White Hart

by Sarah Dalton

  “Come on. Drink it down.” I tip his head back and pour the water over his mouth.

  When I’m satisfied he’s taken enough fluid, I check over his cuts. His wrist is badly damaged, and I lack the linens needed to bandage him. The best I can do for now is wash out any dirt and use strips of clothing to stop the bleeding. Tomorrow I will need to look for the herbs Father told me could be used as a poultice if I ever found myself lost in the woods alone. When Casimir is settled, I take a bedroll from our pack, pull him up away from the stream, and light a fire near him. He sleeps like a baby, his light eyelashes resting on his pale cheeks.

  I shake my head. This is no place for him. I should be alone, handling the horrors of the forest by myself, and he should be in the Red Palace with his family, yet why do I want him to wake? Why do I want to speak with him, to talk about anything and nothing?

  He rolls onto one side and bundles the blanket up between his knees. “Ellen,” he whispers.

  I roll my eyes. Of course. I save his life twice, tend to his wounds, carry him like a baby, and even put a blanket over his sleeping form, and yet still he dreams of Ellen, that damned idiot miller’s girl.

  No, she’s not the idiot. I am. What did I expect? For a prince to dream of a dirty, skinny, dark-skinned girl like me? Did I think people would write tales of our love story? Of course not. When is it the girl with the cuts on her fingers and splinters in her feet? When is it the girl with mud on her legs and rips in her tunic? Never, that’s when. You fool, Mae. You utter fool.

  Anta is still by the stream, and I have neglected his injuries in favour of tending to the prince first. Well, I won’t make that mistake twice. Anta is my oldest friend. I should act like it. As he silently sucks in the water, I remove his tack and examine the flecks of pink where the blood has mingled with his fur. There are many cuts, but none that will not heal. I thank the gods that most have remained relatively shallow. It could have been a lot worse.

  Gwen is suffering more. Her flank trembles beneath my fingers as I touch her soft chestnut coat. There are wide hacks across her quarters. I rinse them with the water, washing away any dirt to try to prevent infection. They should be smeared with the poultice and wrapped in linens to make sure, but I can’t find any herbs in the dark.

  Finally, I strip to my undergarments and step into the stream, gasping as the cold water hits my all too fresh wounds. The water is barely up to my mid-calves, yet the pain makes me let out a hiss. After my body acclimatises, I wash each bruise, cut, and graze until I’m certain the dirt has been taken care of, then I head back to the fire. By now I know that neither Anta or Gwen will run away. They are too loyal for that.

  With the fire at my feet and a blanket beneath my head, I drift away to slumbers. I’m too exhausted to keep watch and will have to rely on Anta’s loud snorts to wake me if trouble arises.

  My mind wakes before my body. My eyes open at pre-dawn, where the sky is a grey-red colour and the grass is its freshest. Anta is grazing with Gwen. He lifts his head to me and snorts a good morning. I roll over to face Casimir, surprised to find his eyes open and watching me.

  “Hello,” he says. “What am I doing here?”

  “I brought you here on Anta’s back.”

  “How did we get free from the vines?”

  I hesitate. I don’t want Casimir to know about my craft-abilities. “I managed to get my dagger free from my belt, and I cut myself away. Then I cut you free.”

  “I don’t know how you managed it, but thank you. I thought I was going to die. That’s twice you’ve saved me now.”

  I shrug. “And it’s twice I’ve led us into danger.”

  “I had the most pleasant dream,” he says. “It was my wedding day, and Ellen was walking towards me in her best gown of white feathers and lace. She looked beautiful. But when I woke up, it felt so distant and, well, stupid. I couldn’t be further from her at the moment. She is kidnapped, all because of me and what the realm wants from her. To think she is forced into marrying me is… abhorrent. Yet, for some reason, it is all I want in the world. Does that make sense?” He doesn’t give me time to answer. His eyes are glazed with the look of someone deep inside their own thoughts. “Of course it doesn’t. You must think I’m a romantic twit with ideas above his station. How can one fall in love so quickly? I don’t know. My mother doesn’t even love my father. When I was little, I tried to think of ways to help them fall in love. I would leave gifts for my mother in her room and pretend they were from Father. Little trinkets, like a single red rose or a box of the finest chocolates in Cyne. She never fell for it, though, especially not with my scrawling handwriting. I suppose you can’t force love. It has to grow inside yourself, like a blooming flower. Perhaps I am trying to force myself to love. Maybe that’s what I’m doing right now. What if I don’t love her at all? I hardly know her… What if I just want to?” He stops speaking and clears his throat, as though he is only now aware of me being near him.

  “I should find ingredients for a poultice,” I say, forcing my body up from the warm blankets. I walk away from Casimir with a strange ache in my stomach, one that I suspect cannot be satiated with food.

  *

  Dawn breaks as I wander the forest for the herbs I need, and for a little while, it seems hard to believe that such a beautiful place could be home to such danger. Not far from the stream is a meadow nestled between thickets of hawthorn trees. Blue and gold flowers grow there, and butterflies dance around them. A warm sun shines down, reflecting in the shiny grass. The glowbugs are gone. I wish I could thank them for saving my life last night. Now I finally understand how powerful nature is as an ally. Without their interference, I would be dead, and so would the prince. No wonder the Wanderers want the craft-born.

  If I had never hidden my powers, it would have been me who was kidnapped. The thought sends a shudder through my body. It seems so stupid to think that all this time, I could have been learning the limits of my power. I spent most of my life hiding it, only ever letting myself use a little magic now and then, and I only ever used it to summon nature, to help our carrots grow or stop greenfly from attacking the lettuces. I should have equipped myself, learned how to use the magic to defend myself. But that is the danger of life sometimes, underestimating ourselves and our future. Despite longing for adventure, I never let myself believe I would have one.

  How wrong I was.

  I collect a few different types of moss and wild herbs. It’s difficult to tell which is which from the descriptions father told me about. When I get back to camp, I rub some of the leaves on my skin, checking for poisons. While I’m waiting I set up a pot of stew on the fire, the last of the soup made for me by the people of Halts-Walden. Then I sit back down and pull a small book from my pack and attempt to examine the pictures of plants and herbs.

  “What are you doing?” Casimir asks.

  “Trying to find the right kind of herbs to use. We need to treat your cuts.”

  He stares at the wounds on his arms. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” I try not to avoid his eyes. There’s an awkward atmosphere of over-intimacy after he shared the story about his parents. I get back to my pocketbook. After a few moments, I realise that the fire is beginning to die. But before I can stand, the prince climbs to his feet.

  “You need to rest, Casimir,” I chastise.

  “Call me Cas,” he replies. “That’s what my mother and my nurse call me.” His voice is strained, holding back the pain.

  He limps across to the fire and attempts to stoke it. But he is stiff and moves awkwardly, which tips the soup and knocks some of the firewood out of place.

  “You idiot!” I blurt out, leaping to my feet and attempting to rescue the soup. The tin is scalding, and I burn my fingertips trying to right it. Flames lick at my boots as I kick the wood back, keeping it contained. Sparks and ashes dart from the fire, hitting my skin and sizzling. I jump back and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

  Casimir plonks himself back down on th
e grass. “These injuries make me a burden. You should go on without me. You’ll be able to get Ellen back on your own anyway.” He rips the grass from the soil and stares at it, his hair covering his face.

  I sigh and sit back down on my bedroll, picking up the herbs and putting them into a wooden bowl. “Father used to say that complaining got you nowhere; doing got you anywhere.”

  “But what if you can’t do anything right?” he asks.

  “Then I suppose you learn how to make it right.” I begin to mash the herbs. As I’m doing so, a bubble of laughter escapes my throat.

  “What’s so funny?” Casimir lifts his head and regards me coolly. He must think I’m laughing at him.

  “Father used to say many things like that. But the only thing he ever achieved was a life of poverty, collecting wood to trade at market. I only now realised how ridiculous it is.” When I stop talking, the humour leaves my body, and I’m left with hollowness. Grief rushes back into my chest, so suddenly that I almost can’t breathe.

  There’s a brief silence, and then Casimir says, “That isn’t true. He raised you, and you are the strongest person I know. Have you ever thought that the reason he didn’t try in other things is because he put all of his efforts into raising you? Into making you the girl you are now?”

  I freeze. Very slowly, I raise my head and meet Casimir’s eyes. My heart is beating faster, but I don’t know why. My eyes burn with unshed tears, and tingles run up and down my arms. He keeps hold of my gaze.

  “It is the most admirable task a man can accomplish,” he says, and his smile is so open and warm that my chest swells.

  No one treats me like Casimir. No one considers me an equal like he does, touches me without even thinking I might be cursed. He never flinches or stares at me out of the corner of his eye as though I am going to steal or hurt him. I think back to the night of Father’s funeral and the moment Casimir placed a gold coin in my palm. Perhaps he isn’t all bad. I return the smile, calm my beating heart, and continue with the poultice.

  *

  Grinding the herbs gives my hands something to do but it leaves my mind free to digress to other things. The incident with the vines has taken us off the track of the Wanderers, and we’ve stalled in the same place for a long time. We can’t continue until Casimir and Gwen’s wounds are treated. We need to gather more food and fill up our canteens with water, too. What if I never catch up with the trail again? After all that staggering through the dark, we could be anywhere in the Waerg Woods.

  As I continue my task, a noise from the forest causes me to go completely still. It’s the clicking noise from the previous night, and a cold sensation spreads over my skin. I turn to Casimir. His eyes are wide, staring into the thicket of trees behind us. Gwen has her nose straight up in the air with her nostrils flared. She knows there is something lurking in the trees.

  Like before, the clicking and clacking sounds travel around us in a circle, sounding from the left and then to the right. Casimir grips the hilt of his sword.

  “Do you think we should investigate?” His voice trembles with fear.

  Deep down, I know that whatever makes that sound will catch up with us in the future, and it would make sense for us to attack first in order to have some sort of advantage. But the thought of coming face to face with whatever makes that unnatural noise creates a slick of sweat on my palms.

  I shake my head and swallow. “Maybe we should treat the cuts and move on. The poultice is almost ready.”

  With shaking hands, I apply the paste to Casimir, Gwen, and Anta’s cuts. The clicking continues around us, putting my teeth on edge. My knees shudder with the thought of it finding us. When it echoes further away, I let out a long breath.

  “Hey,” Casimir says. “You’ve not put any of this on your own cuts.”

  “Oh, they are fine, Casimir. I don’t need—”

  “Cas,” he corrects. “And nonsense.” He clutches the wooden bowl and plunges his fingers into the green goo. “Lift your shirt.”

  A red-hot flame sets my cheeks on fire. I can’t bare my skin to him. Can I? Casimir—no, Cas—urges me on with raised eyebrows, encouraging and calm.

  “It’s all right,” he says. “I won’t look at anything except the cuts on your stomach. It has been bleeding through your tunic. See?”

  I look down at where his forefinger rests on my belly. To feel his touch is somehow odd and exhilarating at the same time. The cloth is wet and stained. He’s right—I have been bleeding, and I hadn’t even noticed. I lift my top high enough to make the cut visible. It hasn’t healed over yet, and it is deeper than the others. Cas applies the paste, and I flinch at both the pain and the chill.

  Everywhere he touches me, my skin comes alive, and before long, the paste is a welcome sensation, cooling the heat within my body. Every now and then, I find myself searching his face for signs of disgust. Why isn’t he afraid of me like everyone else has been my entire life? The people of Halts-Walden seemed to think I had a disease they might catch, something that would dirty them if they touched me. Yet here is a prince who is willing to put his flesh on my flesh…

  “There, that should do it,” Casimir says. He smiles at me, his head not far from mine. I stand there for a few moments, still with my tunic lifted and my skin exposed, gazing into his flecked silver eyes. Casimir clears his throat. “You can put your top back now.”

  Him having to remind me sends more heat up to my face. “Right, yeah, of course.”

  Casimir goes to wash his hands in the stream, and I busy myself by packing away our belongings. Adrenaline courses through my body, turning me into a jerky, clumsy version of myself, dropping pans and tripping over stones. I’m aware of every part of my body and somehow unable to use them normally. By the time we are ready to leave, I have somewhat come to my senses and am more focussed on the job ahead. The clicking noise has disappeared back into the trees, lurking somewhere in the shadows.

  Chapter Eight – The Flock and the Flee

  I’ve lost sight of my mission. This isn’t a bonding trip with the prince. It’s about getting justice for my father and finding Ellen. I have to keep that singular focus in my mind.

  We’re in a part of the forest where warm sunshine filters through tall trees. The trees are unlike the birches at the shallow end of the forest. They spread up to the sky, breaking into almost vertical branches like spread fingers. The bark is a bronze colour, and the leaves are all shades of yellow to red.

  The forest floor is spongy from the layers of fallen leaves. I lead Anta, walking along the ground so I can pick up on any tracks. There has not been another soul walk these paths for a long time, at least not since the leaves carpeted the ground. My boots spring along; it’s like walking on thick moss or many blankets.

  Cas stops and sighs. “There is nothing here, Mae. The trail went cold long ago. I’ve spent long enough hunting with the king to know that we’re heading in the wrong direction.”

  “Then what do you suggest we do?” I snap. “I don’t see you coming up with any plans.”

  “I don’t see the harm in stopping and regrouping for a while. After all, it is blindly heading into danger which has almost got us killed—”

  “You blame me?” I say, whipping around to face him.

  “No, of course not,” he replies.

  “You do.” The thought makes me sadder than I care to admit.

  Anta moves rhythmically beside me. His jagged antlers bob up and down, and he chomps the bit in frustration. “Okay, we’ll slow down so we can scour the landscape for clues.”

  “Or stop,” he suggests again.

  He’s probably right, but a heavy desperation grips my insides, telling me that I should carry on and never stop. It urges me to keep looking because the tracks might be around the corner and then everything will be all right.

  “Mae,” he says, this time with a quiet voice I know I should heed. “I think we need a break.”

  We make camp and eat the last of our smoked meat. It
’s a meagre meal, followed by a handful of berries. The forest remains quiet, with only the sounds of our chewing, the animal’s grazing, and the occasional rustle of leaves. Every noise makes the hairs stand on the back of my arms.

  When we set off, I decide it’s time to increase our speed. There’s no point tracking the Wanderers here; the leaves are untouched. We might as well make good time through the forest.

  “Do you know what those trees are?” Cas asks, his neck craning up to the sky.

  I shake my head. “There is a lot I don’t know about these woods. Around every corner is a new species of plant.”

  “Do you see those birds?” Cas says.

  This time I squint against the sun and take a better look. High up in the highest branches are hundreds of dark coloured birds. They blend so well against the branches that I hadn’t noticed a thing.

  “I don’t like the look of them at all.” Cas urges Gwen on, overtaking me on Anta.

  “They don’t seem to be doing anything.” I shrug. “If they wanted to attack, they would have by now.” Of course, he doesn’t know about the fact I can control nature.

  “Keep up, Mae,” Cas says, turning back to check on me.

  I press my legs against Anta. But as we’re moving along the path, one of the large black birds swoops down towards us. It caws and flaps its wings, which are a glorious shimmering black with highlights of emerald green.

  “Well, hello there,” I say, holding out an arm. The bird hops onto my forearm and regards me with its tiny glass-bead eyes. I dig a berry out of my pocket and feed it to the bird. “Cas!” I call ahead. “Look how tame this bird is.”

  The prince turns back, and his face pales in horror. “What are you doing with that thing? Shoo it away.”

  “It’s not harming anything.”

  The bird turns away from me and caws softly.

  “That thing is staring at me far more than a bird should,” Cas says. He has pulled Gwen to a halt, and his knuckles are bright white from gripping the reins.