White Hart (4 page)

“Your highness,” Ellen says, curtseying low into a graceful bow. Somehow she manages it without dragging her dress into the mud or tripping on her own feet. There is not a speck of dirt on her anywhere. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She holds out one dainty hand, and Casimir takes it to his lips. His fingers tremble.
He
is nervous. The prince!

I let out a long, loud sigh without even realising it and catch the attention of the villagers. Casimir narrows his eyes at me, and I drop my gaze to the ground. What a fool, to have joked with him like that. Now he could have me banished, or even executed, for my insolence.

“The pleasure is all mine,” says Casimir, and the attention moves back to Ellen and the prince. No, Ellen and
her
prince. The prince who should, in all fairness, be mine.

I don’t want that life, I remind myself. I certainly don’t want it now, not after the prince insulted me in the woods. How could I ever marry someone, knowing that their first impressions of me were to think of me as unattractive?

“I think I might go and find Anta.” I stand up from the stool, but Father pulls me back down by the sleeve.

“No, you won’t. You’ll stay and enjoy the festivities. I don’t want any more attention on you, Mae. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

Casimir and Ellen moon at each other for a while longer, professing their gratitude for finally meeting. I decide to watch the faces in the crowd instead. The milkmaid we saw arranging flowers has her hand clasped to her chest. Tears stream down her face. I’m surprised she hasn’t mounted the prince and covered him with kisses. The blacksmith’s granddaughter appears quite glum after her snub from the miller. She picks at her sleeves and sniffs heavily. My eyes don’t linger on her; after all, it was my fault she ended up hurt.

A shadowy figure slips through the crowd, and my eyes dart to follow him. I see little more than the back of a head, dark, almost black, and the figure disappears amongst the villagers. It lasts for such a fleeting moment that I think I might have imagined it. I glance across at Casimir’s guard, but he remains relaxed, watching his prince and future queen instead of the crowd. That churning feeling returns, and once again I find myself drawn to the woods.

“Now, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” the miller booms. He stretches his arms out wide, so that his beer belly presses against his cream-embroidered tunic. I hate his tiny bloodshot eyes. They remind me of the time he lashed me with a switch. “My daughter, the only craft-born girl for decades, will reveal her powers.”

Norton—the Peacekeeper of Halts-Walden and general spokesperson of the village—steps onto a raised platform in front of the Fallen Oak. Some of his family are from the Haedalands and some are from Cyne, meaning his skin is a caramel shade. He’s older, in his forties, and the village respect him. I’ve never known another peacekeeper, and somehow I can never imagine another. All eyes turn to him as he begins to speak.

“In the time of the Ancients, the craft tethered the magical beings of Aegunlund to nature. But after many years of horrific wars, the Ancients were devastated and the magic died. It weakened Aegunlund. We lost riches, our soil failed, and thus our power faded. But there was hope. One woman remained tied to the craft. Legend tells of the craft running through her veins down through the generations, passing her powers from daughter to daughter. Now it has passed to Ellen Miller of Halts-Walden.” Norton’s eyes lock onto the girl’s. “King Aldrych II has decreed that the craft-born in this generation will be the first craft-born in existence to join the royal family. The craft-born will marry the crown prince, Casimir Andrei Xeniathus, and continue the craft lineage in Aegunlund. Now, Ellen, you must prove that you are, indeed, the craft-born.”

I lean forward in my seat. She really is going to demonstrate her powers. But how?

If Ellen is nervous, she doesn’t show it. She nods to her prince and he steps back with a flourish of his hand and bows to her. The miller’s servants hurry forward with a tall ivy plant. Ellen rubs her hands together and stares at the plant as though it is her nemesis. She tilts her head back and breathes deeply with her eyes closed.

I fold my arms, annoyed by her performance. The craft isn’t about showmanship, it’s about... it’s about... Well, I don’t really know, but it isn’t showmanship.

Finally, she puts her hands onto the leaves and grips them tight. I let out a small triumphant laugh when nothing happens. But then Ellen’s face breaks into a grin and I clench my fists in annoyance, because the leaves begin to blacken. The prince starts the entire village in clapping as the ivy shrivels up and dies.

Something comes over me, a feeling I can’t really explain but seems tied to my powers. I just know, in my guts, that the craft shouldn’t be about this spectacle.

“But that’s blasphemy!” I call out, jumping to my feet. “It shouldn’t
kill
anything.” I clamp a hand over my mouth in horror. Casimir regards me as if I am a circus freak. Father drags me back down into my seat and I try to sink as small as I can, ignoring the accusing eyes of those around me.

“What did I say?” Father asks in a taught, exasperated voice.

“But how did she—?”

“I don’t know,” Father says. “But whatever witchcraft it is, it means you’re off the hook. Don’t you forget all that now.” His tone is one of serious chastisement. I’m not used to him sounding so frustrated with me.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

After Ellen has been presented to the prince, the villagers gather in the Fallen Oak for a feast. Unbeknownst to Father and me, the villagers have been fattening the farm animals for weeks in preparation for the meal.

“How come we’re the last to know about these things?” I take an apple from a nearby table, ignoring a glare from one of the farmer’s wives. All the seats are taken in the tavern, and we stand at the back of the dingy room with the rest of the vagabonds that no one wants to associate with. “We work hard. We trade. Why doesn’t anyone like us?”

“You know why,” he replies.

The sight of the food makes my mouth water, and I finish my apple as quickly as possible. Father gnaws on a chicken leg.

“The Waerg Woods,” I murmur. I still can’t shake the feeling that I need to be amongst the trees with Anta. “But even before we started taking wood from there, they paid no attention to us.”

“We’re poor, Mae. Poor people aren’t given anything. We have little to contribute to them and so we are of little use.”

I hate it. I hate the thought that we don’t matter. What about our hearts? Don’t they matter? Tears unexpectedly spring into my eyes. If I wasn’t so hungry, I’d shun them, too. I’d refuse to eat the food, and I’d never speak to any of them again. Dismissing another harsh glare, I steal a slice of meat pie and disappear from the room, shoving the delicious pastry and gravy into my mouth, meat juices dripping down my fingers.

“Enjoying that, are you?”

I whip around, almost dropping my pie, to see Prince Casimir standing with his head cocked to one side.

“Your manners are about as delicate as your character. Dis-
gusting
.”

“What do you want?” I snap. As I wait for him to reply, I finish my food and lick my fingers clean.

“I have a bone to pick with you.” He steps forward, and the glow of the sunset warms his features. Orange light finds the highlights in his hair. His grey eyes contrast against his skin, as silver as the moon. For some reason I find my throat dry and am aware of every part of my body.

“I... I don’t know what you mean.”

Casimir moves closer to me than any of the villagers ever get. “Yes you do. You told me that Ellen is a pig. Well, she isn’t. She’s quite beautiful.” That dreamy expression comes back, and Casimir stares out towards the setting sun with his eyes glazed over. “Her skin is soft like a peach. She has the most delightful way of pronouncing her words—”

“Are you going to annoy me to death?” I exaggerate an eye-roll, trying to ignore my temper bubbling below the surface, as though my blood is simmering. Why should Ellen be the one swooned over by this prince? “I think I’d rather you had me executed for insolence and be done with it. Anyway, what are you doing out here alone? I thought you were joined permanently to the soldiers in there. Aren’t you afraid I’ll exact my revenge for you trying to hunt Anta?”

“Who’s Antle?” he replies.

“It’s
Anta
. He’s my stag.”

The prince tilts his head back and laughs. “You’re not still trying to convince me that you own a stag, are you? You’re deranged if you think I’m falling for that one.”

“No, I’m not trying to
convince
you. I’m simply stating a fact: I own a stag called Anta.”

“Then prove it,” he says. He moves even closer, and his silver eyes flash. “Show me your stag.”

“I can’t,” I say.

The prince snorts. “I thought as much. You’re a compulsive liar, and a bad one to boot.”

Now my skin is on fire, with my blood boiling underneath. “Oh, I am not a liar. I was simply protecting you because we’ll have to enter the Waerg Woods.”

He glances towards the setting sun. “But it’s almost dark. That’s madness.”

I shrug. “I’m in there all the time. It isn’t dangerous. Anta roams through the trees until I call him. It’s the only way I can prove it to you. That is, unless you’re scared of getting in trouble.”

Casimir’s eyes dart from me to the dense trees below the village gates, and then back to me. “Fine. We’ll go.”

“Sure you don’t need your bodyguards?” I tease.

Casimir’s jaw tenses, and he avoids my eyes. “I’m very well without them, thank you. Now if you would lead the way, my lady.” He gestures with a flourish.

I hitch up my skirts and trudge through the mud, still damp from the overnight heavy rain. A soft wind caresses the curls at the nape of my neck like a whisper. The sun drifts into its bed below the stars, casting the village and the forest below in a dreary gloom the shade of lead. Casimir stays close to me with one hand on his sword. We’re about to enter the darkest forest in Aegunlund, and the silence hangs between us like frozen air. My heartbeat quickens. This is a mistake.

We’ll go a few feet into the woods, and I’ll call Anta. If he comes, we can leave swiftly. If not... well, I’ll decide what to do when the time comes.

My right boot crosses the threshold first. The temperature seems to drop, and I pull my arms around my body. It’s dark. The trees sway above, yielding to the will of the wind.

“Where is he?” Casimir’s voice is a rasp.

“Anta!” I call. “Give him time.”

Nothing.

Prince Casimir positions himself next to me so that our arms almost touch. I jolt back away from him, and he turns to me with a furrowed brow.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I reply. How strange that it is a prince who is the first to treat me as equal. I’m used to the wary stares and purposeful distances kept by strangers. I’m Mae Waylander, the girl the cursed woods treat kindly, the one who might spread that curse to them if they aren’t careful. After all, my mother came from those very same woods.

I’ve always been different, and poor, which makes me strange to most who meet me. Yet this boy doesn’t appear bothered at all. If anything, he’s too curious.

Somewhere deep in the forest comes the wailing moan I’ve been dreading. It’s low, so low it almost reverberates through the air like a foghorn. It’s him. He’s calling to me.

“Anta!” I say urgently.

The swaying branches, rustling leaves, and darkness fade. My fear is gone in an instant. I have to run to him. I have to run as fast as my legs can carry me.

“Wait!” Casimir shouts behind me.

I continue, dodging through the birches, relying on the few inches I can see. Only slivers of moonlight make it through the dense trees.

“Would you stop?” Casimir tries to catch me, almost tripping. “What are you... Oh.”

He halts abruptly next to me, because Anta stands ahead, his head held high with flared nostrils. The white stag’s coat shines brightly against the dark, illuminated by a beam of moonlight. He paws the ground with a hoof, and Casimir unsheathes his sword.

“Put that away,” I snap. “Anta, it’s all right, boy. It’s me.”

He snorts, and a substantial puff of steam exits his nostrils. I hold out my hand and step forward gently. What has made him so agitated? My eyes skim his flank and find a long stream of red. He’s been hurt. I
knew
it. My heart leaps into my mouth.

“I’ll slay the beast,” Casimir leaps forward, and I push him down into the mulch of fallen leaves.

“You will not.” I shake my head. Stupid prince. Now Anta is even more worked up. “Come on, boy. You know me.”

The stag lowers his head, and his twisted antlers catch the moonlight. They cast shadows shaped like curled branches against the tree trunks behind him. He sniffs my fingers as I step closer, placing a hand on his neck, soothing with clucks. He lets me examine his cut—a flesh wound, no deeper than the breadth of piece of string—and I stroke his withers until his trembling stops.

“I should have you arrested for that.” Casimir brushes the dirt from his tunic and picks up his sword.

“You won’t kill him,” I reply, ignoring his threat. “No one will.” After a thorough examination to check he is in good health apart from the cut, I propel myself onto his back using the strength in my arms and Anta’s withers as a handhold.

Casimir stares at us, open mouthed. “So it’s true. You have tamed the beast.”

“He’s not a beast. I don’t know if I’ve tamed him. He allows me to ride him, but I don’t know if he will ever let others ride him.” An owl hoots in the distance, and the swaying branches continue their song. “We should leave the forest. Someone has tried to hunt Anta. These cut could be from an arrow. It’s not safe here.”

I ease Anta along with my legs, and the prince walks behind. Once we leave the Waerg Woods, I will feel more at ease. There is something brewing in the dark tonight. I can feel it.

A
crowd of people await us by the village gates.