Blade of Glass: Chapter 29

Wincuf’s Trial was like any other: bloody.

All were different, except for two things. The Novice must fight fifty peers and must also destroy their tree. There were no rules within those two constraints.

Tradition said the Novice selected their foes. They would normally pick the biggest opponents to prove their worth to the Three. Wincuf chose forty-nine opponents before his last: Geneve. That was why she stood in ill-fitting armor along with forty-nine others, waiting to cut Wincuf down.

Wincuf didn’t have to beat them. He just had to survive. Get through them out the gates at the end, and then a clean run to his tree. That was the rule. It was the end of his Trial; two days passed with grueling physical tests. Geneve watched as he’d been kept without sleep. Waterboarded and beaten. If the Storm was within him, it would keep his body strong, his limbs straight, and he’d make it through.

Without the Storm, that would be a long, hard two days. Geneve didn’t think she’d ever do it.

All other Novices carried glass blades. Geneve held Kytto’s gift. It was a length of brilliant steel. He’d held it out to her, calling it star-fallen. A gift from the Three one night, cast from the heavens. Unsuitable for a god’s battles, but sufficient for a human’s. Kytto said he found the ore in a field when he was seven and brought it with him when called to the Tresward. They’d told him they didn’t need ore but had plenty of need for those with skill. He’d taken their oath to learn to forge it.

It was light, but held a keen edge. When she’d taken it, he’d whispered its name in her ear.

Requiem.

Geneve didn’t know what that meant, but wanted to learn. She wanted to beat Wincuf, or perhaps just survive today. She’d need more than a sword made of the Three’s cast-offs.

Israel said her mind was stronger than the Storm. So, today she’d use it.

She stood at the end of Wincuf’s opponents. Geneve could see the long line of them, clumped in pairs, threes, or even alone like her. She was the smallest. 

Geneve’s helm was too large, the poor fit meaning she couldn’t see well. The visor let her glimpse parts of the room, but it didn’t worry her. The Tresward trained them to fight without sight or sound, trusting in the patterns. Besides, if all went well, she wouldn’t need to raise her steel more than once.

A noise drew her gaze. Wincuf entered the hall. He worked his way down his opponents. Novices fell, blood spraying in the thug’s wake. He worked like a common butcher, hacking his opponents to pieces.

Clerics were on hand to stem the fall of life’s flow, but the Tresward weren’t gentle in their teachings. Novices could die here, either as the Trialist, or as their opponents. They needed only the strongest to be Knights.

Wincuf kept coming, unmarked by enemies. His armor gleamed, and his glass blade held a frosty glow of perfection. Geneve heard the Storm’s footprints as Wincuf fought. The chime of tiny bells, or the susurration of the sea. A crow burst into flight at the end of one mighty swing that cut the arm from his opponent.

It didn’t take him long to arrive before her. His glass dripped red. “You.”

She nodded. “It’s me.”

“I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing.” Geneve knew he couldn’t see her smile. “But you’ll try to pay anyway.”

“That’s not what I—”

“The lesson here is whether you’ll pay too much, or not enough. Behind me is your tree. You’ve tipped the scales.”

“It’s not against the rules.” Wincuf took off his helmet, smirking. He wanted all to see how he cut her down without the need for protection. Geneve, the little. Geneve, the weak. Geneve, without the Storm. Unworthy of the Three’s Light.

“There are no rules.” Geneve raised Requiem, the skymetal catching light.

“A pretty blade. I’ll take it when I’m done.” He flourished his blade. “Any last words?”

“It’s nice to have friends.”

His sneer tightened. “Die, then.”

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