Sword of Truth

         A breeze turns a page of the faded book. The leather-bound tome laid on the small table next to a beautifully bejeweled, but empty, scabbard. Also on the table, a wooden bowl filled with weak venison stew slowly steams, cooling in the spring air. On a square of brown canvas, the leaves of carefully prepared dried herbs flutter in the wind; a few are scattered on the floor. A frisky bit of wind picks up two or three thyme leaves, swirls them around, and lets them fall lazily onto a hand. Weathered and wrinkled, yet distinctly feminine, the hand lays unmoving, clutching a bit of rag and the shine of something silver. Like the stew, the hand, and the body to which it is attached, is also cooling. This body, I know well. She is the reader of the book, the owner of the scabbard and its missing contents, the eater of the stew, the harvester of the herbs, and the protector of that bit of silver. This body, this humble herbwoman, I know quite well. I am her…or rather, I was her.
         The congealing puddle of blood beneath my body makes the cause of my death apparent; however, the reason is not so simple. A prophecy started it all: “The Sword of Truth will make a king.” Therefore, the murderer took what he thought had to be the infamous, enchanted Sword. Oh, the sword he took was impressive. Sparkling jewels, shining gold, and inscribed runes covered both hilt and blade. It was not the Sword of Truth. Even though my heart has stopped and my spirit is moving on, I still protect the Sword. It’s that shining piece of silver—a small, simple brooch in the shape of a sword. If the thief had taken a closer look, he might have seen the tiny letters engraved on the hilt of the sword-pin: TRUTH.