The Shattering of the Spirit-Sword Brackish 1

by Sam Farren

  “Stop that,” Svir said.

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop thinking about the man I killed. He travelled across the archipelago to drag you back to a place you clearly do not wish to be, and did not have the decency to ask where you wanted to go. What you wanted to happen. In his mind, he was a self-created hero. He was following orders blindly, not questioning the way of the world, pretending greed alone did not motivate him,” Svir said. “He came at me with a bow and arrow, with a sword. He would not have hesitated to gut me, least of all because of my dark eyes. He chose this life for himself. He had likely been on the other end of that blade many, many times, and knew what could’ve happened to him.

  “Do not feel bad for him, Princess. He got what was coming to him, what was owed to him.”

  Castelle finally glanced back.

  The body was nowhere to be seen.

  “Wasn’t he doing the same thing you were?” Castelle asked.

  “Indeed. The real difference is one of speed, not scruples.”

  Svir’s hand twisted in the back of Castelle’s shirt. Tightening her own hold, Castelle picked up the pace, praying the doctor would have something for her leg, too.

  It was no longer a pain that made her want to sob, but a constant, dull awareness, a distraction that made her track every step. It was healing over, but it wouldn’t let her forget it was there.

  “It’s almost dark,” Svir said, as they neared the city. “Wonderful timing. Now, if only the autumnal night would be good enough to provide a blanket of rain to draw attention away from us.”

  Svir’s eyes turned towards the sky and its gleaming stars, clouds but a dream.

  “Worth a try,” she muttered.” Gods, Princess. Let me be the first to wholeheartedly recommend not getting shot. This is awful. Now I know what people are always whining for.”

  “My name is Castelle. And you really haven’t been shot before?”

  “What? Goodness, no! Do I look like the sort of woman who goes out and regularly gets shot?”

  “Yes? You’re surprisingly calm about it. You apologised for fainting before it happened.”

  “Calm in action and speech, perhaps. The inside of my head is a veritable nightmare,” Svir said. “Gods. My wife is going to kill me.”

  Close enough to make out more than the dark shape of the city, the reality of what’d changed hit Castelle like—not an arrow, but something of similar force. Torshval did not shock her by degrees, revealing itself in slivers by the minute; it was there, all at once.

  The city wall had been torn down. The capital was no longer a fortress imposing itself upon the land, keeping noble blood safe from its own citizens. Guards could no longer patrol what wasn’t there, and new buildings cropped up, spreading beyond the former hard boundaries.

  There were no gates to pass through, no bored soldiers crossing their spears and upturning merchants’ carts. The grass grew thin, the ground hardened, and Castelle’s feet found the flagstones of the city she’d been raised in.

  Even from there, from the houses scattered along the outskirts, she could see the castle. It hadn’t been pulled to the ground, razed to cleanse the past. Flags no longer flew from it. It towered over the city not to remind the citizens of all they’d never have, but to let them know they were being watched over. Protected, from the very heart of Torshval.

  Lights glimmered behind dozens of windows. The tower her chambers had taken up the bulk of rose above the rows of houses ahead of her. What had become of the dining room? Did someone sleep there, now? Was it a library, a study? A supply closet, a cold and draughty place, far from the mausoleum it deserved to be?

  Castelle had come to Caelfal for Brackish, but Brackish was nowhere to be found. She was in Torshval for herself, was desperate to commit every building to memory, to trace every road. She hadn’t spent as much time in the city as she’d let herself believe. So much of her time had been spent in the castle and its endless chambers and courtyards, swimming in the lake cordoned off from the rest of Fenroe, being taken from the castle to mansions to manor houses to theatres in the safety of carriages.

  She hadn’t walked its roads, but she’d breathed its air, had gulped it down desperately, forced to hold in her chest all her parents couldn’t drink down, all her siblings would forever be without.

  “Easy, there,” Svir said. “I’m the one who’s taken an arrow.”

  “Sorry. I was just…”

  “It’s a lot. It must be. Not far now, though. You may have a bed for the night and process this however you please.”

  The short autumnal days were a blessing. They’d garnered no more than a handful of looks on the streets. Pressed so close, slightly unsteady, Svir and Castelle passed for drunk without much effort. Svir took the quiet, narrow streets, and most people were happy to keep their heads down and mind their own business.

  People always had things to hide, no matter how far Fenroe had come.

  As the darkness shielded Castelle and Svir from lingering gazes, it too shielded the city from Castelle. Her heart was full, her veins singing with a past she’d never questioned closely enough, yet only shadows rang through her nerves.

  Eos would make sense of it.

  Eos would have the answers to the questions she hadn’t asked, would give her the questions she needed to find the answers. Even Brackish would offer guidance, would send purpose surging through her.

  “Here we are,” Svir said. “About halfway down this street and we’re home.”

  The street was lined with an assortment of houses, old and new, some arching towards the street, others sinking into the ground. It was wide enough for pedestrians and carriages alike, and lampposts stretched along the road. Decades ago, it would’ve been gated off, the homes of barons and wealthy merchants, but like the rest of the city, it was open to all the people of Torshval.

  “I honestly can’t thank you enough,” Svir said, at the steps of the largest house in the road, easily boasting a dozen rooms. “Well, I clearly can, and have. But it’s worth saying for the sentiment alone, isn’t it?”

  Svir let go of Castelle and took her first step towards the door.

  Castelle gripped her sleeve.

  “Oh?” Svir asked over her shoulder.

  “What did you mean when you said I wouldn’t be the first royal Eos had killed?”

  “That’s a story for the morning, when I no longer have an arrow in my shoulder, don’t you think?”

  “I thought you wouldn’t spill Eos’ secrets,” Castelle challenged.

  “Not in a thousand years,” Svir said, one hand on her chest. “But this information is all in the public domain, so to speak. Come on. Let’s get inside, and I shall give you all the gory details after whatever gory surgery I need.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A generous doorway led to an entrance hall littered with a mountain of footwear. A vague effort had been made to line them against the wall, but the coats and cloaks hanging from pegs and the noise emanating from the rest of the house said people were ever coming and going. It wasn’t a house built for organisation that could be understood at a glance.

  The place was as lively as a tavern. Half a dozen doors led off the entrance hall, light slipping beneath them all, and a wide staircase stood at the end of the hall. Castelle closed the door behind her and Svir stood in the entrance, arms folded over her chest, unmoving.

  “What’s wrong? Do you need to sit down?” Castelle asked.

  “What’s wrong? I return home after gods know how long, and not a single person rushes to greet me!” Svir said. Sighing, she cleared her throat and called, “It’s wonderful to see you all, too.”

  The conversation fell flat in the adjoining rooms. Doors creaked open. A handful of people, mostly women, peered out. Their faces split into grins and they couldn’t welcome Svir home quickly enough. It was so good to see her again, they said, she’d been gone for far too long, but they hadn’t expected her back so soon.

  Waving the
m off, Svir said, “That’s enough. Go on. Get back to it.”

  Everyone wished her a good night, not shocked by the sight of Svir so dishevelled and pale, nor by the stranger at her side. What a household it must be. The faces disappeared one by one, used to the apparent routine, save for one.

  A person slipped out, as tall as they were skinny, short, wavy hair flying in every direction. They closed the door behind them and held out their arms, taking wide strides across the hall.

  “Yo, Svir! We barely had the chance to miss ya,” they said, towering over her as they clasped her shoulders. Svir didn’t wince. “What’s the deal? Thought you were out bagging a Princess.”

  “A Princess? The last Greyser heir, you mean? Around twenty-eight years old, five-eight, and famously redheaded?” Svir asked.

  Castelle raised a hand and gave a little wave.

  “What! Shut up!” the person said, mouth splitting into a grin. “This is her? You’re her? Damn, girl. Good to meet you. I’ve read aaaaall about you. I’m Tanen, but everyone just calls me Tanen. How you doing, Your Highness?”

  Tanen let go of Svir and scooted around her, holding their hand out to Castelle.

  “I, um,” Castelle said, taking their hand and bracing herself as they shook it heartily. “Yes, I suppose that’s me. Or I was a Princess. Just Castelle is fine, honestly.”

  “Okay, Cas. Cool. Damn,” Tanen said, shaking her hand. “So, did you come quietly, or what? I’m guessing you’re technically a prisoner or whatever, but I was expecting, I dunno, more ropes and blindfolds. You like, happy to be turned over to whoever’s paying or what? I was expecting you to look more, uh—evil.”

  Castelle had led a sheltered life, but had she grown up in the city, Tanen would still catch her off-guard. They had no illusions about who she was and what she meant to them, and their apparent friendliness couldn’t be turned against them and used to escape.

  They were in Svir’s company, after all.

  “I was tied up and knocked unconscious. Until Svir was shot and I, for whatever unfathomable reason, decided to help her,” Castelle said.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, back up,” Tanen said, and did just that. They circled around Svir, finally catching sight of the protruding arrow. “Hey, what the fuck! Why didn’t you say anything, man? Shit! That’s gotta hurt.”

  “Oh, grow up, Tanen. It’s barely a scratch,” Svir said, batting their hands away. “I keep forgetting it’s there.”

  “I’m telling Niamh,” Tanen said, pointing an accusing finger at Svir.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  Tanen took wide strides towards the staircase, eyes fixed on Svir. Svir lifted a hand, drawing a finger across her throat.

  “Yo! Niamh!” Tanen bellowed up the stairs. “Svir’s home!”

  “I’ll be down in a moment,” came a muffled reply.

  “She’s brought Princess Cas with her.”

  “Really? Oh, that’s excellent!”

  “Uh-huh. Guess what else she’s been up to,” Tanen said, darting up a few steps as Svir approached them. “She was shot, Niamh.”

  A long pause followed.

  “Where?”

  “Like, geographically or anatomically? ‘cause I dunno, and her shoulder.”

  Another pause.

  “I’ll be down in a moment.”

  For the first time, fear crossed Svir’s face. She jabbed two fingers against Tanen’s shoulder and they grinned, grabbing her wrist and tugging her close. Svir’s other hand hovered over her dagger, but Tanen pre-empted it, bent her good arm behind her back, and pushed her into one of the chairs by the impressive pile of shoes.

  “Take Castelle to the kitchens. Get her something to eat,” Svir ordered. “Being kidnapped is exhausting work.”

  Tanen gave a mock salute and waved Castelle over. She took a step forward, but Niamh appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in a fine, dark orange nightdress. She was no older than Castelle, with long, beautiful brown hair, and dark, warm skin. She glanced over the scene before her and barely bothered to raise her brow.

  “Svir, if you tell me you’ve been sat in the lobby for ten minutes without calling a doctor, I’m going to tear the arrow from your shoulder myself,” Niamh said, hand beneath Svir’s chin, making her look up. “Gods, woman. I don’t mind that you get yourself into these situations, but must you bring all the evidence into our house?”

  “I’m awfully sorry, darling,” Svir said, patting her hip. “I’ll bleed out in the street, next time.”

  “That’s better. I’ll have someone fetch a doctor,” Niamh said, heading for one of the chambers.

  Niamh poked her head into the room, told its occupants the brief version of the story, and two women scrambled into the hallway, digging their shoes from the pile with pinpoint accuracy. Castelle took the chance to hurry across the room, after Tanen. Eating sounded almost as good as escaping.

  Niamh caught her eye and a grin Castelle couldn’t place but knew had purpose spread across her face.

  “Good evening, Princess,” Niamh said.

  Castelle couldn’t muster a reply. She bowed her head in greeting and hurried to Tanen’s side.

  “Oh, Tanen,” Svir called as they headed down a narrow corridor. “There’s a body outside of the city. About a mile south. Do whatever it is you do, won’t you?”

  “You got it, boss,” Tanen called, waving over their shoulder.

  “Many thanks, sweetheart.”

  The corridor was bare as far as carpets and wallpaper went, but the paintings hanging from the wall were out of sorts with the simplicity of the house thus far. Everything was mismatched, but far from untidy. The house was clearly cared for, though Castelle had yet to see a single servant, kitchen included.

  It was a level down, on the cosy side of large. Tanen knew the contents of each cupboard by heart, opened them blindly, and began piling things onto the counter. Castelle sat at a large wooden table in the centre of the kitchen at Tanen’s urging, oven behind her, still warm.

  “So, I ain’t much of a cook,” Tanen said. “But I do make a mad sandwich. Bet you’re starving, huh? Svir’s not so good with the whole hospitality thing. She’s more like, she’ll like, she’ll open the front door and be like, yo, make yourself at home, but she won’t play host. Bet she ain’t given you a bite to eat the whole time, huh? Well, this will get you sorted. How’d she get shot, anyway? That’s a new one.

  “About this time last year, she came home with a knife wound around her gut. Niamh went absolutely mad. You could hear her yelling from any damn room in the house. Ain’t no one else who’d get away with talking to Svir like that. Gods, it was funny. There’s Niamh screaming, and Svir’s sitting there like yes dear, sorry dear, could you possibly call me a doctor, dear? That’s been the worst of it, anyway. The worst she’s come home with, I mean. Gods know what she gets up to on the other islands.

  “She didn’t look too banged about this time, though. A bit pale. Wait, wait. She didn’t faint, did she? Fuck. Please tell me she fainted, Cas. I can just see it now, and—hey, hey. What the hell? You hurt your hand? Shit. C’mere. Forget about food.”

  Tanen darted around the table and took Castelle’s wrists. They held them up to the lantern hanging overhead and turned them this way and that, getting a good look at the wounds.

  “Um,” Castelle said, mind still catching up. “It’s nothing serious. I was cutting myself free, so I suppose it’s my fault.”

  Tanen snickered and went to retrieve wet cloths. They wiped Castelle’s hands clean and rested their elbows on the desk, getting a closer look at the cuts.

  “Yeah, it ain’t too bad. Probably heal up on their own,” Tanen agreed. “So, what’s the deal with you? You really who they say you are, or are you like, a really dedicated actor?”

  “I’m who they say I am,” Castelle said, staring at Tanen’s back as they dove into the sandwiches. “Whoever that’s supposed to be.”

  “Deep,” Tanen said. “For the record, I’m sorry
about this. The kidnapping, the moving you on. It ain’t the most glamorous lifestyle, I know. But hey! Maybe it won’t be all bad for you. I hear there are still little pockets of royalists in the city. Maybe they’ll like, buy you and worship you. That could be cool, right?”

  “Not even a little bit,” Castelle said. “I don’t want to be worshipped, and I certainly don’t want to be bought. Aren’t there laws against this sort of thing?”

  “Fuck, there are laws against all kinds of things, and most of ‘em happen in this household,” Tanen said, sliding a sandwich onto the table and taking half for theirself. “Like I said, it ain’t the best. I’d help you outta here if, y’know, Svir wouldn’t cut off my head. Word is she’ll get a lot for you, and there’s like, sixteen of us living here. That’s a lotta mouths to fill.

  “But still, you ain’t what Svir was expecting. We all thought she was after some evil imperialist, y’know? You’re a lot less… intimidating. Shit. Maybe she’ll get that arrow pulled out and realise you ain’t what she made you out to be. You know how Yricians are. They have, like, triple the reason not to trust royalty.”

  Castelle took a bite of the sandwich and forgot all about being trafficked through Torshval. Tanen hadn’t underestimated their prowess and Castelle tore off as much as she could chew.

  The sight of blood hadn’t killed her appetite. The day flashed through her mind as she tore through the sandwich, and the dead man her fathers had sent faded away, along with the arrow in Svir’s shoulder and the cuts along her fingers.

  Eos was still out there. Eos would be awake by now, likely had been for hours. Castelle prayed Eos had awoken before anyone tracking down a Yrician with a scarred face had found her, that Eos had pieced enough together to head for the capital.

  If she was following her, that was. There was no saying Eos would come to find her, no guarantee that she’d decided this was too much and was no longer worth it. Brackish’s voice could overwhelm her thoughts, her desire to find closure or revenge or simple answers could become so much more important than finding a single person in a city of tens of thousands.