Wincuf’s Trial was like any other: bloody. All were different, except for two things. The Novice must fight fifty peers and must also destroy their tree. There were no rules within those two constraints. Tradition said the Novice selected their foes. They would normally pick the biggest opponents to prove their worth to the Three. Wincuf chose forty-nine opponents before his last: Geneve. That was why she stood in ill-fitting armor along with forty-nine others, waiting to cut Wincuf down. Wincuf didn’t have to beat them. He just had to survive. Get through them out the gates at the end, and then a clean run to his tree. That was the rule. It was the end of his Trial; two days passed with grueling physical tests. Geneve watched as he’d been kept without sleep. Waterboarded and beaten. If the Storm Read More …

The plague lands. Some called them a desert, others a misery, but all people agreed: if you stepped on the sands, your life was forfeit. Geneve knew she might be able to walk the blasted steppes. The Light in all Knights kept them safe from disease and most of the ravages of time, but the sands were forbidden to all. No Knights came back from trying to cross them. The Tresward Great Library held no clues as to what lay in the middle. All maps ended at the border of such areas with a simple word: DANGER. The world was littered with plague lands. Vast stretches of scorched ground from the time of the ancients. Most were hundreds of klicks across, and without water or a horse, survival seemed tricky. Armitage snorted at her concerns. You’ve never had a guide with balls, is all. Read More …

Meriwether now wore good, sensible clothes that he’d not be seen dead in under normal circumstances. My circumstances haven’t been normal for most of my life. So, they’d do. His pants were rugged, and he’d found a sweater of good wool. Mice made a home in it and appeared a little upset he evicted them. It was warm and dry, and he felt like he might get some heat back in his bones before day’s end. Even better, his new clothes didn’t smell like straw. The scarecrow shirt he left behind after making a new home for the mice with it. Boots and a cloak completed the image. The boots were trying to be black, the cloak edging toward red, and all in he felt he looked like a hobo, and that was fine. He pretty much was, just eating better Read More …

Kytto didn’t look impressed. His gaze roamed her small frame. “Are you eating enough?” “Yes.” “Sleeping?” Geneve nodded. “Yes.” “Why are you so scrawny, then?” She looked at her feet. “I don’t know.” “I do. It’s because you’re not eating or sleeping.” The Smith stalked about his forge, pacing like a caged animal.  “It’s hard to eat or sleep. Wincuf’s Trial is tomorrow. I’m to face him in his bout of fifty.” Geneve felt the tiny size of her voice, a perfect match for her physical dimensions. “So?” “So, he holds glass and can cut me in half.” “Best you not let him do that.” The Smith sniffed. “Okay, I agree, that’s not the best advice. Lacks, what’s the word…” “Specificity,” Vertiline suggested from her perch by the stairs. Geneve hadn’t seen her come down. Kytto jumped. Obviously he hadn’t Read More …

Geneve was torn. She felt the need to help Sight of Day. She’d been there when his village died. Geneve knew anything that would make a Feybrind share the trail with a Vhemin was serious. World-changing. The kind of thing the Three would see from their remote vantage high above. She also knew Vhemin were monsters and not to be trusted. Going into the desert would take her closer to the enemy’s home, and further from what her mission had become. It wouldn’t be heading toward the capital and Queen Morgan’s help. It would be going toward actual monsters that craved human flesh. The Tresward taught Knights well, and principle among their lessons was: a good Vhemin is one lying dead at your feet. Geneve didn’t know who to trust within the Tresward, or whether there was a conspiracy higher Read More …

Meriwether managed to talk Geneve down from the precipitous heights of instant justice by the simple method of explaining the jail wasn’t open. The innkeeper confirmed it wasn’t open, but also not much of a jail, which wasn’t helpful, so he sent the greasy fellow away. Tomorrow, he’d suggested. We’ll get in early. Bound to be all manner of people wanting to poke the bear. The three got the inn’s single private room, which bordered on negligent advertising, because it was right next door to the room the innkeeper shared with his probably-wife, but possibly-sister, and the two of them made a lot of noise. Tomorrow dawned same as it did every day. Perhaps a little drizzlier on the weather front, and a little less bright, but cold like the south was. Meriwether’s breath misted before his face from his lofty height Read More …

Israel sat beside Geneve on a low bench. It was new wood supported by weathered stone. The wood must have been replaced often, but the stone lingered perhaps since the ancients walked the world. The bench was in a market. He’d brought her here by cart. The sights and sounds were familiar, like she’d been here before, or someplace like it. Geneve half expected to see a raised platform with people on display, but there was nothing like that. Just fruit stalls, fish sellers, clothiers, and an enterprising blacksmith.  Israel wore no armor today. He held his hand out, palm up, to the blacksmith. They had a clear view of the man, all sweat and brawn, dark skin below darker hair, and wearing a permanent frown above a tough leather apron. “What do you see?” Geneve watched the blacksmith a Read More …

He’s not wrong, yet everything about him is. Geneve watched Sight of Day work with Meriwether. The Feybrind coaxed the ferry horses to higher effort, while Meriwether worked the craft’s controls. She’d thought the vessel rudderless, but he explained it was merely mostly useless. The ferry made slow yet steady progress to the far bank. The water swept them further with every moment, but she couldn’t work up the energy to be concerned. She was exhausted, and not just by the sinner’s prattle. Geneve had slept a little but worked harder. She’d worn full armor for days and felt ready for the knacker’s yard. What really wore on her wasn’t physical ailments. The Tresward trained her to be their strong arm of justice in the world. To wear armor not to protect herself, but others. The weight she carried was something Read More …

I’ve been shot before, but this time the assholes didn’t have the courtesy to aim. Hitting me was accidental, and that hurts almost more than the barb. Meriwether felt the world came to him through flashes of too-bright light and too-muted sound. The only real thing was the pain in his chest, a deep, grating, personal fire that made everything else seem less important. In any other situation he’d marvel at Geneve’s sweeping shield work as the Knight danced across the ferry’s deck. Her red hair flew as she spun, and maybe it was the delirium setting in, but he thought she did it with her eyes closed. Closed, for pity’s sake. Light glinted from the water. It felt like the blinding brilliance of the Three come for him at last. He felt the certainty of it, the hungering justice of angry gods Read More …

“So you didn’t kick him in the balls?” Kytto seemed impressed. “I’d have kicked him in the balls.” Geneve hugged her hand to her chest. It throbbed. “I didn’t think of it. Ikmae’s pattern didn’t—” “Ikmae doesn’t have any balls. Leastways, not all the time.” Kytto tried to take her injured hand, and she drew away. He hissed. “Let me see.” “It hurts.” “Of course it hurts. A kid put a drill through it. Bound to leave an impression.” Kytto’s voice was full of something Geneve couldn’t place at first. A timbre she wasn’t familiar with. She offered her hand, but cautiously. He took it, gentle as if it were a newly-hatched chick, and unwrapped the blood-soaked cotton around it. When the wound saw light, he winced. “Looks bad.” “Aren’t you supposed to tell me it’ll be okay?” “It’ll be okay. Still Read More …