Blade of Glass: Chapter 45

They set no guard. Exhausted as they were, they dropped off where they lay at the fireside. The night approached, cold and hard, waking Meriwether from a dream where he drowned in a sea made of doubts and fears. The night was alive with the sound of small insects singing for a mate, or whatever it was insects did at the border of a blasted desert wasteland. 

He got up, eyed the stars, and decided it was about two o’clock. Too early for tea, and too late to return to sleep. Meriwether pottered about the camp, trying to move quietly. He rescued a blanket from their packs before finding Geneve. She slept, head back, one arm over her face, the other cast out as if warding off demons. Meriwether lay the blanket over her, then thought about going for a walk. Armitage lay like a dead thing on the other side of the fire pit, hugging his hot rock. Beck lay at his back. Sight of Day was harder to spot, but Meriwether eventually spied him atop the hut, curled up, tail across his nose.

Any direction was as good as another, so he set off east. The stream burbled behind him, water doing what water did, but the scrubland-meets-forest the old hut hid in was … different. The trees didn’t smell like he was used to, and he didn’t recognize many of them. His feet led him to the edge of a short cliff, beneath which was a rocky scree.

“Not wise to wander off,” Armitage growled behind him.

Meriwether gave a short scream, almost slipping into the ravine. “Khiton’s beard! You scared the shit out of me.”

“Eh.” The monster ambled from the tree line. He seemed thoughtful, eyes hooded, but it could have been a trick of the light. Cophine’s pale face watched from above, with Ikmae and Khiton shadowing her watch. “You’ve seen plenty things worse than me, runt. You put your hand on a dragon and didn’t fill your pants.”

“That was different.” Meriwether tossed a stone into the ravine. It clattered a path down the slope. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Hard to sleep when there’s an elephant tromping around the camp.” Armitage scratched his head.

“Sorry.”

The monster sighed. “No, it’s me who’s sorry. You’re right, I was awake. I was … thinking.”

“Sounds tricky.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Smooth.” Meriwether offered Armitage a stone, and the monster tossed it into the ravine, as if rocks were the new currency of thought. “Anything in particular on your mind?”

“We’re going to a human kingdom.” The creature selected a new stone, tossing it farther than the last. “My kind aren’t welcome there.”

“That’s not it.” Meriwether shook his head. “Your kind aren’t welcome anywhere, friend. No, don’t interrupt. You’ve raided from the top of the world to the bottom and back again. Not you specifically, but people who look like you.”

“True enough,” admitted the monster.

“Problem as I see it is, you’re lacking your people. Your family died in a temple made by ancient humans like me, sacrificed to three gods you’ve got no time or patience for. You’ve no hearth to call your own, and that’s hard for any man.” Meriwether fetched another stone. It was smooth, a vein of quartz running through the surface like frozen lightning. He tossed it after the others, listening to the click-clack-click as it fell into the dark.

“That’s not it,” Armitage said.

“Then what is it?” Meriwether frowned. I’m usually better at the whole people thing.

“Don’t know.” The Vhemin grabbed a rock the size of a human skull, turning it in his hands. “Wish I did.”

Meriwether watched the monster, a little uneasy. Sure, they’d shared the trail for a long time, but their alliance should be over. Since they’d completed their business the creature might as easily bash his skull in with his makeshift weapon as hug it out. “Is what’s on your mind going to end in you murdering me?”

Armitage guffawed. “Not this week. Maybe not next, either. Haven’t decided.” His big, scaled hands clutched the rock. Tendons played under his skin, shifting as his muscles bunched. “I ran, you know.”

This thing ran? Impossible. “From the dragon? I know. I stood in the damn temple alone after you assholes—”

“From the witch.” Armitage clenched his damn rock like he was going to pop it open. “She herded us. Me, and my tribe. We tried to fight. It’s what we’re good at.” The rock popped, a shower of stones falling between his fingers.

“She’s a Champion. You don’t fight that kind of thing. You avoid it, or—”

“I know all that.” Armitage waved his comments away, then tossed a stray pebble into the ravine. “It was the last of us. We’d been sold out by another, larger clan. Bound up in chains, then tossed into cages that stank of bile and piss. Dragged across the desert. A few died on the way, but not many. Not … enough.” Snake eyes looked down. “No portals for the cattle. Made the temple. Found the doors open. The witch was waiting for us.”

“I—”

“I ain’t done.” Armitage stared up, perhaps at Cophine’s cool gaze. His eyes were bright. “When they dragged us inside, we fought. We fought hard, because this was the end.” His fingers clenched, like he was remembering choking someone. “Didn’t help. Too many of them, or too few of us. There were a handful of Knights, but nothing like your one.”

“Geneve’s not—”

“These were slower. Not as good with a blade. Fuck me, but I’ve never seen someone as good with steel as that red-haired wench.” Armitage sounded like he admired being beaten by Geneve. “No clue why she can’t call the Storm. Maybe she’s like us.”

“Ordinary people?”

“The cast-offs. The forgotten. The scrapings from the world’s hooves. Vhemin. Feybrind. Doesn’t matter. The Three deny us their gifts. Always have.” He spat. “Fuckers.”

“I can’t—”

“Thing is, my tribe fought like demons themselves. We used tooth and fist. I killed two Knights with my bare hands.” He held a hand up. “Ain’t proud of it.”

“Isn’t it … what you do?”

“Not me. Not ol’ Armitage.” He snarled a sickly smile. “Never been the favorite of the elders. I just don’t see the point. You get me? Plenty of reasons to kill a man. See what’s on the inside when the fighting starts. Get your hands up to the elbows in red sticky. But when there’s no reason? Not much interested in that.” He kicked a rock. “Imagine my surprise when the chief tells me to get help. Of all the dumb-ass decisions, she picked me.” His voice cracked like the stone he’d broken on the last word.

The monster doesn’t kill like the rest of his kind. Meriwether chewed that over while Armitage clenched and unclenched his hands. “Seems like it was the right call.”

Armitage squinted, face harboring murder and suspicion in equal measure. “How you figure?”

“Most of you wouldn’t have done it.” Meriwether took a step back as Armitage’s shoulders bunched. “I’m not trying to start a fight. Just … listen. You send a Vhemin to a human town, what happens?”

“Killing.”

“Right. Send a Vhemin to a Feybrind village, what happens?”

“Killing. Different kind, but same outcome.”

“Exactly. Send a Vhemin to other Vhemin, what happens?”

Armitage growled. “More killing. Where are you going with this?”

Meriwether scratched his beard. “What happened when they sent you?”

“I … got caught.”

“But no killing?”

Armitage glowered. “I ain’t proud. I should have beaten those runts like—”

“That’s my point.” Meriwether sighed, wearier than he’d been when they left the trail. “You didn’t kill them. You were the right choice. The only choice. The one Vhemin among all others who wouldn’t thirst for blood. Who’d find aid in a world that doesn’t lend a hand to the helpless.”

“Didn’t help.” Armitage’s chin jutted like a belligerent child.

“It kind of did.” Meriwether gave a small smile. “You got a Knight Adept from the Tresward to cross the desert with you. You raided a temple of the ancients. I know you didn’t save your people, but you gave them peace. They saw you’d come back. That their hopes weren’t wasted.” He took a step toward Armitage. “That you didn’t run away.”

The monster watched him, chest working like a bellows, as if he were racing up a hill with wolves on his heels. “It’s not that simple.”

“Maybe not. I don’t know Vhemin. But I know you.” Meriwether bent, retrieving another stone. He offered it to Armitage. “I’ve never met someone like you, and I don’t think I ever will again.”

The monster took the stone, turning it over in his hand, then let it drop on the ground. He brushed off his hands. “Good talk. Let’s go kill some breakfast.”

* * *

Breakfast was Armitage-killed rabbit, and a few root vegetables Meriwether found going to seed behind the hut. He also found the beehive in the hut, which Beck enjoyed, but terrified everyone else. In his roaming the woods he found some wild peppermint, and thought of Geneve. He gathered it for tea.

Armitage rekindled their fire while Sight of Day prepared the rabbits. A pot of boiling water accepted the peppermint, and the smell of roasting rabbit woke Geneve. She ruffled red hair, took stock of the sun’s position, and sighed without the appearance of concern.

That’s new. We were on the road by dawn in the desert. It feels like we’ve come through a trial, and everything is less important now. “Tea?”

She nodded, taking a battered cup. The sun climbed its ladder of sky while they sipped. Sight of Day took a cup, perhaps for appearances’ sake, and after blowing steam off the surface, clapped his hands. {We should talk about Ravenswall.}

“The human city? It’s full of inbreds, liars, and thieves.” Meriwether examined his tea. This isn’t half bad. “I say we avoid it entirely.”

{Have you ever been?}

Meriwether shuddered. “No.”

{Good. We’re going.} The cat swirled his cup. {We still have our mission. The Ledger of Lost Souls for the queen. Finding out what’s amiss, and fixing,} he eyed Geneve, {what’s broken.}

“I feared that’s where this was going.” Meriwether didn’t want to hit the road, and not because Ravenswall was the queen’s city. He knew the city meant Geneve donning her armor on the inside, as it were, and he’d be a sinner again. Or another footloose vagrant on the run. “Could we not?”

“Quit whining,” Armitage suggested. “At least you won’t get shot on sight.” He paused, eyebrow raised. “Wait. Are there Knights there? They gonna shoot you?”

“The Tresward has an outpost in Ravenswall.” Geneve worried her thumbnail against the rim of her cup. “The Temple Village. It’s next to Lesym’s Folly.”

“The who now?” Meriwether blinked. “Who’s Lesym?”

“A Knight, perhaps.” She shrugged. “His Folly’s a tower of stone beside the Tresward proper. He went in over a hundred years ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

“They should knock that thing down. What if a kid walks inside?” Meriwether put his tea down. It didn’t taste so good anymore. “Ravenswall seems a bad place to go.”

{I’ve been to Ravenswall. I don’t remember the Folly.} Sight of Day frowned, ears at half-mast. {I’m sure I’d remember something like that.}

“Were you drunk?” Armitage leaned forward, huddling over his cup. “I forget all sorts of shit when I’m on the beers.”

“I’ve never been either,” Geneve admitted. “Tresward records say—”

“Hold up.” Meriwether leaned against his pack, trying to find a more comfortable position. “The Folly isn’t the real concern. The thing we should be worried about is inbred royalty. From top to bottom, royals tend to cousin-loving. I see no reason this Queen Morgan should be any different.”

{You speak as if you’ve met royalty.} Sight of Day’s golden eyes were curious.

“I’ve seen the world a little,” Meriwether agreed, putting a little borrowed authority into his words. “Don’t have much time for the blue bloods, though. Never done anything for me, and I don’t see that changing.” He tried to look at Geneve without moving his eyes. It turned out to be a difficult task. “Doesn’t matter, though. I said I’d help, and I will. There’s a debt that needs paying, and if the price is meeting a queen with an uncle-dad, I’m fine with that.”

“Meri.” Geneve leaned forward, then stiffened, working a crick in her neck. “There’s a Tresward there. They … there could be—”

“I know.” He looked away from her, trying not to see what was in her eyes. Could be relief, which would make sense, but he didn’t know if he could take it if he saw regret. “We’ll be careful.”

“By ‘we’ you mean, you fuckers.” Armitage shifted, then scratched his butt. “I’m not safe in a city. I mean, I’m good for a couple hundred normal human guards, but eventually I’ll get tired. It’s a numbers thing.”

“I’ve got just the idea.” Meriwether stood. “If you’re coming, that is.”

“What kind of idea?”

“Are you coming?” Meriwether countered.

“I guess.” Armitage looked at the fire. “Just until something better comes along, mind.”

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot.” Meriwether took a deep breath. “Meriwether du Reeves, at your service.” He bowed, straightening to reveal fresh clothes. Shiny, black leather boots, buffed so fine you could use them as mirrors. Pants, of thick-weave cotton. A white silk shirt, cut in the northern style. Geneve’s eyes widened. “Don’t laugh.”

“I wasn’t going to.” She hauled herself upright, walking a circle around him. “I’ve seen it before, but never all at once.”

“Yeah, the runt fixes up nice.” Armitage glared snake eyes. “I’m not going about looking like a fop. And I’m not going as your prisoner.”

“Of course not.” Meriwether picked at a ruffled cuff. “You’re going as Chevalier Armitage.” He held his hands out as if demonstrating wares on a table. “One suit of Tresward armor, just for you.”

The air rippled, revealing a complete set of armor fit for a Knight, but in Armitage’s massive size, all stacked in a pile. The monster got to his feet, ambling to the pile. He picked up the helmet. “Feels real.”

“It wouldn’t be a good trick if it didn’t.” Meriwether watched Geneve stalk to the armor. She hefted the breastplate. “It won’t turn an arrow or a blade. Probably not good against harsh language either. But against prying eyes of over-inquisitive guards, it’s perfect.”

“What about the cat?” Armitage squinted at Sight of Day.

{Unlike you ferals, I’m welcome in human lands.} The Feybrind offered a half-smile. {They say I’m nice to pat.}

Geneve squatted by the armor. “I guess there’s no need to delay, then.” Her voice held something that might have been sadness, or perhaps just weariness.

She’ll be happy to see the end of this quest. Even Knights wear out. “No. I can’t keep it up forever, but until we get to an inn with a room, it’ll be no problem.”

“What if you get knocked out or killed?” Armitage kicked a pauldron and watched it spin into the trees.

“I’m not planning on that, and neither should you.”

“I said I wouldn’t kill you for at least two weeks, but I figure it’s an important question. Someone might beat me to it,” the monster grumbled.

{I suggest we try to avoid killing each other until we’ve at least met the queen.} Sight of Day shook his head, like he was surrounded by an imbecile circus. {Also, do not get too close to humans, Armitage.}

“I smell bad?”

The cat’s tail swished. {Your eyes will give you away.}

The monster grinned. “Sure, but it’d be a fabulous fight to go out on, wouldn’t it?”

* * *

Ravenswall was the queen’s city. Capital of the Kingdom of Ors’en, shining white walls bordering docks that rivaled the best in the world. Beggars shat gold and princes donated time to charity, if you believed everything said about it.

Meriwether didn’t. Not even by half. Queen Morgan was beset, or so the whispers said, by incompetent advisors. She had no allies, her throne on uneven legs, and was set to topple at any moment. He didn’t really believe that, because the rumors spread like a carpet of rot since her father died. That was a good five years ago, a mighty long time to sit a throne ready for collapse.

No, the real fear was that she was too clever by half, and clever people got themselves into mischief. Meriwether counted himself among that number, so had expertise.

It took three days to reach the city gates. They arrived midafternoon, a warm sun on their backs. North of the plague sands they left the cold winds of the south behind.

Constructing Ravenswall so close to the plague lands was sensible; it discouraged invasion forces approaching from the south. The ocean hugged its eastern approach, meaning enemies needed a navy and a great deal of enthusiasm to get in that way. Main access to the northern kingdoms was, predictably, via the north and west.

The south gate was a massive affair. A wall of stone reached skyward like an accusation against the three. Within this wall was a portcullis that would challenge a dragon, and a group of attentive guards stood out front, pikes in hand, backed up by archers on the walls.

She’s showing off. Meriwether would too, if he was a twenty-year-old monarch sitting on her dead father’s throne. The principle was a good one, but it didn’t help them get inside.

Meri walked in the lead, du Reeves’ silk billowing in the light ocean breeze. He expected the city to smell like a two-week-dead carcass, but aside from a slight fishiness, it was fine. 

Armitage, Geneve, and Sight of Day rode at his back. The Vhemin sat his bear like it was just the kind of thing Knights did, his faux armor reflecting the sun’s light just as it should. Geneve wore her Smithsteel. Both had helmets on. Sight of Day rode Fidget without apparent care, his golden eyes seeing everything at once. The only thing betraying any tension was the slight tremble in his tail’s tip. It twitch-twitched every minute or so.

The line seeking entrance was not so long late in the day. A few travelers like themselves were ahead. Guards did a cursory check, but didn’t put a lot of heart into it, no doubt because they’d been doing this all day, and the Kingdom of Ors’en wasn’t at war.

When their turn came, Meriwether stepped up to a guard. He picked one in slightly shinier armor, as they tended toward being in charge. The guard’s visor was up, a concession against the heat of the day. “Hello.”

The captain eyeballed him. “Name?”

“Meriwether du Reeves.”

“Du Reeves. That the fancy family from—”

“Exactly the one,” Meriwether assured him. “I’m looking for—”

“I don’t care who you are or what you’re looking for. This is the queen’s city.” The guard straightened, hand holding his pike with easy confidence. “The du Reeves family don’t have holdings here. Best be polite, if you know what’s good for you.” He looked past Meriwether, doing a double-take. “Khiton’s ass crack! Is that a bear?”

Meriwether stepped into his eye line. “It is. This is Knight Chevalier Armitage, with Knight Adept Geneve. They rescued me from bandits from the plague lands. This Feybrind met us on the road, offering his services as a guide.”

“But … he’s riding a bear.”

“He’s a Chevalier. Impossible things is their stock in trade.” Meriwether tried on a brilliant smile. “I assure you, the bear is quite handy in a fight.”

“Will it cause trouble in the city?”

“Depends if you imbeciles keep him waiting in the baking sun,” Armitage rumbled. “Step aside.”

“Of course, Chevalier.” The guard captain took a nervous two steps back, then called to his men. “Let them through! For pity’s sake, let them through.”

And that’s how they got into Ravenswall with a sinner, cat, displaced Knight, and a Vhemin monster: a lie backed by illusion. Meriwether wasn’t sure why he was worried in the first place.

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