‘Don’t make this personal,’ he said.
‘It’s always personal,’ Henri replied, dodging another blow. He swung at her, leaving his mid-section open. Henri’s sharp kick to his exposed abdomen sent him sprawling. He flipped himself up on his feet once more, but now, Henri was on the attack. Bleak looked on, her heart threatening to punch through her chest as Henri drove herself forward, slicing at Swinton with her katars. He didn’t stand a chance, Bleak realised. The Valian warrior advanced in short bursts, her weapons clenched around her gloved knuckles. She was a whirlwind, as fluid as water, moving through a deadly dance only decades of training could have honed. Bleak had never seen anything like her.
The yells and cries around them came only from the men, whether in pain or frustration Bleak didn’t know. She edged away from the centre of the chaos, towards the forest. Not a single blow had yet been landed against the Valia kindred. Bleak looked for Fiore. His sheer size should have been enough to deter any challenger, but Athene, with her nimble steps and shining longsword, kept his hulking mass at bay with ease. She used his height and weight to her advantage, and parried around his strikes, ramming her elbow into his face. Blood trickled down his nose, and Athene gave a predatory grin. She was used to winning, it seemed.
A meaty hand closed around Bleak’s arm.
‘I’ll teach you, I’ll teach you and those forest bitches what real men can do …’ Lennox had her by the throat now as he dragged her into the thicker part of the woods. Bleak tried to cry out to them, to anyone, but Lennox’s sweaty hand was clamped painfully tight across the lower half of her face. He was gripping so hard that one wrong (or right) twist might snap her neck. She struck out with her legs and flailing arms, clawing at Lennox’s grimy face, his skin shredding beneath her jagged, chewed nails. The boots she’d been wearing had flown from her feet in the commotion, taking Fiore’s dagger with them.
Think, Bleak, think. She tried to calm herself. She had scraped out of every dire situation in life so far. But panic surged deep in her gut as she smelled the bastard’s sour breath on her face and heard the clink of his sword belt being undone. His thoughts were vile, and she gagged as his hands moved on her, readying himself —
A dagger – no, a katar – shot through the air and buried itself in his eye, causing blood to spurt and spatter onto Bleak’s hair and tunic. The scream that came from him was primal, a strangled noise wrenched from the gut, terror and agony manifesting in a core-shattering screech. His grip fell away from Bleak and she scrambled backwards, his warm blood soaking through her tunic. He kept screaming, an endless shriek, the wail of an animal who knew death was coming for it. He waved his hands blindly, but he didn’t touch the weapon embedded in his face. Nearby, the commotion stopped. Henri strode towards them, each step measured and even, her expression unreadable. She rested a leather boot on Lennox’s chest and yanked the katar from his eye, blood gushing from the gaping wound. He screamed again; this time the sound cut short. He slumped to the ground, unconscious. Bleak could feel her legs trembling, threatening to give out beneath her. She swallowed the bitter taste of bile.
‘Come,’ Henri said to Bleak.
A new wave of panic washed over her. She was trading being a prisoner in one camp for another. What did these people want from her? Henri was standing very still, those grey-green eyes boring into Bleak, those dark brows raised and expectant. Henri had just saved her from a horrific fate. She certainly couldn’t say the same for the commander and his men. Adrenaline roared in her ears. Bleak met the Valian’s eyes and nodded. She followed the matriarch’s long and confident strides back to the centre of the camp, picking up her fallen boots and Fiore’s dagger along the way. Around them, the Valia kindred had the men at swordpoint. The rasp of cotton tearing sounded as Swinton ripped himself free of Henri’s other katar, which had him pinned to a tree. Nobody moved as Henri approached him, and in one sharp pull, freed her blade from the trunk. She eyed his torn shirt but said nothing of it. Instead, she turned her attention to the surrendered King’s Guard. The men were panting and bleeding. Fiore was on his knees, a spear tip to his back. The kindred hadn’t broken a sweat.
‘This,’ Henri gestured to the injured men around them with her katar and looked back at Swinton, ‘is your doing.’
Although Bleak could hear neither of their thoughts, she sensed a great many unsaid things between the two leaders. The tension was palpable.
Just as Henri made to leave, Swinton called out, ‘Lost your magic, Valian? Think we don’t know what you are?’
‘Wouldn’t have been fair on you,’ Henri called out, her kindred following.
‘Coward,’ Swinton muttered.
Bleak’s stomach dropped to her feet as Henri turned back to face him. She thrust her hand out before her and with a blank stare, raised it slightly. To Bleak’s horror, Swinton was lifted from the ground, kicking helplessly as Henri brought him higher into the air, and then slammed him into the side of a tree. He slid down its trunk, unconscious.
‘You’re a fool, Dimitri,’ she said. She cast a final look of distaste at the broken troop of men before nodding to Athene. The kindred moved out, with Athene pulling Bleak along gently, and Henri in the lead.
Chapter 5
As they made their way into Valian territory, Henrietta Valia pulled herself up into the treetops with ease. She had been doing this all her life, and was more at home in the vibrant canopies of the forest than anywhere else in the realm. She had seen the crystal glaciers and jagged snow-capped cliffs of Havennesse, she’d trudged through the scorching sands and firestorms of Battalon, and she’d strolled through the decadent halls of Heathton Castle, but here … Here was special. Where the trees in the Hawthornes had been as smooth and pale as pallid flesh, the trunks now became rough and dark, tawny flakes crumbling away at the faintest touch, a soft casing for the formidable strength that lay at their core. Henri’s hands brushed over the broad, silken leaves, a green so dark it resembled black ink. Drops of dew rested on their smooth surfaces. She looked out across the treetops, where tall trunks shot out into a fan of branches and leaves; she couldn’t tell where one tree ended and another began. The melodic notes of unseen birds sounded, and for a moment, this place, Henri’s home, felt like a dream. But above all else, it was the living bridges that sang out to her. A map of paths created by the trees themselves onto which Henri now stepped, waiting for her kindred and the girl to finish their ascent. These bridges were high above the forest floor, away from the prying eyes and lowly laws of the rest of the realm. Here, the branches linked together like lattice, like a sheet of lace connecting all of Valia. The bridges were full of life, full of magic of their own. To Henri, they always seemed to sing, we are wildness. The vast drop on either side of the walkway embodied nature’s danger and its unpredictability, while the soft emerald moss beneath Henri’s boots, which sank in and sprang back with each step, spoke of nurture. Henri sighed with relief as she started the journey across the ranges among the treetops, back to the Valian keep. Behind her, her elite kindred, Athene, Marvel, Tilly and Petra, were quiet, and Henri could hear the girl struggling to keep her footing. Henri turned. The girl was wearing ridiculous men’s boots that made her steps like the lumbering gait of a newborn calf.
‘Leave the boots,’ Henri said.
The girl looked up, panic etched on her face.
Henri crouched down and ran her palm across the spongy moss beneath them. ‘This will soothe your feet – the blisters, the aching. The boots are doing more harm than good, and they’re slowing us down.’
The girl stared at her for a moment before pushing the boots off by the heel. She sank barefoot into the alleviating coolness of the moss. Her whole body sagged in relief.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Henri nodded and stood, drawing her compass from her waist. Although there was the odd watchtower here and there, this far out in the Hawthornes, even a native Valian needed a compass to navigate the sprawling treetop city. The bridges and pathways, k
notted together with sturdy branches and vines, grew in every direction – a natural maze amidst the canopy, designed to trap and confuse those who did not belong, and guide those who did.
‘Why am I here?’
Henri looked up from her compass to find the girl wringing her hands, still staring at her.
‘Would you prefer to be with the king’s men?’
‘No. I just don’t know what’s going on. My house burns down, they show up, drag me away from my village, and now you show up and take me away from them … Why is this happening? What do you want with me?’
Henri let the question hang between them as she felt the girl’s energy pulse around her. This was raw, untrained magic, throbbing outwards from the girl’s thin frame. The power was entwined with palpable loneliness and grief buried deep below the surface.
‘You have magic,’ Henri said.
‘So?’ The girl’s chin lifted in defiance.
‘That makes you a person of interest to anyone these days, but especially to the king.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong. I … I hate it. I don’t want it.’
‘Careful what you say, girl. Despite the laws, there are folk who would kill for a drop of magic.’
‘I never asked for this.’
‘Nobody asks for anything. You get what you’re given in this life,’ Henri said.
The girl shuffled her feet in the moss. ‘It wasn’t always like this.’
‘No, it wasn’t. You can thank the king, his ancestors, the plague and the death of Casimir for that.’
‘Casimir.’ The girl shook her head. ‘Like he could have saved us. He ran off with some woman, left our people to rot —’
‘You’re too young to cling to that kind of bitterness. The last plague was over a decade ago. Can you even remember it?’
Quiet anger flashed in the girl’s eyes, and for the first time, Henri realised they were oddly coloured, one hazel and one blue.
‘Enough talk of a now irrelevant past.’
‘The past is never irrelevant,’ the girl countered.
Henri ignored that comment. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Bleak.’
‘What’s your real name?’
‘It’s Bleak.’
Henri studied the girl. ‘With a name like that, no wonder you feel sorry for yourself.’
Before Bleak could reply, Henri turned on her heel and set the pace for their journey back to Valia.
They camped atop the bridges at odd hours, and for two days, they headed south-west, down through the Hawthorne Ranges. No matter how many times Henri did the trek, she still marvelled at it all. The fountains of strappy leaves shooting up from the crevasses in the bridges, the vertical stripes of lemon yellows and salmon pinks, the foliage with jagged, almost zig-zag edges splashed with splotches of mahogany, as though someone had dropped a palette of paint on them. She never tired of the sheer vastness of the forest, the strength of ancient trees, and the spider webs, their finely spun silk glinting in the dappled moonlight. Everything about this place calmed her very bones. The mountain air bit at exposed skin, and Henri noted that Athene had given Bleak her cloak. Henri said nothing. If Athene wanted to sympathise with the girl at the cost of her own comfort, so be it.
Henri tried to savour the quiet of the canopy. Sometimes, she needed to escape the training, the decisions and the thrum of all the different energies around her. Many a day left her feeling drained and heavy – the weight of all the kindred’s problems resting on her shoulders. The canopies provided a sanctuary and much-needed solitude.
But in the soft light of the third morning, Henri found herself listening to the new voice among them.
‘How did she know I have magic?’ Bleak asked Athene.
‘She can feel it. You saw her power, she manipulates energy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s hard to explain, but I guess how I’ve understood it is … It’s like everything living or otherwise has some kind of beat of energy, and Henri uses that to move things without touching them.’
Henri paused. She could only remember explaining how her ability worked to Athene once, many years ago, and yet she’d recited her description nearly word for word.
‘Do you have magic?’
‘No, only the descendants of the first Valia kindred do now.’
‘Is … Is she the only descendant?’
Henri could sense Athene hesitate before saying, ‘Yes.’
Henri quickened their pace, lengthening her strides. They were clearly moving too slowly if there was enough time for chitchat. It didn’t stop the questions.
‘My magic doesn’t work here,’ Bleak said.
‘It does.’
‘No, I’ve tried – I can’t get it to work.’
‘What’s your ability? Are you a seer?’
Bleak hesitated, and Henri realised how intently she’d been listening in, despite her pace.
‘It’s alright – no need to say if you don’t want to. These things take time.’
Henri could have walloped her first-in-command. The more they knew about Bleak the better. At the moment, they didn’t know much at all. Henri glanced back at them. The rest of her kindred were doing their best to look disinterested. Bleak ran her hands over the warm palma coat Athene had lent her, and locked eyes with Henri.
‘I can hear things,’ she said, the words sounding foreign, hesitant on her lips, as though she’d never said them aloud.
Henri’s skin crawled.
‘What do you mean? What things?’ Athene pressed.
The canopies were eerily quiet, and the group had stopped to listen to Bleak. She swallowed, her odd eyes darting around to each of the kindred, clearly wondering if she’d shown her cards too early.
‘People,’ she said. ‘I hear people’s thoughts.’
Athene, Tilly, Marvel and Petra all turned to look at Henri. They, more than anyone, knew how rare this was – how much of a game-changer someone like Bleak could be.
‘You’re a mind whisperer,’ Henri said.
Bleak nodded. ‘Can you do it, too?’
‘No.’
‘It doesn’t work on you, though – my ability. Is there some kind of Valian enchantment?’
Out of the corner of her eye, Henri saw Athene’s hands move to the concealed breast pocket of her leathers, reaching for the pouch of herbs Henri made each of her elite kindred carry.
‘That’s enough, Athene,’ Henri said.
Athene’s fingers froze where they were, and she nodded stiffly.
Henri turned back to Bleak. ‘And that’s enough questions for now. We’ll see if you’re worthy of answers when we’re back at the keep.’
For a time, Henri stayed well ahead of her guard and Bleak. She was growing tired of their chatter, and she needed to mull over the bigger concerns at hand. Like what the king would do once word reached him that she’d stolen a prisoner. The Valians and the Heathton royals already had a complicated and tense relationship. The moment she’d struck Commander Swinton, she’d risked what little peace remained between them.
Henri reached a fork in the path, one bridge veering off to the right and one that continued straight. She looked at the branches around her and raised her arms. A faint smile played on her lips as she twisted and contracted her hands in midair, the nearby branches bending to her will and bowing inwards, blocking off the path that led straight. Athene would know which way to go now. The branches would hold until the kindred passed, and then return to their natural place. Henri continued on, glimpsing over the side of the bridge. The height at which she now walked was dizzying. Heights had never bothered her, though …
‘Come on,’ Henri called down to Sahara from the treetops. They were on scout duty, but Sahara refused to climb higher than a few feet.
‘How are you supposed to scout anything from down there?’ Henri said.
‘You know I hate heights.’
‘We don’t even have to go that high!’ Henri
could hear Sahara scratching the tree trunk impatiently – no, not scratching, carving. She’d taken to doing that lately, despite Henri’s protests that it disrespected their home. Sahara continued to do it, the same word dragged into the tree’s bark. It was unusual, unheard of – Henri could never remember what it was …
‘You think that’s not high?!’ Sahara called.
‘Well, I can go higher.’
‘Don’t! What if you fall?’
‘I don’t fall.’
‘Come down from there, you’re making me nervous.’
Henri laughed and slid easily down to the forest floor. ‘Happy?’
With her back against the tree trunk, Sahara studied her – taking in Henri’s identical form, tall and gangly at that age. The only difference between them was that Henri wore her long, midnight-black hair in the traditional side braid, while Sahara had rebelled and cut hers off so that it hung loose, lining up with her chin.
‘You should be queen,’ Sahara said.
‘What?’
‘You’re what they want, and what the people need …’
‘Don’t be stupid, Sahara. You’re the heir.’
‘I can’t fight —’
‘Won’t – you won’t fight.’
‘It’s the same thing.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘It is. You just can’t see it yet. Plus, I have no power.’
‘You have plenty of power.’
Sahara shook her head. ‘We both know that’s not true.’
Henri hadn’t meant magic. Sahara was a force to be reckoned with all on her own.
It wasn’t until Sahara pushed off from the tree trunk that Henri spotted the familiar carving. There, in looped cursive, was one word: OREMERE.
Around them, the mountains were beginning to drop off into sheer cliff faces, and Henri could hear the powerful crashing of the falls nearby. She tucked her compass back into her leathers. She knew the way now. She turned to find Athene behind her, waiting. For as long as Henri could remember, Athene had been by her side. In training, in battle, in disputes with her mother, in friendship … Although Athene’s protective streak sometimes got in the way of her ability to take orders, Henri could think of no one stronger, no one more unflinching to have as her right-hand woman. The fierce redhead was watching her now. Her mouth pulled up at the corner in a small, content smile.
Heart of Mist Page 6
