by Sarah Dalton
“It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. I’m an old man and old men die every day. You’re a young girl. Young girls should not lose a hand.” Beardsley’s gaze drifts to the others in the room. “Would you mind giving me a moment with Mae?”
The queen nods and ushers the others away. On the way out, Cas turns to me, surprise on his face. My cheeks warm, one day I will explain everything to him. One day soon.
“I was going to ask for Ellen. But then something told me that I should tell you instead.”
My throat goes dry. “What do you mean?”
“It’s very curious, but I have the strongest feeling that you are the craft-born, not the girl marrying the prince in a few days.” His expression remains neutral as he examines my face. My cheeks are boiling hot and I can only imagine my inability to keep a straight face. “Yes, I thought I was correct. It’s so strange that I felt this way, as though someone had whispered it in my ear as I slept.”
Avery, I think.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I say out loud.
“Oh, dear child. I will not have time to tell anyone. I barely have time to tell you.”
“Is it about the scrolls?” I ask.
Beardsley’s eyes soften. “Of course. You know already. I won’t ask why. I won’t question it any longer. I can see that this world is far bigger than me, and seeing as I will shortly be leaving it, I will abandon my attempts to solve the mysteries within. The scrolls are tightly rolled and stored in my cane. Quickly. Get it.”
I fetch the cane from its place propped up next to the bedside table. Beardsley nods eagerly as I unscrew the top. It’s tricky with my left hand. I’m forced to hold the cane between my knees.
“That’s it. Hurry, before they come back. Shove the scrolls in your pocket. They’re only small. Now, keep them safe, Mae. Don’t let anyone else see them. I’ve translated as much as I can. You need to find an expert in the Aelfen language.”
“The Borgans,” I say. “The protectors of the craft.”
“You know better than me. Being the craft-born and all,” Beardsley says. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’ve waited for this moment for a long time. At last, my duty is done. It’s up to you now, Mae. You have to stop the King. Do you know what he is planning to do?”
I nod. “The Ember Stone. He wants immortality.”
Beardsley’s taut face begins to relax. “I can let go. I can join my family in the afterlife. If only I had done this sooner. If only I had stood up to him when I had the chance. Ifs and buts. Don’t ever get lost in the ‘what-ifs’ of this world, Mae. Don’t let yourself be filled with regret.”
He wheezes again and I pass him more water. When he’s done, the others come back into the room and we stay with him until his final moments. Cas sits next to me, taking hold of my hand. He remains stone faced to the end, holding back tears for a man he knew his entire life. I know too well how hard it is to say goodbye. I turn my head from Cas and see Ellen hanging back in the doorway. Her cheeks flush when we make eye contact and she turns away. It hasn’t escaped my attention that Ellen has not been to visit me since I lost my hand. I wonder if she feels responsible.
Beardsley slips into a sleep before he takes his last breath. I hope it is a painless sleep. I hope he finds peace. Part of me is relieved to see his suffering end. A larger part of me is sad to see a man who became a friend to me now gone. But he has left something for me, something that could be more important than even he knew.
Chapter Two – The Attempted Assassination
Beardsley’s funeral is like his death—a quiet event that slips by with barely any fuss. Only his closest of friends attend, and it seems he had few. The king doesn’t come. Apparently he is too busy. As we watch the ashes of Beardsley’s funeral pyre dance into the afternoon sky, my mind drifts back to the king’s fear. That long stretch of nothingness. The wailing. The first lines of his journal:
I am in despair.
I need Beardsley to rid me of this fear once and for all.
Never again will the king be able to lean on Beardsley as a crutch. Never again will the king use him as little more than a tool. I am sorry Beardsley is gone, but I am glad he is free of the king and I hope he finds peace.
After the funeral I bathe and brush Anta while the stable boy—Treowe—hovers close, watching me. My cheeks warm as his eyes linger on my bandaged stump. Every now and then, when I fumble with the brush or drop a comb, he scurries forward to help me, but then thinks better of it and drifts back.
“Not got anywhere better to be?” I mutter to him.
The lad shrugs. He is a boy made up of odd features, with bright freckles, round blue eyes, and a nose slightly too large for his face. His hair is red—a lot like Sasha’s—but with cool-toned highlights, like winter sunshine rather than the heat of fire. But I see kindness in his open face, and I am glad he is caring for Anta when I am not around.
“Don’t you speak?”
“Yeah,” he says sullenly. “And to answer yer question, no, I ain’t got nowhere better to be. Not that it’s any of your beeswax.” He pauses and shifts from one foot to the other, leaning awkwardly against the stable door frame. “What happened to yer hand?”
“Nosey blighter, aren’t you?” I reply.
His eyes flash. “I didn’t mean to offend yer.”
I let out a sigh. “You haven’t, not really. It was from an infection, the healer says. He had to cut it off to stop me getting ill.”
Treowe nods. “Must be hard.”
I bristle. “Not really. Least I’m still alive.”
Treowe turns to leave without so much as a goodbye. But he stops and places his hand on the open stable door. “Yer brave.”
The quiet words straighten my spine. I stop brushing Anta for a moment and meet Treowe’s eyes. They are a rich blue, sparkling and intense. His name is called and his head snaps back to the world beyond the small stables.
“Are you coming or what?” The blacksmith limps over the cobbles. “Some apprentice you are. You spend more time in these blessed stables with that stag than you do learning.”
Treowe slips through the stables and follows the man back to his workstation, and I return to my task, relieved to have something to occupy me, and relieved to have that strange moment broken. And, despite my frequent fumbles with the brush, I find that using my left hand is becoming far easier with practice. I even experiment hopping onto Anta’s back. He snorts and shakes his head up and down. I pat his shoulders as he paws the ground, eager to go galloping through the woods again.
“Soon, Anta lad, soon,” I say.
The scrolls are hidden in my room. As far as I know, I am the only person alive who knows about them, so I don’t expect to have my room ransacked any time soon. But I must begin to think about taking them to Allerton. I have already tried to read them, but aside from Beardsley’s translations, I can’t make out a single word. I had hoped that my powers would somehow tap into the language of my ancestors. They did not. And Beardsley’s translations only explain what I already know: that the Sihrans could be buried somewhere beneath the Anadi Sands. There, with this lost civilization, is the Ember Stone. At least that is what I learned from Beardsley when I was trapped inside the cursed palace.
And then there is Cas. I’ve seen little of him in the last few days, and what I have seen of him has been about Beardsley and his funeral. There hasn’t been a good time to announce my lie to him, and every time I think about telling him, I hear the Nix in my head, he will never love you. Perhaps it’s true. Perhaps the combination of my lie and my new physical deformity is too much for anyone. I’m not sure my fragile heart could withstand the risk of finding out. Yet I must find the courage from somewhere. If I am going to face his father I will need his help.
But when Cas is constantly being pulled away by seamstresses or chefs, it’s impossible to talk to him one on one. Somehow, I have found myself stuck between a wedding and a funera
l, and at the same time my mind spins with the thought of the Sihrans and the Ember Stone. The days seem to speed up. When I’m not with Anta, I’m poring over the scrolls in my room. Before I know it, the eve of the wedding has arrived and I’ve had little more than a five minute conversation with the prince.
That morning I find myself getting pulled into the healer’s apothecary as he examines my arm.
“This is highly unusual. You are not a normal girl, are you?” he says. His beady eyes bore into mine.
“I am indeed a normal girl,” I protest, pulling my arm away from him.
But the evidence points to the contrary. My craft nature has caused me to heal so quickly that it has baffled the old man.
He flashes me a narrow-eyed stare as I leave, which has me wondering whether the unpleasant old man is going to cause me some trouble in the future. I can’t wait to get away from him. Whenever I see him I think of the journey from the Waerg Woods into Cyne. I remember how he told me to be ruthless, and to become a flatterer of the king. Otherwise I wouldn’t survive. His silver tongue makes my skin crawl.
The day goes by in a blur of activity. Garlands are hung around the garden. The cooks hurry by, laden with trays of tiny pastries for the ovens. The king stalks up and down the corridors deep in conversation with many nobles. Cas is nowhere to be found. Whenever I see someone I know, they shrug their shoulders and say: “Perhaps the kitchens,” “Probably with the Holy Man,” “Have you tried his bedroom?”
That night, I go to bed with a jittery stomach. There is no time to speak to Cas before the wedding. I’ve left it too late.
But as I change into my nightclothes, I can’t stop thinking about what I am about to let Cas do. He thinks he is marrying Ellen because he has to marry her. What if I told him I am the craft-born? And what if I told him that he doesn’t have to marry me—that I will disappear tonight, take Anta to the Borgans? Perhaps that would solve everything, for now at least. I can tell him about the king after I have spoken to Allerton and had the scrolls translated.
I pace and pace the room, my bare feet slapping against stone. It’s not much of a plan. I would need to prove it. How could I escape but also let it be known that I am the craft-born to save him from his wedding to Ellen? If I did prove I am the craft-born, the king will have his men chase me down and drag me back to the castle.
Oh, by the Gods! This is too hard. Why isn’t there an easy solution to all this?
The stump itches. Sometimes I think my hand is still there and frighten myself. Sometimes I feel the sharp pain of the Nix’s teeth on my flesh…
During the curse I thought I would die several times, and even worse, I feared for those I care about. Telling Cas should be a picnic compared to that. Summoning up resolve, I grit my teeth and clutch a candle. I struggle with the door of my room, and creep out into the corridor of the castle.
There is only one thing for it. I must tell Cas how I feel. Only then will I have peace.
It is the dead of night and the palace is so silent I can hear an owl hooting beyond the castle walls. It is faint, and haunting, like a ghost’s breath.
As I creep through the castle, I wonder if spirits walk the halls. The building itself is hundreds of years old. It has seen kings and queens, princes and nobles… but not too many peasant girls from Halts-Walden. The ridiculousness of my circumstances is almost laughable.
Cas’s room is a floor above mine, so I hurry up the steps, my body still a little weak and aching from my ordeal. The candle flame moves with the draft in the castle, and I position my right arm to shield it, flinching at the sight of my stump.
The next floor is not as dark so I extinguish my candle. There are alcoves with small lanterns that burn through the night. This is where my magic has ignited the palace, utilising Beardsley’s inventions that somehow take the energy from the craft and bring life to the castle’s workings. Perhaps one day I will learn how to harness my powers like that.
There are voices, followed by footsteps. My blood seems to freeze and I become all too aware that I have very little time to hide. In a panic, I glance around me. There’s only one place I can hide, and it’s risky. As the voices get louder I quickly tuck myself behind a long tapestry, praying that I am slight enough to not cause much of a bulge, and hoping the shadows will cover my feet. It is most likely guards on patrol. I hope they are distracted by the thought of the grand wedding tomorrow and the free wine that will be flowing.
My body tenses as their footsteps approach, and an overwhelming desire to sneeze takes me over. It must be the dust from the tapestry. I clamp my hand over my nose, trying desperately to control myself. One of the guards laughs and I can tell he is close, right on the other side of the tapestry. I have to remain still. My life depends on it. I grip my nose even tighter, praying to Celine that I don’t sneeze. People like me should not be traipsing around the castle at night. We get brandished sneak thieves and thrown into the dungeon.
“Hold on,” he says.
“What is it?” asks the other.
I will them to move on. The king would love an opportunity to see me locked away. I can imagine the kind of story he could invent, the jewels that went missing, the gold I stole.
“I dropped something. Me bleedin’ dagger has come out of me belt.”
“You want to get that sorted. The general will have your guts hung over ‘is mantelpiece.”
“Don’t I bleedin’ know it?”
Now I am only too aware of my toes. How far do they peek out of the tapestry? How much of the shadows cover me? My entire body feels hot. My nose itches, my fingernails grip into my cheek. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades. It’s so stuffy behind the tapestry that I can hardly breathe.
“Now then, what’s this?”
My heart sinks. He must have seen me.
“What?”
“Here, look at this.”
“It’s a bloody gold coin you lucky bastard.”
“Drinks are on me tonight then!”
“Nah, you’ll have to turn that in. It’s the king’s, isn’t it?”
“Finders keepers. You aren’t going to tell on me are you?”
“If you buy me an ale, my lips are sealed.”
The footsteps shuffle off as they discuss how to spend their find. It’s only when I hear the sound of their boots descending the stairs at the far end of the corridor that I let myself give a small sneeze. The relief makes my shoulders sag.
I slip out from the tapestry and down the hall, treading the familiar steps to Cas’s room. At least, where we used to, before weddings and funerals took over everyone’s time. When I get to the door, I wonder whether I should knock. He never knocks when he sneaks into my room with food from the kitchen. Perhaps there’s no need for such formalities between us. But then he is the prince.
When I come closer to the door, I realise that it is slightly ajar. I shake my head and decide not to knock. Wishing I had brought some bread from the kitchen as an excuse, I gently push the door.
But when the door swings open, I get a shock. Cas is not alone. He is with Ellen, and they are sat on his bed, kissing.
Cas breaks away. His eyes are wide in the moonlight. Beneath him the sheets are crumpled. “Mae! What are you doing here?”
“I… I, um, I’ll leave.” Mortified, my face is burning hot. How could I be so stupid? Of course, it’s their wedding day tomorrow and I have ruined their… my stomach roils.
Ellen’s face is full of pity. She turns away from me, unable to hold my gaze.
“Mae, did you come for an important reason?” Cas asks. His face is pale, and his expression is not one of annoyance, as you might expect under the circumstances, but one of patience. It’s enough to bring a lump to my throat.
“N-no,” I stutter, fighting my desire to turn around and run away.
As I move to leave, there’s a flurry of movement behind me, and the scuff of boots against the stone. Before I have time to understand
what is happening, large hands grasp me by the upper arm. I struggle against them, twisting my body in an attempt to get a glimpse of my captor.
“Mae Waylander, you are under arrest for conspiring against the king in a plot to assassinate the heir apparent.”
Chapter Three – The Tyrant King
“What?” I twist my body so that I can get a good look at the guard. His visor covers most of his face, but I can just make out blank eyes and the hint of a beard.
Cas leaps from the bed. “This is preposterous! Mae would never harm me.”
A third guard rushes between Cas and me. I do not recognise any of them, but they wear the king’s crest, so I assume they are his men. After Cas has been calmed, two more figures hurry into the chambers. One is the king. The other is… the healer. Of course! I should have known he was going to cause trouble for me.
“Why are you doing this?” I demand, anger building in the pit of my stomach. Fire is at my fingertips, so easy to conjure now. I could get away from them, all of them, but I don’t want to hurt them if I don’t have to. Besides, is that how I would want Cas to discover the truth? In the monstrous burning of his father and guards?
“I’m sure of it, Your Majesty,” the healer says. “She cannot be human. There is something… unnatural about her. She must be locked away. I do not trust her.” The old man’s eyes flash with power.
“Father, this is ridiculous. I know Mae better than anyone and she is as human as you or I,” Cas insists.
The king regards me through hooded eyes. He had made up his mind about me the first time we met. He hates me. This is all a bit of amusement to him. With a shudder, I remember the hot pain in my shoulder when he hit me with an arrow in the Waerg Woods, and the cold expression in the eyes of the king as he lowered his bow. He had shot me simply for protecting Anta. For nothing more than sport.
“Take her to the cells!” he commands.
I’m hauled from the room. Cas struggles against the guard, his legs and arms thrashing. Ellen appears by his side, trying to soothe him, her mouth hanging open in shock.
