The Shattering of the Spirit-Sword Brackish 1

by Sam Farren

  “Eos,” Castelle blurted out. Her mind screamed she was in danger, but crying for help was out of the question. The words boiled to nothing in her throat. “What did you do to her?”

  “How nice of you to feign concern for a mere Yrician, Princess,” Svir said, dropping her hand to turn Eos onto her side. “That was enough to knock out a bear, true, but Eos here has been through worse and come out—well, not smiling, but you get the idea, don’t you? But enough of that. Come on. On your feet.”

  Svir stood straight. Castelle shook her head, refusing to do the same, and pushed her back harder against the tree.

  Sighing, Svir pulled a dagger from her side and said, “We really don’t have all day. There are plenty of nosy sorts around here, Eos won’t sleep forever, and it’s scheduled to rain soon. Gods wept, this is a new coat.”

  “I…” Castelle bit the inside of her mouth. Stuttering wouldn’t buy Eos time enough to wake up. “Did my fathers send you?”

  “Never met the men,” Svir said, throwing the knife and catching the handle as it spun. “Your first mistake is in assuming that I work for any person in particular. You are a wanted woman, Princess, and I expect there will be a bidding war of sorts for you.”

  “That’s what this is about? Money?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sure it’s always about money, sweetheart,” Svir said, kneeling at Castelle’s side and hoisting her to her feet. “Never mind that I have lived under the rule of two oppressive monarchies, that I have seen my people reduced to gore on the side of the road by people like you. Never mind that I have long since fought against those who would take what others cannot afford to give. This is all about money. Lots and lots of money.”

  Castelle threw her weight against Svir, but she didn’t budge. She was a short woman, no taller than Eos, but posed a challenge Castelle and her poorly-healed leg couldn’t overcome.

  “Please, I’d much rather do this the easy way. I shall have more courtesy than your family ever had. Follow me. It shan’t be all bad, that much I promise.”

  “My family, I’m not—not like them, I have no intention of—”

  “Spending fourteen years plotting your revenge, ruling over an island, reducing its inhabitants to bones?” Svir asked. “The Greysers always did have the most gilded tongues.”

  Svir tugged Castelle’s arm, pulling her deeper into the forest. Behind them, Eos sprawled out in the dirt, poison in her veins. Castelle had only got this far because of her. She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t know how to survive in this strange, powerful world.

  She shoved Svir again. The woman only clicked her tongue.

  “Last chance, Princess,” Svir warned, waving her dagger.

  “Don’t—don’t hurt Eos,” Castelle said, tensing under Svir’s hold.

  She balled her hands into fists, leveraging herself against Eos’ life. Reed had been so afraid of what Svir would do, and Eos had fled across the archipelago at the sound of her voice. Eos couldn’t protect herself and Castelle couldn’t fight, but she could cause a fuss, a distraction, and pray Svir decided she had too much on her plate.

  “Why would I hurt her?” Svir asked. “Look at her. She’s unconscious. That would hardly be fair, would it?”

  “Reed thinks you want to kill Eos. So. Please. Don’t hurt her. You can take me, just… just don’t—”

  Pathetic. She was trembling, and Svir was close enough to feel it.

  “Let’s make one thing clear: I’m taking you, sweetheart, with or without permission. But for the love of the gods, stop shaking. I need you in one piece, and it’s as I said. Eos deserves better than this.”

  Castelle had no reason to trust Svir, to take her word at face value. Svir was convinced she was a Greyser in the truest sense, intent on bringing ruin upon the archipelago once more. In Svir’s mind, she was the hero, fighting on the side of justice, and Castelle didn’t know how to convince her otherwise.

  She wasn’t certain Svir was anything but that.

  Taking a deep breath, she tore her arm free of Svir’s grip and charged into the forest, fighting the pain ripping through her leg. Svir would forget Eos and follow her, and perhaps there’d be dogs in these woods, too, dogs that hadn’t made it off the island, dogs who remembered the scent of Greyser blood and would leap to protect her, dogs who—

  “What did I say?” Svir asked, snatching the back of Castelle’s cloak.

  Castelle fumbled to a forced stop, lashed out with her arms, but Svir was better than that. Faster than her. She pulled her close, one arm wrapped around her chest, chin on her shoulder.

  “I really don’t know why you insist on making this so difficult,” Svir said.

  She shook the blowgun in one hand, dislodged a dart, and Castelle kicked and screamed as Svir plunged it into her neck.

  The screams stopped first, then the kicking. Her skin was on fire, every muscle in her face scored and outlined, and tepid nausea filled her veins, her throat. Svir gripped her tightly, holding her steady as her knees buckled and all the colour drained from the world.

  Castelle awoke with too much awareness of her surroundings. The sky was dark, the stars blinding, and only her eyes were hers to control. Her arms were sludge, her legs lead, and her jaw opened and closed without letting sound pass. The edges of her vision were blurred and tinted, but she didn’t need more than two seconds to piece together all that had happened.

  Svir had made camp, far from anywhere. They were still within a forest, though Castelle couldn’t say if it was the same forest. Svir sat over a small fire, cooking, and behind her, a large, boxy horse was sleeping, free of its reins.

  Castelle shuffled. Friction bit her wrists. Svir whistled, deaf and blind to her struggles, and sung under her breath in upbeat Y’vish as she served herself soup.

  It was alright. It was alright. She hadn’t abandoned Eos. She’d had no say in this, as she’d had no say in so many things. Once more, she was being dragged across the Kingdom at someone else’s whims. Her fathers had wanted power, had wanted to keep their titles intact in a world where the nobility had been slaughtered to quell the greed that’d never be sated within them. And there was Svir, intent on selling her off.

  Gods. At least Eos had given her something. She’d given her the truth, no matter how hard to swallow, and the promise of reuniting with her cousin.

  Castelle ground her teeth together, trying again. Rope. There was rope around her wrists, binding them in front of her.

  She groaned.

  That got Svir’s attention.

  “Oh! I didn’t expect you to come to for half a day yet,” Svir said. “Must be that red hair of yours. I’ll use two darts, next time.”

  Castelle huffed sharply. It was nonsense, it was all a ruse. Svir benefited from the thought of Eos unconscious for long hours yet, unable to rescue her.

  “Not that it’ll do anything to reassure you, but I believe Eos was right. After all, she usually is,” Svir said, digging into her soup. “I have made a real effort to take untrodden paths, but have caught sight of a rather tall fellow on horseback, doing a terrible job of pretending to hunt. I suppose that’s my competition, isn’t it?”

  Svir’s dagger was placed by her side, a little out of arm’s reach, along with a single bag. All Castelle needed to do was focus, regather her energy in the pit of her stomach, lunge forward, grab the dagger, and—

  And what?

  Had Brackish been within a mile, she would’ve finished the thought for her.

  All Castelle could do with a dagger was slip and cut herself. Svir wouldn’t have left it out in the open if she thought she was in any danger.

  “Where are you taking me?” Castelle asked.

  “Back to Torshval. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of interest in you. For years, people have resorted to talking about whether the last Greyser really was alive, when the weather wasn’t interesting enough. Did she escape, was it just an imposter, a lookalike, did she escape and perish on the road to Laister. That sort of
thing. Personally, I’ve never heard a compelling argument either way.”

  “I’m sat right here,” Castelle said.

  “You are, indeed you are. You may claim to be Castelle Marcella Something Greyser, you may believe you are, but that isn’t proof, is it? I could claim to be The Creator made flesh and it’d stand up as well in court.”

  “Adriana,” Castelle muttered. “And I am Castelle Greyser. Not that it matters. Not that I have a Kingdom, anymore.”

  “Oh, wonderful. I was so wondering what dear Eos was doing with the likes of you, but I see she has talked you out of the whole imperialism thing. Or you are at least playing along, biding your time. There were so many threats of the throne being retaken over the years, none of which were taken seriously, but that wasn’t to say trouble was never on the horizon,” Svir mused. “Trouble tends to be like that. Not taken seriously until it is.”

  Her voice was so unlike Eos’. Her accent only came out in short, sharp stabs, relegated to the corners Svir had packed it into. It didn’t cloud her every word. She’d been in Fenroe for a long, long time.

  “Still,” Svir continued. “I was there, and of all the children on the floor—hm. Someone will be paying for that for a very, very long time. But there was death and destruction all throughout the castle, and had the Princess not been in the dining room, that’s not to say she wasn’t caught in the corridors, in a courtyard. It all sounds rather fantastical, don’t you think?”

  Svir used the air from Castelle’s lungs to speak so easily of the dining room floor, of the children upon it, of Edward’s eyes, never closing. The ropes bit at Castelle’s wrists, but she couldn’t keep her hands still.

  “Well, of course you do. You are the Princess, or think you are, or are a very convincing liar. I can’t decide which is more interesting. Options one or three, I’d say. It explains why Eos has taken it upon herself to deliver you to her idea of justice—which, might I add, is far bloodier than mine. Though brainwashing does have its allure.”

  “I am Princess Castelle. Or I was. I have—I have no intention of reclaiming my throne, and if you were there,” Castelle said, taking deep breaths. “If you went into the dining room, then you know—you know there was a cabinet, and by it, there was, was a—”

  “Shh, shh,” Svir said. “Keep that close to your chest, sweetheart. Don’t let others torment the truth out of you.”

  Svir said it as lightly as she’d said everything else, but hesitated before taking another spoonful of her soup. She shook her head ever so slightly.

  Svir was Eos, when she’d first kidnapped her; convinced Castelle’s blood had rotted her to her core, certain she would be the downfall of Fenroe, if given half a chance to exert her imagined authority. Castelle could convince her otherwise, could show how much she’d learnt, but it would take time. Time Svir wasn’t willing to give.

  “What—who is going to take me?” Castelle asked.

  “There are so many possibilities, Princess. As you said, your fathers are always an option. Those strange Lords playing make-believe deep in those lonely woods. And then there’s the government itself. Do you know that technically, you still owe Fenroe your head? The rebellion’s carefully constructed plan was to slaughter every Greyser and end the bloodline, but after they took power, they never bothered to amend that little section of their charter.

  “And there are those who still burn with grudges against your family. Those who still ache, who need closure. There has been the vague idea thrown around that you ought to stand trial for your family’s crimes, as though you can answer for all adults. You were, what? Fifteen at the time?”

  “Fourteen,” Castelle whispered.

  “Gods. You were fourteen,” Svir said, shaking her head. “Then, of course, there are whisperings that someone’s bastard’s son’s bastard son has Greyser blood in their veins. I’d wager they’d pour the last of their gold into cutting out the competition.”

  Castelle stared at the burns the rope had left around her wrists. Her options were limited, and no paths led to Layla. There was no room for Brackish’s spirit to find rest. There was nothing Castelle could do for the Kingdom but stand trial and bleed the last of the Greyser blood into the soil.

  “I… I know you won’t care, that you won’t listen, but…”

  “Go ahead, sweetheart,” Svir said.

  “If there is an offer from my fathers, if they are willing to pay more than the others…” Castelle said, eyes screwed shut. “Disregard it. Please.”

  Svir put her bowl down.

  “Oh? You don’t want to go home?”

  “What is home to me? You were in the castle. You saw what became of it,” Castelle said. “Yet I would rather return there, to the fires of the past, than spend another minute in the temple with those men.”

  “Perhaps I have you wrong, Princess,” Svir said. “Providing the difference is not of a life-changing significance, I shall consider it.”

  Castelle hung her head. Her fathers had promised her she was safe in the temple with them, had promised to be her whole world in light of what she’d lost, yet she’d rather face the guillotine. Short months spent with Eos had opened something awful within her, and only integrity would let her speak, would let her act.

  Ignoring the darkness, Svir packed her things away and slung her bag over her shoulder. She lifted Castelle by her elbows, led her to the horse, and Castelle let Svir place her upon it. What choice did she have? How far would she get with her bad leg and her bound wrists? She’d tripped on the rocky beaches of Fél, had scraped her face across stone, and that’d been with a spirit to protect her.

  Fear made her compliant.

  Eos would be awake by now. Eos couldn’t face Layla without her. Eos would shake off the poison and march across Caelfal, outpacing a horse, because—

  Because Castelle needed her to.

  “It’s only a day’s ride from here,” Svir said, climbing onto the horse behind Castelle, wrapping the reins around her. “We made good time, yesterday. That rain never did make an appearance. We’d better pray we beat whatever’s awaiting us.”

  Dawn came sooner than Castelle had expected. Time was muddled in her head, her vision clouded though the darkness receded. The horse took the path at a canter, quickening his pace as the sun rose, and Svir guided him without much trouble. The extra passenger wasn’t an unusual turn of events for either of them.

  “Do you… have you always lived in Torshval?” Castelle asked.

  The question wouldn’t slow Svir down, but maybe getting her to speak about herself, about anything, would make her realise Castelle was a person. She was more than a Princess or an approximation of one, more than the gold she could be traded for.

  Castelle’s stomach sunk.

  Even she didn’t believe that.

  “Not always. I do get around, after all,” Svir chirped. “I have a house, but truthfully it’s more for my companions. I do love the capital, though. It is ever-changing. There’s enough going on there to stop my nomadic blood growing too restless.”

  “Are you from Fenroe, originally?”

  Svir answered too quickly, in too much detail, for the questions to mean anything to her.

  “None of us are, sweetheart. Or none of us around my age. I have been here for a good sixteen years, now. Eos gave me a heads-up a long, long time ago, and I left the mainland before things dissolved into a true civil war,” she said.

  “Wait,” Castelle said. “Eos helped you leave, helped you avoid whatever was happening there, but you still want to kill her?”

  “Sweetheart, I don’t know where Reed gets these ideas. It’s complicated. I am grateful to Eos, but I take it she hasn’t shared much of her sordid past with you, has she?”

  “She doesn’t say much about herself,” Castelle said, smothering the interest in her voice. “What should I know about her?”

  “Excellent try, but I could never betray her trust like that.”

  Castelle pressed her lips together as
the horse marched on, more confused than she’d been before her half-hearted onslaught of questions.

  Her chances of escape were few and far between. She considered throwing herself off the horse’s back and rolling downhill each time the land rose, but one broken bone was enough for a lifetime.

  The path was empty, save them. People travelling between the capital and other settlements were taking the wide, paved roads Castelle occasionally saw on the horizon, too far off for her voice to reach. From a distance, they looked like nothing more than two people riding the same horse.

  There wasn’t enough sunlight to glint off Svir’s dagger.

  As morning rolled into noon, Castelle resolved to bide her time and gather her energy. If she couldn’t prove she wasn’t what Svir thought she was, she’d escape once they reached the capital. A lifetime had dragged by, but Castelle would still know the roads.

  Svir couldn’t get Castelle to her destination if she was screaming, and she couldn’t carry an unconscious body through the streets.

  Svir’s plan hinged on holding a dagger to the small of her back, beneath her cloak. All Castelle had to do was be faster than a blade.

  “The city is no place for a horse,” Svir said. “I’m afraid we’re on foot, from here.”

  Castelle had spent so much time staring at the horizon, watching the capital creep over it, that she hadn’t noticed the fences lining the open plains, the large wooden buildings littered across the land.

  Some things hadn’t changed. The royal family had land enough to keep their horses on, but there was money to be made in housing prized racehorses and pets of the wealthy and landed in the stables beyond the city.

  Svir hopped off her horse and tugged Castelle down without any fanfare. Castelle stumbled to her feet, convinced herself she wasn’t going to fall face-first into the dirt, and caught the eye of a stable-hand.

  She held out her bound wrists, throat closed tight, but the woman didn’t give her a second glance.