Blade of Glass: Chapter 18

This saddle’s going to kill me. Meriwether felt little was going his way. The sun was too bright, perhaps because he hadn’t slept. He sat on a horse that wanted him dead, and the only insulation between him and the beast was a saddle designed for an armored Knight. He wasn’t armored, nor was he a Knight.

That’s right. I’m a sinner. He winced at his internal monologue. How can it be a sin if you’re born with it? It’s like being a sinner for having red hair. The thought made him glance at Geneve riding at the head of their meager column. The cat rode at Meriwether’s back, making riding look easy. He hated the Feybrind just a little for that, but Sight of Day didn’t seem to care. If anything, the Feybrind didn’t look like he cared much about anything, until you looked into those golden eyes. They held your gaze, commanding attention in a way the flickering fingers of his handspeak didn’t. The cat’s horse looked the happiest of their group, just as the huge monster of a charger that moved at the rear looked the least. Probably hasn’t killed enough people recently.

Geneve was all business. Nothing resembling humor leaked from her when she spoke to Meriwether. Her back was ramrod straight, armor glinting in the dappled light making it through the trees. Her concession to the hot work of riding was a lack of helmet, letting her red trusses fall free. They were thick, slightly curly, and if this had been a different place, perhaps a tavern, with a different person, perhaps a by-the-hour doxy, he might have wanted to run his fingers through it.

But running your fingers through a Knight’s hair was like running your fingers along a Vhemin’s gums. Unless the Vhemin was dead, you were like as not to come out with fewer fingers than when you started. This here? Same deal.

Meriwether let his eyes leave Geneve for the cool greens of the forest. The road they were on was more rutted track than cobbled thoroughfare, and he harbored a dark suspicion it was a smuggler’s route. Southward lay Calterburry and its handy river, ideal for shipping wares and escaping sinners. North lay a world of bullshit in the form of Judgments and Justiciars, but also the wondrous cities of the kingdom, ripe for a savvy trader, whether their goods were honest or restricted. Traveling the main road north would expose a fellow to the relative safety of patrols, assuming you weren’t an escaped prisoner seeking release from the long arm of the law.

“Say.” He shifted a cheek, trying for relief from the saddle. Troubles shifted under him, re-seating him right where he’d been. “Why don’t we take the road?”

Geneve didn’t bother looking at him. “Because there are patrols.”

“That’s kind of what I mean.”

That earned him a backward glare. “Are you simple as well as a sinner?”

Meriwether frowned, staring at his hands. Unbound, thank the Three, or whichever gods are unlikely to want me dead. “I like to think I’m brighter than most.”

“Of course you do.” If there was a sneer trying to curl her lip, she didn’t let it show. “There are two problems with patrols. First, Vhemin will kill them, and all other travelers besides. You would call it a good distraction. It would be a tragedy.”

Meriwether glanced at Sight of Day. Pivoting in his saddle made his back pop, and he wondered how Geneve made it look so simple, especially since she was encased in Smithsteel. “It would be a good distraction, wouldn’t it?”

The Feybrind shrugged, a half-smile showing a few teeth. His fingers flicked, but Meriwether didn’t know the People’s language.

“The second problem is you.” Geneve’s voice drew him back around, Troubles shifting under him again, but with a snort, like her cargo showing free will wasn’t part of the deal. “You’re a sinner. Prisoner of the Tresward. If we go by the main road, it will bring questions. I can respond to allegations, but I’ve a feeling someone like you might use such a distraction to ask for a stranger’s aid.”

“Meaning you’d be forced to murder some poor guardsman, whose only crime was diddling his sister.” Meriwether nodded. “I get it. Casual murder’s fine, as long as it’s sinners. Unless there’s a third angle.” He leveled a finger at her. “You don’t want to be seen wandering free with a sinner. That’s a different line of questioning, with a harder set of answers.”

Geneve’s eyes flicked past Meriwether to the Feybrind, no doubt taking in Sight of Day’s handspeak. “He is notright.”

Meriwether let a few teeth show as he smiled. “Even the cat agrees.”

“He’s not a cat.” She shook her head, lips firming into a line. “That’s all beside the point. This road leads to a Feybrind village. The Vhemin on our tail won’t follow us there.”

“If they do?”

Geneve answered with a grim smile, fashioned of sharp edges and broken steel. “Then they’ll find their deaths.” She shifted her eyes front, her horse unconcerned in a way Meriwether’s wasn’t.

They rode on through the morning. The pace was brisk, the horses moving at a trot for much of the time. This wasn’t doing Meriwether’s butt or spine any good at all, but no one seemed to care. They didn’t stop for lunch. While there were no Vhemin in sight, even Meriwether agreed they’d burned too much time at their breakfast camp. 

Meriwether knew the Vhemin could run a mean pace, but they also needed hot rocks, and that would slow them some. The need to keep their speed up kept his lips shut when he felt like complaining about his condition. To be fair, I’ve not had it this good in some time. Good food in my belly, traveling companions who can murder pretty much any bandits, and no one’s threatened to kill me for at least a couple of hours. Let’s not forget they left my hands untied.

He nudged Troubles faster, pulling abreast of Geneve. “Thanks, by the way.”

Red hair jounced as she glanced at him. “For what?”

“For not killing me. For coming for us.” He looked at the trees above, branches from each side reaching to their companions opposite. Trees yearn for their friends, kept separated by our need to smuggle stolen cargo on an old road. “For not being more of an asshole than you have to be.”

She studied him. Green eyes cool like a quiet pond. Geneve didn’t look down her nose at him. “I should thank you.”

“You should,” he agreed. “For what?”

Meriwether sensed she almost laughed. The hint of a smile, the warming of her eyes, but only for a minute. “For the knife trick.” She looked away. “It’s a sin to use magic, but you saved my life, the lives of two Knights, and a Feybrind.”

“It won’t earn me clemency, will it?” Meriwether tasted the sourness of his words. “No, I get it. Sinning’s sinning, and that’s all there is to it.”

“You could try running,” Geneve suggested. He couldn’t tell if she was joking. The Knight was as hard to read as a stone. Never play cards with this one. “See if it works better this time than it did last time.”

“What will happen at the Feybrind village?” Meriwether kept his voice even, despite his nervousness about his future. 

Geneve looked away. “We’ll defeat the Vhemin.”

“Not that part. I’m talking about the most important thing in the world.” He jerked a thumb at his chest. “Me.”

She didn’t respond straight away, the trot of hooves doing the talking for a while. “If you can make a glowing dagger, why not a dragon? Scare people. Make them run.”

He watched her, watching him. “Because I can’t do living things. My fa… I knew someone who could, but he thought he could do anything. Felt the ancients were amateurs. Also, dragons aren’t real.”

“Sure they are. You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen one. How can you believe in stories of the ancients, but not their dragons?”

“Because I can’t imagine a dragon being owned by someone. That’s what they said, wasn’t it?” Meriwether shrugged. “Maybe if you spent your life on the run, you’d understand. Always fighting, or running. Two steps ahead of death in a three-step race.” He eyed her armor, taking in her sheathed blade. The strength of her. “Hmm. Maybe you get it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He sniffed, then twisted his back, trying to work out a kink. Troubles’ gait put it right back in. “I mean, you’re used to strength. What it can give you, and what it can take from others.”

“I’ve trained my entire life to be a Knight—”

He pushed out his palms in a calm the fuck down gesture. “I don’t mean anything personal by it. You worked for your strength. It wasn’t feely given. But it’s there all the same.” He looked to the trees for support. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t make a dragon.”

“Because it’s living?”

“That, but also because I haven’t seen one. Need to see it to make it.” He concentrated for a moment, remembering the knife she wore. How it looked, how it shaped the world around it. A bit of effort, and… done.Meriwether handed Geneve her glowing dagger.

She startled, checking her sheath where the dagger still lay. Eyes wary, she took the knife from him. “It feels heavy. Has weight.”

“It wouldn’t be a good illusion if it didn’t.” She pressed the edge against her skin, finding the glowing tip passing through her skin. “It’s not really there. You just … think it is.”

Geneve tossed the glowing dagger to the ground, eyes front again. “Then why not an Artifice? Surely you’ve seen one of those.”

“Too big.” Meriwether shook his head. “Also, I can’t make living things.”

“They weren’t living.”

“Apparently. But no one’s seen one move. How do I make that happen?” Meriwether gusted a sigh. “Sinning’s not as useful or as fun as it’s made out to be.”

He caught her snort, quickly tamped down. “So … you just make small, immovable objects? It seems a silly reason…” Her voice trailed off.

“Silly reason to what?”

“To die,” Geneve said.

They trotted beside each other in silence for a while. Best not brood on that. Meriwether handed her another knife. This one wasn’t glowing. “Here.”

She eyed it. “Why do I want another illusion?”

“It’s not an illusion.”

She glanced at her now-empty sheath, then glared. “How did you—”

“What you really want to be wondering is how you didn’t see me, not how I did it. We’re riding on horses, Geneve. I had to reach across, all while this vile beast,” he nudged a knee into an uncaring Troubles, “tried to toss me off. It’s a wonder the Feybrind didn’t see it.”

She snatched the knife from him, rammed it into her sheath, then looked at the Feybrind. Geneve grunted. “He says he saw it.”

“Then you want to ask why he didn’t say anything.”

“Probably because he thought it was funny. They’re like that. Also, they can’t make sound.”

Meriwether looked at Sight of Day, who nodded, golden eyes twinkling with mirth. “You’ve known a lot of cats?”

“They’re called Feybrind.” She shook her head. “Not many. A few. I just … don’t remember them.”

Meriwether heard a slight rasp in her voice, a tiny catch you’d miss if you weren’t listening for it. He wondered at it, that tiny hint of pain-meets-frustration, and kept his peace. Maybe, just maybe, there’d be time enough before he died to learn her truth.

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