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 …

That’s the first and last time you’ll underestimate a Knight. Consciousness returned to Meriwether like a forbidden tryst in the night: quickly, and with a lot of sweating and groaning. Light blazed, harsh as the forge of dawn itself. He squinted, holding a hand out to shade his eyes, then cried out at the pain in his side. The gift from Symonet’s lackies. Meriwether took a calming breath, then another as nausea leered at him. His fingers found his shirt, and tentatively made for the sword gash they’d awarded him with. Trembling and slow, he expected the harsh brand of rent flesh, but instead he found the brush of cotton. You’re not going to learn anything mewling like a babe in a bassinet. Strength, man. He lay on a bed, the mattress firm but not unkind. Another opening of his Read More …

“This is your tree.” The big man stood beside the sapling, hand on the slender trunk, and looked down on Geneve. The timbre of his voice was chocolate rich, which she knew because she’d talked to him before, but this time it held something deeper, more insistent. This tree was important. Geneve looked about the field. It lay inside tall stone walls that protected everything inside. The ground was turned earth, tended with exquisite care. She’d noticed that as the big man led Geneve down broad, worn steps to the flat ground. Her tree sat with hundreds of others in the field. They were well-spaced, so the sun’s light could reach them all. Some were broken, as if by lightning, but no charring marked the wood. Other slots where trees should be were empty, the earth turned and ready for Read More …

They came to kill a sinner. The cage’s iron presence rode at Geneve’s back. It was made of good Tresward Smithsteel; cold metal fingers waited to clutch their prize as it rode their creaky wagon. It knew how to carry prisoners better than she did. Two oxen pulled it with a trudging step. She rode her blue roan beside them as the cart made its trundling way toward Calterburry. She’d named the roan Tristan. He was young and eager for the road ahead, just like her. Vertiline said he prances too much, but that’s how Geneve liked it. Unaware of their grim duty, Tristan tossed his mane, harness jingling like silver bells. The noise made Israel turn. He led from the front atop a massive charger that looked like it could eat a man whole. Road dirt dusted his honey-brown skin Read More …