Free Hart's Hope by Orson Scott Card Page A

magics beyond the reach of the silly farm women of Waterswatch. Beyond even her own reach, and she was the best of them. The blood of the Hart, they say, stains all the world. So she watched as the hart condescended to drink from the stream; watched as water fell silver from his mouth back to the river; watched as behind the great beast a hunter came, arrow nocked, bow down but ready to be drawn in an instant.
    Do not dare to harm the horned head, she cried silently.
    And, as if obedient to her utterance, the hunter stood and watched the deer drink, letting the nock slip from the string, letting the bow grow slack. No death today for the hundred-pointed head.
    Molly studied the hunter as the hunter studied the hart. He was a strong-looking man. Not tall, and as dark as men of the west always were. He wore the deep green of the King—a soldier, then. But not like most soldiers, for Molly had never seen a slogger who had the wit to recognize the beauty of a deer; nor did she know any man at all who could fix his attention on one thing for such a long time. The man’s eyes gleamed in the darkness of her green and silent cave. He was so still, and yet even slack his arms had power in them. Even silent, his lips commanded attention. And she knew, or thought she knew, or dreamed it even as it happened: she knew that this was no common soldier of the King. It was Palicrovol himself, yes, Palicroval the Exile, the Husband of Far Beauty. No wonder, she thought, no wonder he stares with such longing at the hart. He wishes some god could be freed to bring him ease. Well, Queen Beauty, if you watch today, see how I bring him ease, thought Molly, thought fecund Daughter Bloom, for I will have this man, will have the life of him in me.
    I am a chaste woman, a part of her cried out. And his children are born monsters.
    But a part of her answered, with peace only the Sweet Sisters could bring, My children are not born monsters, and a woman is not truly chaste if she refuses what man the Hart brings. Her womb, which had been so often full, cried out to be filled again. But this time, this time with a King’s son, this time with the Hart’s child.
    â€œMan,” she whispered. Such was the stillness of the place that he heard and yet was not afraid.
    â€œWoman,” he said, and his face showed cold amusement.
    â€œAre you strong as this river?”
    â€œAre you,” he answered, “as deep?”
    In answer she lay upon the grassy, leafy bank and smiled. Come to me, if there’s as much man as king in you.
    As if he heard her taunt, he crossed the river, naked now except for his knife—for he would not be unarmed. He fought the current bravely, but still he came ashore far downstream from her, and she watched as he came dripping and exhausted from the water. River Banning was called unfordable and far from safe to swim. Yet the King had crossed it for her. Molly’s legs trembled.
    He stood over her, leaves and grass and dirt clinging to his shins. He had no beauty to him, and yet there was a quivering deep in her belly as she looked at him.
    â€œWoman, what do they call you?” There was neither lust nor affection in his gaze. He would not pretend that she was young and beautiful, for she was neither. Her belly sagged within her skirts, her thighs were heavy and her dugs hung as loose as the udder of an aging cow. What the Hart brings together is what would not have come together without him. Beauty or not, it was plain that he desired what she desired, and as much.
    â€œI am Bloom,” she said, giving her secret woman’s name to him, though he was a man. The Hart had led him.
    â€œHas the forest given you to me?”
    â€œI have a husband,” she said. “I will not be yours.”
    To her surprise, he looked angry and stepped back, as if her wife-hood would be a bar to him.
    â€œMan,” she said, “I will not be yours. But will you not be