War of Mist Read online

  War of Mist

  Book III: The Oremere Chronicles

  Helen Scheuerer

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Did you enjoy this book?

  About the Author

  Need more Oremere?

  Published by Talem Press, 2019

  An imprint of Writer’s Edit Press

  www.talempress.com

  Copyright © Helen Scheuerer 2019

  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, 2019

  Print ISBN 978-0-9941655-9-6

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9941655-8-9

  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.

  Dedication

  This one’s for my own kindred, Lisy and Eva.

  Prologue

  The king’s suite was dark but for a beam of pale moonlight streaming through the window. King Arden lay in the canopied bed, pale-gold beard tipped to the ceiling as he snored softly. Ines gazed at him with distaste from where she stood naked by the glass. He had cost her much in recent months. The fool had failed to detain Henrietta Valia and Alarise Thornton. He’d let the prizes slip right through his manicured fingers, too concerned with boasting of his minor victories to see what was happening beneath his own nose. The woman shook her head and turned to look out onto the dark castle grounds.

  ‘If you want something done right, do it yourself,’ she muttered under her breath. Her fingers toyed with the layered necklace resting against her collarbone, a pretty gift from the infatuated king. She was fond of this piece in particular, adorned with rare jewels from lands long forgotten. It reminded her of something her mother had worn so many years before. A piece she was meant to inherit, before they’d taken her and stripped her of all her rights and belongings. The order of the high priestesses allowed no effects, no personal property, but now … now she had many things to call her own.

  Below, the castle maze sprawled across the grounds, and beyond the walls and gatehouse, the whole of Ellest bent to her will. It was all hers. She had taken it easily, as was her destiny. The instinct of the magic in her veins drove her to take and take, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to add to her kingdom, her collection. The need to do so raged within her, a demand, a drive to fill the gaping hole in her chest.

  Then, there were those who threatened to take away all she held dear now. Tonight, along with all the other nights, the thought of them, and what they were searching for, kept her from sleep. She had begun her own search for the item they planned to use against her. The maze, the armoury, the jewel vault had all proved fruitless, but earlier in the week, she’d had a breakthrough. The old library. She had felt its presence. Demanding solitude, she had locked herself away and combed through every volume the damn room held. Nothing. But she knew it was in there. And she would find it. Rheyah help the realm when she did.

  She sat at the dresser, her fingers finding the silk scarves Arden had given her on its surface. These were her favourites, imported from the dark markets in Battalon. Many of her cherished trinkets were from there, though it had been a long time since she’d visited herself. Looking up, she could make out the faint outline of her shaved head in the mirror and she set about wrapping the luxurious scarves around her scalp, ensuring that the soft fabric draped about her shoulders and framed her freckled face. Casimir used to do it for her, tying the silk so gently the wrap would slip from her head and he would have to start again. He had done many things for her, but … he was gone now. After all she had done for him. She had shown him the light, shown him the way Oremere was meant to be ruled. She finished wrapping the scarves and stood. She would have him back soon enough.

  Donning a flowing silk robe, she left the sleeping king. Arden was good for warming her bed and nothing more. A costly gamble was all he was. She would be done with him once Casimir was returned to her. Anger simmered under her skin, and her numerous powers unfurled in answer, begging to be released. Her skin crawled as they did, each type of magic at odds with the next, housed so closely together within the one host. No one knew what it was like. No one.

  In the corridor, torchlight flickered and shadows danced across the walls. At one point in her life she would have been afraid to be alone in a silent, foreign castle, but not now. Now, she was the one people feared.

  She walked the same path she had the night before, and the night before. Even in the corridors she could feel the presence of it. That godsforsaken thing Casimir had forged all those years ago. Something so simple and pretty, yet so full of dishonesty. She knew he’d gone to the lisloiks for help. Its quiet hum was like a song to the heirs of Oremere, and to her.

  The enemies of our enemies make for strong allies, she mused. The lisloik queen, Delja, was certainly an enemy. But Ines had defeated the ruthless descendant of the water goddess with toxic mist and driven her and her people from their territory in Oremere.

  Now, the thing called to her. Perhaps Delja had bewitched it so. It had not been a gift for her, as Casimir had told her. The thing was not a symbol of his love for her, it was not a measure of protection. It was a weapon against her. She knew that now and clenched her jaw at the thought of it, at the thought of her Casimir’s betrayal. The depth of his deceit was endless. He had aligned himself with rebels, water monsters, Valians and all manner of scum. All to take her down. He would be punished for his lies. Again and again. And this time, he would not come back from it.

  Yet she could not help falling into the memory of when he’d given the amulet to her. It shimmered before her, as real now as it was then …

  Tangled in each other’s limbs, behind a heavy curtain in the temple, she and Casimir whispered about their future. About Oremere’s future. He was by her side now, and he would be by her side always, as she ruled the continent, the realm, as it had been destined to be ruled. As she had been destined to rule it. Though the prince was young, he was a man in ways the kings before him had never been. He saw things the way she saw them. Saw their potential.

  His lips found hers again, but broke away all too soon
as he pressed something cool into her palm.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said, turning it over between her fingers.

  ‘A gift. Something to keep you safe.’

  It was a necklace, an amulet of sorts. Simple and elegant with a violet stone, set in a fine silver chain. It was beautiful, but he knew she could hold no possessions, so what did it mean?

  She frowned. ‘No one can hurt me, you know that. You know that better than anyone.’

  ‘I thought I did.’ His eyes bored into hers, his pain bright and fierce.

  ‘What is it that you know?’

  Casimir swallowed, linking his fingers through her free hand. ‘There is another collector.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ The note of fear in his voice was enough to breathe life into the ember of her own terror that had been her constant companion for so long now.

  She said nothing. In truth, she couldn’t know, no matter how many abilities she herself collected. Other Ashai folk had the same abilities. There were many seers amongst them. Numerous energy shifters. Collectors, though … She had always thought she was one of a kind.

  ‘They could take your powers. All of them, if they were strong enough. This …’ he said slowly. ‘This could protect you.’

  Casimir’s voice echoed in her ear. She could almost feel his kisses brushing her lips. But it had been a lie.

  Now, a pair of great doors greeted her. Valian oak, carved by a talented sculptor, the elaborate scrollwork and open books signposting the castle’s original library. She ran her fingers across the design, tracing the detailed lines of the work. Ashai folk before her had done the same; she could feel a lingering trace of their magic in the grain of the wood. Their power tickled her fingertips, but there was not enough to collect. Not enough to sate that roaring hunger for more within her.

  Beyond the doors, a different power thrummed. The power of Casimir’s damned amulet. She opened the doors and entered the library. It was somewhere in here. She could feel it. Its magic, and a kernel of her own within it, taunted her.

  With a furious flick of her hand, dozens of books shot from the shelves and scattered across the stone floor. With another sharp gesture, an entire shelf collapsed into rubble. The strange magic pulsed just out of reach, as though some sort of barrier stood right before her face.

  She let out a strangled cry of rage. The amulet was here. And she would find it, long before they could use it against her.

  Chapter 1

  The morning was dark and rain hammered down as Bleak and Casimir pounded on the door of an infamous Heathton manor. With its elaborate arched windows and meticulous detailing in the stone columns, Madame Joelle Marie’s pleasure house was the most impressive establishment in Ellest’s capital. And despite the eerily quiet city, it was no surprise to Bleak that the brothel remained open. People sought all kinds of comfort during times like these. She raised her fist, stained from the black hair dye she’d used, and beat the door again.

  ‘We should have sent someone else,’ she hissed at Casimir, adjusting the eyepatch she wore to hide her odd-coloured irises. Her disguise was flimsy at best, but better than none at all.

  Four weeks had passed since the snowslide battle in Havennesse. Four weeks since they’d begun their search for Prince Ermias Goldwell, otherwise known as the Tailor of Heathton.

  ‘It has to be us who find him,’ Casimir muttered. ‘If we do, we can retrieve the amulet. The one thing that will give us a fighting chance to defeat her. It has to be all three of us.’

  ‘Again with this amulet! Why did it take you until now to tell me about it?’

  ‘Because I thought Ermias was dead. Without him it has no use to us. With him … it could change the tide of the war.’

  Bleak clicked her tongue in frustration. They’d been over this at least a dozen times on the savage journey from Havennesse. Casimir shot her a look.

  ‘I still don’t understand why we’re here of all places,’ Bleak pressed, waving to the manor before them. ‘Tailor doesn’t strike me as the type to be keen on a brothel.’

  ‘He trades in secrets,’ Casimir allowed. ‘Tell me, what place houses more secrets than a pleasure house?’

  ‘Then why this one in particular?’

  ‘Captain Murphadias said Tailor had a room here —’

  Casimir’s reply was cut short as the door opened a crack and a pretty face peered out. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘We need to speak with Madame Joelle Marie,’ Casimir replied.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No.’ Bleak glanced at Casimir. ‘We’re looking for an associate of ours.’

  ‘I see.’ The girl stared at her eyepatch. ‘And who is your associate? Perhaps I can help.’

  Casimir looked at Bleak and then back to the girl. ‘The Tailor of —’

  The young woman began to shut the door, but Bleak caught it and lunged with her magic. During the last month, she’d been practising. It was easier than ever to find herself in the upper passages of someone’s mind, and now, she focused hard. The girl – Olivia, she discovered – didn’t offer much resistance as Bleak crafted the seed of an idea, moulded it to her will and planted it amongst Olivia’s thoughts.

  The bewildered expression left Olivia’s face and she let the door swing inwards. ‘Friends of Tailor’s?’ she asked pleasantly.

  ‘That’s right,’ Bleak replied, stepping into the warmth of the foyer and ignoring Casimir’s slack jaw. ‘We need to see his room.’

  ‘Of course. He mentioned he was expecting guests.’

  Bleak followed her up a grand staircase, with Casimir close behind her. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Tailor? Two days ago. He stayed one night and left early the next morning.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’ Casimir interjected.

  Olivia shook her head. ‘No. But then, he never does. This way, if you will.’

  The decadent manor was in stark contrast with the dark, fallen capital that lay outside. Chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, and the paintings, tapestries and furniture only became more opulent as they climbed each staircase. But Bleak remembered that it was King Arden himself who lined the madame’s pockets. Apparently, no expense was too great for the woman who kept Arden’s loyal followers appeased.

  Tailor’s room, however, was in the attic. Olivia showed them inside and closed the door behind her, leaving them to look around.

  Casimir turned to Bleak. ‘How did you …?’

  But Bleak’s attention was on the walls. Pinned to nearly every surface were maps and charts, similar to those Sahara had at her camp in Westerfort. Coloured markers plotted the movements of the rebellion in Oremere and their underground colonies.

  What has Tailor been up to?

  Bleak gasped, her gaze falling on something else. Several posters. Her own face stared back at her from weathered pieces of parchment. An artist had captured her likeness, odd eyes and all.

  ‘MASS MURDERER,’ read the text beneath. ‘WANTED ALIVE. ALARISE “BLEAK” THORNTON. LEADER OF INVADER CONTINENT.’

  So this was how Arden was portraying her to the rest of the realm.

  She scanned the other posters and choked. The bloated bodies of the guards she’d killed aboard Arden’s Fortune had been drawn with painstaking detail. Washed up on the shore, eyes and mouths wide open in terror. She recognised Siv Lennox amongst them. The would-be rapist. In death, the man’s usual sneer was gone, sketched in a way that made him look like just another blameless victim. Pinned beside these drawings were depictions of what had happened in Hoddinott. She’d locked away the events of that day in a vault in her mind.

  ‘Bleak,’ Casimir was saying. ‘Bleak, look …’

  She tore her gaze away from her own face and found Casimir pressing a leather-bound notebook into her hands.

  ‘What’s this?’ She turned it over and it fell open, revealing pages and pages of scratchy shorthand in blue ink. Frow
ning, she tried to make out the words. Her eyes snagged on one thing in particular. Her name.

  Alarise. Felder’s Bay.

  Alarise. Angove to Port Morlock.

  Alarise. Healer Ethelda.

  Alarise. Port Morlock to Angove.

  On and on it went, detailing her movements across weeks, months …

  ‘Casimir,’ she breathed. ‘What is this?’

  Casimir was staring at a shelf. Where a dozen more notebooks stood lined in a neat row. He reached out and selected one. Bleak peered over his shoulder as he opened it. There was more of the same. Dates, times, places and names. The Oremian prince’s name appeared as well.

  ‘He knew where we were the whole time,’ Casimir said, staring at the book in his hands.

  ‘Not always.’ Bleak pointed to her name and a question mark beside it. ‘But Henri did say he was a spy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She said he once told her that he “cuts, sews and alters stories, truth and gossip … for a price”, or something like that.’ Bleak tried to rub the crawling sensation from her arms. ‘It’s clear he was tracking us, albeit not very well.’ She flipped the page to another listing of her whereabouts. ‘That’s wrong. I was never in Willowdale at that time. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been to Willowdale.’