The long road left Meriwether plenty of time to think. The cold had got into his bones, so he spent much of the journey shivering, but the thick blankets the Knights draped over him served to keep him from death’s door. He’d found hot rocks sharing his blanket, which he kicked out once they started being cold rocks. Meriwether’s careful fingers found the angel’s kiss nestled in a pocket. He hadn’t been so cold-drunk to lose it, then. Stacked around the cage were the Knight’s belongings. Not the precious ones—their glass swords, scatterguns, shields, or other means of wizard murder. Not coin, neither. But tents, pots and pans, and food. Their eyes didn’t linger on him. He was baggage. An item to be delivered, by pony express. It didn’t bother him; he didn’t much like them either. It’s hard to Read More …

“Kytto’s an asshole,” Vertiline admitted. “Try not to let it worry you.” She dragged Geneve along like the girl might break loose in strong winds. Geneve hurried, her smaller legs working hard to keep up with Vertiline’s elegant strides. The Adept was lean and hard, quite unlike the usual bulk of Knights. Her frame seemed locked down against something inside coiling to be free. Geneve wondered if she’d be lean like Vertiline or big like Israel once she grew up. “Why are we going to see Kytto?” “Because he’s an asshole.” Their forward march led them through the Keep’s interiors, then down a flight of steps that looked well used, like most everything here. Globes within sconces gave off warm light without the eye-watering smoke of flame as they headed below the ground. The steps didn’t continue long, ending in a Read More …

The sinner lay in his cage, still out for the count. His lips remained blue despite the swaddling of blankets about him, a bustle of heated rocks within. Geneve didn’t know if he’d live and wasn’t sure if he deserved to. That’s not for you to decide. The Justiciars will make the call.  Tristan shifted beneath her, eager to press on despite spending half the night beside a freezing stream in the dark. The horse nickered, raised his front left foot, and tossed his mane. Geneve concured. Calterburry didn’t agree with her. Not Lord Symonet and his cult, the guard, or the scenery. Even Birdsong Alley hadn’t kept her interest, perhaps because the sinner had lied to her there. He’d picked her to whisper his deceit to, and she wouldn’t forget it. Gylbard, the short innkeeper, spoke with Israel a Read More …

“I see she gave you a knife.” Vertiline, the ghost-pale woman with the long braid, looked down on Meriwether as if he was an ugly curio like a malformed child. “I wouldn’t have given you a knife.” They were in the Yellow Mug’s common room, autumnal light making its weary way through shutters closed to keep the worst of the wind away. At least there’ll be no Vhemin with the cold. Israel and Geneve were off doing Important Tresward Stuff, leaving Vertiline to guard ‘the sinner.’ He really didn’t like that term. It implied a host of things, and Meriwether was guilty of only a few. “Because I’d cut you with it?” Meriwether held the knife up. “You can have it, if you like. I’m not very good with knives.” “Because they give hope, sinner.” Vertiline stood tall above him in full armor, like Read More …

Geneve sucked her knuckle. The skin was split, and the bright tang of blood lay on her tongue. She wasn’t sure if it was from her hand, or the knock her lip had against her teeth. She wasn’t sure of very much right now. Her ears rang from the blunt blow of a practice blade. Geneve had fallen onto her butt, legs splayed in front of her, but she hadn’t gone all the way down, which she was certain annoyed Wincuf. The larger boy loomed above her, his wooden sword leveled at her face. “Yield.” Geneve thought about that. What yielding to Wincuf would feel like, and what it might feel like if she didn’t. She felt rather than saw eyes on her. Perhaps Israel’s, brows furrowed in a frown. The noises of the practice room faded to silence, the Read More …

Her headlong run took her past a headless corpse before she found Vertiline. The Knight stood in the middle of a street before the keep proper, dead men scattered like fallen logs. A collection of horses milled about, getting in the way. She didn’t stop to talk. There wasn’t time. In passing, she gave Tilly a wave with her scattergun. Go. She continued, breath rasping in her chest as she passed the Chevalier. Geneve couldn’t help but mark the wry smile on Vertiline’s face. Three’s Mercy, the two of them conspired to make me run through this town in my underclothes. The Trials weren’t this hard. Geneve scampered onto the low stone wall of the bridge. Dark water moved slow in autumn’s grip below her. The river wound its lazy way through Calterburry, unconcerned with what happened above. She brought her speed down, Read More …

Geneve cracked an eye. Her room was dim, but Cophine’s light reached pale fingers through a curtained window, letting her see well enough. She saw Israel and Vertiline’s cots were empty, sheets cast aside. The height of the Three moons suggested she’d been asleep a handful of hours at best. She sat up, teasing out red hair, fingers arguing with the stubborn knottiness of it. By the Three. I’ve slept only a few hours and my hair’s tangled worse than a briar patch. A quick inventory showed Israel’s armor stacked as he’d left it. It was polished silver-bright. Geneve looked to where Vertiline’s armor should sit and found it empty. She glanced back to Iz’s armor. His sword’s gone. She was on her feet before her mind finished processing, snaring Requiem from the foot of her bed. Geneve kicked aside her pillow, Read More …

That’s the first and last time you’ll underestimate a Knight. Consciousness returned to Meriwether like a forbidden tryst in the night: quickly, and with a lot of sweating and groaning. Light blazed, harsh as the forge of dawn itself. He squinted, holding a hand out to shade his eyes, then cried out at the pain in his side. The gift from Symonet’s lackies. Meriwether took a calming breath, then another as nausea leered at him. His fingers found his shirt, and tentatively made for the sword gash they’d awarded him with. Trembling and slow, he expected the harsh brand of rent flesh, but instead he found the brush of cotton. You’re not going to learn anything mewling like a babe in a bassinet. Strength, man. He lay on a bed, the mattress firm but not unkind. Another opening of his Read More …