Michael Sullivan - The Rose and the Thorn

“I should have realized. I just didn’t think it would be this soon, because Rose hadn’t…”

“Hadn’t what?”

“Fallen in love.”

Jollin clamped her palm over Gwen’s forehead. “You’re a little warm. I’m going to ask the doctor to come back.”

“I’m-” Gwen was going to say fine but realized how stupid that sounded. “I don’t have a fever. I’m not out of my head.” Gwen thought how she might explain that she had seen a glimpse of Rose’s future in her palm but didn’t think that would help. “I’m just worried.”

“We all are. And I’ll go across the street and borrow Grue’s strap to beat her senseless for doing this to us. I can’t believe she can be so insensitive. She has to know we’d be sick to death by now.” She reached up and fluffed Gwen’s pillow with a little too much effort.

“I think she’s in trouble,” Gwen said. “Serious trouble.”

Jollin nodded. “I think so too.” She paused. “Maybe we all are. And we don’t even have Dixon to protect us anymore.”

“Have you checked in on him?”

“I was about to head over to the doctor’s when I found you dancing in the hallway.”

“You call that dancing?”

“I didn’t say you were any good at it.”

This brought a reluctant smile to Gwen’s lips. “Thank you.”

Jollin gave her a kiss. “Dixon will be fine. He’s not nearly as bad as Royce and Hadrian were. No stitches even, just a few broken bones-like you-only he’s an ox. Just needs time to rest and when he wakes he’ll eat us into poverty he will.”

“I just wish I knew what happened to Rose.”

Try it now.”

Reuben ducked and pulled the heavy chain mail over his head. The steel ring shirt dropped with a jingle. Heavier than he expected. He had watched the king’s soldiers run, jump, and fight as if it weighed nothing. Now he wondered how they did it.

“Walk around, see how it feels.” The smith watched him carefully. Bastion-sometimes called the Old Bastard by many of the castle guards-always reminded Reuben of a dwarf, like in the fairy tales his aunt used to tell. Short, stocky, and hairy, he had a graying beard and eight stubby fingers. He lost two once upon a time and jested that as long as he still had one finger and a thumb on each hand, he would still be the best smith in Melengar.

Reuben strode around the yard, circling the anvil. All the weight was on his shoulders, as if he were carrying two sacks of barley. When he turned, the shirt dragged, slowing him down, then the momentum would catch up and push him farther than he wanted to go.

“What do you think, boy?”

He thought it was terrible that he was expected to wear something so limiting, but he guessed he would think differently when a sword hit him. He also did not have time to discuss it. Reuben had been on his way to the castle when the smith dragged him over to do the fitting. He couldn’t refuse; he needed the mail that night, and putting him off would have been suspicious.

“Hard to move.”

“You’ll get used to it. Everyone does. Soon you’ll feel naked without it. And here’s your sword.” The smith handed him the long blade, encased in a sheath complete with belt. Reuben had expected a secondhand falchion, something beat-up and rusted. This one looked new.

“Wow,” he muttered as he drew the blade. Old Bastion knew how to make swords but this … “It’s beautiful. I didn’t know you-”

“I didn’t. That’s Delgos steel.” The smith took one of his big gloves off and wiped his forehead with it. “We get most of our metal, and a lot of our swords, from Trent. Lousy chunks of mountain turds. Mostly iron. Ruddy things can’t hold any kind of an edge and will notch if you tap them. Trent smiths don’t care. They’re just meeting quotas. They get paid the same no matter what the quality. But down in Delgos, sword makers can sell to the open market. So it’s worth the extra effort. That blade you’re holding was folded maybe half a dozen times. Harder and sharper than anything I can make. You’ll be able to shave with that when you get enough hair on your face. This here blade was bought special.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“On account I was told to.”

“By who?”

“Prince Alric.”

“The prince? Did he say why?”

“Nope.”

“Did you ask?”

Bastion looked at him funny. “You don’t ask a prince nothing, boy. He says give you this sword and I give it. And I wouldn’t say nothing about it to anyone, neither. Best to keep such favor with the great ones to yourself-otherwise people can get jealous, and a sound beating is no way to start your new career. Now be careful with that. When I said it was sharp as a bloody razor, I meant it.”

Reuben sheathed his sword, appreciating the sound it made. Sharp as a razor. He slipped his burgundy and gold tabard on and, grabbing his cloak and equally new helm, jogged to the castle, jingling as he went. Running was harder than walking. His balance was off, something he’d need to get used to. He entered the great doors to the northern foyer, a wide gallery of polished stone pillars, displayed suits of armor, and hallways that led to sweeping staircases. Reuben never spent much time in the castle. He didn’t feel comfortable there. The only place he really felt comfortable, besides the woodshed, was the stables. No one looked down on him there except the horses. The castle was filled with eyes, judgmental, cruel eyes. It was the den of the squires and their like. Here had been where they learned the kindnesses that they had shown him time and again. Everything was cold stone.

Almost everything.

As he made a quick right turn to avoid the large halls, he nearly ran into Arista Essendon. She let out a noise of surprise and staggered backward, her hand to her chest and eyes wide. Reuben’s new outfit had made his ability to stop or veer awkward. It wasn’t much, just a half second off, but enough to make him look, or at least feel, stupid.

“We keep running into each other, don’t we?” she said, her voice soft and beautiful as bird song.

“I’m sorry.” He bowed to her and then hastily added, “Your Highness.”

She glanced at the helm in his arms. “Lunch?”

He looked down at the apple, cheese, and meat he had stuffed inside. “Ah … yes, sort of.”

“Have a good day,” she said, but stood still.

It took a second for Reuben to realize he was blocking her passage, and he stepped aside.

He felt like a fool as he watched her walk past. Why did he do everything wrong in front of her? His stomach sank and his shoulders drooped as he faced the reality that his clumsiness didn’t matter. She was the princess, and what he wanted could never be. She would marry a prince, duke, or king and then he would watch her leave. She would ride out the gate waving from the carriage window, never to be seen again-at least not by him. He had always known she was beyond his reach. In all his daydreams, he had never once envisioned touching her, except that one moment when their fingers might collide as he handed her the cup of water at the well. The idea of kissing her lips was too absurd even for dreams. All he longed for was to do something right, to have her notice him, to see him as brave, or smart, or good. He wanted her to look back over her shoulder as they parted with an impressed expression that said, If only he were noble . He didn’t think that was too much to ask of the world, a simple moment of acknowledgment, an instant to turn her head and know that for one brief breath of time she saw him the way he saw her. He could suffer in silence the rest of his life knowing she had truly seen him and that maybe she felt the same way toward him that he did toward her.