by K.N. Lee
Too close to the edges of where I dared stray. The forest guardians wouldn't protect me here. Stay? Or go?
A whisper of sound caught my ear again, just as I turned to go.
Movement shifted out of the corner of my eye.
Gleaming like polished alabaster beneath the sun, the White Hart grazed before me, separated from me only by a thicket of brambles. It hadn't seen me. My breath caught in my chest. I hadn't seen the clearing earlier, but a single ray of sunlight pierced the clouds above and lit upon the stag,
The White Hart was pure legend.
Capture the stag and it could grant you a wish. Kill it and you would live on forever, in the stories of men. Nobody had seen it in over a century.
Its meat would feed my family for a month, if we rationed the supply.
Barely daring to move, I drew the bow slowly to my cheek, my gaze narrowing into a tunnel along the arrow, locking onto the pulsing beat of the hart's chest.
Think of what the villagers would say. The White Hart! Brought down by my arrow alone. I could almost imagine the smoky laughter in the village inn cutting off abruptly as I staggered inside with the deer slung over my shoulders, and the startled looks on the men's faces turning to rapture—
I shook my head, dislodging snowflakes from my thick lashes. I'd never craved glory, and the men in my village were louts.
—the deer's head mounted on the wall, a glossy trophy one could forever claim—
I couldn't do it.
The tip of the arrow lowered, and my breath burst out of me. These thoughts weren't my own.
A flock of ravens suddenly screamed and burst into a noisy flutter of shadows through the trees. The moment was lost. The hart's glorious head jerked up, its brown eyes searching the forest, and locking upon me. Muscle rippled through its haunches as it crouched, and then it was gone in a bound, moving as swiftly and silently as a wind through the woods, just as ethereal.
Something shook inside me. You fool. I had two sisters to feed, and my father... Sweet Vashta, but they said there was magic within the hart's flesh. Perhaps enough to restore his slowly withering body.
But it was long gone now, and so was any chance at the hart. I would have to make do with some lesser animal.
It felt as though magic sloughed off me, as if I'd broken some sort of spell. The silence of the forest began to intrude, along with the dense, oppressive weight of the trees themselves. This was not a part of the wood I knew.
What was I doing?
Where was I?
Coming awake, I began to turn in slow circles, aware of a faint whisper through the trees, almost as if they were speaking. A face loomed out of the warped wood of an old gnarled oak, and a little pinpricks of icy feet marched down my spine.
I was in the Heart of the Forest.
And I was not alone. I could feel it, even if I couldn't see anything.
"Show yourself," I called, whispers of dread creeping through my veins. Another face sat in the mossy bark of a second oak, like the melted wax face of something you saw when you stared into the candle too long, only to blink and realize there was nothing there.
"There you are," called a woman's voice behind me, rich with some long-born satisfaction, "I've been waiting many years for you, child."
I had the arrow nocked and ready to loose as I turned, heart hammering in my chest.
Snow whispered under the long red velvet cloak of the creature, as she walked in a steady circle around me. She looked like an old woman with silver hair that hung in knotted snarls down to her waist, and eyes the color of topaz.
But humans didn't live in the Heart of Gravenwold.
Monsters did.
"Are you going to shoot me instead?" she asked, an eyebrow arching. "There's a poor feast on these old bones, girl."
I slowly lowered the tip of the arrow a second time, easing the tension of the bow a fraction, but not entirely releasing it. "The only creatures in the center of the woods are those said to tear the heart from a man's chest. There are monsters here."
She smiled. "But you're not a man."
"Semantics," I muttered.
"Fear not, child," the old woman whispered. "You passed the test. Only two more tests to see if you're truly worthy. And the trees recognize your blood. Have you not felt them calling to you?"
"Are you a witch?" I demanded, instead of answering.
She laughed. "These names you call me… Monster. Witch. Should I take affront at such? And, as for you, I’m the least of your concerns. Perhaps you should ask yourself why the forest goes to such lengths to keep people out of its core. Did you hear anything whispering to you? Suggesting you walk further? Demanding you enter?"
"No. Nothing whispered, nothing—" Those odd thoughts snagged mine again. The hart’s head mounted on my wall. The sudden urge to go after it was overwhelming, but I shook it away again.
"Go on," she breathed. "Tell me what you’re remembering."
"Something wanted me to kill the hart," I said slowly. "I… I felt like it would be an honor to kill it. That my entire village would cheer, and people would celebrate my skills."
"Stronger men have fallen to a weaker enticement than that." Her eyes narrowed. "What stopped you?"
"I only hunt for food or furs to sell," I replied bluntly. "My father is ill and my sisters hungry." And the villagers of Densby whispered about my fey gifts, and Eloya’s healing gifts and Averill's knowing. I’d long grown weary of their censure, or even needed their approval. "I knew the thoughts weren’t my own."
The woman’s mouth twisted. "That old chestnut. You’re lucky your will is strong, and pride not your natural inclination, or it would have had you."
"Had me? What is it?" It had been in my mind.
"An ancient foe," she warned, and gave another strange look. "One not easily vanquished. You are a child of mystery, it seems. And I do not like riddles I cannot answer."
I stepped back abruptly as she glided toward me. She looked human. Perhaps that was the problem. Don’t trust anything you meet inside Gravenwold, my father’s voice whispered in my memories. "What did you mean when you said you've been waiting many years for me?"
"I’ll answer that question the next time we meet. You’re not ready for it yet. Destiny sits upon your shoulders, but I don't want to scare you away before you hear its whisper."
A shiver ran down my spine. I was fairly certain I never wanted to be ready for the answer.
"What's your name, child?"
The word tripped to my lips, but I caught it before I could let it fly. Neva. Neva Bane. My head was swimming again, and I could hear my name echoing in my ears as if it wanted to escape. "The Old Ways say giving a name is dangerous," I ground out. "Unless you earn it."
"And how do I earn it?" She was all teeth.
"See me safely from this forest, and I'll grant you my name."
She cocked her head. "How old are you?"
"How old are you?"
"As old as the mountains, and as young as the sun."
"That's not an answer."
"And neither is yours."
I took a step back from her. "I'm tired. And I'm hungry. I don't have time for riddles."
"Oh, child." Her vicious smile dawned again. "One day will come a time when all you have is riddles."
"Will you let me leave?" I asked, trying not to look around. More trees bore those candle-wax faces, and the light was beginning to dull. How long had I been here? Had she been distracting me?
Did time run differently here, in the Heart?
"I will let you leave," the old woman said softly. "Though I'm not done with you yet. But I will expect a name. We have a deal, after all. Whisper it to the trees before you leave their embrace. If you don't, then I'll follow you home and take it from your lips instead."
The blood drained from my face. "I should go."
And never return.
"Yes. You should not linger here, child." Her smile slowly vanished, leaving her face stern and serious,
as if she’d made some sort of decision. "The forest has granted you a stay of execution. A life for a life—"
"I took no life."
"Precisely." She seemed to grow taller, circling into the shadows of the trees. "Your heart follows the Old Ways, child. Mind you keep to them, less my mercy be not so benevolent next time. And be ready. You have two more tests to pass yet."
And then she was gone.
"For what?" I demanded. I couldn't even make out a single footprint in the snow where she'd been standing.
In the tree behind me, a crow cawed. The only other sound was the echo my voice. And the feeling something was watching me again.
Witch or not, monster or not, it was more than time to get out of here.
"And then I'm never coming back," I muttered, feeling the eerie weight of her words upon me. Destiny could take its sweet self elsewhere.
I wasn't interested.
2
I didn't know how to tell my father and sisters I'd had no luck hunting—I always brought something home with me—and the failure sat rank upon my gut.
But it turned out I had no need.
Densby was in an uproar. An enormous bonfire burned merrily in the center of the village as I slipped from the woods, and laughter echoed. Shadows reared across the walls of nearby houses, far too many to count. There were men everywhere in the early twilight, bedecked in hunting leathers and wearing vambraces with steel inserts. Not the Twilight Company, the mercenaries who roamed out of nearby Marietta, by the look of them. These men were clean-shaven and every boot I laid eyes upon gleamed.
I stowed my bow and quiver in the house, finding it empty. Whatever excitement filled the village had also drawn the attention of my sisters, and presumably my father, so I went to find them. It was rare he left home these days.
Averill leaned against the wall of the inn, her long silky dark hair bound into a plait. She watched the newcomers with jaded eyes, though her gaze lingered on the one in the red brocade, with his shining gold hair.
"Who are they?" I asked, coalescing out of the shadows.
Averill started. "Vashta's tits, couldn't you grant me a little warning?"
"But where would the fun be in that?" I grinned.
She punched me in the arm.
Normally this would be the start of a glorious wrestling match, but I couldn't contain my curiosity. "Flaxen hair, polished steel, and... is that a velvet cloak?" My gaze caressed the handsome stranger. "Clearly from the south, and wearing a sad attempt at court attire. Looks like he came straight from some bordello."
Averill snorted. "I daresay he did, though not in the way you mean it."
"He has gemstones on his sword," I mocked, waggling my eyebrows at her. "I won't believe he's any experience with actual fighting."
"That's because he's the prince," Averill said. "He doesn't have to fight. Everyone else does it for him."
"The prince?"
The prince of Cymberlon?
"Prince Evaron," Averill replied, and I couldn't stop my jaw from dropping open. "Clearly he's wearing actual court attire, you uncouth brat. You should go and kiss his boots, and beg his forgiveness."
"I'd rather roll in Tolbert's pigsty."
The king was not a name to be revered around here. Every year the taxes went up. Too many northerners had starved so the king could fight his precious wars down south. The recent treaty with the Varian Empire had brought an end to the fighting, but I daresay it wouldn't bring a lowering of the taxes.
We were far to the north of Caskill, the capital city. Evaron was the Crown Prince, and first in line to the throne; the older brother of Prince Rygil. Rumors came out of Caskill that neither prince was cold and ruthless like their father, King Euric, but he showed little sign of dying anytime soon. Indeed, Prince Evaron had gotten in a great deal of trouble the previous summer for offering a favor to the princessa of Lydes, which lined out borders, instead of the duchess he was supposed to be marrying.
I could believe that, staring now at his pretty face.
Vashta's fires, what was he doing here?
Densby and Marietta were the last hints of civilization before one hit the great forest. There was nothing but mountains on the other side of the Gravenwold Woods, though some said the ruins of the long-shattered Empire of Velide lingered high in the mountains. Great forts lingered there in unkempt piles. They'd been overrun centuries ago, when darkness crept out of Gravenwold and slowly overtook the Empire's borders.
"If he's here, then he's bringing trouble with him," I said.
"Tolbert’s pigsty might be the only safe place," Averill said, eyeing the prince with a considering eye. "They say he’s a liking for the lasses."
"It sounds like you want to kiss something other than his boots," I suggested.
"I’d rather—"
"Aye, he's the prince," said a cold voice behind me, "and the pair of you should be showing him some respect."
A flinch of surprise ran through me. I hadn't heard anyone moving behind us, which was rare indeed. The same gifts that made the forest my home, and my body come alive there, also granted me exceptional sight and hearing.
Averill gasped, and we both spun around.
"My apologies." I bobbed a quick curtsy, grabbing Averill by the hand. "We're just a pair of wood-cutter's daughters who know no different."
The newcomer loomed over both of us, wearing a polished steel breastplate, and a red cloak rimmed with wolf’s fur. His thick brows and moustache were black, and his head shaved. He reminded me of the mercenaries who rode out of Marietta; or his eyes did, at least. There was a coldness there that made me swallow.
The man spat. "Ignorant, backwater savages." He stepped closer, one hand resting on his belt. "Perhaps one of you ought to take me round back and apologize properly. If you do a good job, then I might not tell the prince what you were saying about him."
My mouth dropped open. Did he just—?
He did.
"Now see here," I said sharply, putting both hands on my hips. I still had my knife behind my belt, and there was another one in my boot. "My sister and I shouldn’t have been speaking that way, but you cannot just… expect to blackmail either of us like that. Who do you think you are?"
"Royal Huntmaster," he said, and looked me up and down. "You think you’re some sort of boy, eh? Running around in trousers all day…."
"I was hunting," I ground out. "I can hardly wear a gown."
He stepped toward me, grinning an evil smile. "All the better to—"
A hand grabbed him and wrenched him away from me, a stranger melting out of the shadows. "Hussar, that’s enough."
The newcomer wore the scarlet cloak of the royal guard, though the hunting leathers beneath them were different to the polished breastplates the other guards wore. There was a golden laurel of thorns embossed on his right breast; a sign he belonged to the prince. His voice was a shock of roughness, something that made me shiver to hear it.
Predator, that voice said. I'd heard the same velvety growl come from a wolf's throat once.
"Get your bleedin’ hand off me, Hound," Hussar growled.
The stranger had interspersed his body between us. He was almost as tall as Hussar, with dark hair that had been cut roughly, and some sort of… gold chain around his throat. "Or you'll what?"
They stared at each for long moments.
"We're not here to cause trouble," the newcomer rasped. "And the prince will keep a tighter leash upon you than the king allows."
Hussar spat to the side, and cut me and Averill a filthy glare. "The sluts aren't worth it anyway."
With that he was gone, and I realized I was trembling a little.
In rage, perhaps.
But a little bit of that tremor belonged to fear. Here in Densby, the only time I ever worried for my safety was when the mercenaries rode through. A clever girl made sure she was accompanied at all times, or had something sharp in her hand when they were in the village.
I hated that feel
ing.
"Thank you," Averill said.
The stranger turned in a flash. I stared into a shocking pair of amber eyes, the color sharply conflicting with the olive skin that surrounded them.
Both of us gasped.
He wasn't human.
"You're wolvren," I blurted.
"Clearly you have eyes," he snapped. "And for a pair of ignorant village lasses, you’ve certainly got a keen ear for court gossip."
One of my father’s trader friends kept us abreast of the goings-on of the kingdom. I’m sure the prince’s scandals were the last thing my father was interested in, but my sisters and I were far more interested in that than the latest war news.
I bristled. "I wasn’t aware it was a crime to mention his Highness."
Averill grabbed my hand and squeezed it, but the way the stranger was glaring at me…
"And for good measure," I continued, "the Crown Prince is currently in my village, so he—and his men—should expect to be the topic of conversation for the next five years at least, let alone today. I daresay we’ll be tired of hearing about him within a week."
"You’ve quite the mouth on you too, haven’t you?" He crossed his arms over his broad chest, giving me an insolent look.
Averill smiled sweetly, "I didn't know the prince needed a man like you to protect his delicate reputation. What else do you do for him?"
Attack one Bane sister, and you faced them all.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. "I serve as the prince’s personal hunting companion."
Wolvren. I was still getting over the shock of it. Wolvren were an ancient species that had been in these lands long before man fled through the northern forests from the long-dead Empire of Velides, and began to clear the lands. Somewhat akin to selkies, they could change into a wolf form when they slipped inside their wolf skin.
Capture a wolvren's skin, and you crippled him, cursing him to human form forever.
Let him get his hands on it again though, and he'd rip out your throat with his teeth.
"You’re from the west?" I asked, for the only clans I knew of who still existed freely lived in the great forests along our borders.