Blade of Glass: Chapter 17

Israel stood on a balcony overlooking Tresward grounds. Below, Clerics bustled to and fro, more than one or two embracing a waddle. Clerics weren’t known for keeping up with Destiny’s Supplicant, and once past their Appeal many faded to softer lines. He didn’t mind; each had their role within the Three’s Light. Knights stood against the dark with shield and sword. Clerics fought with word and censer. 

This Tresward keep was a small one. It was barely an outpost, but the gardens were well-tended. Bees hummed a tune through flowers fat and heavy with pollen. The sun’s radiance felt warmer here than the cold southern climes should allow. He closed his eyes, feeling its golden touch on his skin. If he kept his eyes closed, thinking of nothing but sunlight, he could almost forget he’d left Geneve to die.

Behind him, he heard—merciful Three—a gentle groan. He turned his back to the sunlight, stepping into the shaded interior of the Tresward’s hospital ward. Beds lay in neat rows, white cotton sheets pressed and corners neatly tucked. Just one bed was occupied, and on it lay Vertiline. Her face was a ruin of bruising, but while she was out the Clerics had re-broken and set her nose.

The damage didn’t stop there. They’d told Israel the Chevalier had four broken ribs, fractured clavicle, and cracked cheekbone. The fingers of her left hand were splinted. She woke to pain, one bloodshot eye beside a clear blue one. Despite her discomforts, she made no noise other than a grunt as she pried herself upright. She made to swing her legs over the side of the bed as Israel reached her side, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Hold, Vertiline. You need rest.”

She turned to him, her bloodshot eye angry, the blue one hard like ice. “Is Geneve with us?”

He looked away. “No.”

“Then there will be no resting.” Vertiline pushed his hand aside, rising. She swayed, putting her hands on his arm for support, then stepped clear. “Where are we?”

“Brightwater.”

“Brightwater?” Her voice rose several octaves. “How did we get to Brightwater Port? It’s five hundred klicks north of Calterburry.”

“Sit and let me tell you.”

“I’ll sit when—”

“Chevalier, sit!” Israel bellowed. Vertiline stilled, then gave a stiff nod. He wasn’t sure if it was her injuries or rebuke at his tone, but he’d put good silver regals on column B.

She settled on the bed. “What is your will, Valiant?”

“Three’s Mercy,” Israel grumbled. “Must you?”

“Whatever do you mean, Valiant?” Her jaw jutted.

Israel felt inside for a shred of calm. He fingered the pendant at his neck. It was old like him, and if he didn’t think too much on it, he almost forgot where it came from. Ignoring Vertiline’s question, he spoke of what she wanted to know. “Geneve is alive. The Justiciar—”

“Left her to die.”

Israel winced. “Perhaps you could keep your voice down.”

“Is he here?”

“Ambrose?” Israel shook his head. “He pulled us clear, then left.”

“Then I’ll speak as loud as I like. Unless, Valiant, your will says otherwise.” Her words were a model of obedience, but her tone could break rock.

“What is here are a hundred Three-fearing Clerics of various ranks. Two of them are posted,” he jabbed a finger at the ward’s stout door, “out there.”

Her eyes made a slow circuit of the room. He saw what she did: empty beds, but there was never a want of Knights needing care. A closed door, stout wood, no doubt reinforced with Divine Sway. Her gaze found the open door and its balcony, and while she couldn’t see it, he knew of the five-story drop to the gardens below. She continued looking about, finding the table beside her bed carried no items of interest, and certainly no glass swords. While their blades were lost on the road, there would be supplies here. Brightwater Port was one of the Tresward’s holdfasts. She breathed in and out. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Do you wonder why you still hurt?” Israel made to touch her jaw, but she shied away. “Clerics heal the sick and wounded, yet you carry injuries.”

“Are there Knights?”

“Some,” Israel admitted. “None will speak to me.”

Vertiline put her hands in her lap. He didn’t know if she looked at her fingers, or the simple cloth covering her legs. No Smithsteel held her body safe. “Where is Geneve?”

“Ask a different question.” He sniffed. “One I know the answer to, perhaps.”

“My way’s more fun.” Israel caught the ghost of her smile. “They didn’t want to heal me with Divine Sway?”

“They said they couldn’t.” Israel scratched his chest. “Ambrose pulled us from that Three-forsaken pit—”

“Where we left Geneve!”

Israel’s voice failed him for a moment. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times. Speak truth. “I know it. I feel it.”

Vertiline turned away. “I’m sorry. I know. I’m confused and angry. Help me understand.”

“I don’t understand much myself.” He held up a hand at the bright glitter in her glare. “Save your fury. I’ll get to the heart of it. Ambrose says the pit was an old temple. The sinner, an agent of evil. Geneve, corrupted.”

“By the sinner?”

“By the place.” Israel shrugged. “Us, too. It’s why the Sway won’t work. They tried to mend you, but … nothing happened. The Light wouldn’t touch you.” Israel remembered fighting the High Priest. How the Sacred Storm couldn’t pierce the monster’s dark aura. “He has said how we might fix it.”

“This is why he didn’t send another Gate for her?”

Israel nodded. “Ambrose can’t see her, Tilly. He,” Israel’s fingers clenched, “said maybe if she’d worked the Storm herself just once, she’d be easier to find. The man exhausted himself trying to find her.”

“And we’re five hundred klicks from her last location.”

He nodded. “Five or ten days’ ride, depending on horses. I don’t know what happened to Chesterfield or Troubles, but we’ll only ride what the Tresward can spare.”

“Spare?” Vertiline stood, iron in her spine. “No, save your words. They bring no clarity. I’ll not sit a moment longer. We must find Geneve.”

Israel clutched his pendant. “Aye. But I haven’t finished giving you truth.”

She turned at his tone. “What more is there? Our fellow Knight lies no more than ten days’ ride, while we holiday in Brightwater.”

“Ambrose said Geneve must be Judged. He said she may have been marked from before we found her. That she’s fallen. Her lack of Light…” He trailed off. 

Silence gathered between them. The hum of bees seemed to fade away. When Vertiline spoke, her voice was a whisper. “And what will you do?”

“I’ll find her.” Israel let his fingers fall away from the pendant. “She is a Knight of the Tresward. We must do our duty. You, on the other hand, will stay here.”

“You’re joking, of course.”

“You’re injured,” Israel insisted. My heart aches to see her like this.

She didn’t seem to care about the state of his heart. Vertiline held her splinted hand up. “Is it because of this?” She grabbed the binding, and with a grimace, tore it away. “There. No more injuries. Let’s go.” She held her injured hand up again as he looked about to speak. “Knights can’t fall, Iz. We’re not pieces on a board to knock over. You of allof us should know this. You’ve known Geneve for ten years.”

“Closer to thirteen.”

“And I’ve known you for twice that. We’ve lived in the Tresward. In all that time, have you ever heard of the Light failing?” Her eyes glittered, one sapphire, one ruby. 

“No, but I know what I saw.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll find her.”

“We’ll find her, you mean.”

“And then we’ll do what must be done.”

She eyed him, measuring, weighing, and discarding the chaff. “As you’ve always done.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we need to get out of here before your brain rots.” She put her hand to her mouth in mock surprise. “I apologize, Valiant. That was my outside voice.”

He grinned. It felt good. Israel thought he’d have to do this black task alone, but his oldest friend insisted on sharing the journey. I’ve seen more summers than’s my due. This may be my last crusade, but there’s no one I’d rather share this final one with. Geneve was with a powerful sinner, and the Light didn’t walk with her.

There was no way this would end well for her, and he wouldn’t let her go into the dark alone.

* * *

Israel knocked on the ward’s door. “Open.”

After a pause, the door creaked a finger’s width wide. “You’re to stay in there until—”

“Open this door, or by the Three, I’ll knock it down.” Israel squinted through the gap. “I’ll allow it’s a difficult time, but I won’t ask twice.”

“Aye, Valiant.” The door opened in a rush, revealing two young men standing guard. One shared Israel’s dark honey-brown skin but had a nose big enough for two men. The other was darker by far, with hair braided down his back. They both wore good Tresward Smithsteel. Braid gave a half-bow. “Apologies.”

The corridor outside the ward looked as it had when Israel entered. Old stone, but pale and clean. The odd door down a corridor stretching the length of the Tresward building. Wooden beams as thick as Israel’s legs shouldered the load of the ceiling, and small globes holding the Three’s Light provided warm illumination.

“I need steel and glass,” Israel said. “Where?”

“The Justiciar—”

“Isn’t here,” Vertiline breezed. She considered Big Nose’s black sash and its two meager stripes, then looked to Braid’s single gold bar. “Come, Chevalier, Adept. There’s no need for us to quarrel.”

Big Nose grunted. “It’s not you who’ll pay when he comes to settle his account.”

“Might be you who pays now,” Israel suggested.

“A fair point, Valiant.” Braid pursed his lips. “You’ll find the armory down on the ground level. Steward Willis is a miser, so don’t believe him when he says he only has short swords.” He shook his head, rueful. “You’d think he paid for them himself.”

“Now, brothers,” Vertiline chided. “Let’s not be unkind. It’s possible he did.”

That got a short laugh from Big Nose. “I like your optimism, Chevalier. Go with the Three’s blessing.”

“Likewise.” Israel moved through the door, Vertiline shadowing his heels. He hadn’t wanted to hurt his fellow Knights, but an urgency roiled in his gut he hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t excitement, nor anger.

Israel didn’t know what was coming, but fear’s cold fingers ran down his back. He felt a whisper on the wind, a promise of what would be. Death, he thought it said. Death, and the end of all you hold dear.

Israel touched his pendant again, then pressed his lips into a thin line. Fear was for Novices and Postulants. He thought of Geneve, her lack of Light, and the sinner she traveled with. I’m a Valiant of the Tresward, and I will not fail.

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