Princess of Thorns (15 page)

“You can’t know that for sure,” he says around a mouthful of food.

“I can.” I stare at the flickering candle, dreading revealing myself tomorrow morning more than ever. “Trust me.”

“No, you can’t.” He drops his fork to the table with a clatter that pulls my eyes from the flames. “You’re her brother, and it’s obvious you love her, but you can’t know
everything
about her. Just like you can’t know
everything
about me. Maybe I’ll surprise you. And her. And you,” he says, brow wrinkling. “I already said ‘you,’ didn’t I?”

“You did. I think maybe you’ve—”

“No, listen to me, Ror. Listen. I’m going to tell you some truth.” Niklaas shoves the now-empty bowl of potatoes away. “I know I’ve never met Aurora, but I think your sister and I will understand each other. In a way that’s special. That’s different than just boy and girl and kiss and talk and blah blah blah.”

“Is that right?” I ask, curious though Niklaas is obviously a little drunk and this entire conversation pointless.

“Listen, Ror,” he says, pointing a finger so close to my nose that my eyes cross.

“I’m listening,” I say, trying not to smile.

“My father? He’s a terrible man. Really. Terrible, terrible.” The misery in his voice banishes the urge to grin. Janin knew the Kanvasol princes would never be contenders for a marital alliance, and so my studies of Kanvasola lagged behind the rest, but I’ve heard enough of Niklaas’s childhood stories by now to know he would have been better off being raised by wild dogs than the immortal king.

“Like a devil from the pit,” Niklaas continues, “hovering over me since the day I was born, cursing every moment of my life.” He scowls before washing the words down with a long swig of beer.

“Niklaas, don’t you think you’ve—”

“Aurora knows what that’s like.” He sets his mug back on the table with a thunk. “She knows what it’s like to live in the shadow of a monster, with the beast itself lurking around the corner, ready to pounce and rip her apart.
She
knows and
I
know and I think we’ll … get along,” he says, a hopeful note in his voice that makes my heart ache for him.

“Niklaas—”

“And maybe …” He swipes a hand across the back of his mouth. “Well … maybe together we’ll prove that prophecies, and curses, and kings and queens with nothing but evil in their souls aren’t as powerful as people helping each other. People tying their hearts and minds together and telling fate to go stuff itself.”

I watch Niklaas drain his beer and think about what he said. He may be drunk, but he’s also right. I
do
know what it’s like to live in the shadow of a monster. I
do
know what it’s like to long for a connection with someone who understands, someone who might help me prove that good people can win in the end, even if their enemies are bigger and stronger and better equipped in every way. But knowing Niklaas and I have more in common than I’ve already assumed only makes the reality of our situation harder to bear.

I try to remind myself that Niklaas would never be interested in a girl like me—a girl so plain she has no trouble passing as a boy, a girl who speaks her mind and fights for what she wants and doesn’t need anyone, male or female, to protect her—but the arguments don’t feel as convincing as they once did. Niklaas likes Ror. He could come to like Aurora, to care about her and laugh with her. And isn’t caring and friendship what makes a marriage work, what makes you wake up years in the future and smile to see your friend’s graying head on the pillow next to yours?

You’ll never know. You will never know that sort of love. And if you do, all you will bring to your marriage bed are shadows and despair.

I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s true. It doesn’t matter if Niklaas could come to care for the real me. It doesn’t matter that I’m beginning to feel something more than friendship for him. My mother’s curse is all that matters, it’s all that will
ever
matter.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Niklaas finally asks.

I open my eyes to find him staring intently into his glass, as if it is a crystal ball that might reveal his future. “I think my mother would have liked you,” I say, knowing it’s the least painful truth I can tell.

He looks up, his eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“She believed what you believe. She thought people working together were the only hope for our world,” I say, remembering the way she held my hands and explained to me how important it was for me to choose kindness whenever I could. “She said it was the love of everyday people that worked miracles.”

“It’s nice that you remember her. I can’t remember a thing from when I was four. Or five …”

“My sister helps. She’s always told me stories.” I hate to lie to him. I know it’s only for one more night, but still … This doesn’t feel like a moment for lies.

His brow wrinkles again. “I don’t remember much of six, either, except for the time I fell asleep in the carpenter’s shed and was locked in for the night. I was so afraid. I was certain the axes would come to life and cut my head off if I went back to sleep.”

I smile. “You had quite an imagination.”

“Still do, I suppose.” He sighs and an unfamiliar lost look creeps into his eyes.

For the first time, he looks like the boy he is instead of the man he’s about to be. I see fear in him, and worry, and how desperately he wants someone to help him banish them both. And for a moment, I wish I could be that person, that I could take him in my arms and kiss his furrowed forehead and tell him that everything will be all right.

“Am I imagining things again, Ror?” he asks. “Am I imagining that you and I might be brothers in more than spirit one day?”

Brothers.
It confirms what I’ve been feeling since our third day on the road, that Niklaas and I could be more than good friends, that we could be family if we chose to be. With the exception of Jor, all of my family is chosen family, people I have no relation to by blood, but who I have chosen to love and let love me in return.

I could love Niklaas. But that’s the problem. I could love Niklaas, but I could also
love
Niklaas. I already care too much to consider risking a kiss the way I did that evening by the hot spring. I’m too close to him now, and if I let myself, I could get even closer.

Dangerously close. At least for him.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my throat tight and an unexpected stinging in my nose. “But we will never be anything more than good friends.”

Niklaas brings his fist down on the table, making me jump and a feminine gasp escape my throat. Thankfully, he’s too drunk and/or angry to notice. “I won’t believe it,” he says. “I won’t believe it until she tells me to my face. To my face!”

“Niklaas—”

“You don’t unner-stand,” Niklaas says, his words beginning to slur. “She’s my lass chance. I’ll die without her.”

“You won’t die.” I roll my eyes, his ridiculousness helping lighten the moment.

“I will. I’ll die,” he moans, burying his face in his hands. “Or as good as. And then I’ll never get Haanah away from our father.”

“You’ll be fine, and you’ll find a way to help your sister.” I dig into my vest pocket and drop a few coins on the table before pushing my chair back. “Now let’s get you to your room before you’re too drunk to climb the stairs.”

“You’re mad.” He glares at me beneath lids drooped to half-mast. “I can outdrink men twice my size. I’m not drunk.”

“You’re not sober, either.” I take his arm. “Let’s go.”

“No. I want more potatoes,” he says, jerking his arm free.

“If you eat more potatoes, you’ll explode.” I reclaim his arm and tug him out of his chair. He pulls away again, only to stumble into the empty table next to ours, sending one of the chairs tipping over.

“Uh-oh,” he says, staring at the chair with wide eyes.

“Come on.” I tuck myself close to his side and wrap my arm around his waist. “Lean on me. I’ll help you.”

“Maybe I
am
a little drunk,” he says, dropping a heavy hand on my shoulder and allowing me to lead him toward the stairs.

“Maybe a little,” I agree in a mild voice, grateful no one seems to be paying us any attention. But I’m sure young men stumble drunk from this room all the time. Half the boys in armor were tripping over their own feet by the time they left for the tournaments, making me hope none of them planned to fight in that condition.

“Sorry, Ror. Didn’t mean to.” Niklaas weaves slightly as we reach the first landing. “I never get drunk.
Never.
Iss the beer’s fault. I’m strong, but that beer must be sssssstrooo-oooong.”

“You are strong,” I say, urging him up the last flight of stairs.

“I
am,
” he says, sagging against me until I grunt beneath the added weight.

“I know. I’m agreeing with you.” I half drag him down the hall, desperate to get him into his bed before he’s unconscious. If he passes out in the hall, I’ll never be able to carry him to his room.

“You say that like a joke,” he says, “but it’s not. I am very,
very
ssstroong.”

I resist the urge to laugh, but just barely. “Yes, Niklaas. You’re a massive, manly beast. Now where did you—” My words end in a squeal as Niklaas grabs me—one hand gripping the back of my neck, one clasped high on my thigh—and heaves me into the air above his head. I lift my hands to keep my face from smashing against the beams, but thankfully Niklaas’s arms are too short to lift me all the way to the ceiling.

“See?” He lifts me up and down, up and down, as if I’m a log at a strongman contest.

“Put me down, this second!” I hiss, wary of drawing the attention of anyone already locked in their room. There are a dozen rooms along the hallway and the innkeeper said all of them would be filled.

“And I could lift someone heavier.” Niklaas spins in a circle so fast it’s hard not to squeal again. “You’re too light, Ror. Like a girl, all hollow inside.”

“Girls are not hollow inside.” I slap my hands behind my back, aiming in the general direction of his big, drunken head. “And you’re going to be very,
very
dead if you don’t. Put. Me. Down!”

“All right, don’t get snappish,” he says, setting me down so suddenly that the world spins and I grab onto the front of his shirt to steady myself.

Unfortunately for us both, at the moment Niklaas isn’t the steadiest port in a storm. I tug at him and he staggers, and a moment later we hit the floor in a tangle of limbs—his elbow knocking my forehead, my knee slamming against his, and his heavy body pinning me to the ground beneath him.

“Ow!” he groans. “What you tackle me for?”

“I didn’t tackle you,” I grunt, shoving at his chest. “You fell over, you insufferable, drunk—”

“Don’t start calling names.” Niklaas brings his hand down on my chest as he tries to right himself, his fingers brushing against the bandages covered only by the thin linen of my shirt.

“Get off!” I snap, knocking his hand away.

He hums beneath his breath. “What’s that? Are you—”

“Get off of me!” I push at his chest until my arms tremble, trying not to panic. I planned on telling him the truth tomorrow anyway, but I don’t want him to find out I’m a girl like this, with his hands on me and his mouth perilously close to mine. In his drunken state, he might decide to kiss his newly female friend and doom himself to a fate worse than that death he’s so worried about.

“All right, all right,” he says, coming to his knees before rocking back to sit with his shoulders braced against the door of his room. He’s breathing heavily by the time he’s upright but not panting the way I am. “Whass wrong? You hurt?”

“I’m fine,” I say, struggling to catch my breath as I scoot away from him.

“But your chest.” He points at my stomach before closing one eye and adjusting the height of his finger. “I felt bandages.”

“It’s a fairy thing.” I think fast, hoping he’s too drunk to see through a lie. “We wrap our chests to keep our shoulders strong. When we … fight.”

Niklaas frowns. “Never heard of that.”

“There are a lot of things you’ve never heard of. You’re only seventeen years old,” I say, throwing his words from earlier back at him as I come to my feet. “If you want to make it to eighteen, you should start drinking less.”

Niklaas’s frown becomes a pout. “Serrsly, Ror. Haven’t been drunk since I was fifteen. Don’t know what … It’s … strange …” He yawns and his eyes begin to slide closed.

“No you don’t,” I say, shaking his arm. “No sleeping until you’re in bed. Where’s your key?” I pat his cheek. “Niklaas? Niklaas! Where is your key?” I give up patting and slap his cheek. Hard.

“Ow!” His eyes fly open. “You hit me!”

“You picked me up and then fell on me like a sack of bricks,” I say, no longer in the frame of mind to be amused by his idiocy. “Now get up!”

“I didn’t crush you, did I?” he asks as I haul him to his feet, worry replacing the outrage in his tone. “I’d feel turri-bull if I crushed you.”

“No, you didn’t crush me,” I groan. Not yet, anyway, but he’s getting heavier by the moment, and if he falls on me again …

“Thas good.” He pats me on the head like a puppy before letting his arm go limp, jabbing me in the eye as his arm falls back to his side. “I don’t want to crush you, Ror. You’re a decent little bass-turd.”

“Give me your key, Niklaas.” I blink tears from my jabbed eye as I tighten my grip on his waist. “I need to get you into bed before you do one of us lasting damage.”

“In my pocket,” he says, fumbling at the front of his shirt.

I snatch the key from the pocket near his heart and slide it into the lock. The door falls inward and Niklaas and I stumble inside, half walking, half falling across the room to his bed, where I deposit him with an “oof” of relief.

I stretch my arms above my head to get the crick out of my spine before reaching for his feet.

“Thanks, Ror,” he mumbles as I tug off his boots, his eyes already closing again. “See you in the mmmumm … ing …”

“See you in the morning, you rager.” I sigh as I heave his legs onto the bed.

I consider trying to take his pants off to make him more comfortable but decide that’s better left alone. He’s going to find out I’m not a boy tomorrow, and I don’t want him knowing I’ve undressed him. He’ll already know that I’ve seen things I shouldn’t have that night at the spring. That night when he was standing in front of me as naked as the day he was born and I stared a little too long …