Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

“Ha!” Jilna laughs and lays out the dress on my bed. “You’ll need jewelry too.” “What for?” “So you look more like a princess and less like a well-dressed scullery maid.”

My mother stands before me, her face flushed and blotchy, nostrils flared in anger. She does not look beautiful at all. Now I see her as I never have before. She is no different from my brother. The same thoughts run through her, the same wishes propel her forward, the same passions guide her actions. She is as uncertain and insecure and small as he.

“N-no,” I stammer. “No. But, but you must have guessed—her brother was not kind to her. It would be a jest on his part, to gift her a horse that can’t be ridden.” Especially when the Menaiyans are renowned riders.

“What makes you a better choice than a princess from a richer nation, a princess raised to be a queen? One who could never learn to be a goose girl?”

“I-it is thoreena,” I stutter to hide my initial confusion. “A small rose that grows wild in the mountains. It has only a few flowers; mostly it is leaves and thorns.”

This is the life I’ve made for myself, and I want it in a way I haven’t wanted anything else I can remember. It is a wanting that is quiet, and steady, and deep as the beat of my heart.

Corrupted by greed and wishing for glory, the humans grew power-hungry. They thirsted to be remembered by future generations, to gain a measure of immortality. They became warlords and princes, calling others to fight for them, continually killing for a piece of land over which they might have absolute control for a little time.

“He wants to be a baker. I believe he thinks that then he’ll never go hungry.”

“You are very idealistic for a servant. You will end up hungry and on the street—or worse—if you are not careful.”

“They snatch our young women and children,” Rowan says, not a trace of laughter left in him now. “From the street, from their beds, from wherever. A score or more every month just from this city, I would guess. Perhaps more.”

Mother is growing anxious with Valka, anxious that the alliance this marriage is meant to secure will be undermined by the princess’s politicking.

For all my efforts, I feel like nothing more than a servant playing at dress-up, riding in a carriage meant for greater people.

However grim Kestrin’s future might be with the Lady hunting him, I no longer believe he intended to give me up to save himself.

I stare at her. They are both right, of course. I have already seen Tarkit’s and Torto’s excitement over food, and can only imagine their ecstasy at having such a precious, unexpected treat as an apple cake. They would remember it well. And, considering the opulence of what must be a normal dinner here before me, apple cakes are indeed the very smallest thing that might be given.

“The princess intends to win the love of the common folk with apple cakes. You would offer me similar items of little worth to yourself in order to win my loyalty, wouldn’t you?”

“Have you forgotten why you were exiled from our hall? Because you cared nothing for the life of a servant. I do not think that has changed now that you are princess.”

You will always and only be an impostor. Do not think you won’t be found out. This is your one chance to walk away unscathed.” “Wretch!”

Kestrin is trying, I know he is, but these guards don’t care. They don’t want to know, and they’d rather pin the fault on Violet than find the men who did this to her. Kestrin might be able to change how these things are handled in the future, but I want justice now. I want these men stopped. Somehow.

“Justice for the poor?” He laughs, sitting back. “There is justice for the rich here, and justice for the powerful. But for the rest of us, there is very little of anything.”

“This is justice. Don’t be afraid to look at it.” He smiles as I look at him. “It may not be pretty, but sometimes justice has to be hard to keep the rest of us straight and safe.”

The power of silence was perhaps the only thing I learned from my family, and it has taken me months to learn to find strength in breaking my silence. But that’s not why the Lady is helping me now. I am almost too tired to try to work it out, but this conversation is a rare thing, and I dare not waste it. I must focus.

is the law that a traitor must die, Lady. And it was you who made her into that traitor, made her so convincing that the king would not have suspected her. No doubt, one by one, she would have given them over to you as she could. For that, she cannot hope for forgiveness … it is justice, but a cruel and ugly justice. I wish that it were tempered by mercy, that she might have an easy death.”