Geneve ‘borrowed’ good silver regals from Vertiline before heading for the apothecary. The Chevalier said she was going to ‘get drunk’ and ambled off, leaving their wagon in the care of a stable boy who looked struck dumb by her pale beauty. It made Geneve grumpy, because no one looked at her that way. Her amber skin and red hair were not a thing people seemed to want. No Novice at the Tresward paid her attention. Boys and girls snuck off, but none took her hand. I must be plain. She shook her head, locks lashing in anger. I’ll never be pretty like Vertiline. The apothecary’s door banged open as she barged in. The little bell atop the frame jingled in panic. An old man harrumphed from the back of the shop. “What? Who’s there?” She stormed forward. The old man Read More …

Geneve felt the throne room was too hot. Too many eyes on her, with far, far too many people watching. She waited, unsure of what to do with her hands. Queen Morgan sat on her throne, her Coven arrayed about the room, with her honor guard front and center. She’d said to Armitage, Please hide, and he’d said, Fuck off, but she’d held his hands and he’d nodded, hulking back to the antechamber. Sight of Day went with him, tail lashing, gold eyes hard like metal. The Feybrind said nothing, but his eyes reminded her of her duty. Duty to her Tresward, and to her heart. It felt like she was splitting in half. She felt someone by her side and turned to find Meri there. His hand found hers, gentle fingers inside her metal gauntlet. “I’m here. Whatever comes, we’ll do it together.” Read More …

The path to the throne room wasn’t direct. Queen Morgan didn’t provide a convenient route from the front door to her throat. Near as Meriwether could tell, she closeted herself behind six sets of vaulted doors, each with six guards. Thirty-six fellows and a lot of wood and steel. It spoke to a learned sense of caution. The guards were what you’d expect: steely-eyed, hard-faced, and holding weapons in a way that said, I know how to use this, and I mean to. Naturally, they had an escort. The largest man Meriwether had ever seen held the rear. He made Israel look like a dwarf rabbit, but couldn’t match Armitage’s bulk. The guard kept puffing out his chest and other nonsense if the Vhemin looked his way, as if claiming a piece of him should the action start. Armitage paid him Read More …

“You want to go to an apothecary?” Vertiline drove the wagon, reins loose in easy hands. “What’s this got to do with a kiss?” “You love Israel,” blurted Geneve. Vertiline snorted. “You’re fifteen. You know nothing of love.” “Fourteen.” “Exactly my point.” The Chevalier’s pale cheeks held no hint of flush. “Out of curiosity, and merely to pass the long, wearying journey, why would you say that?” “Israel and Kytto don’t like each other.” Geneve counted on her fingers. “But they work together to help me.” “So?” “Because you need them to.” Geneve looked at the floorboards beneath her feet.  “Oh, wise fourteen-year-old, why would I love Israel if I tried to kiss Kytto?” “It was twenty years ago.” “Are you going to make my points for me the whole journey?” Geneve smirked. “You wanted Israel’s attention. The Smith is Read More …

Queensfane Village lay at the core of Ravenswall’s crescent design. Geneve kept her eyes open and her mouth shut as they entered the city. They needed to pass three more walls to get to the hub of the city. Almost fifty thousand souls called this place home, and many would sell out a fallen Knight for a single silver regal. Her helmet drew the odd passing eye, but not so much as Armitage’s bear, Beck. People looked on in awe or scurried away in fear as their personal stock of courage allowed. Children followed in their wake, wide-eyed at first, then with laughter. Geneve felt her shoulder blades tense until it felt like they’d meet in the middle.  “Relax,” Meriwether suggested from where he strode by Tristan’s neck. His shiny boots walked the cobbles easy enough; she’d never have guessed Read More …

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 Read More …

“There’s nothing for it. You’re going to have to cheat.” Kytto scowled at her, as if his idea was her fault. Geneve picked up a breastplate from the floor, walking it to a pile. Her Trial was next month. She was out of time. “I don’t want to cheat.” “Do you want to die?” “No.” “Then you need to cheat.” “How?” Geneve dropped the breastplate with a clatter. The Smithsteel never scratched, no matter how indelicate she was with it. “How do I beat fifty Novices who can use the Storm without it at my side?” “That’s not the hard part,” Kytto said. “It feels hard!” “The hard part is the rest of the Trial, because we don’t know what it is. There could be tigers.” “You’re not helping.” “Sorry.” Kytto hid a grin. “They’ve never used tigers.” “This isn’t Read More …