28. Waldron-on-Wend
Waldron-on-Wend
Faren
Ido not intend to stay long,” Mariana said as they crested the final hill leading into Waldron-on-Wend. “I’ll retrieve my potions, then we’ll go.”
The town was tucked into a narrow valley between undulating, sheep-speckled hillocks.
Thatched-roof cottages were nestled in neat lines, with smoke curling from their chimneys.
The river was a silver-blue curve that cut right through the orderly cobblestone streets, its glassy surface crisscrossed by footbridges.
Dusk was upon the land, coloring everything in violet hues.
“You do not intend to stay the night?” The early evening breeze ruffled Faren’s hair, carrying a chill. “Enjoy a bath and bed, after so many nights on the road?”
Mariana glared at him, as if he should know better by now.
After all these days traveling south, he still didn’t know exactly why he’d come with her to Waldron—or why she’d let him.
With each passing hour, he’d pondered it, meanwhile getting ever farther from his life in Fenrir City.
It was his duty, of course, to investigate the Valiant rebellion.
But it was clear now, after their conversation two days prior, that they both knew he’d come for reasons of his own, too.
Your Oath is to the realm. You love the realm.
Mariana had meant to comfort him with those insistent, rather surprising words, but his loyalty had been the very thing he’d been—to use her term—moping about on this leg of their never-ending quest. How could he love a realm teeming with monsters and criminals?
How could he love a realm where homes burned, innocent citizens starved, and fear spread like blight?
Faren could blame the Lord for the injustice and focus on the realm itself from which to draw his Mighty faith, but without both pillars of his charge—land and sovereign—his duty felt tenuous.
He’d consoled himself by reminding himself that he was only following his morals, as Oderin had instructed—gathering information so that he might see clearer—but he could not logic his way out of the treasonous truth: Faren was also here for her.
Riding beside him, Mariana stared ahead at their destination, solemn.
He could blame that Fateful encounter in Brine for the ways in which his world felt shaken—her almost-admission about the Lord, the potion, the Morta's transformation—but over the past few days of riding, and camping, and sleeping mere feet from her, Faren had realized that it was their night in the Lark that had altered him most. Not something she’d said or specifically done, just them, together, sharing, laughing.
For a little while, at that corner table, the world hadn’t existed beyond the two of them.
Seeing her naked hadn’t helped matters.
Not that he’d seen much. He’d been too caught up in his concern over what had frightened her—but that night, as he’d settled into his bedroll, he’d found his mind circling back to her bare, muscular thighs.
Her nipped waist. The curved side of one full breast. The remnants of bruising on her ribs.
Seeing so much of her light brown skin and knowing how sensitive it was, how accustomed to pain.
Deep into the night, Faren had contemplated how he might draw pleasure from that skin instead, mapping how he would touch her to light up her magic most thoroughly.
By morning, he’d felt wretched. Not just from the tight, persistent ache in his groin, but the tension in his heart and mind, too.
Because it was one thing for his loyalty to falter over injustice and villainy, but it was another thing entirely for his loyalty to falter over a woman.
Ruinous. She was proving to be ruinous.
But he was getting ahead of himself. Faren would learn more in Waldron. Right now, he simply needed to keep his eyes and ears open, and his thoughts clear.
Faren raked his hair out of his face, feeling like his stitching was falling out at the seams—but refusing to come undone. “I’m aware my opinion matters little to you,” he said, “but I would appreciate a night in a proper inn. And I’m certain you would, too.”
Her lips pressed into a pout. “You’re ‘certain,’ are you?”
“Certain,” he insisted. “Think of it: a hot, steaming bath. Soft, clean sheets. A mattress made not of twigs and pebbles and frost, but wool and down. Fresh pastry for breakfast.”
The corner of her mouth lifted with temptation, but she smothered it. “Unfortunately, Faren, you’ll soon find that Waldron is without a proper inn.”
“I find that hard to believe,” he said, staring out at the twilit town.
He breathed deeply, smelling woodsmoke, livestock, and loam.
It reminded him of his family’s estate, the green scent of fertile country.
Voices wafted up from the valley, too, and as they rode closer, Faren saw that in spite of the dimming light, the townsfolk were abustle.
They were carrying crates from one cottage to another, affixing sunflower and laurel garlands to fences, wrapping ribbons around posts, and arranging paper lanterns along a path leading up a hill to the east, where more citizens were erecting a white tent.
Faren briefly wondered if this was Waldron’s Mirror Festival, but no, the timing was wrong—the Mirror Knights had set out before Faren and Mariana had and would’ve already toured the Fateful relics through Waldron by now.
“Any idea what they’re celebrating?” Faren asked.
Mariana sighed wearily. “It’s always something.”
Their horses’ hooves clip-clopped down the main road.
Folks took note—offering friendly nods, whispering amongst themselves—but none paused.
Like other towns along the Wend, Waldron was modest, but it was also a waypoint on the High Road, and clearly not unaccustomed to knights and travelers passing through.
Eventually, Faren and Mariana came upon a great inn at the southern end of town.
It was a sturdy structure with a charming facade, the roof a patchwork of new and old thatching, the wraparound porch streaked with freshly milled boards.
Above the door was a painted sign depicting a laughing opossum; it had stubby white teeth, a pink nose, and a curling pink tail, with a flower tucked behind one round gray ear.
“No proper inns?”
Mariana’s grumble was rather sardonic. “You’ll see.”
They dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching post out front. In spite of the bustle about town, this building was quiet, the outside lanterns unlit.
“Remove your breastplate,” Mariana instructed, making no move to take off her own. “Your Order will only complicate matters.”
Faren unbuckled the straps and set the metal piece on the ground beside the hitching post, then removed his golden vambraces, too.
Mariana did not bother to obfuscate her Valiant uniform, and at first that seemed unimportant—hers was a secret Order, and therefore her black breastplate meant little to common folk—but then, darkly, it occurred to Faren: they were here for potions, a secret to which his Order was not privy—or, at least, not the knights of his rank.
Staring up at the garland-draped inn, he considered the allegiance of the folks inside.
But Mariana did not wait for him to steel himself. As soon as he was stripped of his armor, she strode up the porch steps and flung the door open.
Inside was a pub, cavernous and dim. The tables and chairs were empty, the hearth cold.
Bottles shone behind the bar, tidy and polished.
More garlands, along with ribbons in autumnal shades, had been wound around the railing of a wide staircase leading up to a second floor.
Though no one was here, the room possessed an inviting feel to it, the wood well-worn, the scent a pleasant mix of yeast and ale and herbs.
“Knock, knock,” Mariana called. There was a renewed intensity in her demeanor, a harshness that Faren saw through.
Nails tip-tapped on the hardwood floor, followed by a deep woof. A huge wolfhound appeared, its wiry gray hair dusted with silver around the muzzle. It went right for Faren, snuffling around his boots, its feather tail wagging. Faren bent, patting the dog on its scraggly head.
“Mariana Bellkeep,” came a feminine voice, measured and wry.
The speaker materialized in a lantern-lit doorway behind the bar.
She wore a simple green dress, cinched at the waist, accentuating ample curves.
Her hair was a rich auburn, woven down one shoulder in a thick braid.
Amber eyes took in Mariana with quick efficiency—then flicked to Faren, lingering with curiosity.
“And you brought a companion,” she said, swinging a rag over her shoulder.
“Temporary travel acquaintances,” Faren corrected good naturedly, glancing at Mariana with a quick smile.
The woman’s lips pulled into an amused tilt. “My condolences, ah…” she hesitated, waiting for his introduction.
“Faren Hayward,” he said. “And you are?”
“Anya Alvara,” the woman answered. “Welcome to the Pretty Possum Inn & Pub.