Page 63 of Fate's Wicked Oath

“Can’t—or won’t?”

I let out a weary sigh. “I’m not sure I can tell the difference anymore.”

Faren scratched his jaw in the way I knew meant he was conflicted. “Then tell me this,” he murmured. “Did I lie to your nephew when I told him you used your sword for good?”

I plucked a few yellow petals off a passing blossom. They were damp and soft, a blend of velvet and silk. I let them flutter to the mud. “Make no mistake, Faren,” I said, staring out at the sagging sunflowers, their heads bent under the weight of the world. “I fight villains. I’m just not sure we fully agree on who the villains are.”

He nodded, as if what I said was a sorry truth that couldn’t be helped. “What do you think of me?”

Thatquestion, I had not expected. “What do you mean?”

“Am I a villain or a hero?” He spread his arms invitingly, or perhaps in surrender to whatever answer I might give.

I thought of how endearing he’d been with my family. How earnest he was with everyone he met. How reverently he spoke of the realm and how willing he seemed to hear my perspective. In spite of my better judgement, I also thought of how relaxed I’d come to feel in his presence—how, day by day, bit by bit, I felt my guard slipping.

We’d come to the edge of the field, where the Morta had broken free of the flowers. To the southeast, shrugged right up against the River Wend, sat a town: Brine.

From it, smoke rose.

“Heroes and villains,” I mused, “are determined by their outcomes.” I drew a deep breath, smelling ash. “And to be honest, Faren, I’m not sure yet what you are.” He winced, and I frowned. “I’m not sure what I am, either.”

I urged Simon into a gallop—but Faren’s soft reply still reached me, rattling in my skull as I raced for the burning town: “You’re definitely not a villain.”

23

Mighty Failing

Faren

Everything was sotidywithin the Order of the Mighty. The tenets they lived by were clear and simple, shining bright as the sun. For so long, that was all Faren had known. A great certainty that illuminated his purpose, his path, giving his life meaning.

But out in the wilds of Fenrir, the sky wasn’t always so clear and blue.

As Faren and Mariana rode into Brine-on-Wend, rainclouds shrouded the land in gossamer light. Ash fluttered on the wind, rising from a row of destroyed cottages on the northern edge of town. Thatched roofs were charred black. The ends of great wooden beams stuck out from caved ceilings like broken bones. Window glass littered the ground. Faren thought of Yar-on-Gray, and bile rose in his throat.

At first, the citizens of Brine did not notice Faren and Mariana’s arrival. They were gathered round a rather large statue of a goat in the town square, all shouting over one another. Words likemonsterandfireanddoomedreachedFaren’s ears, along with pained cries and keening. A small man with wild gray hair and an impressive mustache waved his fist, calling folks to order, but the crowd was as panicked as a flock of sheep that’d just survived a wolf attack.

The energy changed when a woman wearing a homespun dress spotted Faren. “Oh,” she cried, dropping to her knees on the cobblestones. “Oh, thank the Fates! A Mighty Knight has come!”

Taking note, the mob moved like a wave, swelling around Sunny, pressing in tight. Folks grabbed Faren’s calves, clamored to shake his hand, asked—in overlapping voices—if he was here on behalf of Lord Haron to help. Their trust in his golden armor shamed him; the pride he’d once held for his status now felt hollow, the respect unearned. Had he not been traveling with Mariana, he might never have known these citizens’ plight—just as he had not learned of Yar’s need until it was too late.

Someone raked a hand down his thigh, making him bristle. Faren’s touch magic dulled itself against the onslaught of grabbing, grateful hands. He swiveled in his saddle, seeking Mariana; she had maneuvered Simon to the fringes of the square, and now sat stiffly in her saddle, wincing with each jostle as citizens shoved past her to get a better look at the Mighty Knight.

“Settle! Settle!” The small man—dressed in a well-made and brightly colored waistcoat—elbowed his way through the crowd toward Faren. “I am your mayor! Let me through!”

When finally, he reached Sunny, Brine’s mayor peered up at Faren; the crowd still surged, making him sway like a tiny boat upon a river. He reached up, and Faren had to lean considerably far out of his saddle to meet the handshake.

“Percival Penning,” the man introduced himself. “Mayor of Brine-on-Wend. Your presence is most welcome on this dark day, Mighty Knight of Fenrir.”

“Faren. Please.”

Percival’s mustache shifted in what Faren assumed was a smile underneath. “Well, Faren. Let us convene somewhere a little less raucous.”

It took time to extricate themselves from the jostling crowd. By the time Percival, Faren, and Mariana had escaped into Brine’s town hall—their horses whisked away by someone affiliated with the town’s inn—Faren’s nerves were buzzing. The wreckage he’d seen, and the sudden onslaught of desperate, frightened townsfolk had left him ragged.

Mariana looked no better. Her arms were folded across her breastplate and her frown had turned into a rather menacing scowl. He knew that, on the surface—to Percival, no doubt—Mariana appeared irritated and unfriendly. And perhaps she was, generally speaking. But after closely observing her for the past two weeks, Faren also saw the tension in her shoulders, the tenderness in her eyes, the troubled furrow in her brow. Her countenance was icy, as it’d been with Orna and Pete, but Faren recognized the emotion flowing underneath.

She was concerned. Angry. Heartbroken.