Page 52 of Fate's Wicked Oath

When she looked up, her dark eyes—devastatingly doe-like—held in them a flash of something tender. It was like seeing a memory pass through her, a raw emotion, a dream clearing. Her attention dipped to the sharp edge of his blade, then her mournfulness was gone, replaced by a look of challenge. With a glimmer of playful malice, she smiled wickedly.

In one fluid move, she drew her own weapon and stood, swiping his sword away from her neck. And then they were engaged, swapping blows for blows. The clash of metal clamored through the grove; birds erupted from the trees. Faren’s breathing quickened, his muscles woke up, his blood began to pump with purpose. When Mariana tipped the bottom edge of his breastplate, he laughed.

Meanwhile, she fought lackadaisically, not bothering to get in too close. Her lazy attacks and parries were a mockery made by body language, an insult she didn’t have to speak:This is child’s play. Taking the bait, Faren crowded her personal space, getting in closer than he would advise knight of his size; he used thebackhand grip he’d been practicing with Warner, allowing him better control as he moved ever nearer, challenging her taunt.

She let it happen, as if say,Suit yourself. A bodily shove here, a nick with her blade there. He could smell her, sweet and earthy. His magic roused to meet the aura of her body heat, attuning to the disturbance of air that she left in her wake, like wind off the wing of a bird. It exhilarated him. It made that knot in his stomach uncoil even further.

A solidclankrang through his breastplate, rattling his chest.

“Got you,” Mariana said.

Her hair was a mess around her face. Her tawny cheeks were flushed from exertion. Her lips parted as she panted, the corners of her mouth turning up with an amused, satisfied grin.

Somewhere behind Faren, Orna and Pete whooped and clapped, praising Mariana’s victory. At the sound of their cheers, Mariana’s smug smile quaked, her eyebrows furrowing with an appreciative sort of surprise, like she wasn’t used to being celebrated. She clenched her jaw, and Faren braced for another round of sparring. But then the wind kicked up. Clouds parted. A beam of sunlight slanted through the willow’s boughs, and golden leaves rained down. Instead of attacking him again, Mariana tipped her face up toward the sky.

Faren knew in the nerves of his own magically enhanced skin that she was basking in the sun’s weak warmth. He took a single step closer. A leaf caught in her hair, and he ached to pluck it free, to touch her soft waves again.

Instead, he sheathed his sword, the hilt thudding home against the scabbard strapped to his back. The sound seemed to break Mariana’s spell, and she met his gaze with lingering mirth. Somewhere along their journey, he’d begun to crave the victory of her trust—and that look on her face was a battle won.

He knew his next words would ruin the truce.

“Robins don’t sing at night,” he said. “You think I wouldn’t notice?”

Her face paled, mouth parting into a littleoh.

When he walked away, he felt the knot in his stomach pull tight.

On the third day of travel, dark clouds gathered in the southeast. The party rode toward the storm with grim resolve.

Mariana assured everyone that they’d reach their destination by sundown, but the rain arrived first, sheeting ruthlessly upon their heads. Droplets pummeled Faren’s armor, roaring high above and hissing in the puddles underfoot. His clothing was soon soaked, wool and linen scraping wetly against his skin. The livestock hung their heads, their hooves swallowed by the sodden ground. Even Mariana raised her hood as she forged ahead into the torrent.

The afternoon was long and miserable. A clap of thunder directly overhead spooked the sheep, and it took half an hour for the dogs to corral the scattered flock. The deluge also caused an overabundance of mud, in which the wagon got stuck twice, forcing Faren to dismount and wedge wood under the wheels to provide enough traction for it to roll free.

Dusk came, diminishing their visibility even further. For what felt like hours, all Faren could see was the vague outline of the wagon ahead of him, the dark shadow of Mariana on Simon beyond, and rain falling all around.

But then, gradually, new shapes appeared.

A hedgerow gave way to a wooden gate, barring a white mass of dozing sheep. A watchdog woofed at the travel party’s approach, and Pete and Orna’s dogs responded with their own soft yips. Up ahead, a home was materializing. In the darknessand downpour, all Faren could make out were the bright, butter-yellow squares of its windows, illuminating the stormy night. The scent of woodsmoke reached him, promising warmth.

When they arrived at the front walkway, Mariana dismounted and handed Simon’s reins to Pete; Faren followed suit.

“Are you sure they’ll welcome us?” Orna asked doubtfully, staring up at the large, two-story cottage.

“I’m sure.” At that, Mariana strode for the door.

Faren hurried after her. “How do you know these folks again?” he whispered.

Her jaw was tight as she climbed the porch steps. Faren couldn’t tell whether she hadn’t heard him or simply didn’t want to answer. He hovered behind her as she knocked on the solid wooden door.

When it opened, light and heat sliced across Faren’s face. A woman stood on the threshold, wrapped in an emerald-green shawl. She was short in stature, with regal lines around her eyes and mouth. Her silver hair was piled atop her head, loose strands spilling out. As she took in the sight of Mariana—armed to the teeth and soaked to the bone—the woman’s big brown eyes widened, and Faren wondered if he would’ve been a less threatening visitor to knock on her door.

But she did not seem afraid. She seemed taken by surprise, a mix of reluctance and relief. “Ana?” she whispered.

Mariana offered a wan smile. “Hi, Mom.”

20

Refuge