17. Side Quest
Side Quest
Mariana
Dagger in hand, I slashed sideways, meeting only air.
My chest heaved and I blinked into the darkness, remembering where I was: the homesteader’s barn, sitting up in my bedroll on the hay-strewn ground.
Faren’s dark shape lay a few feet away, still asleep.
I heard Pete’s soft snores coming from the other end of our shelter, the rustling of sheep in their stall, the cow chewing its cud.
I lowered the dagger from my invisible foe. A dream, I told myself. Just a dream.
Grinnick and I had been racing through a field of wildflowers, laughing.
Then a pack of diseased wolves had appeared, and our frolicking had morphed into a run.
At some point during the chase, Grinnick’s dark hair had transformed to light brown, and his black breastplate had turned gold.
I’d awoken when the first wolf was upon us, instinctively reaching for the dagger I kept inside my bedroll.
Setting the weapon aside, I forced a breath, willing my heart rate to settle back into this reality.
I’d slept in my trousers and undershirt, and the fabric constricted my body in a corkscrew, seams biting into my skin.
Hay had worked its way into my waistband and cleavage, giving rise to a mild rash.
My magic prickled with annoyance, heightening the itch and the lingering hurt in my ribs, setting me on edge.
Stifling a groan, I reached for my cloak and stood.
Outside the double doors, the night sky was a deep cobalt dotted with stars.
The moon was mostly full, illuminating the poplar branches and casting long shadows on the wreckage of the cottage.
The air was frigid, windless, smelling of charcoal and mud, with the faintest reek of rotten apples and monster blood.
I sat on a crate against the side of the barn.
In the privacy of predawn, I slipped my hand in my pocket and retrieved the orange silk ribbon that I’d kept from the summons for this mission.
I stroked the smooth fabric between my fingers, relishing the texture.
It gave my hypersensitive magic something to focus on—something simple and soothing, that was not my rumpled clothing or the biting cold.
My eyes drifted closed. I tipped my head back against the charred siding of the barn, allowing my magic to focus and feel.
The temperature of the air, the texture of my clothes, the hardness of the crate’s wooden slats—all of it faded in favor of the ribbon.
Gradually, my senses eased. This was about as close as I ever got to peace: a quiet night, a moment of solitude, something other than a weapon in my hand.
But all nice moments had to come to an end.
Footsteps roused my attention. A calm, familiar presence approached. The crate next to mine groaned as he sat.
“Nice night.” Faren’s voice was rough from sleep.
“It is,” I answered, eyes still closed.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Finally, I regarded him. The welts on his cheeks had faded, leaving behind faint freckle-like marks.
A bruise lingered on his temple, the purple color obscured by the charming swoop of his hair.
I recalled the way his body had been thrown sideways by the Morta’s strike, the terrible metallic clang of his breastplate crashing on the cobblestones.
My grip tightened on the ribbon, and I worried it between my thumb and index finger. “No,” I answered. “You?”
A half-shrug. “Restless.”
“About?”
Wordlessly, Faren gestured at the wreckage of the cottage.
At first, I had thought his insistence to see the homesteaders safe had been about duty, and perhaps a moral obligation.
But now, it occurred to me that perhaps he also felt guilty for meddling in my fight against the Morta and the creature’s subsequent escape.
I could see the question on his face, his heavy conscience.
As furious as I’d been when he’d disobeyed my orders, I could not begrudge his mistake.
Not when it was becoming clear that his actions had not been driven by ego, but from a genuine desire to help.
He might’ve served the person responsible for the Morta’s creation, but I was beginning to believe that Faren had good intentions. A good heart.
I met his honeyed eyes. “We don’t know if it’s the same one.”
“It was clearly already bleeding when it got here,” Faren said, voice thick. “Because of me, it escaped Yar and came here.” His jaw clenched. “Why would it come here?”
“They used to keep to the Western Wood,” I said, “but they’ve grown more bold over time—more corrupted, I think.” I rubbed my sternum, feeling troubled. “Either way, this is not your fault. Internalizing it will only make you miserable.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience.”
I didn’t respond, my discomfort growing with the vulnerable conversation.
Mercifully, he didn’t pry. “And here I thought you liked seeing me miserable,” he mused.
I felt my lips twist into a small smile. “You have a surprisingly formidable positive attitude,” I said. “It’s alarming when you aren’t cheerful.”
He tipped his head back, laughing softly. My attention caught on the bulge in his throat, the Oath tattoo around the base of his neck. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the scruff added a ruggedness to his usual well-groomed appeal.
“You sure I can’t convince you to return to Fenrir?” I asked. “To rid me of your prolonged presence?”
“Sorry, Mariana,” Faren drawled. “I’m determined to do the right thing.”
“Nuisance,” I muttered.
An amiable silence spread between us. Purple tinged the horizon, and as I gazed at the sky, my fingers continued to fiddle with the ribbon, coiling it and then letting it unravel. When I glanced at Faren again, he was watching my hands.
“So you are a touch magician,” he said.
I shoved the ribbon back into my pocket, feeling caught.
A smirk. “I suspected it yesterday, when you touched my arm, but—”
“How is your arm, by the way?”
“Improved.” He gestured at where my hand still lingered in my pocket. “But don’t change the subject.”
“Shouldn’t there be some kind of after-dark moratorium on you needling me?”
“It’s basically dawn.” His soft tone was filled with teasing. “You’re a touch magician—like me.”
My stomach felt as if it were filled with snakes, squirmy and uncomfortable. Touch magic could be so intimate, and having that in common with him… “I don’t know what gave you that idea.”
He arched a brow. “You think I don’t know what a touch trinket is?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know,” Faren said, gesturing at my pocket. “A scrap of fabric or leather that’s soothing to your magic.” He studied me. “Have you never heard of that before?”
I stared at him for a moment, reluctant—then I shook my head.
“I’m surprised no one taught you about that.”
“The knights in my Order tend to avoid sharing their weird personal habits.”
Faren did not seem embarrassed. “I’ll admit I’m not proud of having a crutch, but it’s normal for touch magicians to carry around something for comfort.” He procured a small wooden figurine from his own pocket. Without hesitation, he handed it to me.
Delicately, I turned it over in my hands. It was a small whittled fox, sitting upright with its bushy tail wrapped around its paws. I swiped a thumb across the rippled surface of its tail, pleased with the sensation of the grooves, which were worn smooth. Then I handed it back.
“My sister Eva made it.” Faren dragged his finger along the same path my thumb had tracked, a smile creasing his eyes. “Reminds me of home.”
I wrinkled my nose at him. “You’re so wholesome.” I said it like it was a bad thing, but Faren chuckled.
His talk of home made me miss my own—or, rather, the home I’d once had. Sliding the ribbon out of my pocket again, I fiddled with the fuzzy strands of its frayed end. “I don’t think there are many touch magicians among the Valiant,” I said.
“We tend to be lovers rather than fighters.”
Curiosity raced across my skin, but I shoved it down. I did not need to think about how much of a lover Faren could be.
“I know you are a legendary thief,” Faren went on mildly, “but there are better senses for it, I imagine.” He stroked his jaw, as if he were genuinely considering it. “My sister Beatrice is a sound magician, and her ability to sneak around and eavesdrop was a problem growing up.”
“There are a lot of sound magicians among the Valiant,” I said. “Sight, too.”
“The bastards,” Faren joked, leaning back against the barn.
I snorted and faced forward again, mirroring his position. “They really are.”
The crinkles beside his eyes deepened with mirth, then smoothed. “I imagine that Valiant knighthood is a difficult existence for someone so attuned to sensation,” he said delicately, still facing the purpling sky. “Exposed to the elements and all.”
Something pulled in my diaphragm, a deep tug that made me ache. He understood, and his empathy brought out a pain I’d been ignoring. A black bruise on my heart. “It can be,” I admitted. “Though I do prefer the outdoors and wide-open spaces.”
“I noticed,” Faren said. “Back in Fenrir, among all that jostling, you looked as if you were moments away from unsheathing your sword and cutting through the crowd like underbrush.”
My laugh was low and wicked. He was right.
“Is your magic the reason you don’t want to be touched?” he asked.
He’d been careful to heed my request since I made it days ago, not coming in contact with me except for sparring and a few necessary moments since, all of which I had initiated.
There was subtext in his question: magic, or another reason?
The truth was a bit of both: I’d spent my teenage years terrified of nonconsensual interaction, run ragged by constant vigilance, until one unwanted grope defined my reputation; cut off a man’s hand, and word tends to spread.
Still, I wasn’t sure I wanted Faren to know about the sensitivity that I couldn’t turn off.
It was a weakness—something to be exploited.
We might’ve been getting along fine now, but he was still my adversary.
Yet his kindness made me want to tell at least a partial truth. To feel the connection of someone who empathized. Before I could elaborate, however, low voices came from inside the barn.
“Sounds like they’re up,” Faren said. “I assume you’ll want to get a move on.”
“Yes.”
I stood. Faren did, too. A gentle breeze kicked up, casting a flurry of yellow poplar leaves into the air.
A falling twig caught in my hair, and when I tried to pull it out, the brittle bark tangled painfully in the strands.
Unable to see the snarl, I tugged harder, wincing when the twig refused to slip free.
Faren’s throat bobbed, as if he were holding back. Finally, he asked, “May I?”
I was tempted to leave the twig where it was, but that seemed senseless. With a grumble, I turned around. “You aren’t going to slit my throat, are you?”
“You don’t understand my Order at all, do you?”
“So it’s your Order that keeps you from murdering me?”
“You don’t understand my character, either.” He walked up behind me, leaving a foot of space between my back and his front. His voice was close when he added, “I’d prefer it to be a fair fight.”
I huffed a single, defiant laugh. “Fair? Against me?”
I felt his answering chuckle gust against my neck. How was it that he never took offense at my superior skill? “I’ll have to touch your hair,” he said. “Is that alright?”
I almost told him never mind. But he already stood close, and within the faint aura of his warmth, I found myself swaying back on my heels. “That’s fine.”
Gently, he began to unravel the twig from my hair. I could feel the slight tremor in his hands, the reluctance. A loose strand skimmed my neck, and his fingers followed, brushing my skin to loosen the knot around the wood. The contact was ticklish, prickly—I tensed.
“Sorry,” he said. “Too light?”
How did he know? I wondered, but of course he knew. We possessed the same sensitivity.
His hands became firmer and more efficient. The slight tugs while he worked were far better than grazing touches, more palatable for my magic, and there was a moment when I felt like I didn’t mind his closeness.
But he did not linger. The moment the twig pulled free, he stepped back. “There.” His tone was thick—hoarse.
I turned around, about to thank him, but—
“There you are,” Orna interrupted, poking her head out of the double doors. “Faren, do you mind lifting one of the crates into the wagon?”
Embarrassment flushed my cheeks, though I wasn’t entirely sure why.
“Of course,” Faren told Orna, following her into the barn. Before he disappeared through the double doors, though, he glanced back at me with a lopsided grin.