Page 139 of Fate's Wicked Oath

For the briefest of moments, I considered how satisfying it would be to set the Ledger of the Valiant alight—but Ledgers could not be destroyed by common means. I knew from lurking around the Collegium that Ledgers had to be magically unraveled, much the same as they were woven. I’d once heard an Arcane Adept tell a student that to attempt to destroy a Ledger could prove fatal.

I kept moving.

Order of the Shrewd.

Order of the Righteous.

Order of the—

My stomach churned with dread.

Order of the Morta: Volume Eight.

The binding was fresh, with no sign of dust or fading on the pages. I unlocked it and thumbed through, finding only a handful of names bound to this particular Oath. Its existence shouldn’t’ve surprised me, but it did.

The seventh volume had created abominations that had escaped into the Western Wood, infected countless animals and people, and destroyed an entire town. It had been such a disaster that the Valiant were created to clean up the mess, forced tokill innocent knights trapped inside a terrible curse. And yet the Lord had run the program for decades more, uncaring that year by year, the ramifications of his experiments only worsened. The eventual retirement of the seventh volumeshouldhave been the end of it. Yet the Lord’s selfishness and complete lack of empathy for his people had persisted, and he’d createdyet anotheriteration of this vile experiment.

The sourness in my stomach turned into outright nausea. Then fear.

Had the Lord finally caught up to Hattie’s solution with this newest Ledger? Or was this just another pointless attempt by a selfish ruler?

I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

I nestled the three Ledgers into my satchel, wedging them in between bottles of Morta cure and water from the Well of Fate. I hadn’t been certain what I might need in the span of tonight’s events, but as I’d learned from Phina Farkept and the other alchemists, when it came to potions, it was best to be prepared. Still, the weight of the glass bottles only added to the considerable heft of the Ledgers.

I tried to ignore the strap of my satchel digging into the side of my neck as I moved down the aisle. When I reached the ironclad spine of the Order of the Mighty, I paused to trace the leather-bound tome through its cage, wishing it was Faren’s cheek I was touching instead. I glanced up at the fan vaulted ceiling, wondering what I might find in the rooms high above. A prickling sensation swept across my skin, telling me to hurry.

The tomes I carried weighed heavily on my mind and body as I broke into a run, racing back toward the entrance of the library.

49

Orders of the Morta

Faren

Lord Haron’s maniacal laughter filled the Great Hall, his robes quivering as he quaked with glee. “Oh, you should see your faces,” he crowed. “How long have I waited for this moment.”

All the knights in the room—both Fenriran and Lothgaimian Mighty, along with lesser Orders and countless guards—were braced with hands on hilts and handles. The noble attendees and servants were frozen, trembling, and aside from the faint clink of jewelry and dishes, no one made a sound.

Faren’s blood hummed with adrenaline; Oderin seemed just as tense beside him.

“Aren’t they beautiful? My creatures. Mybabies.” The Lord swept his arm out, addressing the Fenriran knights. “My knights, my legion. Fear not. These are your brethren. They will lead Fenrir to freedom.”

Chatter carried through the tables of attending knights and those standing guard. Some grinned; others shifted uneasily. Faren was not surprised by the political divide. Lord Haron hadbeen sowing seeds of contempt for Marona for years, shifting the blame for Fenrir’s problems onto the kingdom. There were those among the Fenriran ranks who favored Fenrir’s freedom at any cost, while others—like Faren and his friends—still believed that the realm was stronger in unity.

The division of opinions did not bode well for the rising tension in the room.

“Let us rejoice!” The Lord’s mouth curled into a crazed grin, revealing his stubby, rotten teeth. He gestured grandly at Heris Morvain. “Have they not brought us a most delectable prize?”

Heris spat a glob of blood on the shiny marble tile and sneered red.

Lord Haron only laughed harder.

Faren inched closer to his Major but kept his attention on the Morta. They were hunched, subdued, their red eyes oddly vacant—but Faren had no illusions about the viciousness of their bites or the damage their talons could do. His magic fluttered in the old scratch on his shoulder from when the Morta had struck him down in Yar, and he thought of what Mariana had taught him about fighting them, wondering how the Lord’s new Morta might differ from the those in the Western Wood.

“Did you know about this?” Faren whispered out of the side of his mouth.

In Faren’s periphery, Oderin shook his head. Of course he hadn’t—if hehad, he would’ve never warned Lord Haron of the Valiant’s plot. This turned their careful plans to rubble.