

  “Yes … that is …” She doesn’t finish. She drifts away like a ship sinking to the bottom of the sea. Her hand falls from my face. She dies. She dies and I am alone on the floor before the fire as the ogre soldiers charged with guarding me suddenly rush away.

  Perhaps they’re going to fight the Fey army Ekeeta said was at the city gate. Perhaps they’re simply terrified by the black cloud filling the room. I don’t know. I only know that I am lost.

  I roll onto my back, feeling stronger than I did a moment ago, but too scared to sit up. It will be too late now. If Jor wasn’t cut down, he will be dead. I can’t bear to see it, can’t bear to know that I have committed murder, squandered the gifts my mother died to give me, and cursed the world, and haven’t even managed to spare Jor in the process.

  I lie broken on the stones, staring up at the swirling black smoke, watching as the cloud begins to thin, going gray in patches until I hear—

  “Aurora!” Niklaas shouts from the scaffold. “Some help!”

  I bolt into a seated position, the room spinning as I come onto the balls of my feet.

  I look to the scaffold to see Niklaas and my brother—my brother! Alive! Still alive!—fighting off the ogres surging up the stairs. Niklaas stands at the top of the steps and Jor defends from behind. My brother is obviously weak, but he’s managing to help keep the ogres at bay. Somehow he and Niklaas have both acquired swords and are doing a decent job of defending themselves, but even with many of the ogre soldiers running from the room, they are still outnumbered.

  Spinning, I search the ground for a weapon, but there is nothing … nothing but the dagger still plunged into Ekeeta’s chest.

  Wincing, I grip the hilt in one hand and give the dagger a tug, and then another tug and another, but it barely moves. Finally, I fist both hands around the hilt and haul at it with all my strength until it pops free with an awful sucking sound and I fall onto my bottom, breathing hard.

  Breathing hard, simply from pulling a knife from a motionless body.

  My gifts really are gone. Completely gone. I am as weak as any smaller-than-average, too-skinny girl of seventeen. Weaker. Now that my gifts are gone, I’m keenly aware of the stinging, aching wounds at my wrists, of the way my heart labors as my body struggles to recover from the exhaustion and deprivation of the last five days. I am not the warrior I was. I’ll be lucky to take down a single man before I lose my own head.

  Then better make your man count.

  I turn, fist tightening around the hilt of the knife, strength rising inside of me as I find Illestros with my eyes. He is alone now that his soldiers are either fighting on the scaffold or fleeing the room. He leans over the altar, his hands braced on the glass, his head bowed. His is the one death that might stop this. He is the leader, the priest, the prophet. If he dies, the remaining ogres may lose their center and falter in their fight, giving Niklaas and Jor the chance to escape before Jor grows too weak to hold a sword.

  I creep forward on shaking legs, circling the fire to approach from over Illestros’s shoulder one careful step at a time, hoping my luck will hold and I will continue to escape the other ogres’ notice until it’s too late.

  The soldiers are busy with Jor and Niklaas and the priests have run to the window, where they seem to be trying to guide the graying cloud out the window with palm leaf fans, but I don’t spare them more than a second of my attention. I keep my focus on Illestros’s narrow back, judging where I must plunge the blade to strike a mortal wound, knowing I’ll have to shove the dagger with all my strength if I hope to hit his heart.

  I cannot hesitate. I cannot falter. I take a breath and hold it, inching forward though my head screams for me to hurry, to run at him and have it done.

  I am five steps away … three … two … close enough to see Illestros’s ravaged face in the altar glass as I lift the dagger, close enough to hear his sigh when he spies my blade’s reflection and turns to face me.

  “So you will kill me,” he says, arms hanging limp at his sides. “Now that your blessings are gone you can kill without hesitation. Does that please you?”

  “Call off your men and I won’t hurt you.” I try to firm up my muscles, to keep my raised arm from trembling.

  “I could take the knife. I know you’re weak,” he whispers. “But I won’t. I’m ready to die. The ritual has failed.”

  He points one shaking finger to the ceiling; I glance up to see the black and gray mass transformed, the oily smoke replaced by feathery white clouds that grow thinner by the moment.

  “Your fairy magic was the fuel and your hatred the spark to set the new beginning in motion,” Illestros continues, voice breaking. “The darkness should have risen. I should be on my way to ruling a world where my people once again dominate cattle like you, but instead everything I’ve worked for is lost, and she is dead, and it is for nothing!”

  He’s telling the truth. His pain and rage are too real for it to be a lie. For some reason, the ritual has failed.

  I realize that there will be no living darkness, that the people of Mataquin will be spared, and relax for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Illestros to lunge for my throat.

  I scream as his hands wrap around my neck, but the sound emerges as a gurgle, too soft to be heard over the shouts of the men behind us. I try to jab the dagger into his chest, but he spins, slamming my head into the altar, sending the weapon flying.

  “You did this,” he hisses, his sharp teeth bared behind his thinned lips. “What did you do? What did you say to her?”

  “I forgave her,” I manage to gasp before his grip tightens.

  “And I suppose she forgave you, her own murderer,” he growls. “She knew your hatred played a part. She ruined everything. She deserved to die. She was weak. Weak!”

  I kick at his legs and dig my nails into the skin at the backs of his hands until I draw blood, but his bony fingers only squeeze harder.

  “You stole her death,” he spits. “And now I will steal everything you love. I will kill your brother and every fairy foolish enough to fight for a worthless child like you.”

  My pulse pounds behind my eyes, white light flashes at the edges of my
vision, and my ears fill with the echo of my suffering heart, drowning out the sounds of Niklaas and Jor still fighting on the scaffold.

  I am fading, dying, but I will not give Illestros the satisfaction of knowing I died miserable and afraid. There are so many things I would do differently, but I am not worthless. I’ve made mistakes, but I didn’t fail. I was the girl my mother wanted me to be. In the end, I honored the most important gift she gave me. I was merciful. I wish I had been merciful enough to spare Ekeeta’s life, but at least I let her die in peace. I released my hatred before it was too late. I forgave Ekeeta and helped save my people, even if I can’t save myself.

  I close my eyes, and spread my arms, ready to meet my death with the same bravery Ekeeta met hers, when my fingers brush against something cool and heavy.

  The cup. The gold cup Illestros was holding above the glass …

  I curl my fingers into a fist, drawing the stem of the goblet into my palm and squeezing tight, willing myself to remember my training, to remember where to strike for the greatest effect, before bringing the chalice down on Illestros’s skull with enough force that it bounces off his head with a gong that rings sweetly in the air.

  He groans and his grip loosens. I twist free, air rasping into my raw throat as I stumble away.

  Evasive tactics seem to work well without my fairy gifts. Now it’s time to see what else I can do.

  I spy the dagger on the ground and snatch it up, spinning to face Illestros as he staggers toward me. I’m injured and no longer blessed with strength, but I’m as well trained as an ogre solider and likely better trained than a priest. And so I hold my ground, waiting until the last moment to sidestep, driving my shoulder into Illestros’s gut as I hook my foot around his leg, sending him to the ground as easily as I toppled Niklaas in our sparring match.

  A moment later, I’m atop his chest, dagger at his throat.

  I dig the blade into his flesh, knowing I must pull it across the thin skin and commit my second murder, but before I can strike, familiar hands snatch me beneath the arms and pull me away.