White Hart (White Hart series #1)

by Sarah Dalton

  “But the fumes killed the soil.”

  “And the animals, and some of the population.” Beardsley’s body seems to droop as he says this. He’s tired, I realise. Worked to the bone and weary of his king’s bad decisions. “I warned him, but…” He shakes his head sadly. “No one listens when you get to my age.”

  “No one listens to me at my age, either,” I say. “They never took me seriously at market. They listened to Father, though.”

  “Then I suppose we have more in common than I thought,” Beardsley says, managing a smile. “Now, are you going to tell me what you have found out snooping around the palace, or am I going to have to stand here all day?”

  I grin. It feels weird, as if I haven’t smiled in an age. “I have questions for you first.”

  He straightens up and stretches out his back. “I thought you might. And in that case, would you be a dear and fetch me a chair from my office? It’s just along the hallway there.”

  “You live in the basement?” I say, aghast.

  “It’s not so bad. You get used to the noise after a while. Now, chop-chop. My old bones will wither away soon. I’ll be nothing but a skeleton by the time you get back.” He claps his hands and widens his eyes. I dash through the dim corridor until I find a wooden door with a fancy contraption over the lock. “Just push it, dear. I haven’t locked it.”

  Beardsley’s office is more like a library. Books line the walls and are stacked up in precarious piles on every surface. His sizeable mahogany desk is lost beneath a pile of papers. I have to climb over a stack of books, trying not to upend his many half-empty goblets of musty wine. I clear yet more papers from the seat of the chair, most of which are filled with Beardsly’s tight scrawl. As my fingers grasp the wooden armrests of the chair, something catches my eye on his desk. It is a large, intricate illustration of some sort of moving vehicle. The design is almost cylindrical, with huge spoked wheels and a chimney. I wonder if I might ask Beardsley about that in the near future.

  When I return, the old man leans heavily on his cane. His shoulders lift at the sight of the chair. I realise then that he suffers when he stands, so I place the chair close enough that he only has to lean back to sit.

  “I would have invited you into my office to talk,” he says, apologetic, his mouth forming a half smile. “But you have seen for yourself. I need a little cleanup.”

  “A match should do it,” I reply.

  Beardsley laughs until he wheezes. “Yes, I think that would be just the ticket. Most of those musings are utterly worthless anyway. Now, I do not know your name, girl.”

  “Mae.”

  “And how did you get to the Red Palace, Mae?”

  “I helped Prince Casimir rescue the craft-born.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Then the realm owes you a sizeable debt, young Mae. I at least owe you the honest answers to some questions.” He leans back in his chair and interlinks his fingers. “Please. Go ahead.”

  “What’s this?” I point to the bowl of dirt on the palace floor.

  “Ahh,” he says. “An excellent question. The answer goes back to long before you were born, to when magic was in abundance. It was before the craft-born, even, when the craft ran through the veins of every inhabitant in Aegunlund, and this patch of soil was part of Connectors to the craft. You see, the Red Palace was built on this soil on purpose—to harness the power of the land. Craft comes from nature. The laws of the world are tied up in nature. It is the life force of all things.”

  “Like the songs,” I murmur.

  “Pardon?” Beardsley leans forward.

  “The songs of my people.” Without meaning to, I break into the same song I sang at my father’s funeral. My voice cracks at the end.

  “Yes, Mae,” he says afterword. “Like your songs.”

  “So what is the significance of keeping this soil here? Why in the basement of the castle near all the engines and machines and things?”

  “Because this is where the craft-born feeds magic back into the realm. Her blood feeds the soil and powers the castle. It’s rather neat, isn’t it? Like an engine for magic.”

  I suppose it is, really. At least now I know what I need to do in order to bring the magic back. “Does it mean the craft-born has to stay in the castle for it to work?”

  “Oh no,” he says. “Once their blood has reignited the magic, they are free to leave.”

  “Does it only last as long as she is alive?” I ask.

  “Another good question, Mae,” he says. His slight nod indicates that he is impressed with me. It’s a nice feeling. My thoughts flit back to Father, and my heart pangs again. “Yes, and no. You see, the craft runs through the craft-born’s veins. She has the blood of the Ancients within them, you see. When she has children, there is a chance that ability passes onto the next generation, and the next.”

  My chest tightens when I realise, with shock, that it means my mother had craft abilities.

  “It can lay dormant in some,” Beardsley continues. “In the case of the last craft-born, well—she never had children, you see. There was a sister, but she was lost to the Waerg Woods.” A jolt runs up my spine. My mother!

  “So where did the last craft-born live? Was she in the castle? What happened to her?” I ask, talking so fast it must be suspicious.

  “The craft-born has always had a position in court. Generations from Cyne go back for hundreds of years. So she lived here with a younger sister. Her name was Felicity. A lovely woman. Died younger than a person should. It was really rather tragic. That’s why the king decided that from that year onwards, the craft-born must marry the crown prince. He had hoped that by doing that, he would secure a lineage of craft-borns in the palace for all time.”

  “The king went to all this trouble to grow food to sell to the Haedalands?” I muse out loud. Something doesn’t add up. “What about the diamonds he makes to pay off his debt? There are rumours all over…”

  For the first time, Beardsley’s eyes turn stone cold. “I think that is enough questioning for one day. I’m very tired. Will you help an old man back to his office?”

  “Of course.”

  As I’m about to help Beardsley to his feet, a young squire comes running down to the basement. “The king is holding court! The craft-born is to perform the ritual in two days. The prince and the craft-born are to be married in one week!”

  My heart sinks like a stone.

  *

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask.

  Cas runs ahead of me. He is laughing as he hops up the steps, sometimes two at a time. His energy is seemingly endless. “I want to show you something, Mae. I think you’ll like it.”

  I’m out of puff by the time Cas grabs my hand and pulls me towards an airy window at the top of the palace. Above us, I hear the chugs of the machines as they pitch smog into the air.

  “What is this? I cannot see a thing with all this smoke.” I wince and cough, wafting my hand in front of my face.

  “Wait until the clock strikes midday,” he says.

  I open my mouth to ask why, but he silences me with a finger to his lips. “You’ll see.”

  The first chime strikes. I squint against the smoke, wondering if Cas is secretly trying to choke me to death. But when the second chime strikes, I realise something is different. The chugs have stopped. The machines are quiet. The chimes of the clock tower continue, and as they do, the smoke begins to clear. My eyes open wide, taking in the sight before me. It is minutes before the majority of the smoke clears, and the sight before me is still fuzzy, but for the first time in my entire life, I can see the sea.

  I rush towards the window and grip the ledge with my fingers. My eyes are hungry for more, and I will the smoke to part so I can see further. As I wish so hard, a breeze moves the smoke away, giving me the perfect view of the blue sea stretching out for miles.

  “It’s beautiful,” I breathe.

  “What a strange wind,” Cas says next to me.

  “Undercurrent,”
I add hastily, knowing my craft has come to me.

  “I suppose it could be,” he replies. “Anyway, I knew you would love it. The palace is turning off the machines so that Ellen can start them again.”

  The sound of her name twists my stomach. In just a few hours, I have to figure out a way to ignite the magic in the realm whilst also making it look like it is Ellen with the power. More importantly, I have to work up the desire to help her. I have to decide whether I want to help her or not, because if I help her, the realm will be living a lie.

  “Why didn’t you bring her?” I don’t mean the words as a slight, but they come out harsher than I intended.

  “She has a dress fitting for the ceremony.”

  I should have known I wasn’t his first choice.

  “And I knew you would love to see the sea.” His smile is so warm it heats my freezing cold toes.

  “I do love it,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”

  Cas comes closer and places a casual arm over my shoulder. My body tingles in response. “We did it, Mae. You and me. We survived the Waerg Woods and brought Ellen back to the Red Palace. We had an amazing adventure, and truth be told, I’m a little sad that it’s over. But now, I get to marry the craft-born and one day be a fair ruler. I owe all that to you. You’re my best friend, and I’ll never forget you.”

  “Why would you forget me? Am I going somewhere?” My voice comes out small and pathetic.

  “I hope not. It’s just, well, you’re so brave and feisty. I presumed that you would want to go on another adventure.”

  “Maybe I should,” I say folding my arms and glaring at Cas. “I never avenged my father’s death in the Borgan camp.”

  Cas’s expression changes, turns concerned. “I thought you’d given that up. I thought our time with the Ibenas changed your mind?”

  Angry heat swells up from my guts, but it isn’t anger at Allerton and the people who killed my father. It’s anger at Cas and the fact he doesn’t seem to see me. “It did,” I admit. “Ignore me. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  We turn back to the sea in silence. I let out a sigh. “I’d like to go there one day.”

  “Then you’ll go. Either with me, or Ellen, or… someone of your own. I really want you to find someone who you love,” Cas says.

  “So, even after getting to know her these last few weeks, you still feel the same way about her?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “I don’t have any doubts about marrying her.”

  When I look into Cas’s eyes, I realise what I have to do. Beardsley told me that it is the craft-born’s blood that brings magic back to the realm… so I have to give Ellen my blood. But more than that, I have to move on. It’s time to let Cas go. It’s time to leave.

  *

  The palace puts on a feast before the ritual, and I eat my fill. Years of surviving on meagre portions has made me appreciate food when I have it, but if I continue to have food always available, I’ll have to rethink that attitude. Not today, though. Today is a good day to eat until my stomach hurts.

  Ellen and Cas sit opposite each other, dressed in their finery. Lyndon is next to Cas, and he keeps leaning over his brother to steal chicken legs, or interrupting his conversations to Ellen. Their competitiveness would be amusing if it wasn’t for the cruel set of Lyndon’s jaw.

  I sit with the servants, wearing a ridiculous dress that Cas told me “makes me look like a girl”. It’s a pastel blue, ill fitting at my bust—or rather lack of bust—and drags along the floor, collecting dust. Ellen has made me her lady-in-waiting, and my duties begin when she marries Cas. I didn’t have the heart to tell her my duties will never begin because I plan to leave before they are married.

  When the music starts, many of the court members get up to dance. It’s a good opportunity to go over the plan. I pull Ellen to one side so we can discuss it out of the way of prying eyes. As soon as she is away from the crowd, her face changes, and tears stream down her cheeks.

  “What are we going to do? I can’t bring magic back to the realm—”

  “I know how to do it,” I say. “I found out about the ceremony. You have to cut your hand and drop blood into the soil in the basement.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Ellen asks, gripping my hand so tight I worry if the bones in my hand might snap.

  I pass her a small vial of my blood. Her eyes grow wide with understanding.

  “You’ll have to angle your body so they don’t see the bottle, and then tip it into the soil as you’re supposed to be cutting your hand with the ceremonial knife.”

  She nods. “That’s possible.” I turn to leave, but Ellen pulls me back. Her sharp nails scratch against my skin. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

  My stomach flips. I’ve been asking myself the same thing since arriving in Cyne. Beardsley’s words about the bloodline haunt me. By doing this, we’re tricking the realm into thinking they will always have a craft-born heir. But what if I couldn’t produce an heir anyway? What if Cas never loved me, and we were pressured into creating a human being out of complete indifference to each other? I couldn’t do that. This way the right person becomes queen, and Cas gets to spend the rest of his life with a woman he loves. If I ever find someone else to love, and I ever continue my bloodline, my child will have one more task to complete. Otherwise, the world will just have to keep turning without the craft, because if I think about the alternative, my chest compresses with the pressure.

  “Yes,” I say.

  More tears roll down Ellen’s cheeks. “I don’t know if I am. I don’t know if I can ever love—”

  “What are you two girls wittering on about in the corner?” It’s Lyndon. His presence makes my skin crawl.

  Ellen quickly wipes away her tears and lets go of my hand. She straightens herself up and lifts up her chin. “I’m thanking my future lady-in-waiting for being such a good friend. She saved my life, even after I was beastly to her in Halts-Walden.”

  Lyndon snorts. “You being beastly? I can hardly believe it. Are you sure it wasn’t her?” He looks me up and down as if I’m something nasty he’s scraped from his shoe. I glare at him in return. “I came to ask for your hand, my lady. I would love to say I danced with the craft-born before she’s shipped off to my brother.”

  I notice repulsion ripple through Ellen’s body, but to her credit, she puts her hand in his and smiles as though he is the only man in the room. Ellen can act her pants off, that’s for sure. It’s probably a good thing, as well, considering what we are about to pull off.

  The ritual is set to take place at sunset, so there is still time for drinking and merriment. By the time we take to the stairs, there are a fair few who struggle to remain upright, and the king has slapped the backside of half a dozen servant girls and growled at his wife more than once. Most of his court keep away from him. The vulgarity of it all shocks me. This is supposed to be a sacred ritual, and they are turning it into a mockery.

  I walk so quickly I cannot think, because if I do think, even for a moment, I begin to doubt myself. The vision from the Nix comes back to my mind, the way I passed my abilities onto Ellen and she thanked me on her wedding day. Maybe this is what I’m doing right now—I’m giving up my powers?

  I grit my teeth and continue to the basement. It’s for Cas. I’m doing this so he will be happy. I’m doing this for love.

  We slip back into the crowd. Ellen closes her fist, keeping the precious blood within it. We have no idea if this will work.

  A cloaked priest begins the ceremony as the people circle the soil, and I notice that the sombre occasion has sobered each and every one of them. The priest bows his head, and we follow suit. As he begins his incantation, the wound on my forearm begins to throb. I had made a cut there to fill the vial, but I wrapped it tightly with bandages. It’s as though the soil sings out for my blood. It almost pulls me towards it. My heart pumps harder. Did I cut too deep? Am I going to faint during the ritual?

  The priest incant
s in the Ancient language. The words are like a swirl of power, and a light breeze whips up the hair from the back of my neck. Confused at the sudden gust of wind, I glance around at the people in the basement. None of them have noticed the breeze, and I don’t see anyone’s hair moving. It’s just me. I close my eyes, and the priest goes on, his voice droning, low and powerful. Heat flares in my chest, a burning that makes me gasp and clutch my heart. A few eyes move to me, and I bow my head. This must be some sort of side effect to the ritual. The sacred soil is calling to me, and it is showing me my powers.

  When the fresh scent of the woods enters my nostrils I’m awash with contentment. It is only marred by my imagination thinking it can see the amber eyes of Allerton looking out from the crowd. But quick as a flash it is gone.

  Next comes water. The sound of gushing waves fills my ears. The world is drowned out, apart from the sound of rushing rivers. Then silence. The priest has finished, and he holds out the ceremonial knife to Ellen.

  “You must make the sacrifice yourself,” he says.

  She is clever as she pretends to make the cut, angling her fist in such a way that no one would be able to tell she tips the vial instead. I watch her chest rise and fall as she lifts her fist over the soil, letting my blood seep through her closed fingers.

  Now my heart stops. There is complete silence in the palace as the first few drops fall onto the soil. Cas stares at his future wife in awe. The glow of the candles reminds me of the first night we talked, when the sunset highlighted his features.

  This has to work.

  Three more drops hit the soil, and nothing happens. The crowd begin to look around them at the machines. They should be moving by now. The magic should have brought them back to life and brought the realm back with it. The king clenches his fist and leans forward with his teeth bared like a wild animal. Feet shuffle around me as people realise how awkward this moment has become. Ellen glances towards me with her mouth hanging open in desperation.

  This has to work.

  Another drop hits the soil. My dreams flash before my eyes, the ones where I become entwined with the soil. I am part of the nature and it is part of me.