He lurched forward, the door opening inward, and a dark hand grasped his shirt. He was wrenched inside, the door slamming behind him, just as the firestorm hit.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Fi yelled, panting.
Swinton couldn’t speak. His throat burned, and his hand was throbbing where layers of skin blistered painfully. He tried to catch his breath. Outside, the fiery winds battered the building.
‘Come on,’ said Fi, putting an arm behind Swinton’s back and leading him up the stairs to a second entrance.
With his chest still heaving, Swinton sat at the messy kitchen table, mugs and spilt mead still evident from their drinking the night before. Swinton looked up at Fiore, who was filling a pitcher with water.
‘Where were you? This morning?’
‘I had some things to sort out before the storm,’ he said.
‘What things?’
Fi set the pitcher and a glass down in front of Swinton. ‘You should drink lots of water,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some ointment for your hand.’
‘My hand’s fine. Where were you?’
‘It’s not fine, and if you don’t get something on it soon, it’ll get infected. That’s your sword hand, if I’m not mistaken.’
Swinton looked down at his palm; the skin there was tight with swelling blisters. ‘Fine.’
Fiore disappeared into the washroom and rummaged around in the drawers.
‘What the hell were you thinking coming out in the firestorm?’ he said, sitting back down and opening a small tin, offering it to Swinton. Swinton dipped his fingers into the strong-smelling paste, and gingerly spread it across his burns, feeling the heat being drawn immediately from them.
‘I came looking for you.’
‘You didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to get caught out in that, did you?’
‘No,’ Swinton allowed. ‘I forgot about it – a lot has happened this morning.’
‘I know.’ Fiore pushed a charred piece of parchment towards Swinton.
It was Henrietta Valia’s face. Or a sketch of it, the likeness uncanny. The artist had captured the sharp angles of the warrior’s cheekbones, the hardness of her gaze and even her heart-shaped hairline.
WANTED ALIVE. For the regicide of Queen Vera of Ellest. REWARD: 200 gold marks.
Fiore slid another piece of parchment to Swinton. The flyer encouraging Ashai to come forward.
‘You cannot tell me that this doesn’t concern you, old friend. Not after what you told me,’ Fi said.
‘My hands are tied.’
‘We both know Henri didn’t do this.’
‘Do we?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Dimitri. There is so much at stake —’
‘Do not talk to me about what’s at stake!’ Swinton stepped towards his friend. ‘My son, my gods-damned son, is over there, amidst all this. If I put one toe out of line —’
‘Brother,’ Fi said hoarsely. ‘I am on your side. You did not have to bear this burden alone.’
Swinton placed the lid back on the tin of salve. ‘I did.’
‘It was Eliza, wasn’t it?’ Fiore asked.
Swinton nodded. ‘I didn’t think you knew about her.’
‘Everyone knew about her, Dimi. Well, we knew you two were together for a time. You changed after her.’
Swinton closed his eyes.
‘You were so young,’ Fi murmured.
‘I know.’
‘What happened?’
Swinton took a deep breath, and found the words ready to tumble. ‘We were married, in secret. My father would never have approved. She was a commoner, no suitable match for the son of a knight. But she fell pregnant quickly,’ Swinton said, his voice husky. ‘We … We were going to have a family.’
Swinton didn’t look up at Fi, even though he could feel his friend’s eyes on him. ‘The baby was almost fully grown inside her when she was killed.’
‘How?’
‘Group of malcontents, hoping to steal horses, saw something they liked more … Tried to take her. She … She fought, and they killed her.’
‘Were you there?’
‘You think if I was there this would have happened?’
Fi gave a small shrug. ‘You’re only one man, Dimitri.’
Swinton met Fi’s gaze. ‘I would have died protecting her.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘I saw it, though,’ Swinton continued, as if in a trance. ‘I was away, carrying out orders for Arden. I thought it was my chance to be knighted – to set up our family for life. It was the first vision I ever had.’ He loosed a breath. ‘Of her dying, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it. I was leagues away, in Valia. I tried to convince myself it was a nightmare as I rode back to Willowdale. But I knew. I knew it was true. I could feel it in my bones that she was dead.’
‘But the child survived?’
Swinton swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. ‘Her mother, the stable master’s wife, cut her belly open, and pulled the child from her womb.’
Swinton let the silence hang between them. He needed to feel it, he needed to let himself feel it. Now, the child that he’d spent his whole life trying to provide for, to protect from afar, was in the path of the plague.
‘His name is Dash, isn’t it?’ Fi asked.
‘Zachary, actually. But yes, most call him Dash.’
Fi did something then that Swinton did not expect: he laughed. ‘He looks just like you,’ he said. ‘And he’s always wreaking havoc all over the grounds, like we used to.’
Swinton felt the corner of his own mouth tug upwards. ‘You really think so? He looks like me?’
Fi grinned. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before; the same unruly mop of black hair, same eyes – and the same knack for getting into trouble. Gods, Dimitri, you’re a father.’
Swinton’s smile faded before it had a chance to fully form. He shook his head. ‘I was never a father to him, Fi.’
More silence. Swinton had never said the words aloud.
‘The stable master?’ Fi asked gently.
Swinton nodded. ‘Eliza’s parents – the Carlingtons – they took the boy at my request, moved to Heathton so I could be closer to them. I couldn’t look after him. I – I was not myself. I couldn’t do it, not without her. They raised him as their own – they weren’t that old themselves. Old enough for it to be a surprise, but not suspicious if they had another child. People thought they had the boy to replace Eliza. No one could replace her.’
‘I remember her,’ Fi said quietly. ‘She was a beautiful woman.’
Swinton blinked. She’d been so much more than that.
‘I give everything I earn to the Carlingtons,’ he said.
Fi was nodding. ‘Everyone always wonders why the Commander of the King’s Army can’t afford new boots. That’s why you’ve never denied the rumours about whoring and gambling?’
‘Better that than the truth.’
‘Does anyone know? Does Sir Caleb know?’
‘My father? Gods, no.’
‘Anyone else besides the Carlingtons?’
Fi stood and brought a jug of mead to the table, dropping into his chair. He poured them a mugful each, and set the jug down on the tabletop.
‘The king,’ Swinton said, allowing Fi to lock eyes with him as he spoke.
‘King Arden?’
‘Yes.’
Fiore took a deep breath and spread his palms across the table. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know. But before we came here, he … made it clear.’
‘Made what clear?’
‘That he knew, everything. About Eliza, about Zachary, about me being … what I am.’
Fi’s body drew back sharply, and he ran his hands across his shaven head. ‘My old friend …’
‘So you see, Fi … My hands are tied.’
A strange humming noise filled the room, making Swinton jump. But Fi got up and went to an empty platter on the sideboard. In utter disbelief, Swinton watched as a s
croll flickered from thin air, and came to rest on the porcelain.
‘Fiore!’
‘It’s alright.’
‘What in the name of all the gods —’
Fiore broke the seal on the letter and unravelled it. ‘It’s from my contact in Ellest.’
‘What contact? An Ashai? Fi, you shouldn’t —’
‘It is no more dangerous than sending a blue raven.’
‘Is this who you sent our message to?’
Fiore nodded as he scanned the parchment.
Suddenly, Swinton’s blood was rushing to his head. ‘What is it?’
Fiore dropped the scroll back onto the platter. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, old friend.’
‘What? Fi, tell me.’
Fiore’s next words hit Swinton like a blow to the chest.
‘The plague has struck Heathton.’
Chapter 15
Like everyone else in Heathton, Dash wore black. The capital was in mourning for Queen Vera. The tolling of the temple bells rang for days, in slow and even strikes, echoing across the halted city.
Dash and Pa were busy preparing the steeds and mourning carriages for the funeral procession that would take place through the streets of Heathton the following dawn. Dash had never seen a royal funeral, and was in awe of the glossy black compartments that would hold King Arden and Prince Jaxon. As he polished the gold handles and embellishments, Dash thought of Olena, unable to attend her own mother’s funeral. Unable to grieve with her own family and friends.
‘Steady there, Dash,’ Pa said from where he was waxing the tack. ‘Don’t want you scratching the king’s carriages.’
Dash hadn’t realised how hard he’d been rubbing the gold.
‘Pa?’ he said.
‘Hmmm?’
‘Do you think Olena knows about her mama yet?’
Pa sighed heavily. ‘Princess Olena, Dash. And yes. She would have received word by now.’
‘Do you think … Do you think she’s alright?’
Pa’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘I don’t know, son.’
Dash nodded. He didn’t know either.
They worked into the evening. Dash brushed the horses until their coats and manes gleamed. His arms and back ached, and he began to drag his feet as he made his way around the stables. He didn’t complain, though. It was better than being cooped up in the cottage. Better to be using his hands than worrying about his friend. Pa ran through the order of tomorrow’s events with the stablehands, his face lined with unease.
Dash continued his work, checking that each stall was full of fresh hay and water. He knew the horses had a big day ahead of them, and needed to be well rested and fed. He was just about done when he rounded the corner and came face to face with the pinched set of eyes of the castle cook.
‘There you are,’ she exclaimed.
‘I didn’t take anything!’ He backed away. ‘I swear it, I —’
‘Calm yourself, lad.’ She gripped his arm in her meaty hand.
‘But … I …’
‘I only wish to deliver something. From the princess.’ The cook produced a brown parcel from the folds of her apron. ‘She said this was important.’ She pressed the package into Dash’s hands.
‘You’re her friend?’ Dash spluttered.
The cook raised her eyebrows. ‘Who do you think convinced me not to give you a walloping every time you came barrelling through my kitchen?’
Dash stared.
‘Close that gob of yours, will you? If she can be friends with a farm boy, she can be friends with a cook, no?’
Dash gathered himself. ‘Did she say anything?’ he asked. ‘Is she okay?’
‘She’s trapped across the sea with a bunch of desert vipers. She’s doing the best she can, as we all are. She said to give you the book. Nothing more.’
Dash turned the parcel over in his hands. ‘Thank you.’
The cook gave a curt nod. ‘If anyone asks, I came down here to belt you.’
It wasn’t until after nightfall that Dash and Pa left the royal stables, weary with the knowledge that they’d be returning well before sunrise. Mama had bowls of steaming vegetable soup waiting for them on the table, though she insisted on hugging each of them tightly before they were allowed to sit.
‘It’s alright, Dore,’ Pa said to her, patting her on the back.
But Mama made a noise like she didn’t believe him.
Stomach growling, Dash slid into his seat and spooned the soup into his mouth. It was delicious. Mama had spiced it with Battalonian herbs, and there was fresh bread to dunk as well.
‘Elbows off the table, master Dash,’ Mama chided, setting a mug of mead before Pa.
Pa took a long swig. ‘Thanks, Dore.’
‘You look tired,’ she said, reaching out and holding his chin, examining the dark circles under his eyes. ‘So does Dash.’
Pa sighed. ‘It’s been busy, with the funeral tomorrow and all.’
Mama nodded and turned to Dash. ‘I trust you’ve been good to your pa?’
Pa laughed. ‘Yes, he’s done well. In spite of the constant prattle of questions.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Mama said.
Dash finished his soup and pushed back his bowl. ‘May I be excused?’ He was eager to look through the new book from Olena.
Pa drained the rest of his mead. ‘You’re off dish duty this once,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a great help this week. Very good with the horses …’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Just like your mother …’
‘Like Mama?’ Dash asked. ‘But Mama doesn’t —’
Mama looked up from her plate. ‘Better thank your pa before he changes his mind.’
‘Thanks, Pa,’ Dash beamed, his chair scraping across the floor.
‘Dash …’ Pa shot him a pointed look.
‘Oh! Thank you for dinner, Mama.’
Mama gave a small smile. ‘You’re welcome. Off you go. Don’t forget to wash before you go to bed. You have an early start tomorrow. There’s hot water waiting.’
Dash did as he was told, and went to the washroom. He didn’t really see the point in getting cleaned up before heading back out to the stables so soon, but he soaped the cloth and quickly scrubbed at his face, his neck and his underarms. When he was done, he crossed the hallway, keen to get to the brown paper package he’d shoved under his pillow. At the sound of Mama and Pa’s lowered voices, he paused.
‘Did Dimi …?’
Dimi? Who’s Dimi?
‘No,’ Pa replied. ‘He said he wouldn’t. Said it’s too dangerous.’
Dash grimaced as the floor creaked beneath him.
‘What have I told you about eavesdropping, Zachary Carlington?’ Mama stood with her hands on her hips.
‘I wasn’t —’
‘And what have I told you about telling tall tales to your mother?’
‘I was just —’
‘To bed. Now.’
Dash looked at his feet. ‘Yes, Mama.’
She sighed heavily and shook her head, but a smile tugged at the side of her mouth. She pulled him into her warmth and kissed his cheek. ‘Goodnight, master Dash. Don’t leave the candle burning all night.’
With the door closed behind him, and a fresh nightshirt on, Dash settled into bed next to his stuffed bear, Bryson. He tore the brown wrappings away from Olena’s newest book. A musty smell wafted from the leather-bound tome as he pulled it onto his lap. Its spine was thick, and three lines of quaveer ran across the cover. Dash took the quaveer alphabet from his pocket and smoothed it out across his thigh. The book fell open, revealing the yellowed pages within, and an embroidered piece of cloth. Dash recognised Olena’s handiwork immediately; she could perfect anything she put her mind to. But it wasn’t the perfection that mattered. Olena had taught him that the real gift was in the detail that showed knowledge, real knowledge of the receiver. He picked up the cloth, smiling. She’d embroidered his favourite crest, two crossed battleaxes, the sigil of the noble household of Sir Ca
leb Swinton. Dash ran his thumbs across the stitching and placed it on the bed, turning to the pages Olena had marked for him. The quaveer was dense in this book. Lines upon lines of it on a single page. It was going to take him all night to decipher it. Eyes already tired, he sighed and brought his fingertips to where the perforated markings started at the top of the page. Slowly, he began to make sense of it.
… have been the keepers of the teerah panthers for centuries, with the beasts guarding the castle stronghold, and the royal families inside. The pride and the mediating family of Oremere are connected by a bond of magic, passed down through the generations. Their bond acts as a tether between human and panther, surviving the distances of the seas and time. Although the bond has been known to fall dormant throughout history, it is never erased. The connection between mediator and teerah panther is the key to balancing the reign of the ruling families, and the reign of mist …
Dash’s eyelids were heavy, and his head lolled to his chest. He slid the book back under his bed and nestled into the quilt with Bryson under his arm. Tomorrow – he’d read the rest tomorrow.
The morning was crisp and windy, enough to flush Dash’s cheeks and make him wish he’d brought a cloak. He and Mama wove through the other commoners in the town square, and Dash craned his neck towards the centre, but there was no sign of the man who’d been tied to the flogging post. Mama wanted to pay her respects by the temple, which unfortunately was the most crowded place. Once they were in position, all they could do was wait.
The crowd chattered as the hour passed, and Mama got pulled into a conversation with the local baker. But Dash … Dash was fidgeting. He kept thinking of how wrong it all was that Olena couldn’t say goodbye to her own mama. He moved from foot to foot, and heard something rip beneath his boots. Crouching, he retrieved a torn poster. It was a drawing. Of that woman warrior, from Valia Forest. She had been sketched to look angry, ready to fight.
Mama snatched the poster from his hands. ‘What are you doing with that?’ she hissed, letting it fall back to the cobblestones.
‘I was just looking.’
Around them, the wind howled. And suddenly, a dozen copies of the same poster whipped up into the air, caught in the gale, as though dancing a waltz. The crowd looked up, seemingly entranced by the Valian’s face.
Reign of Mist Page 15