White Hart (20 page)

“I think it means that they don’t think I’m honourable anymore.” I try to kick myself through my ropes. “I’m so stupid. Why did I answer their questions like that? Why didn’t I make something up? Why don’t I have an honourable purpose for life? I could get out of here and come back to save the Ibena, help them grow crops, and teach them how to trade with the Halts-Walden. Instead I go on about killing people.” I’m the lowest of the low.

“You answered honestly,” Cas says. “They would have seen through anything less.”

At nightfall Finn and another hunter stride into the tent. Finn unties me and yanks me to my feet. My body falls against him, weak and stiff from lack of movement. He is forced to wrap his arms around me. All the time, I feel his cold stare from those eyes as dark as night. Finn is a good man. I let him down by not being a good person.

It’s a clear night, and I can smell the forest in the air: the tang of pine and the musk of soil. The ground squelches beneath my feet as we walk through the tent and into the camp. I’m all too aware of Cas being dragged behind me. He shouldn’t be here. This is my punishment. I make a pact with myself that whatever happens tonight, I will make sure he escapes. Even if it means revealing my abilities to the world, and even if it means my execution becomes a sacrifice. Finn’s disappointed stare will haunt me for the rest of my life if I don’t.

The light from the fire glows in the Ibenas’ eyes as they huddle together around the flames. It is a time of silence now, with the drums and singing long finished. Their faces are as solemn as stone carvings of the gods, with streaks of white and red across their cheeks. I notice that their hair has been braided like mine, and they wear either white robes or scant outfits fashioned out of tall reeds.

Finn places me down on a wooden chair and ties my wrists again. He never looks at me, not once. After he walks away and joins the group, I notice the red marks on his chest have rubbed onto my robes. It’s as if he has transferred the hunter to me. For some reason, it gives me a warm sense of courage. I can do something to stop this.

The prophetess emerges from a tent. An Ibena bangs a solitary drum, and her body jerks as she walks, matching the slow beat of the drum. The Ibenas clap their hands in time. It’s so strange and alien that it’s almost grotesque. I look away, turning to Cas instead.

We don’t say anything for a moment. Then I say, “I’m so—”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You will not apologise to me.” He moves his chair closer to mine and nods up to the sky. “Look at the moon tonight. It’s beautiful.”

I lift my face to the moon. The clear night is more like the darkest blue than black. Clusters of stars shine like precious stones embedded in velvet. The moon is a white unblinking eye.

“Ellen is looking at that same moon right now,” he says. “I wonder what she is thinking? When I was young, my father used to tell me that I should never think of myself as the same as other people. I am a prince—a royal. That makes me better than others. The blood of the gods runs in my veins. Well, after Father would tell me such things, my mother would take me out onto the balcony of her room and show me the moon. Everyone sees the same moon: our ancestors, the future generation; peasants in the villages and royals in their castles. We are a small part of a big world, insignificant in the grand scheme of worlds and stars. While we live and die our short lives, the moon continues to be, and it always will. I’m no different to anyone in this world, and no matter what happens, where I am and who I am with, I will always be looking at that same moon.”

“That’s why you should be king,” I say. “That’s why you should lead people and not your father. You will make a wonderful king one day.”

The drum beats a faster tattoo, and the prophetess jerks her body in time. All of the Ibenas turn towards me, including Finn, whose face is a taught mask of non-emotion. I feel my pulse in my fingers and toes as my heartbeat matches the speed of the drums. The Ibenas begin to chant along with the music, but the sound is drowned out by the thudding in my ears. The tiny girl—so small and yet so powerful to her people—comes closer, and I know what I have to do. I glance down at the red marks on my robes. The marks of the hunter, of Finn. I draw strength from those marks.

Using my craft, I call on the animals of the forest. I suck in a deep breath and plunge my feet deeper into the mud, rooting myself in the nature around me. There is power in the earth, and I draw it all in.

Anta careens around the corner, a snapped rope dangling from his bridle. He gallops towards the prophetess and knocks her to the ground. The Ibenas leap to their feet, rushing towards the girl, but she is already on her feet. Her robes are covered in mud, and her long hair drapes over her face, covering her eyes. She lifts a finger and screams something at me in her language. I don’t understand it, but the tone is so murderous that I know it’s not good.

The Ibenas turn towards us with clenched fists and drawn weapons. Their expressions are stone cold with fury. Cas struggles against the ropes, tipping his chair over in the process. At the same time, a flock of birds descend onto the Ibenas, and they flail their arms and weapons at the tiny attackers. A dark figure pushes his way through the chaos and strides towards me. Finn. He carries a dagger in his hand, and his paces cover the ground with purpose. My breath catches in my throat when he stands over me with the knife. He hesitates for one moment, long enough for me to see flashes of my childhood before my eyes, and then he moves behind me and goes to cut my ropes.

“No!” I shout. He stops and regards me with a confused expression. “Casimir. Cut the prince free first. He’s more important to the realm than I am.” Finn follows my gaze. He glances at me, the Ibenas and then Cas. “Please, Finn. Do it for me.”

He nods and moves over to help Cas. When I turn back to the crowd, I see a small, dark figure coming towards me, her every step a jerk. Her hair falls over her face like a curtain, and a serrated knife is outstretched in her right hand. She mumbles a chant which seems to drain my powers. The birds begin to retreat from the camp. Whatever she’s doing, it’s blocking my craft. A high-pitched buzzing noise rings out in my head, getting higher and louder until searing pain rips through my brain. I scream, struggling against my constraints, desperate to clamp my hands over my ears even though I know the noise is in my mind.

Blood begins to trickle from my nose. It runs into my mouth, and I taste the rusting sweetness on my tongue. I can’t stand that noise. I can’t bear it. If my hands were free, I would rip my ears off my body. I’m hardly aware of my own screams. I’m hardly aware of the prophetess coming closer to me, with her lips moving and her knife ready to strike.

“No!
Profeta
!” Finn shouts. He dives towards the girl, knocking her into the mud and sending the knife flying so that it lands by my feet.

Cas rushes forward and takes the knife. In an instant he is by my side, cutting me loose.

He pulls me up, but I’m transfixed on Finn, who is still fighting the prophetess. Whilst he is trying not to harm her, she has her claw-like fingernails embedded in his skin and is dragging them across his cheek, drawing blood.

“You get Anta and head for the trees,” I say to Cas. “I can’t leave Finn.”

“Mae—”

“Do it!”

Finn growls in pain as the
profeta
rips his skin open. With the birds gone, the Ibenas are free to attack, and I have to think fast. My feet sink into the ground, and I use the energy from my craft to summon animals from the forest. Small creatures come running from the trees; rabbits with ferocious teeth, wolves, stray dogs and pigs chase down the attackers, hounding them back to the camp. The children scream as their mothers yank them up from the ground.

“Don’t hurt them,” I whisper.

A bony hand clasps my ankle, and sharp nails dig into my skin. The prophetess hisses as she pulls herself up my leg, climbing me like a lizard climbs a tree. Beneath the curtains of hair, I see her eyes gleam. They are no longer black; instead they shine bright white with the irises removed. When she chants, her voice sounds as though it is many voices, all of them warped and gravelly. The searing pain rips through my skull. My body is frozen as she cuts at my skin. I see blood trickle down my body, wetting the white robes and seeping into the ground to mingle with mud. It’s only then that I realise the prophetess has thrust a knife into my thigh. She turns it, and I crumple to the ground with her on top of me, with her disgusting black lips still moving.

“Who will help you now?” the prophetess says in her warped voice. I don’t know if she is speaking in the common tongue, or if, in my pained, maddened state, I imagine her speaking it, or if my craft has allowed me to understand her. All I know is that her eyes will haunt me forever if I live. “The forest always wins, craft-born.
Valta
.” She laughs. It is a slow, venomous laugh that reveals her sharpened teeth.

A speeding shape knocks the prophetess away, and her grinning face is replaced by Finn’s even eyes. His blood drips on top of me as he tries to help me up. But quick as a flash, the prophetess is on her feet and pulls the knife from my leg. Before I can do anything to stop her, she plunges the knife deep into Finn’s chest. My arms reach out towards him as he staggers back, his mouth open wide as he stares down at the knife sticking out of his body.

My mouth forms the word “no” but no sound comes out. My fingers stretch towards him, towards the man who was so kind to me and tried to save my life. As the prophetess and many of the Ibenas lift their weapons in my direction, a thundering of hooves sweeps through the campsite and someone yanks on my arm.

“Mae!” shouts a voice—a female voice—that I recognise.

In a blur of motion, I manage to pull myself onto a chestnut horse, and before the
profeta
can stab me again, we’re riding out into the forest.

B
eneath my limp body, Gwen’s chestnut shoulder rises and falls. A bony white hand grips my wrist, keeping me atop the galloping horse. I’m face down on her withers, watching the blur of leaves disappear with every stride. Pain shoots up and down my body. At every turn, I feel as though I am about to slip down onto the soil below, and every time that bony hand grips on and keeps me on the horse. We must travel for hours until we reach a wide brook. There, at the water’s edge, the rider reins in and lets go of my arm. After they have dismounted, the rider helps me off the horse. My legs collapse into the dirt, and she has to help me stand. From the ripples of red hair, I recognise Sasha.

“Let’s get you some water,” she says, half dragging me to the stream. “And I need to take a look at that wound.”

“They killed Finn,” I say. The words stumble out of my mouth like I stumble over the rocky surface. “I saw him.
Profeta
stabbed him in the heart.”

“I know,” she says in a soothing voice. “I saw it happen, too. Open your mouth, Mae. You need to drink.”

I allow her to scoop water into my mouth, but my mind replays the moment the knife plunged into Finn’s chest and I could do nothing but watch. He’d helped me. He had sacrificed himself for me. I am not worthy of his sacrifice.

“You’re trembling,” Sasha says, wrapping a fur around my shoulders.

I’m barely aware of her guiding me back to the dry ground and putting me on the floor. Her fingers dig into my leg as she examines the wound.

“It’s deep,” she says. “And it’s bleeding badly.”

I lean back against the soil, my mind drifting back and forth, between Sasha talking to me and patting my face and the prophetess killing Finn. The two scenes merge until I realise my arms are flailing, and Sasha has to pin me down. It’s so real, I can smell the sweet rusty scent of blood. Then black spots dance in front of my eyes, and the world darkens.

*

M
y dreams are different. Usually I see my father’s crumpled body from the tavern, or my mind goes back further, to moments when we felled trees together. Sometimes my mother is there too, and I hear her voice for the first time. Well, not now. My dreams are strange. My body is weightless, cradled by arms. But at the same time I feel constricted, as though I am being stretched in opposite directions and pinned to the ground. The images are of pulsating soil. Tiny green buds push the soil aside and grow and grow into beautiful, tall flowers of every colour and every shape.

The smells are intoxicating. Every gorgeous scent imaginable winds its way up to my nostrils like smoke tendrils.

I’m part of this, somehow. I’m connected. It’s as though my blood flows through the roots of the plants, and my muscles are the vines of the forest. My heart beats along with the flutter of a bird’s wings. I am one with the woods, and the breeze sings to me as it floats through the trees. My blood is its blood.

Then the warnings ring in my mind, telling me that the forest will kill me and spit me out like a cherry seed. When I think of those words, sweat forms on my forehead, and my eyelids flutter as I try to wake, but something else pulls me under. A soft hand strokes mine. A cold sensation spreads over my hot face. Whispers soothe my boiling blood.

When I finally wake, I do so with complete confusion. I don’t understand what is happening to me or what part the Waerg Woods plays in it all. Silver eyes, the colour of the moon, regard me. A lock of sandy blond hair falls across the young man’s face. I smile.

“Cas,” I say.

He cups my cheek with his hand and when he speaks, I hear the note of calm relief. “Mae. I thought I had lost you.”

“I’m still here,” I croak.

“I’m so glad to still have my friend.” He leans forward and kisses me gently on the forehead. “Now, I will return with water. You need to rest and get better. Sasha has fixed your leg as best she can.”

“The Ibenas,” I say. “Are they following us?”

Cas frowns. “Those murdering bastards.” His harsh language sounds strange, coming from such a gentle person. “No. They never even attempted it. We left their camp in complete upheaval. There were animals all over the place, I don’t know where they came from, but we owe them our lives. We would never have escaped if they hadn’t caused such a distraction.”