White Hart

by Sarah Dalton

  “Why are there no crops here?” I ask the healer. I nod towards the low clouds hanging over the scene.

  “It’s the fumes,” he says. “It killed most of the fields from Cyne to the river.”

  “Fumes? What is that?”

  “Smoke that comes from the Red Palace. When the last craft-born died and magic left the realm, the king had to develop a way to keep the Red Palace functioning. The only way he could do it was through burning coal from the Haedalands. The only problem is the smog, you see.”

  The carriage trundles on through the towns, and as it does, the smoke thickens. The scent of the air changes, with overpowering acrid odour. I can no longer smell the trees or honeysuckle, nor the pine of the Waerg Woods. This is unlike anything I’ve experienced before; the closest smell that I can remember is when the blacksmith’s caught on fire in Halts-Walden. Hot metal, leather, and thatch had burned that day.

  I cover my mouth with my sleeve. “Is it always like this?”

  The healer shrugs.

  There’s a heavy grinding of gates, as well as shouts and an announcing horn. I peer out of the carriage window. There isn’t much visible through the dense fumes, but I make out the shapes of guards opening the gates to the city Cyne. For a short moment, my heart swells with pride when I remember being a young girl staring out the window of our hut, dreaming of one day travelling the realm. Now I am at the king’s city itself.

  But then I remember all the heartbreak that has led me here. My father dying, Finn sacrificing himself for us, Cas running from the Borgans, never even looking back. The smoke-covered city doesn’t seem like such an achievement anymore, not when the king has already shot an arrow into my side and tried to kill Anta.

  Nevertheless, I stick my head out farther so I can see more of the city. As my eyes adjust to the hazy smoke, I see lanes of shops, brick built with roof shingles on top. Their signs sway with the breeze. The streets are cobbled, and women in fine dresses walk with their arms entwined with tall gentlemen in dark tunics with fitted jackets.

  The carriage turns a corner, and I see the Red Palace for the first time. My breath escapes my lungs. It is exactly how it was in my vision, from the huge winding cogs to the tall, bricked towers, to the pointed roofs escaping up above the thick clouds. The only difference is the weather. In my vision, it had been a beautiful sunny day. I can’t imagine the sun ever shining down on Cyne. It is too grey, too dirty.

  And it’s as I have that thought that the illusion shatters. The shop signs swing topsy-turvily, there are loose cobbles on the streets and missing bricks from the palace walls. The women in their fine dresses have mended patches that don’t quite match the colour of the original material. Men cover their mouths as they cough violently. This is not a fine city; it’s a city in decline. This is a place that used to thrive and is now dying. I am the only person who can save these people and save the city, but everyone thinks that person is Ellen.

  Now I realise that by pretending to be someone I’m not, I’ve robbed the world of magic. My thoughts shouldn’t be about myself or Cas or the king. They should be directed to the people coughing into their sleeves or starving as their crops fail. If my abilities mean I can save them, then I must use them.

  Chapter Twenty-Three – The Red Palace of Shambles

  When we enter the castle, I finally realise just how depleted the royal family has become, and I am made aware of how isolated I have been in Halts-Walden. The enormous doors creak and groan as the strange cogs work to open them. There’s a sense of rustiness about the place, as metal scrapes against stone. Inside the castle, I’m drawn to the cavernous spaces. The high ceilings make me feel like a speck of a human. It’s a place you can get lost in. It’s an empty place, one that should be filled with guards and soldiers. Instead, only a few guards await the king, and even fewer servants. Their uniforms are tatty and ripped. Their helmets are dull and misshapen. Now I understand why Cas came with just two bodyguards to Halts-Walden. The king cannot afford any more. He is a beggar king, and our realm is poor.

  A woman hurries through the hallways with her skirts collected in closed fists. She is easily the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, with golden hair cascading down her back like melted sunshine. Her lips are red and full. She wears a blue gown which trails along the floor, collecting dust. But you can tell that she doesn’t care. Her gaze is locked on one thing only—Casimir.

  “Mother,” Cas breathes.

  The woman scoops him up into her arms. “Oh, Cas, I thought I would never see you again.”

  “Put the boy down,” the king demands. “As if he isn’t enough of a mummy’s boy already.” He gulps down a tankard of beer, burps, and slams the empty container onto the platter held by a servant. “Damned mollycoddling. You’ve done nothing for him. Nothing.” He walks away, still mumbling.

  The queen straightens up and watches her husband leave out of the corner of her eye. Her face is an unreadable mask, almost serene in its composure. I imagine that she has put up with his abuse for years. When he has finally left, without so much as a word to any of us, she grasps Cas’s hands.

  “It’s so good to see you. Oh, Cas.” Her eyes are watery and wide. She touches him with gentle fingers. It makes me ache for the mother I never had.

  Cas reaches up to his cheek and takes the queen’s hand. “Mother, there is someone I would like you to meet.” Ellen stands a little straighter, a small smile playing on her lips. She fingers the creases in her gown. My shoulders slump as I realise the queen is about to meet her future daughter-in-law and I will have to watch. But to my surprise he turns to me. “This is Mae. She has become my closest friend and has saved my life countless times in the Waerg Woods.”

  When the queen turns her shining eyes on me, I’m all too aware of my scruffy rags and dirty skin. I try to remember how to behave in front of royalty and end up tripping as I try to curtsey. The queen catches my arm as I begin to fall.

  “Oh, Mae, there’s no need to curtsey. You saved my son’s life and brought him back to me safely. I should curtsey to you.” To my complete horror, the queen drops into the most graceful curtsey I’ve ever seen. In the corner of my eye, I can just make out Ellen’s cheeks turning bright vermillion. “It’s lovely to meet you. Any friend of Casimir’s is welcome in the palace, and I hope you will be comfortable.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I say, trying to return her smile and trying to put aside my many doubts about the palace.

  “You’re hurt,” the queen gazes at the bloodstain on my tunic. “I’ll have Baxter sent for.”

  “He dressed the wound on the way here,” I say. “It’s healing well.”

  “What happened?” she asks.

  My eyes drop to the stone floor. It’s Cas who says, in a quiet voice, “Father shot her.”

  The queen seems to freeze in terror. She grips her skirts until I can see the tension in the muscles on her forearm. With a little shake of her head, the spell breaks, but when she speaks, her voice is hoarse and raw. “I apologise for the behaviour of my husband. He hasn’t been quite himself lately.”

  Yes, from drinking too much beer and generally being a tyrannical egomaniac. I reply, “Thank you. I appreciate your kind words.”

  Her eyes are knowing when she responds with a nod.

  “And there’s someone else you must meet, Mother,” Cas says. He loops an arm around Ellen’s waist and pulls her forward. “Ellen is craft-born. She is going to be my wife.” Ellen drops into a low bow, showing me how it’s done.

  The queen covers her mouth with her hands, and her shoulders lift. “You’re so beautiful. Come here, my future daughter-in-law.” She pulls Ellen into a hug and squeezes her tight. Ellen’s eyes open wide in surprise. Despite everything that happened between Ellen and myself, I can’t help but feel glad for her, especially as I know how difficult and demanding the miller could be. “Who would think that such a petite young woman like yourself could save the entire realm?” the queen gushes.

  I w
atch as the blood drains from Ellen’s face, and her mouth goes slack. She stares at me with pleading eyes.

  The queen notices her expression and glances towards me before returning to Ellen. “Come now. There’s no need to be nervous. I’m so sorry—I have put awful pressure on you, haven’t I?”

  “Not at all, Your Majesty,” Ellen says.

  Cas wraps his arm over her shoulder. “You’re going to be brilliant.”

  “Hark at the reunion of the century,” says a bored voice from behind me. I don’t need to turn around to see the sneer.

  Cas tenses. His back straightens and his jaw becomes clenched. “Hello, Lyndon.”

  A boy steps forward. I say a boy, but he’s more like a man with a boy’s face. He stands almost half a head taller than Cas, with bulky arm muscles that cause him to walk in stiff strokes. He has darker hair than his brother and thin lips like his father. However, his eyes are the same pale opal as Cas’s, and they are as cold as the king’s.

  “Brother, what a delight you aren’t dead.” Lyndon flips his dark hair out of his eyes and smirks.

  “I’m sure,” Cas says between gritted teeth.

  “Well, aren’t you going to introduce Lyndon to your guests?” the queen says with a raised eyebrow.

  Cas pulls his stare away from his brother, and first turns to Ellen. “My dear fiancée, this is my little brother, Lyndon.”

  Ellen curtseys. “Your Highness.”

  Lyndon takes Ellen’s hand and brings it to his lips. “A pleasure.” There is something deliberate in the way he maintains eye contact with Ellen, causing her cheeks to flush. Cas observes them with a pained expression on his face.

  “And this is my friend Mae,” Cas says, trying to redirect the attention away from Ellen.

  I perform my pathetic curtsey for the prince and mumble a few words of greeting. Lyndon’s stern expression never wavers, and it’s almost like speaking to a stone statue.

  “Who are you?” he says eventually, looking me up and down as if I belong somewhere far away from him.

  “Mae Waylander,” I mumble. Then as I’m speaking, I think to myself that I should never let anyone treat me like dirt, no matter who they are, so I lift my chin defiantly. “I am Mae Waylander from Halts-Walden, daughter of Robert Waylander, a good man who lost his life saving hers.” I point to Ellen. “And I am the girl who has saved your brother’s life on numerous occasions in the Waerg Woods—who fought off a wood nymph, a psychotic pre-adolescent prophet, and a determined flock of killer birds—only to have your father shoot an arrow in my side because I wouldn’t let him kill my stag.” My cheeks burn with indignation.

  Lyndon stares at me, aghast. He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by the queen.

  “Mae,” she says, her eyes twinkling, “I think we owe you a hot supper.” She puts an arm around my shoulder, not caring about dirtying her gown, and leads me further into the castle.

  *

  Later that night, the queen lends me a room in the palace. It isn’t a particularly nice room. The maids have to rush around with a duster, removing years of untidiness in a few moments. There is a fusty smell, and a fierce old man stares down at me from the wall, his frown immortalised in oil paints.

  I have barely moved my pack onto the bed before Ellen comes rushing in. The sight of her makes me tense. I wonder what nasty comment she can have for me, but before I can say a word, she flings her arms around my neck, and I feel her hot breath against my ear.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she says in a rush of words. “I don’t know what I did to deserve such kindness, but you have saved me in more ways than one. I… I don’t deserve what you have done for me.” She lowers her voice. “Or how you have kept my secret. Casimir would never marry me if he knew the truth.” Tears fill her eyes. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do. When Father said I was the craft-born, I believed him, but it’s not true, is it? It’s because of this.” She pulls a small amber amulet from a pocket in her dress. “This gave me enough power to fool people, but it means I’m not the craft-born and I never was. You are. You should marry Casimir. You should be queen. But my father, he will…” She crumples before me. “He will never forgive me.”

  It could be the mention of her father that pulls on my heartstrings, but before I know it, I’m guiding Ellen over to my bed and passing her a tissue.

  “I think you want to be queen more than I do,” I say. “Why do you think I kept my powers a secret?”

  She lifts her head in shock. “I never thought about that. Why didn’t you tell anyone? I would shout it from the rooftops.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks. “You did, and look where it got us. You kidnapped, me without a father, and us all having to survive those damn woods.”

  “You’re no better,” she snaps. But then her face softens, and her eyes water. “Your poor father. He was such a good man. Even when I was mean to you, he was always kind. I’m so sorry, Mae. I really am.”

  I sigh. “No. Everything is my fault. If I had revealed my powers in the first place…”

  “We can’t keep thinking like this,” Ellen says. “It will drive us insane. What’s done is done and can never be changed. The only thing I can do now is help you restore magic to the realm. It’s our duty to do that. And to do that, I will do whatever you want me to.”

  “Well, we’ll have to figure out a plan soon. But right now, I just want a bath.”

  *

  Being in the palace is like being in a bubble, and it reminds me of living in Halts-Walden, except lonelier. The castle is almost empty, and its dark halls haunt me at night. As Cas and Ellen flirt with one another and Anta is stabled in the city, I find myself exploring the palace on my own, listening to whispering behind closed doors. Cyne has a small court, with most of the lords and ladies spending their time working for the king by travelling to and from the Haedalands. I don’t know what they do there, apart from negotiating deals or treaties. What I have learned so far is that the king is in debt to the wealthy mining families in the Haedalands, and from what I can gather, his spending has not been on his people.

  How has the king depleted the royal purse? One thing is for sure: he has not spent a single gold coin on the castle itself. It is in some major disrepair. It’s a curious building like nothing I have ever seen before. There are doors of iron that open in the middle, controlled by great, puffing motors and stiff levers. They open like a jaw, with blunt, flat teeth meeting when they close. Others contain sizeable circles around the lock that have to be twisted into the correct combination. I find myself hiding around corners, watching the way others unlock the doors and then copying them. The mechanisms fascinate me. I’ve lived in the woodlands all my life. Our things are simple, made of linens, wood, and thatch. In the castle, I find myself following the cogs and pipes until I reach the basement where the workers toss lumps of black stone into an open furnace. The men are dirty and sweaty. When they see me, they wink and smile.

  I hurry along the basement, my cheeks burning from the mischievous grins of the workers. My boots scuff the stone floors of the castle, and with one finger, I trail the hissing pipes, close enough so I can feel the warmth but not get burned. As I run, something calls to me—something that feels like home. My heart swells, and I get that same breath of contentment I used to get, when I would go back to the hut from market and know that Father and Anta waited with a hot stew.

  There is a light ahead. It doesn’t flicker; it is perfectly still, and the glow warms my face. It illuminates a circle on the floor of the castle, and in that circle is something so unexpected that I stop. The circle is like a bowl with a gold lining. Soil is the content. I drop to my knees and place a finger over the soil, still warmed by the light above. The machinations of the castle chug along like a heartbeat. Deep down, I know that I am meant to place my hands in this soil. It’s like the Sleeping Willow in the Waerg Woods. Ancient magic emanates from it like incense. I reach out, longing to touch. A single voice stops me.

>   “I thought I would find you here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four – The Ritual

  I whip around to see an elderly man standing in the shadows. He grips an intriguing cane of twisted metal encrusted with some sort of pearlescent stone. “Who are you?”

  He steps into the light, and it highlights the brown patches on his skin—almost as dark as bruises—and the balding strands of grey on his head. His beard is snow white and straggles down to his chest. He wears a tunic of brilliant blue, which gleams under the glow of the overhead light. I find myself drawn to his eyes, which are bloodshot but still twinkling. “I’m Baron Bancroft. But you can call me Beardsley, my dear. I’m the palace designer.”

  I suck in air. “You created this?”

  He chuckles. “Yes, girl, I did indeed. Well, I didn’t design the building as such. It was already there. But King Aldrych wanted modifications, adding to the castle. In his own words, he ‘wanted something the world would notice, something that would make him the richest man in Aegunlund’.” He drops his head and laughs again, this time without any humour. “I think I failed in that task.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “The palace is designed to work on magic, not fuel. It relies on a craft-born’s power to turn the cogs and control the doors, the lights and the farming system out of the city. I created it when the last craft-born was still alive, and her magic ran through the realm. You see, the castle power pumps water through Cyne to the businesses and farmland beyond it. For years Cyne was the farming centre of the realm. We made an abundance of crops and delivered them far and wide, especially to the Haedalands where their deserts struggle to produce food. Since then, the king has desperately tried to find an alternative, so that he can continue to sell in the Haedalands.”

  “But the fumes killed the soil.”