Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  Henri felt a cool hand grip her arm. Allehra pulled her and Sahara aside.

  ‘Let it be known, my daughters, that this trip to Havennesse will be no joyous voyage …’

  Henri baulked. ‘We know, we —’

  ‘You don’t know.’ Allehra’s voice was like ice. ‘The journey, the training in the mountains … It will test the limits of even your endurance.’ She glanced at Sahara, who flushed. ‘You must be ready.’

  ‘We’re ready,’ Henri argued.

  Allehra took a deep breath, her graphite eyes meeting Henri’s, then Sahara’s.

  ‘Are you?’

  The Gift

  Heathton’s pleasure alleys teemed with fools who were careless with their coin. Drawstring purses dangled in plain sight, a hypnotic pendulum to a savvy fingersmith. Bleak sliced clean through a belt loop, closing her small hand around the purse before the silver within could jangle. Drunks, gamblers and pleasure-seekers made easy pickings for someone with her particular skillset. Bleak had no qualms about divesting them of their valuables – she had a cure to find. She ducked deeper into the crowd, her boots pattering on the wet cobblestones. She was anonymous here, just a reveller trawling the streets seeking one form of gratification or another.

  It was mid-morning now, and she wouldn’t be missed. Senior, Bren and the crew had docked the ship at Port Morlock in the wee hours and unloaded the catch. Afterwards, the crew had retired to one of the local taverns for pints of ale, and as much as she’d longed to join them, Bleak had donned her hooded cloak and slipped away. It was now or never.

  It had been the one of the villagers, who’d told her of the healer months ago. ‘She’s the best in all of Ellest,’ he’d said. ‘Sometimes even the king seeks her counsel.’

  The sky was dark with heavy clouds, casting shadows across the establishments either side of the street. Bleak wove her way through the heaving crowds in Heathton’s slums, squeezing past a group of rowdy men lingering outside of Madame Joelle Marie’s infamous brothel. She ignored their bawdy remarks and sidestepped them.

  Off-duty castle guards, Bleak realised, noting the sigil on the left breast – two crossed axes in a crown of fire. How I’d love to rob them, she thought as she gained distance from the group. But it wasn’t worth the risk.

  It began to rain, a slight drizzle at first, then the skies opened up and released a downpour. Icy droplets hit Bleak’s skin and she tugged her cloak tightly around her. She turned right, down a far narrower lane. The rain hammered down in earnest, creating muddy rivers rushing across the cobblestones and dirt paths, sweeping the city’s grime up in its current. Bleak turned another corner and, squinting through the torrent, saw the sign she was looking for being battered by the wind. She banged on the door with her fist. No answer. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Soaked to the bone and frustrated, she pounded the door again.

  ‘What?’ a voice within yelled, as the door opened.

  ‘I’m looking for Healer Ethelda,’ Bleak said, unable to see inside.

  ‘She’s not available.’

  ‘Too bad,’ Bleak said, forcing her way into the dim hallway. ‘I’ve come a long way to see her.’

  An exasperated sigh sounded from beside her, and an older woman pushed the door shut before crossing her arms over her chest.

  ‘What d’you want?’ she said, scrutinising Bleak’s odd eyes.

  Bleak had to stop herself from shrinking back. Most people believed odd-coloured irises were a sign of dark magic. They would often gasp at the sight and mutter a prayer to the gods, so they’d be protected from depravity. But now, Bleak held her ground.

  ‘I told you, to see Healer Ethelda.’

  ‘And now you’ve seen her.’ The woman gestured to herself, an unimpressed brow raised.

  She was not what Bleak had been expecting. Everything she’d heard about Heathton’s famous healer had implied she was near-ancient, perhaps a witch who’d prolonged her life by illegal, magical means. Although her face was that of someone who had lived life hard, her eyes were bright and youthful.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  Bleak swallowed.

  Healer Ethelda tutted and motioned for Bleak to follow.

  Bleak shoved her hands in her pockets, her fingers closing around the spare length of rope Senior had given her for practising her knots. She found steadying comfort in the token as she trudged after Healer Ethelda, down the creaking hallway and into a small sitting room. There was no window. Half a dozen thick candles flickered light and shadows across the damp walls. Bleak’s palms grew clammy.

  ‘Well?’ Healer Ethelda dropped into a wingback cane chair.

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘Obviously. It’s a gold coin upfront. Then we’ll see if I can assist you.’

  Bleak flicked a gold coin at Ethelda and sat down in the chair beside her. ‘I hope you’re as good as they say you are.’

  ‘I’m better. What ails you?’

  Bleak looked around the room, noticing the bookshelves that lined each wall and the thick, cracked spines of hundreds of volumes. On the far side, there was a simple wooden table covered in countless small glass phials, and on the stand beside Bleak sat a mortar and pestle, a fine white powder crushed within. She shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the door.

  ‘You fear indiscretion,’ Ethelda said, clasping her hands together and resting them on her knees.

  ‘Can you blame me?’

  ‘I can blame you for being a fool.’

  ‘Bedside manner’s a bit worse for wear, isn’t it?’

  Ethelda sighed and stood, beginning to pace the room. ‘Look here, I wouldn’t be in business if my clients could not count on confidentiality.’

  ‘Right.’

  Bleak suppressed the urge to back away as Ethelda surged forward and grabbed her hands. She rubbed warmth back into Bleak’s cold fingers.

  ‘There is no cure for what you have, girl,’ the healer said, cupping Bleak’s hands in hers, studying the lines of her palms as though they held the answer.

  ‘And what is it that I have?’ Bleak asked, pulling back from the craggy-faced woman.

  ‘You’re a mind whisperer, an Ashai. The magic in you is potent, passed down from your mother if I’m not mistaken.’

  Bleak swallowed, hard. How does she know what I am, just from touching me? No one knows except me and Senior …

  She clenched her teeth. ‘You are mistaken. My mother wasn’t an Ashai.’

  The candles around them flickered, and Bleak realised she was uncomfortably warm.

  ‘Oh? Is that so.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bleak ground out. ‘You going to tell me something worth that gold coin payment?’

  ‘It wasn’t your gold.’

  ‘Not my fault folks are careless. Besides, gold is gold, and it can be yours by the end of this conversation.’

  ‘It’s already mine.’

  Bleak wiggled the coin at the woman. She’d stolen it back moments after she’d handed it over. ‘It’s yours when I say it’s yours.’

  ‘Be careful who you threaten, girl. Ashai aren’t as safe as they used to be, not now the great Casimir is dead.’

  Bleak snorted. ‘Casimir? He’s been dead a long time. Some saviour he turned out to be.’

  ‘Is that what you’re looking for, girl? A saviour?’

  ‘No such thing as saviours.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Only time-wasters.’ She made to leave.

  ‘What of my gold?’

  ‘You had no answers for me.’

  ‘Just because it was an answer you didn’t like, doesn’t mean it wasn’t an answer.’ The healer glared at her. ‘What is it you need to know?’

  ‘How do I stop it?’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Control it, then? How can I manage it? So that I don’t hear every person’s thoughts as soon as they think them.’

  Ethelda considered her, sitting down again and leaning back in her cane chair. ‘It tr
uly plagues you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the drink, it helps?’

  ‘It’s the only thing that does.’

  Ethelda nodded. ‘I have no experience in managing Ashai affairs. I am a healer of flesh and bone, not of the intangible. Keep your gold, girl. You and your habits need it more than I.’

  Bleak shoved her way back through the crowds, wet and pissed off.

  ‘Stupid bitch,’ she muttered to herself. She couldn’t believe how much time she’d wasted tracking down Healer Ethelda, for nothing. She gritted her teeth and elbowed the dawdler in front of her – she wasn’t in the mood to be held up. What she needed more than anything was a pint.

  Even in the rain, the markets were packed, and Bleak cursed to herself as she was knocked about by inconsiderate idiots. Thoughts swarmed around her like a colony of buzzing insects. She had to stop herself cupping her hands tightly over her ears. Focus, she told herself, focus on getting to the tavern. It had only been in recent months that her condition became unmanageable. What had once been the occasional stranger’s thoughts had grown to an erratic, overwhelming onslaught.

  This isn’t the right change. The panicked thought practically screamed at Bleak, and she whirled around. She spotted the girl immediately, her pale-blue dress and apron marking her as a palace servant. Soft red curls were swept up into a bun at the back of her head with wisps escaping the scrap of fabric holding it in place. She clutched several cakes of soap in one hand.

  ‘But sir, you still owe me three silvers,’ she was saying, palm outstretched.

  ‘Do not,’ the man on the other side of the stall snapped. ‘Royals get a different price.’

  ‘But —’ the girl spluttered. ‘I’ll be punished. They’ll think I took the change.’

  ‘Not my problem, is it?’

  ‘Sir, I beg you —’

  ‘Beg, eh? You must really like keeping those royal arses clean …’

  The girl’s face flushed.

  Bleak found herself at the servant’s side. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. Her voice sounded stronger than she felt.

  ‘None of your business,’ said the stall owner, sneering. And then he spotted her odd-coloured irises. ‘Get away from my shop, don’t be dragging your evil here,’ he added.

  The girl looked to Bleak. Her mouth fell open in surprise, but she didn’t back away as others did when they first saw her.

  ‘Away with you, street filth!’ the man yelled. Bleak stepped back, subtly tugging on the girl’s apron. She followed Bleak’s lead. When they had fallen into the crowd, Bleak released her apron.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the servant said, no anger in her voice, just defeat. ‘I truly needed that change. I’ll be punished.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ Bleak said.

  ‘I’m afraid you don’t know my masters well,’ she replied.

  ‘You won’t be punished,’ Bleak repeated. She pressed a coin purse into the girl’s hand.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘His takings for the day.’

  ‘How did you —’

  Bleak shrugged. ‘Light fingers.’

  ‘I cannot —’

  ‘You can. And you should. I imagine it’s not the first time you’ve been ripped off in this godsforsaken place.’

  ‘No, but … what about you?’

  ‘What about me? I manage well enough.’

  The girl’s eyes widened. Clearly it had been a while since she’d known kindness. ‘My name’s Therese,’ she said, offering her hand.

  Bleak shook it. ‘Bleak.’

  Therese didn’t question the unusual name, nor her actions. ‘I cannot thank you enough.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘If you ever need anything in Heathton, go to the castle cook and ask for me.’

  ‘That’s not necessary.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘Who’s your master?’

  ‘I’m a housemaid, I report to the housekeeper proper.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’ve just been told that I’ll be seeing to the Commander of the King’s Army personally, though.’

  ‘A promotion?’

  Therese shrugged.

  Bleak nodded, smiling grimly. ‘If you want decent soap, head to the shop on Kemp Lane. They offer better prices and better wares.’

  ‘I’m in your debt.’

  ‘I don’t believe in debts,’ Bleak said, turning to leave.

  ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Bleak.’

  ‘And you, Therese. Good luck with the promotion.’

  Bleak let the crowd swallow her, deft fingers dipping into the pockets of those around her. Before long, she’d snagged plunder enough for more than a few pints.

  From outside the tavern, she spotted Senior, Bren and the crew where she’d left them. Their group was split across multiple booths in the warm yellow light of the bar, surrounded by dozens of empty glasses, raucous laughter ringing. At the last minute, Bleak opted for solitude instead and headed down to the docks.

  The rain had stopped now, though her clothes and hair were still damp. Bleak tucked her hands under her arms against the bitter chill. She wandered along the wharves, lingering in the spot where she’d last seen her parents, where Senior had found her all those years ago. It had been a game. Just a game. She’d only been tiny. Sometimes she could still hear her mother counting as she hid … But Ma’s melodic voice faded, a stronger memory taking hold. Red, a deep, dark red. It had soaked the hem of Bleak’s pastel-yellow gown.

  ‘Thought I’d find ya here,’ Senior’s voice sounded from behind her.

  ‘Did you?’ She didn’t turn around.

  ‘Every trip to Heathton you end up here at some point. Be damned if I know where ya go the rest of the time, but I know that much.’

  Bleak glanced at her surroundings. The docks never changed much. The cobblestone walkways were always slick with fish guts; the stench in the air was near-unbearable; and the men, they were the same as well – perhaps a little more sun-worn and lined than they had once been, but there they were, packing the empty crates back onto the ships.

  ‘If ya want to talk about it —’ Senior started.

  ‘I don’t.’

  Senior looked her over, concern etched on his leathered face. ‘Well, when ya do, Half-Pint, ya know where to find me.’

  They were up before dawn the next day, loading the ship with supplies to take back to Angove. It was backbreaking work, and although Bleak was the only female on board, she was no exception. Bleak worked as hard as any man, harder, even – constantly having to prove herself. By sunrise, her muscles ached, and she paused to take in the glowing gold orb at the sea’s horizon, its reflection shimmering across the flat expanse of water.

  ‘Alright, Bleak?’ Bren said, resting a large hand on her shoulder.

  She braced herself for his thoughts to hit her, as they so often did when he touched her. They didn’t.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said with a grin, taking the crate from her hands as though it were a box of feathers. ‘It’s a good day, eh?’

  ‘Same as every other …’

  ‘With a sunrise like that? Not a chance.’

  Bleak couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s optimism. He saw the good in everything.

  ‘Half-Pint!’ Senior called from the ship’s deck. ‘Grab the spare ropes, will ya? Can’t be leaving those behind.’

  She waved him off and jumped down onto the wharf, striding towards the remaining gear. She heaved the lengths up onto her shoulder, struggling beneath the weight.

  She froze.

  A man in the shadows watched her.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ she snapped, taking in his tattered clothes and the dark set of lashes framing his eyes.

  He pushed off from the rail he’d been leaning on and smirked. ‘You,’ he said.

  Bleak rolled her eyes and adjusted the rope on her shoulder, making to leave. The man fell i
nto step beside her, his ragged clothes billowing.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Bleak muttered.

  ‘I’m always serious.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone. Nothing comes without a price in this realm. I’m not interested.’

  ‘First gift’s free.’

  ‘Sure, sure. Who the hell are you?’

  ‘They call me the Tailor.’

  ‘Oh, they do, do they?’

  ‘Indeed. They call you Bleak.’

  Bleak forced her legs to keep moving. The beggar knew her name, so what? Anyone who frequented the docks could figure that out in a second.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I told you. To give you a gift.’

  ‘Right. And what’s that, then?’

  ‘A warning.’

  This time, Bleak stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh?’

  He locked eyes with her, all traces of fun gone.

  ‘Your search. It draws attention. The wrong kind of attention. You need to stop.’

  ‘What? What are you —’

  ‘Told you,’ he said, eyebrows raised. ‘First one’s free.’

  She opened her mouth to argue, to deny, but as she did, the doors to the nearby temple swung open. Throngs of people flooded the street. The Tailor, whoever he was, had gone.

  Back onboard the ship, Bleak hung the ropes up on their hook.

  ‘New friend?’ Bren quipped.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Looked like a serious conversation.’

  ‘None of your business.’

  Bren shrugged. ‘Just looking out for ya.’

  ‘Don’t need you to.’

  ‘Ya don’t think I don’t know that? Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna do it.’

  Bleak grinned. ‘I know.’

  Smiling, Bren shook his head, strands of his fair hair falling into his eyes. ‘Reckon we’ve earned ourselves a break?’ he said.

  ‘A break? It’s barely daylight. You met Senior?’

  Bren laughed and pulled a silver flask from inside his shirt. ‘A quick toast, then?’