The Shattering of the Spirit-Sword Brackish 1

by Sam Farren

  Ava was dressed differently than the last time Castelle had seen into Brackish’s memory. Her boots were tough, her cloak tight around her. Beneath it, Castelle saw the beginnings of leather armour and a sword at her side.

  How much time had passed? A year? Half a decade?

  I am not doing this. It is being dealt with by the Fenronians, Brackish said, infinitely calm in the face of Ava’s incessant stomping. They have the murderer in irons. From what I have been told, she will never see the light of day again. It was a cold-blooded murder, and the Fenronians will see she gets what she deserves.

  Ava knitted her fingers in her long hair. Without dozens of other spirits united by Brackish’s memory, the scene had trouble sustaining itself. The images flashed and faded, sound rose and fell and screeched, but in moments of clarity, it was as real as it’d been, all those years ago.

  Ava left footprints in the dirt.

  What she deserves? She deserves to be made an example of. She deserves to be executed in front of her people, that they might truly understand the consequences of what has happened, Ava seethed. She flashed in and out of sight, in front of Brackish in one moment, yards from her the next. After all we have done for these islands! The Fenronians have never had so much food upon their plates, and this is how they reward us! How can you be so calm? Do you not care?

  Brackish clasped her hands behind her back. For the briefest moment, there was a flash of something other than darkness. Brown skin showed through, calloused fingertips pressed together; gone in a heartbeat.

  I care. I am heartbroken. They were my friend, too, Brackish said. But we have to live by the laws of the land. We cannot have one set of rules for us and another for the Fenronians. We are Fenronians now; they have accepted us upon their lands, they have welcomed us into their homes.

  Ava scoffed, hands on Brackish’s shoulders.

  We are not Fenronians and never will be. We know that. They know that, she sneered. If you do not take action, I will.

  Sighing, Brackish turned to face the water. She was inches from Eos. Castelle clung to Eos’ hand, taking a step back. Eos didn’t move. She couldn’t take her eyes off where Brackish’s should be.

  Had Brackish still belonged to the living, Eos would’ve felt her breath on her face.

  You will do no such thing, Brackish said. You are hurt. I understand that. But we can only make suggestions to benefit the Fenronian people. We cannot impose our laws upon them. Especially not laws we conjure up after something has been done.

  Then you will not act? Ava said, standing close behind her.

  I already have, Brackish said.

  Ava’s face warped; unknowable, unreadable, becoming the darkness that made up Brackish. Brackish hadn’t seen what had crossed her face, what changed behind her eyes.

  She hadn’t been given a chance.

  She’d trusted Ava. She’d kept her back to her.

  The memory pulled thin. Ava was as close to Brackish as Brackish was to Eos, now.

  Still, Ava’s face was a void.

  I’m sorry, Ava said. The world flashed, past flickering. Ava clutched a sword like the one Brackish was trapped in tight in her fist. I’m so sorry, Ava. I’ve only ever tried to help you.

  Something in Brackish’s face formed and flashed, eyes narrowing, fading. The woman with long red hair had spoken her name. The air didn’t howl, the sound hadn’t spliced through their heads. The woman with long red hair had called her Ava, and nothing about it rang untrue in Brackish’s heart.

  She wasn’t given a chance to reply.

  The woman who wasn’t Ava Greyser grabbed Brackish’s throat from behind. She held her in place as she pushed the sword through her back, between her ribs.

  The light and dark of Brackish lurched. Blood oozed from the black, swirling in shadow, taking impossible paths around the emptiness a memory had made real.

  It all happened so fast.

  Castelle pulled Eos’ hand, but she wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t be torn from the spot.

  Eos clung to Brackish’s shoulders, but she wasn’t supporting the spirit as Brackish collapsed, sword torn free.

  She was the one desperately holding on, eyes wide. She didn’t need to look down to know what was true, what couldn’t be taken back.

  The sword had passed clean through the memory of Brackish and into Eos’ chest.

  The woman who wasn’t Ava Greyser pulled her sword back. The memory faded for good as Eos clutched at her chest, collapsing in the estuary, blood mixing with the brackish water.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The water surged around Castelle’s knees. She was caught in a whirlpool, not a river-mouth. The spirit-sword sung words clearer than the unspooled memory, light reaching the sky behind them.

  Eos was on her back, hands clutched to her chest. She hadn’t blinked, hadn’t dared to breathe. The blood rushing between her fingers didn’t slow. The blade hadn’t struck her heart. Eos wouldn’t have had the time to clasp her chest if it had, but the wound was close enough.

  There was light in Eos’ eyes again. Not from Brackish, but from deep within her. There was light in her eyes and there was only one way this would end.

  Brackish – Ava – had been dead when she’d hit the water, but Eos was spared the same fate. Knowing she wasn’t far behind, Castelle knelt over her, hands pressed to her chest, doing what she could to plug the wound.

  With Castelle above her, tears streaming down her face, it was real. Eos gasped, blood on her teeth, hands clutching Castelle’s arms.

  Blood and brackish water made her hands slick, but she clung to Castelle like she was the last anchor to this world.

  “Castelle,” Eos said. “Castelle, Castelle, I—”

  She couldn’t stop saying her name. It poured from her as the blood rushed from the open wound, heaving beneath Castelle’s hands. Castelle couldn’t find purchase, couldn’t keep her hold on Eos. Castelle was barely slowing the blood’s escape, but Eos couldn’t die, she couldn’t let her, even though she would, she would.

  “Castelle,” Eos kept saying. Her voice was taut with shock, wide eyes pleading for Castelle to tell her she was wrong; the sword hadn’t really struck her. It wasn’t as bad as it looked. It was going to be alright, she was going to be alright, she was going to die, she was going to die! “Castelle, please. Castelle, I—Castelle. I have, I…”

  “Shh, shh,” Castelle begged. “It’s okay, Eos. I’m here. I’m right here. You’re going to be okay. Just stay with me. Please, stay with me.”

  The water was red around them. Blue light burnt from behind. Eos clung to Castelle’s arms with all the force of someone who knew it was no good, but could not let themselves give in.

  “Castelle, I am sorry, it is—”

  Blood filled her throat, drowning her words. Her eyes didn’t leave Castelle’s. Castelle had seen them before, had been here before. The blood was as warm as it’d been on her hands, all those years ago. That’s why they were ever shaking, desperate for the heat that expunged itself as the wounds left behind by blades emptied the body.

  Eos was going to die. Eos was going to die. Eos was going to die, and her eyes would be forever open, forever fixed on her. The life was going to drain from her under Castelle’s palms, washed away by the river, lost to the sea.

  Castelle rocked forward, forehead against Eos’. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t alone. That’s all she could think, all her mind would scream. Eos wasn’t alone at the end. She had Castelle, though she could no longer speak her name, and Brackish’s light spread far, washing over them.

  Eos wasn’t alone. She could see Castelle fighting for her, screaming and sobbing as she forced her hands against the wound, doing nothing to stop the blood flow but not giving up. Never giving up.

  This couldn’t happen. Not again. The world was supposed to be different. Fenroe was supposed to be a stronger nation, a better place, where those in danger need only ask for help. It couldn’t happen again. The dining room floor, the shal
low estuary waters. They were all the same, nothing had changed, no time had passed, not a moment, she had to hide, had to hide, otherwise they’d find her and, and—

  There was no one but her and Brackish. Brackish who cried out as Castelle did. Eos would die, Eos would die, the realisation came from both of them; Eos’ hold had loosened on Castelle’s shoulder, her breath but a rasp, and she was going to die without Brackish’s help.

  Brackish had lent Castelle her power, once before. The break in her leg had been as nothing, and she’d only clutched the spirit-sword in her hand.

  Eos was going to die.

  She didn’t have any other choice.

  Let Brackish do with her as she pleased. Let Brackish manipulate her, let her take her over, if it would save Eos.

  Eos’ heavy eyes flashed open as Castelle pulled her hand back. The blood in her mouth wouldn’t let her plead for Castelle to stay, to press close, even if she didn’t cover the wound that couldn’t be closed. Castelle reached behind her, searching out the spirit-sword.

  Eos couldn’t reach her own chest. Her hands had fallen to her sides, immovable. Her body coursed with a final rattle. If this didn’t work, the last thing Eos would ever see would be Castelle knelt over her, Brackish clasped between her hands, blade set to fall.

  “I’m sorry,” Castelle whispered. “I’m so sorry, Eos. I can’t let you die, I can’t, I won’t, I—”

  The sword rushed down. Castelle’s arms moved, but they didn’t. The hilt pressed to her bloodied palms and she watched the blade fall, but it wasn’t her. It wasn’t her. That’s what she had to tell herself, what she had to believe, to do as Brackish demanded of her.

  Every inch of muscle and sinew rang through the blade and into Castelle’s bones as Brackish sliced through the wound her memory had dealt. Bile burnt the back of Castelle’s nose. The sword went through easily, blade dull but spirit bright, and Castelle put her weight on the hilt until she felt it push into the silt gathered beneath Eos.

  Everything stopped. Everything fell silent. Brackish untangled herself from Castelle’s mind, leaving it in shreds. The screaming stopped. The wind dissipated, the tides held themselves in place, and birds forgot how to cry.

  Eos’ eyes were wide, unseeing. Her chest was still, staggered breaths no longer wheezing from her, and the light of the blade faded.

  Castelle crawled through the water, doubled-over at Eos’ side, and clasped her face.

  “Eos. Eos, please. It was supposed to work. It was supposed to work, she said it would be okay, it, it was the only way, I,” Castelle murmured, pressing her face to Eos’, scooping the blood from her mouth. “You can’t die. You can’t. Not now, not now, I—”

  The light in Eos’ eyes stopped Castelle’s heart for a beat, white-blue, gone as soon as it’d flared up. Castelle’s hands moved to Eos’ shoulders, fingers twisting in the bloodied fabric. She leant back enough to see Eos’ chest jolt with breath.

  With a cry that broke her own heart in two, Castelle’s hands searched Eos’ throat for a pulse, palms still slick. She held her breath and there it was, shallow but steady.

  “Oh, gods,” Castelle sobbed, shoulders shaking. “Oh gods, oh gods, thank you, thank you, I…”

  Eos was paler than the death she’d come too close to, but no more blood rushed from her. Castelle plastered her hands against her face as she stood, unable to match the pace her body demanded she breathe at. She looked upon Eos, unconscious in the shallow water, sword pressed clean through her chest.

  The bones in Castelle’s legs forget they’d ever been there, much less that she’d broken them. She swayed on the spot, forcing herself to take deep, sharp breaths. There was a sword through Eos’ chest. There was a sword through Eos’ chest and she’d put it there. It was the only way, but she’d done it, she’d pushed a blade through skin and muscle, and, and—

  Castelle fell to the ground, vomiting everything inside of her onto the estuary bank.

  When there was nothing left to give, she choked and spluttered, spat into the grass, sobbing and wheezing and screaming, face streaming, nose blocked. Her fingers sunk into the soft earth. She looked down at herself, soaked in brackish water and drenched in Eos’ blood, and had the most ridiculous thought.

  She’d put the outfit on for a reason, and now she’d ruined it. Layla was supposed to see her in these clothes, they’d been new and crisp, a distraction in and of themselves, and now they were soaked in blood. What a waste. What a waste! She should’ve kept yesterday’s damp clothes on.

  Castelle fell forward, arms wrapped around her head, laying into the dirt. Layla. Layla. Layla wasn’t far. They’d been more than half the way to Avren when they’d stopped and it couldn’t be more than a few hours by foot.

  Layla would know what to do. All Castelle had to do was get Eos there and everything would be okay.

  Eos was alive. Eos was alive.

  It was the only thing that mattered.

  Eos wouldn’t have lost herself to fear and panic like this. Eos would’ve done what she had to. Pushing herself up and taking a deep breath, Castelle turned to the estuary, to Eos lying on her back, sword rising from her ribs, breath coming as steadily as ever.

  The water had cleared, blood washed away.

  Castelle cupped her hands in the water and threw it against her face, summoning sense back between her temples.

  Never mind her bloodied clothing. Never mind that carrying bags had almost been too much for her. She’d get Eos out of the estuary. She’d carry her to Avren herself, if she had to.

  Kneeling by Eos’ side, focusing only on what she had to do, Castelle brushed Eos hair back and ran cold water over her face.

  “Eos,” she whispered. “Eos, I’m here. Can you hear me?”

  Eos’ face twitched.

  Castelle scooped more water, not so gentle, this time.

  “Eos. Eos. Wake up. Please. I’m here.”

  Eos’ eyes darted around beneath her eyelids. A confused groan left the back of her throat and Castelle gripped her shoulders, helping her sit up.

  The sword cut through the silt, not budging a fraction of an inch.

  Eos’ hands returned to Castelle’s shoulders. Much of the blood had been washed from them, though not all of it.

  “Are you safe?” Eos asked, voice hoarse.

  “Am I safe?” Castelle asked, tears rising again as she laughed. “Eos. You nearly died.”

  “Yes,” Eos said, blinking far too much. “And then you… put a sword through me?”

  “There was no other way. I don’t recommend looking down.”

  Castelle’s hands found Eos’ face. Eos tried to hold her gaze but couldn’t. Her dark eyes dropped to the sword protruding from her chest. She tilted her head to the side, humming.

  “That’s unfortunate,” Eos said, hands slipping from Castelle’s shoulder as she passed out again.

  Castelle caught her in her arms. The hilt of the sword pressed to Castelle’s chest. The jolt was nothing. The sword didn’t move an inch, didn’t carve its way deeper into Eos. Castelle wrapped her arms around Eos and pulled her out of the water, past the spot the woman who wasn’t Ava Greyser had sunk her blade into Brackish.

  Brackish’s hurt and anger had faded, replaced with quiet contemplation. There was no weight to the sword that metal couldn’t account for, though it took strength Castelle didn’t have to drag Eos out of the estuary.

  Never mind her own exhaustion. The lingering fear and giddy, blood-splattered relief could be dealt with later. She couldn’t afford a single thought about herself. She had to focus on Eos, had to get her to Avren, to Layla.

  Midday had passed. The roads would be at their busiest. Castelle could wave a cart down, say it was an emergency, have Eos lifted into the back and—and she’d have to explain why there was a sword through her chest.

  No one in their right mind would travel with a spirit.

  The road was out of the question. It’d draw more attention to them, would slow them down.


  Castelle placed both hands on her head as she turned on the spot, searching for another way. This was Eos’ forte. Eos had the maps, Eos made the plans, and Eos knew the terrain. Eos had put them on the road for a reason, but Eos had been run through twice.

  The river. The river! Avren was the biggest city on Yarrin, built along the river. The river would lead Castelle straight to the city, safe from the gazes of strangers too curious for their own good.

  Castelle wrapped an arm around Eos, trying to lift her. Eos had taken Castelle into her arms when the bear trap sprung. She’d carried her across Llyne, breathless, whole body aching, but she’d done it. She’d helped her. She’d barely known her at the time, yet Castelle couldn’t even get Eos off the ground.

  Useless. Useless! The river was no good if she couldn’t take a step along it.

  She’d have to run to Avren and get help. She’d have to leave Eos behind.

  Kneeling at Eos’ side, she pressed a hand to her cheek and said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise, Eos. I’ll be right back.”

  Eos’ fingers wrapped around her wrist.

  “Don’t go,” she murmured.

  “Oh, gods. You’re awake. You’re awake again,” Castelle said. “Can you get up? Can you stand? We need to get you help, Eos.”

  Eos clung to Castelle’s arms, struggling to her feet as Castelle pulled, wrapping her arm around her once she was upright.

  “Do you think you can walk? It doesn’t matter how slowly,” Castelle said. “We’re going to get you to Avren.”

  Eos nodded.

  It was all she could do.

  Their steps were slow, one after the other, heavy with pauses. Castelle clung to Eos as Eos clung to her, head buried in her shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.

  It took hours. Eos collapsed more than once, but Castelle pushed aside the screaming in her leg. By the time Avren was on the horizon, the autumn sun had set, turning the world dark blue. Castelle adjusted their cloaks around them, hiding the blood and the sword as best as she could, and strayed from the river, back to the path.