Ziana walked put of her house that bright morning without a word to her father. She was tired of it. She knew that what he did to her was wrong and she knew that he was the reason her mother, a kind loving person, was dead. She took from the wall a sword that had belonged to her grandfather, strapped it to her waist and left without even stoking the fire.

She could not just leave the bustling city without a word to anyone, though. There was one person that she went to see that morning, the one person who really gave a damn about her.

The old woman was just opening shop when Ziana arrived. It was an old dusty place where the mice were rampant and the old sign with the pentacle on it hanging above the door was nearly undecipherable. “Hello, Grandmother,” Ziana greeted cheerfully.

The elderly woman looked up. “Well, hello, dear. What are you doing here so early? Don’t you have chores to do?”

“I’m not doing them,” Ziana answered, her voice low and stern.

The elderly woman gave her a good look over and spotted the sword at the girl’s side. “So it has finally come down to this, has it?” The old woman sighed. “I won’t try to stop you of course.”

“It wouldn’t do any good anyway.”

The woman smiled. “That sword belonged to my husband. He taught both you and your mother to use it…”

“It’s a shame that mother didn’t use it…”

“You didn’t…” the old woman trailed off.

“No, he’s still breathing.”

The old woman’s face became grave. “You understand the risk of using that sword, don’t you?”

“Of course. I’ve thought it over since I was a child.”

“You live by that sword and you die by it. It always spills the blood of the one who wields it.”

Ziana drew her shoulders back. “I will wield it as my ancestors have for centuries,” she said firmly. “Perform the ritual, Grandmother. This sword is mine, make me its.”

The old woman smiled broadly. “So be it then. Come, quickly before your father comes storming in here.”

Old woman and the one who was just barely a woman moved to the back of the little shop where there was a room blocked off by a curtain. Ziana had never been allowed back here before and she felt the excitement fluttering in the pit of her stomach that she would finally be brought into the majickal room behind that curtain.

The room was cleaner than the shop outside and had no windows. The old woman went about the task of lighting many scented candles so that soon the room was filled with the scent of apple blossoms. Ziana closed her eyes and inhaled deeply the fragrance.

“Give me your sword,” the old woman instructed.

Ziana released the hilt of the sword and withdrew it, glinting in the candle light, from its sheath and handed it over to her grandmother. The old woman took it and held it horizontally across her open palms. She closed her eyes and said a prayer to those whom the sword had slew. “Protect her, spirits of the sword. Guide her hand in battle, watch over her as she sleeps.” With that the old woman set the sword in the center of a pentacle drawn on the floor in the center of the ruins. Around the pentacle were ruins carved into the floor.

“What do they mean, Grandmother?” Ziana asked.

“They are for protection against evil spirits when a spell is cast.”

“Oh,” Ziana said. “What do I do?”

“Be patient. Majick takes time.”

Ziana sighed. “Okay.”

The old woman took a bowl and a knife from a shelf and went back to Ziana. “You have to do this yourself. Cut your arm and bleed into the bowl.”

Ziana licked her lips and took the knife from her grandmother. She pressed the edge of the blade to the inside of her arm and drew it back, opening her skin so that red blood came forth and flowed into the blood the old woman held out. Once the bowl was half full the old woman wrapped Ziana’s arm in a cloth and motioned her over to the pentacle. “Stand here, dear,” she said, directing Ziana.

The feather of a dove was taken and dipped into the bowl of blood. The old woman spread the blood in Ziana’s palms. “Your life is in your hands, child. Gods be with you.”

The feather was dipped a second time and then with the old woman splattered the blood over the sword and spoke a verse…

Quench thy thirst ye bloodless sword

Naught is known now who is lord

One who wields or one who is wielded.

With this blood all fate is sealed.

It seemed to Ziana the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. An icy chill ran down her spine. The curtain that separated this room from the rest of the shop moved with a breeze that passed through the room and snuffed out all of the candles. It was not dark, though. The pentacle and the ruins around it on the floor glowed a pale blue, filling the little room with its eerie light.

The old woman continued to speak…

The web of life is spun this day

And ever shall it be this way

Sword and person now are one.

Be it so, this deed is done!

The blue light flashed a brilliant white and Ziana was momentarily blinded. When she was able to see again she found herself on the floor, sprawled next to her sword… her sword. She drew a deep breath. “This sword is mine…” she said softly.

“As you also belong to it,” the old woman said. “Do not forget that. Your very fate is tied to that sword.”

Ziana nodded. “I understand.”

“I do not think that you do, but you will.”

Their conversation was interrupted suddenly by a loud voice. “Bevella, Where is she! I know she’s here!”

The old woman looked up. “That is your father, child…”

“I know…” Ziana said in an icy tone. She stood and sheathed the sword. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. It cannot be changed now.” She squared her shoulders and walked out into the main shop.

Ziana’s father was a bear of a man with more hair. Years of physical labor made him look more like a mobile tree than a man. His first reaction upon seeing Ziana was to strike her square across the face. Ziana was propelled across the room and ended up flat on her back on the floor. Blood trickled from a split lip. Ziana took a deep breath, determined not to cry and stood up. “Do not hit me,” she said.

Her father growled and advanced on Ziana. “You dare…”

“I do,” Ziana said. She drew the sword from its sheath and savored for a moment the feeling of the single handed weight in her palms as she held the hilt with both hands. Then, she looked her father directly in the eyes. “This was my grandfather’s sword and now it is mine.” She pointed the sword at her father’s throat. “I will use it freely as my grandfather did.”

Her father actually looked afraid. His eyes grew wide and his breath caught. After a moment of silence he backed away. The point of the sword followed his movement.

Ziana, then, moved past her father and out the door of the shop.

As soon as her boot touched the dirt path outside the shop Ziana sheathed the sword and ran. She ran until she reached the border of the city she lived in, so eager she was to finally get away. This was her new life, a life of adventure and danger. There was nothing to stand in her way. Her father could no longer touch her, and never, never would she ever return to that city again.