Blade of Glass: Chapter 34

“Meri!” Geneve stabbed her blade into the sand, dropping to a crouch before him. His hands were in front of his eyes, and blood leaked down his face. “Let me see.”

Sight of Day was beside them faster than thought. The Feybrind’s fur soft hands pushed Geneve away gently, but very firmly. He touched Meriwether’s face, trying to coax the young man’s hands from his eyes. Meriwether hunched away, a low, anguished moan coming from him. Sight of Day glanced at Geneve. {Keep him calm. Try not to hit him again.}

She watched him run into their shelter. “Meri? I’m sorry. I … it felt like I was being attacked.” She remembered the flow of the pattern, the weight of the blade in her hand, and the sun on her face. Geneve thought she was at peace for that timeless moment of effort, as step became purpose, and form became intent. She’d been in one of Cophine’s patterns when Armitage’s hand found her wrist, and Khiton took over. The god of endings snapped Armitage’s wrist like a brittle twig, then laid the monster’s immense body against the rough sands, out cold. Geneve hadn’t felt herself do it consciously. The patterns took over, as they were supposed to.

And now Meri was blind. He coughed snot and a little blood, but kept his hands firmly pressed to his face. “You weren’t.”

Geneve nodded, although Meriwether couldn’t see it. “If I could take it back—”

He gave a coarse, brittle laugh. “How’s the other guy?”

“Armitage?” She hunched, unconsciously mirroring the sorcerer. “He’s … out.”

Meriwether’s laugh took on a manic edge, the pain making it febrile. “You were blindfolded, surprised, and still managed to wreck a Vhemin and a sinner. I bet they don’t make them like you anymore.”

Geneve shook her head. She wanted to hide behind her hair, but that would be weak in the face of Meri’s pain. “That’s the problem. It’s all the Tresward does. Make more like me. There aren’t many of us. Only a few make it out, but we’re all the same.”

“Ah.” The sound was long, drawn out, and laced with the harsh grate of new agony. “Wonderful.”

Sight of Day came back carrying his medicine bag. {Translate for me.} The Feybrind’s golden eyes narrowed. {I’ll be very upset with you, Daughter of the Three, if I’ve spent the last week training this man to hand speak and he loses the use of his eyes.} She didn’t laugh at the Feybrind’s half-smile. {Ready?}

Geneve nodded. “I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?” Meriwether’s face quested in the direction of her voice.

Sight of Day handspoke, and Geneve translated. “Sight of Day is here. He says he needs to look at your eyes.” At Meriwether’s frantic head-shake, the Feybrind continued. “He thought you’d not like that, so he’s brought a narcotic.”

“The cat wants to drug me?” Meriwether didn’t sound averse to the idea.

{That’s not what I said. I said I wanted to knock him out.} The Feybrind’s teeth glinted. 

“Something like that.” Geneve ignored Sight of Day’s frown. “Are you ready?”

“No.” Meriwether sat back on his haunches.

“Okay. We’ll wait until you are.” Sight of Day ignored Geneve, rummaging through his pack. He retrieved a small stoppered jar, then gave Geneve a wink. “Meri?”

“Aye.”

“I’m sorry about this.”

“I know. I’m sorry about it too. Probably more, because I’m the one who can’t see.”

She winced. “Okay.”

Sight of Day balanced the jar on his knee. {Are you quite finished?} At her nod, he cracked the seal on the jar, then retrieved a small insect. It looked like a cicada, but without wings. He held the insect in one hand, and as the air flowed past it, its legs spasmed, then began to writhe as if it wanted freedom.

“What is that?” Geneve looked at the insect, then the unstoppered jar. “Are there more in there?”

“What’s what?” Meriwether’s voice took on a frantic note.

“Nothing,” she lied. “I thought I saw something.”

“Don’t lie to me, Red. I know when—”

Sight of Day pressed the insect to Meriwether’s neck. There was a click, then the young man stiffened, falling like a poleaxed steer. In a single fluid motion, the Feybrind crushed the insect between his fingers, then caught Meriwether as he slumped, laying the man’s head against the sand. {He’ll be out for a while.}

“What the hell was that?”

{What was what?} The Feybrind’s eyes glinted. 

“The … insect thing.” Geneve couldn’t stop her mouth running away with itself. She’d done a horrible thing, and it seemed her brain wanted to make up for it by filling the world with noise. “You put it on his neck.”

Sight of Day ignored her, examining Meriwether. The man’s face looked in poor condition. Blood leaked from eyes sightlessly staring at the sky.

“Will he be okay?”

{You are nervous like a child. Go tend the Vhemin.} It was as close to scolding as she’d heard from a Feybrind.

“Sight of Day, I … did this. To him.”

The Feybrind sank on his haunches, favoring her with a jaundiced golden stare. {Your Tresward would burn him to ash, and you’re worried about a little blood?} He flicked his fingers. {Shoo.}

Geneve went, moving to Armitage’s side. The monster was starfished on the ground like he’d been hit by a runaway cart. The arm Geneve broke lay twisted like a blade of grass. She bit her lip. What would Kytto have said? Looks bad, Gen. Try not to fuck it up worse. Geneve tried to remember her field aid training.

The monster breathed and hadn’t swallowed his tongue. There wasn’t any blood. The only obvious injury was his arm, and that needed setting before Armitage woke. She didn’t want to try it if he was conscious. Vhemin could take a lot of pain, but the arm looked … horrible.

Stop procrastinating. She set one hand against Armitage’s armpit, then grabbed his wrist with the other, and pulled. It felt like trying to straighten steel. Geneve sat, putting her boot into the monster’s side, then pulled his arm with both hands. She strained, and then like the clicking of a lock, his bones slid into place.

Geneve grunted, then stood. I’ve never healed a Vhemin before. Broke them plenty but setting them to rights is … different. Armitage’s break didn’t feel soft. It felt like all of him was made of steel, and the bone was just a slightly stronger temper of metal. It’d be worth bearing in mind: trying to out-muscle a Vhemin wouldn’t work.

She gathered wood from their supply, setting to work making him a splint. Not too tight. Not too loose, either. Geneve glanced at the sky, as if any of the Three were watching. “How tight is too tight on a Vhemin?”

No one answered her, but the desert whispered at her back. She scrubbed sand from her hair, put hands on hips, and decided to not walk to Meriwether’s side. When she found herself there, no one was more surprised than her. “How’s he doing?”

Sight of Day made a big show of sighing. {Do you really want to know?}

“Yes.”

{Figures.} The Feybrind counted on his fingers. {There was a good chunk of iron in his left eye, and two smaller in his right. If you were slightly better at murder, he’d have lost his right eye. It’s good you’re only an amateur.}

She laughed. It felt good, because Sight of Day helped her friend, and her friend was alive and would see again. Then she bit her lip, turning away, because she felt she’d encountered a problem with the world. She liked this sinner, and Knights didn’t befriend sinners.

“I’ll get a fire on,” Geneve said after a moment. She trudged away, her thoughts a cloak as she mentally tried to make a square peg fit into a round hole.

* * *

Geneve was by Armitage when he woke up. Unlike a human, he didn’t open bleary eyes and ask wussssup with a three-day-drunk slur. He sat upright like he’d been stung, snake-slitted pupils wide, looking everywhere at once. They found her, three paces away, sitting cross-legged on the sand by his bedroll. She watched him look around the shelter, only settling once they landed on Beck, who was behind him, snoring.

Apart from the horses, there was no one else inside. Geneve felt the conversation they were about to have needed privacy, and so Sight of Day kept a comatose Meriwether outside, tarps raised to keep the sun off him. The Feybrind fussed over the young man like he was a cub, and Geneve supposed he was. Feybrind lived for hundreds of years, and Meri was about her age. Eighteen, but with scars on his body telling a hard road traveled.

“You,” Armitage snapped.

“Me,” Geneve agreed.

“Go fuck yourself.” He made to rise.

Geneve held a hand out, making no move to stand. “We need to talk.”

“I said—”

“Yes, the fucking of myself. I understood that part. There’s a missing piece.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, hands clenched. “It’s the part where you don’t sneak up on a Knight.”

“Baby Knight.” He sneered, but there was a little fear around the eyes. She’d not seen it in a Vhemin before. They all seemed to be made of stone and anger.

Geneve kept her face impassive. “I’m only an Adept, it’s true. But I passed my Trials, and while I don’t call the Storm, I’m trained.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can piss gold, and—”

“Listen,” Geneve hissed. His eyes narrowed, but he held his peace. “I know twenty-one hundred patterns. For thirteen years I’ve trained.” She shook her head, running a hand through her hair. “I misspoke. The Tresward trained me for ten years. The last three I’ve traveled, doing as they asked.”

“All life’s a schoolyard.” The Vhemin wrinkled his nose. “Call it thirteen.”

“Generous of you.” Geneve straightened, gathering her thoughts. She needed to do this right. She wished she was like Israel, for whom this kind of thing seemed easy. “Cophine, Ikmae, and Khiton’s teachings show us how to win fights. One on one, or one on many. We know how to fight with one arm, blind, or deaf. The patterns show us the way.”

“I felt the fucken pattern. I felt it! It was like—”

“Listen!” Geneve slashed her hand through the air. “You did something you shouldn’t have. You tried to—”

“Have a little fun.”

“Call it what you like. But I also did something I shouldn’t have.” The Vhemin’s eyes widened in surprise. “I struck without knowing the attacker. I felt fear,” she touched her chest, “when your hand was on my wrist. The patterns responded, but they’re not supposed to be … in charge.” She touched her head. “This is. I hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

Armitage blinked twice, like he had a particularly gritty piece of sand in his eye. “Say what?”

“I hurt you, and I hurt Meri, and that was because I wasn’t in control.” She bowed her head. “Will you accept my apology?”

Geneve waited, head down. The monster grumbled, then sighed. “Yeah.” She looked up. “You can still go fuck yourself, though. That really hurt.” He flexed his arm, jostled the splint, then tore it off. “It’ll be fine. Probably. Good talk, though.” Armitage stood, stretched, and faced the exit of their shelter. “You said you hurt the runt?”

“I almost blinded him.”

“How’d it happen?”

“He tried to get between us.”

Armitage snorted a laugh. “You don’t get between two fighting dogs. That’s stupid.”

“And yet it’s what he did.”

Rubbing his chin, he glanced in her direction. “We talking about the same guy? Pretty smart most of the time, if I remember our previous talk. About so tall,” he jabbed a hand out at Meri’s head height, “and kinda follows you around like a lost puppy?”

“He doesn’t—”

“The kid’s got balls. I’ll give him that.” Armitage spun, holding a hand out to her. “C’mon. Let’s go fuck something up.”

She took his hand, letting his easy strength draw her upright. “Thanks.”

“Eh.” He looked away for a moment. “I guess I’m sorry too.”

“For what?”

“Sneaking up on you. Thought it might be a funny trick. Kind of like pulling a chair out from under someone as they’re about to sit down, ‘cept most people you do that to can’t break your arm and knock you out in three heartbeats.” He shrugged. “My people aren’t nice. But we’re trying to learn.”

“Your people, or you?” She looked up into the monster’s face.

Armitage considered. “You gotta start somewhere.”

* * *

They waited for Meriwether to wake. It took a while, and unlike Armitage he didn’t snap awake. He was all the way purebred human, which meant he slurred, head lolling, as he looked around. “Is desert still?”

Geneve felt a stab of guilt. His face was marked by cuts, with evidence of salve over the injuries. But his eyes worked, and he didn’t scream in agony. 

Sight of Day nodded. {I know you hoped for it all to be a bad dream.}

He looked past the Feybrind to Geneve. “You good?” 

Geneve laughed. “I’m … fine, Meri. Now you’re okay, that is.” She looked to Armitage. “The Vhemin says we should get on with it.”

Meriwether nodded, like all this was fine, then he slapped his neck, scrabbling to his feet. He tangled with the tarp, stumbling sideways. “Insect?”

Sight of Day gave a half-smile. {That was a nightmare. Nothing like that could exist in the world.}

“Nothing like what, cat?” Meri pawed his neck. “What did you put on me?”

The Feybrind stood, dusting himself off. {The patient seems well. I fear we’ve lost much time.}

“Time we didn’t have to lose,” Armitage agreed. “The temple’s not far. Let’s hustle.”

They broke camp. It let Meriwether come to his senses by degrees. Geneve didn’t know what the insect was, or why the Feybrind had them, but she admitted it was an effective anesthetic. The cat-people couldn’t use the Light to heal people like Clerics, so it made sense they had their own type of healing.

She shuddered, thinking of a swarm of the creatures scuttling over the ground toward her. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I don’t want one of those things biting me. There’s no room in the twenty-one hundred patterns for fighting a cloud of insects.

The thought made her pause. The patterns were sometimes ambiguous. The movements didn’t always make sense, and Tresward Knights spent their lives dedicated to the understanding of their purpose. Interpretations of the stanzas could mean use from horseback or on foot, armored or naked, running from foes or hunting them. A slight change of wrist posture turned a block into a strike. Israel said, You’ll know when you need to, but he’d sounded doubtful, like even he wanted to know what the real purpose behind all of them was.

Geneve shook her head to clear it. It didn’t matter. She’d lived by the patterns, and they’d saved her life countless times.

They set off north again, leading their mounts. The sand felt less forgiving today, or maybe that was her heart. The desert winds picked up. Hot, dry air swept grit against them. It seemed to get into every crevice. Her canteen seemed about eighty percent silty granules whenever she took a sip.

About two o’clock they stopped for a rest. Geneve noticed the horizon ahead was broken by a slender spire. She thought it a trick of the light, another heat shimmer. As they resumed their journey, her feet marking distance, the spire became more substantial. “What’s that?”

Armitage didn’t bother looking up. “Temple.”

“It’s … massive,” breathed Meriwether. “It must be a klick high.”

“It’s pretty big.” The monster shrugged. “Feels bigger on the inside, too. We’ll get there by nightfall.”

Pace by pace, meter by meter, they approached the temple of the ancients. The sun backed away as it usually did. The Three showed their faces before it’d finished setting. Geneve initially thought there was only Cophine’s pale light. “Where are the other moons?”

Meriwether looked up. “I’d bet they’re in alignment. Ikmae’s behind Cophine, and Khiton’s at rearguard.”

She nodded. “Tonight’s auspicious, then.”

“One word for it,” Armitage rumbled. “Deadly’s another.”

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