4th of March, 1908

This morning began with quiet, as so many do. It began in Astari’s study, with the chairs and the singular couch moved for ample space.

Like every morning, we begin by talking. Our conversations have a range to them, always – usually they circle back to our mutual past. Or current news, and, on occasion, gossip.

Today, as I lope around the room and stretch out the muscles in my left knee, working at them with precision and ease, Astari asks, “Do you think it could’ve been any of us to fire that crossbow?” He asks this around a mouthful of toast with berry jam, his lips smeared with remains of it, little patches of purplish-red.

I point to my own mouth and raise my eyebrows, huffing out, “I don’t know. We were all angry enough. But for us, it wasn’t just the politics of it all. It was personal.”

“Precisely my point,” he says as he napkins off his mouth, “it was personal. Out of the four of us, it was always going to be you or me.” That gets a sour little laugh out of him, “As you well know, neither of us were – are – inclined towards violence. How that worked out how it did, I don’t know.”

My knee joint cracks and creaks as I bend and massage and, still, walk and stretch. Cracking or creaking, is, supposedly, a good sign. According to the trusted opinion of one physician. I can’t say I believe it when my kneecap is not what suffered the damage directly.

“I think I do,” I sigh, “I think either of us would’ve done it. I got to it first, though.”

“True enough, love.” he says, faintly amused, “True enough.”

❂

Astari’s question – of crossbow fire – has sparked a thought. I’ve never been a particularly vicious person from the standpoint of physical violence. It’s never suited me.

So, to look back on it, there was only one person I’ve ever truly wished death upon – death by any hand, but especially my own. There is a remarkable difference between the satisfaction of a life you wish to see smothered taken away by your hands or the hands of another, if only people would bother to listen. The change it causes, though, is universal.

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That one person, unlucky fellow, lies cold, in an ancient mausoleum. I’ve only visited once, when that ornate tomb welcomed him home. There wasn’t much satisfaction; there would be no grave.

But, I am getting ahead of myself. This is about the firing of a weapon, not about the taking of a life. Not directly, anyhow.

I had only just begun to recover, physically, when I was taught by Astari’s loyal butler how to wield one. The Duke Lorens keeps quite the interesting group of people hired in his home; truly, they come from everywhere. Lazslo Chazuma, or simply Lazslo, comes from the Makali coast. Told me he grew up spearfishing with tridents – and mastered the sport of archery and bowmanship when he joined up in military service to the Mikali crown. Later, under the ironfisted rule of the Isle folk, he served the Sturrish, like so many.

It took me weeks to build up the courage to use it for the first time. A bow and arrow, I knew how to use if only vaguely. But a crossbow felt much too much like a gun for my taste. Until I let a bolt fire for the first time and watched as it landed with a thunk into a wooden ceiling beam in the training hall.

What I didn’t know as I slowly mastered the use of a crossbow was I harbored a deep seated, near insatiable anger. And, more aptly put, that I wanted to hurt the person who hurt me and the people I loved.

Maybe if I realized that I wanted to put a bolt of sharpened iron between his shoulders or his eyes or wherever, I wouldn’t have suffered so much, in the end. Maybe none of us would have.

But, sadly, I cannot change the past anymore than anyone else, however I might long too.

Now, it is much too late for me to keep writing, Astari insists. I must relent. Till tomorrow.

❂

It is morning once again and I find I must continue. What I am trying to say is this: this journal has been used extensively when involved with all the events that have become a permanent mark on the recent history of Kergazin – its ever-changing, complicated, nuanced history. I am, I can say with pride, a part of that and that this journal holds some intimate and, perhaps, disturbing details.

I have tried to replicate the details of journal entries and other documents previously thought lost – or actually lost, as nearly all of the original entries in this journal, up until February of 1908, were burned to ashes.

This is a compiling of said entries I destroyed, for posterity’s sake. And, for the sake of my own sanity. As though I would trivialize something like this for someone’s entertainment like a bored, obnoxious playwright.

No, this is for me, and me alone – and the history I have helped make. I just happen to be a touch melodramatic. And, if another publishing house sends another pigeon my way, they will be met with a very angry letter and this. A sample of writing.

This is not the story of some useless girl, running around like a headless chicken while the men do the heavy lifting, as many publishers are keen on believing. These are the writings from someone who drove knives into backs, aimed arrows into hearts and learned how to slip poison into the cup of a prince.

And, on the topic of stories, I’m sure a tale like that could be found, though, it isn’t a tale of the fairy variety. I should know, I was raised on them. Kergazini folk tales aren’t always a pleasant affair.

Luckily for the world – and, in some strange way, myself – the other three members of my quartet had read the entries so frequently that they knew the writing exceptionally well. It is to their benefit and help that I can even begin to reconstruct the thoughts of myself from a year ago.

This time was fraught, tumultuous and taxing, I will try to give myself some measure of grace. Youth makes one overconfident, even after the most harrowing year of one’s life.