36. Time to Go
Time to Go
Faren
Early the next morning, Faren burst through the guest room door and dumped a satchel at the foot of the bed, its contents clinking.
Mariana sat up with a start. Her face was red and puffy, and Faren had to will himself not to care about the tears she’d shed after his exit last night.
His body was stiff and chilled from sleeping in the barn, his skin itchy from the scratch of hay.
The fire of last night’s fury had gone out, leaving a charred sensation in his stomach.
He still wanted her.
“What’s this?” Mariana asked, wiping the bleariness from her eyes. Her shirt was twisted around her torso, clinging to her breasts, and Faren had to look away, back to the precious commodities he’d brought.
“Your potions.”
Mariana folded her legs and sat forward, reaching for the satchel. She lifted the flap, exposing vials packed with straw. “How?”
“I told Hattie that I could not stand to linger in your presence, and she took pity on me,” Faren said. “We can go.”
Mariana rubbed her temples. She looked like she’d slept about as terribly as he had, which was insulting, as she’d at least had the luxury of a real bed.
When she met his eyes, however, he saw a trace of befuddlement there, as if the night had melted some of her coldness.
He had the sense that she was about to say something—apologize, perhaps, or admit something—but Faren didn’t want to hear it.
He still wanted her—but there was still a legion of shoulds and should nots standing between them. The worst part of their argument last night was that Mariana had been right.
“I’ll meet you outside,” he said, taking his leave.
Downstairs, the other tenants of the inn were rousing.
Hattie was behind the bar, brewing tea. Noble sat at a stool across from her, watching her as if nothing else existed.
Idris sat before the hearth in the corner, with Anya curled in his lap and Wicker at his feet.
Beyond the front window, rain was coming down in sheets.
“You sure you want to depart in this weather?” Anya asked, unfolding herself from Idris’s grasp; his palm slid down her hip, patting her rump as she left his vicinity and drifted over to Faren. “You are welcome to the room all week, if you need it.”
Mariana had a point about the Possum’s apparent availability; Faren hadn’t seen another guest since they’d arrived.
With such fickle autumn weather in the southern Fenriran valleys, this wasn’t the time of year for casual travel.
Faren had probably needlessly slept in the barn last night, but he hadn’t had the heart to bother the bride about extra rooms on her wedding night.
“Your hospitality is unmatched, Anya, but I’m afraid duty calls us back to Fenrir.” Faren turned to Hattie. “Have I expressed my gratitude yet?”
“Only about a thousand times before the sun came up,” Hattie replied with a cheeky grin. “I won’t say no to more, though.”
“You have my utmost gratitude.”
“What are your orders?” Idris asked, shuffling over to his wife and folding his arms across her chest, hugging her from behind.
The newlyweds appeared dazed, happy, and Faren felt a jolt of joy on their behalf.
Their wedding had moved him, clearing away some of the despondency he’d experienced on the journey to Waldron by reminding him of what was most important.
This morning, however, his mind was muddled, lost in a swamp of caveats and quandaries.
“My original orders were to investigate Yar, with Mariana as my escort,” Faren answered. “Oderin also charged me with uncovering what I could about…” His Oath twinged.
“The Valiant rebellion,” Anya supplied.
Faren blinked at her candor. “You know?”
“Very little,” she replied. “Mariana warned us that something is coming, but you know her. She isn’t exactly forthright.”
Hattie leaned her hands on the bar counter. “Why does she trust you?” she asked Faren pointedly. “Do you know about the Lord?”
Faren swallowed—hard. The revelation about Morta being former knights and the implication of the Lord’s involvement weighed heavily on him, sinking him further into the muck of his own uncertainty.
“He’s a Mighty Knight,” Noble said. “He can’t answer that.”
“Secrecy is such an inconvenience,” Hattie complained.
“He must know,” Anya said, eyeing Faren. “Why else would he be here?”
Idris came closer, clapping Faren on the shoulder. “I see why Oderin chose you.”
“Wait.” For a moment, Faren felt like he’d been struck. “Does he…know? And he still…”
“Oderin is loyal to the realm,” Idris said carefully. “He is nuanced in his viewpoints.”
“That’s Idris-speak for, ‘Oderin is aware that Lord Haron accidentally created the abominations in a generations-long attempt to build an army capable of overthrowing Marona, and is investigating the problem from the inside,’” Hattie said helpfully.
“There. Are we done with the tediously cryptic speak?”
He’d already suspected it, but… Faren staggered backward, feeling sick. “How did you possibly learn—”
“It’s a long story,” Hattie said with a shrug.
Faren scrubbed a hand over his face. It was one thing to wonder at such a disastrous conclusion; it was another thing to have it expressed so plainly. To wonder left room for the possibility that he was wrong about the Lord, but Hattie’s explanation confirmed his worst imaginings.
Faren had served a would-be tyrant for ten years.
No wonder Mariana had been so vicious toward him, in the beginning.
“Breathe,” Idris urged, shaking Faren’s shoulder as if to jostle him out of his shock.
Faren hauled in a breath, his mind racing.
“If it helps, everyone in this room knows how you’re feeling,” Hattie added.
Perhaps that was true of his outrage, but not his guilt, nor the unanswered questions stampeding through his head.
Why hadn’t Oderin told him about Lord Haron?
Had the Mighty Oath kept the Major from being honest?
Would Faren’s own Oath bar him from warning his fellows when he returned to Castle Might?
His Order was not without its proponents of Fenriran independence, knights who blamed Marona for the territory’s scarcity.
Regardless of Lord Haron’s vile means, Faren imagined the Mighty would be split on who supported the Lord’s ambitions and who didn’t.
This was a scandal waiting to happen. This could fell a territory. And with the Valiant poised to strike…
Faren had to get back to Fenrir City.
But first, he needed to understand: “Why supply the Valiant with potions?” Faren asked Hattie. “Are they not using them with nefarious intent?”
Hattie’s nose scrunched, as if she had asked herself that question numerous times.
She reached across the counter and rested her hand atop Noble’s.
“The Morta were knights, once. Somewhere inside their monstrous bodies are souls who are suffering.” Her blue eyes landed on Noble.
“Who am I to withhold their cure?” she asked softly.
Noble squeezed Hattie’s hand, and Faren thought of the collapsing tent. If the Valiant were amassing an army of former knights who possessed inhuman strength like Noble’s…this wouldn’t just be an ambush. It would be a war between two corrupt powers.
And Mariana was caught in the middle of it.
Did she really believe that unseating the Lord was worth the chaos and destruction of a Valiant uprising?
“Heris promised Mariana freedom,” Faren said. “Do you know how he plans to deliver that promise?”
“He won’t,” Idris said.
Faren frowned at the former Valiant Knight. “Why would she believe him, then?” Unless she truly believed she didn’t have any other hope or choice?
Idris shrugged. “The Valiant doesn’t leave much to believe in. You take what you can get.”
“Freedom is all she’s ever wanted,” Noble added.
“Can’t say I blame Mariana for that,” Hattie mused.
“Blame me for what?” Mariana asked, descending the stairs.
She was dressed in her customary black, her armor and weapons already strapped in place. Her pack and satchel were slung over one cloaked shoulder. The sight of her made Faren’s lungs seize.
“I blame you for shit travel weather,” Faren said, gesturing toward the pouring rain. “You just love a miserable journey, don’t you?”
“Misery loves company.” She elbowed him in the side as she passed, heading for the front door. When she reached it, she wrenched it open, exposing them to the roar of the rain and a rush of cold air. “Ready, Kieran?”
Faren sagged, but he forced his voice into a bored tone. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied, following her out onto the covered porch.
His legs were stiff and unsteady. His heart frantic.
He was reeling, but there would be plenty of time for him to fret over the Fate of his Order and territory as they traveled back to Fenrir City.
His only hope was that he might uncover more about Mariana, too—not because of his duty, but because he… worried about her.
He cared about her.
Which was even worse than wanting her.
The others followed them out, lingering under the eaves of the porch. Faren shook hands with Idris and Noble, gave Anya and Hattie friendly hugs. Each of them, in turn, wished him a fortunate Fate—their words loaded, their tones apologetic, their unfinished conversation weighing heavily.
Meanwhile, Mariana watched with her arms folded, her features pinched.
When Faren had finished his goodbyes, he turned toward the rain, feeling waterlogged already.
Only then—on the precipice of their departure—did Mariana pipe up. “Your wedding was lovely,” she said to Anya in a quick mumble.
“Thank you for coming,” the innkeeper replied. “You’re welcome back anytime.”
Idris grunted.
Mariana scowled. “I don’t need your welcome to return when I please.”
Hattie made a dismissive, mocking little squeak.
Anya smiled. “Well, you have it.”
“Why?” Mariana asked.
Anya shrugged. “I’ve decided that you deserve a little kindness.”
Mariana huffed and strode out into the rain.
Faren offered them a lopsided smile. “I hope we haven’t caused too much of an interruption to your merriment.”
“Not any more than the rain.” Anya patted his arm. “Good luck in Fenrir, Faren. I do hope we cross paths again. You’ll always have a soft place to land in Waldron.”