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 …

Progress, not perfection. Take a small step each day. When you’re ready, perfection will find you. Israel’s words to her years back as he crouched before her, hands on her shoulders. Geneve was new to the Tresward, perhaps six years old, and holding a broken practice blade. She’d listened, nodded, and taken the step. She was sure of it. And yet, no matter how hard she tried, the Sacred Storm didn’t answer her call. Geneve’s form was perfect, but no light glimmered along her blade. No thunder rang heaven’s bell. A glass sword was beyond her reach, and she’d never needed it more than now, facing fifty Vhemin, bloodlust in their eyes, rage in their hearts. She held Requiem instead, the skymetal honest, trustworthy, and totally unsuitable for the task at hand. Israel could have taken them. Perhaps even Vertiline, but Geneve Read More …

Night draped a gown over the forest, drawing her shadows close. Meriwether felt tired beyond exhaustion, not helped by the hammering his spine got from Troubles. Be easy. The horse hasn’t slept either. As visibility dropped to near zero, Meriwether called out, “Can we stop?” Geneve reigned in her horse. Sight of Day drew closer, his horse’s liquid black eyes staring into the evening. “We must press on. The Vhemin—” “Will find our unconscious bodies if we keep going,” Meriwether finished. “We’ll knock ourselves out on a low branch. And the horses are tired.” For once, Troubles didn’t try to shift him away, the mare either too tired, or in firm agreement with the idea of rest. Geneve’s skin was a charcoal rubbing in the dusk. “They’ll find us.” “It takes them hours to cut enough trees, build a big fire, Read More …

This saddle’s going to kill me. Meriwether felt little was going his way. The sun was too bright, perhaps because he hadn’t slept. He sat on a horse that wanted him dead, and the only insulation between him and the beast was a saddle designed for an armored Knight. He wasn’t armored, nor was he a Knight. That’s right. I’m a sinner. He winced at his internal monologue. How can it be a sin if you’re born with it? It’s like being a sinner for having red hair. The thought made him glance at Geneve riding at the head of their meager column. The cat rode at Meriwether’s back, making riding look easy. He hated the Feybrind just a little for that, but Sight of Day didn’t seem to care. If anything, the Feybrind didn’t look like he cared much about anything, Read More …

Israel stood on a balcony overlooking Tresward grounds. Below, Clerics bustled to and fro, more than one or two embracing a waddle. Clerics weren’t known for keeping up with Destiny’s Supplicant, and once past their Appeal many faded to softer lines. He didn’t mind; each had their role within the Three’s Light. Knights stood against the dark with shield and sword. Clerics fought with word and censer.  This Tresward keep was a small one. It was barely an outpost, but the gardens were well-tended. Bees hummed a tune through flowers fat and heavy with pollen. The sun’s radiance felt warmer here than the cold southern climes should allow. He closed his eyes, feeling its golden touch on his skin. If he kept his eyes closed, thinking of nothing but sunlight, he could almost forget he’d left Geneve to die. Behind Read More …

Geneve visited her tree a lot. It was peaceful standing in the field, surrounded by other trees waiting for their Knights to be strong enough. She didn’t understand how she’d ever be able to break hers. Five years of growth put thicker bark on the tree and it was now wider around than she was.  The trees were all planted from the same kind of acorn, yet flourished in a hundred ways. Hers was straight as an arrow as it reached for the sun. Israel said the trees weren’t oaks, elms, or hickory. Nothing here carried a name from the outside world. They were just trees, and each belonged to a Knight. Geneve expected all trees to grow strong and true, but many didn’t. Some carried myriad branching limbs, seeking the sky in all directions of the compass. Others were Read More …

Geneve was alone. She walked beside a Feybrind. She already felt the foundations of trust between them, or perhaps something more like friendship, but they needed to make it out alive first. She wasn’t sure of Sight of Day’s motivations, but his golden eyes made her feel warm. There was no malice there. The problem with the situation at hand was she wasn’t sure if they’d get time to be friends. There were a lot of Vhemin between now and five minutes from now. Ahead of her walked the sinner. His face was bruised, lip swollen, and he walked hunched around a pain he carried deep in his chest. But no part of him leaked red, so she’d see him to his trial. Except, neither he nor Sight of Day want him to go to trial. It’s just me trying to get him there. Read More …