He was delusional. There had never been a single monarchy. But Henri’s eyes once again fell upon the jars of mist, the name of the supposed fifth continent still swirling in her mind. How much more was she ignorant of? Behind her, Tannus readjusted his grip. It was firm, but she could break it. To what end, though?
‘Where am I to meet your queen?’ she said.
The king smiled at this. He clearly liked the idea of this woman as his, though Henri could tell from the brazen manipulation playing behind the scenes that this woman would never be owned, would never be anything but her own master and the conqueror of others.
‘You’ll be our guest for a while longer. When Ines is ready, she will announce herself.’
Ines. Those four letters carried such immense weight.
‘And then?’
‘Then? Then the game begins.’
‘And if I don’t want to play?’
‘Then Valia will. And Allehra will burn the whole forest to the ground before the mist takes hold. She spoils the fun like that. Tannus,’ the king turned his gaze to the man who held Henri firm, ‘take Henrietta back to her chambers for the time being. She doesn’t look well.’
Henri didn’t fight the grip around her arms. She let the man escort her back to her rooms, dragging her feet, a wave of shock crashing down on her. It was too much. It was all too much.
She was shoved into her empty quarters, the bed unmade as she’d left it, the fire down to its last glowing embers. When the door clicked closed behind her, and the quiet crunch of a key turned in the lock, Henrietta Valia sank to the floor and wept.
Chapter 35
Henri woke, body aching, on the plush rug in her quarters. She must have passed out from the exhaustion or despair, perhaps both. Glancing up at the window with a quiet moan, she could see that outside was grey, sheets of rain hammering down loudly. She had no idea what the time was, or how long she’d been asleep. Her magic must have reacted to her panic, and was now surging through her, unchecked, amplifying her devastation. She had doomed Valia. Doomed her mother and all of their people. If only Sahara could see her now.
Henri exhaled. She had to do something. She had allowed herself a brief moment of weakness. That was over now. She wouldn’t wait in this place like an animal ready for slaughter. To act was to risk the horrors Arden and Ines had planned, but to do nothing … That was not the Valian Way.
A key clicked in the lock, and Henri sprang from the floor, unsheathing her katars, ready to pounce. But it was only a redheaded servant girl with a tray of food. Arden liked playing the hospitable captor it seemed, at least with her. She shuddered to think of where Bleak was. The servant’s eyes widened at the sight of Henri, and she placed the tray down with a clatter. The girl’s fiery hair reminded her of Athene, and Henri felt a pang of yearning, of regret. She moved towards the girl to reassure her, but the servant ran from the room, the lock clicking into place behind her.
Henri approached the tray; mashed potatoes and pork. There was something else. Beneath the plate, a scrap of parchment stuck out.
Guard change at seventh hour.
Be prepared.
F.
Henri’s eyes flew to the clock beside the wardrobe. Three hours.
She wolfed down the dinner and searched her rooms for anything and everything she could use. She grabbed two travel cases from the top of the wardrobe, and wrenched a multitude of ornate gowns and undergarments from the hangers and chest of drawers. Henri Valia wouldn’t be leaving this castle, but a grey-eyed noblewoman might. Henri stripped and washed herself thoroughly at the basin in the washroom, making sure to wipe the kohl from her eyes. The water was freezing; still, she scrubbed until her skin was pink and raw. She fastened herself into a corset, opting to tie the laces at her front and then twist the contraption around to its correct position, growing clammy with the effort. She strapped her katars to her thighs, and made quick work of packing the dresses into the suitcases, also stuffing her riding leathers far down beneath them, along with her boots. The dainty slippers in the wardrobe were tiny, but Henri would have to make do – a noblewoman wouldn’t be caught dead in old Valian boots.
Am I really doing this? She glanced at the note again. Seventh hour. She had to be ready. She couldn’t hesitate. Taking Fiore’s note, she held it over one of the many candles and watched the flames lick at the parchment until it was no more than ash. With the note destroyed, she returned to the washroom.
Still definitely a Valian, she thought, catching a glimpse of her hardened expression in the mirror.
She rummaged through the drawers until she found a woman’s cosmetics bag, and wondered briefly whose room this had been. She tipped the contents of the bag into the basin. It’d been years since she’d seen anyone use this junk, but she’d noticed enough of Heathton’s painted faces on the way in to hopefully mimic the current styles. First she undid her braid, letting her kinked tresses hang loose down to her waist. She tipped a handful of fine powder into it, rubbing it vigorously into the roots, lightening her hair’s midnight colouring. She powdered her face, too, masking her tanned complexion with the pallid, pastel skin of someone who stayed indoors too much. She found an array of liquids and tools as she rifled through the cosmetics. She rouged her cheeks and painstakingly painted her lips a vibrant red, as she had seen was the fashion in the streets yesterday. She looked ridiculous. Like a porcelain doll to be displayed on a shelf and never touched.
Two jewelled hair clasps gleamed from within the drawer beneath the basin. Henri twisted her hair on each side of her face and pinned it to her head. She shook her head at her reflection and returned to the bedroom. The dress she’d chosen was a navy-blue, long-sleeved gown, with embroidery of pale gold embellishing the panel down the chest to the cinched waist. Henri stepped into it, careful not to dislodge the katars strapped to her thighs. It would be a miracle if she was able to do the dress up alone. She managed it, though not without having to re-powder her hairline from the sweat. She packed the cosmetics back into their carry bag and stuffed it roughly into one of the bulging travel cases.
This is such a flawed plan, she thought. The travel cases would give her away instantly. A noblewoman would never carry anything. Henri sighed. One problem at a time.
In the full-length mirror, a pale noblewoman gaped back at Henri. She had to touch her face to confirm that this stranger was indeed her. The dress clung snugly to her waist and flowed out, masking the lumps where her katars were sheathed. She rummaged one last time through all the drawers. She only had a small amount of coin, and she would need everything she could to barter – if she got that far. To her surprise, she discovered a false bottom in one of the drawers, and pulled a jewellery box from the hidden compartment.
Yes.
Inside, more than a dozen opulent gems winked at her. With a surge of gratitude, she adorned herself with the heaviest necklace, thick with rubies, and tipped the rest into a velvet drawstring bag, which she tucked into her purse. That was it. Taking a deep breath, she sat on the edge of the bed, running through a thousand different outcomes of this plan in her head. Whether she stayed, escaped or died, Arden had declared war on her people. He had threatened their freedom, their livelihoods, and Henri would not stand for it.
She watched the time tick closer and closer towards the seventh hour, until she heard a key turn in the lock. No one entered. She had to leave. Now.
With her heart thumping against her corset, she opened the door. There was no one stationed there. She took the cases and placed them just outside her room, and closed the door behind her. She spotted a young servant boy down the end of the hall.
‘You there!’ she called out, clasping her hands together to stop them from trembling.
‘M’lady?’ he asked.
‘I was expecting you twenty minutes ago. Take my bags. You’ve made me late.’
Confused and frightened, the boy picked up the travel cases and stood rooted to the spot.
‘Well, don’t just sta
nd there,’ Henri said sharply, ‘let’s go. My carriage should be waiting.’
This was her plan? To walk out the front door? And what happened when there was no carriage waiting? Henri squashed her doubts and shot the boy a furious, superior look. He moved quickly down the hall, and Henri followed, her skirts swishing about her feet. They passed a number of guards, who glanced over her with appreciative eyes rather than suspicious ones. She exhaled the breath she’d been holding.
‘Lady Wendley,’ called a familiar voice.
Henri turned. Fiore was trailing after them. Gods, if anyone recognised her and saw them together … He was taking a huge risk. He caught up, and if he was surprised by her appearance, he hid it well.
‘Apologies for the interruption, Lady Wendley. The queen asked me to pass on her wishes for a safe and comfortable journey.’
Wendley … The name sounded familiar. She sifted through her memories, it was on the tip of her – the Tailor. He’d mentioned that name. How had he – there was no time for that now. The guards at the entrance were respectfully averting their gazes, but it wouldn’t last forever. She needed to get out of here, fast.
‘Her majesty is too kind,’ Henri said stiffly.
‘Peter,’ Fiore said, turning to the boy holding Henri’s cases, ‘hail Lady Wendley a street carriage. Unfortunately, hers has a broken wheel axle.’
‘What?’ Henri snapped, crumpling her painted face into an expression of outrage. ‘The carriage was in perfect condition when I arrived.’
‘My sincerest apologies, m’lady,’ Fiore said, waiting for the boy to step into the courtyard. He offered his arm to Henri, who took it and allowed him to lead her out of the guards’ earshot.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked under his breath.
‘Should I tell you?’
‘I got you this far.’
Henri had no time to weigh up the consequences. ‘Havennesse,’ she said, ‘if I can.’
‘Not Valia?’
‘I can do nothing from Valia.’
‘What’s in the winter continent?’
‘Allies.’
‘You think it’ll come to that?’
‘It already has.’
Fiore nodded. ‘I had a feeling. Do you know any more?’
Henri wanted to tell him. He was going to be stuck here with the king, but she was out of time. ‘I should go.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Listen, go down to the docks. Look for a ship called The Prince’s Triumph. It sets sail for Battalon within the hour. Ask for the quartermaster, Clarke. Say I sent you, that you need accommodation, and that you’ll disembark at Port Whelton.’
‘In Battalon?’
Fiore nodded impatiently. ‘You’ll be able to buy passage to Havennesse from there.’
Henri rearranged her skirts and glanced around. ‘Anything else?’
‘They have Bleak,’ he told her. Henri let her mask slip. She had expected this news at some point, and yet it struck her like a fresh blow. She regained her composure and gave a curt nod, as though they were still discussing the state of her broken wheel axle.
‘They have the boy, too.’
‘Boy?’
‘Bren. The Angovian. He claimed he was an Ashai, he tried to get to her.’
Henri’s heart sank. ‘Fool.’
Fiore was grave. ‘They’ve already put him on a ship to Moredon. He was in a bad way. Most likely won’t make the journey.’
‘Gods,’ Henri muttered under her breath.
‘Go, before someone sees us,’ Fiore said.
Every woman for herself.
‘Thank you,’ she managed.
Fiore offered a grim smile. ‘Your carriage awaits, Lady Wendley,’ he said, gesturing to the driver at the bottom of the castle steps.
‘Until we meet again, Captain,’ Henri said.
She accepted the footman’s assistance up into the carriage, the bulky skirts hindering her movements.
‘My lady,’ an unfamiliar voice called. A messenger signalled for her driver to wait. Henri’s stomach lurched, and on the side hidden from view, she lifted her skirts and gripped her katar.
‘My lady,’ the messenger said again, drawing closer to her window. Henri saw the look of confusion cross his face. He didn’t know the real noblewoman well enough to question her outright, but the suspicion was clearly there.
‘Yes?’ she said tersely.
‘Your children, they await your arrival in the gardens. The showcase of their squire training is about to commence.’
Henri plastered a harried expression on her face and remembered the Tailor’s words.
‘Valter and Adalrik know perfectly well I have an appointment in town. Lord Wendley will be attending their showcase, as I told them earlier.’
Henri held her breath. Had she just given herself away? The Tailor had never mentioned a Lord Wendley.
The messenger visibly relaxed. ‘Very good, m’lady.’
‘Good. Now if you’d be so kind as to move. I cannot delay.’
The carriage bounced over the cobblestones and passed the smaller courtyard to the dungeons. Four burly guards flanked the locked gates to the prison below. Guilt clenched Henri’s insides uncomfortably. Bleak was in there. She had saved the girl, only to bring her to her death. But she could do nothing now. Every woman for herself. She had to put her people first.
The carriage finally pulled away from the castle keep, and Henri forced her gaze forward. She and Bleak were even now. The girl had said so herself.
Henri couldn’t, and wouldn’t look back anymore.
Chapter 36
Trumpets sounded, and the crowd in the castle courtyard dropped into low bows. The princess and queen emerged first, and Swinton moved to shadow the younger royal as she made her descent. His handpicked guard fell into place alongside the rest of the royal family. Fiore guarded the king closely. Swinton, Fi and a select few had been chosen to escort the princess to Battalon. The entire royal household lined the courtyard to farewell Princess Olena, and to the girl’s embarrassment, they applauded as she reached the last step with Queen Vera at her arm. King Arden and Prince Jaxon joined them, and the king took his daughter’s hands in his.
‘You’ll make a fine bride,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Father,’ she replied, blinking.
Prince Jaxon hugged her tightly. ‘Write often, little sister. We’ll arrange a visit as soon as you’re settled. I’ve always wanted to see the great shiprock palace and the Belbarrow firestorms.’
The most powerful siblings in all of Ellest clung to each other with a helplessness that resonated deeply with Swinton. They knew there was nothing to be done, not yet. They were pawns in a much larger game, biding their time perhaps, until the day they sat in the players’ seats.
‘Queen of Battalon.’ Princess Olena smiled grimly, her clouded eyes looking past her brother now.
‘Queen of the Firestorms sounds better,’ Prince Jaxon said with a forced laugh.
Swinton watched as brother and sister embraced for a final time. The princess then turned to the crowd she couldn’t see, and with the grace of a woman beyond her years, nodded to the people once, before accepting a hand to help her into her waiting carriage.
Swinton couldn’t help glancing around at the crowd. He spotted Carlington, the stable master, by the supplies cart, and his young son, Dash, watching the princess sadly. The boy would likely never see her again. Swinton forced his gaze elsewhere. He had to be alert. The Ellestian company was limited and he found himself having to direct an almost entirely foreign group. Fi looked comfortable enough; he always did. He chatted in the native Battalonian tongue to some of the envoys; he had them chuckling already. He gave his friend a pointed look – the king was under-guarded. Swinton didn’t have time for this. He had a princess to protect and a ship full of people to get on the move. He called out his orders, checked their remaining cargo and triple-checked the secured fastenings of the princess’s carriage.
‘Relax,
old friend,’ said Fiore, who had been relieved of his guard duty and was mounting his horse beside Swinton. ‘Everything is in order.’
‘Can never be too careful, Fi.’
‘You’d know. Been doing it your whole life, old friend.’
The barb stung, whether that was its intention or not, but Fiore had already urged his horse back to his Battalonian brothers. Swinton took a deep breath and pulled on his riding gloves. He tucked the coin of Yacinda back into his armour, grateful for its renewed power. He hadn’t realised until he and Fi were at Bleak’s door the other night just how strong it was now. With the touch of a hand on his friend’s shoulder, he’d been able to project the coin’s magic onto Fi, to protect him from Bleak’s invasive gift at the right moment. Yet another secret between them. Swinton sighed. Exhaustion latched onto his soul, his whole body feeling heavy with it.
Slowly, their company moved into their places atop their horses and in their carriages. It was a short journey to Port Morlock, where they would board one of the royal ships. The crossing of the Northern Sea to Port Whelton at Battalon would take a week at least, depending on the winds, and then there was the journey from Port Whelton to Belbarrow. It would be a long time until Swinton felt at ease again.
Just as he went to mount Xander, the king approached him.
‘Commander,’ he said. ‘Ride well.’
‘I will, Your Majesty.’
‘Are you looking forward to seeing Belbarrow again? As I understand it, you’ve always expressed a desire for travel.’
Swinton hid his surprise. ‘Yes, Majesty. Very much so.’
Could it be that the king thought he was somehow rewarding Swinton by sending him on this journey? That he was trying to show Swinton more of the four continents as he’d so wished for in the past?
‘Then I am glad,’ said the king. ‘You’ll make a good companion for my daughter.’
Heart of Mist Page 33
