by Sarah Dalton
There has never been a silence such as this. None of us breathe for a few seconds. And then the silence is broken by our ragged breaths. Ellen picks herself up on shaking legs and dusts down her skirt. Her fingers tremble. The miller’s daughter has been through more in the last few weeks than I presume she has in her entire life. I cannot help but wonder if she will survive this journey at all.
“Are yer all right?” Treowe asks her.
She nods, her chin wobbling. Before she turns back to her horse she manages to say, “Thank you.”
We all get back to our horses without uttering a word. None of us want to admit how the wind has shaken us. None of us want to admit how close we all were to giving up. That is what the Waerg Woods does. It rattles your core, your beliefs. It makes you question everything you thought you knew about yourself, because what did you truly know before you had to fight for your life? Nothing.
Chapter Nine – The Prince and the Bog
Casimir
I sleep very little during our second night in the Waerg Woods. Every time I think of Mother, I expect the sound of the Nix to come from deep inside the forest. Why hasn’t it shown up to hunt me? I am at my lowest, beaten down by grief, and yet it does not approach me. Perhaps I was never as worthy a victim as Mae.
The moon brings me no comfort. Its pale, cratered face seems to smirk at me. I put my head in my hands. I have not cried over her death. Should a man cry? Not according to the king, but he was never a man I truly respected. My guard—Finan—cried once, when his sister was dying of the coughing curse. I saw him, on bended knee, hand clamped over his sister’s tiny one. I had been embarrassed to witness it. But I never thought him less of a man. I thought more of him, if anything.
When Mae’s father was killed, she didn’t cry either. I watched her brood, watched her curl up into a ball every night, and grip her necklace in a tight little fist. She raged. Her eyes were filled with anger. I watched the thought of revenge consume her, and I didn’t do anything about it.
Before I know it, sunlight filters in through the branches. Dawn is approaching. I place a couple of rabbit breasts on the fire, and pour three cups of water from my pouch. Treowe stirs first, sniffs the air, and gives me a nod of appreciation.
“Not my first time sleeping in the woods,” I remind him, turning the breasts on our makeshift spit roast.
“Soon Aegunlund will have a king who knows how to survive the Waerg Woods, and who understands what it is to be hungry. That’ll be a first.”
I used to cringe at the thought of leading a country. Now, the idea of that fate sits more comfortably on my shoulders than it ever has before. If I am king, it means my father is dead.
After a breakfast of rabbit meat, berries, and water, we find a stream in which to wash. Treowe and I stay close to Ellen, but far enough away that her modesty remains intact. She rubs more of the salve into the cuts on her back, and I happen to walk past camp at the wrong moment. There I notice a number of scars on her side, below her rib cage. Burn marks. Ellen sees me and pulls up her dress, covering herself.
“I’m sorry,” I say, turning away. “I thought you had dressed already.”
She pulls on her cloak. “Did you see them?” she demands.
I nod.
“My father didn’t like disobedience, and he didn’t like who I wanted as a mate.”
I turn back to her in shock. “Your father did that?”
Her eyes harden and become glassy, like the marble stones doll makers use for eyes. “Yes. With a poker from the fire.”
“I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me when we were engaged?” I ask. It pops into my mind that we would at last have had something in common—brutish fathers. Instead she always played this character, this silly girl character who giggled and flirted. It had been charming at first and then grew tedious.
“Would it have made a difference? Cas, hasn’t it always been Mae?” she says.
“No… I don’t know,” I reply. “I don’t know when I began to think of Mae as anything more. Besides, she hid things from me, too. I don’t know her now, not really.”
Ellen scoffs as she ties her cloak. “You know her just fine. I spent a childhood with that little rat and she’s no different than she ever was.” She pauses. “Except for the grief. That did change her. Listen, she might be the craft-born, but she’s also a scrappy girl from Halts-Walden. Trust me, you know her. Does the fact that I prefer the company of girls make me any different?”
I think about that for a moment. “No. The fact that you pretended to like me does, and the fact that you kept this from me.”
“Well I’m not exactly proud of it,” she snaps.
“I would have found out eventually. Why didn’t you confide in me?”
“Maybe I didn’t want to,” she replies, getting onto her feet. “Maybe you’re not the easiest person to talk to. I mean, for Goddess’s sake, Cas, you spent most of the time romanticising our relationship. From the moment you found me with the Borgans you were insistent that we were madly in love. We were never madly in love. We weren’t even in like.” Her hands flail as she becomes more and more aggravated with me.
“I was trying to make the best of our situation. I thought we had to marry. I wanted to love you. I tried—”
“That’s your problem, you try too hard to be everything that everyone wants you to be, and you end up failing everyone,” she says. Her hands fall down by her sides.
I straighten up, leaning away from her. “Is that true?”
She falters. “I… I don’t know. I was just rambling. I didn’t mean it.”
In somewhat of a daze, I kick dirt over the embers of the fire.
Treowe clears his throat from the other side of his horse. “Are yer sure you two ain’t married? You sure sound like it.”
“We’d be a terrible couple,” Ellen says. “I can’t believe I ever wanted to be queen so much.”
I almost laugh, and as my body begins to react to Ellen’s joke, a terrible sadness grips me like a cold fist. The sight of Mother’s dying body comes back to me. Will I ever be able to laugh again?
For the first few hours we follow the path leading to where I remember the Borgan camp to be. Little happens in the forest, but still my muscles are tense in anticipation of what might come. I keep my sword at my side at all times, ready to be unsheathed if needed. I’m on alert, waiting for fog monsters and the Nix. We’re in a part of the forest where the leaves are golden, and the ground is coated with reds and browns. We’ve stepped into autumn. I have to be careful with Gwen, her hooves slip more than once on the muddied ground. Much of this part of the forest is on a slope. I lean back and give her the reins so she can find her feet.
“Look,” Treowe calls out, redirecting my attention from the slippery slope. “Up ahead. From here yer can see drag marks through the path over there. It seems as though some sort of cart has gone down that path.”
“It could be the Borgans,” I reply. Or the Ibenas. I try not to think about that—the strange tribe who kidnapped us. “We should follow those marks and see.”
In my haste, I push Gwen on a little too hard, and her hooves slide from under her. Her back legs lose control, and I feel her quarters hit the mud.
“Easy girl,” I murmur.
At the bottom of the hill, she stops, shaking her body to rid herself of the dirt. She takes a few steps forward and limps. I rein her in and jump down from the saddle.
“You go on ahead,” I say to Treowe. “I’m going to check Gwen. She’s lame after that slip.”
“I hope it ain’t anything serious,” Treowe says. “I can stop and help if yer like.”
“That’s not necessary,” I reply. “Keep it steady and I should be able to catch up.”
I run a hand down Gwen’s foreleg and she obediently lifts her foot. Her hooves are filled with dirt and pebbles from the muddy forest floor. I rest her leg on my knee and take a pick from my bag. Ellen rides past as I am on her second hoof. Each one is packed ful
l of dirt and stones, but it is on her hind leg that I notice a larger stone digging into the soft flesh of her hoof.
“All better,” I say, giving her a friendly slap on the quarters. She nudges me with her muzzle, checking my pockets for treats.
Up ahead comes a panicked call. I leap back onto Gwen’s back, and urge her on. With her hooves clear of debris she is sound, and accelerates easily into a canter.
“Stop!” Ellen urges. “Don’t come any closer. There’s a bog.”
I pull Gwen to a halt, slide down from her back, and loop her reins over a low branch. Then I tentatively step towards Ellen. She stands at the side, dismounted from her horse. Her brow is furrowed, and I can see why. Treowe is still on his steed, stuck in the middle of a small bog. A cold fear seeps through my veins when I see the mud level up to the horse’s chest. There are bogs in the moorland between Cyne and the Benothalands. They are not to be treated lightly. They are deadly. It’s almost impossible to recover.
Treowe pulls his pack from the saddle and tosses it to me. “There’s rope in there. And supplies for the rest of the journey.”
“We’re going to get you out,” I say. “Try not to move and keep your horse calm.”
I see the whites of its eyes, and the inside of its nostrils. Its tail twitches from side to side and it chomps on the bit. I only hope it is keeping its legs still or it will sink even faster.
There’s only one thing I can think to do. I drop onto my chest and inch forward, testing the ground beneath me. My fingers reach ahead, feeling for soft ground. If I can tell where the border of the bog is, I can work out how far we need to pull Treowe out.
“We’re not going to be able to pull the horse out,” Ellen says. “We’re not strong enough.”
She’s right, and I hate it. No animal deserves to die this way. But perhaps if we can get Treowe out first, the three of us will be able to help the horse. I find the border of the bog and tell Ellen so that she isn’t caught herself. Then I tie the rope to the nearest tree, and toss the rest to Treowe.
“Climb out first,” I say.
“I’m not leaving her,” he says.
“I know how you feel. I wouldn’t leave Gwen either. But you need to get out first. The two of us are not strong enough. Tie the rope around your horse, around her belly if you can. Be careful not to get sucked in yourself. Then climb out so that the three of us can pull her out.”
Treowe regards me with thoughtful eyes, as though he is assessing whether I’m telling the truth or not. Then he decides to trust me, carefully threading the rope through the bog and under the horse. By the time the rope is tied, she has sunk a little more. My muscles clench as Treowe uses the rope to climb out of the bog. As soon as he is clear of the foul mud, I untie the rope from the tree. Treowe is upon me in a moment.
“You promised,” he growls.
“Wait,” I say. I take the rope and wrap it around the tree and then around my middle. “We use the tree as an anchor, and the three of us pull from this end.”
Treowe’s expression softens as he understands my intention. He takes the rope and wraps it around Ellen, before taking the end and tying it around himself.
I glance over to the horse. She is sinking fast. The bog is up to her withers. We have to act fast.
“On three,” I call. “1… 2… 3…”
We heave. The horse neighs in panic. I hope with all my heart that she doesn’t fight against us. Move with the rope, I plead. Move with the rope.
The muddy ground moves beneath my feet, and I realise that the horse is dragging us towards the bog, not the other way around.
“Harder,” I call.
The rope is taught behind me. Ellen and Treowe have thrown their weight against the rope, giving all the three of us could possible hope to give.
Move with the rope.
“Come on, lass,” Treowe calls to his mare.
At first she pulls away from us, and I see her hind legs slipping down into the bog, but then she struggles forward, finally moving her body towards us. I take a step back, triumphant in the small victory. With some effort the horse manages to free her knee, and I move my hands further up the rope, keeping the pressure on. One more step and she is emerging as though from a lake, caked in mud and with some blood from where the rope has rubbed her. The three of us lean back, but she has her feet now, and she can leap over the rest of the bog, scrabbling with her hooves as she reaches firm ground. We’ve done it.
Treowe is first to pat her on the neck and ease the rope from her quivering skin. He takes the reins and rubs the spot between her eyes.
“We should find a stream to wash her down, and see what we can salvage from the saddle bags,” I say.
Treowe, seemingly stunned by the events, merely nods.
Chapter Ten – The Power Beneath Our Feet
Mae
The new Borgan camp is in a part of the Waerg Woods I’ve never been to before. It’s more enclosed, too, with tall walls built with daub.
“How did you do all this so quickly?” I ask Sasha.
“Oh, we have several camps in the woods. That’s how we manage to stay hidden. But we can knock up a wall like this in days. We built this entire camp in a week.”
“Where do you sleep when you’re building?”
“Tents mainly. We have many animal skins from hunting. They make good waterproof covers.”
I flinch at the thought of hunters trying to take Anta away from me. The cart sways beneath me as my thoughts drift back to Anta’s wounds. The poison has spread through his blood stream. If we cannot save him…
The rest of the camp is seen through a blur of tears as we take Anta down from the cart. He’s placed under a shelter, with a bed of straw and hay. Someone brings him a bucket of water, and when he doesn’t drink, my heart twists. I stroke the soft place between his eyes, gently rubbing with my knuckles in the way I know he likes.
All of a sudden, I’m surrounded by women in long capes, with small wooden bowls in their hands. They bow to me and mumble comforting words, calling me craft-born, not Mae. It’s a change from White Hart, but I want to be Mae, because Mae feels human and fragile. I don’t want to be strong anymore. I watch the women as they create potions for my sick stag. I watch, and my bottom lip trembles. Someone places a shawl over my shoulders and fusses over the scratches on my arms.
“No, not me, him,” I insist, pointing to Anta. But they ignore me, and they keep me warm with their furs.
Finally one of them gently prises me away from Anta, insisting that they will work better without me. I’m sure they’re right, so I come away, and I sit with Sasha by a fire, all the time my gaze fixed on my stag.
*
Casimir
When we reach the Borgan camp we find it deserted. Without taking any time for rest, I begin a search of the perimeter for clues. Our only chance is to track the wheels of the cart they used to transport themselves to a new camp. I see the efforts they’ve gone to in an attempt to cover their tracks. An untrained guard might struggle to notice how some leaves are fresher than others, how some have been turned or shaken out, or the occasional broken branch. The trees are sparser here than further into the woods—which has helped them somewhat—but even still, they’ve done well to leave so cleanly.
It’s a strange feeling to have two people following your every word. Despite being prince, that doesn’t happen to me very often. My father, mother, and even brother have more sway in the palace than I do. Yet here, both Ellen and Treowe listen intently as I explain my reasons for heading in a particular direction. They nod in agreement. They remain quiet as I talk. Some part of me wants Mae here so I can show her how I have changed. I’m not the spoilt boy I once was.
Since we rescued Treowe’s horse, he has regarded me with quiet awe. There was a rushed thank you with his cheeks flushed. I could tell it meant a lot, and was hard for him to say. We never mentioned it again.
“The tracks have stopped,” I say. We are deep into the forest. Somehow,
the Borgans have disappeared into the ether.
“How is this possible?” Treowe asks.
I let out a sigh. “I think I underestimated them. I think they double backed and headed in another direction. They could be sending us on a lap of the forest for all I know.” I frown. “This could be a problem.”
“You’ll find a way,” Ellen says. “You’ll not stay away from her. I don’t think that’s how this ends.” She fixes me with a steady, sincere gaze.
“We’ll retrace our steps, and I will search for where they might really have headed.”
*
Mae
Anta’s roars keep the camp awake at night. He screams in pain and my body screams with him. I curl up on the ground, shivering next to him while Sasha tries to force me to eat. How can I? What I do eat I vomit back up as my insides clench. How am I supposed to bear it? Avery warned me that I would lose a lot, but Anta should never be part of that bargain. He is the being that has protected me my entire life. He is the shining light in the dark.
No, I cannot and will not lose my father, my best friend, and my guardian in a matter of months. This cannot happen. Not today.
I stand and walk around him. I feel the craft at my fingertips. What can I do? How can I help him? Anta’s dark eyes look up at me, pleading, the sorrows of the world spilling moisture onto his pure white coat. He’s not just mine, he’s everyone’s. He belongs to us all as a symbol of hope. The branches rustle around us, and the craft stirs in my belly. With my emotions riding high, I could quite easily create the biggest tornado this world has ever seen.
I bend my knees and crouch by my stag. The healers shuffle away, giving me space to work. Closing my eyes, I place a palm on Anta’s flank, and think about the unhealed flesh beneath him. When I am sick, or injured, I imagine the soil beneath my feet. There is something in my gift that helps me heal faster than others. Perhaps I can transfer that ability to another. I was too late to help my father, but maybe I can help Anta.
