Page 2 of Breaking Briar

A metallic tang fills my mouth as rage bubbles through me like the bile rising in my throat. “You will fear me,” I seethe, looking about for a weapon I can wield.

“Come now. Is that any way to greet a guest? I must say you’re becoming far more barbaric, like a brainless warrior, and less like your father, a diplomat.”

“What use are there of pretty words when swords can settle a matter far more quickly and efficiently?” As my words fill the air, the smoke swirls around my cot.

I stand there, transfixed, as a sword appears out of thin air. Its hilt is a thing of beauty, encrusted with jewels and gems of all kinds. But that’s not what entices me. The blade is wicked sharp, glinting in the light coming from the high, slanted windows.

Unable to help myself, I grab the blade, holding it in my hand. The hilt rests in my palm perfectly, as if it were made for me and me alone. This time, the smile on my lips is genuine as I slash the blade through the air.

Wind eddies around me, rippling with each stroke. This is who I am and what I’m made for. Try as they might, but my mother and father cannot remove this from my person.

“Do you wish to pierce me, my prince? To run me through?”

I sneer at the smoke, dropping into an offensive stance. “Show yourself so that I may test your mettle.”

“That is not why I’ve come, my prince. I am here, in fact, to test yours.” The voice echoes about, and I am unable to pinpoint it.

“I refuse to be tested by someone who remains unseen. Show yourself so I may deem if you’re worthy enough to test me.”

Again, the smoke swirls, this time forming a column in front of me. Transfixed, I watch as it morphs into a shape, female by the looks of it, matching the sound of the voice I heard. Eventually, the haze gives way, showing a figure pulled straight out of my nightmares.

The sorceress who had been cast out about a year ago looms before me, her all-black attire making her one with the shadows. What is she doing here? And why did I not recognize her voice? Gripping the sword in my hand, I lunge forward, not thinking, just acting. With an uncanny accuracy, I plunge the tip into her heart.

Instead of shrieks of pain, a dark laugh bubbles up from her throat and spills over her lips. No blood drips down her pale breasts as it ought to. Instead, black sludge slithers down, as if the shadows were made tangible.

“Witch,” I cry out, pulling back.

With a bright smile, she bows before me. “That I am. Now then, stretch out your hand.”

For the first time in my remembrance, I feel fear. It wraps its icy tendrils around my heart and squeezes, forcing my breath to stutter from my lips. Try as I might to keep ahold of my anger, it slips away, leaving me a shell of a person.

“Come now,” she cajoles, holding out her hand. “I merely wish to see the type of boy you are and the man you are to become.”

“My path is my own. No one can predict it,” I spit out, gathering my bravado around me like a cloak to ward off the chill.

“That is true, young prince. But I can at least see what paths split out in front of you. Whichever you take will be your choice. Your hand. I will not ask again.”

Gritting my teeth, I stand my ground, refusing to give in. This is a test. It has to be. If I fail, then what will that mean for me? I stand firm, puffing my chest out as I’ve seen Master Balcom do.

He’s the only one I can conjure in my mind to know what true strength is. But even that feels false, hollow somehow. The woman stares at me, her eyes piercing through as if she’s seeing straight into my soul.

Can she see my inadequacy? My failings? These thoughts pound into my brain with my voice, but they do not feel like my own. There’s a darker taint to them, an oily coating that covers the inside of my skull, threatening to make me buckle. But I cannot. Despite everything, I know I cannot give in.

Her eyes narrow as fire lights the insides like twin flames. They call to me, mesmerizing me like nothing else. I’m stuck, transfixed, as she slithers her way closer. No. Not closer. She stands firm where she is, barely moving.

It’s something else. A shadow perhaps? The dark tendrils move closer, but I find I cannot fight them away. I cannot draw my gaze away from hers. Frozen, I’m helpless as the shadows wrap themselves around me, holding me firm.

As if that’s the catalyst, the fire dies from her eyes, allowing my senses to come back into my body. I thrash about, my heart pounding in my chest as fear worms its way into my heart. But I cannot move.

No matter how I twist and bend, they hold me in place, the dark threads spreading me apart and lifting me in the air. This time, the woman drifts forward, her movements soft, languid, and almost sensuous. But there is no desire in her eyes. Not like I’ve seen from the palace pleasure slaves.

This is cold calculation, pure and simple.

Holding my breath, I watch, helpless, as the shadow tendril wraps tighter around my wrist and pulls it forward. Try as I might, I am too weak to fight back. Rage floods my soul as she takes out her knife and pricks my finger, allowing a few drops of blood to well to the surface.

She lowers her head and takes the finger into her mouth, wiping the blood away with her tongue before pulling back. As if possessed, her body goes ramrod as her head tips up toward the ceiling. Before her gaze disappears from view, I watch, horrified, as her eyes roll back into her skull.

The knife clatters to the floor, the sound thunderous to my ears in the otherwise silent room. The shadows coil tighter around me, pulling and tugging, threatening to divide my body down the middle. My joints cry out, and though I long to scream right alongside them, I find I cannot.