Reign of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  The weight of his leathers and boots dragged him under. The waters swelled around him as he kicked, finding each movement like pushing through mud. His lungs were already straining for air, but he kept kicking, trying to get to the top. A large hand gripped the front of his shirt and hauled him up. He gasped for breath as his head broke the surface.

  ‘Come on, old friend,’ Fi said quietly, pulling him through the currents.

  They were swimming towards one of the great piers, Swinton realised gratefully. At least a structure like that would provide some cover.

  Don’t look back, don’t look back, he chanted to himself. And he didn’t. He followed Fi. Fi, who was yet to lead him astray. Fi, whom he trusted not only with his life, but his son’s as well.

  Stroke after stroke through the warm waters of the bay had his muscles aching with fatigue. He was short of breath, and his chest burned with the effort, yet still they swam on. True to Fi’s word, it wasn’t long before the Bay of Gifts came into view. It was just as breathtaking from the water as it was from the shore, Swinton decided, especially when his waterlogged boots touched the sandbank.

  ‘Come,’ Fiore said. ‘This way.’

  Staggering onto the beach, Swinton forced himself to jog after Fi.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he rasped.

  ‘Later,’ Fi panted.

  Tradesmen and fishermen glanced up at them in surprise as they passed, but as soon as they saw Fi, they averted their gaze, as though the bedraggled commander and captain of the Ellestian army hadn’t just blundered by.

  Swinton kept his mouth shut as he followed Fi up the beach and into a side alley off the main road. The narrow roads were a maze, twisting and winding deep into the slums. Fi was faltering, clutching the wound at his side. Still saying nothing, Swinton looped his friend’s arm around his shoulder.

  ‘Not much further,’ Fi managed through gritted teeth.

  He directed Swinton in a series of short, sharp commands, and Swinton obeyed, heaving Fi’s body weight onto his own as much as he could.

  ‘Here, right here,’ Fi said, pointing to a ‘closed’ sign hanging over a door. ‘In there, quickly.’

  Swinton didn’t wait. He pushed open the door and pulled Fi inside.

  A musty aroma greeted them as the door shut behind them. Candles flickered across every surface that wasn’t covered in eerie trinkets and phials.

  An apothecary, Swinton realised.

  ‘Does no one read anymore? The damn sign says “closed”!’ snapped a sharp voice from the next room. A woman in her sixties appeared from behind a curtain in the doorway, hands on hips, with a harried expression on her lined face.

  ‘Ethelda,’ Fiore said.

  Swinton hauled him upright, and recognition swam in the woman’s face.

  Ethelda … Where have I heard that name before?

  ‘Fiore?’ she said, surging forward. ‘Good grief, lad, what happened to you?’

  ‘Need a bit of help, I’m afraid, Ethelda.’

  ‘You don’t say …’ she muttered, lifting his shirt and staring at the wound in his side. ‘Bring him through this way, Commander,’ she ordered, already turning on her heels, her skirts ruffling behind her.

  Bewildered, Swinton shuffled Fiore through the curtain and into the next room. The room behind the shopfront was vastly different. Brighter, cleaner, with a single bed in the centre. Books and potions lined the shelves on each wall, and a small tray of metal instruments sat by the bed. A healer’s room.

  ‘Sit down, Fiore,’ Ethelda said. ‘You know what to do by now.’

  Grimacing, Fi sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shirt. He lay back, swinging his legs up onto the bed as well.

  ‘Gods, Fiore. Will you ever come and visit me in one piece?’

  ‘Likely not.’

  Ethelda huffed. ‘I thought as much.’

  The sharp smell of alcohol filled Swinton’s nostrils and he looked over to see the woman soaking rags in a small dish.

  ‘It’s going to hurt,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t need to tell me that, old friend.’

  ‘Good.’

  Swinton stood out of the way as Ethelda went about washing out Fiore’s wounds, with Fiore swearing like a madman.

  ‘So are you going to tell me what trouble you’re in this time?’ said the healer, as she began stitching the wound with brutal efficiency.

  ‘The less you know, the better,’ Swinton said from his corner.

  ‘He speaks!’ Ethelda mockingly held a hand to her chest.

  ‘He’s also not fond of joking, Theldie.’

  ‘Imagine my surprise. So I stitch you up, no doubt will put food and drink in your bellies, and you’ll spill no secrets?’

  ‘I have money.’ Swinton patted his pocket.

  ‘I’ll have you know, Commander, I’ve never accepted payment from this brawny fool.’ She jabbed a finger in Fi’s direction. ‘I don’t intend on starting today.’

  Swinton frowned, glancing between the two Battalonians. ‘How do you know each other?’

  ‘You mean to tell me, Fiore Murphadias,’ she turned to the bleeding Battalonian, ‘that after all these years, your brother-in-arms doesn’t know your own grandmama when he sees her?’

  ‘What?’ Swinton baulked.

  Fiore gave a ragged laugh. ‘Ethelda’s being dramatic, as usual. Strictly speaking, she’s not quite my grand—’

  ‘Listen here, boy,’ she snapped, pushing him back down onto the bed and putting a bandage in place. ‘When a woman cleans as many cuts and scrapes, and stitches as many wounds as I have for you, she’s got a right to call herself whatever she damn well wants. You hear? If I call you my grandson, that’s what you damn well are.’

  Fi’s face became serious as he clasped the healer’s hands in his. ‘Ethelda, I meant no offence. You are family to me in every sense of the word that matters. I only meant to avoid confusion for Dimitri over here, who looks about ready to pass out.’

  Ethelda grunted. ‘Well, if Dimitri had any brains left in that big head of his, he’d sit down, wouldn’t he?’ She pushed a stool towards him.

  Gobsmacked at this whirlwind of a woman, Swinton took the stool and sat without a word.

  ‘So?’ she said, crossing her arms across her chest, glaring expectantly at Fiore.

  Fiore smiled grimly. ‘It’s a long tale,’ he said.

  Ethelda only raised her eyebrows and waited.

  With a glance at Swinton and a heavy sigh, Fiore began the story. As Fi launched into the description of their journey to Angove to find a rare mind whisperer, Swinton became suddenly grateful to be off his feet. Fi’s voice was melodic as he wove the tale of Bleak, Henri and the Valians together with the rhythm and detail of a true Battalonian. Swinton’s eyelids grew heavy. When was the last time he’d slept? Or had a hot meal? Or bathed? None of it mattered now. The tale, their tale, being told right now, was the only chance for repose they’d get in a long while, he knew that much. So Swinton rested his back against the wall behind him, and let Fi’s voice wash over him like a wave.

  ‘You should rest a day or two, Fi,’ Ethelda was saying.

  Swinton sat up with a start. He’d dozed off.

  ‘No time,’ Fi said. ‘The princess is in danger as we speak.’

  ‘You’ll rip those stitches right open.’

  ‘Probably,’ Fi said, clapping Swinton on the shoulder.

  Ethelda tutted and gave Swinton a once-over. ‘Well, you can’t go anywhere looking like that.’

  ‘Like what?’ Swinton said, glancing down at his still-damp, unkempt attire.

  ‘Like the traitor Commander of the King’s Army.’

  Swinton frowned, ignoring the barb. ‘I can’t help what I look like.’

  ‘Fi, hand me those scissors, and that razor over there,’ Ethelda said, motioning vaguely to the corner of the room. ‘And you,’ she said to Swinton. ‘Sit.’

  Judging by the look Fi shot him, Swinton was best to do as he’d been told.


  Swinton sat like a statue as Ethelda hacked off his dark locks. The black, wavy strands fell about his shoulders and spilled onto the floor. Heat flushed his face, and he avoided eye contact with Fi. Instead, he concentrated on breathing steadily through his nose. As each lock floated to the ground, it was as though he was shedding his former self. From this moment on, he was no longer Commander Swinton of the King’s Army. He was Dimitri, disgraced son of Sir Caleb Swinton. Outlaw. Traitor to the crown. A blemish in Ellest’s long history of military leaders.

  ‘There,’ said Ethelda, efficiently brushing the loose hair from his shoulders.

  Swinton reached up and rubbed his head, his hair now cut close to his skull, like Fi’s.

  Fi was picking his nails. ‘You look younger,’ he said with a shrug.

  ‘Aye, and not like the young commander so many foolish women gossip about,’ added the healer, sweeping cut hair into the corner. ‘I trust you need horses?’

  Swinton stood, running a hand over his head again. ‘No. We have mounts up at the stables.’

  He waited for Fi to protest; a journey to the stables was an unnecessary risk. But his Battalonian friend said nothing.

  ‘Then you’ll need supplies?’

  ‘If you have anything to spare, we would be in your debt, madam,’ Swinton said, bowing his head.

  ‘Don’t believe in debts, Dimitri,’ Ethelda replied, striding into the other room. ‘I believe in giving,’ her voice called back to him. ‘It all comes full circle in the end.’

  ‘All the same,’ he said, when she reappeared with two small packs.

  She smiled as she handed over the packs. ‘Not used to accepting help, are you?’

  ‘He’s new to it,’ Fi said with a grin.

  Shouldering their packs, Swinton led Fi back through the apothecary, to the door.

  When his hand grasped the handle, Ethelda’s voice sounded once more from behind them.

  ‘A mind whisperer, you said?’

  Swinton turned to face her. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The girl, the one from Angove. Did you say she was a mind whisperer?’

  Beside him, Fi nodded. ‘Yes, a girl, no older than nineteen or so.’

  ‘They’re rare, even among the Ashai, you know.’

  ‘So we’ve gathered,’ Swinton said. ‘The king took great interest in her. Went to great lengths to get his hands on her.’

  Ethelda was nodding. ‘I wonder …’ she muttered.

  ‘Wonder what, Theldie?’

  She chewed her bottom lip, her brow knitted together in concentration. ‘I met an Ashai once, a mind whisperer.’

  ‘I don’t think Bleak’s ever been to Belbarrow,’ Swinton said slowly.

  ‘It wasn’t in Belbarrow,’ said Ethelda. ‘It was in Heathton. I lived there for a time, to keep an eye on this one.’ She jutted her chin towards Fi. ‘It was a long time ago now, but … I remember her. Scrawny little thing. Angry. Stole the bloody coin back off me.’

  Swinton and Fi exchanged looks.

  ‘What did she want?’ Fi asked finally.

  ‘A cure,’ Ethelda said. ‘A cure for her magic.’

  Chapter 35

  Bleak had sat by Bren’s bedside throughout the journey back to Havennesse, and for the past three days in Wildenhaven. On board Rheyah’s Prize, one of the former Ashai prisoners, a healer, had put Bren into a light remedial slumber. He was yet to wake.

  Sahara had visited every day, usually to force food upon Bleak and to try to pique her interest in the affairs with the Ashai, but Bleak hardly responded, and eventually, Sahara and the rest let her be. Rion, however, remained with her. The hulking beast had found his place at the foot of Bren’s bed in front of the fire. Bleak could feel him monitoring every breath, every murmur of pain from her Angovian friend. He too understood what Bren had been through.

  As the hours ticked by, Bleak could sometimes fool herself that it was just Bren and her, as it had been all that time ago, before the King’s Army had come to Angove. Before any of it. Throughout their many years of friendship, they’d each been bedridden with fevers, injuries, hangovers … And each time, they’d got better. It was never long until the two of them were back out on the waters of the East Sea with Senior at the helm. But it wasn’t the same now. Not now, as she sat by his bed and lived through his horrors alongside him, his mind dragging her through every wretched memory, every hurt.

  She looked at him. Even days later, she still wasn’t used to him this way. How beneath the layers of blankets, his broad frame had wasted away, how his once sun-kissed skin was now sallow and littered with bruises.

  Bleak didn’t realise she’d covered her mouth with her hands until Athene, whom she hadn’t heard come in, pulled it away and squeezed her shoulder.

  ‘It’s alright,’ the Valian said. ‘He’s alive.’

  Words were beyond Bleak. The sorrow was too great, and the expression too insignificant.

  ‘He hasn’t woken?’

  Bleak shook her head. She wanted to reach out and touch Bren, but it was suddenly too hard. She didn’t know if she should, or could.

  ‘The Ashai you saved,’ Athene said, sitting in the chair beside Bleak’s. ‘They’re doing well. Eydis has her best healers tending to them. They are grateful to you. They ask where you are.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ Bleak heard herself say.

  ‘What?’ Athene looked at her in disbelief. ‘You saved them. If it weren’t for you, they’d still be rotting in those cells.’

  Bleak said nothing. She could have saved a thousand Ashai, yet nothing would change the fact that she – that Bren – had been left to die in that torture chamber. She desperately wanted to see his crooked smile, to feel the weight of his arm slung carefree about her shoulders. She didn’t know if she’d ever have that again. A chasm of grief opened inside her. She had to close her eyes to keep the hot tears from spilling.

  As she exhaled, the all-too-familiar whisper of outside thoughts filled her head. She whirled around to face Athene, searching for the Valian’s usual pouch of protective herbs.

  ‘Where is your …?’ she began, but Bleak was pulled into the undercurrent of Athene’s mind.

  The passages of Athene’s mind reminded Bleak of Luka’s. Hard, glossy black stone, only with more doorways, more levels to descend. Bleak’s footsteps echoed down the walkway as she followed the gentle tug of the invisible thread around her middle. There was something to be seen here. Some of the doors she passed were open, some were sealed shut. She hadn’t seen that before, sealed doors … What does that mean?

  She halted suddenly. A door to a recent memory.

  Athene and Henri stood opposite each other, both cloaked heavily in palma furs, in Henri’s chambers in Wildenhaven. The two women were breathless, eyes heavy-lidded.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ Henri said to Athene.

  Bleak’s stomach twisted. She needed to leave. Whatever happened between the Valian matriarch and her kindred was none of her business. But she couldn’t move, she was rooted to the spot, watching the intimate moment unfold.

  Henri was slowly unlacing Athene’s leathers, the flicker of candlelight revealing a rare tenderness in her graphite-green eyes.

  Finally, Bleak felt a pull. She was taken deeper into Athene’s mind. The complexity of it was intense. Experiences, emotions and memories layered on top of one another, until they became as dense as stone.

  Beyond the next door was Valia. Upon seeing the network of living bridges and sprawling treetops, Bleak realised how much she missed the forest. The air was crisp and fresh on her skin as she peered through the branches to see Athene and Luka.

  They were hurrying through the forest, Athene’s expression harried, with dark circles below her eyes.

  ‘Keep up, Luka,’ she hissed at her daughter.

  Luka bore a look of bewilderment, but obediently followed her mother. They wove effortlessly between the trees, ducking beneath low-hanging branches, and turning sharp corners.
/>   ‘Where are we going?’ Luka said.

  ‘Somewhere private.’

  ‘Ma, what —’

  ‘Hush. Don’t speak again until I tell you. Just keep up.’

  Bleak scurried after them, the path suddenly feeling familiar, and forbidden. They climbed up into the canopy of the forest, well above the bridges.

  Bleak realised where they were heading. The matriarch’s grotto.

  Athene grasped Luka’s hand and helped her up onto the platform. Into the sacred quarters where Bleak knew no one but the queens of Valia went.

  Luka shifted uncomfortably. ‘Ma, we shouldn’t be here,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Do you know what this place is?’ Athene asked.

  ‘I think so. I’ve only heard rumours. But I guess … I guess they’re true.’

  ‘They’re true.’

  ‘Why are we here, Ma? Can’t we get banished to the Sticks for this?’

  Bleak’s stomach churned. This was wrong, so wrong. What was Athene playing at?

  She shouldn’t even be here, Bleak thought. Let alone Luka.

  Henri had reacted badly when Allehra had brought Bleak to the same sacred spot; that had been enough for Bleak to understand how special the grotto was for rulers of Valia.

  ‘Ma.’ The note of urgency in Luka’s voice couldn’t be missed. ‘You’re scaring me.’

  ‘Henri has left,’ Athene said, turning calmly to Luka.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s gone. With Bleak. They’re answering the royal summons.’

  Bleak started at the mention of her name. It was a surreal realisation, that she had now become a part of the kindred’s lives, part of their memories.

  ‘Why did you need to tell me that here?’

  ‘Because, Luka, now’s your chance.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now’s your chance to prove yourself. To show your worth, your leadership.’

  ‘Ma, come on!’

  ‘We have not worked this hard only for you to —’

  ‘I work this hard because I’m a Valian,’ Luka said sharply. ‘It’s the Valian Way.’