Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  ‘What was that about?’ Bren asked her, nodding back to Senior.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Was not.’

  ‘Is now.’

  Bren rolled his eyes and tossed her a spare coil of rope. ‘Fine.’

  The breeze was just right for sailing. The sun bathed the deck with warm, golden rays. Bleak looked back at Angove with the sort of appreciation that only comes in the face of a new journey. Nestled in the coastal cliffs and hillsides, the little village was quaint but not insignificant. Bright and full of movement, the docks hummed with the rhythm of daily life. Bleak smiled. She was fortunate.

  The Daybreaker picked up speed. The breeze pulled Bleak’s hair from its tie, sending it whipping about her face. She scraped it back into a messy topknot and looked over to Bren. He was manning the wheel temporarily, eyes focused on the sea ahead.

  ‘Know where we’re going, Butter Fingers?’

  ‘I know the general direction. You’ll need to navigate once we’re out of Angove.’

  ‘Stick to the —’

  ‘Coastline, I know,’ Bren said with a grin.

  Angove disappeared behind them, and they set sail for Felder’s Bay. Bleak revelled in the easiness of it all. She and Bren worked like a well-oiled machine, both taking on their usual duties and picking up whatever Senior usually did between the two of them. From where she now stood at the wheel, Bleak could see Bren adjusting the canvas sail. His shirt billowed in the breeze, and he was squinting past the sun’s glare. His thoughts hadn’t bothered her yet, thankfully, and for a time, Bleak could pretend she was normal. She and Bren were just two normal best friends, out on their first adventure together.

  The morning passed quickly, and Bleak’s face hurt from smiling so much. The sea grew a little choppy but it made the ride all the more fun. She and Bren took turns at the wheel and climbing the mast.

  It was early afternoon when they reached Felder’s Bay – one of its untouched beaches at the foot of the Hawthorne Ranges, stretching on for miles and miles. The water was the clearest turquoise Bleak had ever seen, and it shimmered like a sea of stars.

  ‘Gods, I wouldn’t fancy a trek up there,’ Bren said, nodding to the formidable peaks covered in dark, sprawling trees.

  ‘Me either …’ Bleak said, craning her neck to look up to the highest alp.

  ‘Reckon we anchor here?’ Bren turned back to her. ‘Think it’s close enough to the shore for Senior’s liking?’

  Bleak nodded. ‘Can’t go much closer or we might tear our bottom on the reef.’

  ‘What reef?’

  Bleak rolled her eyes and pointed. ‘See that shadow beneath the water there? That’d be a coral reef. Not sure how low the tide’ll get, so wouldn’t want to risk getting much closer.’

  Bren’s face was a mixture of awe and envy. ‘Ya really are Bleaker Junior, aren’t ya?’

  Bleak shook her head. ‘Come help me with the anchor, Butter Fingers.’

  He laughed and slung his arm casually around her shoulders. She tensed, waiting for the onslaught of thoughts to invade. But they didn’t. Her body relaxed, even savoured the warm weight of Bren’s arm around her. Together, they released the anchor. The iron weight sent water spraying over them as it plunged into the depths of the sea below.

  ‘Senior said it’d be safe to go for a dip, if ya fancy it?’ Bren said, looking out across the water again.

  ‘Did he?’

  Bren nodded. ‘Said not to stray too far from the boat, but also that the water out here is the cleanest in all of Ellest.’ The way Bren said it was like a dare, like they’d be stupid not to dive into its crystal-clear currents.

  Bleak loved a challenge – better still, she loved beating Bren at a challenge. And yet she hesitated.

  ‘Scared?’ Bren teased, one brow raised in amusement.

  ‘No,’ she bit back.

  Bren was already tugging his shirt over his head, revealing the tanned, muscular torso beneath. Bleak flushed.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said.

  But Bleak squirmed uncomfortably. It was all very well and good for him to strip down and go swimming, but it was different for her. Beneath the layers of fabric, her skin was marred with scarring.

  Bren clocked her discomfort and smiled kindly. ‘Ya don’t have to, obviously.’

  ‘It’s just …’ Her hand went to the side of her thigh.

  ‘Ya know I don’t care about that —’

  ‘It’s embarrassing —’

  ‘It’s not. I’m glad ya got that scar. Without it, yer wouldn’t be here.’

  It was true. The large scar on her leg was a reminder of how close she’d come to leaving this realm. Young, fevered and delirious from the plague that swept across the continent, she had hung on dearly to life’s fragile thread. Senior had done the only thing he thought might cure her. He’d taken her far out to sea, and carved out and burned the infected section of flesh – scarring her, but saving her life. She shuddered at the memory.

  ‘I —’ she stammered.

  ‘Bleak, if ya don’t wanna swim, that’s fine. Ya make yer choices for you and you alone. But I don’t want ya ever thinking that scar is somethin’ to be ashamed of. ’Cause it’s not.’

  Bren’s wintry eyes bore into hers until she nodded, a smile tugging the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Good,’ he said, pushing his boots off at the heel and swinging himself overboard without another word. A splash sounded and Bleak rushed to the side of the boat and peered over. Bren surfaced, slicking his wet hair back from his face with a grin.

  ‘Cold?’ Bleak said.

  ‘Perfect.’

  Before she could think twice, Bleak jumped.

  The water was perfect. Refreshing, but not icy. She let herself stay fully submerged. It felt as though time had stopped, and the realm around her had a blanket pulled over all its sounds and worries. Lungs bursting, she kicked reluctantly, propelling herself up, emerging from the water.

  Bren was smiling. ‘Told ya.’

  They swam for hours, until the sun dipped behind the mountains and Bleak’s teeth began to chatter.

  In the small cabin below deck, she peeled away her wet clothes and towelled herself dry, pulling on the nightshirt she kept onboard. Wrapping herself in a thick woollen blanket, she went back on deck to hang her clothes up. Bren was stoking the small cooking fire and turning the venison they’d brought with them.

  ‘Smells good,’ Bleak said, sitting down beside him, suddenly very aware that she wore very little clothing.

  ‘Ma gave me some herbs to use. Rosemary mainly, but I added some thyme and a bit of wine.’

  ‘Wine?’

  Bren laughed. ‘In the flask,’ he pointed.

  The sun had set and night settled around them. The round, yellow moon was mirrored on the glassy surface of the sea. They ate hunched over in comfortable silence, passing the flask back and forth.

  ‘It was a good idea,’ Bleak said thoughtfully, wiping her hands on the blanket.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Coming here. It was a good idea.’

  ‘I have those occasionally.’

  ‘Only occasionally.’

  Bleak noticed the goosebumps covering Bren’s arms, and the way his shoulders were caved inwards.

  ‘You’re cold,’ she said.

  ‘I’m alright.’

  Bleak studied him for a moment, and then raised the blanket, motioning for him to move closer.

  Bren didn’t hide his surprise, but he did as she bid and closed the gap between them, pulling his side of the blanket around them tightly. Bleak could have sworn she could hear her own heart pounding. She held her breath, waiting for his thoughts to come crashing into her. But they didn’t. Again. She exhaled a sigh of relief and focused on the flames before them. They didn’t speak for a time. And Bleak realised that this quiet was different … She had to say something. Anything. She opened her mouth —

  ‘What’s that?’ Bren said suddenly.

  ‘What?�
�

  Bren rushed to the side of the boat. ‘That …’

  Bleak ran to where he stood and looked out. Her stomach dropped to her feet and she gripped Bren’s arm.

  Mist. Thick mist rolled towards them from the open sea. Mist that had been feeding on their realm, encroaching on it inch by inch for decades. Mist that was used as a death sentence for traitors to the crown. Mist that should be nowhere near the shores of Felder’s Bay … Bleak swallowed. Mist that would kill them at first touch.

  ‘What the …’ Bren muttered, staring in disbelief as the mist crept towards them.

  ‘Bren.’ Bleak shook his arm. ‘Bren!’

  His eyes met hers, shock etched upon his face.

  ‘Bren, we have to go. Now.’

  ‘Go? Where?’

  Bleak pulled him across the deck to the other side of the boat. ‘To shore. We have to swim to shore.’

  Something sounded in Bleak’s ear. A whisper. A word she couldn’t make out. She glanced back and saw the mist creeping closer. The silken voice sounded again, melodic and mesmerising.

  ‘Now,’ she yelled.

  They dove into the water.

  When Bleak broke the surface, the silence was eerie. The only noise was the gentle slap of the current against the side of the boat. She couldn’t see Bren.

  ‘Bren?’ she called.

  Nothing.

  She swallowed. ‘Bren?’

  ‘Here,’ he said, paddling towards her.

  Momentary relief flooded through her. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ she managed.

  They swam for what felt like an age, as the current tried to suck them back towards the mist.

  ‘How is that possible?’ Bren spluttered.

  ‘I don’t know …’

  Exhausted, they finally felt sand beneath their feet. They staggered from the water and onto the hard, wet shore. Something crunched under the sole of Bleak’s foot. She bent down to retrieve it. A piece of dead coral, she realised, holding it up to the moonlight. It had been bleached bone-white by the sun. She pocketed it.

  When they made it onto dry sand, Bleak turned to Bren. ‘What are we going to do?’

  Bren sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Wait.’

  They sat shoulder to shoulder, gazing out onto the sea, Bleak turning the piece of coral in her hands. The mist roiled across the water’s surface and crept up the sides of the boat. Bleak only noticed she was trembling when Bren put his arm around her.

  ‘You okay?’ he said quietly.

  Bleak watched as the deck disappeared entirely, until only the canvas sails stood tall and strong above the mist.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘You?’

  ‘I don’t know either,’ he said.

  Sometime in the early hours of the morning, as the dark sky melted into hues of soft pinks and golds, the mist started to recede.

  Bren was asleep on Bleak’s shoulder.

  ‘Bren.’ She nudged him. ‘Bren, look …’

  Bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, Bren followed her gaze.

  ‘It’s … it’s leaving …’ he muttered.

  ‘Yeah … It is.’

  The boat reappeared, as though nothing had happened. As the sun rose high into the sky, the mist grew fainter and fainter, until it had completely vanished.

  ‘Gods … What happened?’ Bren rubbed his eyes, as though now he didn’t quite believe what had occurred.

  Bleak shook her head. ‘I don’t know … Do you think it’s safe?’

  Bren stood and stretched, and took a tentative step toward the water. ‘Only one way to know …’

  ‘I’m coming too.’

  ‘Expected nothing less.’

  ‘Good,’ Bleak said, moving past him and into the low tide.

  They swam quickly and quietly towards The Daybreaker, anxiety tight in Bleak’s chest.

  It’s gone, she told herself. It has to be okay …

  They hauled themselves up onto the deck and waited, waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Everything was the same. Everything was exactly where they’d left it. Tentatively, they walked the length of the boat. Once, twice.

  ‘I think everything’s fine …?’ Bren said finally.

  Bleak nodded. ‘I think so …’

  Bren came to stand beside her, leaning on the railing and looking back to shore.

  ‘What do we tell Senior?’

  They locked eyes, and understood one another.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Bleak. ‘We tell him nothing.’

  Bren nodded and offered his hand. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Agreed,’ she replied, taking it.

  And then Bren’s thoughts slammed into her, stronger and louder than ever before.

  Willowdale

  Commander Dimitri Swinton and Captain Fiore Murphadias stood tall on either side of their king and queen’s thrones, overlooking the festivities. The capital’s amphitheatre had been transformed for Princess Olena’s name day, though the little girl was far more interested in the wooden horse someone had gifted her than the decadence below. Unbeknownst to her, the circular, open-air structure was awash with colour; the best blooms from the royal gardens framed the stone archways, and the surging crowds wore their finest silks. Revellers clutched mugs of cold mead and cheered the troupe of dancers on, eager to enjoy another of Heathton’s annual holidays.

  Swinton had briefed his guards on the heightened security threat only this morning, stressing the importance of teamwork and being alert. Now, his gaze wandered to the furthest end of the amphitheatre, where Siv Lennox was stationed. The former unit leader bore the same scowl he’d adopted after the King’s Tournament a few months earlier. He’d been unseated as jousting champion, and demoted after a vicious attempt to ruin Swinton’s reputation. Lennox hadn’t taken his punishment gracefully by any stretch of the imagination.

  Swinton felt Fi’s gaze follow his to Lennox, his Battalonian friend’s nose scrunched up in distaste. Were it up to Fi, Lennox would have been thrown out of the King’s Army, but Swinton knew it was better to keep his enemy where he could see him.

  Nearby, a trumpet sounded, signifying the end of the performance and the start of the gift-giving ceremony. Down below, noblemen and women queued to present their offerings to Heathton’s young princess. Queen Vera helped her reluctant daughter to her feet and sat her in the small throne beside her brother’s. The princess kicked her slippered feet and turned her clouded gaze in her mother’s direction, a deep frown appearing on her face. Prince Jaxon was also squirming restlessly in his seat, but after a wink from Fi, Swinton caught the prince whispering something to Olena that wiped the crease of frustration from her brow.

  Adjusting his stance, Swinton surveyed the crowd as prominent families presented Olena with rare fabrics for gowns, jewels from the finest artisans in Ellest, and baskets of fresh fruit, which Swinton knew the little girl would turn away in private in favour of sweets from the local confectioner. Queen Vera sat beside Olena, describing each gift to the princess so she could give her thanks to the person before her. The ceremony went on without incident, though Swinton kept his eyes on Lennox. There was unfinished business between them – that much he knew.

  At last, the final nobleman stepped forward. The crowd burst into applause at the sight of the famous sigil emblazoned on the chest of the man’s tunic. Swinton took a steadying breath. Sir Caleb Swinton, his father, had entered the arena. The knight tugged gently on a lead rope he held, coaxing a young filly out from behind one of the piers.

  ‘Your Majesties, Your Highnesses.’ Sir Caleb’s voice projected up to where the royal family sat and the arena fell silent under his spell. His eyes settled upon Princess Olena. ‘Princess. On behalf of my family, I wish you a happy name day. We offer this prize filly from the best horse-rearing establishment in all of Ellest.’

  Olena’s attention locked onto the knight before her. ‘A horse?’

  Sir Caleb smiled. ‘A young horse, Your Highness. She will grow to be one
of the most valuable mares in the realm …’

  ‘For me?’ The princess turned to her mother in disbelief.

  Queen Vera exchanged smiles with the knight. ‘Yes, my love. For you. Now, what do you say?’

  As dusk fell, the amphitheatre emptied, with the royal family having retired to the castle for the evening. Swinton watched the drunken revellers and entertainers clear the arena, but his attention snagged on something. Lennox. He lingered in the shadows, head ducked close to two other guards. Swinton’s fists clenched at his sides. The bastard was stirring unease within his army.

  ‘Hope you’ve got that under control,’ said Fi from beside him, arms crossed over his chest.

  ‘It’s under control,’ Swinton replied, not tearing his gaze away from Lennox. He had ordered Stefan to monitor the situation from the lower ranks in the guard, and he and Fi were tracking Lennox’s movements. There wasn’t much more they could do without feeding the already existing tensions between the men.

  He elbowed Fi. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where?’

  Swinton shook his head. ‘Dinner? At my father’s estate. You don’t remember?’

  Fi stared at him blankly.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no.’

  ‘Sorry, old friend. Of course.’

  Swinton frowned at his Battalonian brother. Fiore had been distracted of late; anxious, even, which was unusual for the ordinarily jovial captain. He had been disappearing, writing hurried letters and sealing them with his own emblem, the one that matched the flame tattoo on his forearm rather than the royal sigil. Whenever Swinton questioned him, he merely shrugged and said: ‘Not to worry, old friend, not to worry.’ Swinton didn’t like to press him, but he got the distinct impression something simmered below the surface there.

  The Swinton family estate was located just outside of Heathton, surrounded by woodlands and acres of prosperous fields: King Arden’s gift to Sir Caleb along with his knighthood. Swinton and Fi rode up the gravel road leading through the trees to the towering manor beyond. Swinton slowed his horse as they approached the gates and nodded to the guard stationed at the entrance. He rarely returned to the family estate nowadays and the staff were all different from those he’d grown up with. Torches lined the path to the courtyard, and they dismounted at the doors, an attendant waiting to take their horses to the stables.