Reign of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  Swinton nodded. ‘That will be all, then, Kamath.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The door clicked closed behind him.

  Swinton sat at his desk, the plate of food before him utterly unappealing. With a sigh, he rested his head in his hands.

  He had to brief the Ellestian guards about the council meeting, and Fi …

  Gods, what am I going to say? Which of them can I trust? The look of betrayal on Stefan’s face yesterday had been only the beginning. Everything had a consequence and Fi’s leaving would have many. Swinton’s men would question why his closest friend, and their captain, had suddenly turned traitor. They would feel conflicting loyalty about divulging anything they knew, with the death sentence looming over their idealistic friend. The Battalonian soldiers would be instantly suspicious that the only Ellestian soldier they respected had vanished. There would be no trust between Swinton and any of the men, Ellestian or Battalonian, he realised. It was a terrible position to be in at the start of a war.

  War. The word alone made his stomach churn. Not just war, but victory, as King Roswall had said. The Valian territory took up nearly a third of Ellest. They would war with their own people? With the might of two continents?

  It wasn’t a war. It was an extermination.

  King Arden had tried to rid himself of the Valians once before, nearly ten years ago. The mission Swinton had endured flashed before him, his conscience still screaming at the memory. The Forest of Ghosts. That was what they called it now. The once sacred place, where on the king’s orders, he’d released the mist. Where he’d saved the king from his own mistakes. An act of loyalty that could not be celebrated. The mission that was to land him a knighthood, but never did. Henri would know by now. The thought didn’t sit well with him, and he knew why. The Valian matriarch knew him for what he was – not just an Ashai; that wasn’t important. She knew him to be a coward, a traitor, not just to his king, but to his kind, and worst of all, to himself.

  He’d been living half-truths and lies for the better part of his entire life now. And look where it had got him. He sank further into his chair. What did the war even matter, what did anything matter, now that Dash was gone? He pushed the tray away from him, the food untouched. Instead, he spread his palms across a fresh sheet of parchment, and glanced at his pot of ink. His fingers itched to take up his quill and hear the scratch of the nib against the parchment. But whom would he write to? What would he write? What words could express the loss of a child? The regret of not having had the courage to know him in the first place?

  A key being turned in the lock of his door startled Swinton awake.

  ‘My apologies, Commander,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I only came to collect your tray.’

  Swinton turned to see Therese standing tentatively in the doorway.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said roughly, pushing stray hair from his eyes. ‘I’m afraid I dozed off …’

  ‘You must have a lot on your mind, sir,’ she said, approaching the desk.

  As she bent down to take his untouched tray, the scent of jasmine hit him. Subtle, sweet notes filled his nose and he forgot himself for a moment.

  ‘You didn’t eat anything, Commander,’ Therese was saying.

  He looked up at her, realising they’d never been this close. From here, he could see the array of freckles dusting her pale skin, and the soft flyaways that had escaped her braided bun.

  ‘No,’ he managed. ‘I wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘Should I have something sent up later?’

  He shook his head, standing, his eyes locking onto hers. ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you.’

  She immediately dropped her gaze, and he wished she wouldn’t. Look at me, he wanted to yell. But they were merely more words he’d never say aloud.

  Therese picked up the tray and made to leave, and Swinton forced himself to look back to the documents on the desk. As the door creaked open again, there was a loud clatter and a hushed cry. He whirled around to find Therese on her knees, scraping together spilt food and the broken plate. Crossing the room in a few short steps, he knelt beside her.

  ‘Commander, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It was an accident, Therese,’ he said, piling the broken shards of ceramic back onto the tray. Red stained them. He looked at Therese’s hands. A long gash on her right palm seeped blood.

  ‘You’re hurt.’ Without thinking, he reached across and took her hand in his. Her skin was rough and raw, no doubt from all the laundry work she did. ‘We should clean this,’ he said.

  ‘It’s alright,’ she insisted, but her blood dripped onto the floor.

  Swinton gently pulled her to her feet and led her into the bathing chamber. He filled the basin with fresh water from one of the pails and carefully lowered her hand into it. Therese winced. Pink stained her cheeks when he glanced up at her, but she said nothing.

  Swinton treated the cut with the same efficiency he used to treat his own injuries, dabbing it with alcohol. Therese didn’t make a sound, only bit her lip and screwed her eyes shut against the pain.

  ‘Sorry,’ Swinton said quietly, as he patted the wound dry with a fresh towel. He found a clean strip of linen in one of the drawers, and used it as a bandage. He worked in silence, all the while incredibly aware of the warmth of her body near his, and that delicate scent of jasmine.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her gaze dropping to his mouth.

  Without thinking, still holding her hand, he closed the gap between them with a single step, and leaned in. Her cheeks flushed pink as she lifted her face to his, her chest rising and falling fast. Swinton breathed her in, her full lips were so close to his —

  ‘My apologies for the mess,’ she stammered, gesturing to the other room. ‘I’ll clean it up.’

  ‘Leave it,’ he said, swallowing hard. ‘I have to see the princess. I’ll do it upon my return.’

  He left her, before he said or did something more stupid. Hers was one of the few familiar faces left, he told himself. That was all. He was exhausted and lonely, and her presence reminded him of a simpler time, of normality. He shook his head as he left his chambers. Whatever had just awoken inside him would not see the light of day.

  Swinton insisted on using the stairs to reach Princess Olena’s rooms, rather than being confined in the strange pulley-system contraption that lowered men through a narrow shaft. Kamath handed him a handkerchief before they reached the doors, and Swinton used it to dab the sweat from his brow. He wore his battleaxes strapped heavy across his back. Declaration of war, the death of monarchs, all warranted formalities, no matter what the temperature. He pocketed the now damp piece of material; no doubt he’d have need of it again on the way back.

  When he reached the royal suite, he was met with hesitancy from Stefan and the other guards. The princess hadn’t made an appearance since the news of her mother’s death had broken. Food had gone in and come back out untouched. The guards had been forbidden to enter, with only two lady’s maids having actually set eyes on the princess recently.

  ‘It’s been too long,’ Swinton ground out. ‘I don’t care if she doesn’t want to see anyone. She’s in our care. She’s our responsibility. Break the gods-damned door down if you have to.’

  The guards stared at him, jaws slack. Swinton’s dark hair fell over his eyes and he pushed it back, wondering if he looked as unhinged as he felt. He’d never lost his cool in front of his men, not like this.

  An elegant figure appeared at his shoulder, and the guards dropped into low bows.

  Prince Nazuri’s face was unreadable.

  Swinton made quick work of his bow. ‘Your Highness, my apologies. I —’

  ‘Don’t bother, Commander,’ the prince said softly. ‘As the gods would have it, I happen to agree with you.’ He turned back to the guards. ‘What are you waiting for? The commander gave you an order.’

  Swinton hid his surprise and stepped back to make room for Stefan, who had arrived with a large maul. Stefan swung the heavy weapon back and bro
ught it crashing down into the timber, sending splinters of wood scattering. Swinton impatiently crossed his arms over his chest as Stefan swung again. He was just about to step in when Prince Nazuri snatched the maul himself, and swung the final blows to the door with the strength and precision of any skilled Battalonian warrior. The door caved in completely with a loud crack, and the prince thrust the maul back at Stefan and strode through.

  Swinton started after him. As he stepped through the shattered door, the smell of powerful, sweet incense hit his nostrils. He spotted the altar, where small stone figures of the goddess Rheyah and the god Enovius stood in a small bowl of soil, the incense still burning around them. The princess was a Battalonian now, and she was expected to mourn with Battalonian customs. This altar was Ellestian. Swinton tried to position himself in front of the altar, but Prince Nazuri hadn’t noticed. Already, he had walked into the next room. It was dominated by an enormous mosaic-tiled feature wall. Reflective gold tiles stretched all the way up to the high ceiling, creating a large artwork of … Ines. The likeness to the statue at the heart of the maze was uncanny. Swinton’s stomach churned.

  ‘There she is.’ The prince made for the balcony.

  Swinton spotted the flutter of black fabric, and his heart leaped. What’s she doing out there?

  ‘Olena,’ said Prince Nazuri, her name sounding oddly familiar on his lips.

  Swinton followed. They found the princess standing calmly on the balcony, with her hands resting on the railing, her face tilted up to the sun and her eyes closed. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat.

  ‘Zuri,’ she said, not opening her eyes. ‘I told you I was fine. Do I not have one scrap of privacy left? Was breaking down the door truly necessary?’

  Swinton took a step back. Princess Olena … reprimanding the Prince of Battalon? And Zuri? To Swinton’s further shock, he saw a smile tug at the corner of Prince Nazuri’s mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the prince said. ‘I was worried.’

  ‘Your Highness,’ Swinton found himself saying. ‘It was my doing. I had the door broken in. We were concerned for your wellbeing. I couldn’t live with myself if —’

  ‘Then you are both to blame,’ the princess said. At last she opened her eyes and turned to them. ‘As you can see, I am as well as can be expected. Zuri, since you sought my company so desperately, perhaps you’d accompany me to the gardens?’

  ‘A wise choice,’ Nazuri said, unfazed by her tone. ‘Your skin is not yet used to the blaze of the Battalonian sun.’

  ‘I love being outdoors,’ Olena countered, allowing the prince to take her arm. ‘My mother did as well. A shame we spend our days trapped behind walls like prisoners.’

  A lump caught in Swinton’s throat as the prince led Princess Olena from the balcony.

  The poor child, he thought, starting after them.

  ‘Commander?’ the princess called from the hallway.

  ‘Your Highness?’

  ‘I expect a replacement door within the hour.’

  Swinton needed to get out. Needed to gather his thoughts, needed space to breathe away from the bustle of the shiprock palace. He decided to visit Xander in the outer city stables before he briefed his guards at noon.

  He walked through the narrow alleys of the city, his leather jerkin in his hand and his cotton shirt unlaced. Out here, formalities didn’t matter. He was too hot to care, as was everyone else. Sweat ran from his hairline down his neck and chest, and he dabbed at it absent-mindedly with the kerchief Kamath had given him.

  In the taverns he passed, the Belbarrow natives were well into their drinking. Happy drunks clapped each other on the back and threw dice from wooden cups. Unlike the taverns he frequented in Ellest, there was no tension here; no one was poised for violence or aggression.

  Now more familiar with the twists and turns of Belbarrow, Swinton easily found the route to the stables, and reached the outskirts of the capital quickly enough. He had opted to board Xander here rather than the inner-city stables simply because the air was fresher. He hated the idea of his horse being cooped up, of being walked around the beaten-down corral near the shiprock.

  He breathed in the smell of fresh hay as he entered the stables and found Xander in his stall.

  ‘Hello, comrade,’ Swinton said softly. Xander whinnied, immediately approaching his master and nuzzling his neck. ‘I’ve missed you, too.’

  Swinton slipped a bridle over Xander’s face and led him from the stables.

  ‘He’s already been taken around the field, Commander,’ a stablehand called after them.

  Swinton waved him away. He needed the fresh air as much as Xander did. They went to the farthest unoccupied field, beginning a steady pace around the perimeter. The heat out here was different, bearable, with a cool breeze from the Bay of Gifts below soothing his flushed skin. In the fields surrounding them, stablehands exercised other mounts with care, making Swinton glad for his choice of board.

  ‘Psst.’

  Swinton whirled around.

  A teenage boy leaned against the fence. ‘Commander?’ The boy’s voice hadn’t deepened yet, but he was a Battalonian, no doubt about it. He hadn’t broken a sweat.

  Swinton brought Xander to a stop. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  The boy plucked a letter from inside his shirt and held it out.

  Swinton approached him and took the parchment. ‘The seal’s broken,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  In fact, the letter looked like it had passed through the hands of not one, but several people before reaching Swinton. He took it from the boy. Close up, he recognised the seal imprint. He’d only seen the pattern before in Fi’s room on a wall hanging – a single flame, sister to the one tattooed on Fi’s forearm.

  Fi, what in the realm possessed you to contact me? Swinton shook his head.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘A friend to whom?’

  ‘A friend of your friend, Commander. Which makes us friends, no?’

  Swinton didn’t respond, but simply turned the parchment over in his hands.

  ‘Does this need a reply?’ he asked instead.

  ‘No. My friend said you would know what to do.’

  Swinton picked up his discarded jerkin and stood. ‘Then safe travels.’

  ‘Wait, sir.’ The boy jumped in his path. ‘My friend wished to know, are you well?’

  Swinton stared at the boy. Where in the realm did Fi find you? The boy was a common street urchin who was willing to step in front of the commander of King Arden’s army to get a response to a frivolous question? Mad. Fi and his messenger were mad.

  ‘I am well,’ Swinton finally replied evenly.

  ‘Very good, Commander. I will tell him so.’

  ‘Wait,’ Swinton called after the boy. ‘Your friend, he is well?’

  ‘Quite well, sir.’

  Swinton nodded, relief flooding through him. ‘Be on your way, then, lad.’

  Alone again, Swinton rested his forehead against Xander’s. Answers. He finally held the answers in his hand, and now, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know them.

  Xander nudged him in the chest.

  ‘You’re alright, comrade.’ He took a deep breath and readied himself to read Fi’s letter. Only, he realised, it wasn’t Fi’s letter alone …

  My Darling Jax,

  If you’re reading this, then I’m afraid my suspicions were correct. I am likely dying, or perhaps I am already dead. For that I am sorry.

  For weeks now, I have worried for your father. He has not been himself. For the longest time, I thought it was me – that I was unwell. He had me believe that it was, until now. I am so sorry I didn’t see this sooner, Jax.

  Your father has been poisoning my food, little by little, day by day, week by week. Maybe even month by month. I only discovered it when one of my servants broke a plate, and we saw the remaining powder that hadn’t diss
olved. I’m afraid my discovery was in vain, as the poison has already taken hold.

  Your father is planning something horrendous. I do not know the details, and selfishly, a part of me is glad for that. But I do know that he must be stopped before he brings the whole kingdom to ruin.

  Jaxon, my son, take this letter to someone you trust. And you must trust them absolutely, for misplaced trust could cost you your life. If you trust no one, look to your sister. She always had more sight in that regard than the rest of us combined.

  Stay safe, stay true.

  Love always,

  Mama

  Swinton rubbed his eyes and read the letter again.

  This can’t be … In Queen Vera’s hand.

  He turned to Fi’s enclosed note.

  Dimitri,

  Remember I said you’d have to accept who and what you are? That moment is here. This letter has the power to change the tides of a war. Make sure it finds the right hands, old friend.

  Your brother

  P.S. As I write this, the boy still lives.

  Swinton swore, startling Xander.

  Alive? Zachary is still alive? For how much longer? Did he escape the plague? Damn Fiore and his cryptic note.

  Muttering his apologies to Xander, he led his horse back to the stables and made for the shiprock.

  ‘He said you’d know what to do …’ Fi’s street urchin had said.

  It was clear what Fi thought Swinton should do. But Fi was a dreamer. As much as they tried, as much as they prayed, life didn’t work the way they wanted.

  Swinton rushed back to his chambers. There wasn’t much time before he had to meet his men. He read Queen Vera’s letter again and again, pacing the length of his study. He read Fi’s note thrice over. He recalled his dream from that very morning. Dream or not, it didn’t matter. All that mattered …

  The boy still lives … So long as Zachary was alive, there was something to lose. Arden had made that clear. And Swinton couldn’t, wouldn’t lose him. He went to the lamp on his desk. Hand shaking, he held the queen’s letter to the flame, and watched as her words, her proof, caught ablaze.