After Kytto gave her Requiem, he’d told her to get a good night’s sleep. Geneve had no intention of doing that. Sleep wouldn’t help her now. Wincuf was already completing his Trial, and if the monster didn’t need sleep, neither did she.
She snuck into the long hall of combat where the fight would take place tomorrow. Geneve knew she’d stand as Wincuf’s last fight. He’d have his eyes on her, working his way down the line of opponents with one thought.
Kill Geneve.
She knew he’d cut her down like a single blade of grass against the scythe. Geneve couldn’t use the Storm, and she was tiny. But Kytto taught her well over the years. How to fight with bare knuckles, or using a man’s weight against him. He’d said a weapon gave false confidence. Knights were full of it.
Geneve didn’t intend to let Wincuf close enough to grapple with him. That would be suicide. Knights of the Tresward were capable fighters without a blade. They trained in all weapons, because they must know what they fought against, and they trained with none, but perhaps not as viciously as Kytto did.
But she had a brain, and hopefully, a good one. Geneve hoped her heart was its equal. She scurried through the Tresward Novice barracks. She found Raja first. Her braids were unbound. “Raja!”
The young girl shot upright, hands in guard, then relaxed on seeing Geneve. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
“I need a favor.”
Raja thought about it. “I owe you, it’s true.”
“I’m not here to collect payment. That comes tomorrow.”
Raja slipped from her bunk, winding strong hands through her hair. Within moments, it was in a rude but functional braid. “Let’s go.”
Hettie was next. She slept in the same barracks, but ten bunks further in. Geneve padded to the bald girl’s side. “Hettie?”
“I heard. You’re here for a favor.” Hettie’s purple tattoos looked black in the half-light. “Are we raiding the kitchens?”
“The stables.”
“I’m in.”
The three snuck from the barracks, soundlessly moving down the passages. The Tresward didn’t train them for stealth, but children knew it as a life skill. Finding Barbet was harder, because he wasn’t in his bunk. Hettie smirked. “Kitchens.”
They hurried to the kitchens. Geneve felt no fear, only excitement. Tomorrow she’d be tested against Wincuf, and she’d find if Israel was right to have faith in her. If he was, Wincuf would fall.
If Israel was wrong, Geneve would die.
She should be scared, but excitement rode her like a Knight on a charger. Geneve’s bare feet slipped along smooth stone floors to the kitchens. They were empty, the huge hearth banked to coals to await the coming of dawn. There’d be fresh bread baked, good eggs and sausages, or porridge for those who wanted it. Jars of honey, preserved fruits, and other mysteries lined the shelves.
A chopping block, knife, crumbs, and a heel of bread marked Barbet’s intent. Geneve hissed, “Barbet!”
Silence.
Hettie grunted. “Barbet, we know you’re here.”
The broken-nosed lad stood from his cozy underneath a bench. He had a giant hunk of bread in one hand. “What?”
“It’s time to … collect,” said Raja. “Are you in?”
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