Reign of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  ‘Hester, Valerio,’ he said, looking to one of the royal couples. ‘We cannot put so much faith in these visions. What’s to say if we separate them, they won’t find each other later in life? I thought our reign was stronger than that.’

  The royal couple exchanged glances, and Queen Hester spoke softly. ‘Although it is our family who stands to lose power if this union came to pass, Gabriel, we would never wish to part such friends. Valerio and I will leave the decision to Edric and Freya. It is their son the vision concerns.’

  Gabriel and Gesa Thornton looked to the Goldwells.

  ‘Separate them,’ Edric said firmly. ‘I will not have this reign of peace collapse for the sake of a childhood friendship.’

  ‘Very well,’ Ines said.

  ‘The vision was true enough, at the time.’ Ines’ voice brought Bleak back to the present, where she hung aching between the shackles. ‘What they didn’t account for was the tendency children have for breaking the rules. After all, prohibition is the seed of revolution, yes?’

  Bleak bit the inside of her cheek. Ermias … The name stirred with familiarity in her mind, but she couldn’t bring him to the surface.

  ‘Of course, the Goldwells and the Ashdowns were so concerned about the possible budding romance between two children that they didn’t see what was right in front of them. Me. And Prince Casimir Ashdown.’

  ‘What?’ the word tumbled from Bleak’s mouth.

  Ines smiled. ‘He was older than you and Ermias. The easier mark of the three noble Oremian Ashai children. Young men are far less discerning than children. They each suspect that they’re something special, that they deserve more than the gods have gifted them. Be that confirmation, and they’re yours. So I started with him. We shared our darkest secrets, and the depths of our magic together. Imagine, a prince of Oremere and the Lady of the Oremian Priestesses … By the time he realised what I was doing, it was too late.’

  ‘What were you doing?’ The longer Bleak could keep her talking, the better.

  ‘Sourcing magic from all over Oremere – the continent full of eager Ashai folk. The haven for those from other, more backward continents. Be safe in Oremere, that’s what we told them all.’ Ines studied Bleak again. ‘Aren’t you glad to be home, Alarise?’

  ‘I don’t understand. What do you want with me? You have Oremere already.’

  Ines ignored her question. ‘You know, for a little while, I thought I’d lost you. When I took Freyhill Castle with the mist, your parents managed to escape. I found them in the end, but you … You slipped through the cracks, somehow. For years I searched. Langdon and Farlah, too. Every damn continent. But then, you practically begged me to find you. I heard so much talk of some moronic Ashai girl seeking a “cure”,’ Ines spat with scorn. ‘Imagine, receiving such a gift from Rheyah herself, and throwing it back in her face.’

  For a split second, Bleak was wrenched back into the past, to a tattered, gold-toothed stranger down at the docks in Heathton.

  ‘Your search. It draws attention. The wrong kind of attention. You need to stop.’

  ‘I had the healers turn you away, of course,’ Ines was saying. Her eyes went to the markings on Bleak’s wrist, her mouth curling into a sneer. ‘I see Allehra is still up to her old tricks.’ She traced the dark pattern with a long fingernail.

  Bleak shuddered. ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘Alarise, I would have thought that was obvious …’

  A humming sound vibrated between Bleak’s ears, and slowly, it infiltrated her mind.

  ‘What —’ She tried to speak, but the humming grew louder and louder. She’d felt this pain before. Years ago. Aboard The Daybreaker with Senior and Bren, when they’d met the torturer called Farlah —

  She cried out. The humming sharpened, like a blade to her mind now.

  ‘I want your magic,’ Ines said. ‘It’s a specialty of mine, being able to host other Ashai’s powers …’

  Bleak could barely hear her. Beads of perspiration formed at her hairline and trickled down the side of her face. All her life she’d wanted to cure herself of her power, but now … in the hands of Ines …

  ‘That’s your ability, then?’ Bleak gasped through the pain. ‘To steal other people’s magic?’

  ‘Who said anything about stealing, Alarise? You’re going to give it to me.’ Ines pressed her thumb to Bleak’s wrist. ‘Every Ashai has a pressure point, you see. Though of course, it can take some time, some persuading, to find it.’

  Bleak squirmed. ‘How many powers do you have now?’

  Bleak felt something quiver in her veins, and move towards where Ines’ thumb was pressed into her skin.

  ‘Not enough,’ Ines said, frowning at Allehra’s markings. She released Bleak’s wrist and glided towards the door, ringing a little bell that hung from the frame. The sound was sweet and soft.

  ‘No,’ Bleak’s throat was raw.

  ‘Oh, Alarise, they all say no at first.’

  Bleak shrank away as much as the chains would allow.

  ‘Your flinching wounds me,’ Ines said, readjusting her jewels. ‘I’m not the one who’s going to hurt you.’

  ‘Please —’

  ‘A little time with Langdon ought to have you feeling differently.’

  There was the scrape of metal on stone, and Bleak twisted to see a pale-haired man dragging a dagger along the wall. An icy shiver ran down Bleak’s damp spine as Langdon’s eyes raked over her.

  ‘Don’t play with your food,’ Ines told him. ‘Use her mind,’ she added, eyeing the dagger twirling in his hands.

  Langdon bowed his head.

  ‘Ring for me when the magic reaches the pressure point.’

  Ines smiled at Bleak one last time before leaving the dungeon.

  As soon as her skirts had trailed out of the chamber, Langdon advanced.

  ‘Where to start …’

  ‘Please,’ was all Bleak could say.

  But he lifted his dagger and dragged it through the front of her shirt, cutting away her outer layer of clothing. She tried to draw back from him and failed. Her limbs were trembling so badly that her body already ached.

  ‘Usually, they put on a brave front first …’ he drawled.

  And then, the pain began.

  Chapter 14

  Fiore knew someone who knew someone. That was how they managed to get a rare blue raven in the air to Ellest. It wasn’t a guarantee. It might already be too late. Panic had settled in Swinton’s chest, and stayed there, so they had drunk. A lot.

  Now, it took Swinton a good few minutes to realise that the pounding was not only in his head, but at the door to his chambers as well. He staggered to his feet, kicking over one of the empty jugs from last night. How had he got back to the palace?

  Pulling down his shirtsleeves and trying to make himself somewhat presentable, Swinton threw the door open to find palace guards, and Kamath.

  ‘Commander,’ the squire said. ‘Your presence is required urgently.’

  ‘What is it? Is the princess alright?’

  ‘Yes, Commander, this summons comes from King Roswall. You are to join him in the throne room, immediately.’

  Swinton’s stomach plummeted and he had to steady himself against the doorframe, queasy. Where was Fiore? The rest of his rooms were silent.

  ‘Are you alright, Commander?’

  ‘Fine,’ Swinton replied. ‘Wait for me outside, I need a few minutes to gather my things.’

  ‘Very good, Commander.’

  The squire and the palace guards did as he bid, and he closed the door with a click after them. Swinton ran his fingers through his hair, doing his best to exhale steadily. Rubbing his aching temples, he tried to think.

  What is this about? Has Roswall discovered the blue raven? Does he somehow know about my abilities? What of the plague? Is Dash safe?

  Swinton pulled on his boots, and laced his jerkin together across his chest. He found his battleaxes and strapped them in place over his back, and fin
ally belted his sheathed sword at his hip. He was as ready as he would ever be.

  He opened the door to Kamath and the guards. ‘Let’s go.’

  In the halls outside his apartments, there were people everywhere. Many of them were carrying pails and buckets, and there was a faint chemical scent lingering in the air.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked Kamath.

  ‘Firestorm,’ the squire replied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a firestorm coming. They’re supplying fire repellant to those who need it.’

  Swinton blanched. He’d heard of firestorms before, but had always assumed they happened out in the Janhallow Desert, not in the overpopulated capital.

  ‘It’s alright,’ Kamath said, reading his expression. ‘The fire repellant works very well. Most of the time, everyone stays indoors for a few hours and then goes about their business as usual. This city has been through many firestorms and it’s still standing.’

  ‘And the palace?’

  ‘Is the safest place to be. The shiprock has been doused in the formula so many times that it probably doesn’t need another coat for a decade. And as you know, much of the palace is beneath the ground.’

  They continued to walk, with Swinton noting the casual nature of the preparations around them.

  ‘How do they know when a firestorm is coming?’

  ‘Scouts spot them brewing in the desert. We have people whose sole job it is to stand guard and alert us. Some can be contained, if they’re small enough. But the one today is a fierce one.’

  ‘What about the crops?’

  ‘We cover them with special fire-retardant tarps.’

  Swinton nodded. It sounded like things were well under control.

  They reached the glittering throne room. Swinton’s insides lurched when he saw that King Roswall, Prince Nazuri and Princess Olena were all seated at a newly added oak table atop the dais, King Roswall at the head.

  Swallowing, Swinton bowed low. ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, Your Majesty, Your Highnesses.’

  He looked up to see King Roswall nod tersely, and Princess Olena’s face full of questions.

  King Roswall turned to the lingering courtiers and guards. ‘Clear the room, if you please.’

  Swinton remained rooted to the spot, uncomfortably warm as they waited for the nobles and soldiers to filter out. He watched Olena, who was rigid in her seat.

  She doesn’t know what this is about either …

  The doors closed, and only the senior Battalonian guards remained.

  ‘We have had news from Ellest,’ King Roswall began.

  Swinton clasped his hands behind his back to stop them from shaking. I’m too late, he cursed silently, holding back the burning tears. I’m always too late …

  But the king turned to Princess Olena. ‘My dear princess,’ he said. ‘We have received word from your father. I don’t know how to say this gently, child. Your mother … She has been killed.’

  Whatever breath remained in Swinton was knocked out of his lungs.

  Princess Olena’s hand flew to her mouth, a soft gasp escaping her. Beneath the glimmering cosmetics, her skin had gone sickly pale.

  Prince Nazuri murmured something in her ear, and placed a comforting hand on her arm. She pushed him away.

  Her voice was small when she spoke. ‘How?’

  ‘Murdered,’ King Roswall said, with little compassion. ‘At the hands of Henrietta of Valia.’

  ‘No!’ The word flew from Swinton’s mouth before he could think.

  The gazes of both the prince and king fell to him.

  ‘It comes as a great shock to us all. May Her Majesty rest well with Enovius,’ said King Roswall.

  ‘May she rest well with Enovius,’ Swinton repeated.

  Up on the dais, silent tears ran down Princess Olena’s face, and Swinton had to stop himself from going to her and pulling her into an embrace.

  Gods, the poor child. Her mother dead, and no one but strangers surrounding her.

  ‘Your Majesty, Your Highness,’ Swinton said boldly. ‘May I have your leave to escort Princess Olena back to her chambers?’

  Swinton waited for the princess’ sharp retort about not needing an escort, but it didn’t come. She hadn’t even registered his words; her shoulders had caved in and her hands trembled in her lap. Shock. The princess was in shock.

  Prince Nazuri nodded. ‘Yes, Commander. You have our leave. Princess Olena will need time to absorb this news.’ He helped her to her feet and led her down the steps of the dais like a newborn lamb.

  She didn’t object as the prince looped her arm through Swinton’s.

  They left the Battalonian royals, and started down the twisting passages of the palace halls. Princess Olena knew them better than Swinton did. They walked briskly, and in silence, until they reached the ornate doors of the royal guest chambers.

  Princess Olena turned to him, her face set in a hardened expression, her tears dried in tracks through the powdered cosmetics.

  ‘Do you think she did it?’ the princess demanded.

  Swinton’s heart shot to his throat. ‘Henrietta of Valia?’ he managed.

  ‘Yes. Do you think Henrietta of Valia killed my mother?’

  The question hung between them. A test. An outstretched branch of trust, waiting to be taken.

  Swinton cleared his throat. ‘If the official announcement from Heathton said so, Your Highness, it must be true.’

  Disgust passed over the princess’ face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Your —’

  ‘Leave me.’ A command in a ruler’s voice. ‘I have no interest in your commiserations.’

  Before Swinton could reply, the door slammed in his face.

  He stationed his best guards at her doors and instructed that every servant who entered would register their comings and goings on a piece of parchment held by Stefan.

  The news of any plague had yet to reach Belbarrow, and Swinton silently prayed that his vision had been wrong, that after so many years of suppression, his visions were no longer accurate.

  He spent much of the morning pacing up and down the corridors, hoping that the princess would emerge from her rooms. She did not. And every servant who tried to enter with food and drink was turned away.

  Swinton realised he was in shock as well. Queen Vera was dead. At the hands of Henrietta Valia … The claim sat uneasy in his gut. It was no secret that Henri had no love for the Ellestian crown and Swinton himself had witnessed Henri do horrific things. He’d been at the receiving end of her brutality, her violence. On any normal day, he would warrant that he didn’t know what the Valian matriarch was capable of. But as he passed the palace hallways and toyed with the coin of Yacinda around his neck, he knew, deep within his bones he knew, that Henri would never kill an innocent woman.

  He turned on his heel to walk back the way he had come when he collided with Prince Nazuri. Heart racing, he dropped into a deep bow.

  ‘My apologies, Your Highness.’

  Princess Olena’s test racked his mind, but it wasn’t just her trust he needed to gain. King Arden’s orders were as clear as the sun in the Battalonian sky.

  ‘Rise, Commander Swinton,’ Prince Nazuri said.

  He did.

  ‘How is she?’ the prince asked, nodding towards the heavily guarded doors.

  ‘I don’t know, Your Highness. She has let no one in.’

  The prince nodded. ‘Did my father divulge to you how it was done?’

  ‘No, Your Highness.’

  Prince Nazuri straightened his jacket and adjusted his cuffs. ‘It was a poison.’

  Force him to see the light as we see it.

  ‘A woman’s weapon,’ Swinton heard himself say.

  Prince Nazuri’s eyes snapped to Swinton’s. ‘A coward’s weapon. From the tales I have heard of the warrior Henrietta, poison doesn’t seem her style. Even if I believed she’d chosen such a victim.’

  ‘I only meant,’ Swinton said, ‘that
if King Arden has accused the Valian of murder, there must be evidence, hard proof of her crimes.’

  ‘Of course,’ Prince Nazuri replied smoothly.

  Swinton didn’t know what to say. The prince was clearly testing him as well, but to what end? Swinton was trapped between two rulers, or was it more now? The playing field of this deadly game was getting crowded. And at the heart of it all, was Dash. His innocent young son.

  Prince Nazuri gestured to the doors. ‘I see Princess Olena is well tended,’ he said. ‘Good day to you, Commander.’

  Swinton bowed. ‘Good day, Your Highness.’

  Panic rose in Swinton’s chest as he watched the prince walk away. Everything was a riddle, every question, a potential death trap. He’d rather face a thousand swords on the battlefield than the venomous fangs behind the words of every royal, Ellestians and Battalonians alike. He had to find Fiore.

  It wasn’t until Swinton was halfway to the Murphadias apartments that he realised the streets were deserted. The hot air smelled like chemicals and ash. In the centre of the city, Swinton saw it.

  The firestorm.

  Gods, how had he been so foolish? It was a swirling tower of flame, taller than the shiprock, casting shadows upon the rest of the city, encircling and devouring anything and everything in its path. It grew faster and surer.

  Panic rose in Swinton’s chest. It was only a few blocks away, and the heat that radiated from its churning mass made the air ripple.

  Fi’s apartments were a block in the firestorm’s direction. Swinton began to run. Ignoring his instincts to sprint away from the danger, he raced towards it, holding a hand up to his face, trying to shield his eyes from the blistering heat of the storm. His feet pounded the earth and he gasped for air, his lungs burning. The buildings he flew past were a blur, as was the red-and-orange blaze before him. He skidded to a stop outside Fi’s building, the iron doorhandle hissing against his skin when he tried to touch it. The firestorm was near, and the door was locked. He pounded the timber with his fists, as the flames licked closer and closer.

  This was it. This was how he would die, swallowed by fire, without ever having known his son.