Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  ‘Dimitri,’ his mother said warmly as the doors opened. Lady Yuliana was a tall woman who stood poised like a dancer. But while her posture was always formal, her broad smile remained inviting. She kissed both his cheeks and did the same to Fiore. ‘Welcome. You must be famished after today’s duties.’

  She led them inside through the parlour, where Sir Caleb stood by a drinks tray, goblet of wine already in hand.

  ‘Father.’ Swinton bowed his head.

  Fi followed suit. ‘Sir Caleb,’ he said in greeting.

  The knight came forward and shook both their hands. ‘Glad you could join us this evening. I’ve had one of the servants fetch a good vintage from the cellars. We should toast to the princess.’

  ‘It’s being poured in the dining hall,’ Lady Yuliana interjected. ‘Come now, Caleb. The young men are hungry.’

  They followed Lady and Sir Swinton through to the dining hall, where numerous animal hides were draped from the walls, and a great hearth burned steadily. The mouth-watering aromas of roast vegetables and boar wafted in from the kitchen as they took their places at the table, which was much too large for the four of them. Sir Caleb sat at the head, his wife to his right.

  A servant placed a goblet in front of Swinton. He murmured his thanks as Fi accepted one as well.

  Sir Caleb raised his glass. ‘To Princess Olena.’

  ‘To Princess Olena,’ they chorused.

  The wine was delicious. His father had indeed selected one of their finer bottles, and Swinton savoured the bold flavours, so different from the watered-down tavern liquor he and Fi were used to.

  As the food was served, Lady Yuliana smiled at him encouragingly. ‘So, Dimitri, do tell us. What’s been happening in the castle lately? Any news to share with your ageing parents?’

  Swinton glanced at his father. ‘Well …’

  His mother nodded, her eyes bright.

  ‘I … I am due for a knighthood any day now.’

  ‘A knighthood?’ Lady Yuliana beamed. ‘That’s wonderful, Dimitri.’

  Sir Caleb cleared his throat. ‘The king has spoken of this with you?’

  Quiet settled over the table, and Swinton didn’t dare look to Fi. He forced himself to meet his father’s stare. ‘Not in so many words, as yet.’

  Sir Caleb nodded slowly, his gaze suddenly far away.

  Swinton nearly hissed as Fiore’s boot connected with his shin under the table.

  ‘That was quite a gift today, sir,’ the Battalonian said, with a pointed glance at Swinton.

  The knight looked relieved at the change of topic. ‘Yes, thank you. I hand-picked the filly from the Willowdale stables myself.’

  ‘Willowdale?’ Swinton heard himself say.

  ‘Yes, son. You know those stables are the most revered in all of Ellest, perhaps even the whole realm. They breed King Arden’s stallions there.’

  Swinton nodded. Yes, he had known that. Fi delivered another swift kick below the table, clearly knowing full well that it was not the quality of the horses that had snagged Swinton’s attention.

  ‘She will need to be fitted for tack, and given proper training in the round pen with the stable master,’ his father was saying. ‘Perhaps an errand for your disgraced underling?’

  ‘Lennox?’

  Sir Caleb nodded. ‘Yes. His punishments were not nearly severe enough for his atrocious actions at the King’s Tournament.’

  ‘He was demoted, Father.’

  ‘For what he did to you, for the disrespect he showed this family, he did not pay enough. What would he have done to you, were the boot on the other foot?’

  Swinton suppressed a sigh. His father was not alone in that opinion. Humiliation. That was what Caleb and Fiore had advised. Humiliate Lennox into submission. It was the only way degenerates like Lennox complied, they had argued. But Swinton hated that aspect of being commander, hated playing the petty political games. They detracted from his actual duties: ensuring the safety of the royal family, and the readiness of the King’s Army.

  ‘That’s not the sort of commander, or knight, for that matter, that I wish to be, Father.’

  ‘Being a commander or a knight is not about what you wish,’ Sir Caleb said, studying him. ‘And that, my son, will come back to bite you in the backside, I promise you.’

  Swinton shook his head and took another sip from his goblet, the wine suddenly tasting sour. ‘Fi and I will take the filly to Willowdale.’

  ‘What? Dimitri, that’s no task for a commander. Certainly no task for a knight,’ Sir Caleb scoffed.

  Swinton saw Fi open his mouth to make an objection, but this time, Swinton delivered his own kick to the Battalonian, and his friend fell silent. In truth, Swinton hadn’t stopped thinking of the sharp-tongued, golden-haired woman who’d spoken to him after the tournament. Spoken at him. Fearlessly. Which he’d liked. That she had the audacity to lecture the Commander of the King’s Army … He didn’t know many people of whom he could say the same. Her bright eyes and unexpected roughness had ensnared him, and he’d told himself he’d seize any chance he had to see her again.

  Sir Caleb looked between his son and Fiore. ‘Your time would be better spent elsewhere.’

  Swinton ground his teeth, but his mother rested a hand on his arm.

  ‘Hush now, Caleb,’ she interjected, calling a servant over for more wine. ‘Dimitri can make his own decisions, and waste his time as he sees fit. Leave him be.’

  Swinton didn’t refrain from rolling his eyes. His mother was skilled at delivering backhanded support like this when he and his father opposed each other, which was often.

  His father’s umber eyes didn’t leave his. ‘You’re right, Yulie,’ he said, before draining his goblet.

  Later, as they stood around the sitting room, Swinton studied his parents, seemingly unchanged in the home in which he’d grown up. The son of a famous knight, now soon to be a knight himself. He wondered if it would be enough then. If it would ever be enough.

  ‘It’s late,’ he heard himself say. ‘I have to get back to check on the guards before I retire.’

  ‘Surely your men are capable of guarding a few doors?’ his father said.

  Swinton scowled. ‘I take my position at the castle seriously, Father.’

  Behind him, Fiore gave him a push and laughed lightly, trying to diffuse the tension as always. ‘Yes, Sir Caleb. We know Dimi is always serious.’

  Swinton placed his goblet on the table deliberately. ‘Shall we?’ he said to Fi.

  ‘As you wish, old friend.’

  In the formal throne room the next day, Swinton requested leave from the king to go to Willowdale. If King Arden was surprised by this, he hid it well. But just as Swinton bowed and made to leave, the king called him back.

  ‘Commander?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty?’

  ‘Upon your return, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you.’

  Swinton bowed his head. ‘Is there anything I can assist you with now, my king?’

  King Arden studied him for a long moment, before shaking his head. ‘No, Commander. Upon your return.’

  Swinton and Fiore started the ride to Willowdale that day, with the princess’ filly in tow. His father had been right: she was a beautiful horse. Even at such a young age, it was clear that at maturity, she was going to be one of the most revered mares in the realm. Though riding with her now was making their journey twice as long.

  As they trekked across the rich green lands, Swinton stole glances at his captain. Fi was restless in the saddle, his hand absentmindedly straying to the lick of fire tattooed on his forearm.

  Fi finally clicked his tongue in frustration. ‘What is it, Dimi?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You keep watching me.’

  ‘I’m checking the surrounds.’

  Fi snorted. ‘You’ve never been a good liar, old friend.’

  Swinton sighed. ‘Not to you.’

  ‘No, not to me.’

  ‘So will you t
ell me, then?’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘What has been bothering you.’

  ‘Nothi—’

  ‘Now who’s lying?’

  Fi gave a grim smile. ‘There is some family business back in Belbarrow that needs attending,’ he allowed. ‘And so far, it’s been difficult to find a solution here in Ellest.’

  Swinton frowned. Fi rarely spoke of his family, so it was surprising to hear that he was dealing with Murphadias matters from abroad. ‘What sort of business?’

  ‘The usual sort of family squabbling, old friend.’

  ‘Is there more to it than that, Fi? It’s unlike you to let family politics affect you …’

  Fi raised a brow. ‘There’s also the matter of my brother-in-arms being smitten with some golden-haired girl —’

  ‘What —?’

  Fi merely grinned and urged his horse into a canter.

  They stayed at the same tavern as always in Grayside. The oily barman, Jasper, kicked patrons out of their favourite booth to accommodate them. Swinton and Fi sipped their ale in companionable silence, watching the card games and debates unfold as the night wore on. The last time they’d been here had been on the eve of the King’s Tournament, where Lennox and his lackeys had drugged and kidnapped Swinton. Sometimes he could still feel the burn of the chemicals in his nostrils, and the rising grip of panicked helplessness.

  Fi nudged him with his elbow. ‘Before my days are done, that bastard will pay for what he did to you here, old friend.’

  Goosebumps shot across Swinton’s arms, but he forced himself to shrug. He wouldn’t let Lennox get the better of him, wouldn’t let Fi see how much that night had affected him.

  ‘I’m going to retire for the evening,’ he said, draining his mug.

  A dark look crossed Fi’s face, but the Battalonian let the matter be.

  Swinton gave him a reassuring smile. ‘I assume you’ll find other entertainment for the remainder of the night?’

  ‘Nothing is more preferable than my brother’s company.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Swinton scoffed.

  ‘You’re right,’ Fi laughed. ‘Get a move on, your brooding is deterring my admirers.’

  Not failing to notice the women lingering near their booth, Swinton laughed and bid Fi goodnight.

  Their packs had been taken up to their double room upon their arrival and basins of hot water had been prepared. Mind churning, Swinton readied himself for bed. He mulled over the potential stupidity of his decision to come here. He knew nothing about Eliza Carlington, other than the fact that she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. And that she was beautiful. Breathtakingly so. Perhaps she already had a suitor. Why wouldn’t she?

  Swinton had been with women. One didn’t grow up beside Fi without being exposed to such matters. Though Swinton always suspected any success he had was due to who his friend was, rather than who he was. But as his thoughts moved between the brief dalliances of his past, he realised he’d never met anyone like Eliza Carlington.

  Feeling suddenly restless, Swinton decided to rejoin Fi at the bar. There would be no sleep for him this evening.

  Downstairs, the rowdiness of the tavern had increased tenfold. Swinton stood at the bottom step, trying to spy Fi in the crowd, no doubt surrounded by eager ladies as he shared one of his many captivating tales. But Fi was not where Swinton anticipated. He spotted the brawny Battalonian tucked away in a corner booth, his head bowed close beside another’s. Swinton couldn’t see the stranger’s face, only Fi’s, his mouth a tight line of concern. Swinton suppressed the urge to storm over and demand to be let in on their secret. Instead, he pressed himself against the wall as the stranger stood, a tattered tailcoat falling about his legs. The two men shook hands, and the stranger left, his coat vanishing beyond the door as though he’d never been here.

  Swinton debated confronting Fi, but his friend looked rattled as he called Jasper over to refill his mug. Without a word, Swinton slipped back upstairs. It was a conversation for another day.

  The next morning, Fi was conveniently occupied when Swinton woke and readied the horses for the ride to Willowdale stables. The captain had made some thinly veiled excuse about an errand, and Swinton didn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed.

  As he started the ride to Willowdale with the young filly trotting alongside his own horse, Swinton’s stomach churned. What if she wasn’t there? What was he going to say if he saw her? Or what if, at worst, she didn’t want anything to do with him? He took a deep breath. There was only one way to know.

  The ride seemed to take forever and yet no time at all. Swinton stared at the gates of the Willowdale stables and swallowed, hard. This was a battle of a different kind. Clicking his tongue, he urged his horse and the filly forward. Inside the gates, the cobblestone courtyard was bustling with stable hands and carriage drivers. Swinton dismounted and approached a young man carrying a bale of hay.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  The man’s eyes grew wide as he took in the crest on Swinton’s chest. ‘Commander Swinton … We weren’t expecting you.’

  Swinton didn’t recognise the man, but he dealt with many people in his line of work. ‘I’m here on the king’s business,’ he said. ‘Might I enquire after Eliza Carlington?’

  ‘Of course, Commander. I believe she’s at the southern end of the stables,’ he replied, pointing.

  ‘Thank you.’ Swinton made to leave.

  ‘Commander?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I just have to say. That final joust at the King’s Tournament … That was really something. Even my pa said so. Said he’d never seen a manoeuvre like it before. That you’ll make a fine knight.’

  Swinton blinked. It was not the first time someone had said as much. It was often followed by questions of when he next intended to compete. He wouldn’t speak of that now. ‘Thank you,’ he replied with a nod.

  Leaving the horses tied outside, Swinton ventured into the grand stables, the scent of sweet hay and horse manure instantly filling his nostrils. Slowly, he walked past the rows of stalls, heading towards the southern end. In truth, he’d never been inside the stables. During his visits to Willowdale, his horse had always been ready and waiting for him in the courtyard. Now, as his boots tapped against the stone floor, he was surprised to find how peaceful it was within. The comforting scent, the warmth and the sound of the horses shuffling about and whinnying in their stalls, soothed him. And it was just as he relaxed that he spotted her, his breath catching in his throat.

  She was shovelling fresh hay into a stall at the end of the row. Swinton paused at the gate, watching her golden hair fall like a curtain over her face. She wore a white apron over a simple dress, both smeared with dirt, and patches of perspiration darkened the fabric beneath her arms.

  At last, she looked up. ‘Oh,’ she said. Then, with a critical survey of his bruise-free face, she added: ‘You’re looking better than the last time I saw you.’

  The first and only time Eliza Carlington had seen him, he’d been in a bloodied state after the jousting match.

  ‘Thanks,’ he found himself saying. ‘You look …’ In truth, she looked a mess. With her facing him now, he could see the streaks of dirt on her cheeks and the straw caught in her hair. She seemed flustered. ‘Like you need a bath,’ he finished.

  For a second, Eliza’s eyes bulged, incredulous. Swinton’s stomach dropped. What was he thinking? Coming all this way to insult her?

  But Eliza did something he didn’t expect. She laughed. Not just a polite chuckle. She tipped her head back and laughed from deep within. The sound made Swinton giddy. ‘You’re right about that,’ she said finally, wiping her hands on her apron and turning to him fully. ‘What can I help you with, Commander?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I’m here on the king’s business. The princess’ new filly needs to be fitted with tack and is to receive additional training.’

  Eliza raised a brow and joined him outside the stall. ‘An errand f
it for a commander, was it?’

  ‘I do as the king orders.’

  Swinton didn’t fail to notice the slight tug at the corner of Eliza’s mouth at his words, but she said no more. Instead, she motioned for him to follow her to the tack room. Inside, it smelled like oiled leather, and Swinton marvelled at the dozens of saddles mounted on the walls.

  ‘Do you have the king’s specifications?’

  Swinton dug a hand into his pocket and fished out the folded piece of parchment. Eliza took it from him, her fingers brushing his. With a glance at him, she studied the parchment, chewing her bottom lip.

  ‘This can be done,’ she said. ‘Though it will take a few weeks.’

  ‘A few weeks?’

  She nodded. ‘For any royally commissioned work, we have a specialist from Havennesse do the detailing. It takes longer. It’s the best work in the realm.’

  Something struck Swinton. ‘In that case … might we add some additional detailing? I think the princess would appreciate it being more tactile.’

  Eliza looked at him then – really looked at him. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘I’d be grateful.’

  She pocketed the parchment and nodded again. ‘Fine. You’ll leave the filly to board here for training?’

  ‘Yes. I believe your father trained the princess’ last pony?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘It’s the king’s wish that he oversees this filly’s training personally.’

  Eliza fiddled with her apron. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Very well then,’ she said, turning towards the door, her golden hair swishing down her back.

  ‘I gave it up,’ Swinton blurted out.

  Eliza turned back. ‘What?’

  ‘The jousting. I gave it up.’

  ‘But …’ She frowned. ‘But that tournament … You won. It’s all people have been talking about.’

  ‘I know.’

  Silence lingered between them as Swinton’s eyes met hers. He wouldn’t say it aloud – the reason he’d retired from competing. He didn’t need to. He felt himself flush, but he wouldn’t break eye contact. It was Eliza who looked away first, tucking her hair behind her ear.