19. Ana
Ana
Faren
We need as many turned as possible for what’s to come. The words ricocheted in Faren’s mind, taunting him as he packed up his gear and mounted Sunny the next morning.
Over the past few days, Faren had forgotten the secondary part of his mission: uncovering what he could about the Valiant rebellion.
He’d been too caught up in what he’d seen in Yar, the homesteaders’ plight, and the shifting sands between himself and Mariana.
But what he’d overheard last night—the tail end of a conversation shrouded by sound magic—clanged like a wake-up bell, demanding he open his eyes and focus.
Oderin had implied that Mariana was a weak link in her faction, forced to comply due to some leverage or promise held over her by her leader. Faren had never met Heris Morvain, and therefore did not know the sound of his voice, but he knew the sound of authority.
He also knew the sound of a threat.
Your freedom relies on your cooperation.
Freedom. Was that what Heris had promised her? Mariana’s sentence was supposed to be for life, which made a guarantee of liberation undeniably valuable. Faren would be hard-pressed to see another reason for Mariana—independent, cunning, and capable as she was—to serve anyone other than herself.
But what did her service really mean? And how could Heris promise such a thing?
You left this in Yar.
Last night, Faren had watched through the blackberry bushes as a tall, rangy figure with a longbow strapped to his back had handed Mariana…something. It had glinted in the starlight, not metallic, but perhaps glass?
Use it on the abomination.
During the Morta fight in Yar, Faren had heard the clank of a bottle, had seen Mariana fumbling.
He’d thought she’d dropped a dagger, but perhaps he’d been wrong.
Were the Valiant attempting to give Morta potions?
To drug them? To…alter them in some way?
Turned, Heris had said. Remembering how Phina’s associate had almost turned into a Morta in the middle of the city, that phrasing didn’t make any sense to Faren.
Unless the Valiant had discovered a cure?
Fates, the idea was dizzying. And unlikely.
Not even Fenrir’s most acclaimed alchemists had uncovered a cure for the curse that plagued the abominations.
But it was clear to Faren that the Valiant had a resource of some kind at their disposal—a card up their proverbial sleeve. And Mariana knew what it was.
From his place atop Sunny at the back of their travel party, Faren found himself persistently glancing in Mariana’s direction.
She sat tall in her saddle, hips swaying with the easy strides of her charcoal-gray gelding.
Her hair was loose. Faren couldn’t help but recall how soft the strands had felt under his fingers the day before.
The sensation had unraveled something in his stomach; it felt worryingly like the knot that secured his resolve.
He tried to tap into the hatred he’d felt at the start of their mission, a simple loathing that took no context from the nuanced sides of her he’d witnessed since then—but his heart, gut, and instincts wouldn’t let him.
She might’ve served a vile criminal, and been complicit in a rising rebellion against the Lord, yet…
Yet.
Faren breathed deeply, trying to clear his head.
The air was frigid in his lungs, but the sun was bright and cheerful.
Flocks of small birds darted in and out of the hedgerows, chirping merrily.
Deer took note of their caravan and fled, bounding with great leaps into a bordering grove.
All around, the fertile hills of Fenrir rolled toward distant horizons in shades of autumnal browns and stubborn greens.
At midday, the travel party reached a wide basin where an offshoot of the River Wend burbled happily, hemmed in by reeds, red-stemmed dogwoods, and magnificent old willows. They parked the wagon and paused, allowing the horses, heifer, sheep, and dogs to drink from the clear water.
Pete and Orna were in good spirits, all things considered.
In spite of Faren’s conflicted inner state, for much of the morning, he had endeavored to keep up morale, regaling them with tales from his Mighty Knighthood and silly stories about his sisters.
His efforts seemed to have paid off, and when Pete and Orna settled in the grass to snack on apples in the sunshine, their laughter was comfortable.
Giving them privacy, Faren meandered a little ways up creek, to where Mariana sat on a boulder.
A great weeping willow swayed behind her in a spectacular cascade of gold; when the wind stirred, leaves twirled down like paper confetti, sprinkling her head and shoulders.
Her elbows were on her knees, wrists loose.
She still wore the gloves Orna had gifted her, with vambraces strapped tightly over her forearms. The silver winked in the shifting light.
What was going on behind those watchful eyes?
When exactly had Faren stopped disliking the cold expression on her face?
Why did he instead feel like he was teetering on the edge of one of her sharp cheekbones?
The only soft thing about her was her mouth, which was quick to cut him open with insults.
And he must’ve been a glutton for punishment, because—in spite of everything—he’d missed their constant bickering over the past couple days.
Faren wanted to say something, to break the odd silence that lingered between them, but he couldn’t find the right combination of words. So instead, he drew his sword, Mercy, and leveled it under the delicate curve of her jaw.
When she looked up, her dark eyes—devastatingly doe-like—held in them a flash of something tender.
It was like seeing a memory pass through her, a raw emotion, a dream clearing.
Her attention dipped to the sharp edge of his blade, then her mournfulness was gone, replaced by a look of challenge.
With a glimmer of playful malice, she smiled wickedly.
In one fluid move, she drew her own weapon and stood, swiping his sword away from her neck.
And then they were engaged, swapping blows for blows.
The clash of metal clamored through the grove; birds erupted from the trees.
Faren’s breathing quickened, his muscles woke up, his blood began to pump with purpose.
When Mariana tipped the bottom edge of his breastplate, he laughed.
Meanwhile, she fought lackadaisically, not bothering to get in too close.
Her lazy attacks and parries were a mockery made by body language, an insult she didn’t have to speak: This is child’s play.
Taking the bait, Faren crowded her personal space, getting in closer than he would advise knight of his size; he used the backhand grip he’d been practicing with Warner, allowing him better control as he moved ever nearer, challenging her taunt.
She let it happen, as if say, Suit yourself.
A bodily shove here, a nick with her blade there.
He could smell her, sweet and earthy. His magic roused to meet the aura of her body heat, attuning to the disturbance of air that she left in her wake, like wind off the wing of a bird.
It exhilarated him. It made that knot in his stomach uncoil even further.
A solid clank rang through his breastplate, rattling his chest.
“Got you,” Mariana said.
Her hair was a mess around her face. Her tawny cheeks were flushed from exertion. Her lips parted as she panted, the corners of her mouth turning up with an amused, satisfied grin.
Somewhere behind Faren, Orna and Pete whooped and clapped, praising Mariana’s victory.
At the sound of their cheers, Mariana’s smug smile quaked, her eyebrows furrowing with an appreciative sort of surprise, like she wasn’t used to being celebrated.
She clenched her jaw, and Faren braced for another round of sparring.
But then the wind kicked up. Clouds parted.
A beam of sunlight slanted through the willow’s boughs, and golden leaves rained down.
Instead of attacking him again, Mariana tipped her face up toward the sky.
Faren knew in the nerves of his own magically enhanced skin that she was basking in the sun’s weak warmth. He took a single step closer. A leaf caught in her hair, and he ached to pluck it free, to touch her soft waves again.
Instead, he sheathed his sword, the hilt thudding home against the scabbard strapped to his back.
The sound seemed to break Mariana’s spell, and she met his gaze with lingering mirth.
Somewhere along their journey, he’d begun to crave the victory of her trust—and that look on her face was a battle won.
He knew his next words would ruin the truce.
“Robins don’t sing at night,” he said. “You think I wouldn’t notice?”
Her face paled, mouth parting into a little oh.
When he walked away, he felt the knot in his stomach pull tight.
On the third day of travel, dark clouds gathered in the southeast. The party rode toward the storm with grim resolve.
Mariana assured everyone that they’d reach their destination by sundown, but the rain arrived first, sheeting ruthlessly upon their heads.
Droplets pummeled Faren’s armor, roaring high above and hissing in the puddles underfoot.
His clothing was soon soaked, wool and linen scraping wetly against his skin.
The livestock hung their heads, their hooves swallowed by the sodden ground.
Even Mariana raised her hood as she forged ahead into the torrent.
The afternoon was long and miserable. A clap of thunder directly overhead spooked the sheep, and it took half an hour for the dogs to corral the scattered flock.
The deluge also caused an overabundance of mud, in which the wagon got stuck twice, forcing Faren to dismount and wedge wood under the wheels to provide enough traction for it to roll free.
Dusk came, diminishing their visibility even further. For what felt like hours, all Faren could see was the vague outline of the wagon ahead of him, the dark shadow of Mariana on Simon beyond, and rain falling all around.
But then, gradually, new shapes appeared.
A hedgerow gave way to a wooden gate, barring a white mass of dozing sheep.
A watchdog woofed at the travel party’s approach, and Pete and Orna’s dogs responded with their own soft yips.
Up ahead, a home was materializing. In the darkness and downpour, all Faren could make out were the bright, butter-yellow squares of its windows, illuminating the stormy night.
The scent of woodsmoke reached him, promising warmth.
When they arrived at the front walkway, Mariana dismounted and handed Simon’s reins to Pete; Faren followed suit.
“Are you sure they’ll welcome us?” Orna asked doubtfully, staring up at the large, two-story cottage.
“I’m sure.” At that, Mariana strode for the door.
Faren hurried after her. “How do you know these folks again?” he whispered.
Her jaw was tight as she climbed the porch steps. Faren couldn’t tell whether she hadn’t heard him or simply didn’t want to answer. He hovered behind her as she knocked on the solid wooden door.
When it opened, light and heat sliced across Faren’s face.
A woman stood on the threshold, wrapped in an emerald-green shawl.
She was short in stature, with regal lines around her eyes and mouth.
Her silver hair was piled atop her head, loose strands spilling out.
As she took in the sight of Mariana—armed to the teeth and soaked to the bone—the woman’s big brown eyes widened, and Faren wondered if he would’ve been a less threatening visitor to knock on her door.
But she did not seem afraid. She seemed taken by surprise, a mix of reluctance and relief. “Ana?” she whispered.
Mariana offered a wan smile. “Hi, Mom.”