Blade of Glass: Chapter 33

Meriwether chewed the inside of his lip. “Could you be more specific?”

“There’s not a lot of room for confusion, runt.” Armitage scratched an armpit. “You want food, we find someone who’s got it and punch it out of them.”

“I got that part,” Meriwether said. They trudged along the sand. The sun’s hammer beat the cold right out of him. While the brutal frigid night left him aching, the blasting heat of day wasn’t much of an improvement. “The missing piece of the puzzle is where we might find people.”

Geneve walked to his left, eyes downcast. “The horses need grain. We need water.” It was like she wasn’t listening to the conversation. She had bags under her eyes so deep Meriwether thought they might be bruised. Sleep wasn’t good for anyone, it seems. Only Sight of Day appeared well-rested, which was surprising because the cat hadn’t slept at all.

Meriwether’s dreams were plagued by Knights who chased him to the edge of a cliff. Each time he jumped for freedom, the fall woke him before he hit the ground. Armitage hadn’t offered a clue on his dreams, only saying the ancient’s places sometimes brought bad sleep.

“This is what some people call a desert,” the monster said, dragging Meriwether from his reverie. “I know it might seem confusing to those who’ve not stepped on the sands, but nothing grows here. The ground is made entirely of sand. It doesn’t rain often, and when it does, people drown in it. The air’s poison in many places. No fucken bees, which means no flowers, which means no plants, and we’re back to having no grain.”

“Hah.” Meriwether scratched a little sand out of his hair. “Back to the people with all the grain.”

“Right. If we keep going this way,” Armitage waved to the north, “we’ll get to the temple. The place we’re all going anyway.”

“There are people there?”

“You might say that.” Vertically slitted snake eyes found Meriwether’s. “I guess I left some alive when I was last there.”

“An encampment?” Geneve looked up, eyes unfocused.

“I hope not. Be a huge pain in the ass if we need to shuck ‘em out of their shells. No, last I was there it was a small group. Couldn’t be more than twenty Vhemin.” Armitage rubbed his ear. “Maybe thirty. I was running at the time.”

“Thirty Vhemin is a lot. In my prime, I might have taken twenty on the blade, but today? No.” Armitage guffawed, so Meriwether tossed a grin at his feet before continuing. “Why do Vhemin have grain for the horses?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, there’s some feebs there too.” Armitage shrugged. “Only a couple, but they had horses. I don’t know how they got ‘em into the desert.”

Meriwether stepped around a skull baking in the heat. “Portals.”

“Powerful magic,” the brute mused. “Means one of the runts is a sorcerer.”

“Or Justiciar.” Geneve’s voice was a croak. Meriwether cast a concerned eye in her direction, but red hair fell over her face, making her expression unreadable.

“That, too. One of them was a woman. Wore armor like a Knight, but black.” Armitage shook his head. “Huge pain in the ass keeping painted armor looking right. Gets scratched all the time, unless you’re wearing it decoratively.”

Geneve looked up at that. “You’re sure?”

“I know what a woman looks like.”

“No, the black armor.” Geneve gritted her teeth.

Meriwether veered off his course next to Armitage and moved closer to her. “Black armor’s bad news?”

“I know a woman who wears black Smithsteel. Nicolette.” Geneve looked grim, lips pressed into a line.

“She sounds nice. Maybe we should talk to her.” Meriwether’s smile died on the vine. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

“If it’s Nicolette, she’s a Champion of the order. There is no standing against her.” Geneve looked away.

“A … Champion?” Armitage coughed, spitting sand. “That’s like your boss, right?”

“Champions head the militant side of the order. They command the Storm, but also rival Justiciars for mastery of Divine Sway. Israel couldn’t stand against Nicolette. Ten Israel’s couldn’t. If it’s her, then she could make us kill ourselves with our blades, or perhaps just stop living.” Geneve laughed, a brittle sound. “We’re in trouble.”

“We’re fucked, is what we are,” Armitage mused. “Still, not an entirely lost cause, and here’s why I think that. The temple’s closed. Sealed tighter than a nun’s—”

“We get it,” Meriwether said. “What’s your point?”

“We need a Knight to open it. If she’s a Knight, she’d have opened it already.” The beast grinned. “So, it probably isn’t Nicky. Praise to the Three, all of that.”

Meriwether thought the logic held well enough, if you trusted Armitage’s view that the temple needed a Knight to open it. “How do we get in?”

“I suggest a tactic called, ‘divide and conquer.’ You and the cat get the grain. You’re small, and wily, and likely to get in tight places. The cat’s basically invisible. Me and the Knight go inside.” Armitage beamed, the horrible shark teeth showing. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“What’s inside?”

“Stuff.”

“That sounds elusive.”

“It’s meant to be. Our deal holds. You get the door open, and we get to the capital in record time. That’s all you need to know.” The monster looked away, as if ashamed of something. “Just, if I start running, you run too.”

“Gee, thanks.” Meriwether frowned at the heat shimmer that was north. Pretty much everything hides like that in this featureless wasteland. “When will we get there?”

“Tomorrow, maybe. Or the day after.” Armitage shrugged. “You can’t miss it. Trust me on that.”

* * *

They camped the night at another sealed door of the ancients. Meriwether wondered what they’d held close in the days of old. The smooth, white door material was unmarked by time. His dagger couldn’t chip it, and no matter how carefully he felt around the seams, he couldn’t find a lock to tickle. The thing was closed tight.

This entrance had a previous campfire and a small pile of wood, stacked beside two barrels. One barrel was empty, cracked wood spilling its contents long ago, but the other held brackish water. Meriwether whooped on finding it. The horses would get a decent drink. The party could have blissful treats like hot tea. Armitage said the supplies were probably from a long-dead tribe and suggested boiling the water.

Meriwether bustled about making camp. The horses didn’t look happy with their wartime-ration equivalent of grain. Chesterfield in particular looked sour at his share but slurped his water greedily enough.

Sight of Day stood watching the night, back to the cave and campfire. Armitage huddled next to the flames as if trying to get all the heat. Geneve sat apart, head bowed, red trusses guarding her features. 

Meriwether set a stew of dust hopper to cook, then made his way to Sight of Day’s side. “You okay?”

{I’m amazing.} The Feybrind stared at the stars. {These are the same skies the ancients saw. They’re not much different today than eight hundred years ago.}

“I think I got all that.” Meriwether worried at his fledgling beard. Learning handspeak is coming along nicely. He’d had nothing to occupy this time for two days, and the cat said he’d moved past talking like a baby and into talking like a toddler. “The ground’s a lot different, though. And they didn’t have three moons.” He pointed to Cophine’s pale orb next to Ikmae’s gray one. After a bit of hunting, he found Khiton’s shadowed sphere. “Say. The moons look like they’re coming into alignment.”

{They do that.} Sight of Day sighed. He almost seemed contented, as if they could be having this conversation over fine wine, rather than in a desert that wanted to eat them, leaving no trace. {In a day, perhaps two.}

“You sound like you spend a lot of time watching the stars.”

{They watch us. It seems only fair.} The Feybrind gave him a half-smile. {Please don’t die tomorrow. I quite like you.}

“Uh, thanks. I like you too. I’m making no promises, though. If we find the temple—”

{We will find it. Can’t you feel it?}

“If we find the temple, there’s thirty Vhemin and a couple of maybe-Knights who stand guard. You and I get to be outside, where it’s dangerous.” Meriwether scuffed the ground. “Of course, even if we don’t find the temple tomorrow, I might still die. This desert sucks.”

{The good news is all the violence will be directed toward them.} The cat flicked an ear back at their companions. {We have it easy.}

Meriwether glanced inside. Armitage still hunkered by the fire, and Geneve still brooded by the wall. “Would you excuse me?”

The Feybrind caught his arm. {She is doing an impossible thing each minute, Trickster. Be gentle with her.}

Meriwether put his hand over the Feybrind’s, then tried his own halting handspeak. {Impossible things are easier when you…} He frowned. “How do you say, ‘delegate?’”

Sight of Day half-smiled, golden eyes glinting. {I like you more each minute. Try not to undo all that goodwill in the next five.}

Meriwether left him by the entrance. He didn’t go to Geneve, instead charting a course for her bags. She didn’t look up, but Armitage did. “What are you doing, runt?”

“It’s a surprise.” He rummaged through saddlebags. There was tea, wrapped in paper. A small box held sugar cubes, and his light fingers put those in his pocket. At the bottom—always the last place you look—he found what he was after. 

“What kind of surprise?”

“The kind that will surprise you.” Meriwether walked to the horses. He fished out a sugar cube, offering it to Chesterfield. The black charger’s lips tickled his palm as the brute inhaled the treat. Meriwether offered another to Troubles, dodged her bite, and then let her nuzzle his palm. “Thing is, we’re adrift.”

“We’re in the fucking desert. No water to be adrift on.”

“Figuratively. Nothing’s the way it used to be.” He gave a sugar cube to Tristan. “Ten days ago, we all lived different lives. Sight of Day lived on the land. Geneve had an order. You had a tribe.”

“And you?” Armitage squinted.

“I was free.” Meriwether looked into the distance, remembering. It seemed a long time ago. “I don’t know if I was happy, though.”

He bent, offering a sugar cube to Beck. Armitage growled, “Don’t feed him that shit. It’s bad for his teeth.”

Meriwether ignored him. The bear took the cube, gentle as you pleased, then dropped to the ground with a contented chuff. “The point is, sometimes you need to remember where you came from. These places haunt our sleep. And I’ve got just the remedy.” He fished out a smile.

Geneve looked up. “What kind of remedy?”

“Not the kind I’m looking forward to, but it’s a tonic all the same.” He walked to crouch before her. “What is the thing you wish for in all the world?”

“This feels like a trick question.”

“That’s because it is.” Meriwether drew out the package he’d got from the saddlebags. It was the pack of Destiny’s Supplicant. “You haven’t played this since that first night.”

“What’s Destiny’s Supplicant?” Armitage sounded suspicious.

Meriwether stood, hand out to Geneve. She took it, coming to her feet beside him. “It’s a training system the Knights use.” He felt his smile turn wry. “They sometimes call it Three’s Bastard.”

“A card game? Is that all?” The monster stood anyway. “How’s it work?”

* * *

Innocent questions don’t always have innocent answers.

All of them played Three’s Bastard. Armitage drew the Might card. It was tug-o-war with each other, and to make it fairer, Geneve, Meriwether, and Sight of Day took one end, with the monster on the other. It was a struggle to keep the rope steady, and eventually Armitage pulled them out into the night, dragging the other three through the sand. The monster beamed, bright and happy at his victory, the shark teeth seeming somehow joyful rather than frightening.

Sight of Day selected for Speed. The drawn card commanded they catch arrows. Geneve prepared a wad for the end of a barbless shaft so they wouldn’t die on a hit. The cat caught arrows without breaking a sweat. Armitage for all his blazing sprint speed couldn’t snatch the shaft from the air, getting hit again, but laughing his great, roaring guffaw. Geneve not only caught the arrow but did it without looking. She said she heard the hiss, and asked Meriwether if he couldn’t do the same.

It turned out he could not. Meriwether ended up with more than a few bruises from arrow shafts, but it wasn’t the worst thing that happened to him in his life. The pain was minimal, and it made Armitage and Geneve laugh. Sight of Day gave a slight bow at his failures, lowering the bow. {Sorry, friend Trickster.}

Agility was Meriwether’s pick. The card commanded they walk on their hands. He managed it with a little swearing; he’d hoped for a sleight of hand thing, but it seemed Knights didn’t go in for that. Sight of Day aced it, and even Armitage lumbered along on his hands for three or four ‘strides’ before toppling. Geneve, as expected, managed the Bastard without concern. And by the Three, she did it blindfolded.

The time for Endurance came, and Geneve drew the card. The smile on her face dimmed a little as she placed the card on the ground. It was Prisoner’s Punishment, and she said it was always drawn by Israel. Sight of Day did notenjoy the exercise, and even Armitage said he was ready to puke my guts out at the end.

Flexibility came last. Simple splits, nothing too hard, but Armitage swore it was a special kind of bullshit as he struggled to bend.

They spent a half hour sweating in the cooling night. The fire flicked bright, urgent fingers toward the watercolor sky, and they enjoyed a hot meal afterward. It let them ignore the eclectic makeup of their party: a cat, a monster, and a woman sworn to hunt the man.

It’s enough. Enough to let us sleep and be dreamless. Meriwether hurt more than usual, because he wasn’t built for this kind of thing, but it was worth it. The price was well paid and bought him something mere coin couldn’t get: Geneve’s slight smile, and a sparkle in her eyes.

* * *

Breaking camp went about as expected, right up to the point Armitage came too close to Geneve. It started innocently enough.

Geneve walked past Meriwether toward the shelter’s entrance. She had her sword in hand. “I’m going to practice before it gets too hot.”

“Sure.” He nodded. “Do you need any—”

“You gave me a gift last night, friend Meri.” Geneve ran a hand through sand-dirty red hair. “You reminded me of who I am. Today I’ll practice, so I don’t forget again.” She strode out the cavern’s mouth. Meriwether watched her go. He’d forgotten what he was doing and found himself with a pan and cloth in each hand and no good idea what to do with either. 

She is marvelous. In another life, I could let myself get close to someone like that. In this life, it’s a fire that’ll burn the flesh from my bones. He went back to pretending to do whatever it was a man did with a cloth and pan.

“Not going to train with her?” Armitage’s rumble stole his attention again.

“I don’t like getting hurt that much.” Meriwether watched Geneve tie a blindfold on, then go to work swinging her sword. The steel glinted in the dawn, and he could hear the hiss as it stroked the air.

“Always gonna be a runt,” the monster offered.

{Remember, he’s the smart one.} Sight of Day smirked from where he tended the horses. 

“Sure.” Armitage lumbered outside, but on soft feet. Perhaps he meant to startle Geneve, as a teasing friend might. Innocent, and harmless. But he was a monster, and she was a guardian of the Light, and Meriwether saw what was coming about two heartbeats too late.

Armitage waited for her to finish her set, then tiptoed in. Meriwether sprang up, hand out, but it was a long way away. He still held the damn pan, definitely no idea what to do with it now. If he’d really been smart, he’d have called out, but no, he set boot to ground and tried to run between two people who excelled at murder.

He made it half-way by the time Armitage got his hand on Geneve’s wrist, another on her shoulder. Blindfolded as she was, it’d be reasonable for a person to step back, startled.

Knights weren’t reasonable. Geneve stepped into Armitage’s reach, dropping into a sweeping crouch. The monster’s feet and head exchanged altitudes, and he slammed onto the sandy ground with the force of a cartful of falling anvils. Geneve continued the motion, hand locked onto Armitage’s wrist.

By the time Meriwether got there, she’d spun, the harsh crack of breaking bone carrying on the wind. She swung her blade, that silver-bright edge arcing up and around, other hand sweeping the blindfold free. Meriwether didn’t know if he’d seen the direction of the strike or tripped—even in hindsight, he wasn’t sure—but he slid on his knees, pot held above his head, to arrive between the Knight and Armitage. “Geneve!”

She tried to pull the blow. The blade rang like a litany of sin, the pan blasting to fragments. Meriwether felt the force of the strike travel down his arms. Pieces of pan rained on his face, and he screamed as they cut him. 

He kept his hands up, but there was blood in his eyes. At least that’s what he hoped, because his face was alive with agony, and he couldn’t see. Please let it be blood, he thought. Please let it just be blood.

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