Blade of Glass: Chapter 18.5

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, and heat their rocks. They can run fast, but they’re still behind us.” Meriwether put a little pleading in his tone. “Also, it’s cold. A fire would help us, too.”

Sight of Day slid from his horse, making exactly zero noise despite harness and saddle. The cat moved like a solid shadow, disturbing nothing. His handspeak in Geneve’s general direction was sharp, the meaning clear. We should stop, imbecile.

Geneve gave a reluctant nod. “A few hours. Enough time for a meal, and to gather our strength.” She clattered from her horse, who for his part pranced a little in relief. Meriwether empathized; there’s no way he’d want to carry a Knight, armor or no.

They went about the tasks of building a small camp. Meriwether dug a pit for a fire while Sight of Day headed into the trees, bow in hand. Geneve crouched by fledgling flames, amber-honey skin kissed by the warm light. Meriwether held his distance, watching her. The tension in her shoulders, the way her gauntleted hands held each other, and how her eyes held the firelight. She shoulders the concerns of a whole Tresward. In other circumstances, Meriwether would have taken the few steps to draw closer, crouched beside her, and asked her what her cares were.

But he knew them. They were get the sinner to his funeral, and perhaps, find Israel and Vertiline to help me burn the evil from his flesh. He found it hard to care about those things.

Vertiline took hits for you. That’s a thing you’ve not seen before. Meriwether didn’t want to unpick his feelings about that, because he was pretty sure inside that box of confusion were uncomfortable truths. Truths like I owe a Knight my life, if only for a different death, and she took a beating, despite the likelihood of my death, so I’d be unharmed. Vertiline did her duty, but Meriwether sensed it was something more. Maybe Vertiline didn’t like killing sinners. Maybe they weren’t all constructed of hardened steel, unflinching and unfeeling.

Maybe I should stop being an asshole. “I’m going to regret this.”

Geneve jerked, hands unclasping, head whipping toward him. “What?”

Meriwether did the best saunter he could, which was in his view a pretty poor example. A day’s riding left him feeling hammered like an unlucky anvil. Crouching beside Geneve, the movement the slow, rickety one of an elderly man, he fished around for a smile. “Copper baron for your thoughts?”

Her eyes searched his face. He could see her wondering what to say, or perhaps whether she could talk about it at all. “I…” The one word robbed her of speech.

“I get it.” He handed her knife back to her. She started, then checked her empty scabbard. “You dropped this.”

She laughed, then closed her armored fingers around his hand, pushing the knife back. “Keep it.”

He shrugged as best a weary traveler could, then tucked the blade away. “Not afraid I’ll kill you in your sleep?”

“Not at all.” She turned back to the fire. “I think the Tresward owes you a knife, anyway. Israel took your last blade.”

“Easy come, easy go.” This close to Geneve, he could smell the flat metallic scent of oiled armor. It mingled with the dry smell of the road, the dust that clung to him but avoided her. Deeper still he could smell her, not sweat or candied oils like a lady of court, but earthly. Solid. Honest, in a way I’ll never be. The fire crackled its hunger, so he fed it another branch. The wood settled, sparks rising on a tide of heat toward the heavens. “It’ll be okay.”

He felt her tense and turned to watch her rise. Her jaw was set in a hard line. “You want to cozy up to me? Make me let my guard down?”

Meriwether looked away. He didn’t have the strength for this after a day’s saddle-hammering. “I just don’t want to fight, is all. Been doing it most of my life. Wasn’t built for it though. Not armored, no blade of glass in my hand, let alone one of metal. Tomorrow brings the cat village. Help, if we want it, and decisions we don’t need. Tonight, it’s just us. The trail, and these trees. They don’t talk much, and I hoped you might.”

“That so?”

He nodded. “Aye. Also, I want to know how your armor is so clean after riding all day.”

No laugh this time, but she crouched back down. He studied the line of her face where cheek met jaw. It didn’t hurt to look at her there. It was just a part of someone’s face. Impassive, without accusation, unlike the green agate of her eyes. “Why do you think?”

“Because you rode at the front and left me at the rear with the cat.”

“The Feybrind’s not dirty.”

“Cat’s an asshole,” suggested Meriwether. “Talks about me behind my back.”

He earned a snort for his troubles. “It’s the Light of the Three. While we hold true to our purpose, Knights are … I guess you would call it protected.”

“What would you call it?”

She tugged the clasps on a gauntlet, then tossed the steel to the ground beside her. Geneve clenched and unclenched her fingers a few times, then ran her hand through tousled red hair. “Burdened.” She held her still-gauntleted palm toward him, stilling his objection. “Not all who are burdened are unwilling, sinner.”

“You’ll need to unpick that for me.”

“We can’t get sick. No disease touches us. We don’t bend with old age until the very end.”

“But you can be poisoned.”

She offered him a wry smile. “We’re not immortal. A blade can bleed us back to the earth. Fire burns. We can drown. And,” she glanced at the fire, “the angel’s kiss makes us sleep.”

“Seems a shitty kind of Light.”

Geneve shook her head. “The Tresward trains us for the rest. Part of us is the Three’s gift of Light. The rest is up to us. And I let us down.”

Meriwether sensed the trap ahead and attempted to drag the conversational reins. “You want me to say, ‘Oh no, Geneve, it was I.’” He raised an eyebrow, and at her nod, shook his head. “You fuckers tried to put me in a cage.” It was his turn to hold his palm out. Hold up. “If it makes you feel better, though, it was kind of me.”

“Kind of?”

“When I put the angel’s kiss in your tea, I made the torn fragments look like the tea you already had.”

She nodded, a grudging respect in it. “But you wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t in the cage.”

“Sounds like an admission.”

Geneve shook her head. “It’s just the way it was. The Tresward teaches us to see the truth. Speak it, even when the words are heavy.”

He wanted to spit. The Tresward teaches you to slay the innocent. The words were on his lips, a moment from leaping forward and burning their growing whatever-this-relationship-is to the waterline. He held his peace. Counted to ten. She waited, eyes back on the fire. “What if it didn’t?”

A raised eyebrow. “The Light’s a lie?”

Meriwether shook his head. “The Light’s not a lie. I saw Israel carve a bunch of Vhemin into cubes with a butter knife. That’s a … gift from someone.”

“The Sacred Storm.” Her voice was a whisper. “I can’t … not all of us command the Storm.”

He waved a hand, dismissing her comment because he sensed more emotional baggage down that path than he was equipped to carry. “Not my point. What if there was a bad person making good people do bad things?”

“Then the Light would leave us.” She shrugged. “The Light is from the Three, not from people.”

“But you haven’t always hunted sinners.” He stood. “Where’s the damn cat?”

“Hunting. Don’t change the subject.” Geneve rose too, freeing her other gauntleted hand. Shining Smithsteel fell to the ground. It didn’t gather a speck of dirt. “We’ve hunted for as long as I’ve been at the Tresward.”

Meriwether pursed his lips. She’s eighteen, tops. My age but hasn’t traveled the same klicks. “A long time, then?”

“We’ve records. It’s been over a hundred years.”

“Not hundreds, but a hundred? Singular?” Meriwether looked to the sky. Above him, trees canopied the sky, but he knew the three moons waited up there. Pale Cophine. Ash-gray Ikmae. And dark, shadowy Khiton. The Three watched the world, marking time from the heavens.

“Even a singular hundred is a long time.” She released her breastplate with a sigh of contentment. The steel clanked as it hit the ground. Her under-armor padding was worn but also free of road grime, if a little sweat-stained. Geneve’s red hair framed her light amber face. “Where is Sight of Day?”

“Hunting,” said Meriwether. “Don’t change the subject.” But he said it with a smile. Partly because Geneve didn’t look at him like he was evil made flesh. Her eyes now held a trace of pity, and a kernel of understanding. But also because a hundred years wasn’t that long, all things considered. It wasn’t entrenched in the Tresward’s of the faith—more like a policy decision. And something like that he might be able to work with. “Get some rest.”

“I don’t need rest.” She sat with her back to a tree anyway, removing her greaves and boots, stretching socked feet toward the fire. Meriwether stood apart, back to another tree, watching. The crackle of flames kept him company while he waited for Geneve’s eyes to close.

* * *

Sight of Day returned a half hour later. He carried three birds, fat and plump, and quite dead. The Feybrind looked at Meriwether and his vigil by the tree, then to Geneve, out like a three-days-dead campfire.

“Relax.” Meriwether kept his voice low. “She’s tired, not drugged.” He fashioned a wry smile, heart only half in it. “I couldn’t find any more angel’s kiss.”

The Feybrind watched him for a moment, those golden eyes unblinking. Then his lips curled into a half-smile, a little glint of teeth showing. He pointed to Geneve, then placed a palm over his chest, giving a slight bow.

“I’ve no idea what you’re saying,” Meriwether admitted. “It’s like watching Tebrani merchants haggle. You don’t know whether they’re buying coffee, selling slaves, or arguing whether the weather’s going to be bad in the afternoon.”

Sight of Day shrugged, as if people not understanding him was just the way of the world. He settled beside the fire and set to work on feathering the birds. Meriwether set a pan above the flames, pleased there was a little bacon left in a saddlebag. Bacon was above his usual means, and he thanked the Tresward they believed in treating their prisoners so well right up to the point they became human sacrifices or whatever happened at the end of Judgment.

Flames licked and crackled. Sight of Day removed Meriwether’s pan from the fire, shaking his head like one might when teaching a small child something very simple, and set one of his birds to roast on a spit. The act of turning it every so often wouldn’t take a lot of mental energy, and the cat looked to have things under control anyway. It left Meriwether time to reflect.

The smart money would’ve been to run. Once she was asleep, head for the trees, and freedom. Silver regals to copper barons said it wasn’t just the clever thing to do, but the necessary one. What a survivor might do. And yet here he was, roasting pheasant with a cat while a murderer slept beside him.

It’s been a difficult day. Part of the problem was if Meriwether ran, he was pretty sure the Vhemin would find him, and they might eat him, but not all at once. He glanced at Geneve. It could be they want a two-for-one deal now. I doubt Vhemin care if their prey come in Smithsteel or linens. Possibly they’d eat the cat too; the scaled monsters of the world didn’t hold covenant with the furred. So, sticking together made the monster’s jobs easier from a tracking perspective, but also upped their odds of surviving an attack.

The fire sparked, and he jumped. Sight of Day half-smiled and went back to turning the bird. “You can’t speak, right?” The golden eyes found his, and the Feybrind shook his head. “That’s got to suck.” A shrug and what could only be called a smirk. “Oh, you don’t want to speak?”

Vigorous nodding. Sight of Day tapped a finger to his pointed ear. The meaning was clear. You’re noisy.

“I guess,” Meriwether agreed. “We’re loud, and don’t look where we’re going.” He cast a glance at the Feybrind. “I’m sorry humans are such assholes.” Sight of Day nodded, then put a hand under a palm, finger outstretched, and swept it away. He raised an eyebrow, making it a question. “I still don’t know what you’re saying, but if you’re asking if I’m going to run…”

Meriwether glanced at Geneve again. Asleep, she looked like anyone else. Not a Knight of the Tresward, encased in steel and burning with desire to run him through. Vulnerable, like any of the Three’s children. “No. Not tonight.” He considered. “I’ll save that for tomorrow. Once we’re free and clear of the Vhemin.”

Sight of Day went back to tending their dinner. They didn’t speak for a while longer as the bird roasted. The smell was divine. The Feybrind swapped the cooked bird for another. Meriwether reached for the pan, and after a moment’s hesitation, Sight of Day nodded.

“I could run. Tonight, I mean.” Meriwether looked to the trees for help. “I should. Head for the road. Find a guard. Reach a settlement.” He sighed. “She’s right, you know. The Vhemin would come. There were a lot of them, and they didn’t look ready to pack up for home.” I could take warning to others. Save people. Whole villages. Get word to Queen Morgan, somehow. His lips twisted in a sneer. “But the queen won’t listen to the likes of me.”

Sight of Day shrugged, like he understood what Meriwether had both said and left unsaid. The cat seemed patient and was a very good listener. Meriwether pursed his lips. This one-sided conversation doesn’t seem right. He sat up. “Teach me.”

The Feybrind’s golden eyes narrowed. He rotated his palms in the air facing each other, then drew a triangle with them.

Meriwether watched for a moment. “If that’s ‘the People’s handspeak,’ then yes. Teach me.” He shrugged. “I know, it probably seems a waste of time. I’ll be dead in days after a trial, and I’ll be one more short-lived human you didn’t know very well.”

Sight of Day watched him over the flames. Something close to sadness crept into his golden eyes. He touched his chest, clapped his hands softly, and pressed his knuckles together. Then he watched, waiting.

Meriwether nodded. “I get it. You’re pleased about something.” He pondered. “About me?” An encouraging nod. “You’re pleased to meet me?” At the Feybrind’s next nod, he laughed. “Me too, friend.”

* * *

The less said about the morning, the better. Geneve was furious they’d let her sleep, more furious she’d missed a hot meal, but somewhat mollified they’d saved an entire pheasant and some bacon for her. They hit the road before the world had risen. A fake half-light seeped through the trees. The camp was cool, embers in their fire pit doing almost nothing to keep their bones warm this far south.

Breaking camp took little time, and then it was back in the saddle, an ornery Troubles beneath Meriwether’s aching buttocks. A couple hours into the day, as true light stole among them to turn the leaves green, Sight of Day pointed off the trail. His meaning was clear. That way. The cat dismounted, preparing to lead Troubles.

Geneve scowled. “Not on the trail?” She watched his handspeak for a moment. “He says the village isn’t fed by any roads.” She watched him speak, frowning. “Our roads are not badly designed!”

Meriwether hid a smile. “This one is.”

“That’s because it’s not a road. It’s a track used by criminals and vagrants.”

“Sounds about right,” Meriwether agreed. “Like us.”

She narrowed her eyes, but reserved comment, instead sliding from her horse and leading a slightly reluctant Tristan off the trail. Meriwether followed suit. Riding in dense trees would be madness. And while walking would be tiresome, it wouldn’t be sore, and he could use a little less of that.

They walked for an hour before Sight of Day stiffened. The Feybrind raised a hand up, fist clenched. Geneve and Meriwether halted. The wind shifted, tickling the foliage, and that’s when Meriwether smelled it: smoke.

Sight of Day broke into a run. The Feybrind was fast at a dead sprint. Geneve called, “Wait!” then powered after him. Meriwether stood among the horses, wondering what he was supposed to do. The black brute of a charger and the blue roan cantered after Geneve and Sight of Day, but Fidget and Troubles stayed with Meriwether.

“I’m really going to regret this.” Meriwether broke into a ragged jog, heading after Geneve. The smell of smoke grew, and he coughed a couple times as it drifted around him, gray fingers about his throat. The trees thinned, and within five minutes, swept back entirely. Ahead, a moat of grass surrounded a tree city. Tall redwoods rose a hundred meters above the forest floor. Nestled within their branches were treehouses connected by rope bridges spanning the sky.

All of it was on fire.

Meriwether stopped stock still, eyes wide. Above him, the Feybrind village burned. There were hundreds of trees and their attached houses. Hundreds of people. The forest beneath the redwoods was littered with sad, crumpled bodies. Golden, black, and red-furred people, some with bloody wounds, others charred and smoking from the flames.

Ahead, amid the flames, he saw brutish figures. Vhemin. They loped about, blades in hand, hunting for more to slaughter. The haze of heat shimmered the air. A falling branch trailed fire as a redwood above gave up its hundreds-years vigil, surrendering to the flames.

“No,” he croaked. “No!”

Meriwether broke from the tree line, running toward the Feybrind village. As he drew closer, he saw not all bodies were Feybrind. Among them lay the scattered bodies of many, many Vhemin. The monsters paid for what they cut down, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough for this tragedy.

He hunted among the flames and smoke for Geneve and Sight of Day. A flash of fire-reddened steel drew his eye.There. Meriwether staggered closer, coughing at the smoke trailing him like a sick gown. The cat and Knight were back to back, her blade out, wet and hungry, his bow in hand. Three Vhemin lay at Geneve’s feet. Her hair was wild, teeth barred. Ahead, hulking figures drew closer, walking from the smoke and flame like fire was a thing that could only harm lesser, weaker things.

A voice full of gravel and spite ground through the air. “We meet again.” Meriwether recognized the Vhemin High Prist from the cave before them. The monster grinned a horror story of shark teeth as he marked Meriwether. “And this time, I know your tricks. Seemings won’t save you.”

More Vhemin stalked from the trees. Meriwether saw tears marked Sight of Day’s cheeks. It could’ve been the smoke, but Meriwether thought not. It was the sight of hundreds of your family dead. Meriwether joined them, drawing his knife. The tiny blade felt inadequate for his future.

“Back, sinner.” Geneve coughed. He thought for a moment she was concerned about his blade, and wanted to say, I’m here to help. But she didn’t look to him or the knife he carried. “Run.”

“Don’t be so stupid.” He ignored her sharp look, putting a hand on Sight of Day’s arm. “Do you trust me?” The Feybrind looked at him, really looked at him, as if weighing his body and soul. Then, a tentative nod. “Then trust me when I tell you, you can’t win this fight. Hear me. There will be vengeance, friend, but not like this. Not right now.”

Sight of Day glanced at the Vhemin, then gave a short nod. He spun, hand to the small of Geneve’s back. Her blade held steady in the grim light. She hissed, “I will not run!”

Meriwether moved in front of her, blocking her view of the Vhemin. Later, if he lived that long, Meriwether might wonder about putting his back to hungry monsters. Now, he needed her attention. “Your duty, Knight. Is it to see me to Trial, or to die here?”

Geneve glared at him, fury in her eyes. “Have you seen what they did?”

“I see. I feel.” Meriwether coughed. “One bow and blade will make no difference. We must run. All of us.”

He stood, waiting, his back to the enemy as they advanced. The trees held nothing but the crackling rumble of flames. Waiting for her answer felt like the wrong thing to do, but there was never a better time to be wrong.

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