It wasn’t her first memory, just the first to arrive. Geneve felt it slot into place like a wooden piece from a child’s puzzle. It had the same bright, lacquered edges children love, painted in brilliant vermilion. She stood in a town square. Or above it: her feet were on wooden planks, coarse cut and rude. To her left and right were the tall faces of her fellow slaves. Tall, because she was five, but for all she was young she felt something was terribly wrong. A slave to her right was Feybrind. Worn, faded pelt. Patchy, because even they got old. Emerald green eyes undimmed by time, because the People weren’t made to cower. Her name was Time of Waiting, and she’d volunteered to be here, because Geneve’s mother wasn’t. No, that wasn’t right. Geneve’s mother was below in Read More …

Meriwether stood atop what might have been a nice taverna, if not for the dead milling in the courtyard out front. To his left, a woman with dead-white hair glared hate at the risen below. To his right, Sight of Day stood with a bow, arrow nocked, but no apparent desire to use it.  It wouldn’t make much difference. There’s a thousand dead below, and he’s got maybe thirty arrows. White-Hair sniffed. “You want to go in there?” She pointed at the bank, around which most of the dead’s attention focused. “Want? Hell, no. Need? Yes.” Meriwether flexed his hand. It felt strained after smashing the Feybrind control device. Won’t kill me, though. “We just saw a Champion enter. I’m going to help.” “And you want us to lay down covering fire?” She held up fingers hooked into claws. Arcs of electricity danced Read More …

The air tasted of copper. The hair on Geneve’s nape rose. Her fingers felt thin, too weak to hold her borrowed blade. Or perhaps it was her soul, too weak to hold her body upright after the compromises she’d made to get here. I’m no Knight. I’ll never be Israel and can’t touch Vertiline. And here I am, standing with them, against a Champion. Nicolette’s poise was faultless. Her stance was exactly as written by the Three. Her glass blades moved with precision even clockwork couldn’t give. Every part of her was matchless perfection. The Three walked not with her, but in her. She was their Champion in the world. A tiny dragonfly appeared on one of her sword’s edges, glittering with inner heat, before taking flight to circle her head. Another joined it, then four more, giving her a crown of flying fire. Read More …

Meriwether and Sight of Day made good speed for about ten minutes until they hit a snag. The snag was about two meters tall, clothed in shabby robes. The Vhemin High Priest stood in the middle of the road, wearing a scowl that shifted to a mad-tinged grin when he caught sight of Meriwether. “You!” “Ah.” Meriwether offered a small bow, then darted down an alley to the left. Sight of Day, initially on his heels, paced past him almost effortlessly. The Feybrind vaulted onto a fence to the left, spun, and held his hand out to Meriwether. Scrambling over, they tumbled to land in a pile of rotten vegetables on the other side. “Marvelous,” Meriwether said. The cat clicked his fingers in front of Meriwether’s face to get his attention. {The High Priest can unmake me. I feel it in Read More …

The day of Geneve’s Trial dawned like any other. Perhaps a little more sun, a little more fear. She made her preparations, then went into the mess to eat. Breakfast was big and hearty. A scrap of folded paper was delivered to her by a Postulant while she ate. She felt her belly grow cold as she opened it. TRESWARD’S TRIAL OF NOVICE GENEVE THE CHARGE OF FREEZING THE CHARGE OF BEASTS THE CHARGE OF FIFTY THE CHARGE OF THE TREE That was it. Two tests other than the expected fights and killing of her tree. A single day’s Trial. She wondered if Israel had asked Justiciars to be lenient. Whether Vertiline spoke in their hallowed presence, demanding balance. If they remembered Wincuf and his terror. She crumpled the paper, tossing it to the table. Pushing her bowl aside, Geneve Read More …

Geneve marched with Israel and Vertiline to the Brook District. It had been a sleepy enough settlement within Ravenswall. Not too wealthy, not too poor. Artisans made it their home. Nothing was tactically significant about it, except for one thing. It was right in Nicolette’s path. Meri’s plan made sense: head to the Brook District and meet Nicolette head on. Aside from the warm comfort of her old friends Iz and Tilly, she had the bulwark of Armitage’s presence. Nicolette nearly bested two Knights, but an Adept plus a very large Vhemin might make all the difference. Geneve doubted it. She figured the secret weapon of Meri’s plan a better idea. He’d said, Your job is to draw Nicolette’s eye. Be in her face. Be angry. The seen thing. Hide the idea of wizards from her until it’s too late. His eyes Read More …

It wasn’t thunder. It was the Storm, held by a Champion’s leash. Nicolette marched on Queensfane Village. The Witch Knight held an army of the dead on a tether of lost souls, burning a choking, corrupted path through the belly of Ravenswall. And she really, really wanted Meriwether. Screams made faint by distance carried on the wind. They may as well have been the cries of gulls. Lightning lashed the sky, cracking the Three’s whip as Nicolette came to finish them. The dragon hadn’t managed to kill Nicolette. Israel hadn’t bested her, even with Vertiline’s help. She wanted Meriwether, or at least the knowledge he carried. When she got it she would tear the righteous from the Tresward, corrupting it into a force for evil. Which means she’ll write names in the damn book, including Geneve’s. Meriwether clenched his fists. Read More …

Geneve ‘borrowed’ good silver regals from Vertiline before heading for the apothecary. The Chevalier said she was going to ‘get drunk’ and ambled off, leaving their wagon in the care of a stable boy who looked struck dumb by her pale beauty. It made Geneve grumpy, because no one looked at her that way. Her amber skin and red hair were not a thing people seemed to want. No Novice at the Tresward paid her attention. Boys and girls snuck off, but none took her hand. I must be plain. She shook her head, locks lashing in anger. I’ll never be pretty like Vertiline. The apothecary’s door banged open as she barged in. The little bell atop the frame jingled in panic. An old man harrumphed from the back of the shop. “What? Who’s there?” She stormed forward. The old man Read More …

Geneve felt the throne room was too hot. Too many eyes on her, with far, far too many people watching. She waited, unsure of what to do with her hands. Queen Morgan sat on her throne, her Coven arrayed about the room, with her honor guard front and center. She’d said to Armitage, Please hide, and he’d said, Fuck off, but she’d held his hands and he’d nodded, hulking back to the antechamber. Sight of Day went with him, tail lashing, gold eyes hard like metal. The Feybrind said nothing, but his eyes reminded her of her duty. Duty to her Tresward, and to her heart. It felt like she was splitting in half. She felt someone by her side and turned to find Meri there. His hand found hers, gentle fingers inside her metal gauntlet. “I’m here. Whatever comes, we’ll do it together.” Read More …

The path to the throne room wasn’t direct. Queen Morgan didn’t provide a convenient route from the front door to her throat. Near as Meriwether could tell, she closeted herself behind six sets of vaulted doors, each with six guards. Thirty-six fellows and a lot of wood and steel. It spoke to a learned sense of caution. The guards were what you’d expect: steely-eyed, hard-faced, and holding weapons in a way that said, I know how to use this, and I mean to. Naturally, they had an escort. The largest man Meriwether had ever seen held the rear. He made Israel look like a dwarf rabbit, but couldn’t match Armitage’s bulk. The guard kept puffing out his chest and other nonsense if the Vhemin looked his way, as if claiming a piece of him should the action start. Armitage paid him Read More …