Reign of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  ‘I know,’ Bleak replied, pulling her furs tighter around her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tilly said. ‘For that day, when I saw your scar. I shouldn’t have been so aggressive about it. I forget that not everyone deals with things the way we do in Valia.’

  Oh.

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ Bleak told her. ‘I reacted badly.’

  Tilly shrugged. ‘Still. I never meant …’

  ‘I know.’

  The two women were silent for a time. Bleak gripped the wheel, steeling herself against the barrage of Tilly’s thoughts and memories that came flying at her. Bren’s crooked smile. Bren’s tattoo of cresting waves down his spine. And then there were other memories. Friends who had left. Friends Tilly had lost. Grief, much like that Bleak herself felt constantly simmering below the surface. Tilly’s thoughts quietened, and Bleak’s body sagged in relief. The acute pang of discomfort at the thought of her friend and the Valian together dulled. Bleak didn’t know how to feel about Tilly, but she’d done nothing wrong. In fact, she’d been good to Bleak. And here she was, risking her life to save Bren. Bleak could only be grateful. A kindred warrior was worth twenty men, at least.

  ‘Valians don’t consider scars ugly.’

  ‘But … they stared, the Valians, in the baths.’

  ‘Scars are proof that you survived something. That’s why they looked. They were impressed that you’d overcome something so horrific.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Tilly smiled. ‘See? Us Valians aren’t so bad.’ Tilly patted her shoulder. ‘Here,’ she said, holding out the wooden figurine she’d been carving. It was like the ones Bleak had seen back on the shelves in her apartments. A teerah panther, small enough to fit in her palm, but much more detailed than those she’d seen before. And this one had another addition: a figure at its side, her, she realised. It was Rion and her. Bleak looked up to say thank you, to find that Tilly had already joined Marvel and Petra, where they sat sharpening their swords.

  Nerves churned in Bleak’s stomach, and fear had its grip tight around her throat. Any moment now, she was expecting to hear the screams … The high-pitched screams of terror and pain that had pierced her mind when she had crossed these waters last. The sea was silent but for the slap of waves against the side of the ship. Had Bren already been taken to Moredon as she’d sailed into the mist? Had she abandoned him? Hot tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. She had to keep it together. For Bren.

  She motioned to Petra to take over at the wheel. The waters hadn’t yet become too rough, and Bleak decided she needed to rest while she could. Below deck, Henri, Fiore and Sahara were standing by a round table, a large sheet of parchment laid flat across its surface.

  Henri looked up. ‘Good, you’re here,’ she said, beckoning Bleak over.

  Bleak was yet to discover the finer details of the plan Fi had outlined that had caused Henri to storm out of the council chambers in Wildenhaven. Now, Fi made quick work of explaining it to her, gesturing to the garment chests that had been stacked up against one of the walls. Bleak gaped.

  Henri had agreed to this? Though she didn’t voice her disbelief aloud, worried she might somehow reverse the Valian matriarch’s decision.

  ‘This is the layout of the prison. At least it was the last time I was there,’ Fi shuddered.

  Bleak studied the lines inked onto the parchment. It was an elaborate network of passages, cells, experimental chambers and holding pens, spanning across numerous levels. Bleak’s breathing became shallow as she took in the details.

  A steady hand came to rest on her shoulder. ‘You forget,’ said Henri. ‘Valians are used to mazes and challenges.’

  Bleak nodded, unable to find her voice.

  ‘Here’s where we’ll moor.’ Fi pointed to waters not far off from the formidable tower. ‘The currents here are less prone to the worst of the rips.’

  Currents. Rips. This was Bleak’s language. She focused on Fi’s melodic voice as he spoke of how they would moor and take a pair of rowing boats to the shore. ‘It’s how it’s always done. It won’t raise any suspicions.’

  ‘Good,’ Henri said, unnecessarily smoothing out the parchment beneath her hands.

  ‘I was wondering,’ Bleak said, glancing from the map to Fiore. ‘Perhaps, if Fi will allow it, it might be prudent for me to see this place for myself? Before we moor?’

  ‘What?’ Henri said, brow furrowed.

  ‘My magic … I’m just thinking, if I can prepare in any way, we need to take advantage of that, right?’

  Henri pursed her lips and nodded. ‘Captain?’

  Fi shifted from foot to foot, but then shrugged. ‘If you think it’ll help?’

  Sahara nodded. ‘You might even be able to figure out exactly where they’re holding him. It could prove incredibly useful when we’re actually there. Seeing a map drawn is different to having already walked the path.’

  ‘We have to play to the strengths we’re given, right?’ Henri said.

  Bren’s words wrapped around Bleak. She could do this.

  Focusing on steadying her breathing, Bleak stepped towards Fi, who took a deep breath.

  ‘Ready?’ she asked, sounding more confident than she felt.

  Fi nodded.

  Bleak gripped his hand as a reassuring gesture, but found herself falling immediately upon contact.

  She fell easily through the layers of his mind. Much more easily than she had with Luka. It was as though Fi had opened a gate and allowed her to rush in, like water into a dam. She fell and fell and fell. And then halted, having reached the depths of his memories. His mind was structured like Luka’s – a corridor, with numerous passages leading off from the main artery. And there was the familiar pull. Like a rope was tied around her waist and someone on the other end was gently tugging, encouraging her to follow the thread. She did. The rooms within Fiore’s mind were full of Battalon. The searing heat of the deserts, the raging whirlwind of firestorms, the commander, and family. A family Bleak had never asked about. Muscular, giant men; brothers and cousins, no doubt. They looked like him, the same broad nose and kind, warm eyes.

  Bleak remembered herself. Remembered how easy it was to get lost in someone else’s history. She was here to find Moredon Tower. To find Bren. She quickened her pace, and as if in answer, the invisible rope pulled her along faster. Until she came upon a dull, iron door at the end of the passage. Her magic recoiled as she reached to push it open. Fear gripped her. Whatever lay beyond this door … she wouldn’t be able to unsee. Whatever she saw here would stay with her, would become a part of her own history. She took a deep breath, Bren’s words in Henri’s voice still echoing in her head, and pushed open the door.

  When Bleak resurfaced from Fiore’s mind, she felt weak. Her whole body trembled as Sahara helped her sit up, and wrapped a heavy blanket around her shoulders. Henri and Fiore were still standing by the table, Fiore’s face etched in concern, Henri’s schooled expertly into neutrality. Sahara pressed a steaming mug of mint tea into her hands.

  ‘This should help,’ was all she said.

  Somehow, they’d realised she wouldn’t and couldn’t speak. Not yet.

  Sahara cupped her hands around Bleak’s and brought the mug to her lips. Bleak obliged and took a sip, her hands feeling steadier beneath Sahara’s.

  Henri turned back to Fiore and the map he’d drawn. ‘Fifty, you say?’

  ‘Thereabouts. No more than fifty. It’s better to overestimate, old friend.’

  ‘True. Weapons?’

  ‘Swords, mostly.’

  ‘Archers?’

  ‘Not likely. The outskirts of the mist tend to cloud the skies from the arrow slits.’

  Henri nodded, crossing her arms over her chest and turning to the Battalonian. ‘These men will die. You know that.’

  Bleak watched as Fiore studied the Valian queen.

  ‘The men who guard that tower, and the prison beneath it, they work there for a reason. They can stomach what goes on there, for a rea
son.’

  ‘And you have no qualms about signing their death warrants?’

  Fiore sighed deeply. ‘It is no easy thing to end a man’s life, and I will always have qualms, as you say, with killing someone. But these bastards less so than most.’

  ‘Good,’ Henri said, and turned back to Bleak. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  Bleak swallowed another mouthful of tea, and accepted Sahara’s hand to help her up.

  ‘I know where Bren is,’ she told them.

  Chapter 32

  Henri’s skin was still crawling hours after Bleak had told them what she’d seen in the passages of Fiore’s mind. Bloodcurdling images swept before Henri, and sent a rush of goosebumps across her arms. What she’d heard – the cruelty, the carnage of it all – was worse than she could have imagined. Ashai folk rounded up like cattle, and treated worse than. The very idea of it turned her stomach. Especially when she thought of poor Bren.

  There was nothing I could have done for him, she told herself. She had been mid-escape when Fi had told her of Bren’s capture. A foolish attempt to get close to Bleak. So foolish. There was nothing she could have done. And surely it was better that Arden didn’t have both of them? With Henri’s abilities, who knew what the crazed king and his supposed queen would have done … But the reasoning didn’t stop the guilt. It didn’t stop the squirm of discomfort deep within her gut. If this was how she was feeling, she could only imagine the gut-wrenching terror Bleak was going through. And despite Sahara keeping quiet about the specific events in Oremere, Henri had gathered that Bleak had suffered something terrible down in the cells of Freyhill, something that made her fear run deeper still.

  Henri’s power was restless as she lowered herself into the rowboat knocking against the side of Rheyah’s Prize. Athene steadied her, but she avoided her lover’s questioning look. They hadn’t spoken since the argument in Henri’s chambers. Since Athene had brought Sahara into everything. Old tensions had grown taut once more. Though her first-in-command and her sister had never been overly fond of each other, the strain between them was worse than ever. Everyone could sense it. However, now was not the time to ask.

  One battle at a time, Henri told herself.

  In disguise not for the first time in recent months, she hiked her layered skirts up around her knees and sat beside Tilly. She glanced down at the low cuts of their bodices, pushing breasts together, the moonlight showing off the pale skin there. Athene followed her gaze and raised a brow, having not changed her stance on the un-Valian nature of the events to come. Instead, she’d fumed silently as Queen Eydis’ seamstress had strapped her into a corset and made her adjustments.

  It was all part of Fi’s elaborate, and frankly offensive, plan.

  Henri rested a hand on one of her katars, strapped firmly to her thigh beneath the silken fabric. She was still herself – the steel resting against her skin made sure of that.

  They rocked gently with the current, and she took in the sight of her kindred, spread across two small boats. Their cloaks covered what they’d had to become in order to gain entry to this gods-forsaken place, while Bleak remained at the back, dressed in her usual pants and tunic, a heavy coat pulled across her shoulders. It was agreed that the girl’s odd eyes would likely give her away, so she was best kept in the shadows.

  Henri’s boat swayed suddenly, as Fiore’s heavy weight dropped down into it. Tilly hissed a curse and gripped the side.

  ‘I don’t want to drown in this piece-of-shit gown, Captain,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not drowning you’ve got to worry about, old friend,’ he countered, picking up the oars.

  Tilly glared at him, but the Battalonian was unfazed.

  Across the rippling, glassy surface of the sea and past the shifting fog was Moredon Tower. A single column of stone on a rocky island, torches flickering behind the arrow slits.

  ‘Doesn’t look so bad,’ Petra quipped. ‘We can take that, no trouble.’

  ‘It’s not the tower we need to take,’ said Bleak’s quiet voice from the boat beside them. ‘It’s what lies beneath it.’

  As the boat lurched forward, Henri looked across to Sahara. Her sister’s eyes were bright, and her hair swung loose about her chin. She sat with her back straight and her hand grasping the pommel of her sword.

  ‘Don’t look so grim, Henri,’ Sahara said, sensing her gaze. ‘I thought you liked teaching lessons to disreputable men …?’

  Henri knew her answering smile didn’t meet her eyes. She had only just got her sister back. Ten years had passed without her, and now, where they were going … With each pass of the oars, she grew more tense. This was a different fight to those she was used to. This was a beast of deception, of dishonour. Here, her katars would not be her only weapon.

  All too soon, both boats crunched atop the shale-covered shore. The power that surged here took Henri’s breath away. A force stronger than the magic running through the living bridges of Valia. Power that fed off something darker. Henri suppressed a shudder. She had felt power like this only once before. In the cellar of Heathton Castle, which housed King Arden’s toxic mist. Finding the hilt of her katar through her skirts, she focused on the stretching shadow of the tower ahead.

  ‘Take off your cloaks,’ Fi whispered as they stepped onto the beach. ‘Try to look … alluring.’

  Despite the lurch in her gut, Henri let her cloak fall from her shoulders, and nodded to her kindred to follow suit. The kindred’s gowns were made with the finest Wildenhaven silk, hugging their lithe figures and soft curves. But beneath the shimmering fabrics and cosmetics, death smiled.

  Boots on gravel sounded, and Henri looked up to see six guards dressed in black marching to greet them. Their eagerness wasn’t out of duty, but rather, lust. Their eyes shone with greed at the sight of Henri’s kindred, their mouths open.

  ‘King Arden and Madame Joelle Marie send their regards, and their thanks for your service in the name of the crown,’ Fiore said, stepping forward and motioning vaguely to the women behind him.

  Courtesans. Harlots. Whores. Stripped of their fighting leathers, that’s who they’d transformed into. Henri’s hands itched to grip her katars.

  ‘I want the redhead,’ one of the guards blurted.

  Henri nearly flinched.

  ‘You know that’s not how it works, old friend,’ Fiore said. ‘Now, let’s show the ladies inside, yes?’

  ‘What’s with the small one?’ The same guard sneered in Bleak’s direction.

  Fi shrugged. ‘Cupbearer.’

  Someone barked a laugh. ‘Still wouldn’t mind a go on her.’

  The company of supposed whores and guards made for the narrow path ahead. An arm slinked around Henri’s waist. It took every fibre of her being not to kill the man then and there on the beach.

  ‘After you, love.’ His breath reeked of tobacco and the faint vinegary hint of opiate. Instead of throttling him, Henri fixed a lazy smile upon her face and leaned into his embrace. His pungent body odour nearly made her gag, but around her, the kindred followed her lead.

  ‘We’ve been waiting months for you ladies,’ the guard said to her, his sour breath hot in her ear. ‘You gonna make us beg for it?’

  Henri focused on the rocky path leading up to the tower. ‘You have no idea.’

  When they reached the gates, Bleak and Fiore slipped away unnoticed by the men. Their minds were clearly elsewhere.

  However, the accompanying hum of power Henri had become accustomed to from the Angovian girl ebbed away, leaving only the dark, eerie energy of Moredon Tower itself.

  ‘This way, love,’ the guard growled, roughly squeezing Henri’s waist. She took a deep breath and entered the tower.

  Inside was a large common room and a blazing fire in the hearth. Plates of crushed opiate and half-filled pipes littered the table in the middle, along with playing cards and decanters of liquor. The sickly odour of unwashed bodies hung heavy in the air and Henri had to stop herself wrinkling her nose in disgust. />
  The guards had a system of short straws to determine who got to lie with each of Madame Joelle Marie’s girls first. Henri could taste bile at the back of her throat as the men bartered with each other and spoke of her kindred as though they were slabs of meat at a market.

  The guard who had claimed Henri from the first approached her. ‘I bargained for you,’ he declared, as though she should be charmed by the notion.

  ‘Good,’ she said, resting a hand on his chest and batting her lashes. She’d seen enough pleasure alleys throughout her travels to mimic the body language of their occupants.

  The guard licked his lips as he surveyed her body. He gripped her wrist. ‘My chambers are upstairs.’

  ‘Then lead the way.’

  From the corner of her eye, she saw her kindred peel away from the common room, each with a ‘suitor’ of their own. Sahara was playing her part convincingly, toying with the shirt fronts of not one, but two men. The wink she gave Henri was deadly. Sahara may have lived as an Oremian for the past decade, but she was still a Valian through and through. Henri smirked back at her sister. They may have been stripped of their fighting leathers; however, their true armour had always lain beneath.

  The climb up the stairs to the guard’s chambers seemed to take forever, though it gave her a decent look at the structure of the tower, the various rooms and sentry postings.

  ‘Do many guards reside here?’ she asked as they rounded another bend.

  ‘Curious, are you?’

  Henri replaced what would have been a scoff with a coy smile. ‘Of course. The girls back home talk, you know.’

  ‘I bet they do.’ He eyed her breasts. ‘Forty-three of us stationed here.’

  Fi was right.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, pushing open a door to his left.

  She followed him inside.

  The room was an opium den. Drab and musty, with jars of the drug and long smoking pipes covering nearly every surface.

  ‘I don’t usually share with Madame Joelle’s girls, but … I like you.’

  Henri played with a loose strand of her hair. ‘I’m flattered,’ she said. ‘But it’s all yours. I’ll pour us a drink?’