I’m an idiot. That’s it! And it’s all my fault. Meriwether hung by his hands and feet from a pole. It was lugged between two hulking Vhemin. He didn’t like being trussed up and carried, especially since the Vhemin didn’t have the courtesy of using locks. He couldn’t tickle rope open. The strands were coarse and chafed his wrists as he swung like a dead hog. Above him, his knife skewered the wood, wedged in there nice and solid. Tied up as he was, he wouldn’t be able to work it free without attracting a great deal of attention, which he supposed was part of the cruel joke. If he craned his neck he could spy the giant Israel behind, and the slender form of Vertiline ahead. Both were trussed like he was, but also out cold, which was probably Read More …

Geneve liked Kytto. Not because he was nice, but because he spoke to her like she was already fully grown, with glass in her hand and steel around her body. He didn’t mind she was six years old, as long as she didn’t mind him swearing and ordering her around. She visited him as often as she could. Sometimes he got her to move armor. Other times, he gave her a hammer and let her beat glowing steel. Most of the time, she left tired, sweating, and happy. Kytto didn’t take it personally his orneriness didn’t leave a mark on her mood. He seemed to like her too, but never said. She got sore working there. “Your first problem is you’re small,” he observed as she struggled to carry a breastplate to a rack. The metal was shiny, like all Read More …

Geneve woke to soft hands against her face. She tried to push them away, but it was like trying to ward against smoke. Her fingers found nothing, pawing air, and the hands found her face again. She cracked an eye. Above her, trees waved at the sky. Between her and the trees, the unmistakable face of a Feybrind. It knelt beside her, hands checking her face, neck, and—with a stab of agony—her shoulder. The Feybrind had light-brown fur, almost blond. Its cat-like ears were slightly rounded. It smiled as best its kind could, a slight twisting of the line of its mouth. Its fur-soft hands left her, moving through the air, the motion like poetry given form. {Do you speak?} Geneve rose, almost blacking out at the pain in her shoulder. The Feybrind backed away, but not from fear. The cat Read More …

The long road left Meriwether plenty of time to think. The cold had got into his bones, so he spent much of the journey shivering, but the thick blankets the Knights draped over him served to keep him from death’s door. He’d found hot rocks sharing his blanket, which he kicked out once they started being cold rocks. Meriwether’s careful fingers found the angel’s kiss nestled in a pocket. He hadn’t been so cold-drunk to lose it, then. Stacked around the cage were the Knight’s belongings. Not the precious ones—their glass swords, scatterguns, shields, or other means of wizard murder. Not coin, neither. But tents, pots and pans, and food. Their eyes didn’t linger on him. He was baggage. An item to be delivered, by pony express. It didn’t bother him; he didn’t much like them either. It’s hard to Read More …

“Kytto’s an asshole,” Vertiline admitted. “Try not to let it worry you.” She dragged Geneve along like the girl might break loose in strong winds. Geneve hurried, her smaller legs working hard to keep up with Vertiline’s elegant strides. The Adept was lean and hard, quite unlike the usual bulk of Knights. Her frame seemed locked down against something inside coiling to be free. Geneve wondered if she’d be lean like Vertiline or big like Israel once she grew up. “Why are we going to see Kytto?” “Because he’s an asshole.” Their forward march led them through the Keep’s interiors, then down a flight of steps that looked well used, like most everything here. Globes within sconces gave off warm light without the eye-watering smoke of flame as they headed below the ground. The steps didn’t continue long, ending in a Read More …

The sinner lay in his cage, still out for the count. His lips remained blue despite the swaddling of blankets about him, a bustle of heated rocks within. Geneve didn’t know if he’d live and wasn’t sure if he deserved to. That’s not for you to decide. The Justiciars will make the call.  Tristan shifted beneath her, eager to press on despite spending half the night beside a freezing stream in the dark. The horse nickered, raised his front left foot, and tossed his mane. Geneve concured. Calterburry didn’t agree with her. Not Lord Symonet and his cult, the guard, or the scenery. Even Birdsong Alley hadn’t kept her interest, perhaps because the sinner had lied to her there. He’d picked her to whisper his deceit to, and she wouldn’t forget it. Gylbard, the short innkeeper, spoke with Israel a Read More …

“I see she gave you a knife.” Vertiline, the ghost-pale woman with the long braid, looked down on Meriwether as if he was an ugly curio like a malformed child. “I wouldn’t have given you a knife.” They were in the Yellow Mug’s common room, autumnal light making its weary way through shutters closed to keep the worst of the wind away. At least there’ll be no Vhemin with the cold. Israel and Geneve were off doing Important Tresward Stuff, leaving Vertiline to guard ‘the sinner.’ He really didn’t like that term. It implied a host of things, and Meriwether was guilty of only a few. “Because I’d cut you with it?” Meriwether held the knife up. “You can have it, if you like. I’m not very good with knives.” “Because they give hope, sinner.” Vertiline stood tall above him in full armor, like Read More …

Geneve sucked her knuckle. The skin was split, and the bright tang of blood lay on her tongue. She wasn’t sure if it was from her hand, or the knock her lip had against her teeth. She wasn’t sure of very much right now. Her ears rang from the blunt blow of a practice blade. Geneve had fallen onto her butt, legs splayed in front of her, but she hadn’t gone all the way down, which she was certain annoyed Wincuf. The larger boy loomed above her, his wooden sword leveled at her face. “Yield.” Geneve thought about that. What yielding to Wincuf would feel like, and what it might feel like if she didn’t. She felt rather than saw eyes on her. Perhaps Israel’s, brows furrowed in a frown. The noises of the practice room faded to silence, the Read More …

Her headlong run took her past a headless corpse before she found Vertiline. The Knight stood in the middle of a street before the keep proper, dead men scattered like fallen logs. A collection of horses milled about, getting in the way. She didn’t stop to talk. There wasn’t time. In passing, she gave Tilly a wave with her scattergun. Go. She continued, breath rasping in her chest as she passed the Chevalier. Geneve couldn’t help but mark the wry smile on Vertiline’s face. Three’s Mercy, the two of them conspired to make me run through this town in my underclothes. The Trials weren’t this hard. Geneve scampered onto the low stone wall of the bridge. Dark water moved slow in autumn’s grip below her. The river wound its lazy way through Calterburry, unconcerned with what happened above. She brought her speed down, Read More …

Geneve cracked an eye. Her room was dim, but Cophine’s light reached pale fingers through a curtained window, letting her see well enough. She saw Israel and Vertiline’s cots were empty, sheets cast aside. The height of the Three moons suggested she’d been asleep a handful of hours at best. She sat up, teasing out red hair, fingers arguing with the stubborn knottiness of it. By the Three. I’ve slept only a few hours and my hair’s tangled worse than a briar patch. A quick inventory showed Israel’s armor stacked as he’d left it. It was polished silver-bright. Geneve looked to where Vertiline’s armor should sit and found it empty. She glanced back to Iz’s armor. His sword’s gone. She was on her feet before her mind finished processing, snaring Requiem from the foot of her bed. Geneve kicked aside her pillow, Read More …