27. It’s Okay to Change Your Mind
It’s Okay to Change Your Mind
Mariana
For the next five days on the road, as we traveled south to Waldron-on-Wend, we did not speak.
Faren did not comment on what I’d allowed him to see of the Morta’s transformation, did not ask about Castor and Brom’s sudden appearance, and did not press me about what my Oath had not permitted me to tell him about the Lord.
He simply stared out across the red and brown landscape, ruminating.
Which left me to ruminate, also.
Heris was suspicious of me. Of Faren. That was why he’d sent Castor and Brom, no doubt.
They might’ve been on the Morta’s tail, but they were also meant to monitor me, and stop me from doing exactly what I’d done: show a Mighty Knight what was really afoot.
I was on thin ice with my faction, and I did not trust how easily they’d let us go—even if they had believed what I’d said about Faren’s loyalty.
I had the sense that Faren might’ve believed me a little, too.
Trust was growing between us, germinating like a seed, sprouting a reckless hope inside me.
A Valiant uprising would lead to my freedom, but I had no illusions about its potential impact on Fenrir territory.
The Lord was a bastard, but so, too, was Heris.
What if—with a Mighty Knight on my side—it was possible to thwart them both?
I was a fool for hoping, but there it was, taking root.
Still, I didn’t know why Faren had decided to come with me to Waldron.
This was far outside the scope of our mission, and I couldn’t tell whether he meant to uncover what was unfolding within the Valiant to report back to the Lord, or if he wanted to help in some way. I wasn’t sure if he knew, either.
The sum of all these things was too much—heavier than my breastplate, more confining than my clothing, more persistent than autumn’s frost. I sat tall atop Simon, stoic as ever, but unlike before, when I wore my harsh attitude like armor—protecting the vulnerable parts of myself—the act was beginning to chafe.
Two days from Waldron-on-Wend, I awoke from a full night’s sleep feeling utterly exhausted.
The weather had turned mild overnight. Daybreak came with clouds: blush-colored cumulus that coalesced into a quilt of pale gray.
We were camped on a grassy bank beside the Wend, sheltered by an old oak.
Leaves crunched under Sunny and Simon’s hooves as they nosed around, nibbling grass.
Faren and I sat by the smoldering fire, him, repacking his gear with a sullen expression, and me, cradling a mug of tea.
Like all mornings since Brine, Faren ignored me, lost in his own head, utterly unlike himself.
At some point, he’d wormed his way into my good graces, and I missed his persistent cheer and chatter—his companionship.
But I didn’t have a knack for conversation; I didn’t know how to draw him out as he had done with me.
Finishing my tea, I ran a hand through my tangly hair.
My scalp was greasy with campfire ash and travel dirt, suffocating my magic, making me itch.
Maybe a wash would bolster me. Rinse away my inner contention.
The river water would be freezing, but that was preferable to the unpleasantness of feeling so grimy inside and out.
“I’m going to bathe,” I announced.
Faren grunted in answer but did not look up.
After retrieving soap and clean clothes from my pack, I hurried upriver, past where the horses were grazing and around a bend, where tall sedges and reeds obscured me.
I wasted no time in stripping off my old clothes and stepping into the slow-moving current, wading into my waist. The water was so cold it stung, sending a shock of pain from my ankles up into my jaw.
My lungs seized, and I sucked air through my teeth, pushing through the discomfort.
I dropped down, dunking my head—only to break the surface with a swear on my lips.
Then I was scrubbing, working soap into my hair, washing furiously.
My body was crisscrossed with scars, which paled as the blood left my extremities.
The remaining tenderness in my ribs ached, the skin still mottled with yellow bruising.
As I washed, my more persistent pains—tight muscles, old injuries—began to fade, my touch magic slowed by the cold.
Shock morphed into endorphins, pulsing through me as I acclimated to the chill.
I ducked under once more, rinsing the soap from my hair; when I resurfaced, I felt revived.
It was hard to think about my plight when I was freezing my ass off, and I found myself enjoying the sting, the freshness, the robins singing in the oak boughs overhead.
I paddled a little deeper, relishing the buoyancy of my body and mind.
A white shape slid into my periphery. I turned—slowly—to see a swan drifting closer. At the sight of me, it arched its neck and let out a warning hiss.
A primal, irrational fear rose up inside me.
I screamed, surging out of the water. I clambered over slippery rocks and sediment, crashing through reeds as I scrambled for the shore.
I gathered my clothing from the riverbank, and then I was running back toward camp, thoughtless with panic.
The horses startled when I burst through the underbrush.
Faren stood, his hand moving to the dagger at his belt. “Mariana, what’s—” His eyes widened, roving over my body.
My naked body, obscured only by the bundle of clothing clutched in my arms.
I must’ve looked like a madwoman. Wet hair. Bare feet. Naked and dripping and wild-eyed with alarm. Coming back to myself, I felt my face heat. “It’s nothing,” I said through panting breaths, sounding wholly unconvincing.
Faren was tense with alarm. He took a single step closer, his hand still at the ready on his weapon, gaze trained on my face.
“I’d say you look like you’ve seen a monster, but in truth, I’ve never seen you look so frightened—not even in the face of a Morta.
” He took in out peaceful surroundings. “What is it? What did you see?”
The swan materialized on the river to my right, and I startled, dropping a garment or two from the bundle in my arms. Hysteria clogged my throat.
Faren’s attention slid to the swan. Flicked back to me. He tried and failed to smother a grin. “Maiden Morta Killer.” He cocked his head, causing his hair to fall handsomely across his forehead. “Are you afraid of…swans?”
I groaned, mortified. “I—”
Faren began to chuckle, a low, chesty rumble that morphed into a full-on roar. He tipped his head back, filling the clearing with the sound of his amusement.
The wind kicked up, making my wet skin prickle. My hair was sopping, dripping icy drops down my spine. “Fuck you,” I said, but there was little bite to it—mostly embarrassment.
Faren was still laughing, wiping tears from his eyes.
When he finally looked at me again, he seemed to remember my current state, his attention tracking over the goosebumps on my bare arms and legs.
His laughter subsided, but mirth remained in his expression, creasing tight around his eyes and mouth.
“You’re cold.” He came closer, reaching for the clasp of his cloak. “Here.” He removed it from his shoulders and held it out, forming a curtain between us as if to protect my modesty.
I hesitated a moment, then set my bundle of clothes aside and turned my back to Faren, allowing him to drape his cloak around my shoulders.
The wool was rough, but it was toasty from his body heat; it smelled like campfire, and spice, and him.
I nestled deeper into the fabric, wrapping it around my chilled skin.
Once I was covered, Faren knelt, picking up the garments I’d dropped.
“Chivalry will not make up for your mockery,” I stated, staring down at him.
“Wasn’t trying redeem myself,” he said, smirking up at me.
The hem of his cloak fluttered around my ankles, brushing his arm as he reached to retrieve a sock not far from my bare feet.
“Where are your boots?” he asked.
I curled my toes on the carpet of fallen leaves. “I must’ve left them on the riverbank.”
Faren rose, forcing me to crane my neck to look at his face. “I’ll go get them.”
“I can—”
A small smile formed on his lips, and he handed me my fallen clothes. “Warm your feet.”
While Faren traipsed off to find my boots, I thew a fresh log on the fire and seated myself close to its flames.
I laid my damp socks and undergarments nearby, warming those, too.
Gradually, I felt the feeling return to my toes—hot, tingling, aching, then finally easing.
The scratchy fabric of Faren’s cloak scraped at my shoulders, clavicles, breasts, but I couldn’t bring myself to dress.
Warm and wrapped up in the scent of him, I wasn’t ready to waft cold air into my cocoon just yet.
When Faren returned, he dropped my boots by the fire and sat on the log beside me, leaving a foot of distance between us. He waited all of thirty seconds before wheeling on me. “Swans, of all things? I insist you explain.”
“And invite more ridicule? I think not,” I said primly.
Faren scooted closer—close enough for me to spot the golden flecks in his irises, the sun-streaks in his hair, the stubble on his cheeks.
Without his cloak, the round caps of his shoulder muscles and the broad expanse of his chest were stark underneath his shirt.
He really was handsome. Devastatingly so.
“Tell me,” he said. “I have to know.”
“This, you have to know?” I asked. “After everything that transpired in Brine, you want to ask me about my phobia of swans?”
His forehead pinched. “I thought we weren’t talking about Brine.”
“Weren’t we?”
“Didn’t seem like it.”
We both stared into the fire, where the flames were catching on the new log, snapping and throwing sparks.
“If you won’t tell me about the swans,” he said, his voice iron, “then tell me who the fuck put those bruises on you.”