The Shattering of the Spirit-Sword Brackish 1

by Sam Farren

  “I am sorry to disappoint you,” Castelle said, gaze drifting to the carvings on the wall. “Captain. Do as you see fit.”

  The guard with a face full of scars shoved the boy back to the ground.

  The temple warped, dragging Castelle to her chambers in seconds, or hours. The Captain stayed behind, and guards without scarred faces stood outside the double-doors. Castelle hovered in the centre of the room. Rhea busied herself, neatening out the light discord the Captain and other guards had sown on their way to ensuring Castelle was safe.

  “You should see yourself to bed, Rhea,” Castelle heard herself say.

  She didn’t have the heart to make an order of it.

  “I’d have to be up in an hour anyway, Princess,” Rhea said, standing the cushions back up along the sofa. “I’d rather keep going than get dragged down by closing my eyes. Besides, you look like you could use the company.”

  The corner of Castelle’s mouth twitched.

  “What would I do without you, Rhea?”

  “You’d do just fine. There are dozens who’d leap at the chance to serve the Princess herself,” Rhea said, taking Castelle’s wrist and leading her to the sofa. “You shouldn’t take anything that boy said to heart. There’s no honour in those who’d sneak in to slit someone’s throat in the dead of night.”

  Castelle jolted back to herself at the words. Rhea had never held anything back, had been nothing but herself since the day she started working for Castelle as a chambermaid. Without the nobility of her childhood, without Countesses and Barons and Lords craving her family’s favour, friends were few and far between. Most of the temple staff would do little more than bow and scrape to her, offering no conversation beyond yes, Princess, of course, Princess, anything you say, Princess.

  “Not that he got anywhere near you, as always,” Rhea continued. “It’s been fourteen years, Princess, and this is the best they can do. Things are going to change, and soon. I know it. I feel it! Everything your fathers said—they didn’t mean it. They were only worried about you, Princess. Brackish is yours. It’s your birthright.”

  Castelle patted the empty seat next to her. Rhea fell into it with a grin, feet up on the coffee table.

  “Did you see the guard restraining the boy? I can’t say I recognised her. There was something strange about her, don’t you think?”

  “You mean other than the dozens of scars carved into her face? But you’re right. With everything going on, it slipped my mind, but everyone in the temple says there’s a reason the dogs didn’t mangle this one.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  “That guard, the new recruit. I’m not sure of her name. Can’t remember if I’ve even heard it. Anyway,” Rhea said, talking with her hands. “They say she rushed into the forest when the dogs started howling and grabbed the assassin by the scruff of his collar.”

  Castelle leant back, resting on the arm of the sofa. Dawn was on its way, slipping through the curtains, turning the air golden-pink. If she got up, she’d see the dogs lurking between the trees, standing guard as the spirits ordered them to, not slinking back into the forest until they saw that she was safe.

  They weren’t only there to stop people from forcing their way through the forest.

  The temple had to be safe, had to be secure.

  It had to work both ways.

  “She went into the forest and the spirits didn’t tear her apart?” Castelle asked.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Rhea said, gesturing to her own face with a grimace. “But those were old scars. The dogs didn’t lay a paw on her, either.”

  Castelle hummed. As intent on protecting her as they were, the dogs were not senseless, were not vicious without reason. The spirits understood who belonged in the forest and passed their wisdom along, even if humans would never fathom all that was measured.

  “Have her brought to me tomorrow. I ought to thank her,” Castelle said, nodding.

  “Later today,” Rhea said, patting Castelle’s shoulder.

  “I suppose I should get back to bed. It’s all catching up with me,” Castelle said, running her fingers through her long red hair.

  Rhea hopped to her feet, holding out her hands.

  Castelle let herself be pulled up and glanced between her bedchambers and the door leading to the rest of the temple. There was so much to do, and there always would be; a hundred books to read on her family’s branching history, all the way back to the creation of Fenroe and the forging of Brackish. Countless dates to memorise, records of wars to learn from, enemies to study from the distance of time.

  Everything she’d need to reclaim her Kingdom, to inherit the throne she never should’ve been in succession of.

  There was so much to do. Her Kingdom was falling apart, slowly deteriorating from fourteen years of unlawful, oppressive rule, but all Castelle wanted to do was sleep.

  She wanted to sleep, but she only shook. The boy’s words came back to her. Finish the job. How many of her own people had nothing but contempt for her, had everything to gain in draining the blood of the last of the royal line?

  Finish the job.

  How she’d been waiting for that blade to fall upon her for fourteen years.

  Her nails dug crescents in her palm.

  This was why she couldn’t give in. Why impatience couldn’t get the better of her. She had survived for a reason, was protected by the forest itself, and all its dogs and spirits understood her down to her marrow.

  Rhea was right. Her fathers were worried about her, were more shaken by the assassination attempt than she was. They’d saved her, all those years ago.

  They’d taken her across the archipelago, risking their own lives, and they’d never demanded anything of her. They’d never demanded she pick up Brackish, never wondered out loud why she hadn’t gathered her army and marched on the ashes of the capital.

  They’d waited, waited, waited.

  Castelle was sick of waiting.

  Things would change, tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow—later today.

  Rhea wrapped her fingers around Castelle’s wrists.

  “Princess? Do you want me to stay with you while you sleep?” Rhea asked, ducking to catch her eye. “If you’re going to—that is, I’d have nightmares, after a night like this. And with everything that was said, I… Do you want me to stay, Princess?”

  Castelle let herself smile.

  She placed a hand on Rhea’s face, fingers no longer trembling. Rhea’s mouth spread into a soft smile, so far removed from her usual lopsided grin. For the first time since she’d been torn from sleep, Castelle’s feet were back on solid ground.

  Nonchalance was a poor mask for fear.

  “Please, call me Castelle when it’s only the two of us,” Castelle said.

  Rhea’s nose crinkled.

  “But you’re the Princess,” Rhea argued.

  “Yes, and I’m the only royal left in Fenroe. My fathers are the last of the nobility,” Castelle said. “It is nothing short of impossible to come by friends. Make this easy for me, Rhea.”

  Covering Castelle’s hand with her own, Rhea said, “As you command, Castelle. Come. Let’s both get some sleep. I can nap on the job if you order it.”

  Chapter Two

  The scarred woman was nowhere to be found. Upon enquiring, Rhea learnt that the failed assassin was being dealt with, and Castelle knew better than to ask for details.

  It took two days for Castelle to return to her usual routine, and a week for the worst of the nightmares to cease. She saw little of her fathers, save for at dinner. They had sent envoys to the local villages and towns, and had the elders marched halfway through the forest to answer questions. Surely one of them had seen the boy slip through; they ought to know how important protecting the Princess was.

  An agreement was made. The settlements would each send half a dozen people to patrol the perimeter of the forest for the next month and report any travellers passing through their lands.

  With the excitement over,
Castelle returned to her studies and strategising.

  No plan she’d penned had been put into action, but Father Ira always said she had to get the ones doomed to failure out of the way, first. If things were as clear-cut as they ought to be, she would’ve been coronated on her fifteenth birthday, not forced back to the furthest island from the capital.

  “When will father be back?” Castelle asked, idly turning a page.

  Father Ira sat across from her in the library, shuffling through a stack of letters. Everything he gleaned was important, but not so vital Castelle need concern herself with the scrawling of citizens.

  “A day or two. He has taken a convoy to a nearby city, to ensure the boy was truly from where he claimed to be.”

  Castelle hummed.

  Father Damir would return with spoils from Laister’s biggest city, and a head full of assurances that drowned out apologies.

  “I thought I might talk to him about something. With both of you. Laister is ours, and Llyne swears fealty to us, so surely we could—”

  “Castelle, darling,” Father Ira said softly, setting his reading down. “Patience. It is the hardest thing the world will ever ask of you, and the only thing that will see your family restored to power.”

  Patience was enough to laugh at, but Castelle did not. Patience had confined her to the temple within the forest for twelve years. Patience had kept her away from her home for half her lifetime.

  Patience came easily as breathing, and patience begot complacency.

  “My mother’s cousin rules the Kingdom of Nor, does he not? If we were to send a message, surely his armies would—”

  Father Ira cleared his throat.

  “Nor is a hundred miles across a blustery sea. The rebels have done a fine job of convincing other nations that you are dead,” Father Ira said, twisting the ring on his index finger. “Fenroe’s relationship with Nor was strained, in recent decades, but I’ve no doubt King Mykos would help take back your lands in a heartbeat, had he any proof you were alive. What would you do, Castelle? Somehow survive the sea you have never sailed across, set foot on Nor, and abdicate your throne?”

  Castelle’s book thudded shut.

  “That isn’t what I’m saying. To leave the archipelago is to relinquish our rule over it, I know that, but I have heirlooms. Seals that would back up my words. I have the necklace from Ava Greyser’s coronation, do I not? I would never leave Fenroe, but there must be something I can do. Anything! What good am I to my people, trapped in the forest? They have been waiting for me all this time, father.”

  Castelle’s hands were shaking. Father Ira took them between his own, steadying them with a slight squeeze. He smiled. Castelle’s eyes darted anywhere but his face, settling on the corner of the desk.

  “Your devotion to your people speaks volumes, Castelle. That passion will see you back to your rightful place. But leaving the temple will not help them, or you. There are more assassins across the archipelago than there are in our forests. What happens if you are killed? If you are taken from us? This will all be for nought. Our army will scatter. Another will announce their claim on the throne, and they will be targeted as you are.”

  Castelle’s fingers twitched. Father Ira didn’t let go.

  “I am the last of my bloodline,” she murmured.

  “Oh, but there are those bold enough to claim their mother was the result of your great-grandfather’s indiscretions. They would hold up seals of their own, Castelle,” Father Ira said, sighing. “But never mind that, darling. There is so much you could be doing to help your people from here. Something that is so much more than the waiting we all grow weary of.”

  Castelle’s gaze darted up. Around her, the endless rows of books in the library, each donated by her people, by those who believed in her, blurred together. Histories. Theories. Philosophies. She’d read them all, committed those that mattered to memory, but never once had the words led to anything but empty ideas rattling around her head.

  The momentum she’d gained without leaving her seat stuttered to a stop.

  She knew what Father Ira was going to say.

  “Father,” she said, as firmly as she knew how.

  He raised his hands and said, “Hear me out, darling. You are the last Greyser, true, but only if you will it. The most heroic sacrifice you could make for Fenroe is a child to carry on what we have started. This may well stretch beyond the scope of our lifetimes.”

  “I—” Castelle pressed her teeth together, one hand on her stomach. “I will not bring a child into a world where hundreds wish to murder them. I will not make bait of them.”

  Father Ira had heard it a thousand times before.

  “Your father and I have met with countless woman who could provide you with a child. We know that you wish for a wife, one day. Will you not concede to merely meet them? You need not make any commitments.”

  Castelle’s pale, freckled skin reddened easily. Now it burnt, making her temples pound. The subject had been broached continuously, ever since the temple was repaired and she turned seventeen, but at some point, it had become the stuff of casual conversation.

  “It’s not right to use someone to procure a child,” Castelle muttered. “Besides, there are no nobles left. I could not put my country in the hands of someone from—what? One of Laister’s sheep farms?”

  Father Ira chuckled.

  “Darling, if you wait for someone of noble blood, you will be waiting forever. The rebels saw to that,” he said, picking up one of the discarded letters and scanning over it. “And arranged marriages are not the pit of despair you make them out to be. Damir and I were told we were to marry when we were but twenty years old. Your parents’ marriage was ordained before they could speak, and they loved each other immensely. I am not saying you ought to produce a child in a day, or even a year. By all means, wait until we have made some small strides forward. But do consider it, Castelle. It would help negate untoward rumours, if nothing else.”

  Father Ira read over the letter two, three times. No matter how Castelle stared, he wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  “Rumours?” she gave in and asked. “What rumours?”

  “Oh, darling, it’s all hearsay. I know it isn’t true. Your father knows it isn’t true. But some of the staff whisper that you are rather close with your Lady-in-Waiting.”

  Castelle shot to her feet. Once she was standing, she didn’t know what to do.

  “They said that I—what? Isn’t it your job to ensure those within the temple are truly loyal to me? Rhea has been helping me dress and bathe for years. Surely they do not think I have that little dignity.”

  Father Ira shrugged.

  “Your servants grow as restless as you do, and they are but commoners at heart. What can we expect? They do what they can to keep themselves entertained.”

  Entertained. Entertained. Castelle’s fingertips pressed hard to the edge of the desk. She was there for them. For all the people of Fenroe. More than a decade back, when she was but a child, she could’ve fled the archipelago and lived a life of freedom and safety, far from Fenroe. It would’ve been the smart thing to do, but it wasn’t the right thing. She was there waiting, waiting, waiting, watching her life drag by, all so that she could one day free their Kingdom from those who had enslaved it.

  She’d sacrificed for them, and they said she—

  Gods.

  “Have someone find me the moment Father Damir returns,” Castelle said, voice low and steady enough to make Father Ira look up. “I want to see Brackish.”

  “Castelle—?” Father Ira called after her, but the rest was lost to the door swinging shut behind her.

  The guards in the hallway snapped to attention, but Castelle marched off, blind to their salutes. It was the time to act, the time to break away from worn routine. Her fathers had saved her, had made a castle of temple ruins for her, but they were not Greysers. They did not understand. She could not wait and wait, never risking anything.

  Her army was vast. Five-th
ousand strong, at last count, and there would be those in villages and towns, farmers and bakers and butchers and tailors, that would pick up whatever rake or shovel or cleaver they had on hand, and follow her to the heart of Fenroe. The people would join her in reclaiming her throne, but she had to trust them. Had to.

  She had to prove she was willing to risk everything she had to pry the Kingdom back from usurpers, criminals, murderers.

  Castelle pushed the double-doors open and stepped out into the only land she had to roam. Walks in the forest had been banned eight years ago, after what happened to Layla.

  A square quarter-mile of land sat in front of the temple, gardens tended to by the staff. Neat rows of flowers sent colour sprawling in all directions, and the hedges were trimmed daily, never anything less than perfect squares. A stepping-stone path led to a small pond, and small birds hopped through the neat grass, searching for the seeds spread by the handful to entice them close.

  It was made to mirror the royal gardens, but couldn’t match the blossoms entrapped in Castelle’s memory. The forest it bordered made a mockery of it. Moss and ivy mixed with the brown of the trees, leaves turned to red and gold turned to stripped branches turned to tiny buds, ready to start over. No one tended to the forest. It was its own, and ever would be, no matter what they chopped down for firewood or what they stole to make their furniture; it would overrun the garden, the moment they stopped fighting it back.

  The servants stopped working to watch Castelle as she stepped into the waning sun. The summer had been a mild one, and autumn would be upon them before they knew it, flowers bowing their heads. Most returned to work immediately, others scurried back into the temple, and in the furtive glances of those who remained, Castelle realised she wasn’t alone.

  She had grown accustomed to guards taking it upon themselves to follow her, had made herself deaf to boots thudding and armour clanking. She’d been at the mercy of her own muddled thoughts and hadn’t dismissed the guard who’d followed her from the library. She hadn’t snapped and said the whole temple was looking out for her, its eyes ever on her, and the guard wouldn’t earn themselves a commendation for stepping out of place.