Blade of Glass: Chapter 15

Geneve was alone.

She walked beside a Feybrind. She already felt the foundations of trust between them, or perhaps something more like friendship, but they needed to make it out alive first. She wasn’t sure of Sight of Day’s motivations, but his golden eyes made her feel warm. There was no malice there. The problem with the situation at hand was she wasn’t sure if they’d get time to be friends. There were a lot of Vhemin between now and five minutes from now.

Ahead of her walked the sinner. His face was bruised, lip swollen, and he walked hunched around a pain he carried deep in his chest. But no part of him leaked red, so she’d see him to his trial. Except, neither he nor Sight of Day want him to go to trial. It’s just me trying to get him there.

One problem at a time. Her steel felt heavier than she was used to. Requiem dragged in her hand as if it didn’t want to be used in conflict against this particular sinner. But a sinner he was, because he’d magicked a knife out of the air, pushing it into the demon darkshield of a Vhemin High Priest without breaking a sweat. Even Israel’s Light couldn’t break through.

“I can feel you wanting to ask something.” The sinner nudged the High Priest with the blade, a lick of steel against the softer scaled skin beneath the Vhemin’s throat. “Not you.”

Geneve bit her lip. The Feybrind watched her with those golden eyes, a smile hiding in there somewhere. His fingers moved quiet and sure. {I can feel it too.}

“Shut up,” she growled.

“What was that?” said Meriwether, turning to glance at her.

“Not you,” she said, pointing at Sight of Day. “I was talking to the Feybrind.”

Meriwether glanced between them, then returned to his vigil of keeping the High Priest focused on not dying. Vhemin capped the corridor they walked down, keeping a good ten-meter distance front and rear. All bristled with weapons and intent. Geneve had no illusions about their chances of survival if Meriwether’s Light—by the Three, he holds their Light!—failed. She was good with a blade, but her shoulder ached right to the bone, and she was past tired. She’d left ‘tired’ at a fork in the road some time past, and realized a deep weariness was her traveling companion. 

To be fair, the sinner also looked tired. Eyes hollow, almost bruised. Haunted, as if—

As if someone’s hunted him his entire life, then when they found him, threw him in a cage.

“My question is, ‘How did you get another knife?’”

Meriwether put a hand on the High Priest’s arm. “Hold up a minute.” His blade never wavered, which was good because Geneve could feel the hate boiling from both ends of the corridor. She held Requiem ready, Tribunal in her other hand. Both weapons had tasted Vhemin blood today, and if she waged coin on it like the dice-rolling reprobates in taverns everywhere, they would again. “You want to know how I got a knife?”

“Yes.” She nodded, slow because she was uncertain. “Israel had the blade I left with you. You have another.”

He pursed his lips, chewing the question over. “I stole it.” He spun on his heel, nudging the High Priest forward.

The priest, for his part no imbecile, spat, “I will barbecue you on open flames!”

“I’d start with the cat,” the sinner said. “She’s too gristly, and I’m too small.”

{I don’t like this human.}

“Are you … fools?” The High Priest’s tone was a turf war between confusion and anger. Confusion was winning.

“I don’t know.” Meriwether considered their direction as they hit a junction. Geneve pointed with her scattergun straight ahead. He nodded his thanks. “I’m not the one with a knife to my throat. Let’s go over today’s events. You outnumbered us by a healthy margin, and yet here we are, knives to your throats. I really can’t imagine the conversation you’re going to have with the black shadowy asshole in the portal.”

The priest swallowed. “There’s yet time to recover—”

“Who’d you steal it from?” asked Geneve. “The knife, I mean.”

“You.”

Geneve looked to her belt. The sheath holding her small blade was empty. “But. Uh. How?”

“Sword. Wall. You were distracted. Don’t blame yourself.” He tossed her a wink, despite the paleness of his skin, the worn-thin of him. “There was a lot going on.”

{It’s true. I was there.} Sight of Day’s tail swished as he padded beside her.

She wanted to stop and demand answers from the sinner. How did he steal a Knight’s blade? Why had he given his other one to Israel? What I want to know is why he didn’t stab me in the back. I earned it, and then some, yet here I am, on a merry jaunt for freedom.

“I didn’t stab you because I’m not that kind of sinner.” He tossed this at her feet, barely glancing in her direction.

“You can read minds too?” She pointed Tribunal at a Vhemin getting too close. “You. Back up.” The monster glared as it retreated, resentment in every footstep.

“No. But it’s the next thing you were going to ask.” The tunnel rose before them. The air smelled different here. Cleaner. Safer. The Vhemin backed away, making space for them as they left the underground labyrinth. The smooth stone floor gave way to crudely hewn rock as they emerged into the night.

Three’s Mercy, we’re outside. Vhemin gathered around in numbers significant enough to make Geneve’s blood chill to glacier ice. She felt fear’s fingers running down her sweat-slick spine. Her armor wouldn’t be enough to see her free of this. Her strength wouldn’t last, and she couldn’t wield Vertiline’s glass. There was no storm inside her.

Meriwether gave a small, polite cough. Geneve tamped down her doubts. If a skeleton of a man can be fearless before the horde, I need to step up. The sinner faced the Vhemin High Priest, blade still at the monster’s throat. “How do you think this ends?”

“With your bellies slit open, innards steaming on the ground.”

“Sure.” He nodded. “That’s one way. What’s the other way?” He pressed his knife against the priest’s throat for emphasis.

The High Priest’s eyes were full of hate, lip curled in a snarl. Geneve caught the rankness of his breath, even three meters back. “There is no other way. No hope. No escape!”

Meriwether turned to Geneve. “I’ve got a plan.”

{I really don’t like this human at all.}

Meriwether ignored Sight of Day’s handspeak. “What we do is, knock this clown out, then run, but with him.”

The Vhemin priest laughed. “That’s your plan? How do you dare hope to best me with a clutch of my finest warriors nearby?”

Geneve closed the five paces between them and slugged him across the jaw with the fist holding Requiem. His eyes rolled back and he slumped to the ground. To his credit, the sinner followed the Vhemin down, blade never far from the monster’s throat.

The other Vhemin hissed but stayed back. Geneve saw their eyes on the sinner’s glowing blade. The sinner, for his part cooler than anyone with no friends should be, gave Geneve a wink. He took his hands away from the dagger, but slowly, like he’d carefully balanced a teacup on a frisky horse.

The knife held upright by itself, tip suspended a hair’s breadth from the Vhemin priest’s throat. Meriwether straightened, arched his back as if working out the kinks, then dusted off his hands. “That’ll just about do it, I think.”

She goggled. “You … how are you holding the knife in place?”

“Evil,” he suggested. “Pure sin. The souls of the damned hold it in place. They harken to my every whim. Three hundred babies died to make it happen.”

“Really?”

“No.” He looked weary, like he’d spent all this energy on a joke that wouldn’t land. The sinner stepped back from the comatose priest, heel catching on uneven ground. He stumbled, hands out, but Sight of Day was beside him fast as thought.

The Feybrind held the young man upright, and once the sinner found his balance, brushed him down with a half-smile and a nod. {He can do amazing things but is clumsier than one of your ugly human babies.}

“Ugly?” Geneve wasn’t quite sure when she’d lost control of things. Khiton’s empty hearth, I need to get my head back into the game.

{Furless, like infant moles. Shriveled and mewling.} The Feybrind shrugged, turning those wondrous golden eyes on Geneve. {It’s not your fault you were made that way. It will be your fault if we all die horribly because you didn’t call our horses.}

Geneve gritted her teeth, then holstered Tribunal at her back. She put fingers to her lips and blew a long, shrill whistle. The clump-clump of hooves on loam came across the night air, Tristan bursting from the forest’s edge with Fidget, Chesterfield, and Troubles behind him. The horses huffed the night air as they cantered closer. Geneve sheathed her blade. {Kneel.}

Tristan considered the request, looked to the Vhemin and the glowing dagger above his throat, then crouched. She turned to Meriwether. “Up you get.” Tristan glared, but held still.

Meriwether clambered with the gracelessness of those not just unfamiliar with horses but distrusting of them too. He eyed the horse beneath him with narrowed eyes, as if expecting Tristan to sprout an extra head. “Where to?”

“We need equipment. I know just the place.” Geneve looked to Chesterfield. She pushed her wrists out from her body. {Protect us.} The giant charger tossed his head. She gestured to Troubles. {Kneel.}

Sight of Day leaped atop Fidget. Geneve mounted Troubles. They rode off with Chesterfield at their rear. The Vhemin howled in response but held their ground. Geneve felt half the eyes watched them leave, and the other half watched the mysterious, glowing dagger. Danger took a breather but hadn’t left. It would re-enter the fight soon enough.

* * *

Geneve pushed Troubles as fast as she dared. The forest was dark, dawn’s light far away. Sight of Day rode in the trees to her right, his horse keeping pace with ease. Feybrind could see as well at night as during the day, and his natural reflexes and grace would keep him safe from the branches that tried to tear Geneve from her saddle.

A silver lining is the sinner’s having more trouble than me. She hated the thought as soon as it arrived. It wasn’t the kind of thought a Knight should have in the quiet of their heart. To be fair, your heart’s far from quiet. Part of it was riding an unfamiliar steed, but she’d figured Tristan would do as Geneve asked, but Troubles’ flexibility in who she’d let ride her was limited by Vertiline’s absence.

Thought of her missing friend cut Geneve, a lance of anxiety so bright it hurt. She’d seen Vertiline and Israel step into a portal, the Justiciar Ambrose beckoning them through. She knew her fellow Knights were safe. Safer than Geneve anyway, with a wily sinner to watch and a horde of Vhemin at her heels.

Focus on the task. Get equipment. Find safe haven. Fight when I must, run at all other times. Geneve was just one Knight, and not a very good one at that. The Storm wouldn’t come to her aid, and that knowledge was heavier than the armor she wore.

“Where are we going?” Meriwether gasped from behind her.

She spared him a glance. The sinner clutched Troubles, face miserable. Geneve pointed ahead, then ducked a branch that threatened to toss her from the saddle. “Camp!”

“Are you mad?”

She ignored him. Geneve wanted more speed from Troubles, but she didn’t want the horse to lose footing in the dark. An accident injuring Geneve and crippling Troubles would be disastrous. She put her armored hand on the horse’s neck. Be easy. Troubles ignored her, intent on the task of not tripping and killing them both.

They rode hard until dawn brushed the leaves around them to a pale green. They broke into the clearing holding yesterday’s camp. By the Three, only yesterday? It feels like it was a week ago. Geneve swung herself from Troubles. The horse stamped in agitation. “I know. We need to hurry.” She ran her hand down Troubles’ flank, then headed to the tents.

They still stood undisturbed. Night’s dew covered their surface. The fire was long spent, black charcoal cold and damp. She worked her way from tent to tent, gathering bags and equipment. Supplies for the road. By the tree line, she caught sight of Sight of Day helping an exhausted sinner from Tristan’s back. Geneve ignored them. We need to move, and move fast. But where? We shouldn’t go to Calterburry. We’ve no friends there, and besides, bringing Vhemin to their gates is no favor. She exited Israel’s tent, saddlebags draped over her shoulder, and almost ran into Sight of Day.

The Feybrind stepped aside as if human clumsiness was just one more thing to remember like water being wet. His golden eyes weren’t on her, though. Sight of Day watched the sinner. Meriwether stood before the cage. He hugged himself, shoulders rounded, shrinking before the implied threat of the wagon and its burden.

She took a step toward the sinner. Sight of Day touched her arm. {Carefully, Daughter of the Three.}

Geneve shook him off, dumping the saddlebag to the ground. “He is a—”

The quick flick of the Feybrind’s handspeak cut her off. {You’d call him sinner and put him in that box.} Another half-smile. {He’s stood shoulder by shoulder with us. I trade truth with you: he saved us. Perhaps breakfast before the cage?}

She glanced to the sinner, then nodded, but slow, the movement rustier than armor left in the rain. Geneve walked toward Meriwether, stopping two paces from him. “Sinner.” She bit her lip as soon as the word left her lips. He deserved more from her.

More? He drugged me. My fellow Knights almost died. If he hadn’t done unspeakable things, none of this would have happened. The thoughts wanted to burst to the surface, break the tension in the air. Geneve hungered for them, how they would taste on her lips. The sinner turned to her and she saw pain in his eyes, deep and real. Weariness sat there too, not just from the road, but of the world. He gave her a bitter smile, lip curling like he could feel the acid of it. “At your service, m’lady.”

Geneve took a step back. Her armor creaked, reminding her of who she was. A Knight of the Three. She straightened her shoulders. “We should have breakfast.”

He snorted. “What do we eat?” The sinner tossed a hand past the cage. Her eyes followed the direction of the movement. The oxen that pulled the cage lay slaughtered on the cold ground. Dead eyes looked at a dawn they’d never see. “All the meat is spoiled.” He looked back to the cage. “I guess it means I won’t get back in there.”

“Happy about that, are you?” she snapped.

The sinner shook his head. “No, Knight. Because two creatures had to die for it to happen, and even the cost of their lives has taught you nothing.” He spun on his heel, walking back toward the cold remains of their fire pit. “I’ll get water boiling.”

Geneve watched him go, then looked to the oxen. Dead, and not by her hand. And not, if she was honest, by the sinner’s either. Vhemin came here, slaughtering beasts they couldn’t take with them. It was the kind of petty, vicious act of their species. But the oxen wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t been needed to take a sinner to Judgment. Is that what he meant? That it’s my fault? Her lips pressed into a flat, hard line at the thought. 

Sight of Day crouched by the remains of the fire, placing kindling like he were building a merchant’s mansion one stick at a time. The sinner joined him, helping. The Feybrind watched Meriwether for a moment, accepting his help, but when the sinner’s head was turned, Sight of Day replaced a few of the sticks. Geneve thought about how the Feybrind accepted help that wasn’t needed, and why he might have done it.

I’m wasting time thinking about things that aren’t important. We need to eat, then get on the road. The Vhemin will come. Thinking of the monsters in their wake made her wonder about the glowing dagger the sinner left at the priest’s throat. How long would it stay there? What would happen when it fell?

She clanked toward the pair. Sight of Day turned his beautiful eyes on her. The sinner ignored them both. She crossed her arms. “Sinner. How did you do the trick with my knife?”

He shook his head. “Is this part of my Judgment? Ask me my crimes, so I set myself alight? I’ll allow it would save you some trouble.” Sight of Day studiously looked away, setting flint to tinder, coaxing a tiny flame to life. Meriwether readied a pan.

Geneve growled. “This isn’t Judgment. Also, I’ll make breakfast.”

“How kind.”

“It’s not kindness. Last time I ate something you touched, I fell over there,” she stabbed her arm toward where she’d been knocked aside last night, “and we almost died.”

“Fair.” He stood, bowing to their miniature fire with a flourish. “I await the marvel of Tresward breakfasts.” He rubbed his chin, fingers rasping over the stubble growing there. “To be honest, I’ve never eaten so well as in your captivity.”

“Never?” Geneve rummaged through Israel’s saddlebags. She found a shank of good salt bacon, a wooden box with packaged eggs, a round of cheese, and bread that would serve if no one looked too closely.

He didn’t reply, and she wondered if he was ignoring her. When she glanced up, he was still as stone, hand still on his chin. “Not for a long time, anyway.” She retrieved his skillet.

Sight of Day headed toward the trees. {Water.} She nodded agreement, watching his almost accidental grace as he moved through the camp toward the nearby stream. The sinner saved my life. The least he deserves is my kindness.Geneve watched the fire until she was sure her voice held no more grit. “How did you do it?” Once she’d stamped the anger away, it almost sounded like her voice held wonder. Ridiculous.

Meriwether tossed a crooked eyebrow in her direction as if measuring whether she were mocking him. Then he let out a pent-up sigh, reached into his sleeve, and drew forth her dagger. “Here.”

She scrambled to her feet, backing away. Her sword was half-drawn before she realized the ridiculousness of it. “How?” She rammed Requiem back into its scabbard, then took the knife from Meriwether. It was hers, no doubt about it. Geneve pressed the point to her finger, wincing as it pricked blood, then slipped it into its sheath. “I don’t understand.”

“It started when I was young.” He crouched by their growing fire, huddling close to its warmth. “Isn’t that always the way with sinning?” His eyes took a far-off look, like he was remembering a thing for someone else. “None of that matters. You want the how of it, and here it is. I can make anything I’ve seen appear.”

“Illusions of light?” Geneve looked from the sinner to the forest behind them. “So—”

“So the unholy monsters will eventually work out there isn’t a knife. Wasn’t ever one, really. I mean, sure, there was a blade, but—”

She lunged for him, grabbing his shirt, and hauling him forward. His eyes were wide, a handspan from her face. Close enough to kiss, if he were a different person, in a different situation. And I was not who I am. “You imbecile!”

“I … what?” He glanced to the trees as if hoping Sight of Day would return, or the Vhemin, or anything really.

She let him go, and he sagged away. “You had nothing on the Vhemin,” she spat. “If they’d found out—”

“We’d be dead.” He nodded. “But we were dead anyway.”

“I could have—”

“What?” The sinner spread his arms, turning for an imaginary audience. “Fought your way out? You and the cat, back to back? Even if you gave me a blade—”

“Which I wouldn’t. Certainly not after this!”

“Which you wouldn’t, but if you had the three of us would’ve died anyway. Your precious trial and its Judgment wouldn’t have happened. Your fellow Knights would have been fucking barbecue. Now, you’ve got the freedom to shout at me. Breathe air you’d never have felt again. And,” he pointed a finger at the fire, voice rising, “make me breakfast.”

Geneve seethed. She wanted to punch him with an armored fist. I want to be the hand of Judgment. Her fingers curled with the need to hold Requiem. It wasn’t what he’d said, how how he’d said it. She’d had plenty of people say unkind things to her. No, it wasn’t that at all.

It’s that he’s right, isn’t it?

An overloud rustle drew her attention. Sight of Day waited at the tree line, hand shaking a branch to make noise. She saw he had a brace of fish with him. How did he catch three fish in the time it’s taken us to get nowhere at all? She relaxed her fingers. “I thought…” Geneve trailed off. What did I think?

“You thought I held your precious Light of the Three.” Meriwether nodded. “It was what you were supposed to think. But better. Stronger. The giant asshole—”

“Israel.”

“Israel had a tiny blade and the power of the waves or whatever you call it, and he couldn’t stand against the priest. I had to make them believe. You had to believe.”

She looked down. Her voice sounded like crushed leaves. “I did.”

Sight of Day joined them, golden eyes moving between the two humans. He handed his fish to Meriwether. The sinner looked at them like he’d never seen a fish before. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

{Clean them.} The Feybrind put his hand on Geneve’s arm, drawing her attention. {The storm almost broke, didn’t it?}

Meriwether’s eyes narrowed. “What’s he saying?” He held the fish out from his body. “Really. What am I supposed to do with these?”

Geneve kept her eyes down. {There’s no storm inside me.} To Meriwether, she said, “You don’t know the People’s handspeak?”

“The what now?”

{This is surprisingly good news.} The Feybrind gave a half-smile. {Imagine the things we can say about him.}

“That’s not very kind.” Geneve felt her lip quirk anyway. 

“What’s not very kind?” Meriwether shook the fish. “Will someone please tell me what I’m supposed to do with these?”

“Clean them.” Geneve drew her knife from its sheath, offering it back to the sinner. “Try not to lose it this time.”

“You’re giving me another knife?”

“Be hard to clean fish without one.”

“Right.” He nodded, taking the knife. “Wait. How’d I get suckered into cleaning the fish? And why are we eating fish when we have bacon?”

{Fish wrapped in bacon is delicious,} suggested Sight of Day. {It will also shut the noisy one up for some time.}

Geneve considered that. “Which one of us is the noisy one?”

“Aren’t you worried about me poisoning you again?” Meriwether shook the fish. “Think of the things I could do while I’m cleaning these.”

Geneve stepped toward the sinner. He leaned back, like she was living flame. “I’m not worried. Do you want to know why?” He nodded, like a pecking bird. “There are about a hundred Vhemin behind us. And they want you, sinner. Not me.”

She left him to his fish, going about the business of squaring away the camp. Many things they couldn’t take on horseback. Someone would find what they didn’t need and make use of it. Nothing was wasted in the world.

* * *

Sight of Day found her after breakfast. The sinner was off trying to put a saddle on Tristan, which was amusing enough to watch. The young blue roan would wait until Meriwether drew close, then dance to the side as he tried to throw the saddle on the horse’s back. 

{We must go.} The Feybrind cleaned his teeth with a stalk of grass while he watched the young man. {Much as the entertainments here satisfy the soul.}

She eased her gauntlets off to speak with him easier in his own language. Her shoulder hurt, and she knew her skin would be mottling with bruising beneath her armor, but she owed the Feybrind the simple respect of the People’s ways. {You want to take the sinner.}

Sight of Day nodded. {Yes, but that’s not important yet.}

{It’s pretty important,} Geneve insisted. {He must go to Judgment.}

{What is important is the storm inside you.} The Feybrind looked to the sky, sun climbing as it always did. {You told me you didn’t hold it close.}

She grunted, hands falling to her sides. “There’s no storm. There never will be. Only the whole get to see it.”

The Feybrind stepped back, eying her up and down. {You look normal enough. For a human, I mean.}

She laughed, but it quickly died. “The Sacred Storm is about perfection. If we have,” she groped for the right word, “precision, it will join its will to ours.”

{You look precise enough, too.}

Geneve turned from his golden eyes. “I remember nothing before my fifth birthday. The Clerics tell me it’s because of tragedy, and that the memories will return. But without them I’m not … whole.”

She felt gentle fingers on her jaw, Sight of Day turning her face back to him. {You are perfect, Daughter of the Three.}

Geneve shook her head, angry with herself. She shouldn’t be talking about this with him. It wasn’t his business. “So. How will we solve the problem of the sinner?”

Sight of Day considered her a moment longer. {We don’t need to make a choice yet. Your Justiciars lie to the north. There is a village of the People that way. Perhaps we should travel together a while longer. You humans can warble at each other. Once we’re safer, we can decide.}

Geneve considered it. She hated herself for the thought, but it needed voicing. “With the People, you could … insist.”

The Feybrind shrugged, taking no offense. {Here, you could insist also. Trust is a fragile thing, but we’ve been shoulder to shoulder. Do you think I would steal him?}

“I think if you wanted to take him, you would look me in the eye as you did it.” Geneve smoothed red hair. “I don’t want to lead the Vhemin to your People.”

{I do.} The Feybrind narrowed his eyes. {We do not suffer a Vhemin to live.}

Geneve blew out a great sigh, shoulders relaxing. “Then we’ll see your people. Are they good?”

{The best. They are my kin.} Sight of Day’s fingers paused, as if holding the air for a moment. {My brother is a little special. Perhaps you shouldn’t meet him.}

She laughed. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Geneve watched Meriwether throw the saddle to the ground in disgust. “Come, friend. We’ve got to keep ahead of the Vhemin.”

If you enjoyed this, consider supporting me on Ko-Fi or hopping on my mailing list.

Miss the other parts of Blade of Glass?

[First Chapter] | [Previous Chapter] | [Next Chapter] (Live 13 August 2024