by Sam Farren
The Shattering of the Spirit-Sword Brackish
Sam Farren
Copyright © 2019 by Sam Farren
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Sam Farren
[email protected]
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Cover © 2019 Elly Beck
Cover Design © 2019 Glynnis Koike
The Shattering of the Spirit-Sword Brackish/ Sam Farren. -- 1st ed.
ISBN 9781697398304
For many people, especially those who rarely see themselves reflected in fiction—but also my cat, Meredith, who literally walked over the keyboard as I typed this.
This book uses gender-neutral pronouns (they/them/theirself) to refer to non-binary characters.
CONTENTS
The Shattering of the Spirit-Sword Brackish Part I
Notes
Other Titles
About the Author
Part I
Chapter One
The dogs of Laister Temple were raised by restless spirits.
Laister’s forests were the oldest on the archipelago, oak trees stained by the ancient, fertile earth. They had been the graves of many, human and animal bones mingling in the soft dirt, and had given life to so many more. The temple, built half a dozen centuries ago, was not the first in Laister, but for a time, it was the greatest in all the land.
After centuries of violent respite, it had been but crumbled walls and sodden moss. The dogs, ever loyal to the Kingdom’s last heir, wandered the forest while the temple was returned to the glory of the Greysers, and mingled with the spirits.
They listened as only dogs could, ears pricking as something other than the wind whispered through the leaves. They were not wild, not feral, but they were proud; they lived their own lives, duty undeniable but incidental.
They knew when to bare their teeth, when to slink into the shadows.
They knew their work was done when the bell sounded from the high tower.
It had tolled for a full hour, yet dawn had not been summoned. Castelle stood at her window, searching through the glass and darkness for a glimpse of the dogs that had toppled yet another assassin. There were guards in the hallway, in her chambers, beyond the window, footsteps loud and clumsy. Voices rose. Twigs snapped. Most of them were new recruits, caught up in the rush of it all.
Castelle turned her back on the spirits that weren’t there. There were only human eyes to catch, guards eager for a sliver of gossip to share over breakfast. It’d been two dreary months since the last assassination attempt and the servants were already deep in speculation.
“Captain?” Castelle asked the armour-clad woman taking up the bulk of her doorway. “My fathers are safe, aren’t they? I’d like to see them and get back to bed before breakfast, if it’s all the same.”
With a practised bow of her head, the Captain said, “I’m afraid you won’t sleep with all these bells, Princess. As soon as we’ve ruled out an accomplice, I’ll escort you to the Lords’ chambers.”
Castelle knew better than to argue. She sat at her writing desk, ignoring the guard who started, mistaking chair legs scraping the floor for assassins at the window. A decade ago, she would’ve worked herself into a blind panic, pacing her chambers until the world span, threatening to charge into the corridors in her nightwear.
Now, life was what it was.
She had a maid bring her a pitcher of water, convinced herself to wake all the way up, and had another help her dress. The Captain searched the room for the third time, gaze following Castelle behind the screen.
It was her job to worry, not Castelle’s. The Captain was the only one with any chance of felling a second intruder, and the dogs and forest spirits had never let anyone with foul intentions within a quarter-mile of the temple.
Within the hour, Castelle’s Lady-In-Waiting was at the door.
“Your fathers are asking for you, Princess,” Rhea said, offering the first smile Castelle had seen all night.
The Captain relinquished her occupation of the doorway, and Castelle walked side-by-side with Rhea down the tall, narrow corridors. Castelle’s fathers hadn’t restored much of the temple’s original architecture, having opted to recreate as much of the castle as memory alone allowed.
The Captain stuck fast to Castelle’s heels, and in the darkness, the rest of the staff waded through the murky dregs of an excitement over too soon, yawning their way back to their bedchambers. Rhea had a knack for barking orders and putting rumour and gossip to rest.
When she wasn’t sharing it with Castelle, that was.
“I hear the dogs didn’t tear the assassin apart, Princess,” Rhea whispered.
Castelle raised her brow.
“Oh?”
“We might actually learn something from this one!”
The Captain closed the distance between them by another few steps. Guards lined the corridor, ears pricked.
Castelle chewed the inside of her mouth and said nothing more.
The guards would return to their appointed patrols and the Captain would retire to bed, shortly after dawn. Security would be no tighter than it usually was. Castelle could talk to Rhea all she wanted, back in her chambers.
Like much of the temple, her fathers’ study wasn’t part of the original design. Laister Temple’s foundations were as extensive as a castle’s, but so many of its chambers were designed for the hundreds of devotees who’d flocked there. Their chambers served the staff and guards well enough, but most of the vast, empty spaces filled only by the echo of prayer had been converted into something more practical.
Father Ira paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. Father Damir sat behind a crowded desk, fingers knitted together, and did not stop staring at a blank spot on the wall, even when Castelle entered.
“Darling!” Father Ira cried, rushing over. He put his hands on Castelle’s shoulders and pulled her close, embrace too tight for the circumstances. “It never ends, does it?”
Castelle patted her father’s back and said, “Two months without being awoken by bells in the dead of night is quite a feat.”
“Two weeks, two months, two years,” Father Ira muttered, giving Castelle one last squeeze. “They’ll never stop!”
They had been contending with this for twelve years, yet he worked himself into a panic every time. His eyes were pricked with tears, and Castelle couldn’t speak for the strain on his heart.
Father Damir stared at the wall.
“Father, in all this time, they’ve never reached the temple walls,” Castelle said. “We’re safe here.”
“Safe while your Kingdom suffers, my darling,” Father Ira sighed.
He was a tall, broad man, with an exceptionally round head. From Castelle’s understanding, the gods had never blessed him with hair. Crows’ feet spread from the crinkled corners of his eyes, and Castelle’s chest pulled tight. He was worried, so she should be too. Her heart ought to have been thundering, yet only her dishevelled bed played on her mind.
“Your father is right,” Father Damir said, shattering his own trance. “Repetition and frequency make this no less severe. Remember what we have always said, Castelle. Your enemies will not stop till every drop of your family’s blood has been drained from your Kingdom.”
“The dogs never let them close,” Castelle said, squeezing his shoulder.
Father Damir stared up at her.
Castelle dropped her hand to her side.
“The dogs protect you because the spirits demand it. Laister and all of Fenroe know the land is yours; the dead know the crown belongs upon your head,” Father Damir said. “We may have been pushed back to this island, to this temple, but know that they send assassins because they cannot gather armies. Their power is tenuous, but it will become tactile when the Greyser bloodline is but a footnote in history.”
Father Ira wrung his hands together.
“What your father means is that the people have always supported you,” he rushed to explain. “They are as trapped as we are by this new regime.”
It had been fourteen years since the rebels had forced their way into the castle, swords drawn, and still, the people waited for Castelle to reclaim her throne.
She’d heard it all before.
“I want to see them,” Castelle said.
“Who?”
“The assassin,” she said. “They were brought back to the temple, were they not?”
Castelle so rarely caught glimpses of the people intent on rending her life in two. A year back, she watched from a window as a woman was marched into the forest by the Captain, broadsword strapped to her back.
“Absolutely not,” Father Ira said. Father Damir raised his brow in mute agreement. “You’ve nothing to gain from being put in harm’s way.”
“Surely there’s no harm in speaking with them, and—”
“Speaking with the assassin? Gods, Castelle. He is but a cog in their machine. He knows nothing of their intentions and has accepted this foul work for nothing more than a stack of gold,” Father Ira scoffed. “He is but a tool. You’d learn as much from interrogating his poisoned blade.”
“I understand you’re worried, but I have to know something. Even a name. All these faceless, nameless people coming for me is making me flinch at shadows.”
“Good,” Father Damir said. “Keep your guard up. Do not become complacent.”
“Complacent?” Castelle repeated. The word sparked a heat in her veins no assassin could. “I am twenty-eight, and I have not seen my capital, my castle, in half my lifetime! I have been confined to this temple for twelve of those years, and I have not become complacent. I am forever asking, begging, to stride forward, though I am the only Greyser here. Still, nothing changes. Nothing!”
Father Damir rose to his feet. The chair legs did not scrape across the floor. There was no rush in it, but he stood tall, taller than his husband, and stared through Castelle.
“Hundreds of people have devoted their lives to you, to their Princess, to make this temple all it is. A home worthy of you. Thousands wear your crest, ready to give their lives in the battle that will come. Dozens of villages and towns freely share their harvests with us, asking for nothing in return. Fenroe is ready. Fenroe is waiting. If nothing changes, it is because you are the only Greyser. You are the only Greyser, and you cannot yet wield Brackish.”
Father Ira sucked in a sharp breath, stealing the last of the air in the room. Castelle stood straighter, knowing she’d collapse if she didn’t, bravery deserting her in favour of tremors. Her fingers twitched, reaching for the weapon that would tear her in two, if she wasn’t yet worthy.
Silence.
If Rhea and the Captain were listening, ears pressed to the study door, they’d held their breaths. Castelle’s mouth opened, but no words followed.
“Go, if you wish. Speak with the assassin, if you think it will stir something within you. You are the last of the Greysers, after all. We do not share your blood and can only defer to you,” Father Damir said. Father Ira stuttered the start of an objection, but Damir raised his hand, silencing him. “Know that you risk all your people have worked for, all they have done for you, but go. Go, learn what you can from the assassin.”
He snapped his fingers. The study doors opened and the Captain rushed in, stood to attention. Father Damir told her where the assassin was being held, words buzzing in Castelle’s ears. Brackish. Brackish. Nothing she learnt from the assassin would mean anything if she couldn’t wield the spirit-sword. What good was she to her people with a head full of a truth she already knew, hands empty, blade sheathed far away?
But she couldn’t say no. She couldn’t change her mind, not now that she’d spoken out.
She had to rise to one of her father’s challenges, sooner or later.
“Do not worry, my Lord,” the Captain said. “I’ve placed a dozen guards with the assassin. The Princess will be safe.”
Father Ira placed his hand on Damir’s arm, pleading, but Damir had never once conceded.
“Princess!” Rhea said in a whisper none missed. She grabbed Castelle’s arm, ignoring the Captain’s narrowed gaze as they hurried down the corridor. “What trouble are we getting into now? What have you done?”
“Something,” Castelle murmured. “Anything.”
The Captain cleared her throat, but Rhea didn’t let go of Castelle. Propriety could be damned. Rhea had been her Lady-In-Waiting since she was twenty-two. There weren’t any secrets between them.
They headed to the parts of the temple Castelle rarely thought of, let alone wandered through. Past the kitchens and the servants’ quarters, through open corridors constructed far more crudely than the rest of the temple, and down narrow, spiralling staircases.
Castelle gripped Rhea tighter than the bannister.
The stairs were rounded at the edges, worn into slants by thousands of footsteps. This was part of the original temple, down below the ground where the priests secluded themselves from the world of light and sound and distraction, and mused over scripture they had read thousands of times.
How things changed.
Torches blazed along the walls. Voices rose. Guards elbowed and jostled each other, talking about everything but the assassin, chained to a pillar in the centre. Some were drinking. Others played cards. A carving pulled itself from the back wall: The Creator stood on the left, a length of cloth around her outstretched hand; The Preserver, arms held out, cloth running across their upturned palms; and The Embracer, back turned to the pair, cloth draped across her closed eyes.
Castelle didn’t have time to greet the gods.
“You are in the Princess’ presence,” the Captain bellowed. The room fell silent. Glasses clinked as drinks were hidden behind backs. “If I didn’t order you to be here, leave.”
The room emptied like sand between fingers. The guards bowed their heads as they hurried past Castelle, flashes of familiar faces, footsteps thundering up worn stairs. Only a dozen remained, spaced evenly around the room.
“Do not get too close, Princess,” the Captain warned as Castelle’s feet led her to the centre of the room.
Rhea clung tightly to her arm.
The assassin wasn’t what Castelle had expected. He was not a brute force, striking fear into hearts with his mere presence. He could not square off with a guard, let alone contend with the dogs. Short, messy hair fell around his face. His eyes were fixed on the ground, features cast in shadow, but Castelle saw the bruises, the deep cuts, the blood matted in his hair.
At a guess, he was seventeen, eighteen. He hadn’t been with the rebels, hadn’t stormed the castle.
He knew nothing of what had happened.
“I—” Castelle swallowed thickly. She couldn’t afford pity to dampen her words. “I am Princess Castelle Marcella Adriana Greyser. You have intruded not only upon my home, but sacred ground. But you know this. You must do. Tell me why you’re here. Who sent you?”
The man – boy – scoffed at the ground.
“Answer the Princess,” the Captain ordered.
“Not my Princess,” he said, spitting blood at Castelle’s feet.
The Captain stepped forward. A dozen blades were drawn, and the guard stood above the boy pulled him to his feet. He slumped and the guard held on
tighter, prying Castelle’s gaze from the would-be assassin.
The guard was not a tall woman, brown skin a shade or two lighter than Father Ira’s. Her armour fit well, her long brown hair was tied back, and she did not yet feel threatened enough to pull the halberd from her back. All of that was irrelevant. The boy could’ve drawn a dagger and Castelle wouldn’t have noticed, for she could not stop staring at the thick, ugly scars intersecting the guard’s face at every angle.
“Princess?” Rhea asked, nudging her side.
“Rhea? Oh—yes,” Castelle said, shaking her head. She tore her vision from the guard who hadn’t blinked the entire time. “Do you understand the weight of what you were asked to do? Or was it a matter of desperation? Did you need the gold so badly you were willing to—”
The boy broke out into laughter.
“Desperation? My mum’s a farmer from the other side of the archipelago. We’ve always had plenty,” he said, breathless still. “You think any of this was about money? The gods are going to make you sorry for playing pretend in this make-believe castle. I want things to be over. I wanted to finish the job.”
There was a fire in his eyes. A determination that screamed his failure didn’t mean this was over.
It wasn’t over. It never would be.
Castelle closed her eyes, taking a breath.
Finish the job. Finish the job. She’d hidden behind a cabinet, last time, taken a passage only she knew, but that was the past, frayed and distant. She was safe in the forest, protected by the spirits. Greyser blood was in the land, in all the islands of Fenroe and the saltwater that flowed between them.
She was safe, but her stomach turned.
So many had been poisoned against her. The boy’s mind had been warped by the so-called government that had usurped her family, and he was going to pay for it with his life.
All eighteen years of it.
Her fathers were right. There was nothing to be gained in speaking with this failed assassin or any other. They had been turned against her long ago, pushed into the forests of Laister by something darker than desperation. She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t conjure any more questions, much less the right ones.
