Monsters & Mist Page 4

  “Andromeda,” Her long-lost mother says her name with disdain as her eyes scrutinize Andromeda from head to toe. Her crystal clear voice slices through the cacophony of the room as the courtiers turn their attention to their queen like sunflowers turning to the sun, rapt to see how this unexpected reunion will play out.

  “I see you’ve moved up in the world since you turned your back on your family,” Andromeda sneers as the young prince and princess study her curiously from their place at her mother’s feet. Their mother.

  “This is one of yours?” King Pavo points a shaky finger in Andromeda’s direction. Despite court assurances to the contrary, it appears that the rheumatism plaguing the once unstoppable king of Vacantia are true. He peers at Andromeda through milky eyes magnified by half-moon spectacles.

  “Yes,” Andromeda’s mother replies as her lips twist sourly. “Turning to a thief’s life, Andromeda? Really, I taught you better.”

  “The only thing you taught me was to cover up your affairs and forget about your family.” Andromeda smiles bitterly. More gasps hiss through the room. Andromeda resists the urge to roll her eyes. Surely this is no scandal to their ears as King Pavo’s own legitimacy and claim to the throne come cloaked in murky history and vicious rumors that his father was not the previous king at all but that of the king’s highest ranking General.

  “She was found in possession of the sword,” the General of the guard pipes up to draw the conversation back to the present and damn Andromeda further at the same time, “she didn’t even try to conceal it.”

  “I didn’t steal it, I found it.” Andromeda grinds her teeth. “And I needed it to protect my family. My nephew was stolen by the Mistborn, or have you forgotten, General?”

  “Is this true?” Startled by Andromeda’s words King Pavo lurches forward and grips the arms of his marble throne.

  “Andromeda always was such a storyteller,” her mother replies through a yawn as she lounges in her sea glass throne. The years have been kind to her since she abandoned Andromeda’s father. Her lithe body fills out the apricot colored dress she wears for the colors of Vacantia’s royal family as her black curls cascade over her shoulders, hanging loosely to her waist. She’s a young beauty compared to her weathered husband.

  Discreetly Andromeda peers at the princes and princess. The eldest prince, Pavo’s son Cygni from his first marriage wore a cloak made of rich, dark brown fur like those worn in illustrations in old texts by the free men of Lostero, the homeland of the prince’s mother; the late Queen Sapphira. His dark auburn hair was shorn close to his scalp on the right side and brushed over to hang in a longer, fashionable shag on the left. In the light of the candles flickering off the stone walls of the throne room his eyes appeared sapphire then flickering to Losteroan violet. Mischief lit up those vivid eyes as he stroked his short goatee and Andromeda realized she had been caught staring.

  The younger prince, Corvi, was still very young — no more than 6 or 7 at most and still bore the blonde curls that so many Vacantian boys did before their hair darkened with age. He sat at King Pavo’s feet staring at Andromeda through large, curious silver eyes.

  The princess, Lyra’s third daughter, Veyla, strongly resembled both Lyra and Midge in looks with her stick straight dark brown hair and almond-shaped silver eyes, though her willowy frame more resembled Lyra as Midge had filled out with age.

  “It is true,” The general of the guard admits. “The boy, a newborn, was stolen from his crib less than four days ago. Thus far he has not been recovered.”

  Concerned courtiers dab their eyes dramatically as their whispers grow louder. The words “mistborn” and “cursed” reach Andromeda’s ears but the rest is lost in the rustling of fine fabrics and clearing of someone’s throat.

  The young general pauses then bows his head, “I’m sorry Your Highness, I did not know she was your daughter.”

  “That was a different lifetime,” Andromeda’s mother says dismissively with a wave of her hand. “I am not that woman anymore.”

  “Clearly,” Andromeda mutters.

  “What was that?” Her mother asks sharply.

  “Nothing,” Andromeda glares daggers at her.

  “What is being done to find the child?” King Pavo demands to know.

  “Erm,” the General squirms as he scratches the back of his thick, pale neck.

  “The men of my village have searched the shorelines for the Mistborn who took Wink for any fragments she might have left behind but so far we have turned up empty handed.” Andromeda tells the king. “That is until the general of your Watierai Warriors detained me over a simple misunderstanding.”

  “Were you aware that the penalty for stealing a Watierai Warrior’s sacred sword is death?” Her mother raises one thin eyebrow.

  “Lyra,” King Pavo chastises Andromeda’s mother. “Be sensible, she is your daughter.”

  “If anyone is to pay with their lives then go after the merchant whose cart I found the sword on.” Andromeda boldly looks the king straight in the eye, unafraid.

  “Where was this?” King Pavo asks.

  “Just outside the village of Lilt; it’s a small fishing village on the western coast of Vacantia,” Andromeda explains.

  “And do you know who the merchant was?” The King inquires, giving Andromeda a chance to tell her side of the story.

  She shakes her head regretfully, “Nay. This was four years past but I remember I only saw the cart on the way out of the village and the sword fell off the back of the cart. The merchant didn’t seem to notice and I needed a weapon as it’s been my intent to join the ranks and hopefully someday join the Watierai Warriors myself and, well, you know the rest.”

  “Is that so?” King Pavo rubs his chin thoughtfully. “It is rare for a woman to be accepted into the Watierai Warriors.”

  “I know, Your Highness.” She bows her head respectfully.

  “It seems as we have quite the conundrum,” King Pavo steeples his fingers and glances absently at Andromeda’s mother. “We have a thief with a connection to the throne of Vacantia and dreams of becoming a warrior, a stolen sword preventing its’ previous owner’s soul from reaching peace with Zarouk in the land of the Gods, and another missing child from the western coastline. What are we to do?”

  “Sir?” The General of the Watierai Warrior Guard says cautiously.

  “You can’t be considering what I think you are,” Andromeda’s mother scoffs, “truly Pavo, are you mad?”

  “What’s going on?” Andromeda glances from one face to another feeling like she’s the only one not in on a joke or a secret.

  “You want to find your nephew, don’t you-" King Pavo pauses as he tries to remember Andromeda’s name.

  “Andromeda,” she supplies. “Or just Eda will be fine, and yes, I want to find Wink more than anything.”

  “Yes, Eda,” King Pavo replies vaguely. “Then there is only one solution.”

  Alarm lights up the General’s face, “but Sir-“

  “No buts,” King Pavo puts his hand up to silence the general. “Eda will train with the Watierai Warrior recruits and finding and recovering the boy will become the Guard’s top priority. Too many children have gone missing at the hands of the wretched Mistborn scum and this child is a child of the Queen’s bloodline.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” the General bows to the king once more but his the tense lines around his lips tell Andromeda how he really feels.

  “Are you sure about this?” Andromeda’s mother asks him, eying her warily.

  “Do not question my decision,” King Pavo snaps at her, “you may be my Queen Consort but I am still King of Vacantia and my word is law.”

  Lyra’s eyes blaze angrily but she wisely remains silent.

  “General Cruelseas, you will remove Eda’s irons and escort her to the barracks. I expect her official training to begin at first light.” King Pavo orders.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The young general, General Cruelseas, it would seem, snaps to
attention.

  “Thank you for your leniency, Your Majesty.” Andromeda bows gratefully. “You will not regret this decision.”

  “I should hope not,” King Pavo turns his steely gaze on her. “Letting me down and letting your kingdom down would be very unwise.”

  Andromeda gulps but maintains eye contact with the king until he dismisses her and General Cruelseas with a flick of his wrist.

  General Cruelseas gestures to one of his underlings who trips over his feet as he rushes to release Andromeda from the irons they clamped over her wrists and ankles.

  “Come,” General Cruelseas orders as she rubs her sore wrists. He storms from the throne room as his cloak billows behind him.

  The underling, a Lieutenant most likely, jabs her forward with a sharp poke to the middle of her back, “Don't make me drag you out.”

  “Forgetting who I am already?” Andromeda grins cockily as she falls into step beside the Lieutenant who keeps a firm hand on the sword at his waist.

  “You may have a connection to the royal family but you are not legitimate or in line to the throne and that makes you just the same as the rest of us. You have to obey the same orders as everyone else.” The Lieutenant sneers at her.

  “Oh I intent to,” Andromeda assures him, “just with my own little flourish.”

  A muscle ticks in the lieutenant’s jaw but he remains silent as they trail after General Cruelseas through the twisting hallways of the grand palace.

  In the silent passage Andromeda’s mind wanders back to her mother. While Father, Midgella, and Andromeda struggled through harsh winters and even harsher summers her mother has lived in the lap of luxury without a second thought for the husband and children she left behind as she crawled her way in and out of noblemen’s beds before landing on the throne. Andromeda wonders if she ever really loved any of them. Most likely not for she was never warm or comforting like the other mothers Andromeda had witnessed in the village on market days.

  At the castle gates, General Cruelseas beckons two older Warriors over, “Hugo, Lester, escort the girl to the encampment at Ravenwing’s Point and have her fitted for armor and her own aquaswift sword.”

  “Surely not,” the taller of the two Warriors, a battle-scarred man with glimmering gold hair shot through with silver looks down at General Cruelseas skeptically. “A common thief?”

  “It’s King Pavo’s order,” General Cruelseas comes toe to toe with the Warrior as if to remind him who is in charge. “If you have a problem with it take it up with ‘im.”

  “Very well then,” the shorter Warrior, a wiry man with copper locks braided away from his face mutters. Clearly neither of the older Warriors like taking orders from a man young enough to be their son.

  “The rest of the Warriors will be along in the morning,” General Cruelseas continues. “They’ve earned a hot meal and a warm bed for the night.”

  The cinnamon-haired Warrior’s eyes flash and he begins to speak before his companion reaches for Andromeda and says, “Come along then.”

  The wiry man jabs his friend in the side as he leads Andromeda away. She looks over her shoulder only once as the Warriors lead her out of the capital city. The feisty lieutenant dissolved back into the ranks but General Cruelseas remains rooted to the spot watching the distance between them grow greater and greater as courtiers and peasants alike wander the bustling streets.

  As the Warriors tasked with taking Andromeda to the encampment drag her through the city gates she can finally breathe without choking on the spices and foul scents of the city. Each man carries a rucksack over his shoulder and neither seem pleased to have Andromeda in their company.

  “Are we not taking horses to the encampment?” Andromeda asks as they walk past the armed guards stoically patrolling the perimeter of the city. More guards patrol the stone battlements sixty feet above.

  Her companions just snicker and tug her along. The toe of her boot catches in a crevice in the road and she trips along as the wiry man, Hugo tightens his grip on her upper arm. Andromeda may be free and newly installed in the Watierai Warriors but the men are treating her as if she is a prisoner still.

  Half a mile outside the city the gravel road forks with the steeper, smoother road leading to the merchant highway into the Skinwalker Mountains and the rocky road of crushed seashells and red rocks leading to the western coastline. Andromeda has heard that the Watierai Warriors train and dwell on the southern shores of Vacantia but so far south she has never been.

  Andromeda is taken aback as Hugo and Lester choose the road to the merchant’s highway over the coastal road.

  “I thought the Watierai encampment was on the coast.” Andromeda murmurs as she tips her head back to glance up at Lester.

  A muscle ticks in his jaw, “It is. This route is shorter.”

  Andromeda looks at him, the doubt is painted clearly all over her face. “Up the mountains and across the land is a shorter route?”

  Lester pulls to a sharp stop gripping Andromeda’s bicep hard enough that a bruise will be left behind later. He lowers his face to hers so they stand eye-to-eye as he says, “Let’s make one thing perfectly clear, little girl. You may have been accepted into the Watierai Guard for whatever reason His Highness saw fit, but your training has yet to begin. Your life is about to become more miserable than you could ever imagine and if you make it through the tests and become a full-fledge Warrior then and only then will I consider your input when it comes to mapping our routes. Is that understood?”

  “Lester,” Hugo growls in warning.

  Lester shoots his partner a black look but releases his vise grip on Andromeda’s arm and stalks ahead up the road.

  Hugo lets go of her other arm and bumps her with his shoulder, “Ignore ‘im. He’s still adjusting to taking orders from the new General.”

  “General Cruelseas is quite young to hold such an important rank,” Andromeda concedes cautiously.

  Hugo nods, “The boy earned it though. He hasn’t had an easy life, that one. As long as you do what you’re told he won’t bother you.”

  “I think I’ve gotten under his skin already,” Andromeda smirks as she walks beside Hugo.

  “Maybe so,” Hugo says. A small smile tugs at the older man’s lips.

  They hike high up the mountain highway, the elevation and exertion tugging at Andromeda’s lungs and leaving her rasping by the time the sun dips below the Skinwalker Mountains to the East. The sight of them sends a shiver down her spine.

  Legend has it that when the Waterborn began being hunted down and killed by the Landborn the Waterborn witches that managed to escape the pyre hid in the labyrinthian caves in the foothills of the Skinwalker Mountains and feasted upon the unfortunate souls that wandered too far from the mountain villages. It’s said that the witches have gone to madness being so far away from the sea, their hair going white as fresh snow and their skin pocked with the moss that grows in their damp dwellings. Every Harvest Season during the dark holiday of Sameen in honor of Baster, God of the afterlife, the villagers from the mountain villages closest to the foothills place sacrifices of mountain goats and rams at the edge of the village to please Baster and ask for protection from the Waterborn witches.

  Lester stops abruptly on the ledge of a cliff and says, “We will make camp here for the night.”

  Andromeda glances over the edge of the cliff and grimaces at the drop to the rocky coastline below. A few loose rocks break free beneath her feet, tumbling down the hill and her stomach clenches as she takes a few large steps away from the ledge. Growing up in the mountains Andromeda used to climb up and down the rocky forest terrain without fear but so many years living beside the sea has ebbed away at her childhood fearlessness.

  Lester sits and begins to remove a mat from his rucksack as Hugo removes several pots and a few root vegetables from his own bag.

  “Fetch us some firewood, will you, girl?” Hugo asks as he begins coughing and hacking. He pulls his waterskin from his rucksack and takes a long
sip.

  “Be gone,” Lester shoos Andromeda into the dark forest lining the mountain road. “Make yourself useful.”

  Andromeda grits her teeth but trudges into the forest anyway. At least Hugo asked nicely. She wonders how Lester expects her to gather firewood with neither an ax or a saw at her disposal but forces herself to make do with sticks and branches that litter the forest floor. She gathers some long, dried grasses as well for kindling before retracing her steps back to the cliffside.

  Hugo and Lester are exchanging words in harsh, hushed tones when Andromeda returns but they immediately fall silent and straighten at her appearance. Lester’s dagger-like glare tells her their squabble was about her. Andromeda tosses the branches and twigs at his feet and moves to help Hugo cut the potatoes and parsnips and carrots for a stew.

  Lester moves over to the twigs and branches and begins to assemble them into a nest. Andromeda watches as he steeples his fingers sending a silent prayer to Hitzverk, the God of fire, as he bows his head to the branches and twigs meditatively. After a few long moments he begins to work flint and Shroudanian steel to spark a flame atop the kindling. He blows gently but steadily on the kindling until the smoke crackles into fire.

  Hugo smiles grateful for Andromeda’s help as he pulls a second waterskin from his rucksack and pours it into the pot, “Do you cook much?”

  Andromeda shakes her head, “Only a little, to feed my father and myself. My sister, Midgella, did most of the cooking before she got married.”

  Hugo beckons Andromeda to peer into the heavy iron pot, “I use seawater to make a base for the stew because as it boils it separates into water and salt and you can strain the salt away to use later for seasoning. The technique is especially useful when we travel between villages and don’t have access to spices.”

  Andromeda nods as he shows her how to strain the salt from the water and distill the steam from the boiling water into a separate pot. When the water returns to boiling he tosses in a haunch of cured beef Lester reluctantly produces from his rucksack.

  Beef is a rare commodity in Vacantia. The free men of Lostero raise cattle but rarely trade with Shroudania and Vacantia, often only in exchanged for the return of their captured loved ones. Lester must have bought the beef in the capital for a steep price.