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See Tannus Armenta at the castle gates for assistance.
It was the same as the one she’d confronted Swinton with back in her apartments in Valia. She’d seen many of these on their way into the capital as well. Her informant had been right. Arden was trying to round up every magic wielder in Ellest. Why? While Arden himself had never possessed any magical abilities, he’d always had a keen interest in those who did. Now, that interest had apparently morphed into an obsession. Did he merely like surrounding power with more power? Was he eliminating supposed threats? Henri had to know. If she managed to get back to Valia, she’d need all the information she could get.
‘Can I interest you in something, lady?’ said a smooth voice beside her.
Henri didn’t turn towards whoever it was; she’d known they were there.
‘We’ve got something for everyone down in our little venue,’ the man at her shoulder said.
‘I’ve heard.’
The man stepped in front of her. Beneath the shadow of his hood, Henri could make out a strong jaw, and almond eyes with a heavy set of dark lashes. He was younger than she’d expected, and better-looking for a common street urchin.
He pulled the poster from the nail and held it out to her. ‘I’m good at knowing what people like.’
‘Is that so?’
‘You’d like to know more about this,’ he said, running his soot-stained fingers over the lettering.
‘Your price?’ Henri said.
He peered into her hood and ran his gaze brazenly down her cloaked body.
‘The last person who looked at me like that died,’ she said.
‘I meant no offence, lady.’ He smiled.
‘Your information?’ Henri crossed her arms over her chest and waited.
‘Your offer of payment?’
‘Your life, because I’m feeling generous.’
The man made to take a step back, but Henri had a katar to his ribs before his foot could touch the ground. She pressed him up against the stone wall of a nearby tavern and stared into his face. There was light in his eyes; he wasn’t afraid.
‘Who are you?’ Henri demanded, applying pressure.
The corners of the man’s mouth tugged, and he tried to manoeuvre away from her expertly placed blade. She pressed harder, and his breath whistled through his teeth.
‘Who are you?’ she asked again.
‘They call me the Tailor of Heathton.’
Henri glanced down at his ragged attire. ‘How have you earned a title like that with such poor presentation of your skills?’
A grin broke out on the man’s face. ‘As you can see, I know nought of fashion.’
‘What do you tailor, then?’ she ground out. She didn’t have time for this.
‘Stories. Truth. Gossip,’ he said. ‘I cut, sew and alter them, for a price.’
‘You’re a spy.’
‘Of sorts.’
‘Who do you spy for?’
‘The highest bidder.’
Henri rolled her eyes. She knew she’d find no men of morals here. For a moment, she envied Bleak’s talents. The Angovian could sift through the lies, and in Heathton, there was no shortage of lies. Henri took a step back from the Tailor and sheathed her katar. Spilling blood in the streets tonight would do her no favours, and this fool wasn’t worth the hassle. She straightened her hood and turned to leave.
‘A friend of mine works at Port Morlock,’ he called after her. ‘The Ashai folk, the ones who come forward, they get loaded onto ships.’
Henri paused, only steps away.
‘To where?’ she asked without turning.
‘The destination isn’t for my friend to know.’
Henri made to leave again.
‘But,’ the Tailor continued, ‘one would guess by the size of the vessel, and the supplies they’re rationed … They only go as far as Moredon Tower.’
‘They couldn’t fit more than a dozen at Moredon. It’s just a lighthouse.’
‘Is it?’
Henri lunged for him, but he was quicker than he looked. He flipped himself up onto the rooftop of the tavern. He looked down at her, grinning wickedly. One of his teeth was gold, she noticed.
‘One more thing,’ he said.
Henri waited.
‘Valter and Adalrik Wendley. You’ll need to remember those names.’
‘What? Why —’
But the Tailor had already disappeared amidst the thatched roofs, leaving Henri to fume in the dark, alone.
Early the next morning, Henri dressed in her usual leathers, braided her hair and strapped her katars to her sides for her meeting with the king. She was Queen of Valia; like hell she’d dress as anything else when she met him. When she slipped past the guards stationed outside her rooms, she saw that the candles along the stone walls were still lit, their wax dripping and drying in thick clumps down the heavy bricks. Henri took her time. She wasn’t due to see the king for another two hours, and this could well be the only opportunity she had to peek inside the old library. She’d made a note of it last night but knew she’d need the daylight; the heavy locks told her it was a forbidden place. Who knew what she would find there?
An elaborate carving of open books covered the doors. Henri traced the design with her fingers. It was easily the most beautiful thing she’d seen in this wretched castle so far. She suddenly felt energy pulse beneath her palm and jumped back. The sensation had vanished as quickly as it had occurred. She examined her hand. It hadn’t been her energy. Usually, energy felt like a natural extension of whatever it was bound to, but in this case, there was something foreign about the pulse she’d felt. It didn’t belong here.
Henri took her time examining the carving. It was a vast web of flourishing embellishments, wrapping themselves around the pages of the books. She touched the timber again. It was old, and its maker had taken great care to sand down the imperfections. Valian oak, she realised with a start. She pressed both hands flat against the doors and waited, but the energy from before didn’t so much as flicker.
‘You!’ called a flustered guard from the end of the hallway. He jogged towards her, cheeks pink. ‘We’ve been looking for you. You’re due to meet with the king.’
‘I’m not due to meet him for another hour.’
‘The king has decided to push the meeting forward.’
‘Of course he has,’ muttered Henri. She should have known Arden would try to catch her unprepared. She gave the library doors a look of regret. She hated leaving something so beautiful, so inherently Valian, here to be forgotten amidst the rot of the castle. The guard motioned for her to follow, and he led her back down the passageways and staircases.
The king was waiting. A fur-lined violet cloak pooled at his boots, and his hand rested on the jewelled hilt of the dagger strapped to his waist. He was surrounded by a troop of heavily armed guards. There was no sign of the commander or the captain. Henri hadn’t expected there to be. She dipped her head slightly when she reached the foot of the stairs.
‘Your Majesty,’ she greeted him stiffly.
King Arden looked amused. He picked an imaginary piece of dust from his turquoise tunic.
‘Henrietta,’ he said, eyeing her katars. ‘How pleasant to see you after all this time.’ He tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. ‘I have something to show you this morning.’
She bit down on the questions and demands that threatened to bubble out of her. Questions would only give him more power. She fell into step beside him, realising that now he wasn’t lording over her from the dais, they were the same height. He adjusted his gait ever so slightly, which told Henri that he’d just had an identical realisation.
She knew it was rumoured that Arden had once been a swordsman of epic reputation, though he wore no real weapon now. Such claims didn’t faze Henri. She could take him in a fair fight, easily. The probl
em was, fairness was rarely a factor when it came to King Arden.
They walked down hallway after hallway, a complete guard in tow. Henri suspected they were taking such a route to disorientate her. She was ashamed to admit it had worked. Ordinarily, she had a keen sense of direction. It had been Sahara who always found herself lost amidst the living bridges. Henri would be charged with tracking her sister and bringing her back to the keep. But now, she had no idea where she was. The stone walls and torchlit passages all looked the same to Henri – cold and sapped of life. They were no longer in the main section of the castle; that much she knew from the lack of attendants and servants, and the too-quiet corridors. Wherever the king was taking her, it was off the map, so to speak.
The king’s furs flapped about his ankles as he led the company down a winding set of stone stairs. The air became cool around her, adding to the prickling feeling already plaguing her skin. That same pulse of foreign energy throbbed around Henri again, and she fought to hide her shock. Her own magic flickered in her palms, as though the unknown energy called out to it, a siren trying to lure her to drown below the surface.
A door at the bottom of the stairs swung open and revealed the royal wine cellars. Huge barrels of ale from all four kingdoms were stacked high against one of the walls. Floor to ceiling with wine racks, dusty bottles filled every other space. Henri could only imagine how Bleak would feel seeing all of this.
‘The finest meads and wines from all over the realm,’ the king said, turning to her. ‘Actually,’ he moved to one of the far corners, his guards scrambling to cover him, ‘this is my collection from Valia.’
Henri took a step forward and indeed recognised their seals and stamps on the barrels. How had the king acquired so much of their liquor?
‘The lovely Allehra sends me numerous barrels and bottles every month,’ he said.
Henri bit down her outrage.
The king turned to his guard. ‘You’re dismissed,’ he said, ‘except for Tannus.’
The guards bowed and proceeded to march back up the cellar stairs, leaving only one man by the king’s side. He didn’t look like a guard. He was a willowy man, with his receding hair shaved close to his head. Unlike the guards who’d shifted nervously in her presence, this man’s stance was sturdy, confident, as though he’d love nothing more than to challenge her. Even beneath the warmth of her leathers, Henri’s skin rose into goosebumps and her pulse quickened.
‘This is Tannus, our royal weapons master,’ the king said, flinging a careless hand in the man’s direction. ‘Tannus, if you could make sure Henrietta and I aren’t disturbed.’
‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ said Tannus, bowing low.
From his bow alone, Henri could tell he was trained in martial arts. His long body was supple, flexible and completely in control.
Interesting, she thought, he’d definitely last longer than the king.
‘This way, if you will,’ the king said, leading her around another stack of barrels to face another wall of wine.
Her heart was pounding. The king lifted the hem of his tunic and reached for a large ring of keys. He removed a bottle from the crowded shelf, revealing a keyhole in the wall behind. After selecting a key and turning it in the lock, there was a click. The whole wine rack swung back with a loud groan, revealing a room behind it, double the size.
Henri exhaled shakily, realising she’d been holding her breath. There was nothing to do but to follow the king into the room. It was huge, lined with rows and rows of shelves. On the shelves were jars, hundreds of them. All different shapes and sizes.
The king reached up and took one, holding it out for Henri to see. She squinted, trying to see past the small, swirling cloud of fog inside it.
‘Do you know what this is?’ The king waited.
It wasn’t fog, she realised. The king watched the horror settle on her face.
‘I was fortunate enough to have an Ashai in my service, a long time ago now. We discovered many things together,’ he said. ‘As it happens, there are a number of Ashai folk who are immune to whatever toxins live within the mist. In fact, the mist has a rather peculiar effect on them. You see, it marks them. Patterns appear across their whole bodies, invisible to the naked eye, except on a full moon.’
Henri almost snorted. ‘Here I was thinking the witching hour was just for children who stayed up past their bedtime.’
‘Come now, Henri. We both know that’s not true. My friend and I, and a few prisoners, we experimented with the mist. Studied who it killed, how it spread. Some Ashai are immune; ordinary people are not. Overexposure to the mist kills them. The longest a non-Ashai survived it was eight minutes.’
Henri looked up at the hundreds of jars that stretched to the ceiling. Why was he telling her all of this? And what was he doing harbouring a weapon that could wipe out his own kind? It made no sense.
‘What are they for?’ she asked.
‘I have someone, in a high place, who likes things done a certain way.’
‘You’re king. You’re the one in the high place.’ Henri edged herself closer to one of the shelves. If what he said was true …
‘True, but don’t be so narrow-minded,’ the king tutted. ‘A dear friend of mine has an interest in the Ashai folk; therefore I have an interest in them. So we use the mist to mark them, among other things, and send them on their way.’
‘Send them where?’
‘You already know the answer.’
‘Moredon Tower.’
The king nodded, smiling up at his collection.
‘Where’s your friend?’ said Henri, shifting her weight and inching a little further towards the shelf.
‘Oremere,’ the king replied, resting his hand on the hilt of his dagger.
Henri’s knees buckled.
‘Oremere? Your friend’s name is Oremere?’ she managed.
The king laughed. ‘Amazing how ignorant you are. Oremere is not a who, but a where.’
‘What?’
‘Shocking, isn’t it,’ he said with a smirk. ‘It lies beyond the mist, south of Havennesse and Qatrola, actually – I’m told it was once not so far from Valia. Can you imagine? All this time, it’s been so close.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘But you do. You’ve heard that name before, haven’t you?’
Henri swallowed. ‘Sahara … Sahara knew something.’
‘Perhaps that’s what drove her to madness. Or was it – oh, that’s right. You drove her to madness, you and your talent, and her with her … nothing.’
Henri stood still, her mind racing. She had to do something. She had to take the risk.
‘I remember her funeral well,’ the king continued. ‘Poor Sahara Valia. She really was nothing compared to you – and everyone knew it. Allehra was a fool not to banish her to the outskirts along with the rest of the weak. Do you remember seeing me there? At the memorial? I spoke with your mother that night. We hadn’t come to honour your sister – there’s no honour in suicide. I summoned your mother and her best kindred to battle. We were having problems with Battalon – problems I wanted ended quickly. But she refused. As I suspected she would, really. You Valians have always been a thorn in my side.’
The king began to pace up and down the aisle of jars. ‘It was a pretty little part of the forest, wasn’t it? That part where you burned the pyre without the body? That part that held all your protective little herbs?’
The Forest of Ghosts.
‘Well, myself and Commander Swinton had brought a couple of these,’ he plucked a jar from the shelf and jiggled it at her, ‘and we released the mist. I didn’t know it at the time, but it wasn’t the regular mist – it was fast-moving. It had engulfed a number of trees before we even had time to run. My dear commander saved my life that day. I probably should have knighted him for it, but it would have meant exposing what we’d done.’
‘Swinton.’
‘Yes, Swinton. He was young and eager. And I was his king. He didn’t ask qu
estions. He just did. But Allehra, she had followed us and brought fire down on the forest. She said she would rather see it burn than be taken over by dark magic.’
The king laughed. ‘As if the mist or magic has its own agenda. I would have thought the great Allehra Valia knew better than that. So you see, it was her who created the Forest of Ghosts as you call it. Though from the look on your face, she never told you.’
‘And why are you telling me?’ Henri said, not daring to move a muscle.
‘My high-placed friend has taken an interest in you.’
‘Who is this friend?’
‘She is everything.’
Henri swiped a jar from beside her and smashed it near the king. Shards of glass splintered across the stone floor, and the mist within rushed free, roiling at the king’s feet, inching up his legs. Henri held her breath. Was she going to die? Was he? Arden was no Ashai. Tannus burst into the room and grabbed Henri in a death grip, pinning her arms behind her. She didn’t fight. She could only watch as the King of Ellest looked up from the mist curling at his boots. He laughed.
‘It kills ordinary people, Henrietta. I never said I was ordinary.’
The king crouched, putting his face level with the escaped mist. He pursed his lips and sucked the mist in. Power surged around Henri. Power that wasn’t her own and wasn’t the king’s, although he somehow seemed to be channelling it. The king blew the mist from his mouth into an empty jar and screwed the lid shut. Henri stared at him. Who was this man? He wasn’t the bland, simple man she’d met all those years ago. Something, or someone, had changed him.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘I want you to meet her. As she wants to meet you. She has been waiting a long time.’
‘She can’t extend an invitation herself?’
‘She can do whatever she pleases; she is the true queen.’
‘As opposed to the false queen, your wife?’
‘Vera is the Queen of Ellest, perhaps. But Ines … Ines is the true queen of the entire realm, the monarchy as it was, centuries ago.’
Heart of Mist Page 32
