Blade of Glass: Chapter 43

The world swayed, a gentle rolling insistence that kept her mind at peace. Geneve saw light, then dark, followed by more light. Her body hurt, but her soul felt at peace, like she’d given away the piece of herself she didn’t want or need. She didn’t remember her failure commanding the Storm, how she let Israel and Vertiline down, or why she traveled with a sinner. If she’d died in this state she’d have thought, it’s enough.

The gentle rolling led to discomfort. Light became heat, and the dark cold, until Geneve was reminded of having someplace to be, and something to do there. Her eyes were dry, and when she tried to rub them, her fingers found cloth. She pawed at her face and pulled away old, rough fabric that smelled of a beggar man who should be king.

Her eyes couldn’t make sense of what they saw. The hills should’ve been green but were rolling heaps of yellow sand. The horizon held the jagged teeth of mountains, but no dusting of snow. She looked at the cloth she’d pulled from her head. An old cloak, worn by time and misery, to be used a few times more before being cast aside. Her hands were well callused, but not covered in armor, which was wrong. They should be covered by gauntlets, holding steel against enemies of the Light.

Geneve swayed, but it wasn’t lightheadedness. There was a beast beneath her, a blue roan who pranced too much and didn’t take her seriously at all. Leading them was the beggar man. His skin should’ve been pale, but was burnt a bright red. The shawl he usually wore was in her hands. It protected her from the sun.

She turned, seeing a monster with snake eyes and lizard skin. He led a bear. Both were huge brutes. Geneve’s fingers twitched, wanting a blade, but the motion was loose and sloppy. No Storm would answer her call with such imperfection. He’s not a monster, but a man. I broke him on the sands because I was afraid.

Geneve turned the other way, finding a cat man with golden eyes. The cat watched her, a half-smile on his lips. When his hands moved, they were beautiful, making words in her mind. {Good morning. How’s the hangover?}

She scratched her head, sand cascading like an avalanche. “Sight of Day?”

The beggar man spun like he’d been stung. “Geneve!”

Her lips moved, trying to find a name. “Sinner?”

His face fell, and he nodded. “Aye.”

“Don’t be a huge dick,” the monster suggested. “He’s burnt lobster-red because he insisted on giving you the cloak. Least you could do is return a smile without the insults.”

She looked at the rags she held. “I don’t remember.”

“No, that’s because you were walking like the star-touched.” The monster scratched his armpit. “Not my business, Knight. I figured myself for the asshole here, is all.”

“Are you?” Geneve felt the rebuke, holding it close. He expects more of me. “I don’t remember a lot of things.”

The beggar man gave her a gentle smile, small and bright like a mountain flower. “Not really.”

Geneve slid from her horse. This is Tristan, and he’s carried me for two years without failing. She walked to the sinner. He eyed her, took a step back, then held his ground, chin up, as if daring her to … what? What was he afraid of? She halted a few steps from him. Geneve could see the burned skin, the cuts on his face where she’d marked him, and knew beneath his rags his body was scarred by others just as ungentle. The wind shifted, and she caught his scent. Not stale, despite the sand. Honest dirt and road grime, and something underneath that tickled her memory. She remembered his voice: You’re a long way from home.

She reached for his chin. He flinched, then held still, like a horse that had a bad master before finding a good one. His beard was strong, not the scrabbly wisps most his age got. “I know you.”

He took her hand in his, pushing it down. “Aye. We’ve shared the road.” She watched his lips move, remembering them next to her ear. We all are. But it’s okay.

“And he,” Geneve pointed without looking, “is a Vhemin. His name’s Armitage. The Feybrind is Sight of Day.”

The beggar man nodded. Nervous, wary, but hopeful. “That’s right.” It felt more than right. She remembered his arms about her as he said, I’ve got you. It felt like the sand beneath her shifted. He caught her as she stumbled, held her upright, and made sure she didn’t tumble to the ground. His hands on her arms reminded her of things she’d seen without understanding. Memory returned. The dead, walking. A dragon in the sky. A black-armored witch fighting her friends. Through it all, his voice by her ear. Geneve, it’s Meri.

“Meri?” At his nod, she grabbed him, pulling him close. Geneve rocked like she was afraid of the dark.

He held her, but after a moment let out a small urk. “Gently.”

She laughed, pulling away. “You’re … alive? But I saw you fall. The Three demanded us both.”

“It felt like it.” He left a trailing hand on her arm, and she felt the uncertainty of his touch. “I guess we didn’t taste good.”

Geneve felt awkward eyes on her and let Meri go. She turned to their companions. Sight of Day stood with a hand on the nose of his horse, Fidget. Armitage scratched Beck’s neck, horror teeth bared in a bright shark-toothed grin. She stepped away from Meri, eyes down. “What happened?”

“Two days,” Armitage said. “Two days we’ve dragged your carcass across this shitty desert, that’s what happened. The cat said we should toss you in a ditch, but I said keeping you around in case we got hungry was a better idea.” He winked, in case the joke wasn’t apparent.

Last time he tried a joke, I broke his arm. “Even the Three won’t take me.”

Sight of Day gave Armitage a little side-eye. {The Vhemin is confused by the heat. I said we should eat him. Lizard tastes good if cooked just right.}

Armitage roared his laughter. “Go fuck yourself.” But there wasn’t rancor in it, and it brought another memory to Geneve. These two are sworn enemies, but they travel with me. Sight of Day still needs my help, but Armitage already had it. Why is he still here?

She walked the three steps to the monster’s side. He stared down at her, all muscled bulk and unflinching stare. “Your people are gone.”

“That’s right. What of it?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” He sniffed, then spat. “That cunt Nicolette, though. She and I are gonna have words.”

Meri fussed in Tristan’s saddlebags, fetching a canteen and some dried meat. She felt hunger twist her stomach like a fist, and gnawed meat like a feral thing. The water was flat and tepid, and nothing had tasted so good. The beggar man who should’ve been king laughed, helping her with the canteen. “Easy, Red. Easy, I said. Don’t drink too fast. You’ll be sick.”

It didn’t slow her much. Once she’d eaten two handfuls of jerky, she took stock. Tristan, Fidget, and Beck were with them. Her sword, Requiem, hung from Tristan’s saddle, next to the loose loop of leather that was Tribunal’s holster. Her shield was gone, lost to time like her helmet, but the rest of her armor was lashed to her horse. She let her fingers trace the metal, feeling the smooth hardness of it. 

Armitage no longer had his club, but it didn’t seem to bother the monster. Sight of Day kept his bow and slender blade, and of the four, looked the least touched by the road, despite having seen one of the People’s villages destroyed.

A small sack she didn’t recognize hung beside her sword and scattergun, but it’d keep. “Where is Chesterfield? Troubles?”

Meri scratched his beard. “Gone.”

“Stolen?”

“I don’t think so.” He patted his shirt, then rummaged in a pocket, producing two small scraps of paper. They were folded, closed with a seal. “These were on Tristan’s saddle when we got back to our camp. Half the horse feed was gone, along with the two horses. These were left in return.”

She took the letters from him. One held her name in Israel’s powerful script: GENEVE. The other was labeled in Tilly’s flowing hand: Gen. Geneve ran her thumb under the seal of Israel’s note, and read.

We will lead the dead away, then catch up. Be safe.

—I.

No demands to surrender the sinner, or changing her path. No calling her out for crimes against the Light. She re-read the note, looking for hidden meaning, before handing it to Meri. “I don’t understand.”

He unfolded the letter. “Seems pretty clear to me.”

“He should be … angry.”

“He’s got bigger problems.” Meri counted on his fingers. “The dead walk. There’s a rogue Champion who commands them. Oh, and let’s not forget the dragon.”

Fair. Geneve opened Vertiline’s note.

Thank you for the food. We were dying. Something’s not right with the world. I miss you.

—Tilly.

She looked back at their trail in the sand behind them. Geneve put a hand on Tristan’s saddle, meaning to vault aboard and head back. Find her friends—now so close!—who threw themselves against danger for her again.

The wind kissed her face. She paused, head against the saddle. Tristan’s animal smell surrounded her. His tail swished, the bellows of his lungs working slow and easy. She was exhausted. Lack of food coupled with the Three sucking out a piece of her left her feeling … empty. Geneve didn’t have the strength to ride into battle. She doubted she had the strength to do much of anything. “They’re going to die.”

“I don’t think so.” Meri sounded tired. “I think if a dragon, five Knights, a Champion, and an army of the dead couldn’t kill your friends before, they’re not going to drop now. Also, Israel gave you an order. ‘Be safe.’”

“It wasn’t really an order.”

“Shame he’s not here to be more specific. C’mon.” Geneve felt his hand on her elbow. “Get back on the horse. We’re a day’s ride from the mountain pass. We might make it tonight.”

“And then what?” Her eyes found his. “What do we do?”

“We—”

“I tell you what we do,” Armitage rumbled. “We kill a deer and eat it, that’s what.”

Geneve let a small smile touch her lips. As plans went, it’d do for now.

* * *

She walked beside Meri, because her body craved exercise. “Two days?”

Sand passed, uncaring, while he chewed that over. “Yeah. You were gone for two days. We gave you water. Kept the heat off as best we could. I wasn’t… we weren’t sure if you were coming back.”

“Did it happen to you?” Geneve kept her eyes forward on the mountains. She knew they grew larger with each step, but if she watched them they seemed frozen. Geneve didn’t want to reach them, because when she did, she’d go back to being a Knight, and him a sinner. The world will demand its due.

“Not like that, but I got to talk to a dragon.” He dodged her lazy arm-punch. “I’m serious. I was walking stupid for a handful of minutes at best. The temple didn’t want much of me. It took more from you.”

“I don’t know what it needed.” Geneve scratched her head. She’d never get the sand out of her hair. “I feel it, but not like a loss. Like, a sharing.”

“That’s it. But, also, oversharing, like one of Armitage’s stories.”

Geneve chuckled. “What did the dragon say?”

“It didn’t say anything. It laughed at me.”

“I can understand that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She sighed. “What’s in the sack?” It looked about the size of a Vhemin’s head, but the bag wasn’t stained, so she didn’t feel like it hid grisly secrets.

“What? Oh, that.” He scampered to Tristan’s side, fiddling with the bindings until he freed the bag. He returned to her side, holding it out. “It’s a souvenir.”

“You took something from the temple?”

“From outside, really. But it’s not a Knight thing, and Armitage said the Vhemin don’t … just open it.”

She looked at the bag, then back to him, feeling inexplicably shy. “It’s for me?” At his nod, she opened the sack. Sunlight followed her fingers inside. She saw the glint of metal, felt its cool touch, and drew it out. Geneve held her prize: a helmet, but like nothing she’d seen before. Rather than have a single eye-slit cut in the metal like Tresward armor, this had a piece of black glass. It wasn’t heavy like metal and glass should be, as if one of the Three held a little bit of the weight for her. “It’s beautiful.” She held it to her chest. “I can’t keep it.”

“Sure you can.” He held up his hand to forestall her protest. “You’re going to say something like, ‘Meri, that’s a relic from an ancient temple. We need to give it to the Tresward for safekeeping.’ And normally, sure, I’d be on board. But, you need a helmet, and that’s the only one that doesn’t smell of barbecued asshole.”

“Hey,” Armitage growled. “Watch it. They weren’t my tribe, but they were my kind.”

“Also,” Meri continued like the monster were klicks distant, rather than in choking distance, “it’ll look good on you. Try it out.”

She bit her lip, then nodded. Geneve did need a helmet, and she could use this for a time. She shook out her hair, then peered inside. The padding in this helmet was still soft, made of a bizarre material that looked like cotton but yielded like a fat man’s paunch. She slipped it on, not sure what she’d be able to see with the black glass visor.

From within the helmet, the world looked much the same as before, but both sharper and less bright. Geneve turned a circle, feeling slightly foolish, but also curious. From within, the black glass didn’t seem dark at all. Things seemed clearer through it, like an artist drew outlines over the shapes of the world. She could breathe easily, unlike the stuffy draw of her old helm. “It’s wonderful.”

“Just as I thought.” Meri examined her with crossed arms, lips pursed critically. “You look amazing.”

She laughed, then removed the helmet and brushed back a wave of red hair. “Thank you.”

They walked on, and much to her chagrin, the mountains looked a little larger than before. Geneve wanted to push them away, but she wasn’t strong enough for that. Not even Israel could hold back the world.

* * *

They made the mountains just after nightfall. The Vhemin and Feybrind ranged ahead, their night sight better for the task. Armitage returned first. “There’s a fucked-up hut ahead. I reckon we should stay there tonight.”

“What kind of hut?” Meri looked at the cloudless sky. The Three were above, no longer in alignment, and sharing the heavens with the first twinkle of stars.

“Did I stutter? The fucked-up kind. I don’t know—looks like maybe an old outpost. Or a trading center, from when you runts thought you could cross the plague lands.” Armitage adjusted his pants. “Damn. I hope the cat gets a good-sized deer. I’m losing weight.”

The mountain pass was more of a scraggly ravine threading between two monster hills. Geneve knew they’d left the desert behind when she spied a thin wisp of green poking between two rocks. She bent, touching the stray frond of grass. “I never thought we’d see green again.”

“You’ll love the hut then.” Armitage stalked ahead. She stood, following. Tristan, trying to do his part, ate the single stalk before tagging along.

Fifty meters further on, shrubs struggled from the earth. Another fifty, and small trees raised boughs to the sky. Within another hundred they were in a sparse forest, and Geneve picked up the sound of running water head. She broke into a ragged run, Meri at her side.

They shouldered through the growth, arriving at the hut. A stream wound beside it, burbling its course before disappearing underground. The hut was ancient, its wooden walls bleached by sun and time alike. The windows were bare of glass, but still held shutters. A rack held a few stray sticks of firewood.

Armitage bulled his way inside, and after a moment returned. “Looks clear, I guess.”

“You guess?” Meri looked between Geneve and the monster. “That’s not very specific.”

“There’s a hive. I’ll be fine, but your skin’s weaker than a whore’s silks. It’s in the back room, so don’t go there.” He clicked his fingers, and Beck followed him in.

“Is he serious?” Meri looked aghast. “Bees.”

“Let’s make a fire,” Geneve suggested. “That won’t sting.”

He gave her a smile like they were free and went about setting up a meager camp. She joined him, working in companionable silence. Her body was sore and tired, but the stream was peaceful, and she had good companions at her back. Not Knights, but that didn’t make them lesser.

Greater, perhaps, if she was being honest. They faced the same dangers she did, but with their ordinary skills. Maybe it meant their hearts were extraordinary.

By the time Sight of Day returned with a steer over his shoulders, they had a blaze going, a pot of water boiling, and the three were seated by its light. The Feybrind and Armitage set to preparing the night’s feast.

Geneve looked at the sky, trying not to feel the Three’s stare. She had clean water and good food coming. The gods could wait, just this once, while she shared a meal with friends.

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