Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  Bleak shrugged and slid a coin to the barman, greedily eyeing the fresh ale before her. It wasn’t until she’d downed that tankard that she realised how late it was, and how drunk she was. When she stood, she swayed.

  ‘Oops,’ she mumbled as she staggered into the table.

  Maz chuckled and pulled her arm over his shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I should get you home —’

  But as she stumbled again, she knocked over Maz’s half-full tankard. Ale sloshed over his free hand and arm. He cursed loudly and released her, shaking the liquid from his wrist, where the drink had soaked into his bracelet.

  Bleak reached for it to inspect the damage. ‘Sorry —’

  ‘Don’t!’ Maz snapped, snatching his wrist away from her.

  Bleak froze, a buzzing suddenly sounding in her head. It wasn’t from the drink. This was something else – magic. Her magic was thrumming, as though whatever had been keeping it at bay had been —

  Bleak’s gaze shot to the dripping bracelet, recognising it for what it must be. A talisman. An object treated with magical herbs, designed to protect its wearer from Ashai power.

  Maz knew. Or suspected.

  As the realisation hit Bleak, so did Maz’s thoughts.

  Any feelings of drunken merriment evaporated and Bleak’s blood went cold. The ale had stripped away the bracelet’s protection, and now his mind was open to her, his internal voice echoing loudly in her head.

  I can salvage this, he thought. The charm’s still effective – she hasn’t said anything. Stupid girl’s drunk out of her skull, anyway. I just need to get closer. I nearly had her … Just one little slip-up and I’ll know her power for sure. And once I do … I can demand a price. Offer her to the highest bidder —

  Bleak schooled her face into drunken neutrality and Maz saw what he wanted to see.

  Bastard, she cursed silently. Fucking bastard. There was no way she’d ever let him discover her secret. She would protect herself, and Senior, at all costs.

  ‘I think I’m gonna be sick,’ she slurred, staggering away from him.

  ‘Here, let me help you.’

  ‘No, thanks —’

  But despite her protests, his hands found her waist, and as he led her from the inn, his palm rested on the small of her back. Perhaps she really would be sick …

  She pulled away, slamming into the side of the building, playing the drunk card. In reality, she now felt stone-cold sober. It had all been a lie. He hadn’t wanted to be her friend, hadn’t had any interest in her, except to sell her out.

  Fucking bastard.

  He was still trying to get close to her, forcing his body up against hers, acting the part of the concerned companion, the potential new lover. His hand skimmed the bare skin of her wrist and she shuddered, his thoughts still loud and clear.

  A pressure point, she said there was a pressure point, and if I found that —

  Bleak had no idea what a pressure point was, or who Maz had been speaking to, but … she was done.

  ‘Get off,’ she said.

  ‘What? Bleak, it’s alright, I’m just getting you home ...’ He looked genuinely baffled. Bleak felt a surge of fury at the nerve of him.

  He reached across and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his eyes a mask of sympathy. She pushed his hand away and straightened her shoulders.

  ‘Maz?’ she said, sounding braver than she felt.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, voice laced with concern.

  ‘You can fuck off now.’

  He started. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  She watched and heard the confusion wash over him, and then the realisation. The realisation that he would get nothing he wanted that evening. Confusion turned to fury.

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Bleak,’ he spat, his mouth curling into a sneer as he strode away. ‘You’re nothing but a filthy gutter rat.’

  She’d known men like this from the taverns in the capital: a kind facade at first, but once spurned, becoming something else entirely.

  ‘I just can’t believe you’d be so naïve …’ Bren’s words followed Bleak all the way down the path to home.

  She swore, palming the tears from her eyes, frustrated and humiliated. Was it naïve to think that someone could enjoy her company? Her conversation? Apparently. She’d fallen for Maz’s subtle touches and lingering gaze. Like a prize idiot.

  Never again, she vowed, gritting her teeth as she pushed the cottage gate open.

  She didn’t bother keeping quiet as she entered. Senior was as she’d left him – head tipped to the ceiling, snoring lightly, hand grasped around the neck of the glass bottle. Fresh tears burned her eyes, and this time, she let them fall freely. After all, there was no one there to see.

  Bleak’s eyes were sore and puffy the next day as she made her way down to the wharves. She was tired. Selfish or not, exhaustion had made her bones heavy.

  ‘Thought I’d find ya here,’ a familiar voice sounded from the deck of The Daybreaker. There was a soft thud as Bren jumped from ship to marina. His gaze lingered on her red-rimmed eyes, but before he could ask, she blurted:

  ‘You were right.’

  A steely rage seemed to settle over her friend. ‘What did he do?’

  Bleak couldn’t tell him even if she wanted to. Only Senior knew of her secret, and even he didn’t know the true extent of it. No one could. So now, Bleak swallowed the truth and simply shook her head.

  ‘I took care of it.’

  ‘What —’

  ‘Nothing needs to be done. I’m more than capable of handling it myself, and I have.’

  Bren studied her for a moment before nodding. ‘Fair enough.’

  She let out a breath of relief. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not here,’ he replied.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Well, I’m not supposed to be … Not yet.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I spoke to Ma,’ he said. ‘Last night. Gave her a bit of a talking to, really. I’m still not allowed out on the water.’ He gazed at the sapphire waves longingly. ‘But things are … well, you’ll see.’

  Bleak frowned. ‘Alright …’

  Bren winked, looking more like himself than he had in weeks. ‘Be seeing ya.’

  She watched him go, feeling more herself than she had in a long while, too. As she set sail, she found herself smiling.

  There was something different about the cottage when she approached the gate at dusk. Warily, Bleak realised that the front door was ajar, and there was a strange clanging noise coming from within.

  She had no weapon. Hands trembling, she picked up the largest stick she could find and approached on her tiptoes. Heart hammering, she pushed the door wide.

  It was Senior. In the kitchen.

  ‘What …’ she started, dropping her makeshift weapon and stepping inside.

  She couldn’t believe her eyes. Senior was at the counter, tossing a salad in a large mixing bowl. What in the realm … But then she saw it.

  On the kitchen table, displayed proudly on a thick wooden board, was one of Mrs Clayton’s famous palma pies.

  ‘Senior …’ Bleak began, stepping closer.

  But the sight of Senior’s grin caused a thick lump to form in her throat. He strode over to the table, placing the salad bowl next to the pie and straightening the cutlery he’d set out.

  ‘Tomorrow, I’m gonna get us some rainbow trout,’ he told her. ‘The Claytons are coming over for dinner.’

  The bottle of amber liquid was gone, and as Bleak and Senior sat down to eat, she felt something shift back into its rightful place.

  She swore it was the best damn palma pie she’d ever tasted.

  The next morning, Senior insisted Bleak take the day off.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ she argued, already grabbing her coat.

  ‘Nonsense. You’ve been carrying this family for weeks. I’ve already asked Jolly Sam and Abner from our Heathton crew to join, anyho
w. You take the day. Do whatever it is that young people do.’

  Bleak paused in the doorway. She had no idea what people her age did. She’d spent her whole life riding the coastal tides with Bren and Senior, and that was exactly how she liked it. She wanted to go with Senior now. Wanted to tell him that she’d missed him terribly, and that now he was more himself again, she wanted to spend all the time in the world with him. But as Senior shrugged on his waxed coat, she said none of it. They never spoke of such things.

  He waved at her from the gate and set out towards the marina. I’ll do better, she promised herself.

  Bleak spent the day doing something very foreign to her: cleaning. She and Senior were generally tidy people, but over the last few weeks, the cottage had started looking worse for wear. And with them expecting company for once, it seemed like the right time to locate the old broom and mop.

  Surprisingly, Bleak found that she enjoyed herself. The rhythmic sweep of the broom, the satisfying wipe of a damp rag across a grimy surface – it all kept her from reliving the utter humiliation of the night at the inn. Instead, she focused on how pleased Senior would be when he saw their spotless home.

  The relief she had felt upon seeing that palma pie had been immense. Bren’s ‘talking to’ must have been incredibly effective. Bleak hoped that, before long, she’d have her best friend back out on the water with them.

  As she cleaned, she couldn’t help her mind wandering to the night of the Eery Brothers’ performance. She and Bren had danced. Together. In a way that had made her chest pound and her hands grow clammy. Things might have gone in a very different direction if … Bleak shook the thought from her head. No one knew what would have happened, what could happen still. All anyone could do was face each day as it came.

  It was late afternoon when a knock sounded at the door.

  ‘Bren!’ Bleak smiled as she pulled the door inward. ‘You’re early.’

  But there was something wrong. Bren could hardly meet her gaze, his hands shoved into his pockets.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, reaching for him.

  He stepped back and his face crumpled. ‘I didn’t know how … There’s no best way … Bleak … I have to tell you …’

  ‘Tell me what?’ A dozen possibilities flashed before her. Mrs Clayton had changed her mind – Bren was forbidden from fishing with them ever again. Or worse: they’d lost someone else – another brother?

  But before she could focus on the images coursing through Bren’s tormented thoughts, she spotted the farm horse at the gate, something large wrapped in canvas lying across its back.

  ‘Bren …’ She took a trembling step towards it.

  Bren made to grab her arm, but she shook him off. He followed her. ‘He washed up in Felder’s Bay. Him and Jolly Sam … I was the one who found them. I …’

  Bleak stopped listening when she reached the horse. A strangled cry escaped her and she fell to her knees, not feeling a thing as she slammed onto the stone path.

  For peeking out of the greying canvas was a tanned, weathered hand, and the sleeve of Senior’s waxed coat.

  The Last Order

  The fire in the hearth crackled, warming Swinton’s chilled skin as he pushed his boots off and sank into the settee with a contented sigh. Eliza’s home, their home – for the time being, anyway – was small but cosy. A perfect place to spend the Ellestian winter nights.

  A soft hand brushed Swinton’s arm and he shuffled back to make room for his wife. She squeezed alongside him and rested her head on his chest. He could feel that she was smiling.

  ‘How was it?’ she asked, pulling his arms around her and resting his hands on her firm, round stomach. He ran his palms over the pronounced bump, still in awe that Eliza was growing his son or daughter inside her.

  ‘It was fine,’ he told her as his mind traced back through the day. He was overseeing the preparations for the annual King’s Tournament in Willowdale. An odious task ordinarily, but this time … This time it meant that Swinton was able to stay with Eliza, in a way that husband and wife had not yet been able to. He sighed again and stroked Eliza’s stomach.

  ‘There was some misunderstanding about the dimensions of the king’s private tent,’ he continued. ‘But the mistakes have been rectified. Everything else is going well and according to schedule. I think the king will be pleased.’

  ‘Even though his favourite soldier isn’t competing?’

  Swinton smiled. ‘King Arden knows I don’t joust any more …’

  ‘Who said I was talking about you?’ Eliza quipped, squeezing his arm.

  ‘Very funny.’ Swinton kissed the top of her head. He wished they could stay here forever. Their tiny home was a gardener’s cottage at the back of the Carlington family’s main house. Here, they could pretend that there weren’t such things as noble ranks and duties to the King’s Army.

  Swinton vowed things would be different soon. He wouldn’t have his child born into a life of secrecy, a life where their father wasn’t a presence in their early years. Nor could he stand the thought of Eliza left unsupported. He’d been doing his best, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Knew his best didn’t yet equate to the husband and father he wished to be.

  ‘What do you think of Ameliah?’ Eliza was saying, tracing circles on the back of his hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘For the baby,’ she clarified, not missing Swinton’s momentary daze.

  ‘Ameliah.’ Swinton sounded it out. ‘I’m not sure …’

  ‘Well, we need to agree on some options soon. We don’t have long now.’

  One month. That was all the time they had left before the little one graced them with its presence.

  ‘How can you be so sure it’s a girl?’ he asked, kissing Eliza’s temple absentmindedly.

  ‘Because my morning sickness was so severe, and I’m carrying high … That’s what Ma said, anyway.’

  Swinton had heard the explanation a dozen times at least, but he couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut that their child would be a boy.

  ‘Dimitri?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Have you told Fi yet?’

  Swinton chewed the inside of his cheek. Fi knew he and Eliza had been courting – had been the one to encourage it, in fact – but he knew nought of their wedding, nor of their expanding family.

  ‘You haven’t,’ Eliza answered for him. ‘I’m beginning to feel as though you’re ashamed of me, my love.’

  Swinton drew back, horrified that such a thought would cross her mind. Eliza turned to look at him, and he took her face in his hands. ‘Never,’ he said fiercely.

  ‘Then why?’

  Swinton didn’t know why – not exactly. He knew he didn’t want to burst their little private bubble of happiness. He selfishly wanted Eliza just to himself. But there had been setbacks, too … Lennox’s return, the king’s somewhat public shaming of Swinton, Fi’s increasing number of journeys back to Battalon … But these were no excuses, and Eliza saw right through each and every one.

  ‘You’re afraid,’ she said quietly.

  She was right. More than anything, he was afraid of how Sir Caleb Swinton would react. He couldn’t bear the thought of Eliza being humiliated and disrespected as she had been during her last visit to the Swinton Estate. And worse, he couldn’t stand the thought that his child might be born into a family who wouldn’t acknowledge it.

  ‘I know,’ he said finally.

  Eliza didn’t push him. She was patient like that, one of the many reasons Swinton knew she’d make a wonderful mother. She was still tracing circles on his arm and he felt his eyelids droop. They would figure it all out, he vowed silently. They would figure it all out together.

  The next morning was cold and crisp. Swinton left Eliza in bed as he set out to see Stefan, who had been left to supervise the squires’ horsemanship training. Though the sun was high over the Willowdale stable grounds, its warmth was just out of reach. Between barking orders from the fence at the squires in the cor
ral, Stefan cupped his hands to his mouth and blew hot air into his palms. The young soldier didn’t take his eyes off his trainees, calling out instructions to one of the lagging squires as Swinton approached. Swinton felt a surge of pride. It wasn’t all that long ago that Stefan had been in their boots. Running a finger along the jagged scar down his chin, Swinton recalled the youngster’s heroic actions in Battalon. Were it not for Stefan, he wouldn’t have made it home to Ellest …

  ‘Commander.’ Stefan bowed his head in greeting.

  ‘Stefan. How are they progressing this morning?’

  Stefan tugged his cloak more tightly around him. ‘Well enough, Commander. We’ve been at it since dawn.’

  ‘Good. They need to be ready for the display at the tournament.’ Even the squires needed to demonstrate their skills to the king.

  ‘We won’t let you down, sir.’

  ‘How many times must I tell you, Stefan? I’m not a sir.’

  His eager disciple winked. ‘Not yet.’

  Swinton shook his head. He’d never met someone who had such blind faith in a rumour. All the same, Swinton was grateful. Sometimes, a little blind faith was nice.

  ‘Dimi!’ boomed a deep, melodic voice. There was no mistaking who it was. Captain Fiore Murphadias strode into view. Wrapped in thick black palma furs, he seemed larger than life – even more so than usual.

  ‘Morning, Stefan,’ Fi said cheerfully, clapping a strong hand to the young man’s shoulder.

  ‘Good to see you, Captain,’ Stefan replied with a grin.

  Swinton turned to his friend. ‘What brings you here, Fi? Aren’t you meant to be supervising the remaining work on His Majesty’s tent?’

  ‘I thought you’d be happy to see me, old friend,’ Fi said with a laugh. ‘But worry not, Dimi. All is finished. I came to ask you about lunch plans.’

  Swinton cocked a brow. ‘It’s not yet noon.’

  Fi shrugged, eyes bright with mischief. ‘A man’s got to eat, no?’

  ‘I have lunch plans.’

  Fi beamed. ‘Excellent, because I had none. I’ll join you. Where are we dining?’

  Before Swinton knew it, Fi was following him through the paddocks towards the Carlingtons’ house, where Swinton had arranged to join Eliza’s parents for the midday meal.