Heart of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  ‘You’ve got a gambling problem.’

  ‘What?’ Swinton laughed. He was well aware of the rumours. He’d developed a reputation for being short on silver over the years.

  ‘You heard me. You’re addicted to the gambling rush.’

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘I know. I practically live with you and I’ve never seen you roll a dice.’

  ‘See?’

  ‘So where’s it go, then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your salary? You’ve got a thing for Madame Joelle Marie’s girls?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. That’s you.’

  ‘Once upon a time, perhaps, and I’m not the one scraping my last silvers together every other day.’

  Swinton’s brow raised. ‘You done?’

  ‘Some of the men reckon you’re hooked on wildflower.’

  ‘I’d never get anything done were that the case,’ Swinton said drily.

  ‘Try telling them that.’

  Swinton shrugged. ‘We’re out of ale,’ he said pointedly.

  ‘At once, Commander,’ Fi said, standing up with a mock bow, ‘at your service, Commander.’

  Swinton held in a laugh as his friend sauntered off to the bar. It was in stolen moments like these that Swinton felt a rare glimpse of contentment. He loved being on the road with Fi. He even liked having someone challenge him. He’d grown up with squires, sons of noblemen who’d all feared him to some extent. His father’s position was well-known, as was his to be next in line for the commander post. Those who didn’t fear him sought his favour. It made friendships increasingly difficult. Until Fi came along. Fi was something else – personable, well-liked, many things Swinton feared he himself wasn’t. And true to form, Fiore was at the bar, a small crowd gathered round him as he told some adventure tale, his hands waving expressively before him, the women surrounding him drinking in his tanned skin and Battalonian accent. Swinton drained the rest of his ale and relaxed back into the cushions of the booth. Years of drinking with Fi had taught him that once his attention had been stolen, there was no hope of gaining it back.

  Someone slipped into the empty seat beside him. It was the woman Fi had spotted earlier. Her green eyes were lined with shimmering cosmetics, her breasts near bursting from her corset.

  ‘I’m Georgette,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure you’re in the right place, Georgette?’

  ‘You’re Commander Swinton.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s Fiore Murphadias.’

  ‘You’re very observant.’

  She smiled and twisted to face him. She was striking, Swinton couldn’t deny it. The cosmetics brought out the golden hues of her irises, and her mouth …

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, making to leave.

  ‘Going so soon?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Her face flushed pink. ‘Apologies, Commander, I … I seem to have misread the situation.’

  ‘There’s no situation, and no need for apologies,’ he told her as she shuffled from her seat to let him pass.

  ‘Good evening, then, Commander.’

  ‘Good evening, Georgette.’

  He happened upon Fiore halfway up the stairs to the accommodations, pressing a young curvaceous beauty up against the wall. His friend’s hands were tangled in the woman’s hair, their breathing hitched as they kissed in a frenzy. Her fingers were at the laces of his jerkin. Swinton doubled back. He left the tavern and headed for the stables. His stallion, Xander, nuzzled his neck in greeting, as though he’d been expecting him.

  ‘Hey there, comrade,’ he said, stroking the beast’s forehead before slipping on his bridle. Xander knew where they were about to go. Swinton could tell by the way his ears flicked and the direction in which he stood. Swinton finished saddling him and mounted.

  ‘Ready for a quick visit home?’ he said, brushing the flat of his palm down the horse’s neck. Xander gave a soft snort and Swinton squeezed his sides. They galloped out of Grayside at a breakneck pace. Swinton had been waiting for the opportunity to get away all evening, and he didn’t know when he’d get one again. He leaned in close to Xander’s neck, urging the horse faster, relishing the cool night’s air whipping the stallion’s mane into his face. Together, they flew across the countryside, with the thundering beat of Xander’s hooves pounding the earth. Willowdale was less than an hour’s ride away. Swinton could ride there in his sleep, he’d done it so many times before. So could Xander. They kept to a steady gallop until they reached the outskirts of the village. He pulled gently on Xander’s reins, and the pair came to a smooth stop.

  Swinton’s chest tightened as he took in the flickering lanterns in the windows of the townhouses and inn. Xander must have sensed his hesitation, as always, and the horse started forward again. They took the main road through the heart of the town at a slow trot. The thatched roofs, the windowsill herb gardens and the school building were all achingly familiar. But it wasn’t until they passed the Willowdale Stables that his throat constricted. A lifetime ago, he’d spent much of his time there, with her. All royal squires spent a year training in Willowdale. Tannus, the royal weapons master, always said that the little rural town offered all four seasons in a day, and that the hard terrain was perfect for soldier life. That was the year he’d met her – Eliza. She had helped her father run the stables, where Swinton and some of the wealthier squires boarded their horses. Now, he took in the sturdy timber beams and locked gates, hearing the soft whinnies and neighs of the steeds within. He knew he would find no trace of her gentle nature and quiet passion left. Xander slowed and tossed his head in the direction of the stables.

  ‘I know, comrade, I know,’ Swinton said. He squeezed Xander’s sides with his heels again, and they took off, this time to the burial ground. It was a little woodland clearing, not far from the corral where Eliza used to train the horses. Swinton dismounted and left Xander to graze. Hands in pockets, he wandered slowly towards Eliza’s unmarked grave. She’d been buried beneath an ancient willow, her parents insisting that the tree was enough of a gravestone for their sweet girl. It had only been the three of them on that day, and Xander, who had only been a foal. Swinton and Eliza’s father had dug the grave and placed her body, carefully wrapped in linen, down inside. The worst part had been shovelling the dirt back on top of her, his heart breaking anew each time the clumps thudded against her. How could just over a year with someone shape a person’s entire future?

  Swinton sat beside the base of the willow’s trunk and lay a palm flat against the cool earth. Her bones lay beneath him. Grief clutched at his insides and he felt the pain bubble up within. He swallowed the lump in his throat. A long shadow cast along the bark of the tree. Xander stood solemnly beside him.

  ‘We miss you,’ he breathed, gripping a fistful of dirt and resting his head against the tree.

  The next morning, Swinton was up at dawn. He saddled Xander and Indigo, having sent Jasper upstairs to wake the captain. Fiore was worse for wear when he emerged from the tavern.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Fiore said, rubbing his temples and taking the reins from Swinton’s outstretched hand.

  ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘You didn’t need to. Your look of disdain said more than enough.’

  ‘There was no look.’

  ‘There’s always a look.’

  The men mounted their horses and started down the road.

  ‘Where’d you get to, anyway? I looked for you. Don’t tell me the lovely Georgette had her way with you after all?’ Fiore said, gnawing at a freshly baked roll.

  Swinton laughed. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Good lord, where’s Dimitri and what have you done with him?’

  ‘Enough, Fi. We’ve gotta get a move on, or we’ll lose all that time we gained over the past few days.’

  ‘Fine, fine. But I expect some level of detail over lunch.’

  ‘There’ll be no time for lunch.’

  ‘Dinner, th
en.’

  Swinton urged Xander into a canter. ‘Dinner, then,’ he called back, leaving Fiore in his dusty wake.

  The scenery of the East Farmlands swallowed them whole. Swinton loved it out here, the plummeting, fertile hills, the grazing cattle, the sheer open space with the villagers and farmers few and far between. Most of all, he loved the straight, orderly rows of corn plants. Their leaves were such a vibrant green, reflecting the golden glow of the afternoon sun, and contrasting with the rich, dark soil at their roots. The cool breeze whipped his face as they rode. The air out here was fresh, unlike the stale scent of the capital and the rotting fish smell of the docks at Port Morlock. They rode at a gallop. Swinton wanted to gain as much ground as he could before another sunset. He figured they were about a day’s ride from Valia River, and he wanted to get there before the following sundown.

  ‘You’re going to kill poor Indigo at this rate,’ Fi shouted from behind him. ‘Not every horse has had the same relentless training as your Xander.’

  Swinton waved him off. There would be time for Fi’s comments by the fire with a flask of wine, but for now, they needed to make haste. Swinton had chosen Indigo for Fiore himself, with Carlington’s help. He’d known they’d need a special horse to keep up, and Indigo had definitely been the best stallion for the job. They rode into the evening, well after the sun had dipped below the horizon, and it was only when Swinton felt Xander’s energy flagging beneath him that he called for them to stop.

  It was still warm enough in the season that they didn’t need a tent. They could build a small fire and sleep beneath the stars. Swinton left Fi to cool and water the horses, while he scoured the nearby ground for firewood. When the fire was crackling, and both men had kicked off their boots, they rested against their packs and chewed on dried meat and hard cheese. Swinton’s whole body was aching, and he longed for a hot bath to soothe his tired muscles. It would be a while yet before he could enjoy that luxury. He looked up to find Fiore watching him, concern wrinkling his brows.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You never told me what the king said about all the business in the Hawthornes.’

  ‘Nothing of note,’ said Swinton, ‘just get the girl, get Henrietta Valia.’

  ‘You weren’t reprimanded?’

  ‘Should I have been?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dimitri,’ Fi said, suddenly serious. ‘This whole situation makes me uneasy, like there’s a lot more to it we don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s not our job to understand.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. It’s our job to do as the king commands.’

  Fiore chewed thoughtfully. ‘You know what my father used to say to me?’

  ‘No doubt you’ll tell me.’

  ‘A good soldier does what he’s commanded. A great soldier understands why first.’

  ‘Typical Battalonian.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It’s a dreamer’s sentiment.’

  ‘What’s wrong with dreaming, old friend?’

  Swinton took a swig from the flask, the harsh wine burning his throat as he swallowed. He passed the flask to Fi, silently hoping his friend wouldn’t stay in his philosophical mood too long. His musings often led to heated arguments between the two men. Fiore took the flask and drank.

  ‘I see you’re in no mood for sparring today, Dimi?’

  ‘I’d much rather hear about how you ended up in such a sorry state this morning, and why you slowed us down so much today.’

  ‘Slowed us down? I was so far ahead you couldn’t see me, old friend.’

  ‘I must be going blind in my old age, then, Fi. It felt the other way round to me.’

  Swinton sharpened his battleaxes by the fire as Fiore drank and talked. The Battalonian’s voice was deep and melodic. There was something soothing about his tales, no matter how much debauchery they seemed to entail. Swinton listened as he ran the whetstone along each blade, testing the edge with the callused part of his thumb.

  ‘What was Georgette like, then, eh?’ said Fi, tossing Swinton the almost-empty wine flask.

  ‘Fine,’ he replied, shaking the flask at Fi, his brows raised.

  ‘Talking makes me thirsty,’ Fiore said with a grin.

  ‘Everything makes you thirsty.’

  ‘Life is thirsty work, old friend.’

  ‘And you wonder why I have no silver left for fancy lodgings?’

  Swinton finished the wine, and packed away his axes and the whetstone. He untied his bedroll from his pack and unravelled it.

  Fiore opened his mouth, no doubt to inquire after Georgette again, but Swinton cut him off.

  ‘Get some rest,’ he told his friend, ‘we ride hard tomorrow.’

  ‘Makes a change,’ Fi muttered from across the glowing embers.

  Swinton lay down, feeling his spine crack and the muscles in his back protest. He was weary all of a sudden. There was still much of this journey to go, and he had a feeling that the easy days were behind them.

  Chapter 17

  Dash heard the slap of leather before he felt the sharp burn of pain across the backs of his legs. He cried out and his body jerked, but Pa struck again, the belt breaking Dash’s already welt-covered skin.

  ‘How could you have been so stupid, Zachary?’ Pa yelled, finally shoving Dash off his lap. Dash sobbed, unable to sit or walk. Ten beltings. Ten beltings for sparring with the squires and going into the maze.

  ‘That’s enough, Emmett. Master Dash knows he did wrong.’ Ma was a reassuring blurry figure through his tears, but her soft hand on his shoulder only made him cry harder.

  ‘He’s got no idea, Dorothy. None. Do you know what could have happened to us?’

  ‘All the same, Emmett. It’s enough.’

  Pa threw the belt to the floor and stormed out, the front door rattling on its hinges.

  ‘Come now,’ Ma said, helping Dash onto his bed to lie on his front. ‘I already made a gypsyweed salve, wait here.’

  Dash cried into his pillow. He didn’t understand what he’d done wrong. He’d returned home from the maze with a handful of those rare red blooms and three silvers that he’d won fair and square from one of the squires. Ma bustled back into the room, a small wooden bowl clutched in her hands.

  ‘Honestly, love,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what got into you.’

  ‘Why?’ he sniffed. ‘Why is Pa so mad?’

  ‘Mad?’

  ‘I thought I … I thought the silver would make him happy.’

  ‘Oh, Dash.’ Ma sighed, applying the salve to the swelling welts. ‘Your pa wasn’t mad exactly. He was scared.’

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘Yes. There are a lot of things you don’t understand yet.’

  ‘Like what?’ Dash sucked in his breath through his teeth as the salve stung his skin, but then pulled the heat from the wounds.

  ‘Like how getting those silvers from the Wendley boy … Well, it’s insulting to a nobleman, Dash.’

  ‘But I won them! It was fair.’

  ‘I know, but those boys – you’ve embarrassed them in front of their friends, and, well, Pa works for their father, Lord Wendley.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, whose silver do you think that really is? Everything and everyone is connected, Dash. We each have our place in life, and yours is here with me and Pa, not with the brutish Wendley boys, nor is it in that maze.’

  ‘Ma, I saw —’

  ‘Do not tell anyone what you saw, Zachary Carlington. You shouldn’t have seen anything. You shouldn’t have gone in there at all.’

  ‘But, Ma, why —’

  ‘Always with the why, Dash. Why do I have to eat the green beans? Why can’t I have more roast potato? Why do I have to help Pa at the stables?’

  ‘Well, why?’

  ‘No, not this time, Dash. Or you’ll get another ten beltings from your pa. There are some things in life that have no “why”; they just are. And this is one of those things.’

  Dash sniffed agai
n, his pillow wet against his hot cheek. He didn’t understand. Beside him, Ma sighed and tweaked Bryson, Dash’s favourite stuffed bear, on the nose.

  ‘There are to be no more tears, Master Dash,’ she said, ‘and no more arguing with your pa. I won’t hear any more of it.’

  Dash nodded slowly. Mama took Bryson from his hands and examined him carefully, running her hands over the embroidered royal sigil on his front.

  ‘I’d love to wash this filthy old thing, but I fear he’ll fall apart.’

  ‘I don’t want you to wash him.’

  ‘He’s terribly old and dirty,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do. He belonged to your father, you know.’

  ‘I know that,’ Dash said, wiping his snotty nose on his sleeve.

  Mama grimaced. ‘Use a handkerchief, Dash, for the love of Connos. I’m the one who has to scrub those garments.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

  Mama placed Bryson the bear next to him. ‘I suppose we can start a new story before lights out, if you like.’

  Bleary-eyed and clutching threadbare Bryson to his chest, Dash nodded. With the candles flickering, Ma stroked his hair and began an epic tale of the battle of the gods.

  ‘Hundreds of years ago, all four continents had been one big mass of land. There had been many, many animals – big palma, famous for their incredibly warm fur, giant serpents, known for throwing entire ships off course and into the rocks, and teerah panthers, legendary cats bigger than horses that stalked the lands.’

  Dash loved hearing about the mythical creatures, about how horses and teerah ran together in battle.

  ‘Back then,’ Ma said, ‘the gods and goddesses lived alongside man in the heart of the realm. Rheyah, Enovius, Kuan, Yacinda, Connos, Liir, Vinyala, Lamaka. There was no conflict, no trouble. It was a peaceful time for all.’

  ‘Until?’

  ‘How do you know there’s an “until”?’

  ‘There’s always an “until”.’

  Ma smiled. ‘Until one of our rulers, Doonan, an ancestor of King Arden, fell in love with Rheyah’s youngest daughter, Liir.’

  ‘Rheyah was the king of all the gods?’