White Hart (5 page)

“He’s here; the prince is here!” someone shouts from within the congregation.

“Thank the Gods, the prince is alive!” comes another voice. It could be the milkmaid.

“What’s happened?” I ask. I drop down from Anta’s back and stroke his nose. “Why are you waiting here?”

Casimir over takes me, his cape billowing out in the wind. “It’s quite all right, everyone. I’m not hurt. It must have been a scare, me disappearing for a few moments—”

“Something has happened.” I notice the blank eyes and pale faces. The milkmaid clutches her chest and sobs, this time not for joy. Try as I might, I cannot find Father’s face amongst the crowd. “Father?” I leave Anta and step forward, searching for him. The milkmaid lets out another sob. I go to her. “Where is my father?”

She tries to compose herself between sobs and does something that makes my skin go cold. She reaches up and cups my face with her hand. “Oh, you poor girl.”

I step away from her. “No. No, he can’t...”

She nods to me with tears flowing down her cheeks. Never in my life have the villagers been so kind. Never have they shown me so much pity. The faces blur into a smudge of colours. A high-pitched noise rings in my ears, which is the only sensation I feel in my numb body and cold limbs.

“Where is he?” I whisper, trying to compose myself. “What happened?”

A man steps forward: Norton. “We were ambushed. A group of Wanderers came to take the prince and the craft-born. The prince’s guards tried to fight them, and then your father tried to help.”

Freezing cold trickles through my veins. The Wanderers are opportunistic travellers who prey on our farm animals and steal our food. But they’ve never attacked us. Why would they...?

The realisation hits me like a blow to the stomach. “He thought they wanted me.” The craft-born must be worth a lot of money. They could sell me to the highest bidder, or force me to use my magic for them.

“Pardon?” asks Norton.

“Nothing. Is he... all right?” I can’t stand it. He has to be.

“No, White Hart. He is dead.”

And in that instant, my world tumbles down around me. Red spots dart in front of my eyes, and my ears thunder with the rushing of blood. Norton mouths words, but I hear nothing except my own pulse.

“Take me. To him.” It takes all my effort to form the words, and for a split second, my legs almost collapse beneath me. Norton notices my efforts and takes me by the hand.

“Easy now, Mae,” he soothes, like I am the white stag and he is the human. “Take it slowly.”

I lean against him. It feels wrong. I’ve never had to lean against anyone before. It’s always been Father leaning on me. The pitiful faces of the crowd watch me at my weakest: a girl incapable of walking by herself. Norton leads me to the Fallen Oak.

What waits for me round the corner? What will he look like? I want to be sick. I don’t want to see him, and yet I have to.

“Are you sure, Mae?” Norton stops at the door. Then he turns back. “Your Highness, I’m afraid there is bad news for you too. Perhaps you should join us.”

Norton opens the door to the tavern, and we step in. There’s food wasted on the floor, food I would normally steal and eat away from sight. Wine cups lay overturned, with the red fluid splattered over stools and benches. We tread through the tossed remains of the feast, with Norton’s steady arm around me. The first time one of them touches me, and it is for this.

“Oh, no!” Prince Casimir exclaims. “Erian and Finan.” He covers his mouth with a hand, and my eyes follow his. The two guards lay slain on the cold stone floor, blood from their wounds mixing with spilled wine. One has his guts split open. The other took an arrow to the eye. I grip Norton tighter.

“Does Father—”

“No, child. He is peaceful.”

Norton directs me past tipped chairs and splintered tables. A lump lies in the corner, cane kicked away. It’s him.

“Wait here and don’t look.” Norton leaves me propped against the table. I do as I’m told and stare at my muddied dress until he’s back by my side.

Now Father lies peacefully on his back with his eyes closed as though sleeping. My heart swells with a combination of grief for Father and gratitude for Norton. He saved me the pain of seeing him so undignified. He saved me that extra pain.

I drop to my knees and place my hands on his chest. He seems smaller now—shorter and thinner. Norton has laid his cane on top of his crossed arms. I touch the smooth wood with my forefinger. It’s like an extension of him, a severed limb. It looks wrong without his hand clasping the top. Memories flood my mind: Father limping down the path from our hut, his smile hiding the pain from his knee. He will never walk, talk, or breathe again. I expect tears, but they feel stuck somewhere, stored at the back of my mind like a clot or blockage.

“Let the wind take you. Let you soar above the mountains. As your time here ends, so will it be done.” The last words. Given too late.

“He would have appreciated that.” Norton places a hand on my shoulder.

“Where is Ellen?” Prince Casimir asks. “I... I’ve not seen her.”

“She’s gone, Your Highness. I’m afraid the Wanderers took her,” Norton replies.

“What? She’s gone?” He balls his hands into fists. “But my beautiful Ellen... She can’t be... This is terrible news.”

I stroke Father’s cheek one last time and rise to my full height. Heat spreads through my muscles. Every part of my body feels hot and cold and numb at the same time.

“Leave me with my father, away from him.” I stare at the prince. If he hadn’t come here none of this would have happened.

“No. We need to get you home,” Norton says.

“But Father—”

“I’ll make arrangements for you.”

“The ceremony should be tomorrow. He liked the old customs,” I say as he leads me out of the Fallen Oak.

Casimir stares at me with an odd look in his eye, as though remembering something important at the last moment. He lurches forward and stops us in our tracks. “Forgive me. It was inconsiderate of me to interrupt your goodbye. I lost good men today, but it is nothing of your loss. I’m sorry.” His eyes shine wide and bright—glassy and sincere.

I say nothing but nod.

Anta waits for me, and I put a shaking arm against his shoulder. Together we walk, with the white stag propping me up. He stops me from falling. That night I sleep in his stall, amongst the straw and droppings. I do not care. I do not change out of my dress. I dream of both my parents.

*

T
he sun shines brightly as though nothing has happened. Birds sing as if it’s any other day. It’s strange to think of the world continuing as normal when mine has been shattered into pieces. But then we never mattered, not really. Father told me so only hours ago.

I shut my eyes as another wave of grief overtakes me. Anta nuzzles my cheek with his nose. His black and brown eyes—somehow always kind—blink away sleep. Does he know? Can he sense it? Can he smell my dead father on my hands?

With a sigh, I lean into Anta. “What am I going to do now?”

You are going to say goodbye. And then you will move on with your life.

The voice is my own, but I do not understand where it comes from. Deep within me, perhaps in the same place my tears are stored. My next thought lights a fire deep inside me. An anger I didn’t know existed ripples through my body. When I think of him lying on the tavern floor, broken bottles by his lifeless body...

You are going to find the men who did this. And you are going to make them pay.

My hands ball into fists so tight that my fingernails dig into my skin. I will make them pay.

Strength comes from those held-back tears. Anta watches with a lowered head as I leave the stalls. I stride through the garden to the hut. Butterflies buzz around my head, but I wave them away. My unblinking eyes survey my image in the broken piece of glass we use as a mirror. A swollen weak face stares back at me. I grip the broken glass until blood pools on my palm. Silently, I undress and wash before clothing myself in a plain black tunic and trousers. I tuck a dagger into the belt of my outfit, braid my hair, and gather arrows for my quiver. After the ceremony, I will leave Halts-Walden forever. I will follow the Wanderers, even if it takes me into the depths of the Waerg Woods.

*

F
ather found Mother in the woods when they were both fourteen years old. She’d been lost, wrapped in rags and wandering blindly through the forest, a jangle of nerves and unable to speak. Father saved her from certain death. After he brought her home, she huddled in the hut, refusing to say a word, only ever accepting the very minimum of bread and water, traumatised by whatever she’d seen amongst the trees.

It was the same year as the flood in Halts-Walden, the same flood that took my grandparents, leaving Father on his own—just as I am now. He told me that she gave him a reason to live again. Every day he would coax a little something from her, whether it was a smile, a muttered “thank you,” or an acknowledgement. He never gave up. She became his world, a reason to work hard, a person to provide for. There was nothing Father wanted more in this life than to look after another. It was what he was born to do. His heart swelled with love for everyone and everything, from the bugs in our hut to those who teased us in the village. He fought for me, because he thought they wanted to take me. He wasted his life because of it.

One day my mother, the urchin, told him her name: Mae. She remembered it, but she didn’t remember much else. Somehow the woods had taken the memories from her. She only talked of shadows, snakes that wrap around your ankles and pull you into the trees, and half-breed animals formed from leftover magic growling in the dark.

Father’s only rule was to stay close by the village and not tread far into the woods. But his death means I must break that rule.

I’d wanted adventure. But I never imagined it would begin like this.

The day continues in a blur. Flowers are pressed into my hands. Food is delivered to the hut. Some I can pack for my journey; the rest, I’ll split for the poor. There are even people who bring grain for Anta.

Norton fetches me at sunset, carrying a torch. “We’ve arranged the raft. Come, White Hart. Pay your respects.” He smiles kindly.

On the way to the river, Casimir appears at my side. He presses his lips together and cocks his head to one side, like someone who has something awkward to say. “In my city, when one person has experienced a great loss, friends and family provide tokens to help them through that loss. I know this will never bring your father back, but it is meant from the heart.” He presses a gold coin into my hand. It is worth more than I can trade in a month.

My fingers fold over the cool metal, and I nod my thanks. I see from his anxious eyes that he does not mean disrespect. His kind words have floored me, and I cannot speak.

As is customary, the entire village flocks to the bank of the river, carrying their flaming torches. We sing as we walk.

Oh, mighty wind,

Take my soul on high,

Let me soar along with the lives gone by.

Take my body to the soil,

Where the old tree roots coil.

Return me to thy world.

And never let me rest,

For I shall never sleep.

I will evermore fly o’er rivers deep,

For I shall not rot

Where the wet leaves clot.

I live forever in your world.

The song is not from the old customs, but no one apart from Father believed in them. He still held onto what his parents taught him from the Haedalands. Everyone else seems to have lost those beliefs after moving to Halts-Walden.

They bury the dead now. In the early days they burned them, letting the wind take the ashes away. Why would the wind come for those in the ground? Father told me the old words once:
Let the flames consume me, so I might rise
. Still, their voices ease my pain. Only now, in death, does the town come to me. Only now do I feel their love. It’s such a waste.

Pastor John says a few words, but they wash over me like the great waves of the Southern Sea. We lower our torches and light the pyre. John kicks the raft onto the river, and Father floats away.

“Take him, Wind,” I whisper.

I
stand alone, watching the pyre float downstream. The flames are still high, licking at the air, lighting the dark. Black smoke trails like a procession. Still the tears don’t come. I’ve got them walled up now. Bricked in.

Even though the fire is far away, the flames seem to burn my skin. It is only a few moments later I realise that my blood is hot with anger. My skin itches with unused energy. After a few moments, my back aches from clenching.

There’s only one thought in my mind:
I will make them pay
. I will serve justice.

“I’ve spoken to Norton, and we’ve sent word back to my father in Cyne.”

The breath catches in my throat. I had not heard anyone approach. When I turn, I see the pale grey eyes of Prince Casimir lit by the flames. He glows orange again. Only one day ago, I made the decision to take him into the Waerg Woods. It turned out to be the worst decision of my life.

“What good will that do? How long did it take you to get here from Cyne?” I say bitterly.

“Three weeks,” the prince admits. “But you can do it in less by riding furiously. I’ve ordered the boy to do as much.”

“He will skirt the forest like they all do,” I say. “And he will stop in Fordrencan and be distracted by the whores there. They all are.”

“No. He will follow my orders, and my father will hunt down the Wanderers and return Ellen to me.”

“You have about as much chance of getting her back as I have of getting my father back.” I stare out at the fire, and the wind stings my eyeballs. I close them before they begin to water.

His shoulders slump. “Don’t say that.”

“It is the truth, and you know it.” We stand in silence, watching the flames disappear into the dark. “I’m leaving. I will find the Wanderers and slit their throats for what they did to my father. Perhaps I can get to Ellen before they...” I don’t know what they plan to do with her. If they believe her to be the craft-born, it’s feasible that they intend to sell her or force her to use magic to their gain. But when they realise that she lied, she could be in trouble. What if they kill her? It would be all my fault. A lump forms in my throat. I have to help her.