by Mike
Hurriedly, he closed the distance and rounded the bed, knowing deep in his heart what he would find. He dreaded it more than anything he had ever dreaded before.
There she was. Lying in a pool of blood, knife at her side, a deep slash across her neck. She was dressed in her formal attire, though it was soaked in blood — a white and gold dress, bathed in deep red. Her eyes, glassy, now life had left her, stared up at him. It was as if his life was gone as well. Never had he loved anyone as much as he had loved Elutia. Never had he felt such a deep connection, such a deep sense of belonging to anyone before, as he had with her and now she was gone.
Kneeling, he grazed her cheek with his fingers. Her skin was cold to touch, her warmth drained from her as surely as the blood from her wound. He felt, if he could just… send his warmth into her, drain himself of his life, he could give her back hers. But, try as he might, she remained cold.
Leaning down over her, he retrieved the knife. His hand sinking a little in the blood pooling and coagulating around her body. It was if a stranger brought the knife up, so he could examine it, for there was no feeling left in his hands. The blood on his hand stuck to the hilt. Moving the blade to his other grip, he wiped the blood on his shirt to clean it.
The knife was non-descript. Something anyone on the street could buy. He was no Constable, but he didn’t think this would be much help in catching who did this. He examined the blade, His eyes focused on its shape. He did not wish to look back upon Elutia.
He was in shock, he knew. Wasn’t thinking clearly. Wasn’t thinking at all. This whole event should be devastating him, and yet, he found himself devoid of all emotion. His brain had ceased working, doubtless to prevent him from descending into madness.
The sound of boots running from outside the rooms reached him and he stood to face towards the door as the Constabulary entered the room, led by Captain Murl Johns. Johns was a robust looking man, plump of face and neck. Somewhat hefty appearing, but not fat. Short, blonde hair, cut straight and pressed flat against his scalp, as was the fashion in court these days, like a blonde crown made of daggers pointing down his forehead. His eyes, dark brown almost black took in the scene in front of him and deducted a conclusion immediately. And, in that moment, Quint realized his mistake.
Here he stood. Holding a knife and standing over a woman. A dead woman. Her blood on his hands, shirt, and on the knife, he held out to the side. What more could he expect from these men than the obvious conclusion? He had killed the Minister’s daughter. Sure, most of the court knew Elutia and he were courting, but wasn’t it usually the lover who was the killer? No. He was the clear suspect, and he had to assume it would take a great deal for him to convince them otherwise.
Surely, his exemplary record of service to the Minister would matter? Or, would grief over the loss of his daughter blind the man to strike out at the first person who could be blamed? It was starting to really sink in, the predicament he was in when he realized the Captain had drawn his weapon.
“He killed the Minister’s daughter!” The captain yelled to those who had followed him into the room.
“We must make him pay!” The Captain ran towards him, sword raised.
Quint barely had time to register what was happening, and only instinct saved him. As the Captain ran at him, he tossed the knife at the man, causing him to pause momentarily.
This gave Quint enough time to draw his own blade and block the Captain’s incoming swing. It was all he could do to avoid the swings from Johns. He didn’t want to hurt the man, but it was clear the Captain did not have the same reservations.
For now, the rest of the Constabulary did not join in, but Quint wondered how long it would last. Elutia was well loved among the people. Held in high regard by most of the population and the Ministry’s staff, including the Constabulary.
They should be trying to arrest him, and not kill him, but the Captain evidently had other ideas and the rest could decide he had the right of it at any time. It was time for Quint to get out of there. And quick. If the rest of the men joined in. He was done for. In fact, even if the rest of them didn’t join in, there was a likely chance he was done for anyway. Captain Johns was easily more than a match for him in swordplay, and it was only a matter of time before he got the upper hand.
There was only one way he could get out of here, and frankly, it wasn’t the best way. It was the only way he could think of however, and he needed to act now. Feigning an attack, which caused the Captain to back off a little in response, Quint turned and ran straight for the glass door leading to the balcony.
Crashing through the door, he made it to the balcony wall before glancing over his shoulder. Johns and the rest were only now beginning to respond. Without a second glance, he jumped over the side.
Remembering back, the fall had hurt him almost as much as the leap from the third floor he had made about a week ago. He had fled the Capitol and been on the run ever since. So many things from that evening didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t make the pieces of the puzzle fit, no matter how many times he ran it through his head.
From catching rumors, he knew he was believed responsible for Elutia’s death. His flight from the city was all the confirmation they needed. It seems they had not needed to do an investigation because it was clear to them who was responsible. He wondered again who took Elutia’s life…and why? He knew her better than most people ever could. No one would have gained by killing her. Obviously, her being the Ministers’ daughter made her a political target, but the Cantons had been at peace for decades. This type of political assignation, if that was what it was, was unheard of.
Well, speculation was all he could do now. Until he cleared his own name with the Witch of Time, he could do nothing else about what happened.
Chapter Four
Quint and Wren arrived outside of Arghast, the capital city of Thael around the time Quint had figured before dark. It was an amazing site to see. Arghast was larger than Kael by far. It was one of the largest capitals of all the Cantons. Fueled by the fact Thael had the largest coast, it therefore controlled a vast amount of trade and Arghast prospered as a result.
A decent sized wall surrounded the city, remnants of a time before the Coven, when Cantons would war with each other often enough to need some sort of permanent defense. Massive city gates could be seen from as far back as he was on the West Traders Road. They needed to be large to accommodate the traffic flowing into the city from the west. The city sported slightly smaller gates on the north and south walls, and equally large ones on the east. The east gate would be his destination tomorrow.
As a trading city, there was an efficiency evident in its central roads. He would easily be able to transverse the city in a few hours, even given its size. The West Traders Road became a flowing river of people with four separate currents. The middle right current, the one he would be taking, was for visitors who were passing through and going east. The middle left current, for those who were going out the west gate. The outer two currents were for those who would be staying inside the city and therefore, would need to take side streets to reach their destinations. This allowed those who needed to be on their way to join the flowing current of their choice to get where they needed to go as speedily as possible.
They made their way off the main road and into a copse of trees. Several other people were also making camp here, but he could find a comfortable place to lay out his bed roll and place his things within arms-reach. He brushed down his horse and gave him some feed.
He laid down and closed his eyes.
“Quint?”
Quint sighed. Wren had been quiet for most of the day. Something almost unheard of. He had thought to ask what was wrong, but knew from experience, the sword would tell him at some point and most likely, at length.
“Yes, Wren?” He decided to think his responses this time. It wouldn’t do well if others in the copse heard him talking to himself.
“You were thinking of
Elutia earlier weren’t you?”
“I was.”
“I could tell. That was why I kept quiet. I can always sense a great sadness in you when your thoughts turn to her.”
This surprised Quint. He knew, if Wren wanted to, he could essentially “read” his mind. But he also knew Wren proffered not to. He didn’t realize the blade could sense his emotional state, though.
“Thinking of her always makes me sad, Wren. I loved her, and not only was she taken from me, but I am now believed to be the one to have killed her.”
“I know,” the sword told him. “I want you to know, we will find out the person who did this, and I will gladly be the instrument of your justice.”
Quint didn’t know how to respond. Wren seldom showed empathy. He was usually the one to make some sarcastic comment or silly side note when things turned emotional.
“Thank you, Wren,” Quint managed to say after a time.
“You are most welcome, Quint.”
*
The trip through Arghast went by swiftly, and they passed through the east gates by late morning and were on their way to Stormland. Quint couldn’t help but be a little exited. After so much time to be so close to his goal of reaching Covenhome, it felt impossible it could almost be over.
They made excellent time and quickly closed the distance between Arghast and Stormland. Traveling throughout the day, eating in the saddle, and making only a few short breaks to feed and water the horse, they covered as much ground as quickly as they could. They made camp well after dusk, off the road, beneath a large spruce. Rain began as a slight drizzle, a fine mist that brought with it a deep chill. The dryness beneath the great conifer was welcome.
Tomorrow would put them outside of Stormland, and he would be on his way to clearing his name. For the first time in almost a year he allowed himself to consider what he would do once he no longer had to run from the law, fleeing for his life. It could take a while for him to meet with the Witch of Time, he knew. There was no telling if she would be on the island. It was widely known the Witches spent most of their time there, but also traveled as the need arose.
If she was there, he would have to plead his case to her Advocate, who would, if she believed it worth the time, relay his need to the Witch. Then the Witch would decide to allow him to plead his case directly to her. If he made it, he was sure he could convince the Witch of Time the only way for him to be able to clear his name was for her to Delve his past and read the events as they occurred at the time of Elutia’s death.
When the Witch of Time saw he was not responsible for her death, she would send a messenger to the Minister informing him of her findings, and Quint would be proclaimed innocent. No one disputed the Witches findings. There was no reason. She saw things as they had happened. It was magic, and they were its masters. You don’t question masters.
Once a significant time had passed or a message was sent back, he would leave the island to return home. At least, he thought he would return home. He wasn’t so sure. Home held painful memories, but it also held the answers. If he was ever to find out who killed Elutia, he would have to return home. It was a shame the Witch could only delve his time and not Elutia’s. She would only be able to reveal what he had seen, and he had not seen the killer.
Tabling his thoughts on the future for the time being, he sighed. Long ago, he had learned these thoughts usually led to disappointment. Things seldom went his way.
He found it difficult to put it out of his mind, so he decided to occupy his mind with something else.
“Wren?”
“Hmm?”
“I was curious. Where did you come from? I mean, originally.” He knew he needn’t voice the question, just think it, but as usual he went with what he was comfortable with and he still wasn’t comfortable conversing in his mind.
“Why the sudden interest, Quint?”
“Needed to think of other things and was curious.” Quint confided.
“Well, I have been around for a long time. Have had many owners. I was created by a man named Orlias, an Essence Mage of some renown at the time. Magical items were his forte.”
Wren paused and gave an audible sigh…well, audible in Quint’s head.
“You should have seen the works he created. There were swords, rings, cloaks, shoes, even buildings of magic,” Wren continued. “It was an exciting time to be living in, a magical time a dark time.”
Wren paused again, but this time he didn’t continue.
“Wren?
“Right. Sorry. I was created from star metal…”
“Star metal?”
“Yes. Have you seen a light in the sky streaking across in a blazing trail?” Wren asked.
“I have. And this is star metal?” He didn’t quite understand how he could be made from a light in the sky.
“Well the light comes from rocks flying through the sky. These rocks go so fast, usually they burn away to nothing, but occasionally, one of these rocks will not burn completely away and will fall to the ground.”
“Where do these rocks come from?”
“From the stars of course, which is why they are call star metal,” Wren explained as if it should be evident.
Quint smiled ruefully, “I see… go on.”
“These rocks are prized greatly for their ability to hold magic and are easy to enhance. There is more to it, but you, not being a Mage, the finer points would be lost on you.”
“Well, you don’t need to be insulti…”
“The star metal,” the blade continued, interrupting, “is imbued with magic and the properties the Essence Mage wishes to give the item. In my case, a soul was required to give me intelligence.”
Quint barely registered what Wren said before he responded
“Wait, what? A SOUL?”
It took a long time before Wren answered and when he finally did so, Quint could tell the reluctance in the swords voice.
“Yes, a soul. I have always dreaded telling you this, and until now, you have never asked about my creation. Essence magic works primarily from the essence, or soul of the caster. It draws from inner strength and will. It is very taxing on the caster, though some were savants and were able to use vast amounts of their essence with less drain on themselves — as was my creator. “But, to create an item with intelligence, an Essence Mage can’t imbue the item with his or her own soul, it needs to use a soul from someone else,” Wren concluded.
Quint was no Mage, for sure. So much of what Wren had explained was lost on him, but he believed he was beginning to understand the sword’s reluctance to tell him.
“And what happened to the person who the Essence Mage used the soul?” He was pretty sure he already knew the answer when he asked.
Wren didn’t answer.
“Wren?”
“It’s me,” Wren stated.
“What do you mean ‘It’s me?’
“The soul,” Wren answered angrily. “The Essence Mage removed the soul from the person and put it into the sword. Or more to the point, he took my soul out of my body and put it into this sword.”
Quint wasn’t sure what to say. He had suspected the answer when the Wren grew hesitant, but it still didn’t prepare for him to hear it said with certainty, and obvious anger from Wren.
“I’m…I’m so sorry, Wren.”
“It was a long time ago, Quint. I’ve had time to let it go… nothing but time.”
They were both silent for a long time. Apparently neither of them knew what to say to each other, after Wren’s confession. Quint felt nothing but sadness for Wren. Regardless of what Wren said, it was clear he hadn’t let it go completely. And frankly, Quint couldn’t blame him.
It was odd to think Wren had once been an actual person. How old had he been? Had he been married? Kids? Had he agreed to the soul transfer? Quint didn’t believe so, given the weapon’s obvious anger over the subject. He decided he wouldn’t ask any more, not wishing to upset Wren
any more than he already had. As much as they bickered, Wren was still his friend, and he cared how he felt.
“Quint?” Came a hesitant question in his mind.
“Yes, Wren?”
A pause. “Do I disgust you?”
“Why would you disgust me, Wren?” Quint asked incredulously.
“Because I know you Quint. I know how you think. The idea of being in possession of an item created by ripping the soul out of a human being and forced to inhabit a sword must bother you.” Wren continued. “You have always had a sense of justice of what is right and wrong. The thought of using a weapon so wrongfully created, I believe would disgust you.”
Quint sat, shocked. The sword was right, normally the idea of this would have disgusted him, and yet surprisingly, he wasn’t disgusted… only sad. What had happened, plainly wasn’t Wren’s fault. He had no choice in what had happened to him. If it had been a different time, and place, Quint would have tried to see about restoring Wren’s soul to his body…if it was possible. But, it had happened a long time ago. Wren’s body had long since wasted away. Not to mention, Essence magic was outlawed, and most, if not all, of the Essence Mages were gone.
No. He did not find Wren disgusting. What was done to Wren was disgusting, but he did not carry the disgust onto Wren. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little uncomfortable benefitting from what had been done to Wren and he told him so.
“Thank you, Quint. That means a lot to me. But, you need not bother yourself with guilt. I have long ago accepted what was done to me, and I know this will be my existence. So, if I must be a sword, I will be the best sword I can be.”
Quint gave this some thought, and though he didn’t think he would be able to eliminate the guilt he would feel, it was diminished by Wren’s assurances.
“And I can think of nothing I would rather be doing than helping you discover who killed your love and hopefully, bring them to justice,” the sword finished.
This warmed Quint’s heart. To think Wren not only believed in what he was doing, but also thought it was something worth pursuing. Quint felt at peace for the first time in quite a while and fell asleep content, bordering on happy.