Bleak offered her hand. ‘Same goes for you. No point in the bastard having both of us.’
‘Every woman for herself,’ said Henri, taking Bleak’s hand and shaking it firmly.
Behind them, the grass rustled as Fiore came to find them.
‘Tide’s going in,’ he said. ‘Commander says we should make a move.’
Dusk was falling yet again as they crossed the river on horseback. Henri took comfort in the sure-footedness of her mount as the current dragged around them. When they reached the other side of the river, the lights of the capital glimmered on the horizon. They’d be there in time for supper.
Chapter 31
Swinton could see the castle in the near distance, a view he’d had too often of late. In the warm dusk light, it loomed over the capital, like the king himself in his throne; the thick, stone-walled gatehouse, and beyond it, a fortress of sharp spires and turrets, keenly positioned arrow holes and sweeping marble steps. Swinton squeezed Xander’s sides with his heels. Henri, Bleak and Fi followed closely behind. He could sense the Valian’s wariness as they rode through the city of Heathton towards the castle, and once again guilt lapped at him like a foamy wave upon sand. He had no choice, though, or if he did, he’d made it long ago.
Townhouses lined the cobblestoned streets, and taverns on every corner were brimming with drunk, merry people who spilled out onto the sidewalks. He led the small company into the heart of the city, and commoners began to peer from their windows and gawk from their stoops. There was no hiding who rode beside him – the Queen of Valia – he could already hear the whispers. Henri sat straight-backed in her saddle, her tight braid, kohl-lined eyes and forest-green leathers screaming outsider. But the people were in awe of her, he realised. This foreign matriarch had earned their respect and fear through the legends told about her and her kind. He frowned. While Henri’s presence was undeniable, he glanced at Bleak and saw that she had somehow faded into obscurity, had mastered the art of anonymity. The way she rode looked like she wasn’t even part of the group, but merely had the unfortunate coincidence of riding behind them.
As they rode, Swinton tried to ignore the flyers, but the thick parchments with their sunny messages were nailed to nearly every shopfront, every fence post.
Register today for generous rewards, and the opportunity to serve your crown. Preserve your magical heritage.
See Tannus Armenta at the castle gates for assistance.
Swinton’s skin crawled. Magical heritage … No one in his family was an Ashai, not to his knowledge, and he’d never told anyone of his abilities. He’d come close to confessing to his father, once, in the throes of fresh grief after Eliza had died. But he’d stopped himself. His father was a knight; his loyalty was to the crown. Having an Ashai for a son would force him to choose, and it would have ruined him, one way or another. There was no one Swinton could ask about how abilities passed down through generations. Were there exceptions? Was an Ashai ever born of non-magic-wielding lineage? The only person he could ask now rode beside him, every glance in his direction filled with loathing.
The city centre was bustling. Merchants stocked their stalls and lit their lanterns – the moon market would open soon. They passed butchers, fabric shops and Swinton’s favourite bakery. He watched as Henri and Bleak took in the sights: Henri assessing the dangers, Bleak fixated on a tavern she’d spotted. People moved from their path immediately; Swinton himself was easily recognisable with his dark features, battleaxes and Captain Murphadias at his side.
They came to an abrupt stop. Irritated, Swinton craned his neck to see what the hold-up was. A wagon was blocking their turnoff. A prison wagon, by the looks of the rusty iron bars and the filthy hands clutching them from within. He squinted and spotted a red ‘M’ painted on the wagon’s side. He knew where it was going and who was within it. One glance at Bleak’s pale face told him that she knew as well, or at least, she did now. She and Henri exchanged worried glances.
‘Move,’ Swinton said sharply to the guards blocking the street.
Alarmed, they obliged, and the wagon of doomed souls disappeared down the cobblestoned street.
When Swinton and the others reached the foot of the cliffs, they cantered up the narrow road to the castle. The sooner they saw the king, the better.
At the top of the hillside and the cliffs, where the castle overlooked the East Sea, the gates swung open, revealing the decadent courtyard within. The entrance steps were awash with sashes and blooms of claret and blue, and Swinton suddenly remembered the Battalonian envoys who’d passed them just days ago. He turned to Fiore with a frown, but his friend merely shrugged. The company dismounted before the steps, the guards nodding to Swinton and Fiore. Carlington, the stable master, greeted them.
‘Good to have you back, Commander,’ he said, taking Xander’s reins.
‘Good to be back, Carlington.’
Carlington turned towards the stables and whistled. Two young apprentices came running and proceeded to take their horses to be cared for.
‘What’s all this about?’ he asked Carlington, gesturing towards the banners.
‘You haven’t heard, then? Princess Olena is betrothed to Prince Nazuri of Battalon. She’s due to depart for Belbarrow in a few days.’
Swinton hid his surprise and ignored the incredulous look from Fi. He made for the stairs.
‘Rest well, Commander,’ Carlington called.
‘And you.’
At the top of the stairs, a servant Swinton didn’t recognise greeted them. He gave a respectful nod to Swinton and Fi.
‘We are grateful for your safe return, Commander, Captain.’ He turned to Henri and Bleak. ‘Welcome to Heathton. His majesty has had rooms prepared for your stay. This way, please.’
Fiore gripped the servant’s forearm. ‘We didn’t catch your name.’
The servant was taken aback by the touch, and Swinton silently chastised Fi for not mastering his Battalonian upbringing better.
‘Apologies, Captain. My name is Markuss.’
‘When will we see the king?’ Swinton interrupted.
‘His Majesty has requested private audiences with each of you in the morning. A supper will be served for you and our … guests in an hour, in the great hall.’
‘Right,’ Swinton said, turning to Henri. ‘I’ll see you there. Try to scrub up, will you?’
Henri glared at him and he shrugged. He didn’t wait a moment longer before stalking off to his chambers, leaving Fiore and the others behind.
When he entered his rooms, he sighed with relief at the sight of his bed. He hadn’t slept here for more than a night at a time in the last two months. It was good to be home.
The redheaded servant girl, Therese, brought in pails of hot water for his bath. He recalled the last time he’d seen her and how she’d flushed at the sight of him shirtless. This time, he left his clothes on as she poured the steaming water into the tub, and he turned away as her dress fell forward at the front and revealed the soft pale skin beneath. He could feel himself stirring and willed her to leave before he said or did something stupid.
She turned to him, biting her bottom lip. ‘Will that be all, Commander?’
He couldn’t help taking in her figure; his eyes lingered on her cinched waist and the curve of her hips, and those full breasts …
He cleared his throat. ‘Yes. That’s all. Thank you.’
She left, and he loosed the breath he’d been holding.
Gods, it had been a long time since he’d felt a woman beneath him. He ached for that skin-on-skin heat, that momentary abandon of all that mattered. But every time he’d allowed himself that release, emptiness had rocked him to the core.
He struggled out of his filthy riding gear and let himself sink into the hot water, naked but for the coin around his neck, and sighed. What a nightmare the past few weeks had been. He’d have preferred the heat and exhaustion of fighting in Battalon to dealing with the antics of Bleak and Henri. They seemed intent on making h
is life difficult, and he knew that Henri wasn’t done punishing him for the incident at the Hodd’s Nott. He didn’t regret it, despite his wounds. He’d done his duty, he’d remained loyal to the king, and his secrets were safe, for now.
He soaped up the washcloth and scrubbed the dirt from his skin, the filth clouding the water almost instantly. He went under, savouring the feeling of the heat wrapping around him and the world becoming muted. When his lungs strained for air, he reluctantly resurfaced, wiping the water from his eyes. He felt bone-weary, and yet he still had to muster the energy to face the king. With a final sigh, he hauled himself from the tub, the water sloshing from his body.
A towel slung low around his waist, he sank into the armchair in front of the crackling fire. Water dripped in steady, thick drops from his dark hair, and the coin of Yacinda swayed before his chest like a pendulum. He rubbed his aching temples before pulling his satchel bag onto his lap. He hadn’t consulted the map since before Hoddinott – there’d been too many prying eyes around – but the king was bound to ask about it. He rifled through his bag, pulling out ink, a quill, scraps of parchment, a tin of pain-relief salve, a shaving blade … He got down on his knees and turned the satchel upside down on the floor. Panic gripped him. He frantically sifted through the fallen contents without success. Dread hit him like one of Henri’s blows, sharp and precise. The map was gone.
In the great hall, a dinner banquet had been laid out. The long tables were set with the usual glamorous gold plates, cutlery and goblets, and platters of roasted meats and vegetables ran down the centre. It smelled incredible, but Swinton’s appetite was gone. Bleak – or worse, Henri – had the map, he was sure of it.
Fiore, Henri and Bleak were already seated at the end of the table closest to the dais. Henri had washed the grime from her face, but otherwise remained the same – her attire, her hair and her weapons, all a deliberate slight to the court. Bleak, however, looked like a stranger. She wore a pale-blue gown that pushed up her small bust and cinched in her already tiny waist. The servants had no doubt forced her into it, as well as pinned her wet hair to the top of her head, as was the current fashion. They wouldn’t have dared attend Henri. Swinton expected Bleak to look uncomfortable, but with a full goblet of wine in her hand, the Angovian orphan’s face was set in a bored, blank expression. Swinton took his place beside Fi and shot a look at the two women opposite, who were both lifting their drinks to their lips. He itched to confront them about the map, but now was not the time, and here was certainly not the place. There were eyes and ears all over the castle.
Despite his lack of appetite, Swinton cut into his food and sipped his ale, all too aware of the throbbing silence around them. The only sounds were the scraping of knives and forks, which made the quiet all the more prominent. The calm before the storm.
He noted Bleak pouring herself another goblet of wine. She was clearly treating this as her last supper. Henri, on the other hand, had barely touched her food, and was sitting with her shoulders back, eyes following every small burst of movement in the hall. A servant girl poured him another mug of cold ale. Bleak’s eyes moved to his drink.
She raised her brows at him as if to say, What? and proceeded to take a long gulp from her cup.
Was it you? he wondered, still silently fuming over the loss of his map. His eyes cut to Henri. He didn’t know whose hands it would be worse off in. He rubbed the scar on his chin and drank deeply from his mug.
Swinton made sure no one followed him after supper as he slipped away from the others and out of the castle towards the maze. He doubled back a few times, just to be sure. Only the silent guards and the king knew of this place. He didn’t light a torch; a torch might attract attention. Instead, he stepped into the maze and into the darkness, knowing he could find his way without sight, for he only needed to follow the gentle tug of magic.
His skin crawled as he went further into the maze, the towering hedges closing in above him, blocking out the starlight. Although he couldn’t see them, he heard the faint rustle of the red blooms blossoming at his feet. After all this time, he still didn’t know how these flowers had come to be, or what magic fuelled them, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Swinton’s grip clenched around the pommel of his sword, his palms clammy. His weapons could do nothing for him now, but they grounded him all the same.
After a few more minutes, the narrow path he was on opened up and a carpet of red blooms lay before him. It didn’t matter how many times he’d seen it before, the sight of the flowers rattled him in their aching beauty and terrifying sinisterness. At the heart of the garden was the stone water fountain. Swinton walked across the garden, readying himself, and placed a hand on the fountain’s edge. There was a sound like a whisper before the flowers shrank back, receding until they revealed an expertly carved statue of an elegant woman, surrounded by layers of flowing scarves. Swinton had never asked the king who she was, but it was clear she wasn’t the queen, nor was she a goddess of this realm.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his heartbeat, but he couldn’t stop the short gasps for air that escaped him. His hand found the coin of Yacinda beneath his shirt and he clutched it to his chest. What he needed to restore it was here, in abundance.
He could do this; he had to do this.
The air was suddenly colder around him as he stepped up onto the plinth and pressed a trembling hand to the statue’s breast, over her stone heart. There was a loud groan as the entire statue began twisting at its base and sinking, taking Swinton deep below the earth.
What greeted Swinton beneath the maze was what his nightmares were made of. The stench hit him first – the overpowering, hot reek of human excrement and vomit. Swinton gagged and tried to breathe through the material covering the crook of his elbow. From the platform on which the statue had stopped, he could see the holding pen, the prison that left every other horror he’d witnessed behind in the dust. Crammed together were a hundred or more men, women and children from all over the continent, naked and filthy, their death sentences written all over their faces. Ashai. Each and every one of them a wielder of magic, an abomination, a means to a greater purpose. Like him. Hearing the statue crunch into place and seeing him above them, many cried out, in desperation, in anger, some trying to project their magic onto him. But the walls, the iron bars and the floors of the bunker had been coated long ago in powerful Valian herbs. Here, an Ashai’s abilities were nullified. Swinton stood straight and made himself hear their screams, allowed his fear, his panic to rise up in him along with the bile now in his throat.
Someone cleared his throat beside him, and he had to stop himself from jumping.
Of course, he remembered, the silent guard.
‘Soldier.’ he forced his voice to neutrality, nodding to the man dressed head-to-toe in grey, the lower half of his face covered with a mask. ‘You have what I requested?’
The guard nodded and took a dark vial from the folds of his uniform. It was a mixture, infused with the very essence of the same herbs that soaked the walls around them. It would recondition his coin, ensuring his protection once more. He tucked the vial into his pocket.
‘And the report?’ He held out his hand for the piece of parchment that was required with every shipment of Ashai.
The guard went to a small side stand and offered an envelope.
Swinton snatched it from him, so the guard wouldn’t see his trembling hand.
One hundred and three. One hundred and three Ashai souls to be sent to Moredon Tower. It had been months since Swinton had come to collect the report himself, and he knew these were believed to be the last of the Ashai in Ellest. All rounded up like animals ready for slaughter. How long had they been rotting down here? How much longer would they suffer here before they were carted off, in groups of ten, to Moredon Tower?
Swinton could never return to the confines of his chambers immediately after a visit to the maze prison. Instead, he visited Xander in the stables and walked the long halls of the castle,
checking up on the patrols and royal guards. It did nothing to quieten the raging fear that lived below the surface of his skin, but he did it anyway. As he turned a corner, he heard shouts coming from the south courtyard. He was instantly at the window, in time to see the guards tackle a fair-haired man to the ground. The man groaned as they pushed his face into the gravel and delivered hard, swift kicks to his abdomen. The Angovian fisherman. Bren.
Swinton's stomach plummeted. What’s he doing here?
Swinton took off at a run, down to the courtyard where the guards were now hauling Bren to his feet. His lip was bleeding and his sun-streaked hair had escaped its tie, now hanging loose into his bright eyes. In his hand, he clutched a bloodied piece of parchment – the king’s flyer.
‘I’m an Ashai,’ he was panting, ‘stop – I’m an Ashai, I swear. I saw the —’
Swinton approached, stomach churning. No, no, no … He knew for a fact that the young Angovian was no Ashai.
Bren spotted Swinton.
‘He’ll tell you,’ he said, imploring Swinton, ‘he knows me!’
The guards looked up and saw their commander. They stood to attention.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Swinton demanded, steeling himself, looking to the highest-ranking guard, Stefan.
‘Commander, we caught him trying to sneak into the grounds. He says he’s an Ashai. We have to take him in, Commander.’
The boy was daft. If only he had waited. The situation was too precarious. Now he was here. And Swinton couldn’t help him.
‘Commander? He says you know him.’
Swinton wanted to knock some sense into the Angovian. What a fool he was. Swinton found himself nodding.
‘He was in Angove. Do you not recognise him yourself, Stefan?’
Stefan studied Bren and nodded slowly. ‘I think so, sir. He was with the girl, wasn’t he? He was her friend.’
Heart of Mist Page 29
