8. All Talk
All Talk
Mariana
The farther we traveled from the city, the more my shoulders relaxed.
The High Road unspooled ahead of us like a silk sash, its muddy surface shining in the brief moments when the sun broke through the cloud cover.
Rain fell and cleared. Wind gusted and calmed.
I filled my lungs with fresh air and relished the way my cheeks prickled with the autumn chill.
Simon’s stride was smooth and purposeful underneath me, swaying my body with a steady, familiar rhythm.
There were even moments when I forgot about the persistent pinch of the wrap around my ribs, the worsening blisters.
The day would be almost pleasant if it weren’t for Faren’s incessant whistling.
“Keep doing that, and I’ll abandon you in the Western Wood, Oath be damned,” I snapped.
Faren’s pursed lips twisted into a smile, causing the note he was holding to pitch high and breathy until it faded. “Don’t like the Ballad of Marona? I can whistle something else.”
“You’ve been whistling court anthems for the past hour.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot you’re not much of a patriot,” he teased. “A folk song, perhaps?” He began whistling again, a jaunty tune that was better suited for a village pub filled with drunkards, the quick notes jumbling together.
“Your song choice is not the issue,” I ground out.
“Oh, so you’d rather talk, instead?”
The rain had momentarily stopped again, as if the weather was holding its breath.
We were heading south of the city, paralleling the River Wend in a shallow basin of pastures and farmland.
Homesteads peppered the valley, framed by proud rows of yellowing poplars.
Sunlight streamed through a crack in the clouds, illuminating fields in honeyed beams, as if the Fates themselves were reaching down to touch the grass.
After the crush of the city—the constant noise and bodily jostling an assault on my senses—I wanted to hear the river. The birds. The sighing of the wind through the trees. Not the push of air through Faren’s lips, and definitely not the lilt of his accent in pointless conversation.
“Silence,” I stated. “I’d prefer silence.”
Faren raked a hand through his hair, which looked rather luscious despite the morning’s on-and-off rain.
It was light brown in color, threaded with sun-kissed blond that sparked in the fast-changing daylight.
His eyes, I noticed, were also light brown, and combined with his proud nose and dimpled chin, he had the look of a nobleman descended from countryfolk: not so pretty that he appeared fragile, but not rugged enough to hide the privilege of his upbringing.
In short, he was handsome—if stereotypically so.
I couldn’t wait to see his cheeks smudged with dirt and campfire ash.
His hair tangled from the relentless autumn weather.
His armor scratched and dented. A falter in his easygoing grin, his confidence shaken.
Mighty Knights…they had no concept of the cruelty of their beloved realm; walled off in their castle atop a mountain, they saw the word from a high view and didn’t bother to look closely enough to see its flaws.
I would relish the day Faren was knocked off his high horse.
“Not a fan of small talk?” he asked.
“Not a fan of talk,” I replied.
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Men rarely have anything important to say.”
He didn’t appear the least bit offended. “I take it your Order is primarily made up of men?”
“Women do less crime,” I pointed out. “And the few who join the Valiant usually don’t last long.”
Catching my meaning, Faren’s mouth pressed into a grave line. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You did something wrong and are living out the consequences,” he conceded. “But the cruelty of your fellow knights isn’t part of your sentence.”
I arched a brow. “Isn’t it?”
His head tipped in question, so I went on.
“You think I was alone in my cell in the dungeon at Castle Might?”
This time, he blanched. He must’ve already heard about how old I was when I was convicted.
“Cruelty is the point,” I went on. “Compared to a dungeon, this—” I gestured at the world unfurling before us, the sunlight spilling down—“might look like freedom, but it is still a cage. And animals in cages…they get mean.”
“You don’t seem mean.”
I knew I was taking his bait when I asked, “How do I seem, then?”
He regarded me plainly, his gaze tracking over my hair, my face, my armor. His assessment was efficient, neither lingering nor hurried. I ventured a breath, thankful that my breastplate hid the shallowness of my inhale, how confined I was—physically and otherwise.
When his eyes found mine again, he held them for four strides of his horse’s relaxed gait. Then he said, “You seem afraid.”
I scoffed. “I’m a monster hunter. I fear nothing.”
“Maybe nothing tangible,” Faren mused. “But there are worse Fates than a gruesome death.”
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to look forward again, thinking of Grinnick. He had, indeed, died a gruesome death—and in my grief, there had been days I’d wished we could switch places. Living after loss had felt like a worse Fate.
“A gruesome death would be far preferable to listening to you talk for the next few weeks,” I muttered.
Faren chuckled, a chesty rumble. While most knights blustered at my insults, the words seemed to roll off Faren like water off a duck’s feathers—unruffled. I would have to try harder.
When he glanced at me again, it was with a shrewd expression. “I don’t think you dislike conversation,” he said. “I think you dislike dull conversation.”
My glare was icy. “How unfortunate, because I find you so very dull.”
“Do you, now?” he taunted. “Our last few run-ins didn’t seem dull.”
“That’s true,” I said. “You getting in the way and creating a mess of matters does have a way of making things more interesting.”
“Creating a mess?” Faren repeated. “You mean performing my duty to protect the realm?”
“Ah, yes, your beloved realm.” My eyes lifted to the clouds, which were heavy with the threat of more rain. “Mighty Knights love to talk about their hard-ons for the realm, but in my experience, it’s just another form of tedious posturing. Your Order is all talk.”
Faren appeared genuinely hurt by the accusation. “You don’t believe that.”
“I do.”
“Well, what of your Order?” Faren sniped. “Rotten criminals, the lot of them.”
“Those criminals are the only thing standing between the realm and ruin.”
“Not doing a very good job of it, are you? Given the intent of this mission.” Before I could point out that what happened in Yar-on-Gray was not a failure of my Order but Faren’s corrupt Lord, he continued. “You talk about the realm as if we do not serve the same purpose: to keep it safe.”
“My purpose in this Order,” I seethed, “is to suffer.”
“The purpose of your Order is atonement.”
“Two sides of the same coin.”
“Are you truly so unpatriotic?” Faren swept a hand out, gesturing at the hunkered cottages with smoke curling out of their chimneys and the gentle swell of distant hills. “Look around and tell me you do not love this land.”
“Of the two of us, who puts their life at risk on a daily basis to defend this land?”
“Don’t act like you hunt Morta out of the goodness of your heart.”
“You think me unpatriotic for questioning injustice,” I said, “but I believe turning a blind eye to it is far worse than its criticism. Your mindless loyalty will be your undoing.”
“Mindless loyalty—” Reining in his temper, Faren broke off and shook his head.
Before us, dark clouds contrasted the gold and green fringe of swaying trees. A gust of wind ruffled my hair, smelling of river water. The air felt charged.
“Neither of us are pleased to be paired on this mission,” Faren said tightly. “But it would behoove you to remember that we are on the same side.”
Brushing a strand of hair off my forehead, I pinned my travel companion with a hard stare. “We might serve the same realm, but we are not on the same side.”
Our argument silenced him, as did the downpour, and—in spite of my lingering irritability and damp clothes—I was grateful for both.
We traveled the rest of the day in silence, breaking off from the High Road around midday to head west in the direction of Yar-on-Gray.
It would take another four days to reach the edge of the Western Wood, where the ruins of the small town were located.
At sundown, we came upon a cluster of ash trees, their leaves shimmering like golden scale mail in the orange hues of the dying day.
The weather had cleared as we rode toward the setting sun, and without the insulation of clouds, the temperature had developed a bite.
Cold seeped into my boots, my bones, making my joints ache. The night would be bitter.
“We’ll make camp here,” I informed Faren curtly.
“Spectacular,” he replied, tone flat.
I swung off Simon and landed in the grass with a juddering thunk. Spears of pain shot up through the chilled muscles of my ankles and shins—a shock to stand, after so long in the saddle—but I was relieved to find that the ache in my ribs had lessened.
Faren’s armor clacked when he dismounted. “Should I hunt for dinner while you make camp?”
I pulled on a strap, loosening the cinch of my saddle. “Why don’t we look after our own needs.”
Faren removed his horse’s barding and dumped the armor on the ground with a clatter. When he turned to face me, his breath clouded around his face in the chilly air. “Would it not be more efficient to share the labor?”
“I’d prefer not to interact more than we have to.”
“Then splitting tasks suits us both.”
“Fine,” I said. “Go hunt.”
“Would you prefer to—”
“Just go,” I interrupted.
He held out Sunny’s reins. “Will you—”
I snatched the loop of leather from his grasp, assuming control of his horse. “I’ll look after him.”
With no more than a grunt of acknowledgement, Faren tromped off into the trees. I watched him walk away, his bulk cutting a path through the underbrush. Once he’d disappeared, I turned to the horses. “Let’s get you sorted,” I murmured.
By the time Faren returned, the first stars were appearing in the twilit sky.
The horses were free of tack, brushed, and grazing amiably on long tethers.
I’d set out my bedroll and removed my armor and wrap, and was seated on a fallen log, warming my hands with the fire I’d built, while I waited for a pot I’d positioned on the coals to come to a boil.
When Faren appeared on the other side of the flames with a dead hare in hand, I looked up. “Well done,” I said. “You might just survive the night, after all.”
“No plans of murdering me in my sleep?”
“Lucky for you, I have no intention of breaking my Oath over a minor inconvenience.”
“Minor? You flatter me,” he replied, glancing at his gear, which I’d heaped in a messy pile on the edge of camp. “Thank you for tending to my things.”
“My pleasure.”
Without another word, Faren left the firelight.
I stared at the flames, losing track of time, trying to find what little peace I could in the presence of another person.
I much preferred traveling alone, where I didn’t have to sleep with a knife in hand or make conversation or be perceived at all.
My favorite companions were my horse and the trees—nothing more.
A while later, Faren returned with a cleaned and skewered rabbit.
He’d also removed his armor and weapons.
Underneath the cloak draped over his shoulders, he wore a dark green shirt, the laces at the neckline undone to reveal a smattering of chest hair.
I watched the ends of the laces dangle over the fire as he leaned forward to set the rabbit over the flames, almost disappointed when he sat back without being singed.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Faren began, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands.
He appeared rather serious, but I couldn’t tell whether or not it was an act.
When I did not respond, he went on. “My Order can foster a degree of pretension at times, which does the realm a disservice.”
“How big of you,” I responded, sarcastic, even though…well, it did sound like a sincere acknowledgement, and I couldn’t remember the last time someone had offered me one.
“And I was wrong to generalize the knights in your Order,” he added.
“You weren’t wrong. We’re all criminals.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you’re all past the point of redemption.”
“Few of us care about redeeming ourselves in the eyes of your Lord.”
Faren met my eyes across the flames; his shone like amber gems in the firelight, filled with question and challenge. “Why not?”
“I can’t speak for the others, but I do not respect the Lord.”
“Why not?”
“Because he does not deserve my respect.” Faren opened his mouth, but I talked over him. “And for Fate’s sake, don’t ask me ‘Why not?’ again. If you can’t see it, you’re beyond help.”
Ignoring the way his brow creased, I reached for the simmering pot, using a wooden spoon to stir its contents. The beans emitted an earthy, sweet smell that made me salivate; it was a simple recipe, but one I made often.
While I stirred, it occurred to me that Faren might not know that Lord Haron was responsible for the creation of the Morta.
Mighty Knights were supposed to be privy to the inner workings of their territory’s politics, but it was in the Lord’s best interest to keep his corruption close to his chest. Attempting to create an army of impossibly strong knights to oppose the King of Marona, only to have the poor souls transform into abominations, necessitating the creation of the Order of the Valiant just to keep them in check, was not necessarily a blunder that would inspire loyalty.
Even among the knights who were in favor of Fenrir’s freedom from Marona.
Faren, for all his faults, did not seem like the sort of man to take kindly to such a heinous revelation about the Lord he served—but monsters aside, Lord Haron was still a petulant, dishonorable worm, and if Faren could not overlook his general odiousness, I wasn’t sure the Morta would tip the scale.
I was still debating whether or not to taunt Faren with the truth—and wondering whether my Oath would even allow me to—when he piped up again.
“That smells good,” he said.
“You don’t have to make nice,” I said, setting the spoon aside. The beans weren’t quite done yet. “We aren’t friends.”
“And here I’d hoped we’d stay up all night telling each other our deepest darkest secrets.”
I snorted. He chuckled. For some strange reason, the tension dissipated.
The rest of the night, we spent in silence.