Heart of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  ‘Shhh … Yes, five.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It was south-east of Ellest. And it was swallowed by the mist. It used to be the biggest, the most powerful.’

  ‘No … That’s not right, Olena.’

  ‘People believe the mist has always been there, that it’s unknown, uncharted land. Maybe that’s … less frightening than knowing there was once an entire continent there. That the mist can creep over onto our seas and islands and swallow us, too.’

  ‘But – the mist hasn’t come closer.’

  ‘Hasn’t it? That’s the thing about lies, Dash – once there is one of them, you usually find more.’

  ‘And what does this have to do with magic?’

  ‘The mist is magic. The book I read said that the fifth continent wasn’t like Ellest or the other continents where magic is rare and illegal. This place was full of magic; it celebrated magic. Ashai from all over the realm used to migrate there. They say the magic consumed it, and that’s how the mist started. They say that the mist seeks out new magic to feed on.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I don’t either, not completely. I have many more volumes to get through.’

  ‘There’s more?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘this is just the start.’

  ‘Why can no one else read these books?’

  ‘They’re written in an old language for the blind – it’s called quaveer. It originated in Qatrola.’

  ‘How did you learn? Could I learn?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Dash. It took me a long time. I’ll read the rest of the volumes for us, and when I’m done, I’ll send for you from Battalon. I’ll keep you safe, Dash.’

  ‘I’m not scared,’ he said.

  ‘I am,’ Olena countered. ‘I’m scared of going to Battalon. I’m scared of having to marry Prince Nazuri, I’m scared he won’t like me, and that he’ll be mean to me. I’m scared of having no one to be my eyes, Dash. And I’m scared of leaving you here, to face your magic alone.’

  It was the most Olena had said all at once in a long while. So much so that Dash sat there, stunned, for a time. She was scared of a lot of things. And he couldn’t help her. He couldn’t help his best friend. What kind of knight was he going to be if he couldn’t help the Princess of Ellest?

  ‘It’s not magic,’ he said. ‘Are you taking all the quaveer books with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you send one to me?’

  ‘No, people will ask questions. I’ll leave one for you, in the kitchen, under the old cupboard with the burnt soup pots.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘It’s not easy, Dash, it’s like learning another language. You’ve got to learn a whole new alphabet.’

  ‘That’s okay, I can do it. And then I’ll write you quaveer letters.’

  Olena smiled and patted his arm, though Dash could tell she didn’t believe him. He’d show her.

  She stood to leave. ‘I have to return to the castle.’

  ‘So soon?’

  She nodded. ‘I have additional lessons with Mrs Milner on traditional Battalonian customs. Today’s is on the Festival of Lamaka.’

  ‘But I thought Battalon worshipped Liir?’

  ‘They do. I suppose I’ll find out this afternoon.’

  Dash stood and looped his arm through hers, sadness latching onto him like a disease.

  ‘When do you leave?’ he asked.

  ‘In three days’ time.’ She took her arm from his.

  ‘Olena,’ he said as she began to walk away.

  She turned back towards him, her eyes full of tears.

  He couldn’t say what was in his heart then; it would only break them both, so instead, he took a step closer to her.

  ‘What’s it called?’ he said, reaching out and squeezing her hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The fifth realm?’

  She turned her head in the direction of her guards, who were still out of earshot, and squeezed his hand back. ‘It was called Oremere.’

  Chapter 30

  An uncomfortable sense of unease settled in Henri’s stomach as they started the final leg of their journey. They left the burning inn behind and crossed the King’s River by ferry, moving further and further away from Valia and deeper into the king’s lands. She would find no loyalty here, no respect. King Arden owned everything and everyone from here on. She stared at the gleaming battleaxes strapped across Swinton’s back. He was at the head of their company and she preferred it that way. She didn’t like having her back to the treacherous bastard. He was still badly injured thanks to her beating. Deservedly so. As they continued the journey, she enjoyed fleeting moments of satisfaction as she watched him wince when he mounted and dismounted his horse. She’d broken at least two ribs, though she wished she could have had him a little longer. The bruising around his face had blossomed into patches of murky purples and greens.

  Good, she thought. He’s lucky he’s not dead.

  They still hadn’t received any answers as to why he’d left them defenceless at the Hodd’s Nott. Though she’d bet her weight in Valian herbs that it had something to do with the map Bleak had stolen. The two of them had studied it again in their brief moments away from the men. Henri knew there was something strange about it, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She looked to her side to find Bleak staring blankly ahead, bumping along mindlessly in her saddle. She had been different the past few days. Her odd-coloured eyes were hollow and her words were laced with darkness. Henri had seen her throw her scrap of rope in the fire, the one that seemed to have meant so much to her before. Out of the corner of her eye, Henri sometimes saw the Angovian fiddle with her hands, as though she still had it.

  Something had shifted between the two of them. Henri hadn’t liked the girl at first – she was everything Henri found infuriating. And yet, by some miracle, the girl had saved them, and had given up a part of herself in the process. That meant something to Henri. She felt that she should talk to Bleak, provide her with some measure of comfort, reassurance. But she couldn’t. To her, it was simple. The men who’d been in the Hodd’s Nott were bad. Alcohol, opium or a terrible day in the fields were no excuse for laying hands on someone else. Henri suppressed a shudder as she recalled the way they had looked at her and made her skin crawl. Yes, they were bad men. No one deserved to feel unsafe in their own skin for someone else’s pleasure. To Henri, the men deserved to die. Though from Bleak’s face, and her reaction afterwards, Henri could tell it was not that simple to her. She knew the girl was questioning how far the men would have gone, whether or not they had families, whether they had deserved such a death, if death at all. Henri shook her head. Simple. It was very simple. But in that respect, Bleak reminded her very much of Sahara, considering things from all angles, analysing the consequences of their actions, even though these were brought on by the actions of others. Henri ground her teeth and spurred her horse into a canter.

  The lands around them were beautiful, even Henri had to admit. She found herself marvelling at the expanse of open space. For someone who was usually so surrounded by trees and kindred in the forest, the East Farmlands were a different kind of paradise, if she could forget to whom they belonged. There was something liberating about the endless fields of grass and the casual nature of the farmers. For them, life wasn’t complicated; it was a rhythm of planting and harvesting and transporting and then planting again, feeling at one with the realm. For a few brief moments, Henri allowed herself the luxury of envy. She would never know freedom like that.

  After leaving Hoddinott, they travelled for two days, and for two days they saw no one of note on the road. They barely spoke between themselves. On the second evening, once they’d set up camp, Henri took Bleak aside, pulling her into the darkness by her elbow.

  ‘I think it’s time we tried your power again,’ Henri said, recalling Allehra’s request with a note of bitterness.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ B
leak replied.

  ‘I was given an order.’

  ‘Here I was thinking you gave the orders.’

  Henri clicked her tongue, but ignored the barb. ‘You’re scared.’

  ‘Damn right I’m scared. I could kill you.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Forgive me for not taking the gamble.’

  ‘Bleak, you must – training gives you back your control, doesn’t it?’

  Bleak scoffed. ‘What control?’ She waved the leather cuff on her wrist before Henri’s face. ‘This was supposed to help. It’s done nothing! If anything —’ Bleak cut herself short.

  ‘If anything what?’

  Bleak swallowed. ‘If anything … it’s made me feel stronger, made my “power” surge with more … vigour.’

  Henri’s heart nearly stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘Since leaving Valia, I’ve felt more powerful. I don’t understand it. I thought maybe the magic in the trees, the history of your ancestors had something to do with it?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Henri said. She took a step towards Bleak and held out her hand for the cuff.

  Bleak unbuckled it and handed it over. The second the cuff dropped into Henri’s palm, she felt the difference. The leather had been treated in one of the rarest Valian herbs, and the carvings, the carvings were enchantments. How had she not realised before? She ran her fingers over the markings and turned the cuff over in her hands. Her mother hadn’t given Bleak herbs to help stifle her magic; she’d given her a means of unleashing its potential. Allehra had ensured that when the time came, Bleak would be able to protect her daughter, and she’d turned the girl into a walking weapon to do so. Who knew where the limits of Bleak’s power ended?

  ‘What is it?’ Bleak asked, studying Henri.

  Henri handed the cuff back to her. If she told the Angovian the truth, she’d toss the cuff. She was still so raw from what had happened in Hoddinott. But they may need that power yet.

  ‘Nothing,’ Henri said, ignoring the twist of guilt in her gut, ‘nothing that I can tell anyway.’

  Bleak gave her a long look, before shrugging and buckling the cuff back onto her wrist. Henri didn’t hassle her about training again. Tomorrow; they could talk tomorrow.

  They camped on the edge of a wheat crop, careful to ensure their fire was adequately contained. Amidst their quiet, she noticed the dynamic had changed between Swinton and Fiore. From what she gathered, Fiore hadn’t agreed with Swinton’s actions, and he now blamed the commander for what had happened with Bleak. He hadn’t said so, of course; Swinton was his superior. But Henri could see it in his hesitations, in his sideways glances to Bleak, who now sat furthest from the fire, the reflection of the flames flickering in her odd eyes. Henri chewed her dried meat and stale bread with effort, and glanced at the others doing the same. Except Bleak. She held her bread where it had been ten minutes ago, untouched, in her lap.

  ‘You have to eat,’ Henri said.

  The men looked up, following her gaze to Bleak.

  ‘I’m not really hungry, you can have mine if you like.’ She offered her roll to Henri.

  Henri shook her head and pushed it back towards her. ‘You’re going to need all the strength you can get.’

  ‘A bit of old bread isn’t going to go very far,’ she said.

  ‘Eat it anyway.’

  Bleak took a half-hearted bite and then tossed the rest to Henri. ‘I’m done,’ she said, getting up and walking over to where she’d set up her bedroll away from the group.

  Fiore made to follow her.

  ‘Leave her,’ Henri commanded.

  Fiore lowered himself back down. The three of them ate the rest of their bread in silence, and Henri was glad for it. The less they talked, the less they would argue.

  Although she had become used to sleeping on the ground rather than in the trees, Henri still hadn’t slept well since leaving Valia. The discomfort she could handle; she’d handled much worse in her training, but the vulnerability of it – she couldn’t stand it. Knowing someone was taking watch wasn’t enough. These men weren’t her kindred, nor was Bleak, and they’d already proven how unpredictable they were. Henri rolled onto her other side with a frustrated sigh. She needed to be in her top form when she finally faced the king, and this wasn’t the way to go about it.

  It was almost a relief when morning came, but as soon as the sun rose and the pressure to sleep ceased, so did Henri’s ability to keep her eyes open. Once she was up in the saddle and on the move again, she caught herself nodding off with the steady rhythm of the horse’s steps.

  She continued to let Swinton lead them. To keep herself awake, she studied the axes strapped across his shoulderblades – his father’s signature weapons, she knew. From memory, his father’s axes had remarkable carvings along the handles, beautiful scrollwork that managed to be understated and masculine. She remembered Swinton’s father and his weapons from Sahara’s memorial all those years ago. Sir Caleb and Lady Yuliana had stood close by King Arden and Queen Vera, just another set of faces in a sea of different nationalities, ages and ranks. Valia Forest had been overrun with people wanting to pay their respects to the dead heir. What Sahara had done was not made public knowledge. The mourners were told she had taken ill – an unlikely tale in Valia, but people didn’t dare question the pyre they had burned without a body. Sahara had been sick; Henri had known it for a time. But it had been a sickness not of the body, but of the mind and of the heart.

  Again she recalled the name her sister had carved into many a surface – Oremere. Who was Oremere? A friend? A lover? What had they done to bewitch Sahara so? Or was she simply lovestruck? As many of the hardest kindred had been at seventeen?

  Oremere, Henri thought. Where are you now?

  Henri took a deep breath and focused on Swinton’s axes again. Even after all this time, she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to face what her sister had done, what Henri herself had let her do.

  Her horse slipped in some loose gravel on the road, and it wrenched Henri out of her memories and back to the present. She realised they’d reached Angove River, and in front of her, Swinton let out a frustrated huff.

  ‘The river has to be at low tide for us to cross or it’ll sweep us and the horses away for dead.’

  ‘And you didn’t think of this earlier?’ Henri asked, glaring at him.

  ‘It slipped my mind,’ he said, voice low.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve a brain haemorrhage.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Bleak said, ‘haven’t you inflicted enough damage on each other?’

  ‘Not even close,’ Henri retorted. ‘It’s enough when I say it’s enough.’ She raised her hand, feeling the energy in her palm surge. Bleak’s hand reached across and pushed hers down gently; Henri acquiesced.

  It would be hours until the tide changed, and so Henri and Bleak wandered downstream with their horses and planted themselves on the soft bank by the water’s edge. For a time, they sat in companionable silence. Henri sharpened her katars and watched as Bleak knotted long reeds of grass together. While Bleak was immersed in her knots, Henri discreetly undid the string around her neck which held the protective herbs in place. She placed the pouch down beside her, and waited. She was as still as a huntress, doing her best to suppress her concerns. She’d never wanted to open her mind to this strange girl from Angove, or the mists, or wherever she was from. Her business was exactly that, her business. The thought of someone rifling around in her mind made her queasy. But despite Allehra’s roundabout and secretive methods, Henri knew they meant Bleak had a role to play.

  She allowed her thoughts to trail off, back to her sister, as they so often did. She never talked about Sahara, not to Athene, not to Allehra. In the days and weeks after Sahara’s death, both women had wanted to talk to Henri about her sister, but Henri had refused. Her grief was too raw, and talking to them about it all didn’t feel right, didn’t do Sahara justice. They would never understand what it was to lose a twin, a part of oneself. And so she’d shut the
m down. Every time Sahara’s name was mentioned she’d snap, or worse still, simply leave, until her sister’s name was uttered less and less in her presence, and then not at all.

  ‘She was sad,’ Bleak said quietly. Henri saw her eye the discarded herbs in the grass, but the girl didn’t object, and so Henri nodded.

  ‘Why?’ asked Bleak.

  ‘She wasn’t an Ashai, like me or Allehra,’ Henri murmured. ‘She didn’t believe in the Valian Way. I don’t know when she decided she’d had enough.’ Henri sighed, resting her head in her hands. ‘But she did. Ten years ago, she walked into the mist. I swear I felt the moment her heart stopped in there.’

  Bleak reached out to her, and with a callused hand pressed Henri’s leather pouch of herbs back into her palms.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  Henri swallowed. Was this part of the girl’s power? To bring words tumbling from a warrior’s mouth? Words Henri had never spoken aloud, words that she’d always thought would crack her in two? More than two. She put the leather pouch back around her neck, and then pointed to Bleak’s cuff.

  ‘That won’t stifle your magic,’ she admitted.

  Bleak smiled grimly. ‘I know.’

  ‘You know?’

  The girl nodded. ‘It feels very different to the herbs you and your kindred carry. I knew it wasn’t the same as soon as I put it on. It’s … dangerous, it … It feeds a darker side of my power, if that makes sense. I was going to take it off after … after what happened. But perhaps we need danger on our side in the capital?’

  ‘I’d come to the same conclusion,’ said Henri.

  Bleak nodded and turned her attentions back to the river. ‘What are we going to do?’ she said, defeat lacing her words.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Henri answered truthfully. The Angovian deserved that much.

  ‘They’ll split us up,’ Bleak said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We can’t trust the commander.’

  ‘We can’t trust any of them.’

  Bleak wrung the cuff around her wrist. ‘Every woman for herself, then?’

  Henri nodded slowly. ‘If you can get away, do it. No matter what.’