Reign of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  The man grunted in agreement, lighting a pipe and taking a long drag. Henri went to the nearby mantle and pretended to browse through the various bottles of wine.

  ‘Do you enjoy your work here?’ she asked him, selecting a vintage and uncorking it.

  ‘Enjoy? I enjoy the benefits of working here. But on any given day, there’s too many men, not enough women.’

  Henri laughed lightly. ‘How many is too many?’

  ‘There’s fifteen of us here in the tower if you want to make the rounds.’ He took the goblet of wine she offered and positioned himself behind her, pressing his erection into her back.

  Henri turned around to face him, smiling. ‘Well, you first,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘You bargained for me, after all.’

  ‘I did.’ He drained his glass and reached for his laces. ‘How do you want it, then?’

  ‘Well,’ she said slowly, her hand pulling up the hem of her skirts. ‘When there’s passion …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I like to take it slow,’ she said, revealing a smooth, defined calf.

  ‘And?’

  She inched her skirts up higher. ‘And I like to savour every moment.’

  His eyes glazed over as he drank in the bare skin of her leg, and then the tops of her breasts. ‘Yes?’

  She trailed a deliberate finger down the laces of her bodice. ‘I want you to feel … every second of it …’

  The guard’s hands were at his belt. ‘I’m sure I will.’

  Henri closed the gap between them, and let her fingertips trail along his jawline. She clamped a hand over his mouth, and slid her katar along his ribs.

  ‘I told you I would make you beg.’

  Tilly and Petra were already rifling through the head guard’s office when Henri found them.

  ‘Anything?’ she asked by way of greeting.

  Tilly raised a brow at her blood-spattered gown, though hers matched Henri’s. ‘Coordinates in Havennesse. Where we think Ines is planting more cults. An inventory of Ellestian weapons. Maps,’ she rattled off and pointed to the papers stuffed into a pack on the floor.

  ‘And this.’ Petra held out a jar at arm’s length. A jar of mist.

  ‘Bring it. Perhaps Eydis will know someone who can examine it safely. But for the gods’ sake, don’t break it.’

  Petra tore off a layer of her skirts and carefully wrapped the jar in the fabric.

  Henri took in the rest of the room. ‘Where’s Sahara? And the others?’

  ‘Last I saw, she was heading to the upper floor.’

  Henri was already out the door, leaping in bounds up the stairs. It was unlike her sister and the others to linger. Fear flooded her. What if something had happened? What if —

  ‘In here, Henri,’ Sahara called.

  Henri’s breath caught. Inside was a bloodbath, with Athene, not Sahara, at its heart. Her lover was on her knees, knuckles dripping red, gown torn to shreds. Four guards lay mutilated and lifeless around her.

  ‘Athene,’ Henri said softly as she approached.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Athene stared at her hands. ‘I should have ended it quickly, mercifully.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I … I got angry …’

  Sahara was still standing in the doorway, her face unusually pale. But Henri looked to Athene.

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘They had such hatred for our kind …’

  ‘Our kind? Did they know we were Valians?’

  ‘No. Women, Henri,’ she said. ‘They hated women. I have never felt violence like that, for …’

  Henri took a steadying breath. She had. Too many times.

  ‘Sahara, take Marvel and the others. Find Bleak and Fi. They’ll need backup.’

  Sahara left after a single nod.

  Henri knelt beside Athene, the blood on the floor seeping into the remaining fabric of her skirts.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, reaching for Athene’s hand.

  Athene flinched, and looked up, locking eyes with Henri. ‘Is it?’ she asked.

  Chapter 33

  A set of stone steps and two heavily armed guards marked the entrance to the prison. The men stood between two flickering torches, chatting quietly.

  ‘It’s not very well guarded,’ Bleak hissed to Fi, crouching behind the tall grass fronds in the darkness.

  Fi shrugged, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. ‘Doesn’t need to be. Stay here. Wait for my signal.’

  Before Bleak could nod, Fi was striding towards the guards.

  They greeted him with familiarity, their stances relaxed, bowing their heads in respect. Within seconds, Fi knocked the first guard out cold, and before the second had time to react, he had a dagger to the man’s throat. A whistle sounded, and without hesitating, Bleak bolted towards them.

  ‘Easy, McMillan,’ Fi said. ‘If you play your cards right, you won’t die today. Not a sound, though … Bleak?’

  Bleak looked from Fi to the wide-eyed McMillan, who was trying to edge away from the blade. She could do this. She had proven that, time and time again now.

  She took a deep breath and focused, blocking out the crash of the waves on the shore below, blocking out McMillan’s furious exhalations. Nothing.

  ‘There’s something …’ Of course. Arden wouldn’t leave the guards of an Ashai prison unprotected. ‘He must be wearing a talisman with Valian herbs,’ Bleak said, peering down the man’s collar for a pouch like the one Henri wore. McMillan tried to shuffle back, but Fi pressed the blade firmly to the soft skin of his throat; a trickle of blood appeared.

  ‘What’s protecting you?’ Fi said. He sounded far calmer than Bleak felt. This was taking too long. They needed to get in and get out, quickly and quietly. Who knew what reinforcements Arden had given this place without Fi’s knowledge?

  McMillan made a strangled noise as Fi pulled his head back by the hair, exposing the bearded column of his throat. ‘I won’t ask you again,’ he said quietly.

  The guard’s hand twitched towards his pocket, and Bleak lunged. The talisman was a smooth, round grey stone, with the face of a woman expertly carved into it. It had been treated in Valian herbs for sure; it made her fingertips tingle. She slipped the stone into Fiore’s breast pocket.

  ‘Hurry,’ he said to her, nodding to the wide-eyed McMillan.

  It was like slipping into the sea, the drop into this guard’s mind. Open and easy, with fewer passages than the minds she’d breached before. Bleak tried not to recoil as she found the network of cells she was looking for, winding down, down, deep into the earth. She braced herself against the onslaught of dizziness.

  Bren, she reminded herself. Where’s Bren now? The question itself drove panic to her throat as she delved further into McMillan’s memories. She didn’t want to be here. The cowardly part of her didn’t want to see this. To see what she’d done to poor Bren. She hadn’t locked the shackles, but she may as well have signed the order.

  After a moment, her eyes flew open.

  With a nod from her, Fi hit McMillan over the back of the head with the hilt of his dagger, and he slumped to the ground.

  ‘Find him?’ Fi said, pulling a bundle of keys from the guard’s belt.

  ‘I think so. Fiore, there are two men stationed every yard …’ She offered the information as an out. Who was she to ask Fi to risk his life? More so than he already had?

  ‘Then we’ve got our work cut out for us,’ he replied.

  She nodded, and followed him down the steps.

  A thick iron gate greeted them at the bottom. She could already smell the despair from within. The gate screeched loudly as Fi pushed it open and stepped inside. Bleak stayed close behind. Torchlight revealed a small stone antechamber. Bleak gasped as her foot left the last step, causing Fi to whirl around in question.

  ‘It’s alright,’ she breathed. ‘It’s just …’ Her magic was gone, snuffed out like a candle in a gale.


  ‘What?’ Fi hissed, eyes back to the door on the other side of the chamber.

  ‘This place … The whole prison, it must be treated with those herbs. And a lot of them.’

  Fi nodded. ‘Makes sense. Doesn’t change anything, though, does it?’

  She keenly felt the absence of her magic, as though she were off-balance, not entirely whole. When had she become so familiar with it?

  She shook her head. ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Good. Let’s move.’

  They crept through the antechamber. Blood roared in Bleak’s ears, her grip clammy against the leather-wrapped hilt of her own dagger. The room was empty but for a shelf holding numerous bottles of mead and opiates, and a rack storing spare boots. Fi pushed open the far door, his boots scuffing on the wet stone floor as he stepped into the narrow passageway beyond. Bleak bit the inside of her cheek and ignored the instincts clawing inside her, screaming at her to run.

  In front of her, Fi reached a spiral of stairs, the passage so narrow he had to turn sideways. They began their descent, careful not to rattle the chains on either side. Bleak held her breath and focused on taking one step at a time. The stones were wet and slippery, with moss growing in the cracks.

  Fi held up a fist, and she stopped abruptly. He signalled for her to wait, and he disappeared around the bend.

  Two soft thuds followed. He reappeared, blood gleaming on the blade of his dagger. They pushed on, and she stepped over the bodies without looking down.

  The staircase opened up into another chamber, this one, a room of cells Bleak recognised. A row of iron doors. Moans from the prisoners within sounded, but she shook her head. He wasn’t here.

  ‘Further down,’ she whispered to Fi, who gave a single nod.

  As they spiralled into the darkness, the air became thicker, harder to breathe. The damp seeped through her clothes and clung to her skin, and the stench of the place made her queasy. Everything was wet, with blood or with water, Bleak didn’t know.

  Three guards appeared ahead. She froze.

  There was a moment of confusion. Fiore approached them. With a single shove, one guard’s skull left a smear of red against the stone, his body slumped to the ground. Fi’s fist collided with the face of another, sending him sprawling. The quarters were too close to draw weapons but for the dagger Fi twirled in his hand. The third guard leaped for something – a bell. Fiore blocked him as Bleak stood dumbly in the shadows. Where Henri moved like an elegant water dancer, Fiore’s fighting was sheer brute force. A solid wall of muscle, using his strength to overpower his opponents in mere seconds.

  ‘Bleak.’ Fi’s voice brought her back. ‘Hurry. It won’t be long until they realise something’s amiss.’

  Down and down they spiralled. Bile rose in Bleak’s throat as they passed more chambers, more cells. Ashai people, her people, were in there, and had been for who knew how long. From what she could see and smell, the conditions were horrific. A dozen or more to a cell, with rags for clothing, crammed into the cold dark. The rot of flesh and spirit alike was pungent. There was death here. She could taste it.

  ‘Here,’ she heard herself say as they reached the foot of yet another staircase. ‘He’s somewhere here.’

  ‘Oi,’ said a gruff voice. ‘Didn’t know we were expecting you, Captain?’

  In the centre of the passage of cells, a guard sat at a table with nine others, cards in hand.

  Fiore grabbed Bleak roughly by the upper arm and dragged her towards them. Out of instinct, she fought against him, but he held her firm. ‘Brought you another piece of scum,’ he said, his voice laced with disgust.

  Bleak wasn’t acting; the blood drained from her face as she saw the whips, branding irons and shackles hanging from the walls.

  The guard eyed her. ‘McMillan coulda done that for you, Captain. No need to be trudging all the way down these parts yerself.’

  ‘Wanted to deliver the good news myself, old friend. Madame Joelle Marie sends her best, and her best girls. I gave the order to leave five untouched for you lads.’

  Some of the guards had stood at the mention of Madame Joelle Marie.

  ‘Five of you are relieved of your duties. Decide among yourselves.’

  The first punch was thrown before Fi even finished his sentence. A full-scale brawl broke out. The men were shouting, and one smashed another over the back with a chair.

  ‘Which cell?’ Fi hissed in her ear.

  Bleak looked to the row of iron doors. ‘All of them,’ she breathed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We can’t leave them.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Fi shoved her towards the cells, but no one was watching. ‘That was not the agreement.’

  ‘These Ashai, they’re my people, Fi. How can I abandon …?’ The words felt foreign on her lips, yet it was true. She thought of herself, of Henri, of Casimir, of her childhood friend Ermias – they were one kind.

  ‘You’ve lost your mind!’

  ‘I haven’t. I’ve found it. Fi, please. It could have been me. It could have been any —’

  ‘Bren first. Where is he?’ Fi glanced back at the guards.

  Bleak swallowed the lump in her throat, and nodded to the far cell.

  Without another word, Fi dragged her towards the iron door.

  ‘Captain?’ said a guard from behind them.

  Six. There were six of them left, bloodied and panting, but six still standing.

  Fiore pressed the bundle of keys into Bleak’s palm, and turned to face them, drawing his sword.

  ‘What in the realm?’ the guard said, drawing his own weapon, the others behind him following his lead. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  But there was an intake of breath from the other guards.

  Sahara appeared at the foot of the stairwell, her gown torn and bloodied. ‘Need a hand, Captain?’

  Petra and Marvel followed, swords at the ready.

  ‘Go,’ Fi told Bleak, and lunged.

  Bleak darted to the door, fumbling with the keys, not daring to look back as she heard the first strike of steel.

  Her fingers numb and clumsy, she tried key after key, until finally, a firm click within the lock sounded. The door swung open, and the light from the torches behind her streamed in.

  Bren. His name caught in her throat.

  He was strung up between two posts, hanging limply by his wrists in shackles. Wearing only undershorts, his once muscular torso was withered, each rib prominent beneath his pale, blood-covered skin. Bleak rushed forward.

  ‘Bren,’ she gasped, holding his face to hers. ‘Bren, it’s me.’ She fumbled with the set of keys, trying to match one with the lock of his shackles. Her hands were shaking too much.

  ‘Come on, come on …’ She panicked, twisting another key and failing. She needed more time. ‘Hang on, Bren. Hang on.’

  The stream of light disappeared. The iron door swung shut.

  A single candle now glowed from the corner of the chambers, and an all-too-familiar figure stepped forward.

  Bleak’s heart stopped. ‘You …’ The word came out as a sob as she backed into Bren.

  ‘I wondered if you’d show,’ Langdon said, brandishing a thick chain. ‘My queen will be much pleased.’

  ‘What … What have you done to him?’ Bleak managed, steadying herself against her friend.

  ‘What haven’t we done to him?’ Langdon took a slow step towards her.

  ‘Please …’

  ‘There are those manners again …’

  ‘Let him go, and have me.’ Bleak looked around wildly, trying to find something, anything she could use as a weapon. There was nothing within reach. He’d be on her in seconds.

  ‘Why would I do that? I have you both.’

  ‘I …’ Bleak stalled. She needed time, she needed to think. But Bren’s body was cool behind her. Was he already dead? He couldn’t be, not after —

  ‘You found the key, only to wind up here.’

  Bleak’s legs turned to water. ‘How do yo
u know about the key?’

  ‘Who do you think gave it to you?’ Langdon dragged the length of the chain between his fingers.

  ‘Liar.’

  The end of the chain scraped against the stone floor as he began to close the gap between them. ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes. You … You tortured me, you tortured Bren. You wouldn’t —’

  ‘How would you know what I would and wouldn’t do? You barely remember who you are, Alarise, let alone what anyone else is capable of.’

  ‘Why, then? Why help free me, only to capture me?’

  ‘I was trying to give you a chance. Just like I gave —’

  The iron door burst open, and Fiore staggered in, blood shining on his uniform and oozing from a cut on his brow. A deadly calm seemed to wash over him as he laid eyes on Langdon. Langdon, in turn, sized him up. And then struck.

  Fi blocked the chain clumsily, and Bleak’s heart sank as she realised the captain was injured.

  ‘The shackles, Bleak!’ he barked as he parried.

  Jumping at the command, Bleak started over on the keys. The clanging steel set her teeth on edge as she tried and tried to open the shackles. Finally, the lock gave way, and Bren’s body swung to the other side, the irons clattering against the metal post.

  Bleak threw herself at Bren’s other wrist, heart in her throat as the men duelled, the clash of chain and sword ringing in her ears.

  Langdon fell into her as Fi advanced, clutching a wound at his side. Without thinking, she gripped the length of the freed shackles in her hands, and threw the chain over Langdon’s head, pulling it tight across his throat. Langdon gasped, dropping his own chain, his hands flying to the iron wrapped around his windpipe. But Bleak didn’t let go. She pulled harder, tighter, choking him, the rasping sound of his struggles filling the chamber.

  ‘Your prince,’ he gasped, eyes tearing. ‘Don’t you want to know about … little Ermias?’

  Bleak gritted her teeth and pulled harder.

  ‘He —’

  She pulled tighter still, the iron cutting into her own hands, but she didn’t care. She would end this, him, here and now. His hand clutched at the fabric of her tunic, balling it up into a fist, his nails scraping the skin of her arms. She didn’t stop.