Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  ‘Would you like to see something?’ she asked.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Something beautiful?’

  Swinton had to refrain from saying that he was, in fact, already looking at something beautiful. Instead he merely nodded, and followed her from the tack room.

  Eliza led him from the southern exit of the stables towards a round grassy pen on the far end of the grounds. A pregnant light-grey mare stood grazing inside, her white mane dancing in the breeze.

  ‘That’s my horse,’ Eliza told him, resting her elbows against the fence and peering into the pen. ‘Her name is Silver.’

  Silver … Swinton had heard that name before. ‘Isn’t she …?’

  Eliza nodded. ‘Yes, she’s one of three rare Ellestian thoroughbreds. We managed to breed her with one of the last wild stallions before he died.’

  ‘So her foal …’

  ‘Father says it’s a colt. And yes, he’ll be one of the most valuable in the realm when he’s born.’

  Swinton let out a low whistle. ‘He’ll go to the highest bidder, then?’

  Eliza shook her head. ‘Xander won’t be for sale.’

  ‘Xander?’

  She flushed. ‘I’ve already named him.’

  Swinton felt himself smile. ‘It’s a good name.’

  ‘Eliza!’ someone shouted. ‘Eliza, come quick!’ An attendant ran towards them, the young woman’s face tight with panic.

  Eliza went to her. ‘What is it, Frieda?’

  ‘Something spooked one of the king’s stallions. He smashed through the fence —’

  Eliza was already running, skirts hiked up around her knees, and without thinking, Swinton broke into a sprint too.

  ‘Is he injured?’ Swinton asked Frieda.

  ‘We don’t know. He’s bolted into the woods —’

  ‘Show me,’ Eliza said.

  They followed Frieda past the corrals and grazing steeds to the edge of the woods. There, a dozen or so stable hands and attendants lingered, pacing in dismay. Relief flooded their faces at the sight of Eliza.

  ‘We didn’t know what to do. He’s in there, rearing and kicking anyone who comes near —’

  Eliza tucked her loose hair behind her ears and placed her hands on her hips. ‘There are too many of you. You’re only spooking him more.’

  ‘We didn’t want to lose him, Liza – he’s the king’s favourite.’

  Swinton’s stomach lurched at that thought. For the stable hands to lose a prized stallion at all was bad news for everyone, but to lose the king’s favourite … People would be punished severely.

  Eliza took a deep breath. ‘Get back to work,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch him.’

  ‘But Liza —’

  She merely raised a brow at the challenge. Her father might have been the official stable master, but there was no doubt who really commanded the place. The crowd left.

  ‘I can’t let you go in alone,’ Swinton heard himself say.

  Frustration flashed across Eliza’s face. ‘Are you a trained horseman?’

  ‘No, but —’

  ‘Then don’t presume to think I need your assistance.’

  ‘You might need my assistance if you get kicked in the head and need someone to carry you back.’

  Eliza rolled her eyes. ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  ‘You never know.’

  She clicked her tongue. ‘Just be quiet, then. And no sudden movements.’

  Swinton shrugged. ‘Fine.’

  Shaking her head, Eliza entered the woods, Swinton close behind her. Her footsteps were light atop the leaf litter, and she called out to the stallion in a soft, gentle tone. With the horse nowhere in sight, they crept further into the woods, where the trees became denser and darker. Swinton copied Eliza’s tentative pace, noticing the hem of her dress was nearly black with dirt.

  ‘Eliza,’ he whispered.

  She turned, scowling at him. ‘What?’

  He pointed. A nearby tree trunk glistened. Slowly, he approached and touched his fingers to it. They came away wet with blood.

  Eliza’s face fell. ‘He’s hurt.’

  Swinton nodded and peered into the woods beyond. ‘Over there …’ he breathed, spotting a white coat amidst the trees.

  ‘Stay here,’ Eliza said, not taking her eyes off the horse.

  Swinton did as she bid, remaining rooted to the spot as Eliza hiked her skirts up once more and called softly to the horse as she approached. The stallion’s ears flicked back and he bared his teeth, shifting anxiously.

  ‘It’s alright,’ Eliza said. ‘It’s alright.’ She held her palms out and took another step forward. The horse reared violently.

  Swinton flinched, but didn’t move. Eliza knew what she was doing; his interference might only put her in more danger. She spoke in soothing tones to the spooked steed, all the while holding her hands out, so he could see she meant him no harm. She inched closer and closer, calm and confident, though the horse was huge next to her lithe frame. Swinton had never seen such patience in a person. Especially in someone who had seemingly so little patience for people. He watched on in awe as Eliza reached up and stroked the stallion’s neck – the horse let her. She ran her hands along his flank, to where a patch of blood shone.

  ‘Just a scratch,’ she muttered.

  Swinton suddenly realised they had no rope, nothing to pull the horse back to the stables. But Eliza showed no such concern. She continued to stroke the horse, running her hand down from the black star on his forehead to his white velvet nose. Still talking, she turned to Swinton and stepped towards him.

  What is she doing? We need to tie him —

  But to Swinton’s surprise, the horse took a step after her. And as Eliza made her way back through the undergrowth towards him, the horse followed.

  How …? He stared as Eliza passed him, the great stallion calm and obedient at her side.

  After returning the king’s prized steed to his pen, Swinton and Eliza walked through the stables in silence, and Swinton chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to come up with things to say. Everything seemed inadequate.

  ‘There you are,’ said a familiar, melodic voice. Fiore met them midway through the stables. ‘Miss Carlington,’ he said with a polite nod to Eliza. ‘I’ve had the filly set up in one of the larger stalls.’

  Confused, Swinton and Eliza followed Fi to the stall in question. Fi had done as he said, though Swinton had no idea why he felt the need to inform them …

  ‘She’s stunning,’ Eliza breathed, stepping into the stall and approaching the filly.

  Swinton stood at the gate, staring as she ran a gentle palm down the horse’s nose.

  Fi nudged Swinton in the ribs.

  What?

  But Fi was already stepping away. ‘I forgot my riding gloves. Meet you out front, Dimi.’

  Fi’s riding gloves were peeking out of his pocket as he turned heel and left.

  Swallowing his nerves, Swinton entered the stall and, beside Eliza, ran his fingers through the filly’s mane. He could have sworn Eliza was holding her breath.

  ‘You were … impressive,’ he stammered. ‘With the stallion earlier, I mean.’

  She glanced across at him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I trained him when he was little more than a foal, so it wasn’t so hard.’

  Swinton nodded, and then once more, was lost for words. His mind stumbled over possible sentences but ultimately left him speechless. Instead, he looked at her hands. They were not the soft, delicate palms of a lady. They were worker’s hands. Rough and calloused, red and raw in some places, the nails cut short and lined with dirt.

  ‘I’m glad you quit,’ she said finally, her voice low.

  ‘Quit?’ Swinton’s own voice came out hoarse.

  ‘Jousting.’

  ‘Oh,’ he managed. ‘Why?’

  Her rough hand met his, tangled in the filly’s mane. ‘I just am.’

  The ride back to Heathton was different. When Fi teased Swinton,
he couldn’t help but return the captain’s grin. The two of them cantered across the territories with a newfound ease, or so it seemed to Swinton. He felt a lightness he hadn’t felt in a long time. And there was such promise on the horizon.

  ‘Upon your return, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you …’ King Arden had finally decided to knight him – he knew it in his bones. He would be Sir Dimitri Swinton.

  His mind drifted back to Eliza. His father would never approve of the stable master’s daughter. Especially if he saw the state of her hands. But as a knight … Perhaps it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps he’d be able to offer Eliza the world, and the need for his father’s approval would fade into the past.

  Swinton urged his horse into a gallop. The sooner they returned to the castle, the sooner his life could well and truly begin.

  Northern Waters

  Every year, as Belbarrow celebrated the Festival of Lamaka, the Battalonian trout favoured by much of Ellest disappeared from the East Sea. The shoals swam northwest to breed in the warmer shallows of Battalon’s capital, leaving the cooler waters to the swarms of common cod.

  With the deck rocking steadily beneath her bare feet, Bleak breathed in the briny sea air and examined the day’s catch, noting that amidst the flapping on deck, the silver scales were few and far between.

  ‘They’ve already started to migrate,’ she called out to Senior.

  Her guardian’s tanned, leathered face appeared from behind a barrel of salt. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She said the trout’s on the move to Belbarrow already,’ Bren yelled from the hull, where he sat cross-legged, mending one of the spare sails.

  Senior dusted his hands off and approached Bleak’s catch with a frown. ‘Bit early yet …?’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Bleak replied, palming through the thrashing fish. ‘I don’t understand, we come out this time every year. Always catch plenty.’

  Senior’s eyes scanned the catch and then met hers. ‘It’ll be that damn mist,’ he said. ‘Keeps forcing the shoals north —’

  Bren joined them on the main deck. ‘Senior, the king says it hasn’t moved an inch since —’

  ‘Believe everything yer told, do ya, Butter Fingers? That stuff out there is shifting. You’d be a fool to deny it …’

  Bren flushed.

  ‘Plenty of fools out there,’ Bleak muttered.

  Senior grunted his agreement, but his brow knitted in concern as he surveyed the catch again.

  ‘Not enough, is it?’ Bren said.

  Senior shook his head. ‘Not enough for the queen’s birthday celebrations. The king won’t be best pleased if we bring a third of the order.’

  ‘Then we follow them,’ said Bleak.

  Senior laughed, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Think it’s that simple, do ya, Half-Pint? The northern waters in high season are rough enough to turn any sailor’s gut.’

  As if in answer, the northern wind picked up, the sails flapping madly. But Bren merely snorted. ‘Come on, Senior,’ he said with a wink at Bleak. ‘We can handle it. We’re seasoned sailors.’

  ‘Seasoned sailors, eh?’ Senior barked a laugh. ‘You’re greener than Half-Pint over there.’

  Bleak smirked at her friend’s outrage.

  ‘Horseshi—’

  ‘If ya wouldn’t say it in front of yer mother, don’t be sayin’ it in front of me. Won’t be blamed for yer bad habits, lad.’

  Bleak clutched her stomach, laughing.

  ‘Shut up,’ Bren muttered.

  ‘Well, don’t be letting this lot die on deck.’ Senior waved his hand at the catch.

  Bleak and Bren dove, scooping up the fish and dumping them into the waiting barrels of seawater. Senior left them to it, returning to his usual post at the helm.

  ‘What d’ya reckon?’ Bren asked Bleak under his breath. ‘Ya think we could do it?’

  ‘What? Follow the trout north?’

  Bren nodded eagerly.

  Bleak shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Senior isn’t joking about the northern waters.’

  ‘How bad could it be? We’ve managed some rough seas just fine, the three of us.’

  ‘True, but we knew those waters.’

  ‘So? Water’s water.’

  Bleak deposited the last of the cod into the barrel and picked up the wet netting. ‘Don’t let Senior catch you saying that,’ she said, raising a brow. Bren should know better than that. Each part of the sea had its own rhythm, its own currents and depths. Senior had been preaching that song for as long as she could remember. There was no knowing what sorts of winds whipped up over foreign waters, what storms brewed beyond their usual routes. They’d always stayed south of Battalon and Havennesse. They didn’t have the right to be fishing there. But … they didn’t have to go too far northwest. Just enough to catch the rear end of the shoal of trout.

  ‘Well?’ Bren said.

  ‘We might be able to do it. With the right wind.’

  ‘So ask him.’ Bren elbowed her.

  ‘You ask him,’ Bleak countered.

  However, as they worked up the courage over the course of the afternoon to broach the topic, it turned out that Senior had come to the decision of his own accord.

  ‘There’s nothin’ for it,’ he told them over dinner. ‘We can’t return with common cod for the queen’s birthday. We gotta chase the wind north.’

  Bren beamed and Bleak shook her head at her fair-haired friend. Uneasiness squirmed in her gut. She knew Senior was right. One bad catch would see his regular, lucrative trade with the royals, nobles and market folk plummet. He’d conquered the fishing trade decades ago, and despite constant new players to the game, had managed to stay afloat ever since. But although he’d been clever and reliable with his routes thus far, the high society of Heathton was unforgiving. A single bad spell could be a man’s undoing in the Upper Realm.

  Senior downed the rest of his ale. ‘At first light, then …’

  Bleak and Bren took to the hammocks up on the main deck while Senior retired to the cabin below. They were quiet for a time, listening to the waves slapping against the side of the ship and the splash of the fish they’d caught in the barrels. The inky night sky was studded with millions of stars glinting down on them, and the briny breeze toyed with the loose fabric of the sails they’d taken in.

  ‘Do ya reckon Senior’s right?’ Bren said suddenly.

  Bleak craned her neck to look at him. He was gazing up at the sky, hands clasped across his abdomen. ‘About what?’ she said.

  ‘That the trout are moving earlier ’cause of the mist. That the mist is encroaching more than the king’s letting on.’

  ‘We saw it ourselves, Bren …’

  They hadn’t talked about it. That day in Felder’s Bay, when the mist had come for them. Bleak remembered the panic vividly. Remembered swimming to shore with Bren, wondering if they’d survive the night.

  ‘I know …’ he said quietly. This time his eyes met hers. ‘I still dream about it.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Do ya think we should have told Senior?’

  Bleak drew her blanket up to her chin, suddenly chilly. ‘I don’t think it would have made a difference.’

  Silence pulsed, and Bleak flinched as Bren’s thoughts pummelled into her.

  Why won’t she look at me? Doesn’t she realise —

  It was happening more and more often now. Since that day in Felder’s Bay. Since the mist. Regret churned in Bleak’s gut. If she’d told Senior about the mist, she might have been able to ask him about it. She wanted to know if her encounter with the mist had amplified her Ashai ability somehow, with Bren in particular. It was his thoughts she heard the loudest.

  ‘Bleak?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Do ya ever think what might have happened, if the mist hadn’t appeared?’ The words were laced with vulnerability, words he’d wanted to ask her for weeks, months even, and hadn’t found the courage. She’d done all she could to avoid it so far, but
now the question had been asked aloud, it hung heavy between them.

  Had she thought about what might have happened? Every damn day. She couldn’t help but lean into Bren’s touch, couldn’t help but watch him work the rigging, sweat gleaming across his tanned skin. Most of all, she couldn’t help how her heart soared every time they laughed together. Had she thought about it? Gods, yes.

  ‘Bleak? Do ya ever think about it?’

  Bleak swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’

  She heard him exhale shakily from his hammock.

  ‘Good,’ he told her. ‘Me either.’

  Bleak was awake long after Bren drifted off. Her usual love for the gentle sway of the sea and the reassuring sound of Bren’s light snoring nearby was stifled by the guilt that swelled in her chest. She nestled deeper into her hammock and blankets, and watched as dawn bled into the dark sky.

  Bleak got through the morning in an uneasy daze. Bleary-eyed, she tended to the sails and washed the lower deck. Glancing up at Bren scrubbing the main deck, her stomach squirmed. They hadn’t talked over breakfast, and Bleak could feel the awkwardness pulsing between them. Senior had noticed too.

  Everything alright with you two? he’d asked into her mind, jutting his chin towards Bren over porridge.

  Bleak had just shaken her head and taken their empty bowls to the galley, eager to throw herself into more physical work. It was times like these she relished pushing her muscles, her endurance, to breaking point. It meant sleep would find her more easily come nightfall.

  As the morning progressed, the winds picked up, and The Daybreaker gained speed. Bleak’s hair escaped its tie and whipped about her face wildly. The breeze was a welcome respite against the hot day as they headed northwest towards the waters of the fire continent. The sun’s rays soaked into Bleak’s skin, and a glance at Senior’s leathery face made her wonder if she’d one day have the same tanned, weathered appearance after years out at sea.