White Hart (27 page)

“You mean Casimir?” I say.

The healer applies something cool and refreshing to my skin. “Yes, Casimir. His Highness to you now, if you want to live.” His voice softens. “Listen, we’ve all had the equivalent of one of His Majesty’s arrowheads stuck in our backside from time to time, and if you want to learn how to survive in the Red Palace, you should listen carefully.”

“Go on,” I say.

The healer winds a bandage around my stomach. We are intimate in the small space, thrown together when the carriage bumps over the uneven ground. He lowers his voice. “The king is a tyrant. We all know it; I imagine you know it, too. He rules Aegunlund with an iron fist, but he is susceptible to flattery. How do you think an old codger like me has survived court for so long? Hmm? It’s not by standing up for what I believe in, I can tell you that.” He chuckles as he fixes the bandage in place. It is a warm chuckle, but with a hollow edge. The laugh of a man who gave up on his principles a long time ago.

“I can’t do that,” I say. “I can’t switch off what I think is wrong. How can you stand by while a man like him shoots an arrow into a girl at close range? What kind of people are you?”

The healer’s eyes turn to stone, and he yanks the bandage so tight that I yelp. “The kind who keep their heads.”

And with that, my wound is dressed. We continue the journey in silence.

It’s only when the trees begin to thin that I realise how far we’ve travelled through the Waerg Woods. The Borgan camp lies on the northeast edge of the forest, which means the carriage takes less than a day to exit the woods. With my fingers gripping the side of the carriage, I watch the trees disappear behind us. We rise up a slow hill, and the thicket of woods turns into a green blanket, stretching out far behind us. As we travel onto the stone slabs of the Cyne road, the smoothness is almost unsettling.

The landscape changes from long meadows dotted with isolated farms, to more concentrated villages where scruffy young children run along the side of the carriage. We stop in a town called Aberlock, which is nestled by the conflux of the stream running from the Waerg Woods into the Sverne. A tall mill rotates by the waterside. Rapids gush over stones, and salmon leap over the current.

When the king’s carriage pulls into the town, a number of men drop their farming tools, put down their children, or abandon their bread and cheese in order to welcome the king. They fuss around the horses, bringing pails of water and bales of hay. The tavern owner rushes out of the door, wringing a cloth in his hands and jittering from one foot to the other. After the healer helps me out of the carriage, I hear the way he stutters in the presence of the king.

“Your Majesty.” He bows low. “Will you be staying the night? I can have your rooms set up within the hour. We can house your horses in the stables and...”—his eyes trail up and down Anta—“the stag.”

The king flicks his cape behind his back and pulls his gloves from his hand as he strides into the tavern named the Rushing Brook. People scatter away from him, bowing low. I have no desire to follow him, so instead I decide to tend to Anta. Cas dismounts him and hands me the reins.

“Did he give you a good ride?” I ask. My voice sounds stiff even to my ears.

“It was a little bumpy,” he admits. “How do you ride him without getting one of your eyes poked out?” He regards Anta’s antlers dubiously. His face freezes when he glances down towards the bloodstain on my tunic. “How is...?”

“The healer patched me up.” I manage a thin smile.

Cas stares at his feet. “I’m sorry,” he says.

I nod and turn to leave, but he catches my arm with his hand.

“I thought you were right behind us. It was only once we’d run into the trees that I realised you weren’t there. Was it Allerton? Did he try to capture you?” Cas asks.

“Yes,” I lie. “I had to fight him off.”

Cas lets go of my arm, and his hand falls limply to his side. “I’m sorry... I...”

There’s nothing he can say to make it better. “You should have looked back.”

Cas swallows and balls the hem of his tunic in his fist. He can’t ever go back and not leave me in the Borgan camp. Nor can he stop his father’s arrow from hitting me.

“I should help Ellen down from Gwen,” he says after the pause becomes uncomfortable. “She’s not used to riding.”

“Yes, of course.” I lead Anta to the stables.

*

A
s the king, his son, and his men dine in the Rushing Brook, I sleep in the stables. The floor is cold and hard against my wound, but Anta lies on the straw and lets me curl up against his side. I am dozing like this when three guards come into the stable, carrying a bucket of hot water, clean clothes, a plate of food, and a glass of warm wine.

“Casimir,” I whisper to myself while ogling the meat pie. My stomach growls in anticipation. At least he didn’t forget about me this time.

When I’m clean, dry, and sated, I drift to sleep with my head resting on Anta’s stomach, soothed by the rise and fall of his breathing and the softness of his downy fur. I wake at first light and am the first to saddle up for the journey back to Cyne.

“I missed you in the tavern last night,” Cas says.

I whip around, having not heard footsteps approach. After the shock of seeing his silver eyes open and relaxed in the early light, I shrug. “I had to make sure no one poached Anta.”

“He won’t now,” Cas says. “I promise he will never hurt him. Not while I’m around.” His smile stretches into a warm grin.

“Help me up, will you? I want to ride Anta back.” I lift a leg so Cas can haul me onto Anta’s back.

“I will not,” he says, his jaw tightening. “You were shot by an arrow yesterday. You’re in no condition to ride. I’ll take Anta again. He’s a good steed. Aren’t you, boy?” He pats the stag on the withers, and Anta nickers in response.

“Very well,” I say with a sigh. “I can see you two have bonded. I suppose I’m destined to be confined in a small space with that blasted old fogey all the way to Cyne.”

“Now, that isn’t fair. Baxter isn’t a day over ninety-two, and you know it.” He points at me with a faux-serious look on his face.

Despite myself, I chuckle. Cas responds, too, and for a moment, it feels as if the world melts around us. Yet deep down, I know this will be the last time we joke together like friends. He will always be the prince, and I will always be the scruffy girl with mud splatters on her cheek who feels more comfortable sleeping in the stables than a bed.

Unless I tell him
.

That went really well last time. I told the truth, and it was so ridiculous to him that he didn’t believe me. But... I could show him. A mad impulse takes me over.

“Cas, do you remember when we were being held captive by the Ibenas?”

He stands with his arm around Anta’s shoulder, idly running his fingers through Anta’s fur. When I mention the Ibenas, his back straightens. “Remember? How could I forget? I never thought we would make it out of that place alive.”

“Do you remember what—”

“Casimir!” Ellen appears in the tavern doorway and waves enthusiastically at him. She’s back in her finery and therefore back in her comfort zone. My cheeks prickle as I notice the way her scarlet dress pinches in at the waist and pushes up her breasts. Her ebony hair is half plaited, with the rest hanging down in tendrils over her chest. One braid has been wrapped around her forehead like a crown. She gathers her skirts and runs down the steps to her future husband. He only has eyes for her, and it is as if a second arrow hits me in the stomach. “There you are! Oh, hello, Mae.”

“How are you going to ride in that outfit?” I stare at her, aghast.

“I’ll be perfectly fine.” She grips her skirts a little harder.

“You could ride in the carriage with Mae,” Cas suggests.

The blood drains from my face, and I spot Ellen’s cheeks whitening. I may have saved her life, but that does not mean I want to spend days cooped up in a tiny carriage with her.

“But then I won’t be able to talk to you, my prince,” she says with a pretty bow. “I do so enjoy getting to know you better.”

When the king has eaten and drunk to his fill, we leave the village. I watch the tavern keeper from the window of the carriage and can almost feel the sigh of relief he gives as we leave, his shoulders slumping forwards. It bothers me that the people are so afraid of the king. What does he do to elicit this response from the realm? How cruel can he be?

Cruel enough to shoot me with his arrow
. A shudder runs down my spine as I remember the bored expression in his eyes. He strikes me as a man who could never love another person, not a wife nor a child. My heart aches for Cas. The time with my father was brief, but at least it was full of warmth and love. I can’t imagine the king embracing his son, or even sharing a kind word.

Our journey back to Cyne is uneventful. The road is long and straight, passing occasional travellers or market traders. The landscape changes from rolling hills and green meadows, to muddy towns and farms. Soon we pass towns that are larger, that bring with them the stench of waste. Here, I see poor people with bones that are protruding from their thin skin. The sight of their king fills them with forced joy. Some bow to the floor, one hand held out, hoping for charity. They receive none.

“Why are there no crops here?” I ask the healer. I nod towards the low clouds hanging over the scene.

“It’s the fumes,” he says. “It killed most of the fields from Cyne to the river.”

“Fumes? What is that?”

“Smoke that comes from the Red Palace. When the last craft-born died and magic left the realm, the king had to develop a way to keep the Red Palace functioning. The only way he could do it was through burning coal from the Haedalands. The only problem is the smog, you see.”

The carriage trundles on through the towns, and as it does, the smoke thickens. The scent of the air changes, with overpowering acrid odour. I can no longer smell the trees or honeysuckle, nor the pine of the Waerg Woods. This is unlike anything I’ve experienced before; the closest smell that I can remember is when the blacksmith’s caught on fire in Halts-Walden. Hot metal, leather, and thatch had burned that day.

I cover my mouth with my sleeve. “Is it always like this?”

The healer shrugs.

There’s a heavy grinding of gates, as well as shouts and an announcing horn. I peer out of the carriage window. There isn’t much visible through the dense fumes, but I make out the shapes of guards opening the gates to the city Cyne. For a short moment, my heart swells with pride when I remember being a young girl staring out the window of our hut, dreaming of one day travelling the realm. Now I am at the king’s city itself.

But then I remember all the heartbreak that has led me here. My father dying, Finn sacrificing himself for us, Cas running from the Borgans, never even looking back. The smoke-covered city doesn’t seem like such an achievement anymore, not when the king has already shot an arrow into my side and tried to kill Anta.

Nevertheless, I stick my head out farther so I can see more of the city. As my eyes adjust to the hazy smoke, I see lanes of shops, brick built with roof shingles on top. Their signs sway with the breeze. The streets are cobbled, and women in fine dresses walk with their arms entwined with tall gentlemen in dark tunics with fitted jackets.

The carriage turns a corner, and I see the Red Palace for the first time. My breath escapes my lungs. It is exactly how it was in my vision, from the huge winding cogs to the tall, bricked towers, to the pointed roofs escaping up above the thick clouds. The only difference is the weather. In my vision, it had been a beautiful sunny day. I can’t imagine the sun ever shining down on Cyne. It is too grey, too dirty.

And it’s as I have that thought that the illusion shatters. The shop signs swing topsy-turvily, there are loose cobbles on the streets and missing bricks from the palace walls. The women in their fine dresses have mended patches that don’t quite match the colour of the original material. Men cover their mouths as they cough violently. This is not a fine city; it’s a city in decline. This is a place that used to thrive and is now dying. I am the only person who can save these people and save the city, but everyone thinks that person is Ellen.

Now I realise that by pretending to be someone I’m not, I’ve robbed the world of magic. My thoughts shouldn’t be about myself or Cas or the king. They should be directed to the people coughing into their sleeves or starving as their crops fail. If my abilities mean I can save them, then I must use them.

W
hen we enter the castle, I finally realise just how depleted the royal family has become, and I am made aware of how isolated I have been in Halts-Walden. The enormous doors creak and groan as the strange cogs work to open them. There’s a sense of rustiness about the place, as metal scrapes against stone. Inside the castle, I’m drawn to the cavernous spaces. The high ceilings make me feel like a speck of a human. It’s a place you can get lost in. It’s an empty place, one that should be filled with guards and soldiers. Instead, only a few guards await the king, and even fewer servants. Their uniforms are tatty and ripped. Their helmets are dull and misshapen. Now I understand why Cas came with just two bodyguards to Halts-Walden. The king cannot afford any more. He is a beggar king, and our realm is poor.

A woman hurries through the hallways with her skirts collected in closed fists. She is easily the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, with golden hair cascading down her back like melted sunshine. Her lips are red and full. She wears a blue gown which trails along the floor, collecting dust. But you can tell that she doesn’t care. Her gaze is locked on one thing only—Casimir.

“Mother,” Cas breathes.

The woman scoops him up into her arms. “Oh, Cas, I thought I would never see you again.”

“Put the boy down,” the king demands. “As if he isn’t enough of a mummy’s boy already.” He gulps down a tankard of beer, burps, and slams the empty container onto the platter held by a servant. “Damned mollycoddling. You’ve done nothing for him. Nothing.” He walks away, still mumbling.