Princess of Thorns (14 page)

“Sounds dangerous.”

He punches me, his grin growing bigger. “Let’s celebrate tonight.”

“Celebrate what?”

“Making it to Goreman, surviving the market, having enough gold to buy a second saddle.” Ror shrugs. “Take your pick.”

“A second saddle sounds worth celebrating.”

“Then I’m buying dinner,” he says, patting his new purse. “As much fish and corn and beer as you can stomach.”

“And potatoes with onions,” I add, mouth already watering. “I can’t have fish and corn without potatoes and onions.”

“And potatoes with onions,” he says, “though I think I’ll skip those. Smelling your pits day in and day out has killed my appetite for onions.”

“All part of my plan,” I say, clapping Ror on the back. “Now I’ll be able to eat your portion as well.”

“Devious,” he says.

“When it comes to food? Always, my friend.”

Ror’s laughter makes his eyes light up and his cheeks dimple, transforming his face into something a little too lovely. For the first time since seeing him in the ring, I appreciate what a clever thing he did, using his appearance against people who assumed a soft boy with a pretty face would be unable to hold his own.

“What were the odds against you?” I ask, wondering how many coins are in his burlap purse.

“Twenty-five to one,” he says. “I bet five of your gold pieces on myself.”

“You should have bet twenty.”

His eyes widen. “Twenty?”

“You were sure you would win.”

“Mostly sure.” He fidgets with the strings on the purse. “But I didn’t want to wager too much. Just in case.”

“You were already wagering your life. Money is nothing compared to that.” I wait until he glances up and hold his eyes. “Next time, if you’re betting your life, feel free to bet as much of my gold as you like.”

Ror is quiet for a long moment before giving a curt nod.

“But there won’t be a next time, right?” I ask with a pointed look.

“I’m not the sort who goes looking for a fight, Niklaas.”

“Yes, you are,” I say. “You’re spoiling for a fight, anywhere, anytime, any way you can get one. I know you better than you think, too, you know.”

Ror’s mouth quirks up on one side. “You think so?”

“I know so,” I say, nudging Alama into an easy canter. “Come on. There’s a saddler near the mercantile. My ass says a saddle should be the first item on our list.”

Button picks up his pace and Ror and I ride into Goreman side by side, crossing the final bridge into the town center, where the city of fighters, fisherman, and thieves is already bustling with preparations for the night’s tournaments.

I spy more than a few pairs of brothers bargaining for new leather chest plates at the armory and standing in line to have their swords sharpened by a peddler with a whetstone and am grateful that Ror and I will be staying far away from the prize fights.

It will be a relief to spend a night in Goreman without worrying that someone I care about is going to have their blood spilled before morning.

Niklaas and I finish our shopping and find a simple inn on the hill above the arena with stalls for the horses and two rooms to let—I insist on two, refusing to pass up what might be my last chance for a bath in only the gods know how long—and spend the rest of the afternoon soaking the aches and pains and filth of the road away.

I wash my body three times and my hair twice before wrapping up in a towel and pulling the room’s wooden chair in front of the fire to comb out my tangles. I had the inn’s boy light the fire after he fetched up water for the bath. With the endless summer dragging on, it’s too warm for a fire, but I need the flames to get my hair dry enough to rebraid before supper. I’ve twisted it up wet before, but the weight gives me a headache, and I don’t want anything to distract me from enjoying my last night with Niklaas.

I’ve decided to tell him the truth tomorrow, as soon as we hire our guide, and let him decide whether a journey into the Feeding Hills is worth his time once he’s in possession of all the facts. I trust him not to abduct me, the way I once feared he would. He might still consider it, but my performance in the ring today should leave no doubt that if I decide to fight for my freedom, it won’t be a fight that’s easy for him to win.

And despite his size and strength and stubbornness, Niklaas is a peacemaker. He looks for the path of least resistance, he doesn’t go charging in with fists raised unless he has to. Like today—he only lifted his sword when he felt he must fight to save his friend.

I didn’t require his help, but still … it warms something inside of me to know that Niklaas values my life more than his gold.

“Values Ror’s life,” I mutter as I run my fingers through my long hair, holding segments up to the fire to dry.

Once Niklaas knows the truth, he might have reasons aside from the revelation of my true identity to change his good opinion of me. I have lied to him. I have lied to him every day for seven days that feel like seven months. Our journey has brought us closer than two people usually would be after knowing each other only a week. It has made lies even more unforgivable. Niklaas hasn’t told me his entire truth, but he hasn’t deceived me, and if he had I would be livid.

He may hate me come tomorrow.

“All the more reason to enjoy tonight,” I mutter, wiggling my bare toes at the fire, considering my squat little feet, wondering if Niklaas would find them pretty.

I banish the thought immediately, but the shame of thinking it lingers, making my cheeks hot for reasons that have nothing to do with the fire.

“Fool.” I tug hard on a tangle, sending pain zinging along my scalp, knowing I deserve that punishment and more.

I am a fool, and maybe I can’t help thinking foolish things, but I can help being cruel. I will
never
be cruel to Niklaas. I will never give him a reason to believe I’m curious, let alone that curiosity might develop into something more. I care about him, and I wouldn’t damn a man I hated, let alone a friend, to be my husband. I’ve already destroyed one strong, clever, beautiful boy, I won’t destroy another.

By the time I’ve pulled on my things—new gray linen pants and a gray undershirt with my freshly oiled leather overshorts on top—I am Ror again, firmly back in my boy skin and no longer thinking anything about Niklaas except how awed he’ll be when I’m able to eat more fish than he can.

I reach for my armor but decide to wear the new leather vest I purchased at the mercantile instead. The temptation of an evening without armor weighing on my shoulders is too much to resist. I’ve bound my chest beneath my undershirt, and the vest reaches my hips and will conceal my curves. I will look boyish enough, and if Niklaas hasn’t questioned my nature in the past seven days, it’s doubtful he’ll start tonight.

I finish by pulling my mostly dry hair atop my head with a fresh strip of leather, working the waist-long strands into three braids and wrapping the braids into a tight warrior’s knot that I secure with more leather.

When I finally leave my room two hours after going in, I find Niklaas sitting in a patch of setting sun outside my door, his blue eyes slitted and a lazy smile on his face.

He’s wearing his new clothes, too—a cream shirt that emphasizes the gold of his skin and tight brown pants that cling to his thighs more than his other pair, leaving no doubt that Niklaas’s lower half is as well muscled as the top. His hair has dried a lighter shade of lion mane than it looked when covered in dust and lies in shining waves to his shoulders. His cheeks and chin are freshly shaven, and his full lips once again dominate his face, drawing my attention no matter how I try to pull my eyes away.

“Ready to eat?” I ask, my voice thankfully less breathless than I feel.

“Past ready. I’ve already bathed, napped, checked on the horses, and put out the word to a trusted friend that we’re looking for a guide into the Feeding Hills.” He springs to his feet and claps me on the back hard enough to make me cough. “You, meanwhile, have wasted the afternoon away.”

“The hair.” I motion to my warrior’s knot. “It takes a long time to dry.”

“Then cut it.” He sets off toward the stairs and the tavern below the inn.

The traditional Goreman meal—fish, sweet corn, and potatoes with onions—is on the menu tonight, which I suspect is the main reason Niklaas chose this inn over the others we passed, though he made a great show of inspecting several stables and declaring them unfit for his horse.

“Fey men never cut their hair. Everyone knows that.” I bound after him, so much lighter in my new vest that I feel I might float away. It makes me hopeful. Hopeful that there will come a day when I will be back in my fairy dresses, with nothing but whisper-soft skirts to weigh me down. “They’d no more trim their hair than cut off a finger.”

“You’re not Fey,” he says over his shoulder. “You’re human, and human men don’t waste two hours fussing with their hair.”

“Human men also smell like wild hogs and relieve themselves in the street. I prefer the Fey ways, thank you.”

“Let’s see if you say that after your meal tonight,” he says with a laugh. “Not even the Fey make food like this.”

He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, reaching back to catch my arm and pull me behind him, sheltering me with his body as he scans the room. I stay where he’s put me, knowing he must be checking the tavern for possible spies, and try to ignore the heady soap and spice and … Niklaas smell of him.

No matter how much I teased him about it, he never smelled of onions, but he
had
begun to stink of the road. Now he smells like summer, like warm skin, tall grass, and the breeze off the ocean. He smells like adventure and safety, the familiar and the unknown, woven together, making me long to press my face against the back of his shirt and breathe deep.

Against my will and good sense, I’m beginning to lean in when he turns around.

“The company looks harmless, and there’s a table in the corner so far from the windows it’s nearly night over there already,” he whispers, close enough for his mint and rosemary breath to warm my lips. “Assuming they don’t have a rat problem, we’re safe.”

“Good.” I duck my head. “Let’s go,” I say, voice cracking as I try to move past him.

“You all right?” he asks, stopping me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Fine. Why?”

“You sound a little … strange is all.”

“Just starved to the bone.” I shrug off his hand and punch him lightly in the stomach, but for the first time the chummy gesture feels awkward. I force a smile, praying Niklaas hasn’t noticed. “Come on. Let’s sit. I’m going to eat my age in fish.”

Niklaas snorts. “Just don’t drink your age in beer and we’ll be all right.”

I follow him with my eyes on the ground, doing my best not to attract the attention of the patrons already taking their dinner. Niklaas is right: the group of boys in ratty battle gear commanding the large table at the center of the room and the two old men sharing potatoes near the window look harmless, but it’s best to be careful.

We arrive at the table Niklaas has chosen and I agree it’s perfect—shoved into the shadows at one end of the bar, with only a tiny, flickering candle to light it and no way for anyone, or
anything,
to spot us from the street outside. It’s probably the safest place we’ve been in days, and the perfect spot to tuck into my first hot meal in over a week.

My stomach growls. “Let’s eat like it’s our last meal,” I say as I pull out my chair.

“Like condemned men,” Niklaas agrees, motioning to the innkeeper’s wife.

And eat we do. And eat and eat, gorging ourselves on butter-smothered whitefish so tender it melts on the tongue, fresh sweet corn bursting with juice, and Niklaas’s much-adored potatoes and onions. By the time we’re finished, my stomach is a hard knot at the center of my body, my heartbeat sluggish with the effort of digesting it all.

“I feel like a tick,” I say, sipping my beer. I’m still on my second mug. Niklaas is on his fifth but doesn’t seem any worse for it. As big as he is, it probably takes more than a few beers to make him drifty.

“A happy tick.” Niklaas holds up the empty bowl of potatoes, motioning for the innkeeper’s wife to bring another.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say. “You’re having more?”

“I am,” he says. “Anything else for you? Another beer?”

I shake my head. “I’m already drifty. I should stop.”

“You’re a better man that I was at your age.” Niklaas sits back, stretching his hands high over his head, as if doing so will make more room in his stomach. “The night I had my first beer, I had my eighth and ninth. I was sick as black magic the next day.”

“I’ve had beer before,” I say with a smile. “And wine and spirits. I like wine best, especially the sweet ice wine at the Marrymeet festivals.”

“I wouldn’t recommend the wine here,” Niklaas says. “Probably closer to vinegar. Goreman isn’t known for its wine.” He shoots his mug a critical look. “Or its beer, for that matter. Too dark and bitter. The beer in Kanvasol is much better.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I wave a hand in the air before resting it on my too-full belly. “No room for wine anyway. My stomach’s on the verge of rebellion.”

“Then you’ll just have to watch while I finish up,” he says, grinning at the innkeeper’s wife as she delivers the potatoes. She is old enough to be his mother, with gray streaks in her auburn hair and lines creasing the sides of her mouth, but she still blushes and giggles when Niklaas thanks her for the wonderful meal.

“And here’s another beer for yeh,” she says, placing a sixth beer in front of Niklaas as she stacks our dirty dishes. “No charge for that one. Just a thank-yeh for taking yer meal here with us tonight.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Niklaas grins one of his wicked grins, the ones that seem to melt women from the inside out.

“Aw now,” she mutters, “call me Nell. All the boys do. We’re like family here. Somebody’s got to keep an eye on all these young ones so far from home.”

“You’re as sweet as your cooking, Nell.” Niklaas caresses her name with his voice, while I try not to roll my eyes. “I’m Niklaas, and this is my friend Ror.”

“Nice to meet yeh both,” she says, though she doesn’t spare me a glance. “Enjoy yer night and keep out of trouble, boys.”

“We will.” Niklaas’s naughty wink is in direct conflict with his words, making Nell giggle again as she turns from the table.

“Ugh.” I shake my head as the woman scurries away, watching her peek back at Niklaas as she collects the dirty dishes from the other tables. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m charming.”

I grunt. “Charming or not, you certainly have an effect on the fairer sex.” My nose wrinkles as I remember the way the whores flung themselves into the street as we rode past their houses, caressing Niklaas’s leg, begging him to frequent their establishment while in town. It was all I could do not to bat their grabby paws away with my staff.

“Jealous again?” Niklaas asks, jaw working as he digs into his potatoes.

For a second I’m startled speechless, until I realize he means jealous of
him,
not the other women.

“Not in the slightest,” I say with an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “It must be exhausting, having women swooning at your feet all hours of the day.”

“It is,” he says with a put-upon sigh that makes me snort. “Pity me, Ror.”

“I’m serious,” I say, though I can’t help smiling. “How can you be expected to think of women as anything other than giddy things with fluff between their ears when they’re always acting the fool for you?”

“I’m serious, too. I really do wish you’d pity me.” He bats his lashes, making me wonder if he’s feeling those beers after all. “I’m tired of being a wanted man. I’m ready to be married. I swear I will be a good and faithful husband. Won’t you consider putting in a kind word with your sister for me, my good, good friend?” He stabs another forkful of potatoes and shoves them into his mouth, somehow managing to make even chewing look tragic and pitiable.

A part of me wants to laugh away his request, but the other part …

“Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter,” I say, my full stomach beginning to ache. “I’ve tried to tell you, Aurora will … She’ll
never
agree to marry you.”