Reign of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  ‘Treason?’ Athene stammered. ‘I never spoke of …’

  But a deep, dark instinct flared from within Henri.

  ‘Henri, I only meant she manipul—’

  ‘That’s enough.’ The command echoed across the room. ‘You will speak no more of Sahara. Not to me. Not to anyone.’

  ‘Henri …’

  Henri could only shake her head, disbelief clouding her mind. ‘Get out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You speak of manipulation, while you’re the one whispering accusations in my ear?’ Her power raged like a wild storm within.

  Athene must have seen it in her eyes, because she bowed her head and left. As soon as the door clicked closed, the room felt too quiet. Henri was left with the nagging sensation of restless frustration and guilt. She rummaged through her pack and retrieved her whetstone and spare katars. Seating herself at the small round table by the fire, she laid out her weapons for sharpening.

  Was I too hard on her? Too quick to shut her down? The questions ate away at her as she stared at her katars, the reflection of the flames flickering across them. She took a deep breath and began her task, dragging her blade across the whetstone. After a time, as she fell into a rhythm, her anger ebbed, the soft scrape of steel upon stone somehow easing the tight grip around her heart. Ten years of solitude … Perhaps it had had a bigger impact on her than she allowed.

  She ran over Athene’s words in her mind. Was she incapable of discerning concern from manipulation? Had she become paranoid after all this time? No matter how sharp her blades became, she knew they held no answers.

  Answers. There were so many she was yet to get. And at that acknowledgement, the face of the Tailor swam before her. She’d said she’d speak to him, but … Her head was brimming with Athene, and the impending journey. Bringing a new player into the mix, one she knew nothing about, would only add to her confusion and general unease. No, the Tailor’s tale could wait. He wasn’t an immediate threat.

  Still restless, Henri donned her palma furs and hood, and wandered down to the snow-capped gatehouse. Bleak stood by one of the fires, now alone, looking out onto the Forest of Wolves.

  ‘He left?’ Henri said from behind her.

  Bleak nodded, glancing up, her odd eyes unreadable.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Henri heard herself say, the chaos of her mind subsiding.

  Bleak simply turned back to the trees.

  ‘What do you make of this place, then?’ Henri ventured.

  ‘It’s fucking cold.’

  Henri barked a laugh, and then caught Bleak’s look of surprise. Henri was struck anew with how little she must have laughed in the past few years. Feeling the chill, she held her gloved hands over the flames, savouring the warmth that began to spread to her frozen fingertips.

  ‘Savage place, isn’t it?’ she said, nodding to the jagged mountain peaks in the distance. ‘We lost three kindred in training up there. The ice got into their bones and stayed there.’

  Henri remembered it well. How her comrades’ lips had turned blue, how their bodies had stopped shaking from the cold, how in their final hours, their words had been the ramblings of madwomen.

  Bleak shook her head. ‘Why would you put people through that …?’ she trailed off.

  ‘It’s the Valian Way,’ Henri murmured. ‘To forge strength.’

  ‘Bren once said, “we have to play to the strengths we’re given”.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And … I don’t know much about forging strength. Despite what Luka says, I’m no Valian, but whatever strength I do have, I have to use it to save him.’

  ‘You know, if he is alive, and that’s a big if, he might not be the same as he was …’

  Bleak’s mouth was set in a grim line as she nodded. To Henri’s surprise, the Angovian turned to her and said, ‘I’m not the same as I was.’

  Chapter 29

  The preparations for the Festival of Lamaka were in full swing, and the throng of people bustling through Belbarrow’s city centre set Swinton’s teeth on edge. Merchants tugged their food carts along the cobblestones, palace workers heaved the royal banners in great rolls down the street, while the locals chatted excitedly as the lull of the crowd tugged them down the long strip to the water. Swinton walked beside Princess Olena, hand on his sword hilt, his mind assessing every risk, every threat that came across their path. Clearly, this hadn’t been his idea.

  ‘Commander, relax. This is Belbarrow, not Heathton. Our people mean us no ill will,’ said Prince Nazuri on Olena’s other side, his arm looped casually through hers. The prince’s own guard walked three paces behind and in front – too far away to stop any attack.

  ‘Nazuri, that’s a fool’s notion,’ Olena said, patting the prince on the arm.

  The prince merely laughed. ‘A fool’s notion or a dreamer’s?’

  ‘Sometimes, they’re one and the same.’

  Swinton still wasn’t accustomed to the ease of conversation between the Princess of Ellest and the Prince of Battalon.

  ‘The commander is right to guard us closely,’ Princess Olena added. ‘Given the state of affairs at the moment.’

  Swinton forced his feet to keep walking. What does she know about the state of affairs?

  But the conversation went no further on that front. The crowds parted for the royal couple, eyeing the guards and Swinton with a mixture of fear and awe.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Nazuri said.

  ‘I know. I can hear the waves,’ Olena told him.

  Swinton hadn’t ventured this far north of the city since arriving in Belbarrow. While the Bay of Gifts was a popular attraction to those visiting Battalon’s capital, he’d had much more pressing matters to attend to. As the first glimpse of the water came into view, he understood what the fuss was about. The road they walked upon opened up to reveal a glimmering sapphire sea. It was nothing like the grimy, polluted ports of Ellest. The Bay of Gifts was well cared for, a prized gem of Belbarrow. The day was bright, and the foaming waves broke upon the golden sand with a calm, rhythmic hiss. Amidst the sand dunes, people had set up market stalls. The scent of spiced meat and wine sent a pang of hunger through Swinton’s stomach, but it would be a long while until he could eat.

  The princess was bending over her shoes, slipping them from her small feet. As though sensing Swinton’s hesitation, Princess Olena faced his direction.

  ‘Some of us, Commander, have yet to feel sand between our toes …’

  It made sense, Swinton supposed. King Arden and Queen Vera had scarcely let the princess out of the castle walls. She never would have journeyed to Felder’s Bay or had a moment’s peace to enjoy what so many others did about the seaside. So Swinton bit back his argument, and followed her across the sand.

  He sank into the shifting grains without grace, frustrated in the knowledge that he’d be tipping sand from his tattered boots for days.

  Nazuri removed his own boots, handing them to a nearby attendant, and took Olena’s arm again, leading her down to the water.

  ‘It feels wonderful,’ Olena said to him.

  Swinton spotted her toes wriggling in the sand.

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Nazuri agreed.

  The betrothed couple and their guards wandered down to the water’s edge. Nazuri led Olena to where the sea lapped gently at the shore, the princess’ skirts dragging through the wet sand. She laughed as the water spilled across the tops of her feet. It was the first time Swinton had heard her laugh since they’d arrived on the fire continent.

  A few hours later, the beach was transformed. Torches lit numerous pathways through the sand, the reflection of their flames flickering across the flat, glassy surface of the dark water. Above, the yellow moon was full, bigger than Swinton had ever seen it. He tried to focus on the job at hand, but his mind kept wandering. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt peace. Terror had gripped him by the throat a decade ago and hadn’t let him be since. He spent nearly every waking moment assessin
g danger, cloaking secrets and feeling powerless against all that threatened his son.

  My son. He’d said those words aloud just twice in his life. Once when Zachary had been placed in his trembling arms for the first and last time, a small bundle whose cries had echoed Swinton’s own grief, and once more when he’d told Fi. Swinton had accepted long ago that he would live a life of solitude, that no one ever again would know him the way Eliza, or even Fi had, before their lives had become rigid with responsibility and conflicting loyalties. And it had been worth it, if only to keep Dash safe. The boy didn’t need an Ashai for a father, certainly not one who led his own people to slaughter. Certainly not one who had helped spread toxic mist throughout the realm. Someone who spied on princes. His son, bright-eyed and innocent, would be ashamed of him. Swinton carried his own shame, along with his secrets. Every day, the burden grew heavier with each passing moment, but there was nothing for it but to keep going.

  The boy still lives. He’d received no further word. Toying with the coin of Yacinda around his neck, he wondered just how messy things would get this time if he tried to dabble in his faltering magic. Could he still use it to see —

  Nearby, a strike upon an enormous gong sounded, vibrating through the sand. The crowd, already in good spirits, stood and applauded their king as he took to the stage, flanked by two of his largest guards, and made his opening address. With his voice projecting across the throng of people, he waffled on about the generosity of the water goddess, and led a silent prayer for Queen Vera. Then, he pressed his fingers together.

  ‘I would also like to welcome our beloved guest, Princess Olena of Ellest, to her first ever festival. We are thrilled to have you.’

  There was a smattering of applause from the crowd and Swinton watched as Olena graciously bowed her head in their direction. She was a fast learner.

  A servant pressed a goblet into King Roswall’s hand, and the king raised it. ‘I hereby begin the celebrations of the Festival of Lamaka. Happy feasting.’

  The moon felt as though it was only an arm’s length away. A massive yellow orb, eclipsing the night’s darkness. Sure enough, the waves that broke now came closer to the shore. Suddenly, there was a glimmer of silver, and the soft thud of something hitting the sand. A trout.

  And then it happened all at once. Dozens of fish leaped from the next breaking wave. Servants with woven baskets scurried across the wet shore, retrieving the fish. Swinton had never seen anything like it. The beach was awash with drunk, merry Battalonians, and music – lots of music.

  Not far from the royal marquee, another section of the beach had been set up for the royal household staff. There, amidst the other maids and servants, he spotted Therese, her face flushed with joy. She was dancing barefoot in the sand with the other maids. He looked away before she could sense his attention on her.

  He ducked inside the royal marquee and approached Princess Olena.

  ‘Your Highness,’ he said, bowing low. ‘I trust you are having an enjoyable evening?’

  Olena turned in his direction. ‘I am, Commander. Are you?’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘Was the sight as peculiar as I imagined it, then?’

  ‘Possibly more so, Highness.’ Swinton made to leave, but remembered something about Dash being Olena’s eyes. ‘There … There were dozens and dozens of silver fish – leaping straight from the dark waves and onto the sand. The beach was littered with their flapping bodies. Almost like they wanted to be taken by us.’

  ‘Sounds peculiar indeed, Commander.’

  When the festival was over, Swinton returned to his chambers in the shiprock palace. The rooms were stuffy from being closed up all day, so he opened the shutters to let the crisp night air in. He didn’t understand this place – how the days could be so blisteringly hot and the nights so cool. He removed his sword and his battleaxes, leaving them by the door, and poured himself a goblet of wine. He unlaced the front of his jerkin, desperate to feel the cool air on his skin. He returned to the window and finally allowed himself to sink into one of the chairs. Sighing heavily, as always, he fiddled with the coin resting against his sternum.

  One more try, he told himself. Just once more he would try to use his ability. He had to know. He took a sip of wine, and placed the goblet on the desk before him. With a deep breath, he lifted the coin and chain from around his neck.

  A current of power coursed through him. He gripped the windowsill, gasping as the magic rushed through his veins and thrummed at his core. Blood roared in his ears and he tried to focus, but the vision swarmed before his eyes.

  King Arden stood in a black mourning tunic at the foot of a four-poster bed. A small figure lay lifeless amidst the pillows and quilts, golden hair brushed and braided to frame a young face. Princess Olena. A crown of red flowers bloomed above her head, and crept around her body.

  ‘A shame it had to end this way, daughter,’ King Arden murmured.

  Swinton watched on in horror as the crimson petals continued to grow, until they enveloped the princess’ arms and legs. Until all that remained on the bed was a mass of flowers, as red as blood.

  ‘Commander,’ said a worried voice. ‘Commander!’

  Someone was shaking him by the shoulder. He gasped for air, his eyes burning, his chest bursting. Finally, his fingers wrapped around the coin of Yacinda, and at once, his magic was snuffed out.

  He focused on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  Slowly, he became aware of his surroundings, and the steady hand still on his shoulder.

  ‘Commander,’ Therese said. ‘Are you alright?’

  Weakly, he pulled the necklace back down over his head, pressing the cool coin to his breast.

  ‘Here,’ Therese said, handing him the goblet of wine he’d poured earlier.

  He knew he should dismiss her, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. Didn’t trust himself to move. He could feel his body trembling.

  Princess Olena was in terrible danger. King Arden ... He would stop at nothing. Not even his daughter’s life. And, Swinton realised with a jolt, that wasn’t all.

  The thread between Dash and himself was gone. He felt its absence suddenly, a bolt of lightning to his chest.

  The pain that tore at his heart was unlike anything he’d ever felt, all-consuming, stealing the breath from his lungs.

  Dash was dead.

  ‘I came to deliver this, Commander.’ Therese held out a letter.

  Swinton’s hands shook uncontrollably as he took it from her, and immediately recognised King Arden’s seal. Three lines of perfect penmanship greeted him:

  Your former Captain intends to breach Moredon Tower.

  Bring him to justice.

  For your son.

  Chapter 30

  Dash could hear the quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth, its warmth soaking into his skin. Warmth … That was what it felt like. For a time, he thought he would never feel it again. He remembered being cold – no, cold wasn’t the word. Ice had wrapped around his bones, a death grip he thought had latched onto him forever, and yet … He wasn’t dead. He didn’t feel right, but he wasn’t dead. Dash wiggled his toes beneath the sheets. Even his toes felt strange.

  Squinting against the soft orange glow of the chambers, Dash opened his eyes. He’d never been in rooms this lavish. Intricate tapestries adorned the walls, and thick, luxurious palma furs layered the floors, while the canopy of his four-poster bed was draped with silks …

  Where am I?

  A quiet whistle of breath sounded from beside him and Dash whipped his head around to see Tailor asleep in an armchair, his chin resting on his chest.

  Dash combed his memories. He knew he’d spent some time with Tailor. Knew somehow that the man had been kind to him, but … The plague. It came rushing back to Dash, and he threw off the blankets to examine his legs, where the disease had attacked his skin first … And cried out.

  What … These … These aren’t …!

  The legs tha
t lay before him were not his own. The hands that clutched the sheet were not his own. His breaths came in sharp and fast as he tried to clamber out of the bed.

  ‘Easy there, little brother —’

  ‘What —’ Dash’s hand flew to his throat – an unrecognisable voice croaked from him. ‘What did you do?’

  Tailor gripped him firmly by the upper arms and forced him back onto the pillows.

  ‘Easy,’ he commanded, as though Dash was some wild colt yet to be broken in. ‘Listen here, and listen good. You’ve got a bit of catching up to do, and I’ll thank you to not panic while you do. It took a lot to keep you alive. Be a damn shame if you die on us now.’

  Dash locked eyes with him, inhaling through his nose, and breathing out through his mouth.

  ‘That’s it …’ Tailor reassured him. ‘You’re alright now, little brother, I promise you that.’

  For some reason, Dash believed him.

  Dash listened to Tailor talk for what felt like an age, but Dash didn’t mind. He didn’t want to hear the stranger’s voice that came from his own mouth. He didn’t want to ask questions. Not yet. He was too afraid of what the answers may be. So he listened. Tailor’s tale was an epic one, rich with details that stirred Dash’s dormant memories and forgotten pain. Tailor was an Ashai, he learned. And a powerful one at that. With his magic, he’d managed to transport them and the captain from Ellest to Battalon, and from Battalon to Havennesse in a matter of days. They had heard of a great Ashai who was in Wildenhaven, and that he was Dash’s only hope. But the Ashai hadn’t been a healer. He’d been something very different.

  Dash looked down at his hands, palms upturned. So much bigger than he remembered. His palms were wide and his fingers long and elegant. The hands of a young man, not a boy.

  ‘I feel …’ The deep voice rumbled within his chest, and he cleared his throat. ‘I feel …’ He couldn’t form the words. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them back. He wasn’t a child any longer. He …