I turn as far as I can in the chair, which isn’t far, and can just make him out. One of Wart-Man’s toadies stumbles into the hall from the outer courtyard. I’d have that dagger back from his grubby hand in …oh I’d say….three and a half minutes. They must have taken the dagger off one of the priests after they killed him.” I shrug, “It’s been in the family ever since.” She had three daughters and all McGoverns, even to this day, are highly skilled with poison.
#Moons of madness scars full
They all became ill and died before the turn of the next full moon, exactly as my ancestor said they would when she cursed them from the flames.”Īh, possibly he’s not as stupid as he looks, “Yes, very good, poison.
Thing was the only people affected were the two priests who tortured her, the Bishop who pronounced her guilty, the people who testified against her, and the man who lit the peat. “After she died, a plague-like illness hit the village. Wart-man scuttles back to me on his stubby legs, “How did you end up with it?” When I give my annual tours of the castle, it was always a highlight to see me standing next to her. Mine is a dark auburn, but the rest, the pale skin, the full mouth, the eyes a green so dark they appeared black – yes, we looked remarkably alike. “Like me, yes, except for the hair.” The first Mckenna McGovern’s hair was inky black. “Shit!” Warty’s bauble-head swings back and forth between me and the portrait, “She looks…” It usually took a few seconds for people to see it. He made his way down and studied the portrait I’ve been fascinated with since childhood. “Mckenna McGovern, a little ways to your left.” Troll boy shuffled along the wall, “Which one?” I figured I needed about ten more minutes. My warped family history, a built in stall for time. The troll shuffled over to the wall. He was fascinated. I nod in the direction of the far left wall, the one with the portraits of all the McGovern Lairds, “They tortured my ancestor with it before they tied her to a stake and set her on fire. My hallowed halls, my burden to bear, my birthright, and a lifetime ago, the place I called home.Īnd soon to be the place this man will take his final breath. His beady bloodshot eyes swing to me where I was hogtied to one of the huge 14 th century chairs that sat in the great hall of McGovern Castle. “Yes, it translates, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’“It was used by the Catholic church to torture witches in the fourteenth century.” The beady eyes squint, “There’s an inscription.” “Real.” I answer, wishing I could see my watch, “Ruby, sapphire, and emerald.” “The stones on the hilt?” The pudgy hand moves, turning the stones up. “Yes, and the inlay is gold.” I answer averting my eyes to the dagger, because that face is a lot of ugly. “Ivory?” He asks, his face turned up so that light illuminates his craggy, pock-marks. Ivory glowed, gold blazed, gemstones flickered with hidden fire – a beautiful weapon in the hands of a monster.
#Moons of madness scars windows
Afternoon light falling through high windows dance over the hilt. The stubby little man in front of me holds my dagger up.
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