Free Thorn by Intisar Khanani

pause. “You have never wanted your power; that only makes you a better princess than most.”
    A contrary talking horse—who would have thought it possible? “Why do you care what position I hold?”
    “I thought you would care. I think you still might, given time. And it seems that you will have as much as you wish.” He turns away, stepping past the other horses. “Come visit me again, Princess.”
    I watch him, the way other horses take no notice of him at all: a talking horse with a sense of honor. I do not know what to make of that. I return to the inn, and spend dinner mulling over our conversation. If I barely notice Valka and her lords, I doubt they realize it. Even lying in bed I cannot quite fathom why the white would care when he had his own freedom at hand. Or hoof, as the case may be.
    Eventually, I fall into an uneasy sleep and dream that I walk the plains. It is a moonless night, the land brightened only by starlight. The grasses seem deceptively short at first, but as I walk they rise up to stand shoulder to shoulder with me. It is hard walking and, while I travel a straight and purposeful path, I do not know where I go.
    I come to the break so suddenly that I fall, sliding down its steep sides in a shower of shale. It is but a few paces wide, the rocky sides so sheer they tower like stone walls above me. I pick myself up, rubbing the grit from my hands, and look around. My eyes are drawn to a faint light glowing farther along the rift; when I reach it I find the opening of a tunnel.
    The tunnel continues straight for a few paces with the light remaining steady, growing neither stronger nor weaker. I reach the end, turning the corner to step into bright lamplight. A spacious circular room has been hollowed out of the rock. Nothing adorns its walls; no furniture clutters the room. Only at the center stands a great, carved stone pedestal. Above it hangs the lamp. I approach cautiously, glancing around, but I am alone, the entrance I came through the only one.
    I find a shallow pan filled with sparkling water set upon the stone. I peer into the water uncertainly, remembering the last time I looked for my reflection. But I see nothing strange, nothing but myself.
    Myself. The face looking back is the face I have always worn. My breath escapes me with a grunt, as if I have been struck. My face! But as I watch, the water ripples from the touch of my breath and the image—shifts.
    I see myself now, dressed in Menaiyan clothes, smiling a smile that is not mine. I walk through a stone courtyard towards a man. With a sickening lurch I realize it is the mage from my chamber; he smiles as he sees me, holding out a hand, but when the vision of myself reaches him, it is not my hand I give him. No, it is the blade of a dagger I place in his hand, wrapping his fingers around the sharp metal so that his blood flows down to stain the stones underfoot.
    And then he is looking at me, dark eyes intent, and behind him I see the self-same walls that surround me now. His brow creases, shadows flickering across his face, and his lips move, shaping my name: Alyrra.
    I shake my head, my fingers curled tight around the edge of the pedestal. The vision in the water fades and the face that looks back at me now is Valka’s. I stumble away from the pedestal, tripping over my own feet, falling towards the stone floor.
    I wake with a start, my sheets tangled around my legs, my breath panting in my chest. I do not sleep again that night.

 

Chapter 8

 
    We descend from the mountains the following day. The Golden Plains stretch out as far as the eye can see, vast, waving, the grasses golden with the late summer heat. I note with relief that these grasses barely reach the horses’ knees, unlike those of my dream.
    The villages we pass are spread out, the land surrounding them planted with crops: wheat and corn, as well as lower-growing vegetables, small orchards of fruit-bearing trees. Sometimes we pass great areas fenced all around,