Constantine (Daughter of War #1)

Chapter 15: A Request Denied

A/N: Media on the side is a hand-drawn map of the world by yours truly (please ignore the general tininess of it).

******

For the next three days, I clutch onto my knife like a lifeline. I'd like to say that I carry it around with me so that there's an immediate opportunity for me to show it to my siblings when I run into them, just as I promised. But the sickening reality is that I'm...afraid.

Afraid of those visions. Afraid of Allura and Galennus Asa. Afraid of the world.

At least with Miraterciel—or a replica of it—I feel safer. Less likely to be intruded. The dagger is also small, easy to conceal beneath the folds of my clothing, making it ideal for me to carry it at all times. Squires aren't actually allowed to carry weapons of any sort save for during training. However, we are permitted to take knives, though most squires elect not to, finding the weapon difficult to wield due to its lack of power and reach.

Today is Amcreday, the day of the assessment. I, along with all the other potential candidates, are in the training field, hovering about uncertainly as the older knights prepare for the assessment.

"Constantine!"

My eyes widen in surprise as my siblings scurry over to my position by the sword stands. Isolde lags behind, trying her best to not get her pretty blue dress stained by mud and filth.

"Constantine," repeats Eric, slightly winded. We now have the attention of all the squires and knights on the field. I shift on my feet, unused to the attention. "We have something to ask you."

I know that this is about the gift. Clapping one hand each on Eric and William's shoulders, I beckon all of them to follow me, towards the empty space behind the sword stands. The squires and the knights know me well enough to keep a wide berth around me, understanding that I want privacy.

"Here," I say while pulling out the knife from my boot. Eric takes it gingerly and unsheathes it; William and Ronald inspect it with mild interest; Isolde, in spite of her grievous indisposition towards steel or sharp objects of any sort, squints at it from afar.

"Does it have a name?" asks Eric. He eyes the blade suspiciously, as though it might cut into his very soul.

"Miraterciel," I answer bluntly. I await my siblings' reaction.

At first, they almost believe it—their jaws drop open, and their eyes bulge out like a fish's. Slowly, the shocked expressions subside to give way to scepticism. "Really?" Ronald asks mockingly.

My lips curl sardonically. "I didn't believe her either, if that's what you're asking. Apparently the knife is passed down from generation to generation." I leave out 'along the female line'.

Eric toys with the blade casually, observing every angle of it with a keen eye. "It definitely doesn't look like how Miraterciel is illustrated in books," he says slowly.

"Yes," I reply briefly. In ancient manuscripts, Miraterciel is depicted as a knife with an ornate gold handle, a silver blade that gleams like a fang, and has a gem-stone embedded in the pommel. Nothing like the knife William has taken from Eric.

"Interesting." Eric wrenches the knife gently from William's grip to return it to its sheath. "But that's not why we came here."

"Really?" I ask, surprised.

"It's true that we want to know about your little 'gift'," says Isolde, flecking off a scrap of non-existent mud off her dress, "but ultimately it is none of our concern. It's between you and Mother."

"Then why did you come to see me—on my assessment day?" I fight to keep the growl out of my voice at Isolde's insolent tone.

"Ah, it's about that," says Eric. He licks his dry lips, rubs his eye, gnaws on the insides of his cheeks—doing anything to stall the impending topic. It's his little tics when he's nervous, or when he's about to present someone with less-than-desirable news. My eyes narrow; I press my lips together.