White Hart

by Sarah Dalton

  We’re under Aldrych the Second’s rule, now, a man I know little about because of how isolated we are. His reputation is one of greed. The only thing I know is that he wants his precious Red Palace to make his gems. Apparently the craft is needed for that. I don’t know how it works. Part of me would love to see the castle, to discover what makes it so special.

  “Well, Ellen is craft-born, after all.” I snort. She’s got about as much craft in her as the muck in Farmer Black’s pigpen.

  “Are you complaining, Mae? You’ve wanted nothing more than to avoid Ellen’s fate. Ever since…” He trails off.

  Ever since I realised I have the magic in me. To finish his sentence, I lift a hand and click with my thumb and index finger. The butterflies that usually hide away between our flowers reveal themselves in the garden. There are dozens of them fluttering through the sky of all colours: red, yellow, blue, patterned with eyes that stare out like rubies. They fly to me and cluster around my hand.

  Father shakes his head, but he laughs. “If only your mother could see you.”

  A bold butterfly with wings the colour of sapphires lands on my nose, tapping me with its antennae.

  “I just wanted to call you,” I say. “There’s no job for now.”

  The butterfly leaves my nose sharply, as though in a huff. The others follow, flapping their tiny wings, disappearing back amongst the flowers.

  “You shouldn’t call them whenever you feel like it,” Father warns. “Nature doesn’t exist to serve you and your every whim.”

  I’ve heard this speech many a time, so I clap my hands together to prevent a long lecture. “Stew it is, then!”

  Father puts an arm around my shoulders as we head back to the hut. “Rabbit stew, in fact. With carrots and mint. I need to fatten you up—I can feel your ribs!”

  I pat my tunic. “Really?” I am small for my age.

  He chuckles as we walk through the doorway. I help him up the stone step. “You’re still growing. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be a few inches taller by your sixteenth birthday.”

  I lift his arm from my shoulders, and it drags dark curls in front of my eyes. I push them back behind my ears. “I doubt it.”

  “Sit down and eat your meal.” Father points to the table, laid out with a bowl of food. It’s barely enough for the two of us. “Tomorrow will be a big day. We’ll see the prince, and when he takes Ellen away, we’ll never have to worry again about you being sent to the Red Palace.”

  I like the sound of that. As I shovel down the rabbit stew, my shoulders lighten. For years we’ve worried about my powers. We know little about craft and the craft-born, except that the magic within me seems to allow me to call on nature. I don’t know why it makes me powerful or how it would benefit the realm, I just know that I don’t want to be a princess and I never have. I can’t think of anything worse than flouncing about in fancy dresses, cooped up in the Red Palace forever, forced into marrying someone I don’t even know. I certainly don’t want to use my powers to help the king become even richer.

  But there is something in me that longs to find out more about the powers within me. Sometimes I fantasise about disappearing from Halts-Walden and travelling Aegunlund in search of answers. I want to be in the woods with the birds and the butterflies. I want to climb trees and ride Anta ’til my arse-cheeks are sore. I don’t know why I’m craft-born, and I don’t really care. All I know is whatever the reason, it has to be more than sitting pretty on a throne. There must be more to life. There has to be freedom and adventure in this world. I want to find it.

  Chapter Two – The Silver Prince

  I wake to drizzle filtering through the thinning thatch above. It plops on my nose like tears from the sky.

  “Blasted roof.” Father limps into the room, his short curly hair dewy from the rain drops. “I’ve brought a bucket. You’ll have to move your bed for tomorrow.”

  I roll from the straw and push it away from the leak. Father bustles around, trying to position the bucket and hold his cane at the same time. He drops the bucket and swears.

  “Let me—” I say.

  “No, no. I can do it.” He leans down to pick up the bucket and groans with the extra weight on his bad knee.

  “Now then, old man,” I chastise. “Are you letting your stubborn pride get in the way? Let me put it in place. No arguments.” I hold up a finger as he opens his mouth. “You cut the bread for breakfast.”

  His face breaks into a smile, and his shoulders soften. He places a hand on the side of my face. “You’re a good ’un, my daughter.” His eyes suddenly glisten, and I drop my gaze to the floor. He sniffs and his back straightens. “Something in my eye, I think.” He shuffles off to sort the bread.

  With a chuckle, I dump the bucket beneath the leak and move our things away from the sodden ground. What a sentimental old thing he is.

  After breaking bread and drinking down milk, we set out into the garden to check on the vegetables. The crops are coming along nicely and will give us a decent trade in a month or so. The rain will help. Rain and sun. I lift my face to the sky and feel the lukewarm water against my eyelids. It’s a good day to ride Anta. Stupid prince ruining my fun.

  “You should wear a dress.”

  I open my eyes and fix them on Father. “A dress? But I don’t own any.”

  “There are dresses in the chest belonging to your mother,” he replies, the corners of his mouth turning up in delight. He’s enjoying my discomfort. “I’d love to see my only daughter dressed nicely for a change, rather than scampering around in dirty tunics. Wash your face, too.”

  I throw down my trowel and stomp back to the hut. How can I refuse him when he mentions Mother? I try to ignore the small part of me longing to wear her clothes, to feel what she felt, to look how she looked.

  The chest sits in the far corner of our hut, alone in the darkness. Like she is in death. I clench my fists. It isn’t right to think like that. I exhale and relax my hands. Maybe this is what I need. I need to be closer to her. With my eyes fixed on the chest, I rush forward so quickly I almost trip over my feet. In seconds I have the lid open, and Mother’s skirts and dresses lie in wait.

  She didn’t own many clothes, and most are almost threadbare from wear and tear. I hold up a long red gown with wide sleeves and embroidery on the bodice. It is soft to the touch, and there’s a lingering scent beyond the must and mould, a lemon citrus scent. I give it a shake and lay it down over the chest while I undress.

  The dress fits me quite well, although the sleeves and hem are too long. There’s no time to make amendments now, not that I’d know how anyway, so I lift the skirt and fold it at the middle, using the belt from my tunic to hold it in place. Father comes into the hut to find me smoothing out curly hair between my fingers.

  He gawps at me. “You’re… you’re the spit of her.” His voice is a rasp, and his eyes are wide. “You really are.”

  He disconcerts me with his tender gaze. There’ve been quite enough emotional pauses for one morning. I slap him on the shoulder. “Let’s go meet the bastard prince then, eh?” And then I belch.

  Father’s illusion is shattered. “Can’t you let a father enjoy a special moment with his daughter?” He frowns at me, but I ignore it and take his arm to help him out of the hut.

  “Come on, old man. Let’s go and curtsey to the prince,” I say.

  “You’re all grown up, Mae. Where has the time gone?”

  “It’s gone to hell, with us cutting up wood and getting splinters for our trouble.” My boot sucks into the mud as we take a right outside the hut and follow the path towards the village market. “The prince will love getting dirty. I hope Ellen is worth it. I’m sure she’s wearing something fitting for the occasion.” Crass and gaudy, no doubt.

  “Of course he thinks Ellen is worth it,” Father replies. “He thinks she is the craft-born, the one in a generation with a power centred on nature. When the magic of the craft-born is alive, it spreads throughout the realm, meaning ot
hers can wield its power.”

  I hang my head. Father has mentioned it before. It makes my chest heavier knowing that such responsibility rests on my shoulders. All I have to do is reveal my powers and use them to bring magic back, but I don’t know if that’s the life I want. It’s too much pressure. I find myself withdrawing back into my dress. Danger is one thing, but responsibility is completely different.

  Father notices my silence and adds in a hushed mutter, “That blasted miller will be puffed up like a peacock. Unbearable man.”

  I laugh and pat his arm, the heaviness lifting. “Don’t hold back, Father. Goodness knows, I’ve never heard you say a bad word about anybody.”

  “Well, today a girl undeserving is granted an opportunity many want—”

  “Father—”

  “It’s true, Mae, whether you want it to be or not. Most young girls would kill to be a queen one day. I’m almost positive some actually have killed in the past—”

  “We’ve talked about this. It’s not what I want. He could be ugly, fat, unpleasant… rude… Who knows? I’m not prancing around in a dress for the rest of my life. My place is here, with you.” I squeeze his arm. The words sound half-hearted even to myself. I am saying the things he wants to hear. What I leave unsaid, well, it might break his heart. There must be more to life than Halts-Walden, but the thought of leaving Father behind on his own… I couldn’t… Could I?

  “Very well, Mae. But know that you’ve not missed your opportunity yet. The prince is not married. You could grow to like him.”

  “Unless the prince knows how to cull an oak or carve from ash, I’m not interested. I don’t like pampered boys.”

  We move through the fence posts into the market. The milkmaid’s handiwork, now complete, gives the illusion of walking beneath a sky of colourful flowers. I inhale their scent. The fragrance is so sweet that the craft stirs inside me and I long to call the butterflies again.

  “Goodness, look at the town,” Father says. I help him through the cobbles of the market square. His cane taps as we walk. He nods and smiles at the many people milling around. “Look, the tanners have scrubbed up. Even the blacksmith. The bakers have made a huge loaf for the occasion. There’s food everywhere.”

  Men and women huddle around the small daub-coated shops, many holding tankards and smoking pipes near the tavern entrance. They wear their best outfits with embroidered tunics and slicked back hair. The ladies have plaited their hair and woven the plaits prettily atop their heads.

  “Where?” I step in front of Father, searching greedily for the food.

  “That’s not for you, little miss.” The baker’s wife shoos me away, flapping her broad red hands.

  “Little miss, indeed.”

  “Don’t create a scene, Mae. We have to fit in here.”

  “I would never dream of it.” As we turn away I make a rude gesture at her behind Father’s back. The baker’s wife scowls at me.

  “What are you laughing at?” Father asks, eying me suspiciously.

  “Nothing, nothing. Shall we take a seat until the prince arrives?”

  The Fallen Oak has set out barrels and stools for the onlookers. I settle Father down and he stretches out his bad leg. But I’m too agitated to sit. My muscles tingle. I want to be running in the woods or riding Anta.

  “Have you seen Anta this morning?” I ask.

  Father leans on his cane and looks up at me, squinting against the sun. “Not seen him.” He shrugs. “I’m sure he’s in the woods.”

  That’s what I’m worried about. It would be an opportune moment for someone to sneak into the woods and shoot Anta for his fur, or for luck, as some of the more superstitious believe. On more than one occasion, I’ve seen a pig farmer perform the gesture of protection from the gods when I pass him with Anta. I’m sure he believes Anta is some sort of demon.

  I regard the crowds, searching for poachers and drunkards, the kind of unsavoury men who hang around our hut at night waiting for Anta to appear to them. I see some of them; others are missing.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I say. Before Father can protest, I’ve hitched up my skirts and set off back through the crowds, dodging the stout bodies of workmen, the shocked faces of their wives, and the tiny children skipping along the market. I must look a sight, but I don’t care. I have to check on Anta. If I can just check he’s all right…

  I duck beneath the flowers and carry on through the market with my skirts dragging. I hitch up my belt, and the lengths of material come loose beneath it. I swear as my feet get caught. Distracted by my dress, I don’t notice the girls approaching from the mill. We run straight into each other. When I step back and rub my sore nose, I realise that I’ve bumped into the one and only craft-born—and soon to be princess of our realm—Ellen Miller, of the millers.

  “Oh, do watch where you’re going,” she says, her lips curling with disgust.

  I curtsey sarcastically. “Your majesty.”

  “When I am queen, I’ll be able to arrest people who insult me,” she replies. A blond girl called Alice titters stupidly behind her.

  “Then I shall avoid the queen. Now, if you’ll let me pass, I have somewhere to be.”

  Ellen, who I notice is wearing a stiff corset of bright scarlet with her bosom bulging over the top, lifts her skirts and sidesteps directly in front of me. “But the prince will be arriving shortly.”

  “I don’t care about the prince. I need to get to the woods.”

  The girls behind Ellen, her usual troupe of followers, whisper and share worried glances. Ellen’s face pales. “You spend far too long in that place. It’s unnatural. You’re unnatural.”

  “So are you.” I can’t help the smirk stretching across my face. “Craft-born. I hope you give us a demonstration of your abilities later.”

  Ellen’s cheeks become a shade similar to the colour of her clothes. “I will. She lifts her dress and jerks her head away from me.

  I can’t help but watch them shuffle away, with their silly little heeled shoes clipping on the stones. They are forced to hop over puddles, and one girl squeals when her dress catches the mud.

  “Idiots,” I say, turning on my heel and pelting towards the woods. My hair whips against my cheeks.

  I burst through the first throng of trees, breathing the forest air into my lungs. My dress streams out behind me. It drags along the ground, collecting twigs, dirtying on the mud. For a brief moment, I wonder if Mother ever ran like this. Father will be disappointed, but he knows I’m like this. He knows I’m no good.

  “Anta!” I shout into the lurking shadows. When I stop running, the wind seems to freeze. The rain has stopped. Bushes rustle, and I whip my head around, air expelling from my lungs in a rush. “Anta!”

  A twig snaps. I grip hold of my dress. Maybe coming here alone was a bad idea.

  “Anta?”

  Something moves. I catch it with the corner of my eye. It’s dark, not white like Anta. I shouldn’t have come here on my own. How far have I run into the woods? How deep am I in the Waerg Woods, with the shadows waiting…? I will my legs to move, ignoring the tremble in my muscles. A shape catches the corner of my eye. There’s something watching me, and it isn’t my white hart. I spin on my heel and start to run, but my feet catch on my dress and I fall forwards in the mud. It splatters on my skin. I can taste it in my mouth, bitter and mildewed. My hands shake as I push myself up from the ground. Gathering my skirts, I stumble forward, desperate to be away from the looming trees. The footsteps sound too close behind me as I urge myself forwards. Willing myself to be brave, to face whatever threat awaits me, I turn and face my attacker.

  “Wha…? Who are you?” I say, breathlessly.

  “What are you doing, lass? Why are you scrabbling about in the dirt?”

  Three men sit atop their steeds. Two wear metal plates over their clothes. The other—a teenage boy of about my own age—wears some sort of green-ivy headdress and a long red cape draping over the quarters of his horse. He has sa
ndy blond hair and bright silver eyes. There’s a playful, sarcastic smile on his face, which annoys me.

  “What does it look like? I fell,” I reply.

  “You Halts-Walden folk are strange,” he says. “And rude. Is that how you address your prince?”

  I swear under my breath. With the fright, I’d forgotten all about the prince. I attempt a half-hearted curtsey in contrition. “Sorry, um, Your Majesty.”

  “Highness,” he corrects. “Well, that’s quite the worst curtsey I’ve ever seen in my life, but I suppose it will have to do. I must confess that we’re rather lost and late. My guard saw a rare white stag and we thought to hunt it. Father would be so impressed to mount the head of a—”

  “How dare you.” I clench my fists in fury.

  The prince’s jaw falls open. “I beg your pardon?”

  “How dare you hunt my stag?”

  “I’m sorry, your stag? Surely you don’t own the stag.” He moves his horse closer to me and stares down at me with a curious expression on his face. “You.”

  “Yes, he is mine, so no one touches a hair on his head, or I kill them.”

  One of the guards, wearing what I now realise is armour, pulls his sword a finger’s width from its sheath. The prince raises a hand to stop him.

  “Are you threatening me?” he asks.

  My heart quickens with panic, but I decide to stand my ground, so I straighten my back and smooth my skirts. “No, I’m simply stating a fact.”

  My words hang in the air as I wait for the prince to respond. His eyes narrow at me. At any moment, I expect him to order his guard to cut off my head.

  His laugh breaks the silence. “Have you heard that? The lass is stating a fact. Well, I’ve not been spoken to like that in… well… never. Now, please do not tell me your name is Ellen.”

  “No, it most certainly isn’t. Thank the gods. I wouldn’t swap places with that ninny for all the sticky pastries from the bakery.”