Heart of Mist
Book I: The Oremere Chronicles
Helen Scheuerer
Published by Talem Press, 2017
An imprint of Writer’s Edit Press
www.talempress.com
Copyright © Helen Scheuerer 2017
Helen Scheuerer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Alissa Dinallo
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9941655-5-8
For Kyra and Claire
Contents
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
Did you enjoy this book?
Join the mist dwellers
About the Author
Map
Prologue
The branches of the canopy were like springs beneath the balls of her feet, making her lighter than air as she leapt from one tree to another, towards her freedom. None of the sentries stirred. She knew how to use the dark cloak of night to her advantage. She was no more than a shadow, flickering with the rest in the dappled moonlight. She wove through the branches like a ghost, leaving the sleeping keep, her family and her future behind. When she got to the outskirts of the forest, she dropped down onto the soft earth and ran. Although she had rigged the guard changes, it wouldn’t be long before they realised she was gone. She sprinted. Her feet barely touched the damp ground as she darted between the lean trunks, her breath forming small clouds before her in the cool night, her dark hair sticking to her face. She had the build of her kind: tall, lean and corded with muscle. A body that had been pushed to the limits of endurance, moulded by a strict regime of discipline, forced to fight with blade, arrow, spear and fists. She was meant to be a leader, a warrior, a queen of the Valian people, but she couldn’t be. Not when there was another choice.
Each thought pummelled into her, spurring her on, while branches stung her face and the wind tore through her leathers. Too soon, she was at the border. All that marked the end of their territory was the mist. It rolled in slow, thick waves, stopping abruptly at her feet, as though an invisible fence kept it contained. It rose up into the sky, as far as she could see. A seemingly impenetrable wall. Beyond it was more mist.
The young woman tugged off one of her leather gloves, letting it drop to the ground. She stretched out a hand into the shifting mist. It escaped between the gaps of her long fingers, and a cool sensation crept along her skin. Magic. She could feel it pulsing before her. The air in there was different, people said, thinner, unbreathable. Slowly and steadily over the past few decades, the mist had encroached, inch by inch, thirsting for more life, more magic. Those who went beyond it fell off the face of the realm.
She swallowed, her heart hammering as though it would burst from her chest. She looked out. Magic. Once widespread, the Ashai folk, whose powers thrummed in all four corners of the realm, had greatly diminished over the years. The mist hungered for that power. Like a tide, it lapped at the lands, engulfing whatever lay in its path. It became a form of execution reserved for specific traitors of the crowns: those who wielded magic against the law. Forced to walk in at swordpoint, criminals would often try to impale themselves rather than endure whatever horrible death awaited them within.
The woman who stood surveying the mist had no magic. Though her bloodline was strong with rare talents, she was unblessed, unremarkable. Most in the realm would call it luck, but for a leader in her lands, it was a failure. Now, her mouth was set in a serious line, and her grey-green eyes stared out into the uncharted distance ahead. Though death awaited her, she did not fear it. What was it but another form of freedom? She tucked her cropped hair behind her ears, and turned back, just once more, to take in the forest-covered mountains of Valia, her home. Her mother, the matriarch who was so sure her daughter could do anything, despite her lack of magic, would have fallen asleep long ago, and her sister … Her sister, only younger by minutes, would be training. Always training.
The mist stirred at her feet, wrapping around her ankles, and she could have sworn she felt a gentle pull, an invitation: the roiling clouds before her luring her into their deathtrap. She needed no enticing. Although guilt tugged at her as she thought of her family, she knew this was the right way. The only way. The Valian Way. Her people deserved the best, and this was how she could give that to them. She turned to face the mist, and after a deep breath, walked in.
Chapter 1
Bleak’s gut clenched as she vomited onto the dirt that spun before her. And again. And again. She lay there on the ground, a line of sick and phlegm still dangling from the corner of her mouth. Her body heaved several more times and bile burned the back of her throat. Gods, she felt like rubbish, and the sound of people clanging about their daily business was doing nothing for her pounding head.
She had returned the night before from yet another failed quest to find herself a healer in Heathton. It had been her fourth journey to the capital in a month, and the seas had been savage. Her small sailing boat had been thrown about as though it were a child’s toy. She had only just managed to moor in the docks before the storm fully hit, and she’d promptly made her way to the local tavern. It had only taken her a quick four pints of their watered-down ale and the last of her silver to remember that their brews did nothing to cure her problems. With no coin left to spend, and her condition still pulsing wildly, it had been back to the warehouse, where her home-brewed mead had burned its way through her body, drowning out the voices and her most recent shortcomings.
With no idea how she’d ended up in the town square, she crinkled her face in a grimace, realising that the skin across her forehead and nose was tight with burn. How long had she been subjecting herself to the blazing morning sun? Too long, from what it felt like. The right side of her face was already tender. She peeled her torso off the ground and leaned back against the water trough behind her. Using the shoulder of her dirty tunic, she wiped her mouth, feeling her dry, cracked lips snag on the rough fabric. Looking out, she squinted against the harsh daylight and rubbed her aching temples.
What time is it? How in the realm did I get here?
The coastal village of Angove was bustling. The town square was brimming with locals and tourists alike, and it already reeked of sickly sweet foreign perfumes. The wealthier women waved their delicate lace fans before thei
r faces, while the more common folk dabbed at their sweating necks with aprons and sleeves. The dirt streets were packed with overflowing market stalls. Colourful spices imported from Battalon spilled out onto the walkway in giant wooden barrels, heavy rolls of intricately patterned fabric jutted out from a countertop, while wine-infused strips of dried meat hung from hooks at the front of one stall. Shopkeepers and opportunists alike flogged their wares from crates hanging off their chests: vibrant toffee-coated apples, thick skin creams in carefully labelled jars and dark bottles of Angovian cider. And then the thoughts of those around Bleak barraged into her mind in a crashing wave.
Will Mihael have a stall again? I swear that tart was laced with wildflower.
So that’s two jars of flour and seven —
If Lucinda gets there early —
Bleak sniggered. Such easy marks, all of them, she thought, as she hauled herself upright, eyeing the unattended pocket watch of the candlemaker as he ogled the baker’s daughter. And the sailor whose full coin bag was visible through his vest pocket. Despite her raging hangover, the day was looking up. Loose sand stung her face as the seaside breeze took hold, and a shadow cast over her shoulder.
‘Hit the tavern again, did ya, Bleak?’ said a gruff voice from behind her.
‘No,’ she muttered, without looking up.
‘S’not what it looks like?’ Her friend Bren, one of the young local fishermen, came into her line of sight and stared pointedly at her dishevelled state.
‘None of your business what it looks like,’ she said.
Bren shrugged, scraping his sun-streaked hair back off his brow. They’d known each other since they were children, so he was rarely ever bothered by her direct nature. Bren. Bloody Bren. One of the many reasons she sought a healer to cure her ‘condition’. So far, the best cure she’d found was the drink. In fact, despite her raw throat and churning stomach, she thought it was about time for a refill.
‘Saw yer boat all tangled this morning – ya must have been in a state.’
‘She’s still afloat, isn’t she?’
‘Barely.’
‘That’s a yes.’
‘I fixed up them ropes you knotted wrong.’
‘I don’t get knots wrong.’
‘Do so.’
Bleak sighed. ‘Well, I didn’t ask you to fix them.’
‘Ya never do.’
Bleak only stopped herself from rolling her eyes because they felt as though they’d fall out of their sockets.
‘Ya know,’ called Bren as he made to move on. ‘Ma’d be happy to mix something up for ya.’
‘I said, it’s none of your business.’
With his back to her, Bren put his hands up in surrender, and walked away.
She inhaled the salty ocean air, mixed with the scent of herbs and spices and freshly baked bread. The bakery on the corner called to her, where golden loaves covered in flour were piled high behind the window. I’ll need some coin, she thought, as she walked into the crowded square. Crowds were the best for this kind of work, and peak market time was the most lucrative by a long shot. People were distracted, flustered and irritated. With their attention divided and their bodies already pressed up against others, what was one less coin in their pocket? What was a trip of the feet and the loss of a bracelet?
Bleak knew she was a mess, so she’d have to be extra diligent with any work she carried out this morning. Her shoulder-length, ash-blonde hair was knotted and tangled from yesterday’s plunge into the ocean; it hung loose around her grimy face. Her tunic and pants were spattered with sick and, feeling the sharp, intrusive pain at the soles of her feet, she realised she wasn’t wearing shoes.
Damn, she cursed silently, where did they end up? She looked back to where she’d woken at the water trough – there was nothing there but the pink patch of vomit she’d left in the dust. She wanted to kick herself. As if she could afford another pair of shoes. She’d have to raid Bren’s mudroom for his brothers’ smallest and least offensive pair.
People tried not to look at her as she passed; the skinny, odd-eyed orphan girl, the town drunkard, returned from yet another of her deranged solo sea trips. They tried not to look but failed, as always. She could hear them, too, their thoughts barrelling into her.
Only evil could have eyes like that, referring to her odd-coloured irises (one hazel, one blue). Look at the filth on her, she’s been lying in the sty again – or the whorehouse. She had that poor old fisherman under a spell, he’s better off dead than with her. Where does she go? What’s she done to herself now? Who in the realm is she looking for? It was always the same. But it worked to her advantage, mostly.
Bleak could hardly walk straight, which didn’t help with the staring, or the job at hand. As she glared at another passer-by, she wondered if she was still drunk. It was possible. It wasn’t as though it hadn’t happened before. Or perhaps she was as crazy as they all thought. They looked at her as though she had the plague. Trying to ignore how hot the cobblestones had grown beneath her feet, she pushed the intrusive thoughts from her mind as she selected a target. A tourist. Definitely not from around here, swishing about in vibrant, impractical skirts, with a glimmering beaded bag dangling from a delicate, pale shoulder, already turning pink with burn.
Yes, that will do nicely, Bleak thought as she began to weave through the crowd. Someone barged into her, hard. She fell, landing on her backside.
‘Going somewhere, little Bleak?’
Swearing, she started to get up, but a heavy boot pushed her back down. Maz, the brawny son of the town blacksmith, was staring down at her, lip curled.
‘You can’t be serious,’ she muttered.
‘What did you say?’
If people hadn’t been watching her before, they certainly were now. But no one stepped in, no one told the brute to remove his boot from her shoulder.
‘Get off, Maz.’
His kick was swift and direct to her tender stomach. Once, twice. Her body contracted around the pain, and tensed in anticipation of more.
Stupid bitch, thinks she can turn me down. Like I’d want her now. Dirty, drunk scum. Maz’s thoughts came out of nowhere.
A couple of years ago, when her condition had still been manageable, sometimes even dormant, she’d thought differently of Maz. He was the handsomest and brightest son of the talented Angove blacksmith, and had been popular among many of the young village girls, including a much younger, more naive Bleak. Now, she ground her teeth, cursing her former impressionable self. Now, nineteen-year-old Bleak knew better.
‘Gutter rat,’ he said, preparing to land another blow.
‘Piss off, Maz,’ Bren’s voice sounded, and Bleak looked past the sun’s glare to see his muscular frame move to stand between her and Maz.
‘Playing hero again, Clayton? Gonna fight me for her honour?’ Maz leered, sizing Bren up against his own well-built body.
‘Get outta here, or next time I stop by the forge, I’ll be followin’ up on a package yer father apparently sent over to Battalon.’
Maz’s eyes snapped up to Bren’s. ‘You wouldn’t —’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
A muscle twitched in Maz’s jaw, and he spat at Bleak, who was still clutching her stomach on the ground.
‘You’ll get what’s coming, both of you. Fucking gutter rats,’ he snarled, and then disappeared into the throng of people who had crowded around them.
Bleak clasped Bren’s offered hand, and he hauled her to her feet.
‘I had it under control,’ she said, dusting off her clothes.
‘Yeah, looked like it.’
‘I was fine.’
‘Bleak, just say thanks and be done with it.’
Bleak turned to him, stomach dipping. She hated being in his debt, and she always was. Frustrated, she opened and closed her mouth, sifting through the words to use. Bren’s brows rose. Silently, they began walking through the square.
‘What’d he send to Battalon?’ she asked after a few moments
, tentatively pressing the soft part of her abdomen where Maz had kicked her.
Bren rolled his eyes and nudged her with his elbow. ‘A bastard son and a purse full of gold.’
Bleak whirled back to him. ‘What? Whose?’
Bren shrugged with a smirk. ‘A sailor’s true trade is secrets.’
‘You’re a fisherman.’
‘Semantics.’
‘Big word for an uneducated oaf.’
‘Takes one to know one.’
Bleak felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. ‘Would you have fought him?’ she asked.
Bren smiled grimly. ‘Ya know I would’ve. But for folks like us … We should play to the strengths we’re given, least at first.’
Bren’s wintry-blue eyes met hers for a moment, before something glimmering across the crowd stole Bleak’s attention. She had spotted her mark again, and the beaded bag sang out to her. She flicked open her pocket knife and slipped from Bren’s side, easing her way through the horde of people, their collective body odour clinging to her nostrils. She ignored it as she closed in on her target. The pungent aroma of perfume hit her, and she tried not to gag.
Definitely not from around here, Bleak thought, as she tripped up the man beside the wealthy woman. The man stumbled right into her target, and Bleak sliced clean through the bag’s strap. The collision was awkward and filled with stammered apologies, as both parties straightened themselves, faces flushed. Bleak was already back at Bren’s side, flattening the beaded bag against the tender skin of her stomach beneath her tunic.
Heart of Mist Page 1
