Heart of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  Lindis shook her head fondly. With her own plate brimming with food, Bleak sat herself down beside Lyse at one of the long tables, which soon filled. The other groundlings were all desperate to sit with Lyse, Bleak realised. The girl was popular, so much so that the groundlings paid Bleak barely any notice, leaving her to enjoy Lyse’s stories with the rest of them. Lindis cleared her throat from opposite Lyse, and all the groundlings groaned, begrudgingly shuffling down the bench to allow space for their elder.

  ‘Ungrateful wretches,’ Lindis muttered, but her lips quirked with the hint of a smile.

  She looked across the table at Bleak. ‘You’re bursting with questions, girl. Ask them. This lot loves to talk. The more questions the better.’

  ‘We don’t talk that much, Maman,’ said a boy sitting further down the table.

  ‘Rubbish. And not to mention your keen hearing, eh?’

  The boy grinned, and then nodded to Bleak. ‘She’s right, though. Ask away, Angovian.’

  ‘Uh … I guess I was just wondering how this all works.’

  ‘This?’ said Lyse.

  ‘With your people here, and, you know, the rest up there.’ Bleak gestured above them.

  ‘Ah, she feels badly for us,’ said the boy.

  Lyse smiled kindly. ‘We like our lives, Bleak.’

  ‘But you’re forced to —’

  ‘Live out here?’

  Bleak nodded.

  ‘Is out here not as beautiful as up in the trees?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘We have more freedom here than in the keep. We’re not defined by violence and training. It’s peaceful here. We all have our roles and responsibilities, but there is life to be had outside those, too.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ growled a voice from further down the table.

  Bleak’s eyes snapped up from her food to the sharp-featured girl down the end, and then back to Lyse, who was glancing nervously at Lindis.

  ‘Take your revolution-mongering somewhere else, girl,’ Lindis said, not even looking in the girl’s direction.

  ‘Someone finally asks what we think, and you’re just going to —’

  ‘Enough, Clara,’ Lindis said. The kind, maternal smile from before was gone, replaced by a darker look. ‘Bleak is our queen’s guest, and your unhappy notions do not represent the majority out here in the Sticks.’

  ‘But she’s on our side, Lindis – she tried to help Neemah.’ Clara jerked her thumb in Bleak’s direction.

  Bleak didn’t hide her discomfort at being somehow caught in the middle of this.

  ‘There are no sides, Clara. Now either stop this rubbish or leave. When this gets back to the queen, and it will, the rest of us do not want to be tarnished with the same brush.’

  Clara shook her head furiously and shoved her plate back. With a final glare at Lindis, she left.

  Lyse released a low whistle.

  ‘Ignore her,’ Lindis said, irritation etched on her face.

  But the thoughts of those around Bleak began to seep into her own mind. They came at her, fleeting and furious …

  But Clara’s right —

  Wish she’d shut it around Lindis —

  Clara’s a damn fool —

  There was nothing consistent about the thoughts around her, and to distract herself, Bleak turned back to Lyse, this time leaving her food untouched.

  ‘What do you do here, then?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a healer. Lindis is my mentor. She teaches about ten of us.’

  ‘That’s … That’s really great.’ Bleak couldn’t quell the uneasiness in her stomach, and she glanced around to see if she could see Clara.

  Lindis passed Bleak a basket of bread. ‘Any new place and its workings is a lot to take in.’

  Bleak nodded.

  ‘And no society is perfect, Bleak, no matter how much you want it to be.’

  Bleak let the elder’s words sink in, and took a thick slice of bread.

  The keep was boisterous upon Bleak’s return. The Valians were riled up after a day of training, with some of them even sporting split lips and black eyes, wearing them proudly. Bleak scanned the crowd, looking for Bren, and saw him tending to Tilly; he had her arm in his lap as he bandaged it. Bleak stopped in her tracks and watched as they chatted quietly.

  What could he possibly have to say to a Valian? What do they have in common?

  She had to acknowledge that Bren had never had any trouble getting along with people. It was in his nature to make conversation, to put people at ease. Bleak snatched up a bottle of wine from the refreshments table and slipped away from the keep once again. She lifted the bottle to her lips as she walked, and relaxed as soon as the delectable taste hit her tongue. Exhaling slowly, and feeling the stiff tension leave her shoulders, she found herself crossing a narrow bridge of tree roots. Beneath her, a stream rushed over mossy rocks, and small silver fish splashed in the clear water. Taking another swig from the bottle, Bleak eased herself down from the end of the bridge to the cool banks of the stream. Looking around, she decided to take advantage of the rare solitude. She was already tired of bathing in the kindred baths. The Valians would steal not-so-subtle glances at her naked, malnourished body, their pitying thoughts driving a flush of embarrassed heat across her face as she emerged from the water each time. And then there was her scar. The rippled, pale flesh took on the jagged shape of a mapped continent, covering a generous patch of skin from the side of her thigh to the top of her knee. The Valians loved gawking at it. It marked her in more ways than they knew.

  She was nine when the second recorded plague had hit Ellest. It had infected young and old alike, struck them down with pus-filled sores and a core-shaking fever, and that had been only the beginning. Scared, she had hidden the ulcer on her leg that bubbled under her skin, but after a morning of trembling with a soaring temperature, Senior had found her out. He’d waited until dusk and then snuck her onto one of his ships and sailed out to sea. There, he’d knocked her unconscious, and with a surgeon’s blade he’d borrowed from the Claytons, he’d cut out the rotting flesh on her leg and then some, to make sure he’d got it all. She’d awoken to the scent of burning flesh, and then pain like she’d never known, roaring through her. Senior had knocked her out again. They had stayed out at sea for days, though she couldn’t recall any of it. Which was a mercy, because the size of her wound, and the grip the fever had had on her, were fierce.

  Bleak shrugged away the memory. No matter her disfigurement or her slight, boy-like body, there was no shame at this deserted stream in Valia. Piece by piece, layer by layer, she peeled away her clothing. Naked, she took her first steps into the fresh water, its unexpected chill taking her breath away. The stream was only waist-deep, but it was more than enough. She let her body rock with the gentle current, keeping her feet planted firmly in the silt. The silver fish darted away from her, leaving her to duck her head under the surface, muting all the sounds of the forests and all the angry thoughts of the day. Water had always had a soothing effect on her. She came up for air, pushing the water back through her hair and away from her eyes with a sigh. She would stay down there forever if she could. She rubbed the dirt from her skin and did her best to clean beneath her nails. Ever since her first sea voyage with Senior, the easy pull of the water seemed to settle something within her. She floated on her back and gazed at the broken pieces of the night sky beyond the canopy. It was littered with bright, white stars, winking down at her.

  ‘Bleak!’ shouted a familiar male voice.

  Bleak started, splashing wildly and swearing under her breath. She should have known Bren would find her. Dipping her torso below the water’s surface, she looked up and saw his face looking down at her from the bridge. Her skin tingled; she was incredibly aware of her own nakedness. Goosebumps broke out across her skin.

  ‘Don’t —’ she started to say, but Bren was already down the other side of the bridge.

  She stayed where she was, careful to cover herself as best she cou
ld.

  ‘Are yer alright? I was worried – no one had seen yer.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she snapped. ‘I’m trying to bathe, so if you don’t mind?’

  He spotted her pile of clothes and then took in her bare shoulders. He blushed.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t think —’

  ‘No. You didn’t. Face the trees.’

  Bleak saw him hesitate for a fraction of a second, before doing as she bid.

  She made quick work of emerging from the stream and fumbled with her pants over her wet legs.

  ‘Yer know,’ he said, his voice cautious, ‘I’ve seen yer undressed before.’

  ‘Bren, not now,’ she cautioned, pulling her tunic over her head.

  He had seen her in various states of undress, when he was tending to wounds after a bar fight, and when she’d lived with his family and he’d walked in on her in the mudroom removing soiled clothes. But this was different.

  Resigned to the fact that her now wet, clinging clothes left little to the imagination, she sat by the stream, hunched over the wine bottle.

  ‘I’m done,’ she told him.

  Clearing his throat, he turned, his cheeks still pink, and sat down nearby. He watched her take a long swig from the wine.

  ‘I didn’t like it either,’ he said.

  Bleak looked at him blankly. ‘Like what?’

  ‘How they treated that girl. I couldn’t handle it. I left.’

  That’s right, Bleak remembered. He hadn’t seen her little outburst.

  She shrugged. ‘What can you do.’

  ‘Leave.’ He said it so simply.

  The odd thing was, Bleak hadn’t seriously considered it since she’d arrived in Valia. She couldn’t leave, even if she wanted to.

  ‘Come back to Angove,’ Bren said.

  She shook her head.

  ‘You’re just going to accept this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This life? These people?’

  Bleak drank deeply before answering. She was only just coming to terms with it herself. What else did she have?

  ‘They saved me, Bren. I’m in their debt.’

  Bren ground his teeth and stared into the water ahead.

  ‘I would have been killed, or raped, or both,’ she told him, ‘and they stepped in when they didn’t have to. And now – well, now Henri’s going to face consequences for that. And I need to be as strong as I can be for when that day comes.’

  ‘Strong? What can you do that she can’t?’

  Bleak faltered. As far as Bren knew, she was just a scrappy orphan girl from Angove.

  ‘Since when does Bleaker Junior care about debts?’ he said.

  ‘Since always.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What about the debts you owe me? How many scrapes have I gotten yer out of? Only to face yer abuse the next morning?’

  Bleak closed her eyes. ‘I know,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Do yer?’

  ‘Yes. Trust me, I know, Bren.’

  Bren got up, dusting off the seat of his pants and staring down at her. Bleak’s head began to throb as she tried to tune out Bren’s lingering heated thoughts. He was right to be angry. She was selfish and ungrateful. He’d saved her so many times, mainly from herself. There he would be, peeling her away from her vomit in the gutter, tearing Maz’s eager body off hers, cleaning her cuts and icing her bruises. Bren’s mind dragged her through each memory, each one worse than the last, until she couldn’t take it anymore. She got to her feet, clutching the bottle of wine, and walked away. He was better off without her.

  She didn’t care where she was going. Especially once she was more than half a bottle of wine in. Valian wine was strong. The lights of the keep became more distant, and she found it harder and harder to see through the forest. She stumbled over rocks and tree roots, all the while taking long swigs, trying to quench her unquenchable thirst. She didn’t know why Bren cared. She didn’t know why Bleaker Senior had taken her in. She didn’t know what happened to her parents. She didn’t know much at all, it seemed. Except that the wine helped. It helped her feel as though being alone didn’t matter. That nothing mattered. It washed over the memories and thoughts that didn’t belong to her, the ones from other people that insisted on crowding her mind. Suddenly, she slipped, lost her balance – she was falling, tumbling down a steep hill, ramming into trees and boulders, holding her hands before her face, trying to shield herself as she lost control. There was a thud as something blocked her way. She let out a moan of pain. With her head spinning and her whole body aching, she staggered to her feet.

  She gasped.

  Before her stood hundreds and hundreds of tree skeletons. Charred, naked trunks stretched up into the fog that surrounded them. It was a forest graveyard. Every tree within sight was dead, and not one natural sound came from within. Fog swirled around the trunks.

  ‘We call it the Forest of Ghosts,’ said a familiar voice from behind her.

  Bleak nearly leapt out of her skin. ‘Gods!’ she cursed.

  Henri ignored her and took in the forest for herself. ‘It was over a decade ago now, but sometimes, I can still smell it burning.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We always suspected the royals had something to do with it. It’s where we used to grow these.’ Henri tugged at the pouch of herbs around her neck.

  Bleak swayed on the spot, and saw Henri glance at the bottle of wine at her feet.

  ‘You’re a drunk,’ the warrior queen said quietly.

  Bleak thought about arguing, about denying, but she was so damn bone-tired. ‘I’m a lot of things.’

  Henri nodded. ‘We all are,’ she said, and took the wine from Bleak without another word.

  Chapter 16

  The raucous tavern in Grayside smelled like watery stew, sandalwood and ale. The trademark scent of travellers and drinkers from around these parts of Ellest. There wasn’t an empty table in sight as villagers from all over the East Farmlands leaned against the dark timber beams and soaked their sleeves as they rested their elbows on the wet bar. Torches lit the walls, the warm light spilling across the laughing faces and heated card games. Swinton and Fiore looked on from their booth in the back corner, and dipped chunks of stale bread into the poor excuse for pork stew.

  ‘I’ve had worse,’ Fi said loudly.

  ‘Me, too, I’ve tasted your version of palma pie,’ Swinton replied, raising the heavy mug of ale to his lips.

  Fiore laughed. ‘What’s wrong with how I cook my pie?’

  ‘You mean what’s not wrong with it?’ Swinton said. He nodded to the barman, signalling for another round. He was in good spirits. They’d ridden hard for three days and covered decent ground. He and Fi always made great time when it was just the two of them riding.

  ‘Commander,’ the barman said, approaching with a round jug of fresh ale. ‘I trust everything is to your liking?’

  ‘It’s fine, Jasper,’ said Swinton, giving a subtle shake of his head at Fi’s look of disgust, ‘thank you.’

  ‘Anything you need, Commander. We’re glad to see you back here.’

  ‘Much appreciated.’

  Jasper took his time filling each mug. ‘Will you be attending the feast honouring Sir Caleb?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, I have business to attend to for the king.’

  ‘But of course, Commander. Still, it’s a shame you cannot be there. You must be very proud. Your father —’

  ‘I’m disappointed I won’t be there to celebrate the anniversary of his glory,’ Swinton cut him off.

  Fiore choked on his ale. Swinton shot him a warning look.

  ‘Of course,’ Jasper said, bowing his head. ‘I’m sure your father of all people understands – duty comes first.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Do let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, gentlemen.’ Jasper scurried back to the bar.

  ‘Gentlemen. He’ll really say anything, won’t he?’ said Fi, brows raised after the eager barman.

 
; ‘Leave him be, he’s harmless.’

  ‘Harmless, yes, among other things.’

  Swinton laughed despite himself and poured more ale.

  Fi raised his mug with a sly smile. ‘To the glory of Sir Caleb Swinton, then, your claim to fame.’

  Swinton shook his head, but bumped his mug against Fi’s and drank deeply.

  ‘I don’t know how you put up with it, eh?’ said Fi.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sir Caleb this, Sir Caleb that – drives me half-mad.’

  Swinton shrugged. ‘My father did this continent a great service when he saved His Majesty from the mist dwellers. He deserves the accolades and the feasts.’

  ‘That must be equally tiresome.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The mask of the proud son.’

  ‘Mask? You don’t think I’m proud of my father?’

  ‘Even pride has its limits, my friend. Though I don’t doubt you have it in cartloads.’

  Fi was baiting him, Swinton knew it, but he was too sober to bite. He watched as his friend glanced around the tavern, not-so-discreetly trying to discern which women were accompanied by husbands and which were not. Swinton smiled.

  ‘I believe she’s a lady of the evening,’ he quipped, following Fi’s gaze to a woman in a deep-blue gown, cinched in tight at the waist.

  Fiore didn’t look away. ‘So?’

  ‘So nothing.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Fi grinned. ‘We both know I don’t need to pay for a lady’s affections. I was considering her for you, old friend.’

  ‘Me? I’m perfectly content where I am.’

  Fiore snorted. ‘Whatever you say, Dimitri. Just don’t show her up to that pokey little room of yours, whatever you do.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my room?’

  ‘Room is a generous term for that water closet.’

  ‘We’re on the road, Fi, I don’t see the need for lavish accommodations.’

  ‘Lavish? No, we wouldn’t want that, would we.’

  ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Dimitri, you’re Commander of the King’s Army. You can afford to stay in a normal room every now and then, right? Unless it’s what all the guards and squires suspect.’

  ‘Which is?’