Chapter 2 Faron
FARON
F aron traveled east, deeper into the forest, aiming to visit the village of Clovelly on the other side.
Once there, he could learn how much time had passed, use the coin Calluna left him to buy a room for a month or two, and then feel out what new life he wished to create for himself.
Perhaps he might search for his siblings, perhaps not.
It was much too early to make such decisions.
The day passed uneventfully, which was fine with him.
It gave him a chance to assess his new traveling companion.
She was a guarded sort, rarely keeping to his side.
After several hours of traversing the brush-strewn forest grounds, she started limping.
Upon noticing, he sat down and called her over.
Once she agreed, he took her paw in his hand.
A moment’s thought, and he sensed the swollen tendons within, and a shape of bone not quite right.
“This will hurt,” he told her before he squeezed, hard.
To reshape, things must first be broken.
She yelped and bared her teeth, but to her credit, she did not bite.
Afterward, he massaged the paw and let a bit of radiance seep into her to soothe the tendons and reduce the swelling.
After a few minutes of that, she laid her head on his lap, closed her eyes, and went to sleep.
He finished the mending not long after, but kept on massaging her paw.
An hour later, they resumed their travel, and this time, she did not stray quite so far.
There was also more of a bounce to her step.
She seemed old for a coyote, possibly in her sixth or seventh year, but there was no way to ask.
Coyotes did not track the number of revolutions of the moon, only the shape of it, and how it affected the hunt.
“Eat up,” he said when they stopped at a stream crossing.
He’d packed what meat he could, wrapping it in the leather Calluna had used to store his new clothes.
Two packages, one full of meat he’d cooked, the other, raw bits specifically for Iris.
They ate and drank their fill from the stream, Faron using his hand to sloppily bring the water to his mouth.
“Next time, if there is a next time, remind Calluna to pack you a canteen,” he muttered to himself as they continued their journey.
After a few more miles, Iris’s energy waned, her head sagging and her tongue hanging out one side of her mouth.
He stopped again, and while she rested, he scanned his surroundings.
Near his cave, the forest had been nothing but eulmore trees, but here was not quite so uniform.
Intermixed about half and half among the violet-leafed eulmores were shorter red oaks, their bark dripping with a sticky brown sap.
It kept insects at bay, though some bears had developed tongues thick and dull enough to endure its foul taste to eat the vermin that got stuck.
Their leaves were a fiery red, hence their name, and they mixed with the violets of the eulmores so that the sunlight painted the forest below in their wondrous color.
Against such a backdrop, mixed with the golden light of the setting sun, the smoke of a human campfire was all too easy to spot.
“Do you see it?” he asked Iris, and pointed. She looked up, sniffing as she did. A soft growl rumbled from her throat, and she bared her teeth.
“I doubt you’ve had many pleasant encounters with humans,” he told her. “But you’ll be around them during your travels with me. A few might even give you a comfortable scratch behind the ears, if you’re polite enough.”
Iris gave him a most impressive glare.
“Fine, then, don’t be polite. Just don’t bite anyone, either, since I will be the one they blame.” Her ears flattened. “And yes, you should care about that, too. At least, you will, once you learn the comforts of a well-provisioned inn.”
Faron led the way, surprised by how closely Iris trod at his hip.
Perhaps she’d had a particularly bad encounter with hunters sometime in her life.
It might even explain the lingering issue with her paw, though that was only a guess.
Life was not easy as a coyote. Faron adjusted the sword sheathed at his hip, gave Iris a gentle pat atop her back, and then entered the stranger’s camp.
“Greetings,” he said to the lone man at the fire, who startled to his feet. One hand dropped to the knife at his buckle, the other reaching for a wooden staff resting beside him. His meal fell to the dirt.
“I have nothing to interest thieves,” the man said, pointing the knife. His face was round, and his neck covered in a faint gray beard. He had a broad forehead and sharp cheeks; combined, they made his blue eyes seem beady.
“And I come not as a thief, but as a friend,” Faron said. He gestured to Iris. “Might my companion and I enjoy your fire?”
The stranger lowered his knife after a moment’s hesitation.
“Friendly company is always welcome,” he said. “Join me.”
Faron sat beside the stranger atop an overturned eulmore tree. Iris kept on the opposite side of the fire, and there was no disguising her distrust.
“Have you a name?” the stranger asked, settling down.
“Faron. You?”
The stranger’s cheek twitched.
“Preacher Russell, at your service.”
Preacher? Faron wondered. Of what faith?
Worship of the goddess, Leliel, was the dominant faith across the great island of Kaus, yet Faron saw no idols or amulets carved in her likeness.
Russell appeared on the heavier side, and Faron suspected much of it was muscle.
His hands were callused, as were his bare feet.
Nearby were his boots, well-worn and most certainly not cheap.
His outfit was peculiar. Though his trousers were plain, his shirt was a mixture of yellow and black, the differently colored threads neatly formed into rows.
Even more peculiar was his staff. Hooked to the top by thick wire thread was a closed glass jar. A collection of insects swarmed inside it, all kinds of beetles, centipedes, mosquitoes, and dragonflies. Most numerous of all were some dozen black horseflies.
“Strange to find a preacher out so far in the wilds,” Faron said.
“Clovelly isn’t too far away,” Russell insisted.
His voice rumbled. Given his size, he could be intimidating if he wished to be.
The big man ate strips of salted pork, and he tore a little segment free and held it between his thick fingers.
A flick of his thumb opened the lid of the jar tied to his staff, just enough to press the piece of meat inside.
It hit the bottom of the jar, and the insects immediately swarmed over it.
“Even we holy men need time alone from the people we tend. Besides, if Father orders me out here, then out I go, without complaint or question.”
Faron watched the meat disappear in moments. Not a single bug attacked another. Iris growled from the opposite side of the fire and then lay still.
“Might you answer me a question?” Faron asked, careful to keep his voice light.
“I am a preacher,” said Russell. “I aim to give answers, so please, ask.”
“What year is it?”
The preacher lifted an eyebrow. His cheek twitched yet again.
“My, you must truly love your solitude. We are in the eighty-sixth year of Father.”
A new measurement of tracking time? That complicated things.
“I am not familiar with such years,” he said.
Russell grunted and bit a piece of pork.
“A few of these far western kingdoms stubbornly refuse to adopt the proper calendar, so I suppose I should not be surprised. I believe it’s somewhere around 380, or maybe 381 Years After. I could not tell you for certain.”
Years After marked the time since the Anaon Kingdom united the entirety of the island. Its shattering had led to the rise of what were known as the little kingdoms, dozens of petty human realms eagerly dividing up the island and slaughtering one another in never-ending squabbles.
Faron kept his face calm as stone upon hearing the date. Almost seventy years had passed between his burning on the pyre and his eventual return.
“It seems I must spend our evening confessing my ignorance,” Faron said. “Who is the Father, that kingdoms would change their years to honor him?”
Russell set his plate on the log beside him and wiped grease onto his trousers. There was no hiding his suspicion.
“Do you tease me, traveler, or have you spent so long in these woods you know nothing of the outside world?”
Faron flashed him a smile. “Think what you wish, my friend. I seek only to learn.”
Russell grabbed his staff and shook it, agitating the bugs.
“Father is the mender of our sins. Father is the forgiveness that can soothe, and it is by his power that my prayers heal the sick and wounded. Here, let me show you. Look into my jar, traveler. Gaze upon the creatures trapped within. Do you see them?”
Faron did. They were angry and scurrying.
“Keep looking upon them,” Russell continued. He held the staff closer, the jar swinging from the wire. “But this time, focus not on the creatures, but the empty center. Concentrate on that space. Do you see the light there? Do you see it, growing? Do you feel it, warming?”
His words were true. A light did shine within the glass, and Faron felt warmth in his breast. That warmth, though, was not the result of the spell the preacher attempted to weave. It was rage seething to be unleashed. Closer, closer, the jar. Closer, the preacher’s hand and staff.
“Gaze into the light,” Russell said. “Let it comfort you. Wash away your thoughts. Feel the life leave your limbs. You are silent. You are still.”
The light emanated from the jarred creatures, an unseen force sucking golden, sickly swirls from their bodies. The flying bugs hovered in steady revolutions. Those who crawled ran in circles beneath it. Faron felt it trying to ease away his thoughts and relax his muscles.