by Sam Farren
A face full of scars stopped her boiling over and saying it now.
The woman who’d charged into the forest and wrested the would-be assassin from the dogs stood behind her, chin raised, hands clasped behind her back.
She was a few steps above Castelle, only just matching her in height.
“Oh,” Castelle said. “It’s—it’s you.”
The woman didn’t disagree. She didn’t do much of anything.
“I’m certain my fathers have said it, but thank you for your assistance,” Castelle said.
The woman stared into the forest, far from beaming with pride. Her dark eyes did not fall to Castelle, so Castelle fixated on her ugly scars, ridges and rivers marring her face.
“Are you new to your station?” Castelle asked.
With guards and servants, things went one of two ways: either they were too nervous to speak, or so nervous they couldn’t stop talking.
It wasn’t either, with the scarred woman.
She nodded.
“I see,” Castelle said. “And where are you from?”
There was something strange in the woman’s features, beyond her scars. Fenronians were black, brown, white, all shades under the sun, but there was something distinctly unfamiliar about the woman’s dark eyes.
The guard tilted her head towards the forest, eyes fixing south-west.
There were plenty of larger towns, along the coast. It was the most direct route to Llyne and the rest of the islands.
“Very good. I believe Lord Damir is currently in the area,” Castelle said. “Is there anything you wish to commemorate your bravery? Better chambers? Time away to visit your family?”
The guard shook her head. Her silence was not one of insolence, but Castelle couldn’t unravel it. Not with endless questions, and not with a silence of her own.
Her desire to speak with the guard was curtly sated. There was no mystery here. The woman had been in the right place at the right time, and the dogs had sensed that. The dogs had let her finish their work.
“Then you may leave,” Castelle said. “I do not need an escort.”
The guard bowed her head. She spared one last look at the forest, searching for the dogs that had aided her, and retreated into the temple.
Any lingering thoughts were curtailed by Rhea. She rushed out of the temple, fresh linen in her arms, and grinned over the pile at Castelle. A dozen people had their eyes on her. More that she couldn’t see, lurking in the forest and watching from windows.
Castelle straightened, midday sun pricking the back of her neck.
“Princess, do you remember that—” Rhea began.
“Rhea, please. We shall talk in private,” Castelle said, hurrying up the stairs and guiding Rhea by her elbow. The dim corridor curtained Castelle in relief. Regaining herself, she said, “What were you saying?”
Rhea shuffled the linen in her arms.
“You remember that my sister was pregnant, don’t you? And that you said I could take time off, as soon as the big day came?” Rhea said, biting the inside of her mouth. “Do you think I could—that is, it’s a little sooner than expected, but…”
“You want to leave now?” Castelle asked.
“Once I’ve made your bed,” Rhea said, hoisting the sheets higher.
Castelle could refuse her. Should refuse her. Who else would be allowed to leave on such short notice, would be given an escort through the forest, simply because they’d asked? It wouldn’t look right. People would talk. The Princess favoured her Lady-in-Waiting, and—and why shouldn’t she?
People would talk, either way. Better that Rhea was absent for a few weeks while the unpleasantness eked out of Castelle’s system. It wasn’t right that Castelle took the rumours out on Rhea.
“Of course,” Castelle belatedly said. “Of course, Rhea. Finish for the day, and I will speak with my father about having guards escort you through the forest.”
Rhea squeezed the linen, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“Thank you, Princess! Gods, I am so excited to meet my nephew. The very first one!”
“A nephew?” Castelle asked. “That’s… that’s wonderful, Rhea. I’m happy for you. Go on. Hurry up.”
Rhea ran off with an incoherent chirp, and Castelle remained on the spot, staring down the hallway. How nice it was for Rhea to see her family grow. How lucky she was to leave the temple, if only briefly, and know there was a world out there waiting for her.
Castelle’s fingers curled against her palm. No, no. She wouldn’t take that away from anyone.
The Captain marched through the temple entrance, dirt caking her boots, soldiers behind her. She bellowed out what was to be done with the rest of the day before catching sight of Castelle.
“Princess. My apologies. I didn’t realise you were here,” the Captain said, fist covering her heart. “We’ve just returned from the villages. Lord Damir headed straight for his chambers.”
“No need to apologise, Captain,” Castelle said, edging towards her father’s room. “My Lady-in-Waiting, Rhea, is visiting her family over the next week. Will you see to it that she is escorted through the forest?”
The Captain promised she would. Her reports of the outside world fell on deaf ears. Castelle gave a few cursory nods and headed down the corridor. The temple’s widest staircase took her to her father’s chambers, far from hers. It was safer, that way. Clustering together would make easy targets of them.
The guards outside bowed their heads. Castelle knocked, and knowing it wouldn’t be anyone but her, Father Damir called for her to come in.
The doors led to a large chamber with windows almost as wide as the room. A collection of books rivalling the library’s filled one wall and much of the room was taken up by fine furniture. All the trinkets they’d saved from the castle were kept in tall glass cabinets, polished every day.
Father Ira sat in quiet, private conversation with his husband. Father Damir had removed his boots and light coat, and was in the process of straightening his sleeves.
“Castelle,” he said in greeting. “You’ll be pleased to know that all is well with Laister. Your people have donated a generous amount of grain from their stores, as well as several stags. I have the cooks preparing one, now.”
“Welcome back. I’m glad things went well. Thank you for always handling these matters,” Castelle said.
He huffed.
“Yes, yes. Your father tells me you have other matters on your mind, Castelle.”
There had been a statue of The Preserver when they’d first come across the temple. It had been dragged out with rough ropes, base shattered, and turned into a plinth.
A sword had been placed upon it, on a small, wooden stand, so as not to distract from the beauty of it. Not that anything could. The blade shone silver, double-edged, and curved halfway down. The hilt was adorned with filigree so delicate Castelle’s eyes strained to make out the flowing patterns.
It was a trick of the spirit within, luring her closer. Just one step, then another, and she’d see all its secrets; one step, then another, and she could wrap her fingers around the hilt and lift it to the light.
Father Damir cleared his throat.
Castelle clasped her hands behind her back.
“I believe the time has come,” Castelle said, watching light dance along the blade. “I must do more for my people. They have waited for so long, and I… I want to try, father. I want to wield Brackish.”
“It’s been a stressful time,” Father Ira interjected. “What with the recent assassination attempt and tensions mounting in the north.”
Father Damir lifted a hand, silencing him.
“The sword is your birthright. It is yours, make no mistake about that. We merely watch over it and protect it, as we have protected you,” Father Damir said, stepping closer to the plinth. “Almost two centuries ago, Ava Greyser trapped a spirit haunting the archipelago in this blade and proved herself worthy of ruling the Kingdom. Every monarch since has held it in th
eir bare hand, Castelle. You know this. But not all who have lifted it have been so lucky. The sword knows who is worthy of wielding it. The sword only bows to those with Fenroe’s future in their hearts.”
Father Damir’s hand hovered over the hilt. Castelle’s heart bruised the inside of her ribs. Her blood alone was not enough and never would be. Not until she lifted Brackish from the plinth and held the blade high.
“I… I am ready. I cannot keep hesitating,” Castelle murmured.
“Then by all means, please,” Father Damir said, sweeping an arm out towards the blade. “Take it.”
Castelle stepped forward. It was all she could do.
She stared at the steel until she could hear the spirit singing within. The forest spirits rose up in deafening silence, lifting her hand, urging her on, on.
Her fingers hovered over the hilt. Her mother had worn the sword at her hip and only had to raise her voice to silence those with treason in their hearts.
She would do her Kingdom proud.
She would be everything her mother was, and more.
“Castelle, darling. Please!” Father Ira cried, leaping to his feet.
Castelle jolted back, convinced the sword itself had hissed.
“Ira,” Father Damir said. “What is it? Let Castelle try. If she says she’s ready, she’s ready.”
Father Ira wrung his hands together.
“I’m—darling, darlings, I’m sorry. I truly am. It isn’t that I doubt you, Castelle. Not at all. I…” He lowered his voice, hand sweeping over his round head. “If you aren’t ready, if the spirit catches you unaware, it could all be over. There’s no saying what it will do to you. It could tear you apart, my love. This could all be for nothing.”
“Ira,” Father Damir snapped. “Do not be absurd. The sword is Castelle’s. She has studied for a lifetime, and most importantly, she has waited. Castelle, please. Lift Brackish.”
Castelle’s gaze shot between her fathers. Clouds covered the sun, staining Brackish a dark grey.
She was beyond selfish. What happened if she lifted the sword and it was all for nothing? What if it tore her apart, what if the spirit rushed through her mind, claiming her for its own? All that would be left of the Greyser bloodline was a temple that no longer served its purpose, an army without a Princess to rally behind, and her fathers, alone in the forest after they’d sacrificed so much to save her, to raise her.
“I…” Castelle murmured.
“It will be fine. Do it. Wield the sword.”
“Gods, Damir. Look at her. She’s trembling. The sword will know she’s not ready,” Father Ira said, voice rising as it so rarely did. “We can’t lose her. Not after what happened to Layla.”
Father Damir scoffed.
“Her cousin abandoned her Princess and marched through the forest. She was torn apart by bandits, not a spirit-sword. For gods’ sake, Ira, it’s been eight years.”
The words rang in Castelle’s ears, high-pitched, blocking out all sound and sense. Layla. Layla. She’d had a friend, once upon a time. She’d had a family, even if the blood that bound them wasn’t royal.
Her chest tightened. She stepped back from the plinth, hands falling uselessly at her sides.
“Fathers, please,” she said. The pair fell silent. “I am being selfish. Rushing into this. I need more time. Just a little more. We can afford it, can’t we? Please.”
The two of them stared at her. Father Ira’s face softened.
He hurried over, hands on her shoulders, but Father Damir didn’t drop her gaze.
“Very well,” he said, hand hovering over Brackish. “But remember that you are the one who wishes to act, Castelle. You are the one who asks why we do nothing but wait, while fearing what is yours to control.”
His fingers wrapped around the hilt. He lifted it an inch or two, and nothing howled, nothing sang. Blue light didn’t ripple across the blade, didn’t tear through his eyes.
“Go,” he said, putting the sword down. “I have much to discuss with your father, and sleep to catch up on.”
The spirit-sword rested back on its stand, as if it’d never been lifted.
But Brackish alone was not enough to claim the throne.
Father Damir couldn’t take her place.
Chapter Three
Castelle’s fathers dismissed her without a word. Back in her chambers, the windows had been propped open, letting in a warm summer breeze. Castelle’s head span as her fathers’ words replayed themselves, none of them in order. She saw flashes of Brackish on its stand, encased by fingers that weren’t her own.
No wonder she’d survived. She was of no threat to the rebels, to their superfluous, fleeting rule. Why waste a blade on her?
“Princess?” Rhea’s voice, from the bedchamber. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon, but I’m glad I caught you! Did you hear? The Captain herself is going to escort me through the forest.”
Castelle leant against a column in the centre of the room, watching the curtains billow. Who would take care of the day-to-day, with Rhea gone? None of the other maids folded her clothes just so, or made the bed like Rhea did. Not that it was justification for cancelling Rhea’s trip, for making her stay behind and serve in misery, while her family celebrated a new life.
Rhea would’ve already found a temporary replacement, would’ve left strict orders to be followed. She was Castelle’s Lady-in-Waiting for a reason.
“Princess? Castelle?” Rhea asked, poking her head into the main chamber. “Is everything alright?”
Rhea had changed for her journey, sturdy boots to make it through the forest, and a shawl for the rougher winds along the coast.
“Everything’s fine, Rhea,” Castelle said, pushing herself off the column. She found a smile for Rhea. “Excited for your break?”
“I am! Mostly. I never got on terribly well with my parents. Honestly, I prefer it here, most of the time. But with a baby to fawn over, everyone’s going to be too distracted to argue! It’ll just be a week. I don’t think I’ll have enough time to get sick of them.”
Smile failing, Castelle turned to her desk and opened the top drawer.
“Here. For your sister,” she said, holding out a small pouch of gold. “And your nephew, of course. Ensure they have all they need.”
Rhea’s mouth opened as wide as her eyes.
“Princess, you—Castelle, I have my wages. You don’t have to,” Rhea said, hand hovering over the pouch.
“Your wages are yours. You earnt them, and you should get to spend them,” Castelle said, pushing the pouch against Rhea’s palm and covering her hand with her own. “You have been by my side, all these years. I should like your family to know how very much it’s appreciated.”
Rhea blinked hard.
She took a step forward, barely remembering to stop herself.
“I…” Her fingers curled tightly around the gold. “May I, Princess?”
Castelle faltered, but only for a second. If rumours were to spread, she’d know she was being spied on. That was something. With a slight nod, she held out an arm and Rhea rushed to embrace her.
Castelle drew a sharp breath. Rumours didn’t matter. Friendship did, and those who spoke behind her back could never understand how much companionship meant in a world as isolated as Castelle’s.
“Be safe, Rhea, and follow the Captain’s orders,” Castelle said. “There are few paths the dogs will not walk, and she is one of few who know the safe routes in and out.”
The embrace lingered. When Rhea remembered herself, she eased back, cleared her throat, and rubbed the back of her head. Her lips parted, but either bravery or desperation deserted her. She aimed a smile meant for Castelle at the ground and excused herself with a brief bow.
Castelle retired to the window, elbows on the sill, forehead on the glass. It took another hour for Rhea to appear, everything she owned bundled into a single bag that tugged on her shoulders. The Captain appeared soon after, matching Rhea’s nervous energy with her usual bran
d of pacing.
The Captain’s mouth moved. The glass and the distance between them muted the words, but Castelle heard her voice in the back of her skull.
And these are all the secrets of the forest, Rhea. This is how we slip out, how we are connected to the world outside. This is the path you must promise to never show the Princess. The archipelago is hers, and we must keep it pristine for her, far, far from her wandering feet.
Castelle closed her eyes.
It was easy for a maid, for Rhea, but it wasn’t easy for her. Wasn’t meant to be. That was the price that came with ruling. Her mother had said it time and time again. Castelle wasn’t the oldest, wasn’t meant to rule, but she had seen it in her mother’s eyes, shining through the exhaustion that running a castle brought, the murk of the impossible decisions she had to make.
Rhea glanced back at the temple. Castelle bolted upright, face red, and belatedly waved.
Rhea lifted both hands over her head. The Captain glanced back and tilted her head, before sweeping out an arm and leading Rhea into the forest.
She was gone, easy as that.
Away from the temple, out of the forest, back to the home that was always waiting for her.
Castelle stared between the trees as the sky began to darken. No dogs or wandering spirits appeared; there was only a knock at the door, summoning her to dinner.
Father Ira blinked a few times in rapid succession, but made no comment about her not changing for dinner. Father Damir stared at an open book, none the wiser.
The dining hall was ridiculously large, fit for the banquets of her childhood. Long ago, the Greysers had the decency to take most of their meals in a more private chamber, where even cousins were not always invited. Here, a table ran the length of the room, high-backed chairs lining it, and only the three of them ever ate there. The dark, polished wood stretched on forever, across the room, through the walls and corridors of the temple, over the gardens and into the forest, tangling with the trees it was born of, never escaping their gnarled roots.