The Shattering of the Spirit-Sword Brackish 1

by Sam Farren

  Putting the fox out of its misery would’ve been a kindness, that its spirit might return to The Embracer.

  Eos unbuttoned her cloak at the throat, spread it across her lap, and pulled the fox into it. The creature whined but didn’t struggle. She swaddled it tightly and reached into her bag. With the fox wrapped up and held in one arm, she pressed the neck of her canteen to its mouth.

  “Dear gods,” Castelle murmured as the fox found the strength to drink. “What are you doing? What are we going to do with that?”

  “We will take it with us,” Eos said, getting to her feet.

  “Excuse me? We’re going to get on a boat with a half-dead fox?”

  “No,” Eos said, continuing through the woodland. “We will take it to the temple.”

  “The temple?”

  “Yes, Princess. We will stop at the village temple.”

  Castelle pressed a hand to her forehead. First the bridge, and now this.

  “We’re seeking refuge at a temple? Like common criminals?” Castelle asked. “You may belong there, Eos, but my mother had them closed for a reason. The people there, they—gods, they will not help that creature. It would be better off dying on the way.”

  Eos wrapped her arms tighter around the fox. Castelle fell a step behind. That wasn’t fair on the fox. Nature was nature, but the world had been unkind to it. It deserved another chance, or a chance to begin with.

  It didn’t take long to pass through the woodland. Castelle would’ve seen the village from miles off, if not for the cloak of darkness. The air smelled more strongly of salt than ever, but the sea was hidden from her, along with Stalf and any other island on the horizon.

  They reached the village without another word to each other. It was larger than Castelle had expected, though most settlements were large after half a life lost to the forest. Scores of houses lined the hillside, divided by a river too narrow for the burning of its bridge to be much of a tragedy. Lights only shone from one building.

  Again, the temple was more of a large house than anything the gods would look upon favourably. The entrance was low, door a mere afterthought of architecture, and the building leant a little too far to the left. The streets were empty, but rather than rush and beat her fists against front doors and beg for help, Castelle was grateful no one was there to see her step into the temple.

  Eos banged on the door. Bolts were drawn across from the inside.

  A person – a priest, most likely – held the door open and ushered them inside, locking it the moment they’d ducked their heads and stepped through the doorway. The priest stifled a yawn, covering their mouth with the back of their wrist as they waved an apologetic hand.

  “How many I help you?” they asked.

  They glanced over Eos and Castelle with a flash of excitement in their eyes. It wasn’t often travellers passed through, especially not those with scars lining their face.

  Eos held out the fox kit.

  “It has been abandoned by its mother,” Eos said.

  The priest started, having missed the fox in the darkness. They opened their arms, eagerly taking the bundle from Eos, and held the fox towards the crude statue of the gods that took up much of the entrance hall.

  “Gods willing,” the priest said. “You were right to bring it here. We’ve plenty of experience rehabilitating wildlife. Don’t worry, don’t you worry at all. Now, if you’d give me a moment.”

  The priest vanished through a doorway behind their desk. Excited chatter was muffled by the thick wall, but Castelle heard chairs scraping as people roused themselves from sleep and rushed to the creature’s aid.

  That wasn’t right.

  Decades ago, the rebels had used temples all across Fenroe as their bases. Temples were protected by the gods, protected from soldiers and guards and justice; protected from the royal family, even. Their authority had no weight there. Perhaps those truly needing help had used the temples, but they had devolved into a den of plotting and scheming, of crimes gone unpunished, thieves and murderers given room and board, refuge granted to those who shed blood.

  Queen Marcella had no choice but to shut down the temples, yet the rebels had still won. They’d continued the practice of harbouring fugitives, and there Castelle was, standing beneath the gods that had never protected her family.

  She turned to the door, ready to flee before the priest returned.

  Eos grabbed her wrist, holding her in place.

  “Sorry about that,” the priest said, shuffling back into the room. “The other priests were very eager to help. The fox’s wounds are being cleaned as we speak.”

  Eos bowed her head in gratitude.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  The priest was playing their role, pretending to offer help to those in need. Castelle was in need. Eos could grasp her wrist, but she couldn’t stop her from crying that she’d been taken from her home, that she was being dragged across Laister, towards the sea. The priest would be compelled to help, would have Eos dragged away, and…

  All Eos would have to say was the word Princess and the priest would know who she was. Rebels had gutted the temples and used them for their own ends, and now the same temples were funded and overseen by their farce of a government.

  Castelle’s shoulders fell. She stood straight, back to the door.

  Eos let go.

  “We need rest,” Eos said.

  The priest held her gaze. Everything in the way Castelle stood screamed there was more to this, that danger followed at her heels, but the priest only nodded in understanding. They asked no more questions, picked up a lantern from their desk, and led Eos and Castelle through the temple halls.

  The capital’s temple had been as grand as the castle, once upon a time. The statues of the gods had been commissioned from the land’s most revered sculptures, and there were whole halls for prayer, libraries for study, courtyards and gardens overflowing with all the beauty the archipelago held claim to.

  Here the ceilings were so low Castelle had to duck her head, the staircase so steep it may as well have been a ladder.

  Laister Temple may have only been a temple in name, but it had the decency to look the part.

  The priest showed them to a chamber, left them with a lantern, and told Eos to let them know if they needed anything else. They left with a bow, more concerned with the fox than the strangers who’d turned up in the dead of night.

  Two narrow beds ran the length of the room. Eos placed her bag between them, removed her boots, and locked the door from the inside. She dropped the key down the front of her shirt and sat on the bed, back pressed into the corner of the room.

  “That’s it? You’re just going to sleep here?” Castelle asked, standing in the middle of the room. “Why did we resort to this? The village must have at least one inn, and I doubt you are unfamiliar with sleeping under the stars.”

  “A priest will not spread rumours about guests, as an innkeeper would,” Eos said. “And if we were outside, I would have to watch over you. Here I may sleep.”

  “So that’s it. I can’t escape, can I?” Castelle said, falling to the edge of her bed. “What’s to stop me from telling the villagers who I am? The sailors at Yaros?”

  Eos opened an eye.

  “Do you think they would help you, Princess?”

  “You said it yourself. I am their Princess. Of course they would aid me!”

  “Do you think your people support you?”

  Genuine curiosity changed the shape of her words. Her question was not mocking, or otherwise indecipherable. It was not designed to lead to yet more frustration.

  “Not all of them. I’m not naïve, Eos. I expect some support the rebels, and even more do not care who rules them, as though policy does not trickle down from the capital and affect each and every day of their lives,” Castelle said. “But enough support me. They have been waiting for me to return to the throne all this time. I can’t let them down, no matter what your intentions are.”
/>   Both eyes open, Eos leant forward.

  “Who has told you this, Princess?”

  With each question posed, it became painfully obvious Eos wasn’t the one who’d devised the scheme, who’d pieced the abduction together. She was but a tool, as clueless as Castelle, in most regards.

  “My fathers, obviously,” Castelle said. “They have contact with all of Fenroe. It has not been a fast process by any stretch of the imagination, but we have regained Laister and Llyne, and many of the smaller islands are finding ways to break free and turn back to us.”

  Eos was Yrician. What would she know of Fenroe’s history, its geography? She was following a path someone else had mapped out.

  Eos leant forward. A single note of a dry laugh disrupted the world around them.

  “What is it?” Castelle demanded.

  “I apologise, Princess,” Eos said. “Did you not see how empty the roads we travelled were? How sparse the settlements? This village is the third-largest on Laister.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Laister is the fourth-largest island in the archipelago, barely smaller than Llyne! The bulk of my forces are here.”

  “How many soldiers do you think you have left, after fourteen years?”

  “Five... five-thousand. Or thereabouts.”

  “Laister has been ravaged by Lords Damir and Ira. Most have left the island to escape their hold on it, and there is only one port to do such from,” Eos said. “Do you not wonder how the temple always has food? How you lived in luxury, despite producing nothing?”

  Castelle bristled. She pushed her back to the wall, as far from Eos as she could get with the door locked, the key down her shirt.

  “The local towns and villages have always supported me, have always aided us,” Castelle said. “They are privileged to help the last of the Greyser line.”

  “They are forced to. Lords Damir and Ira take what they please, thanks to the soldiers behind them. And their number is closer to five-hundred, Princess,” Eos said. “You have this all wrong. Were you to tell the villagers who you were, they would either laugh in your face or want you dead.”

  Castelle’s temples pounded. The village elders and town mayors had visited the temple every year, had told Castelle what an honour it was to support their Princess, their rightful Queen; they had given all they had to help her and had done it freely. Her fathers had made agreements with the local settlements, had given them work as guards and maids and footmen.

  “Who are you to talk? You are not Fenronian, you are not one of my people,” Castelle said, hands bundled in her lap. “You Yricians impose upon the lands of others as you please, taking what you want as if it is owed to you, and you lecture me on stealing from others? How dare you set foot in my Kingdom and speak of my fathers in such a way.”

  “They are not your fathers,” Eos said.

  Castelle rose to her feet. Eos remained in the corner, staring up at her.

  “They are not my fathers? They are not my blood, certainly, but they have done everything for me. They have sacrificed their lives for me, for my family, because they know it is right. They see how the Kingdom suffers, how the rebels have spent fourteen years driving Fenroe into the salt of the sea,” Castelle said, jaw trembling. “They are all I—they have protected me, all these years. They have kept assassins at bay, have kept poison from my veins. How could you say that? How could you think that?

  “You do not understand what it means to live with fear. To know your life could be forfeit at any moment, for no reason other than the blood that flows through you.”

  Eos stared at her, unblinking. Slowly, she lifted a hand and pointed to the scars on her face. She pressed her finger to the thickest, tracing it to her jawline.

  “I am certain I do not, Princess,” Eos said.

  She dropped her hand, arms folded across her chest as she burrowed into the corner, slumping against the wall until she was close to comfortable.

  “That’s it? You have nothing to say for yourself?” Castelle asked, voice but a whisper.

  Eos was taunting her. Pulling lies from the air as she pleased, all engendered to make Castelle believe it was hopeless. If she convinced her all the Kingdom was against her, that her own fathers were little better than bandits, she didn’t have to worry about Castelle running for help.

  How much had Rhea told Eos for her to get under Castelle’s skin like this?

  “Sleep,” Eos said.

  “After all you’ve said? You ought to be—”

  “Sleep, Princess,” Eos repeated, eyes closed. “We do not have long until dawn.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sleep came not because Castelle called for it, but because it was stronger than her. It washed over her with the promise of the night terrors she’d endure exhaustion to avoid, and Castelle relented, not wanting to hear Eos’ words buzz through her head, over and over.

  Not wanting to watch Eos sleep on the bed opposite her.

  Her body drank down sleep, plunging her deep into the dreams that always came. It was the same images as ever, out of order, amplified, muted, and Castelle heard herself mumble, even as she slept.

  She awoke to Eos standing over her. Light poured through the window and the world inside Castelle’s head span. Sleeping for a handful of hours was worse than not sleeping at all. Every inch of her knew what she was missing, what Castelle could so easily give, and to sit up was to believe the air was sludge.

  “Here,” Eos said, handing her an apple.

  Boots already on, Eos opened the door and headed into the corridor. She didn’t have to duck her head.

  With no choice but to move forward, Castelle pulled herself from the bed, clung to the apple, and followed Eos down the stairs. The temple wasn’t any more impressive in the daylight. The walls were bare stone, cracked and crumbling in places, and none of the doors sat properly in their frames.

  The priest was still on duty in the entrance hall. They bounced out of their seat at the sight of them and said, “Wonderful news. The fox is clinging on tightly. With any hope, that’s the worst of it over.”

  “Thank you,” Eos said, stepping towards the door.

  “Of course. That’s what we’re here for. Human, fox, or bird—the gods offer their hands to everyone. Should you find yourself in need of help, don’t hesitate to come back.”

  Eos left without a word, door open behind her.

  Castelle’s fingers tightened around the apple. The priest glanced out the door and took a few quick steps towards Castelle.

  “Pardon, miss. Is everything alright?” they asked in a whisper. “Are you safe?”

  Eos must’ve known the priest would approach her, but she’d gone ahead anyway. She’d relied on last night’s revelations, false though they were, to manipulate fear into silence.

  Every word Eos had spoken had been a lie, yet Castelle couldn’t shake off one truth: the temples had stood against her family. The temples had sheltered those with nothing but slaughter on their mind.

  She couldn’t trust the priest any more than she trusted Eos.

  “I’m awfully tired. I apologise,” Castelle heard herself say. “But things are fine. Thank you.”

  She left as quickly as she could, not looking behind her. The village streets were close to empty that early in the morning. Eos cut between two houses to reach the road, knowing Castelle would follow her.

  Knowing that exhaustion, muddled sleep, and a deluge of lies would ensure her silence for another day.

  Castelle glowered at Eos’ back, catching up with her. It was remarkable how much contempt every inch of her body mustered for someone she knew nothing about.

  “There are more apples, if you wish,” Eos said. “Bread and nuts, too.”

  Castelle had bruised the apple, forgetting it was a thing to be eaten. Throwing it to the ground would be no act of defiance. She couldn’t escape Eos if starvation made her legs tremble.

  She bit into the apple, scowling.

  The skies were clear. Word of
the burnt bridge would reach the village in a matter of hours, and she’d reach Yaros Bay shortly after. Maps of the archipelago had adorned the walls of the castle and temple alike. There couldn’t be more than a dozen miles between Castelle and the coast.

  The land was unremarkable and mostly downhill. Yesterday’s rain clung to the ground, and a few times, Castelle’s feet threatened to slip out from beneath her. Eos never looked back. The very peak of Stalf was visible for a handful of miles, and eventually, the sight was replaced by the sound of waves crashing along the shore.

  Her family’s castle had stood in the centre of Caelfal, the largest island in the archipelago, but they’d had other residences scattered across Fenroe. They’d headed to the coast every year, during the height of summer, and Castelle waded in the saltwater with her siblings and cousins, spent long evenings playing make-believe, sun not setting till eight or nine, days never-ending.

  It was part of her life she’d never get back, even when she sat upon the throne. It was the past in all senses of the word, locked away from her, confined to memories that could so easily run sour, if she dwelt on them for too long.

  Eos would never understand that. She’d never understand all she’d lost.

  She’d taken the rebels’ word, had let their lies shape her thoughts. That was it. Castelle could hardly blame her. Eos had arrived in Fenroe six years after her family had fallen, after the crown had been pried from her mother’s head. People bowed to the government to survive, so that they too did not end up like the heads on pikes, and repeated the rebels’ lies until they could not tell them from the truth.

  That’s what Castelle had to save her people from. A deception that ran so deep the Kingdom believed it was cared for, that it was thriving.

  Eos was an outsider. None of that mattered to her.

  Castelle marched ahead. Yaros Bay was one part of the island she’d seen for herself. She’d arrived twelve years ago on a boat that made the journey countless times, ferrying her army across. With her fathers by her side, she’d been allowed to stand at the stern and watch the bay grow and grow, until they reached the land.