Israel sat beside Geneve on a low bench. It was new wood supported by weathered stone. The wood must have been replaced often, but the stone lingered perhaps since the ancients walked the world. The bench was in a market. He’d brought her here by cart. The sights and sounds were familiar, like she’d been here before, or someplace like it. Geneve half expected to see a raised platform with people on display, but there was nothing like that. Just fruit stalls, fish sellers, clothiers, and an enterprising blacksmith.  Israel wore no armor today. He held his hand out, palm up, to the blacksmith. They had a clear view of the man, all sweat and brawn, dark skin below darker hair, and wearing a permanent frown above a tough leather apron. “What do you see?” Geneve watched the blacksmith a Read More …

He’s not wrong, yet everything about him is. Geneve watched Sight of Day work with Meriwether. The Feybrind coaxed the ferry horses to higher effort, while Meriwether worked the craft’s controls. She’d thought the vessel rudderless, but he explained it was merely mostly useless. The ferry made slow yet steady progress to the far bank. The water swept them further with every moment, but she couldn’t work up the energy to be concerned. She was exhausted, and not just by the sinner’s prattle. Geneve had slept a little but worked harder. She’d worn full armor for days and felt ready for the knacker’s yard. What really wore on her wasn’t physical ailments. The Tresward trained her to be their strong arm of justice in the world. To wear armor not to protect herself, but others. The weight she carried was something Read More …

I’ve been shot before, but this time the assholes didn’t have the courtesy to aim. Hitting me was accidental, and that hurts almost more than the barb. Meriwether felt the world came to him through flashes of too-bright light and too-muted sound. The only real thing was the pain in his chest, a deep, grating, personal fire that made everything else seem less important. In any other situation he’d marvel at Geneve’s sweeping shield work as the Knight danced across the ferry’s deck. Her red hair flew as she spun, and maybe it was the delirium setting in, but he thought she did it with her eyes closed. Closed, for pity’s sake. Light glinted from the water. It felt like the blinding brilliance of the Three come for him at last. He felt the certainty of it, the hungering justice of angry gods Read More …

“So you didn’t kick him in the balls?” Kytto seemed impressed. “I’d have kicked him in the balls.” Geneve hugged her hand to her chest. It throbbed. “I didn’t think of it. Ikmae’s pattern didn’t—” “Ikmae doesn’t have any balls. Leastways, not all the time.” Kytto tried to take her injured hand, and she drew away. He hissed. “Let me see.” “It hurts.” “Of course it hurts. A kid put a drill through it. Bound to leave an impression.” Kytto’s voice was full of something Geneve couldn’t place at first. A timbre she wasn’t familiar with. She offered her hand, but cautiously. He took it, gentle as if it were a newly-hatched chick, and unwrapped the blood-soaked cotton around it. When the wound saw light, he winced. “Looks bad.” “Aren’t you supposed to tell me it’ll be okay?” “It’ll be okay. Still Read More …

Progress, not perfection. Take a small step each day. When you’re ready, perfection will find you. Israel’s words to her years back as he crouched before her, hands on her shoulders. Geneve was new to the Tresward, perhaps six years old, and holding a broken practice blade. She’d listened, nodded, and taken the step. She was sure of it. And yet, no matter how hard she tried, the Sacred Storm didn’t answer her call. Geneve’s form was perfect, but no light glimmered along her blade. No thunder rang heaven’s bell. A glass sword was beyond her reach, and she’d never needed it more than now, facing fifty Vhemin, bloodlust in their eyes, rage in their hearts. She held Requiem instead, the skymetal honest, trustworthy, and totally unsuitable for the task at hand. Israel could have taken them. Perhaps even Vertiline, but Geneve Read More …

Night draped a gown over the forest, drawing her shadows close. Meriwether felt tired beyond exhaustion, not helped by the hammering his spine got from Troubles. Be easy. The horse hasn’t slept either. As visibility dropped to near zero, Meriwether called out, “Can we stop?” Geneve reigned in her horse. Sight of Day drew closer, his horse’s liquid black eyes staring into the evening. “We must press on. The Vhemin—” “Will find our unconscious bodies if we keep going,” Meriwether finished. “We’ll knock ourselves out on a low branch. And the horses are tired.” For once, Troubles didn’t try to shift him away, the mare either too tired, or in firm agreement with the idea of rest. Geneve’s skin was a charcoal rubbing in the dusk. “They’ll find us.” “It takes them hours to cut enough trees, build a big fire, Read More …