Wincuf’s Trial was like any other: bloody. All were different, except for two things. The Novice must fight fifty peers and must also destroy their tree. There were no rules within those two constraints. Tradition said the Novice selected their foes. They would normally pick the biggest opponents to prove their worth to the Three. Wincuf chose forty-nine opponents before his last: Geneve. That was why she stood in ill-fitting armor along with forty-nine others, waiting to cut Wincuf down. Wincuf didn’t have to beat them. He just had to survive. Get through them out the gates at the end, and then a clean run to his tree. That was the rule. It was the end of his Trial; two days passed with grueling physical tests. Geneve watched as he’d been kept without sleep. Waterboarded and beaten. If the Storm Read More …

The plague lands. Some called them a desert, others a misery, but all people agreed: if you stepped on the sands, your life was forfeit. Geneve knew she might be able to walk the blasted steppes. The Light in all Knights kept them safe from disease and most of the ravages of time, but the sands were forbidden to all. No Knights came back from trying to cross them. The Tresward Great Library held no clues as to what lay in the middle. All maps ended at the border of such areas with a simple word: DANGER. The world was littered with plague lands. Vast stretches of scorched ground from the time of the ancients. Most were hundreds of klicks across, and without water or a horse, survival seemed tricky. Armitage snorted at her concerns. You’ve never had a guide with balls, is all. Read More …

Meriwether now wore good, sensible clothes that he’d not be seen dead in under normal circumstances. My circumstances haven’t been normal for most of my life. So, they’d do. His pants were rugged, and he’d found a sweater of good wool. Mice made a home in it and appeared a little upset he evicted them. It was warm and dry, and he felt like he might get some heat back in his bones before day’s end. Even better, his new clothes didn’t smell like straw. The scarecrow shirt he left behind after making a new home for the mice with it. Boots and a cloak completed the image. The boots were trying to be black, the cloak edging toward red, and all in he felt he looked like a hobo, and that was fine. He pretty much was, just eating better Read More …

Kytto didn’t look impressed. His gaze roamed her small frame. “Are you eating enough?” “Yes.” “Sleeping?” Geneve nodded. “Yes.” “Why are you so scrawny, then?” She looked at her feet. “I don’t know.” “I do. It’s because you’re not eating or sleeping.” The Smith stalked about his forge, pacing like a caged animal.  “It’s hard to eat or sleep. Wincuf’s Trial is tomorrow. I’m to face him in his bout of fifty.” Geneve felt the tiny size of her voice, a perfect match for her physical dimensions. “So?” “So, he holds glass and can cut me in half.” “Best you not let him do that.” The Smith sniffed. “Okay, I agree, that’s not the best advice. Lacks, what’s the word…” “Specificity,” Vertiline suggested from her perch by the stairs. Geneve hadn’t seen her come down. Kytto jumped. Obviously he hadn’t Read More …

Geneve was torn. She felt the need to help Sight of Day. She’d been there when his village died. Geneve knew anything that would make a Feybrind share the trail with a Vhemin was serious. World-changing. The kind of thing the Three would see from their remote vantage high above. She also knew Vhemin were monsters and not to be trusted. Going into the desert would take her closer to the enemy’s home, and further from what her mission had become. It wouldn’t be heading toward the capital and Queen Morgan’s help. It would be going toward actual monsters that craved human flesh. The Tresward taught Knights well, and principle among their lessons was: a good Vhemin is one lying dead at your feet. Geneve didn’t know who to trust within the Tresward, or whether there was a conspiracy higher Read More …

Meriwether managed to talk Geneve down from the precipitous heights of instant justice by the simple method of explaining the jail wasn’t open. The innkeeper confirmed it wasn’t open, but also not much of a jail, which wasn’t helpful, so he sent the greasy fellow away. Tomorrow, he’d suggested. We’ll get in early. Bound to be all manner of people wanting to poke the bear. The three got the inn’s single private room, which bordered on negligent advertising, because it was right next door to the room the innkeeper shared with his probably-wife, but possibly-sister, and the two of them made a lot of noise. Tomorrow dawned same as it did every day. Perhaps a little drizzlier on the weather front, and a little less bright, but cold like the south was. Meriwether’s breath misted before his face from his lofty height Read More …