3. Mission
Mission
Mariana
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Faren muttered.
“Aw, miss me?” I said, halting beside the gold brute and elbowing him behind the edge of his breastplate, right in the ribs.
He took a single step to the side, away from me, and looked to Oderin, a bit wild-eyed. Confused. Excellent. I didn’t know what sort of meeting I’d barged into, but I relished the way it seemed to shake Faren Hayward’s confidence. He deserved to be humbled, and I was happy to provide.
“I would say I’m sorry to interrupt”—my voice echoed in the hushed, cavernous hall—“but that would be a lie.”
Though Lord Haron had to be at least sixty, he appeared small and childish in his oversized throne and silly clothes.
The flawlessness of his skin—no doubt the result of some strange alchemy—paired with his rotten-toothed grin was rather hideous.
The entire room reeked of his fowl body odor and cloying perfume.
“Mariana Bellkeep,” Lord Haron intoned. “A displeasure, as always.”
I pointed one toe and spread my arms in a mock bow. “The displeasure’s all mine.”
Faren stifled a stunned cough.
Lord Haron had a reputation for toying with his subjects, demanding supplication. It was famously known that he threw innocent civilians in the dungeon simply for speaking out of turn, or making eye contact at the wrong moment, or for not licking his ridiculous shoes in a manner to his liking.
As my neck was already pinned squarely beneath the Lord’s heel, I didn’t bother with such tedium. We both knew I was more useful if I was killing monsters than rotting in a cell, and—like Heris—the Lord knew better than to keep his best weapons locked up.
“I’ve traveled a long way for you to keep me in suspense,” I said. “What’s this about?”
Behind me, someone cleared their throat. Ivan, still lingering.
The Lord took note of his presence and flapped his wrist dismissively. “Someone see the man paid for his trouble.”
I scowled. Had I known that Ivan was to be compensated for escorting me here, I would’ve demanded he reward me a commission for my willingness to come peacefully—but it was too late now. A squire was already showing him out.
I turned back to the Lord, wanting to escape the cloying heat of this gaudy, Fates-forsaken hall as quickly as possible. The air was stuffy and smothering, as was the company. “The sooner you clarify your need of me, the sooner I can see it done.”
The Lord chuckled a soft ha, ha, ha. “I do commend your eagerness to please, Mariana,” he said. “I have a mission for you.”
“So it would seem.”
The Lord gripped the armrests of his chair and sat forward. “Faren Hayward will be traveling to Yar-on-Gray to investigate the failure of your Order.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Faren’s shock at seeing me here was beginning to take on a new meaning—one I did not relish.
“He will assess the damage,” the Lord continued, “evaluate the remaining threat, and report on the severity of—”
“The Valiant sent detailed reports,” I protested, hating what little I’d heard of this idea already. A pointless quest was bad enough—but one involving Faren? Absolutely not. “Besides, there’s nothing left to see of Yar, it’s completely—”
“Your mouth,” Faren interrupted. “Shut it.”
I glanced up at his rumpled hair, his strong profile.
Like most Mighty Knights, he was much taller than me.
Solid. I considered using all that muscle against him and wrenching him to the tile.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’d taken him down.
It wouldn’t be the last. We had a long history of not-so-casual contempt.
“Thank you, Faren,” the Lord cooed; Faren gave a smug nod. “Mariana, you will escort Faren to Yar-on-Gray and assist him in his investigation.”
Faren’s grin slackened. “My Lord,” he said, “I assure you, I do not require—”
“That is correct,” the Lord interrupted. “I require.”
Faren’s wide, prominent jaw clenched, but he kept quiet.
“Much as it pains me,” I said, “I have to agree with the Mighty Knight. I doubt he needs me to show him around a destroyed town. This might be giving him too much credit, but he must know how to read a map.”
Faren took a single, menacing step in my direction. “Must you be so—”
Lord Haron stomped his foot, his lips pulling into a petulant sneer.
“Have I given the impression that any of this is up for debate?” His eyes narrowed on Faren.
“If what you said earlier is false, and you do not, in fact, believe yourself capable of this mission, then I will have Major Farkept recommend a more amenable Mighty Knight.”
Faren’s anger cleared in a heartbeat, his expression turning stony and blank. He shook his head. “That will not be necessary, my Lord. I apologize.”
“Good,” the Lord said.
I rested my palm on the pommel of my sword. “What about finding a more amenable Valiant Knight?”
“Has your enthusiasm withered so soon?” Lord Haron mocked.
I glanced sidelong at Faren again. He had a pretty profile, both masculine and boyish, his stern bone structure softened by a mischievous mouth and the beginnings of smile lines around his eyes.
I was loathe to think of being stuck with him for weeks on end, roaming through the monster-infested wilds. “It has,” I replied.
The Lord cocked his head. “Is your opinion of him so unfavorable?”
“It is.”
The Lord smiled at Faren. His stubby teeth were stained and rotten from too many sweets, giving the grin a menacing quality. “That only makes me trust him more.” The Lord gestured at Oderin. “In any case, Major Farkept was rather insistent it be you who escorts him.”
“Is that so?” I raised a brow at the Major, and he met my question with a wry smirk.
Unlike Faren—for whom my contempt was firm and simple—my feelings toward the Major were more complicated.
As I had spent the last couple years assisting his alchemist sister with her research, we had developed a congenial if disinterested association.
His friendship with former Valiant Knight Idris Togren added further nuance to my opinion of him.
However, these interactions did not change the fact that I despised the prick he served and the majority of what his Order stood for.
Mighty Knights loved to wax poetic about their devotion to the realm, but in my experience, they were simply Lawful Knights with shinier armor and bigger egos.
Blind faith and obedience didn’t serve Fenrir’s interests—they hindered it.
Justice was often far more nuanced than the Mighty and their corrupt Lord would have the rest of us believe.
“Mariana’s familiarity with Morta and the Western Wood are unmatched,” Oderin said flatly. I forgot how thoroughly he obfuscated his personality in the presence of his Lord. “Faren will have no trouble keeping her in line for the sake of this mission.”
I laughed. “I love being underestimated.”
Faren clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles cracked.
“My Major might’ve vouched for you, but make no mistake, Mariana,” the Lord hissed, “you are but a hound for the hunter to follow, and I have plenty of other dogs who can take your place.”
“Woof,” I deadpanned. “When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow,” Oderin said.
My hand tightened on the pommel of my weapon. “Great. We done here?”
With a flourish of his colorful robes, the Lord came to his feet, his face pinched as if he’d smelled something foul. “You are dismissed.”
I spun on a heel, eager to escape the stifling heat and tedious conversation.
My ribs ached from three days of hard riding, endless jostling.
The journey’s grime—ash, road dust, horse dander—made my skin feel oily, itchy, suffocated.
I was looking forward to soaking in a tub of hot water for the rest of the evening.
But before I escaped, a hand closed around my wrist. It was big, warm, calloused, and unnecessarily firm. The distinctive lilt of Faren’s Lothgaimian accent was especially prominent as he snarled in my ear, “Don’t fuck this up for me.”
“Not to worry,” I whispered sweetly. “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble fucking it up all on your own.”