Stolen Dagger

by Shawn Wickersheim

  Josephine squeezed her eyes closed. Her sister needed her now. She could hear it in her voice, the pain, the agony; it echoed the feelings threatening to overwhelm her own heart. With the greatest of efforts, she pushed aside her anger, tucked it down into the corner of her mind, and slowly opened her eyes.

  Leigh still lay on the floor, unmoved, staring up at her. She looked so pale and fragile, as if she were made of chipped porcelain. Blood leaked from the corners of her mouth, but her strange stillness brought Josephine to her knees. She was not dead, nor was she truly alive.

  “Josie . . .” Leigh whispered. The faint call barely carried over her bloodied lips.

  “I’m here,” Josephine said. She took Leigh’s hand and choked back a cry. No strength or warmth remained in her sister’s fingers.

  “Hold my hand,” Leigh breathed. “Let me feel your touch.”

  Josephine swallowed hard. What had Pervis done to her? Had he cast the same kind of spell on Leigh as he had cast on their mother? The air stunk of his magic. She glanced over at the foul little beast, but he wasn’t going to give her any answers. “I’m here, Leigh-Leigh.”

  “Josie . . . what happened to you?”

  “Hush. Don’t say a word.”

  “But your face-”

  “Leigh-Leigh don’t worry about me.”

  “Father is . . .” Leigh looked up into Josephine’s eyes. “Downstairs.”

  Josephine’s brow knitted together. “He’s here?”

  “Yes . . .” Leigh blinked a few times. Tears streamed down the sides of her face and mixed with the blood matted in her blonde hair.

  “I’ll get him.” Josephine stood. “He can save you.”

  “No,” Leigh mouthed the word more than spoke it aloud. “Stay. Don’t leave me alone.”

  Josephine hesitated. She felt sure her father could counter anything Pervis had cast. His magic was strong, unique. “I’ll be right back!”

  Leigh exhaled softly and lay still.

  Josephine’s bottom lip trembled. Pervis’s foul deed, the last thievery he would ever commit, was done. She glanced over at the mage’s body and wished for a moment he was still alive, so she could shoot him again.

  Hands trembling, Josephine pulled a blanket off the bed, and carefully draped it over Leigh’s quiet body. “Go in peace and let the angels take you to the One.”

  She turned to go, couldn’t yet. She had to steel herself to the idea of walking out of the room and leaving her little sister behind first. It was wrong leaving her there on the floor, leaving her in the same room with her tormentor. Tears slipped down her cheeks. She swiped them away. Damn her tears! She had to be strong now. She had to put away the gentle care-giver and become the angry huntress to survive!

  She couldn’t quite manage it. Brokenhearted, Josephine picked up her crossbow and trudged out of the room without a backward glance. If she looked back now she might never leave her sister’s side. The feelings of loss and anguish threatened to consume her, but the huntress told her she didn’t have time for those emotions now. Perhaps later, after she and her father were safe. Only then would she allow herself time to grieve.

  And plot her revenge on Mister Lipscombe and the rest of his foul gang of men!

  Temporarily replacing her grief with anger, Josephine stormed past her mother’s lifeless body and took the stairs two at a time. She dashed through the hall and stopped in front of the small wooden door her father had always kept closed. She and Leigh had not been forbidden from entering their father’s workshop beneath the keep, but it was understood they should always knock first. Josephine raised her fist and let it fall again. There was something wrong with the air; it smelled . . . like burnt meat and . . . something else. There was a low buzzing too, like a nest of wasps hanging just overhead. She pulled the door open. The stench was stronger. It was coming from downstairs.

  Did she dare call out for her father? What if he wasn’t alone? Her grip tightened on her crossbow. Her finger caressed the trigger. She almost hoped he wasn’t.

  Down the narrow wooden step, she crept, keeping away from the creaky centers. A faint sliver of light spilled out from under the closed door at the bottom. In the room beyond came a soft thumping sound, a curse and more thumping. Josephine raised her crossbow. If anyone but her father came through that door, they’d catch a bolt right in the face.

  “Father?” she called gently. “Are you down here?”

  “Jo?” Just hearing his voice again brightened her world and yet, it sounded . . . flat. There was relief and joy in his tone, but his voice lacked any kind of strength or music. “Jo is that you?”

  Fear’s heavy weight lifted from her shoulders. He might be injured, but at least he was still alive! She flew down the remaining steps and burst through the door at the bottom.

  And stopped short.

  Her father was in the middle of his workshop half kneeling, half slouching against a three-foot tall stone pedestal. Sweat glistened on his balding head and his arms were crossed tightly over his chest. The top of the pedestal looked to be made of either a piece of glass or a circular mirror and something dark and wet was splattered across it. Was it blood? Before she could take a closer look, the surface brightened and bathed the entire workshop in false sunlight.

  “Damn . . .” her father muttered.

  Another man, presumably one of Pervis’s lackeys, was sprawled on the floor just inside the door. Wafts of smoke still rose from his charred flesh and clothing. He must have triggered one of her father’s traps. Josephine held a hand up to her nose. That explained the stench.

  “Jo, come help me!”

  “Of course, I’m sorry!” She rushed over to her father’s side. Here he was, slouching awkwardly over this odd pedestal and she’d been staring at a dead body. She wrapped her arms around his middle thinking she’d help him stand, but he shook his head and refused to unhook his arms. She drew back, confused. “Father? What is it?”

  He tried to offer her a reassuring smile, but his face wouldn’t hold it. He was in too much pain. She could see it in his gray eyes. A nasty chill swept over her and she shuddered. She’d never seen him like this, not even after a visit from Bolodenko’s stone-faced men.

  “Jo, darling,” he murmured, “I know you have questions and I wish I could give you the answers, but we have very little time and it is important that you do exactly what I say. Your mother and Leigh are upstairs with-”

  “They’re dead,” Josephine blurted out.

  The blood drained from his already ashen face. “There were two more men, Pervis and-”

  “They’re dead too. Mother killed one before she died and . . .” She swallowed. “And I killed Pervis.”

  “Oh . . . good . . .” He seemed dazed. His gaze drifted to the crossbow dangling from her hand. “Don’t worry. Once this is over your crossbow will still work. I made it permanent.”

  “I don’t care about my crossbow.”

  “You will. Now, I know I told you only to shoot at targets but-”

  “Father are you listening to me?” Josephine crouched in front of him and lifted his chin. “I just told you Mother and Leigh are-”

  “I heard what you said!” Joseph exploded. He looked away. His entire body was trembling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. This isn’t your fault. This . . .” His voice cracked. “This is my fault. All of it. I shouldn’t have . . . there are forces at work here that . . . I thought I could harness the power of one to destroy another and . . .”

  “Father, stop! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Joseph fell silent, but she could tell his mind was still flying along. She could see it in his eyes. They flicked back and forth, back and forth, seeing in his mind’s eye all the pieces of some problem that she barely even knew existed. Finally, his eyes stopped, and he stared straight at her with a new, hopeful expression. “You can still change the outcome! You can put an end to it all if you’ll do what I say.”

  “What outcome? An e
nd to what? Father please, just tell me plainly, what’s going on?”

  Joseph glanced down at the glowing pedestal and shook his head. The look of hope suddenly turned to one of panic. “There’s no time now, Jo! You’ll just have to trust me and do as you’re told.”

  “I-”

  “Are you going to help me or not!”

  Josephine flinched. She could probably count on one hand and still have fingers left over the number of times she had heard him raise his voice in anger before, and now, in a matter of seconds, he’d done it twice. Something beyond the tragedy of their family must be occupying his mind and whatever it was, it had him spooked. That, more than his shouting, frightened her to her core.

  Mustering her courage, she stood and offered him a hand up. “Of course, I’ll help you.”

  Joseph shook his head. “I don’t need that kind of help. Just leave me here.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  His mouth puckered in anger. “Pervis took my magic.”

  Josephine reeled as if she’d been struck. There were so many questions banging around in her head she didn’t know which one to ask first. Finally, she settled on, “How?”

  Joseph uncrossed his arms.

  A rush of heat burned her face. All the strength fled from her legs. She dropped to her knees and gaped at him in stunned silence.

  Both of his hands were gone, cruelly hacked off at the wrists. Blood-soaked rags were knotted over his remaining stumps. Joseph refolded his arms again, grimacing as he hid the wounds from sight.

  “They took your hands!”

  “I shouldn’t have threatened him.”

  “Threatened who? Lipscombe? Pervis?”

  “Lord Devin Ragget.”

  Josephine sank back on her heels. “You . . . you threatened the Chief Inquisitor for the Royal Courts?” She shook her head. None of this was making any sense! “Why? I . . . But what do Mister Lipscombe and Furland Pervis have to do with all this? Were they working for Lord Ragget?”

  “I told you, there is too much to explain,” Joseph said. “All that matters now is stopping them and we can do that if you do what I say. We cannot let their plans go forward!”

  “Whose plans? Lord Ragget’s?” Josephine pleaded. “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to understand any of this, Jo!” Joseph shouted. “In fact, it would be safer for you if you didn’t. You won’t gain their attention-”

  “Safer?!” Josephine cut him off. “You have no idea what I’ve . . .” She shook her head, angry at herself for getting choked up. “I won’t be safe again. Not until the men responsible for all this . . .” She made a wild gesture with her hands. “. . . are dead!”

  The buzzing she’d heard earlier returned. It was a steady droning; an odd, eerie musical note which bore into her ears and thrummed relentlessly in her mind. The tips of her fingers twitched. The small hairs on her arms rose. Was she doing this?

  “Jo?”

  Her father was still slouching against the plinth with his bloody stumps hidden beneath his folded arms. The pain must be unimaginable, and she wanted to help him and yet-

  “Jo, listen to me. I know you can hear me.”

  She heard his words, but he suddenly seemed so far away. What was happening? The droning in her head grew louder. She felt a strange disconnect, as if she were pulling herself apart, stepping outside of herself, splitting into two persons. The gentle care-giver and the angry huntress. She couldn’t be both at the same time. She had to choose.

  “Jo!”

  She chose. The buzzing ended.

  “Jo!”

  Her face hardened. The huntress glared down at the man in front of her. “What do you need me to do?”

  “There’s a small leather case on my workbench. Take it and never let it out of your sight.”

  She crossed the workshop and searched the bench. Various pieces of equipment were strewn haphazardly across the top: a farseeing scope, a bit of silken rope, a couple of metal claws, a pair of knives . . .

  She paused. The slender knives were exact duplicates of the twin blades she’d used last year in the theatrical production of The Lady of Shadows. She picked them up and turned them over in her hands. They looked the same, weighed the same, but the one difference was obvious. These were not stage props. These were real knives.

  “Have you found the leather case?”

  She put the knives down and continued her search. Beneath a coarse handkerchief, she found a cylindrical leather case about the size of her closed fist.

  “Got it.”

  “Put it and everything else on the bench in your pack.”

  She went to the small wardrobe at the rear of the room and found her old pack hanging from a hook behind the door. Her father had always insisted on stowing their packs filled with gear, ready in case they needed to move quickly. Three more packs hung in a row beside hers.

  “Shall I bring yours too?”

  “No.”

  She took a steadying breath. “You are coming with me, aren’t you?”

  “Hurry up, Jo!”

  She stuffed the leather case and the remainder of the equipment on the bench into her pack. She sheathed the knives and placed them on top. Later, when she changed out of her ruined dress, she’d hang the knives off her belt on either hip. Just like in the show. “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “Grab the hammer from my tool chest.”

  “I said I’m not leaving without you.”

  “Jo, there’s no time to argue.”

  “I’m not arguing.”

  Joseph took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I know this is all very confusing and I wish I could explain everything to you, but there just isn’t time. They will soon know Pervis is dead and they will come here looking for both of us.”

  “Who’s ‘they’? Lipscombe? Lord Ragget?” She hefted the crossbow, gripping the handle fiercely. “Let them come! I’ll finish them both! I’ll-”

  “No!” The tone in his voice caused her to stop short. “You will do as you’re told and then you’ll leave the city immediately.” He grimaced. “Your grandfather will be able to explain-”

  “You want me to travel to Gyunwar? Fine, come with me. I’ll rent a coach-”

  “I’m sorry, Jo. There’s so much I should have told you before now, I just . . .” he bowed his head. “I was a coward. Your grandfather, your real grandfather, is a man named Bonn Tysh and he lives in Bel’yowlye.”

  Josephine opened her mouth, but she couldn’t find the words to express her confusion. Why was her father telling her these lies? Her grandfather was Jonathan Hewes, an eccentric old man who lived on a hill in Gyunwar a few miles north of the capital city of Ryerton. He played a harp and grew roses and went hunting in the woods with a couple of old hound dogs. She had never heard of this other man. Bonn Tysh? And he lived in Bel’yowlye? Why would her father send her across the ocean in search of-?

  “You’re sending me to the other side of the world in order to keep me safe, aren’t you?” she blurted out. “You’re making up this story just to keep me out of danger.”

  “I wish I were,” Joseph said. His voice was filled with so much sorrow. “In truth, I brought you here hoping to keep you safe from all the trouble over there, but . . .” He trailed off with a shake of his head. “Just bring the hammer over and be quick about it.”

  “You brought me here?” Her mind raced. What was he saying? Had she been born somewhere besides Gyunwar? “You brought me here . . . from Bel’yowlye?”

  “The hammer, Jo!”

  “What does any of this have to do with Lord Ragget?”

  “Everything. Now please Jo, the hammer!”

  She could tell from his tone she wasn’t going to get much more out of him. She grabbed the hammer from his toolbox. “Now what?”

  “Smash the glass.” He jerked his head to one side, gesturing toward the pedestal.

  For the first time since the pedestal lit up, she looked down at the surface.
Lipscombe was staring up at her! Her jaw clenched. It looked like he was talking, but no sound was coming out of his mouth.

  “What is this? Can he see me?”

  “Just smash it, Jo.”

  The image on the glass changed. This time she saw a handsome Yordician man with long, blond hair, a rugged cleft chin, dimples and violet-colored eyes. He was standing next to a willow tree and he appeared to be talking too.

  Then the image shifted once more, and she was looking at Lipscombe again.

  “Break the glass, now!”

  “Who’s the other man, the handsome one?”

  “That’s Lord Ragget. He’s decided he wants you dead.”

  Josephine shot him a hard look. “How do you know?”

  “There are two conduits for those silvery discs they carry.”

  “The ones you made for Lipscombe and his men.”

  He nodded. “And I need you to smash the glass to break one of them.”

  Josephine swung the hammer over her head and brought it down on the glass surface with such force that not only did it break, but the stone pedestal beneath it also cracked. The plinth blackened immediately casting the room in shadows. A dozen torches hanging from sconces on the walls blinked to life. Preset magic triggered by the darkness, Josephine realized. Her father was always full of tricks.

  She dropped the hammer and sat beside him. Despite everything, she almost smiled. Breaking the glass had felt good.

  “We aren’t done yet, Jo.”

  “The pedestal is destroyed. The silvery discs won’t work anymore . . . right?”

  “Like I said, there are two conduits of magic for the discs. The glass was only one of them. Lord Ragget and his men lost the visual aspect of their magical communications, but they can still hear each other.”

  She leaned forward and pressed her ear to the plinth. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “I can because the magic flows through me, not the pedestal. I usually push the communiqués into the back of my mind, allowing the magic to flow smoothly from disc to disc without paying much attention to what information is being passed. It’s like the other magical items I’ve created without the Infinity Spell attached to them. It’s a way for me to track the item’s use and to negate the magic should it fall into foul hands. I should have known better than to sell such powerful devices, but my pride and greed got the better of me. I thought I could keep a few steps ahead of them but as it turns out, I was wrong. I took a gamble and lost.” Tears fell on his cheeks. “I just . . . for once, wanted a fine home for you and your sister and your mother but now . . .”