Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  Dawn of Mist

  The Oremere Chronicles Prequel Collection

  Helen Scheuerer

  Published by Talem Press, 2020

  An imprint of Writer’s Edit Press

  www.talempress.com

  Copyright © Helen Scheuerer 2020

  Helen Scheuerer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.

  First printing, 2020

  Print ISBN 978-0-6486731-1-8

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-6486731-0-1

  Cover design by Alissa Dinallo

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Helen Scheuerer

  The Oremere Chronicles

  Heart of Mist (Book I, 2017)

  Reign of Mist (Book II, 2018)

  War of Mist (Book III, 2019)

  This one’s for the mist dwellers …

  When to read Dawn of Mist

  Although the stories in this collection occur prior to the events in The Oremere Chronicles, the author recommends reading Dawn of Mist after the complete trilogy.

  Author’s Note

  I started writing these prequel stories long before my novel, Heart of Mist, came out in 2017. They were a method I used in order to get to know my characters better, to make sure their stories didn’t simply spring into being upon opening a book, or cease upon turning the last page.

  Originally, I never intended to share them with anyone. They were a technique I employed to build well-rounded characters and nothing more. There was something intensely rewarding about working on these stories and plotting characters’ lives just for me. But soon, I had the idea to send them to my email subscribers, as bonus material for those who were loyally following the progress of Heart of Mist before its release.

  And then, a funny thing happened. I kept writing them.

  The more of these stories I wrote, the more I enjoyed writing them, and my readers it seemed, liked them too. The prequels provided an escape for me, just as the Oremere books did. This time: an escape from the stress of book production and marketing. An escape from the deadlines and the enormity of the series’ overarching plots. They gave me the space and the freedom to enjoy my characters again.

  In April 2017, I sent the first ever prequel, ‘Break’, to my subscribers. Between now and then, in addition to the Oremere books, I’ve published around three prequels each year.

  In this collection, you’ll find those original nine prequels (edited), but you’ll also find seven new prequels, completely exclusive to this book. Each one of these stories takes place before the events in Heart of Mist. For the most part, the narratives focus on three of the four main point-of-view characters in The Oremere Chronicles: Bleak, Swinton and Henri, for the simple reason that our friend Dash hadn’t actually been born yet for much of this period. The prequels themselves are standalone, but are presented in this book chronologically for each character, so I’d suggest reading cover-to-cover.

  Amidst these pages, you will find breadcrumbs from the series explored in depth; you’ll learn the secrets we never truly get the answers to in the series; and potentially most important of all, you’ll come to understand the characters you love more fully. Or so I hope.

  Whether this venture into the mist is your first, your millionth or your last, I wish you happy reading, folks …

  — Helen Scheuerer

  Break

  Waves slapped against the side of the ship, and Bleak inhaled the briny sea air as they dipped up and down with the current. The coast of Ellest had disappeared an hour ago, and now there was no land in sight, only the flat expanse of water in every direction. Bren and Senior were checking the fishing nets while Bleak manned the wheel. She watched the two figures, teenager and man, wrangle with the pulleys and chat quietly between themselves. Bren’s fair hair had fallen into his eyes and he tucked it behind his ear. She did the same, absentmindedly, tucking loose wisps of her own ash-blonde hair into the knot atop her head.

  ‘How’s it faring up there, Half-Pint?’ Senior called out, squinting through the sun’s glare as he looped a rope around his elbow.

  ‘Better than down there with you and Butter Fingers,’ she replied, grinning.

  Senior had called her ‘Half-Pint’ ever since she could remember. At first, it had been her scrawny frame that earned her the nickname, but more recently she’d taken to having half a pint of ale with dinner. A hot meal and a drink with Senior was one of her favourite pastimes. It felt like family.

  ‘Enough cheek outta ya,’ Senior said, hanging the rope in its place and making his way toward the helm. ‘At least Bren knows how to respect his elders,’ he added, messing up her hair when he reached her.

  She swatted his hand away and moved aside for him.

  Senior’s weathered hands gripped the wheel. He glanced at her, his kind brown eyes meeting her own odd-coloured irises. She didn’t look away as she usually did with people. Her odd eyes had always been a source of anguish for her; people all over the realm saw them as a defection, a sign of dark magic that had once crawled across the continents. But Senior … Senior had said different was good, different was better. He’d said the same thing about her magic.

  ‘There aren’t many Ashai folk like you left,’ he’d say. ‘Your magic is a gift.’

  Now, she turned back to the seas before them. ‘Nets full yet?’ she asked.

  ‘Not full enough. Give it a few hours and we’ll head inland.’

  ‘Battalonian trout?’

  ‘Mostly. Reckon I can see some bream in there too.’

  Bleak nodded and lifted her face to the sun, closing her eyes. The warm rays soaked into her skin, and contentment settled over her. This was where she was meant to be, out on the water with Senior and Bren. She watched her friend adjust the sails. His white shirt was near-transparent with sweat and clung to his muscular back. He fumbled with one of the pulleys.

  Butter Fingers, Bleak mused, and raised a brow at Senior. Senior shook his head in mock disdain.

  ‘Check the mainsail, will ya? The lad’s good for heavy lifting, but them ropes need an expert touch, eh?’ He winked.

  Bleak laughed and slid down the rail to the main deck, elbowing Bren out of the way before he made a real mess of things.

  Bren rolled his eyes and rubbed his ribs, resigned. ‘Senior sent ya to supervise, then?’

  ‘More like take over.’

  ‘If I don’t do it right, bloody show me how, will ya?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘So show me again.’

  Bleak tried to hide her smile, but Bren’s own grin told her she’d failed. She took the rope from his hands and held it out in front of her.

  ‘For the four hundredth time,’ she said, ‘it’s called a hammerhead knot.’ She threaded the damp rope through the ring of the sail, and felt his gaze settle on her, not the knot she was tying.

  ‘Watching?’

  ‘Yep.’

  She glanced up at him and frowned. He burst out laughing, and she punched his arm.

  ‘Hey! Yer s’posed to be teaching me!’

  ‘Then quit mucking around.’

  Bren raised his hands in surrender. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ he said, staring pointedly at the rope in her hands.

  She glared at him and wove the length between her fingers, looping it around and pulling it tight. ‘See?’

 
; He nodded, the laughter gone. ‘Let me try?’

  She held the rope out to him, and his calloused fingers touched her own as he took it from her. Bleak pulled her hand away, panic surging as his mind opened to hers. She took a step back.

  Mind whisperer. That’s what her kind were called. Ever since she’d met Senior as a child, she had heard things. Voices. The thoughts of those around her. It came and went, but with Bren … When their skin touched, she heard the whisperings of his mind, clear as day, as though he were speaking inside her head.

  Gift? She didn’t think so. She needed to find another healer in Heathton. There had to be someone there who could help her.

  ‘Like this?’ Bren was saying, showing her the new knot. His voice brought her back, and she examined his handiwork, careful not to touch him when she took it from his hands.

  ‘Tighter,’ she said. ‘Like this.’

  ‘Right.’ His brow furrowed as he watched her work the rope. When she’d secured it to the mainsail, she wiped her hands on her pants and went to the starboard side. She rested her elbows on the railing and leaned forward into the lowering sun’s warm rays. She loved the feeling of the heat sinking into her skin as the wind tried to pull her hair from its tie. Here, she could forget about what she was. Here, she could just be.

  Bren joined her, nudging her gently so there was room for his muscled arms. The silence between them was comfortable: laced with familiarity, and the same deep appreciation for the rocking sea below them. Bren and his two eldest brothers were the only ones of the seven Clayton boys who worked out on the water. The rest of them preferred the stability of firm ground beneath their boots. Mrs Clayton preferred it that way too, and was always fussing upon Bren’s return.

  Bleak snuck a glance in Bren’s direction. He’d grown a lot in the past few months or so. He’d always been tall, but now he towered over her, and his previously lanky frame had bulked out with muscle thanks to Senior’s delegation of heavy lifting. The arm of his shirt billowed in the breeze. He smelled faintly of rose soap.

  ‘Half-Pint, Butter Fingers! Quit yer daydreaming and check the nets. Sun’s going down,’ Senior called from the helm.

  Bleak smiled. ‘Come on,’ she said to Bren.

  They went to the stern, and Bleak saw the nets brimming with Battalonian trout and bream.

  ‘Looking good here, Senior,’ she called up to her carer.

  He nodded. ‘We’ll head straight on to Heathton then. I’ve got a few men in the docks there. We’ll keep the catch fresh.’

  Hope swelled in Bleak’s chest. Heading on to Heathton meant she’d have another chance at finding a healer. Perhaps there was a cure for her magic she hadn’t found yet. Continuing to the capital also meant they’d stay out on the seas overnight. She slept far better out at sea, as though the current rocked her to sleep like an infant. The route they’d take in the morning was also more exciting, more challenging. She knew these waters better than she knew herself now, and was always thirsting for a real test of her expertise.

  Bleak watched as Bren speared three trout in the dragging net and brought them up onto the deck. She licked her lips. There was nothing more delicious than the day’s catch grilling on the fire.

  ‘Half-Pint,’ Senior said, grasping her shoulder, ‘give an old man a hand taking in the sails, will ya? Can’t run this beauty all on me own.’

  Together, they lowered the heavy sails while Bren sat hunched over with his fillet knife, descaling the rainbow fish. He worked meticulously, at the same time stoking the flames of the small cooking fire, placing their grilling tray on top.

  ‘He might be a butter fingers, Half-Pint, but the lad knows how to gut a trout, I’ll say that,’ Senior said.

  The sun dipped below the horizon, the air turning cool. The moon’s reflection shimmered across the top of the black water, and thousands of stars winked down at them. After they’d dropped anchor, they brought a small table up on deck from the cabin below and sat around it, eating the grilled fish with their fingers. The meat was tender – Bren had flavoured it with Battalonian spices. Like Senior always said, dinner tasted better after you’d earned it. Bleak ate her fish, and then picked at Bren’s leftovers until he slapped her hand away. She leaned back, hand on her belly, suddenly sleepy.

  ‘I’ll take first watch,’ said Bren, patting her knee.

  She wasn’t going to argue. Her lids were heavy and the cot below deck was calling her name. She left Bren and Senior to clear up and staggered down the stairs into the cosy cabin, where she lit a lamp and pushed off her boots.

  There were two cot beds, hers and Senior’s. It had only been in the last six months that Bren had started to join them on their intermittent trips without the whole crew. At first, Bleak had resented the addition. She relished the time she had just with Senior. But Bren was her friend, and Senior loved him like a son. And they had had some adventures together.

  Bleak eased herself into her cot. Her body sank down into the straw mattress and she tugged the blankets up to her chin. Yes, she quite liked having Bren Clayton around, especially when he cooked dinner.

  The rocking sea was like a lullaby, soothing her, somehow keeping all her worries at bay. She nestled further into the blankets, heard Senior bid Bren goodnight in the distance and enter the cabin. Sleep pulled her under.

  She dreamed of a faraway place. A place of grey, a place of mist. Long fronds of soft grass tickled her palms as she walked through them. It was familiar to her.

  What is this place? When was I here before?

  She arrived at a pair of wrought-iron gates that towered above her, embellished with flourishes ending in sharp spikes. She’d seen these gates swing open before, many times, but where? It certainly hadn’t been like this – shrouded in mist, coated in an eeriness that would break the focus of even the strongest warrior. And she was no warrior.

  Goosebumps rushed across her skin as she stepped through the open gates, the town that lay before her now all too familiar. Bleak felt a hot breath in her ear and jumped, stifling a yelp of terror. She whirled around. There was no one there. She was completely alone.

  Am I losing my mind?

  Hands trembling by her sides, Bleak stepped tentatively onto the main road, slowly making her way towards the village square she somehow knew was beyond the mist. The damp air settled on her skin. Nothing moved here. It was a ghost town, filled with strange whisperings and a resounding sadness that clutched at Bleak’s chest. Around her, the steps of the townhouses opened up onto the street she was on, but there were no lanterns lit within. She could only see the mist before her by the light of the moon, high and brilliant, almost silver against the inky night.

  ‘Bleak,’ someone called in the distance. She clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling a scream. Trying to quieten her racing thoughts, she focused, straining to hear the voice. Her name sounded familiar on the stranger’s lips, wherever they were.

  Unsteady on her feet, she stumbled suddenly, catching herself just before she landed on the rough dirt. ‘Bleak!’

  She started. The voice was closer this time, and urgent. She knew that voice.

  ‘Bleak, help.’

  The panic tore shreds from her, jolting her right to the core.

  Bleak was ripped from her dream and shot bolt upright in her cot. Slick with sweat, her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath.

  Just a dream, she told herself, a nightmare. She wiped her brow on the sleeve of her shirt, still reeling.

  ‘Bleak!’

  She jumped again. The voice was clear as crystal in her mind now, and she knew who it belonged to. Bren.

  Bleak flung herself at the ladder and scrambled up on deck. Outside, rain hammered down and she slipped on the soaked timber as she scrambled to find Bren, landing painfully on her hip. The sea battered the side of the ship, a vicious wave breaking across the deck like a rabid dog foaming at the mouth.

  ‘Bren!’ she cried out, squinting through the downpour, unable to see him. ‘Bren!’r />
  A fist of fear clenched around Bleak’s heart. The ship free-fell hard into the next swell, more icy salt water spraying across the main deck.

  ‘Bleak!’

  ‘Where are you?’ Bleak screamed into the wind. She looked around wildly, searching for his muscular figure, possibly fallen and injured. But the ship was empty, and her voice was lost amidst the roar of the waves.

  He’s not here – not on the ship, she realised.

  She bolted to the port side and gripped the railing for dear life, scanning the sea. There was nothing but giant black waves sucking at the hull.

  ‘Bleak —’

  The voice came from the starboard side. Bleak launched herself in its direction, snatching up a rope from one of the hooks. As she ran, she looped it around her waist, tying it tight. When she reached the railing, she searched the churning swell desperately.

  He’s here, he has to be.

  With expert hands she tied the other end of the rope to the railing in a blur and crawled over the other side, clutching the railing as the ship lurched into the crushing force of the water below.

  There was a flash of white amidst the dark swell. Bren’s shirt, Bleak realised, and she jumped.

  The drop took forever, and Bleak braced herself for the icy impact. But when she broke the water’s surface, nothing could have prepared her for the shattering pain, the bone-splitting cold. She plunged deep into the sea, her lungs already screaming for air, her body already threatening to shut down.

  Swim, Bleak urged herself, swim to Bren. She broke the sea’s surface with a desperate gasp for air. A wave pummelled into her, sending her spiralling into the depths of the water once more. She had to fight. With all the strength she had, she kicked and flailed and pushed herself through the churning waves. Her boots were blocks of iron. She was dragged under as she struggled to kick them free.