Heart of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

‘I’ll do my best to keep her in high spirits, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I’m happy to hear it.’

  ‘We’ll send word as soon as we reach each of our stops.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  ‘Will that be all, sire?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  Swinton bowed low and mounted his horse. Just as he was about to press his heels to the stallion’s sides, the king pulled at his reins.

  ‘You know, Commander,’ he began.

  Swinton looked down at his sovereign.

  The king’s eyes lingered on his threadbare gloves and tattered boots. ‘I always found it odd that the leader of my army had such … well-worn attire. I took an interest in where your salary seemed to disappear to.’ The king looked out to the throng of people.

  Swinton followed the king’s gaze, which fell upon Dash, the stable master’s boy in the crowd.

  ‘Not much goes on in this realm that I don’t know about,’ said the king, his mouth tugging upwards. ‘Not much at all.’

  Swinton’s foot slipped in the stirrup. ‘I see, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I’m not sure you do, Dimitri. Not yet.’

  He stared at the king.

  ‘But you will.’

  Swinton swallowed, his heart racing. He pressed his heels into Xander’s sides. The horse lurched forward and Swinton gripped the reins. King Arden knew.

  Yes, Swinton thought, his terror, his guilt thick in his chest. He’d be whatever he had to be, to keep his secret safe. To keep Dash – to keep Zachary – safe.

  Chapter 37

  Bleak festered in her cell for two more days before two guards came and escorted her from the dungeons. They clamped iron shackles around her wrists and led her past the other cells, answering none of her questions. The prisoners whistled and catcalled, but she didn’t have the energy to snap back at them. She was still wearing the lavender gown from what must have been a week ago, which was grey with filth now. When they opened the door at the top of the stairs, the light blinded her, and she staggered out into the clean air. The guards didn’t give her a moment to adjust; they continued to drag her through the back halls of the castle. When her eyes stopped burning, she saw they’d taken her into a small, bare room. The smaller of the two guards unlocked her shackles and pointed to two buckets of water and a small pile of clothes on a chair. ‘You can clean yerself up. There’s a tunic and pants for yer journey. Yer boots are well enough, eh?’

  Bleak felt a deep pang in her chest; he had a southerner’s accent like Bren. The larger guard folded his arms across his chest and made a point of eyeing her, but the smaller guard nudged him.

  ‘C’mon, no need for us t’watch,’ he said.

  The larger guard grunted but turned and followed his colleague. Bleak approached the buckets and dipped her hand in. The water was freezing cold. She shuddered. Her bones were still chilled from the icy dungeons. But she stripped off her gown, leaving Fiore’s dagger in place, and began to scrub her face and arms with the rag provided. The cloth got to her wrist and she stopped. Where Allehra’s cuff had rested, the skin was no longer naked. The whorls and swirls that had been carved into the leather now marred her skin in deep blue, as though the design had somehow seeped through the leather and onto her flesh. She gaped at it – how in the realm —

  As she looked at it, the tingling sensation she’d felt in the throne room with the king began to creep up her arm; there was a flutter of magic in her veins again. Someone cleared their throat outside, and she started. She washed herself as best she could, but left her bodice and undergarments on, knowing that at any moment the guards could stride back in unannounced. She felt weak, and she could tell from her feeble movements that she’d lost weight, but the faint hum of her returned power gave her comfort. The tunic they’d supplied was made for a man and swamped her small frame when she tugged it on over her head. She pulled the sleeve down over the markings on her wrist. She had the same problem with the pants she buckled at her waist, so she tucked the ankles into her Valian boots. For the first time in a week, she could finally feel her feet warming. Finished, and unsure of what to do next, she sat on the chair and waited.

  When the guards returned, they put the shackles back on her and took her to the throne room. The king was waiting.

  ‘Apologies for leaving you unattended, Miss Thornton,’ said the king. ‘I’ve had a rather busy week.’

  There it was again – Thornton. The name she’d long ago tried to leave behind, the name given to her by her parents, whom she’d also left behind. How does he know?

  ‘You will be accompanied to Moredon by a special guard.’ The king’s eyes flicked to the rows of armoured men who lined the walls of the throne room.

  Bleak hid her surprise. For all his intimidation tactics and threats, the king thought he’d need a dozen men to handle her? The quiet flurry of power beat beneath her skin. ‘You will think of me often at Moredon, I’m sure,’ the king said, tugging on his beard. ‘Take her away,’ he ordered.

  Bleak was seized by the arms and hauled from the throne room. This time though, she wasn’t taken down into the dungeons, but rather to the servery.

  ‘Last meal,’ one of the guards grunted, shoving her onto a wooden stool.

  A large woman with a flushed face pushed a large bowl of broth down in front of her. The bread she was given was mouldy, but she picked the green splotches off and ate it anyway. She hadn’t tasted anything this good since she’d been in Valia. The woman came back and sloshed some more broth into her empty bowl. As she did it, she looked at the guards and clenched her jaw, as though daring them to argue with her. They didn’t. Bleak babbled her thanks profusely, but the woman – the castle cook, Bleak now realised – dismissed her with a flick of her hand.

  The company of fifteen rode down to the docks of Port Morlock. Bleak was forced to share a horse with a guard by the name of Charlyn, whose thick arm around her middle kept her from falling. The Arden’s Fortune bobbed quietly atop the water’s surface, waiting for them. It was similar to the ships she and Bren had manned with Bleaker Senior, small, with a single mast and high sides, its unfortunate name painted in a flourish at the bow. Around them, the docks stank of rotten fish and waste. Bleak was taken back to the day Senior had found her hiding among the fish muck.

  What am I going to do with this? he’d thought. It had been the day she had left Alarise Thornton behind. King Arden knew her then, perhaps even knew her parents. How? She had so many burning questions about everything – her parents, the king, the mist, the day at the docks nearly fifteen years ago …

  Bleak’s hands were still tightly shackled before her, and so when they reached the pier, Charlyn had to help her dismount. A ring of keys jangled at his waist. For the first time all week, Bleak smiled. Climbing the ladder up the high side of the ship was no easy feat with limited movement of her hands, and even once her feet landed firmly on deck, she swayed and crashed into Charlyn, hard.

  ‘Dammit, girl, can’t you manage anything?’ he cursed, pushing her off him.

  Bleak let her face flush pink, and she shrank away from the heavy-set man. He tied her to one of the rails, shaking his head and muttering. There he left her and went to help the others cast off. She watched the fools make an absolute mess of the knots and the pulley systems. She could sail this thing in her sleep, but like hell she’d help them get Arden’s fucking Fortune to Moredon Tower any sooner.

  While they blundered about, Bleak looked around. The deck and the cabins below were basic, but she spotted a life raft positioned by the stern with a pair of oars. It looked light enough for her to tip over the side of the ship. Perhaps … Perhaps she could make her escape on it. She also noted a discarded crossbow tucked away in one of the corners, by the netting. There were men everywhere, and she tried to shrink back into the timber of the railing, tried to make herself go unnoticed, invisible. She’d been in plenty of scrapes before, but here … Here there was nowhere to run. Here, the enemy outnumbered her fifteen to one
. She sat back, leaning into a bundle of nets, and adjusted Fi’s dagger at her thigh. She was grateful for the slight edge she had. For she would need it. She knew that much.

  Finally, the ship slid away from the wharf, and men let the sail down. Charlyn handed her a small tin. With some difficulty, she twisted it open and smeared the thick jelly inside over her already cracked lips. They were taking her to Moredon Tower, but gods forbid her lips get windburn. She nearly laughed aloud. The men went about their business, most of them grumbling that they’d been called to escort a gutter rat to Moredon on their night off. Clearly fed up, Charlyn snapped.

  ‘What do you have to do that’s more important than your duty to the crown?’ he said, spit flying.

  A stocky man with a dirty eyepatch whirled around. ‘I don’t know about these lads, but I had an appointment with Madame Joelle Marie.’

  There was a burst of laughter from the group. Bleak started. She knew that face, that voice.

  ‘You couldn’t even afford the cleaner at Madame Joelle’s, Lennox,’ said Charlyn, wiping his grimy hands on a rag.

  Bleak’s whole body stiffened. It was him. Her skin crawled at the memory of his hands on her.

  ‘What do you know about what I can and can’t afford?’ Lennox growled.

  ‘Enough to know that a place like that is well out of your price range. Though I’d believe the fact that you’ve gotta pay for it.’

  There was another burst of laughter.

  ‘Piss off, Charlyn, no one asked you,’ Lennox said, kicking a nearby pile of ropes from his path, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists.

  Had Lennox seen her? How could he not have?

  Charlyn merely shrugged, but his thoughts barrelled into Bleak.

  Bloody bastard’s never served at Moredon, that’s for sure. King knows it’s so bad he sends a batch of Joelle’s girls over every two months. Not even those beauties can fix that place.

  Bleak flinched at the image that flashed in her mind from Charlyn’s – a corridor paved with thick, grimy black stones, and water pooling across the ground. Chains rattled along the walls.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned her gaze out to sea through a gap in the railing. She was trapped here with Lennox, before she’d rot to her death in the dungeons of Moredon. Her skin crawled.

  Arden’s Fortune picked up speed, and panic began to rise in Bleak. She’d travelled these waters often enough to know that the route to the island wasn’t a long one. A few nights and she’d be back in a cell, or worse. She took a deep breath and ran her thumb over the blue marking on her wrist, trying to drown out the thoughts of the guards on deck. The mark felt no different to the rest of her skin, but its colour was deep and its pattern was the exact replica of the design on Allehra’s cuff. It was truly as though the design had melted through the leather and onto her skin. Bleak sighed and closed her eyes. She lifted her face to the warm afternoon sun and gave herself permission to pretend, just for a little while. She pretended that the salt air was the southerly wind from Felder’s Bay, and that the deep rumble of voices around her were those of Senior, Bren and the crew. That they’d let the nets loose soon, and play cards over some ale while they waited for the day’s catch to tug.

  Now, Port Morlock became a speck in the distance as Arden’s Fortune sailed into the night and the early hours of the morning. Every time she was sure no one was watching, Bleak held her breath and moved meticulously so that she didn’t rattle the bunch of keys she’d stolen. She tried key after key in the lock of her shackles. But there were still perhaps thirty or so to try. She was running out of time. She had to keep trying; there was no other choice.

  Keys. Crossbow. Life raft. She knew it was a fool’s hope, but it was all she had.

  They kept to the coast of Ellest, and the sight of the continent kept Bleak calm, for a time. She watched as the jagged edges of the shoreline passed them, helping her measure the distance they’d covered. She looked out across the water, to the chalk-white rock face of the coastal cliffs. She would never see Angove again. She would never see Bren again.

  There was a scream. Followed by another, and another. Bleak clapped her hands over her ears, heart pounding. Muted yet high-pitched wails laced with pain and terror rocked her. She looked around wildly as her head filled with the quiet screaming, with people begging for death. The crew were unchanged; they hadn’t heard a thing.

  Bleak stood up on unsteady legs and looked over the side of the railing. The screams were coming from beneath the water. She took a deep breath and tried to block them out, glancing down at the dark pattern that now marred her wrist. But whoever the screams belonged to, they demanded to be heard. Their torture was now the music of her journey.

  The screaming came in waves, striking Bleak anew each time. Each time churning her stomach and forcing bile up her throat. It was in the very early hours of the third morning that Bleak’s exhaustion finally dragged her under.

  When she woke, it was still before dawn, and she was groggy and dry-mouthed. Her head felt clogged. She didn’t know if she’d gone deaf from the screams, or if they had stopped. From where she lay, sore and hungry amidst the nets, she spotted a nearby guard.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she croaked, eyeing the flask at his hip. ‘Could I —’

  The man turned around, and she recoiled. Lennox.

  ‘You,’ he said, stepping towards her. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Bleak said quickly, scuffling backwards.

  ‘You wanted something, gutter rat.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on, ask me. We’re not done, you and I.’

  He moved closer to her, and Bleak scrambled to her feet, her shackles rattling.

  Where’s the rest of the crew? She glanced around for Charlyn, but he was nowhere in sight, and the other men were all looking elsewhere, whether on purpose or not she didn’t know.

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Lennox said, his breath sour on her face. ‘Surely you want one last ride before you die.’

  ‘Get the fuck away from me.’ Bleak’s temper surged up within her, taking over her fear.

  Lennox’s fist collided with her face. She felt her teeth ring and her lip split; blood filled her mouth and dribbled down her chin.

  ‘Coward.’ She spat blood onto the deck.

  ‘You got a smart mouth for a little gutter rat.’ He closed the gap between them.

  She backed away towards the stern, where the discarded crossbow still lay.

  Dammit, she thought, she hadn’t managed to unlock herself, and now, now she was being cornered.

  ‘Hey!’ she yelled out, straining towards the other guards as Lennox grabbed the front of her tunic. The bunch of keys she’d tucked into her pocket fell to the deck with a loud clatter. Fiore’s dagger was out of reach.

  Fuck! Terror gripped her as Lennox lunged for her. This was it, now. She made a dive for the crossbow, landing on her back and swinging it round in front of her. She aimed, pointing it at Lennox’s chest.

  ‘I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you,’ she said, slowly getting to her feet, irons rubbing at her raw skin.

  ‘How long you think this standoff’s gonna last? Fifteen of us, one of you. You don’t have the balls, anyway,’ he said, nodding towards the crossbow.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Suddenly, her mind was invaded by a hundred voices, crying, screaming, begging. She staggered. The remainder of the guards had noticed what was going on now, but she was so unfocused, they were mere blurs in her peripheral vision.

  She kept the crossbow as steady as she could, pointing it straight at Lennox. She knew it was only a matter of seconds before someone tried to charge her.

  Think, she ordered herself, but the screams inside her head were only getting louder. Her heart lurched. They were the people suffering at Moredon, she knew it, knew it in her bones. Charlyn rushed at her from the side, and she fired. Lennox keeled over, shrieking in
agony, the arrow protruding from the soft part of his abdomen. Blood flowed freely from the wound, drenching his uniform in red. Charlyn’s fingers closed around her arm. Everything went black, and with her heart lodged in her throat, Bleak gave into the darkness.

  Her heart stopped. A sudden flash of light burst from her and shot right down through her. It exploded outwards, across the deck, a massive pulse of brightness that flattened the whole sea. She collapsed.

  There was silence. It stretched out across the vast expanse of water, deafening. She didn’t know how much time had passed when she opened her eyes. And when she did, she wished she hadn’t.

  Dead. They were all dead. Lines of blood streaked their faces, their mouths open in terror. A choked sob escaped Bleak. She had done this. Again. Their bodies lay slumped on the deck, smears of blood where they’d tried to escape the unknown horror. Charlyn’s lifeless hand gripped her ankle. She shoved him away, horrified. This darkness, it lived inside her, Bleak realised. She felt it, even now, flicker within her, already just that little bit closer to the surface than before. The screams had stopped again.

  Did I kill them, too?

  Numb and shaking, she reached for the fallen set of keys by Lennox’s body. She studied his frozen face, blood leaking from beneath his filthy eyepatch. She pushed aside the gut-wrenching anguish she felt at the sight of the other bodies, and focused on Lennox. She felt nothing when she looked at him. Except justice. He’d deserved to die. And she’d delivered.

  Methodically, she tried key after key in her irons, feeling herself creep back into her own skin, and her anxiety, her guilt beginning to fester once again. The lock clicked and the irons sprang loose, dropping to the floor. Bleak rubbed her raw wrists and looked across the deck. She couldn’t move them all, the bodies. They were big men, wearing heavy armour. She would have to sail with a crew of dead men. Her eyes fell on Lennox again.

  It’s better that they’re dead, she told herself.

  She made for the wheel, but something caught her eye. An offcut of rope was coiled by the folded spare sail on the deck. Crouching, she picked it up and threaded it through her callused hands. It was longer than the piece she had thrown into the fire at Hoddinott.