22. Definitely Not a Villain
Definitely Not a Villain
Mariana
My heart was an open wound as we rode away from my family home.
This was why I rarely visited: it was easier to starve myself of their love than to remember what I was missing.
I couldn’t stand lying to them about my charge; I didn’t like facing what was at stake if I ever garnered Heris’s retribution; and the taste of what I could have if I ever won my freedom only intensified my current desperation.
The wind always felt harsher upon my leaving, my clothing more confining, the misting rain more biting.
The agony put me in a foul mood—one to which Faren seemed oblivious, or perhaps immune.
“Now what?” he asked, as everything I loved shrunk into the distance at my back.
“Now we hunt a monster.”
“How do we know it didn’t slink back into the Western Wood?”
There had been signs over the past few days. Broken tree limbs, deep gashes in the earth, dribbles of black blood. Just because we’d been preoccupied with delivering Pete and Orna to safety didn’t mean I’d stopped noticing, tracking, sensing.
“I know because of my Oath,” I answered.
“Care to elaborate?”
“No.”
“Ah, I get it.”
When I glanced expectantly at him, awaiting his clarification, he smirked.
“Friendly Ana has morphed back into Cranky Mariana,” he said.
I scoffed. “Apologies for taking monster hunting seriously.”
“Seriously, or grimly?”
“Valiant Knighthood is a grim charge.”
Faren shrugged. “Seems like a stroll to me.”
Indignant, I was about to argue—until I noticed the mischievous lift of his brow. “You’re baiting me.”
“You must admit I have a talent for it,” he said. “I’m beginning to think that getting a rise out of you is my true calling in life.”
With a small shake of my head, I gazed out across the countryside.
The farther south we ventured, the more fertile Fenrir became, the rolling hills blanketed in a patchwork of pastures, orchards, and fields of fall crops.
Wild deciduous trees hemmed the edges of cultivation in bursts of rust reds and brilliant yellows.
“You wouldn’t last more than a month as a Valiant Knight,” I said.
“Because I’m too good and moral?”
“Because you couldn’t do the job.”
“Well,” Faren retorted, “you couldn’t be a Mighty Knight.”
“I could easily be a Mighty Knight,” I said. “Parading around and looking pretty?”
His eyes danced with the unspoken quip: You think I’m pretty?
Autumnal colors and the odd spillage of gray light from the storm clouds above reflected in Faren’s breastplate like a painting. His cheeks were flushed from the chill, his hair flawlessly windswept.
He was something to behold.
“There’s a lot more to being a Mighty Knight than parading,” he said, ever the staunch defender of his Order.
“Parading is some of it, though, right?” I teased.
He lifted his chin. “Parading is harder than it looks.”
The argument was halfhearted, and I laughed. More and more of our arguments had been halfhearted, lately.
“You aren’t charismatic enough to parade,” Faren added. “There’s also your abject aversion to crowds.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“Besides, we all know that Mighty Knights must look like storybook heroes,” he said. “You simply don’t have the jawline for it.”
“So, you admit that looking pretty is part of it, but I’m not pretty enough?” I rested a palm on my breastplate, feigning hurt. “I think that’s the cruelest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
The lines beside his eyes creased with a warm smile. “Apologies, Ana, it’s just the cruel truth.”
His attention lingered on me for a few leisurely strides of our horses, and I had the distinct sense that he did not, in fact, find me displeasing to look upon.
But that was a path we ought not veer down.
“I can sense the Morta,” I said, answering his question from before.
“In addition to a sword and breastplate imbued with magic, my Oath grants me a certain sensitivity for the movements of abominations. An ability to track them with greater accuracy.” I swept my gaze over the undulating fields.
“I believe it ventured south after it attacked Pete and Orna, skirting along the Western Wood, perhaps, but emboldened enough to stray into the countryside.”
“So we continue south,” Faren said, “and hope we find it before it finds another homestead or town to terrorize?”
“That’s my logic.”
“Very well. You’re the authority.”
I tugged at the collar of my shirt, suddenly clammy from the unexpected warmth between us.
The day unfolded with fits of rain and bursts of sunshine.
We rode through orchards and ate apples off trees.
We skirted pastures that were dotted with sheep and waved at shepherds on distant hills.
Over small streams and through thickets of birch and aspen, we kept mostly silent, lost to our own thoughts.
Eventually, we came upon a field of sunflowers—a smear of orange across the countryside. Great grooves had been carved into the earth, interrupting the neat rows of flowers; as we rode closer, I scented soil and decay. The faintest reek of cursed blood.
“Is it…?” Faren whispered.
My nod was solemn. A Morta had made a mess of the field. I saw no traces of humans, though—no boot-steps or hoof-prints in the mud. Indeed, birds frenzied over the sunflower seeds, showing no sign of disturbance. It’d been here, but not for a while. We were perhaps a day behind.
I urged Simon forward, skirting the swath of trampled stems where the Morta had traveled. The surrounding blooms were slumped and sodden from the fits of rain, far past their late-summer prime; they bonked against my legs as we rode, leaving wet patches on my trousers.
Birds took to the sky, flocking in a great murmuration above our heads, their wingbeats stirring the wind. Faren watched them, his mouth parted with wonder, even as his eyes pinched. It was a feeling I knew well: the bitter mix of awe and heartache over what this territory had become.
“The night I heard the robin call, I saw your fellow hand you a vial,” Faren said, not looking at me. “Was it a poison, a drug, or a cure?”
My fingers tightened around Simon’s reins; I’d been expecting the question for days, now. “You know I can’t answer that.”
“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?”
That question, 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.”