The Shattering of the Spirit-Sword Brackish 1

by Sam Farren

  Eos, trailing behind, was finally showing signs of wear. Her breathing came a little heavier and there was a hint of sweat on her forehead. She dropped the bags to the ground and sat in front of them, back to the spirits.

  Castelle watched the blue lights stutter across the landscape, almost imperceptible, now they weren’t amongst them. Countless people must’ve wandered into their lands before the signs were hammered into the ground. Dozens, even hundreds, must’ve been overcome by the spirits, and plenty would’ve had their bodies stolen. They would’ve marched into the nearby settlements, eyes glowing, centuries of anger and injustice given form, flesh letting them fight back.

  And Castelle had walked through their territory, unscathed because they would not approach Eos. Either they saw through her, or they reviled her, feared her.

  “Ten minutes,” Eos said, uncapping a canteen and emptying it in a few heavy gulps.

  Crossing the expanse came at a cost. Eos was close to dishevelled, close to showing something other than disinterest.

  “Eos?” Castelle asked. She’d been tearing handfuls of grass from the earth without realising it. “Do you think there are—are there spirits in the capital?”

  Eos tilted her head to the side. Castelle’s stomach turned. How cruel the world was to deliver the answers to questions she could never ask her fathers in the form of this woman.

  “There was bloodshed all across the archipelago, but none so much as in Torshval. There are spirits everywhere, Princess. Most have yet to merge with others and can only be seen as brief flickers.”

  Castelle pulled more grass from the damp earth, dirt under her nails.

  “No. That isn’t what I meant. My family, did they…?”

  “Your family were not religious, Princess. They always let that be known,” Eos said. “Strange that you would end up at a temple. Stranger still that you would worry about this.”

  The bite behind Eos’ words was lost as she hunched over, fingertips pressing to her forehead.

  “My family weren’t interested in old superstitions or wasting time worshipping those who no longer walk our lands. Not when we could actually be helping people,” Castelle said. “But we were not so foolish as to disregard the gods themselves. Besides, what does that matter? Spirits are spirits, whether you pray or not. They are here, in our world. We cannot rid ourselves of them.”

  Eos twisted two fingers against her forehead.

  “Your family closed all the temples across the archipelago,” Eos said, teeth grinding together. “Thousands seeking refuge were sacrificed in the name of propaganda. Everyone who truly needed help was branded a criminal, some left homeless, others executed, guilty by association of an imagined enemy. They were hiding in temples, your family said. They were making a sacrilege of the protection the gods offered, were using those truly in need of help as a human shield. How spineless they were, how dark their motives were.

  “They emptied the temples and found nothing. Nothing to justify closing them, nothing that stood as a threat to them. They branded the country’s most vulnerable as traitors and had them killed in the streets.

  “So, no, Princess. There are no spirits in the capital that your family did not put here. Your family does not haunt Torshval. There was nothing unjust in what happened to them. The gods saw them taken from this world the moment they could.”

  Tears streaked Castelle’s face. Eos leant forward, forehead close to the ground, gripping one of her bags. Castelle’s retorts turned to dust in her mouth. There was no glee in Eos’ voice, no vindication. The words were clawing their way out, out, and Eos was forced to speak them, as Castelle was forced to listen.

  There was no lie within it, yet it couldn’t be true. The rebels had used the temples as their bases for years. Her mother had no choice but to close them, and the surrounding settlements had been tasked with taking in those in needs. Traitors had been plucked like weeds, disguising themselves as Fenroe’s most needy, screaming till the end that they were innocent, innocent; they’d never breathed a word against the crown.

  But they had. They all had.

  Eos rocked forward, knuckles white around her bag.

  Castelle couldn’t move.

  Couldn’t run.

  Behind Eos, the spirits spiralled together, reaching for the sun, unable to escape the miles they’d been bound to.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Castelle whispered. “What are you saying? What are you doing?”

  Castelle’s family were dead and gone. That was the lie. That was the lie in all of this. Castelle had been there, could still smell the sour blood whenever her mind slipped, whenever she spent more than a second focused on anything but the present, the future of her Kingdom, of their Kingdom, of what had been left behind. She’d been there, had seen it all, and knew her mother would not let go of the world so easily.

  Not even The Embracer could tear Queen Marcella from her land.

  “I am—” Eos said, looking up. “I apologise, I—”

  Her words didn’t matter. As her knuckles had turned white around the bag, the bag had turned blue, unsettling but far from unnatural. The light within was barely muted by the canvas, and Eos clutched it tighter, trying to hide what Castelle had already seen.

  “Eos!” Castelle said, leaping to her feet. She took wide strides back but would not turn and run. “What is that?”

  “I am sorry, Princess,” Eos said, shuffling the bag in her arms. “The other spirits called to it. It has grown heavy, unruly, and wishes to be heard.”

  Now wasn’t the time to run.

  She wasn’t the only thing Eos had stolen from the temple.

  She couldn’t turn away, couldn’t let this woman, this Yrician, make off with the last of the Greyser’s heirlooms, the one thing that bound them to the land as strongly as their blood.

  “That’s Brackish,” Castelle whispered. “That’s Brackish, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

  Her voice rose with every word.

  “Why do you have it?” Castelle demanded. Eos’ hands fell slack around the bag, and the spirit’s blue-white light washed across her face. “That is mine! It is dangerous, Eos, it is not to fall into any other hands, it…”

  “It is not to leave your side?” Eos asked, softly.

  Why Eos had taken the sword no longer mattered. It was all Castelle needed for Fenroe to accept who she was. If she took the sword to Torshval, then—no, no. She’d need an army, first. She’d need the people to see it, to support her.

  She needed to wield it.

  For the first time, there was no doubt in her mind that it was hers. She could wrap her hand around the hilt and Brackish would yield to her, would sense the iron in her Greyser blood.

  “Give it to me,” Castelle said, stepping closer.

  “No, Princess,” Eos said, pulling the bag into her lap.

  The light grew brighter, rising as a silent lament all across the land felt without understanding. Eos didn’t rise to her feet, didn’t push herself back through the grass, away from Castelle.

  She was spent. Dragging Brackish through the spirits’ land had taken everything out of her.

  This was Castelle’s chance. It was the only chance she’d get, the only time Eos’ guard would be down enough to pry Brackish from her. If she didn’t take it now, she never would. Eos would find some way to keep it from her, would conjure more lies to hide it behind.

  Castelle moved, possessed by herself; empowered by everything she’d survived, everything she knew to be true, bodies on the castle floor, rebels breaking down the doors, years on the road, a lifetime hiding, waiting, watching—

  It hadn’t been for nothing.

  It hadn’t been a lie.

  Castelle snatched the bag from Eos’ arms, impossibly heavy, and stumbled back with it. Eos hissed something in an unfamiliar tongue, and Castelle ripped the bag open, contents spilling into the grass.

  There was Brackish, smaller now that it wasn’t on a pedestal. There was Brackish, wrapped in th
ick cloth and twine, bound so that none could touch the spirit sword, none could be taken by it.

  Castelle pulled the twine loose, tugged the cloth away. Eos tore across the grass and snatched her wrists, but it was too late.

  The bright blue faded, and sunlight struck the blade.

  Chapter Ten

  “You do not want to do this,” Eos warned. “Brackish wants you to do this.”

  Castelle shook her head. Brackish didn’t want her to do anything; it couldn’t. The blade in front of her wasn’t the spirit-sword. It was a dull thing, close to rust, blade no longer than her forearm. The guard had chunks missing, and any patterns on the grip had faded with centuries of rough-handling.

  So this was Eos’ plan. When she could no longer control Castelle with words or ropes, she’d claim to have taken Brackish from the castle and use surrounding spirits as a cheap trick to make it glow. Everything she said was a lie. Of course it was! Of course it was! The sword confirmed it, as useless as the true Brackish was ornate.

  It was a prop. A ploy. That’s all Eos’ stories were, all her plans amounted to. Castelle’s parents hadn’t shut down the temples to punish the poor. They’d defended themselves, defended the land. Eos knew nothing of it. Eos was a stranger, an outsider, there fourteen years too late to make a difference.

  The sword lay in reach between them.

  “Princess,” Eos said in a low whisper.

  It was a warning, an order that wasn’t hers to give.

  Castelle’s eyes left the blade, meeting Eos’. Eos didn’t breathe, didn’t move. She tried to make her motionless with a look alone, but Castelle wouldn’t be ensnared.

  “Don’t,” Eos hissed, but Castelle snatched the sword.

  Her palms weren’t calloused enough for it, but her grip was steady. Eos reached out. Castelle stood, sword in hand. Eos needed to defend herself, though she never had before.

  “Princess. Please,” Eos said, hands held up in supplication, one knee in the dirt. “Let go of the sword while you still can.”

  Eos’ fear was misplaced. Castelle couldn’t decide between conjuring a laugh or nausea to match it. Castelle didn’t know how to use a sword beyond keeping the point away from herself, but there was no reason to be afraid. She’d taken the blade, and that’s all that mattered. Eos had taken her from her home, had sullied her family’s name, and now Castelle would—

  Now she would—

  What was she going to do? Why had she taken the blade?

  The answer was in the back of her head, but she hadn’t put it there. Hadn’t summoned it. She had taken the sword, and she would—Was she going to run Eos through? She had taken the sword so she could— Eos would— if she could only think, if her temples would only stop pounding, then she could—

  Castelle’s empty hand moved.

  She stared down at it like she’d stared at the eyeless fox, watching her fingers curl towards her palm. They twitched like a spider ensuring it still had all its limbs.

  With her throat about to close, Castelle said, “Eos, I cannot—”

  Her mouth filled with dust. Any pretence of power, of control, faded, and white-blue light rippled from the blade, into the blue of her veins. All at once, the surging force understood muscles and tendons and the beat of her heart, what her bones were made of, and how her stomach twisted. Castelle’s body wouldn’t listen to her, but the struggle was no longer on the outside.

  The spirit pressed inside her mind, riffling through every thought, every memory. Castelle tensed everything she didn’t know was within her, blue light pressing to the back of her eyes, burning, burning.

  She lifted the sword.

  The sword lifted itself.

  Eos, knelt on the ground, was faster.

  She grabbed Castelle’s forearm and pulled her to the ground with a thud that wouldn’t shake the spirit free. Castelle’s body scrambled back, but so long as the spirit was struggling against Eos, it was in her arms, in her grit teeth, far from her mind and all Castelle had yet to uncover.

  Eos pinned her to the earth, twisted her arm back, and her calloused fingers pried the sword from Castelle’s hand.

  It didn’t go easily.

  Tendrils of light clung between her palm and the hilt of the sword, begging not to be severed. Eos wrenched it back, clinging to the sword with her own hand.

  The laughter in the back of Castelle’s head faded.

  “Eos, don’t, you’ll—” Castelle tried, voice hoarse.

  Eos stumbled to her feet, taking wide strides back. The light from the sword grew brighter and brighter, surging up Eos’ arm, clinging to her like glowing strands of ivy. Eos closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and the light fell away with a snap, rushing back into the sword.

  Blue-white light ran the length of the blade. The wind howled, engulfing the sudden silence.

  Nothing in Eos’ eyes had changed. Castelle’s burnt as she stared up at her, waiting for the sword to fall.

  Fourteen years later and finally, finally—

  Eos drew it close, pressing the flat side of her chest.

  “It is trying to speak,” Eos whispered. “It—she is more coherent than most spirits. There is so much to her. She has been trapped here for decades, centuries, and…”

  Eos’ brow furrowed, jaw trembling. Castelle grabbed the cloth and twine that had kept the sword bound and held them out to Eos.

  “Put it down. Quick!” Castelle said. “You can’t keep it at bay forever.”

  Eos shook her head, pushed back whatever argument the sword gave, and dropped it into the cloth. She worked quickly, wrapping the cloth around the sword, not letting metal show between the gaps, and pulled the twine tight.

  The sword grew quiet. Behind them, the spirits fell back into the earth. In the silence that followed, clarity consumed Castelle. Her thoughts settled as her own again, and her body was hers, free of any influence that would see her snatch up a sword she could not use, to ends she didn’t understand.

  Eos looked away, not breathing a word. The spirits had roused something within her, a malice that did not deserve a voice, but she had said what she said. She couldn’t take that back.

  “What was that?” Castelle asked.

  “That was Brackish, Princess,” Eos said, relieved to have reason to speak.

  “I’ve seen Brackish. The sword has been in my family for generations, on display in our castle and my temple alike. There are portraits of Ava Greyser wielding the spirit-sword. I know what Brackish looks like, and that isn’t it.”

  “The sword you are familiar with is decorative. It is too ornate to be of any use in a fight. It is a decoy, that your family’s enemies might never steal the real Brackish.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I saw my mother wield Brackish countless times, and Father Damir, he could…”

  Castelle trailed off.

  Father Damir wasn’t of Greyser blood, but he’d lifted Brackish from its stand. He’d held the sword and kept control of himself, and not a flash of blue-white light had threatened to overtake him. He’d apologised, the first time he’d done it. He said it didn’t reduce the sword to anything less than the Greyser birthright. There’d always be exceptions, and the sword had chosen to bow to him. No one else needed to know. It would never be in the history books.

  “I know Brackish. I have stood in its presence and seen its power. I—I have known it was not mine to command. Not yet,” Castelle said. “I have felt it.”

  “You have been taught to fear it. Taught you are not enough,” Eos said, gathering her belongings and packing her bag, sword included. “The Lords relied on that fear, so that you would never pick up the empty sword they displayed like a trophy.”

  “That isn’t Brackish,” Castelle protested weakly.

  “Really? Because you just stood before me, Princess, ready to push a sword through my heart. No matter what you think of me, no matter the anger I have incited in you, I do not think you would kill me. I do not think you would hurt anyone,” Eos said,
getting to her feet. “Do you want to ask the sword who she is?”

  Eos continued on her path. The sword didn’t glow within her bag, and Castelle promised herself that her legs were her own. She could follow Eos. She could turn back. She could turn back, but just because she could no longer see the spirits didn’t mean they weren’t there. One had already rippled through her body, through her mind.

  Her feet followed Eos, as though still possessed.

  “What do you mean, who she is? It is a spirit.”

  “Yes,” Eos agreed. “But she was a woman, once. She spoke to me, when she could not speak through me.”

  Castelle didn’t want to ask any more questions, didn’t want to make a fool of herself. She refused to accept everything Eos said as the truth, but if Brackish was not something on display, if Brackish was so important it had to be hidden from anyone not on the throne, then father Damir hadn’t wielded the spirit-sword. He had not done what she couldn’t, what she wasn’t good enough to do, even with her Greyser blood.

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing kind. Shouting. Screaming. It is of little surprise she is so angry.”

  Castelle said nothing. What else was there to say? Asking more questions ran the risk of believing Eos, wholly and unequivocally, and if one thing was true, the rest followed.

  The land flattened out, for a time. There was no relief in it. Yesterday’s drizzle returned as a downpour, streaking the air grey. The hills, villages, and towns around them disappeared. All that existed was Eos in front of her, and the ground slowly turning to mud beneath her feet.

  The spirits were a mile behind them. Surely it wouldn’t take Eos long to join a road, before one or both of them slipped and broke their necks.

  When the rain didn’t let up and the sky crashed with thunder, delighting in knocking summer between the clouds, Eos stopped behind a jutting crag, where only the spray of rain reached them.

  Castelle’s cloak left her damp, but without one at all, Eos was soaked through. Her hair stuck to her face, and rain rolled along the edges of her scars.