Chapter 8 Faron
FARON
R ed smoke filled the air from the telltale burning of bloodthorn vines.
Faron approached the crimson cloud, the road leading him northward toward a bark-harvesting camp.
He eyed the cloud warily. That was a lot to burn at once.
War was coming, and when there was war, there was a need for iron-beech bark, which, when boiled, could cure many mild ailments and dull the senses of those in pain.
“Stay close,” he told Iris. The smoke was not deadly, but it could be deeply unpleasant to the eyes and throat. So far the cloud drifted lazily to the west, but if the wind changed, he wanted to be ready to aid the coyote immediately.
The cloud had thinned by the time he reached the camp.
More than two hundred workers hurried about, thick gray cloths tied over the lower halves of their faces as feeble protection against the smoke.
Iron-beech bark was highly prized, but to obtain it meant stripping away the bloodthorn vines that spiraled about the trees.
The vines’ thorns were sharp, and an errant touch could cause a man’s skin to swell and turn purple.
To stay safe, bark-strippers hacked those vines off with machetes, gathered them in piles, and then burned them, filling the sky with distinct crimson clouds.
A dozen Argylle soldiers camped near the road, lazily chatting while two remained on guard at the turnoff toward the camp and the iron-beech forest beyond. Their faces were also covered, except with blue cloth instead of gray.
“Move along, stranger,” one of the soldiers said.
He wore a blue-and-green tabard, the family crest of Casthe, if Faron remembered right.
They’d ruled Argylle a good fifty years before Faron claimed himself upon a pyre.
“If you’re nervous about the cloud, don’t be.
The winds are steady and will carry it west.”
“Not nervous, only curious,” Faron said, giving them his friendliest smile. The man looked none too pleased by his arrival. His hand was twitchy, but then again, all the soldiers were on edge. The talk of war. It had to be.
“There’s no bark here for sale,” the soldier said. “You want some, you buy it through the guild like everybody else.”
“I’m just wanting directions,” Faron said, and he gestured farther up the road. “It has been some time since I traveled here. That way leads to Arbert’s Crossing, yeah?”
The soldier gave him a curious look.
“No one’s called it that for ages. You got yourself an old map, stranger?”
“Much too old, I’d wager,” Faron said, laughing as if it were no bother. “What’s the dingy old town called now?”
“Arbertown.” The soldier sniffled and pulled at his own cloth covering his nose and mouth. “They’ve a good tavern, the Split Trunk. Fair owner, too. You could do worse than to spend a night there, and learn a bit more about the lands you’re traveling.”
“A good suggestion,” Faron said, and he bowed low. “Thank you for the name, and the advice.”
The Split Trunk was as welcoming as the soldier had promised.
Faron rented himself a room and then claimed a seat in the commons.
A gigantic kettle bubbled to his right, with enough stew to feed a hundred grown men.
The smell of yellow beans, onions, and sliced boar meat awakened his stomach.
Iris lay at his feet, looking miserable.
Even though he’d bribed the tavern keeper to let her stay with him, that didn’t change the foul looks patrons sent her way, nor remove her own discomfort at being inside a place so very human.
Come evening, workers from the iron-beech forest arrived in groups, and what had been a quiet room became awash in beer and song. Faron, never one to eat in solitude when given a choice, found himself a new seat at a square table with six boisterous young men.
“You see the size of that plume this morning?” a lively red-haired man said. “Donny nearly shit his trousers when the wind shifted.”
“You’re too mean to Donny,” said another, also red-haired but with a bushy beard to boot and heavy discoloration across half his face, a permanent mark of an unfortunate tangle with bloodthorn vines.
“Donny’s an ass,” the first insisted. “He ain’t working the forest like us, not really. He’s here ’cause his family’s got connections in the bark trade. Once Donny has a year of experience they’ll call him back and get him set up with a proper job, all while pretending he ‘earned’ it.”
Faron waved at the tavern keeper, then flashed another of Calluna’s coins. Drinks all around for everyone at his table, to ensure the lips kept flapping. As much as he liked the company, he had ulterior motives. But first…
“You going to be all right, Iris?” he asked. The coyote had followed him to the new table and curled up underneath his chair. She poked her head up at him and snorted. In response, he lowered his bowl of stew, his third of the night, and set it beside her.
Enjoy , he mouthed, then turned back to the men as Iris first reluctantly, then greedily, tore into the chunks of boar meat that floated near the top.
“I wish I could stay here for days, but my travels keep me on the move,” Faron told them. “Know you anything of the roads to the north, or perhaps those leading east?”
“Roads are roads,” the scarred man said. “Maybe some bandits will bother you, but that’s everywhere.”
“I don’t think that’s what he means,” the oldest-looking of the six said.
His face was completely shaved and his hair cut short, a trait a lot of the bark-strippers shared.
Though Faron doubted it happened often, he had heard stories of men getting bloodthorn vines snagged on their beards or unknowingly tangled into their hair.
“Everyone’s talking of war,” Faron said, deciding the men were properly liquored up. “And it’s not something I want to get caught in.”
The men exchanged glances.
“Then you might want to turn south instead,” said the oldest. “Doremy’s border isn’t far from here, and there’s no shortage of Princess Isabelle’s people coming over from Luelle to spread tales of how much better it’d be if Argylle were to become part of her kingdom.”
“What do you make of them?” Faron asked. “Forgive me, but I am new to the area and know little of this Isabelle.”
“She’s queen of Doremy in all but name,” the scarred man said, then paused to finish the rest of his drink. “Supposedly the goddess blessed her in the cradle. That’s what her people say, that she’s been chosen.”
“Sure, chosen,” the oldest muttered. “Chosen to stir up trouble.”
Faron drummed his fingers on the table. He needed an army if he and Sariel were to overthrow Eder’s kingdom in the east. From what he’d gathered, this Isabelle sounded like the revolutionary sort. Perhaps that could be used to their advantage…
“Chosen?” Faron asked, exaggerating his incredulousness. “By the goddess? And what has Leliel supposedly chosen her to do?”
“Here we go again,” one of the other workers said, standing. “I ain’t listening to this shit, not after what I went through today.”
Two of his friends went with him. Faron noted the reaction. Sentiment was divided, as should be expected in a border town. The others huddled closer, lowering their voices.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” the scarred man said.
“But Isabelle’s father, King Henri, is on his deathbed, and the moment he passes, the princess is going to declare war.
Everyone says she’s blessed by Leliel. Has the luck of the goddess, she does, and she’s led her father’s kingdom to prosperity while his health’s declined over the years. ”
“Everyone says a lot of things that sound too good to be true,” Faron said. “Blessed by the goddess? Come now, surely you three don’t believe it?”
They exchanged glances.
“Is it really so strange?” the oldest asked.
He rubbed his hands across his bald head, a nervous tic Faron had noticed over the course of the night.
“We’ve heard that the Church of Stars has purged all of Leliel’s believers from the east. Surely the goddess would not sit by and let her faithful suffer? ”
“Isabelle’s done good things, real good things,” the scarred man agreed. “Including banishing all of the Luminary’s preachers from her borders. We could do worse than to have Argylle join Doremy.”
“I know I wouldn’t miss King Bentley’s rule,” the third man muttered.
Faron crossed his arms, his mind racing.
To have won over people in a potential enemy kingdom?
Isabelle had to be something special. Not that he believed the goddess had blessed her, for he doubted the existence of the goddess at all.
But if this woman’s charisma was so strong, and the story built around her this powerfully appealing to the poor and destitute of the west…
Well. That spoke of potential. And if Isabelle professed such a strong attachment to Leliel, then Eder’s wretched church would be a natural enemy.
“Let’s say I wanted to know more of Isabelle,” he said. “Where would I go?”
“The recruiters are always telling us to go to Luelle,” said the scarred man.
“And where is that?”
The man gave the directions: follow a road many miles to the north before turning at a cross section and then traveling southeast. Faron mapped it in his head, then compared it to the geography he’d seen on the walk there.
“Why not just travel straight east?” he asked, confused. “There may not be a road, but I can hike the hills easy enough with just Iris and me, and save myself a full two days’ travel.”
“Nobody goes that way,” the scarred man said. “Those are the faerie hills. If you value your life, you’ll stick to the roads.”
“I see,” Faron said, hiding his curiosity. The faeries had moved this far west? He stood, careful not to move his chair until Iris was able to scoot out from underneath it. “Well, I should retire to my room. It was a pleasure to—”