Chapter 13 Faron
FARON
W hen Faron awoke, he was in a wide tent.
It was a sight he recognized all too well: a battlefield surgeon’s tent.
He lay on blankets spread across the grass.
His back hurt. His face hurt worse. Outside was dark, the tent’s only light coming from a trio of candles burning in tin holders on a little stool nearby.
“Oh, you’re awake.” A woman’s voice spoke to his right.
He turned, his vision momentarily blurred from the movement.
With his lone good eye, he surveyed the surgeon.
She was a middle-aged woman, her red hair tightly bound into a bun to keep it from her face.
The only thing more severe than the shape of her cheeks and jawline was the look in her eyes.
She wore an apron, as if she were a butcher, only a butcher’s apron would not contain quite so much blood.
“I am,” Faron said, the words sluggish on his tongue.
“Consider me surprised. I’m Rowan, the one who stitched you up so you didn’t bleed out the other half of your blood.”
Faron closed his eyes and waited for his aching head to ease. He could heal himself immediately using radiance, but that would be tough to explain to an experienced surgeon. So instead he lay there, slowly letting feeling return to his limbs.
“You’ve probably figured it out already,” Rowan continued, kneeling beside him. A surprising softness came over her gruff voice. “But you’ve permanently lost sight in your right eye. I’m sorry.”
Faron cracked a grin.
“I’ve endured worse.” He opened his other eye and glanced about. “Where is everyone else?”
“Oh, you get this tent all to yourself,” Rowan said, rising to a stand. “A boon given to the One-Man Ram. That’s what they’re calling you, by the way. I hope you like the nickname, because you haven’t the slightest hope of changing it.”
Faron felt for the stitches in his back. Instead he touched only rough cloth, half soaked through.
“Don’t be foolish,” Rowan said, grabbing his wrist. Her other hand pressed his chest, forcing him to relax with gentle but unrelenting pressure.
“Once you’re up and about, I’ll see if we can find you a hand-glass so you can survey my handiwork.
For now, rest, and eat something, if you feel capable. ”
Arguing with this woman was like yelling at the moon to remain in the sky come the rise of the sun, and so he relented.
“How long was I out?” he asked, still trying to orient himself.
“Just a few hours. We’re set up inside Wendway Fort. By the sound of it, we won’t be marching for a few days, so you’ll have opportunity to rest.”
Good, that meant he had time to think. He did not fear for his recovery, but there were… complications that needed to be addressed. But how?
Rowan released her grip on him and retreated from the bed while wiping her hands on her apron.
“Now you’re awake, let me see about getting you some water to drink,” she said. “Stay here, and don’t do anything foolish like getting up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She left him alone in the broad tent. It gave Faron a chance to shift his weight and, without fear of Rowan’s disapproval, check the stitches in his side.
His fingers slipped underneath the wrapping and then gently tested the threads.
Tightly knit. The woman knew what she was doing.
That spoke well for others in Isabelle’s army, when their own time came to visit the surgeon’s tent.
A bit of nervousness tightened his throat. Had Bart survived? He remembered tossing the lad aside to protect him from the oil before breaking through the door. Had he escaped? Or had an arrow taken him?
The flaps of the tent opened, interrupting his thoughts. In stepped Princess Isabelle, accompanied by an older gentleman in a warm-looking black coat and cap. Permanent frown lines marked his lips and forehead.
“Miss Rowan tells me you have recovered,” Isabelle said, standing by the entrance.
She’d shed her armor, though her sword remained buckled to her hip.
She wore a fine set of black trousers, a loose white shirt with long sleeves, and a sapphire-studded necklace hanging low over her chest. Her hair was loosened, a golden curtain wrapping about her neck and shoulders.
Just having her look upon him made Faron’s stomach suddenly fill with butterflies.
For what reason would the princess visit a mere soldier?
“That seems to be true,” he said, and then gestured at his face. “Though we might need to discuss her opinions on what ‘recovered’ means.”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t even twitch. If she were bothered by the ghastly burn sealing over his eye and scarring much of his cheek and chin, she did not show a hint of it.
“You live,” she said. “It is more than could be said for others who fought this day.”
Faron settled onto his blanket, his lone eye studying the woman.
She fascinated him, and most maddeningly, he couldn’t figure out why.
There was something special about her, something that made her skin sparkle and add an otherworldly glow to those golden eyes of hers.
Something like radiance. Something like the blessing of a goddess.
But that was absurd.
“Aye, you’re right, I live,” he said. “But since you have been so kind to grace me with your presence, might I ask a favor?”
Caution painted a guarded mask across her face.
“And what favor might that be?” she asked.
“Pray over my wounds, so the goddess may heal them.”
“My lady’s days will be long if she must petition the goddess for our soldiers’ every scratch and bruise,” the accompanying gentleman interrupted.
“This is hardly a scratch,” Faron argued. “And surely my actions on the battlefield have earned the attempt?”
The cautious mask cracked. Isabelle smiled down at him, a sudden levity to her serious demeanor that made her seem all the more beautiful.
“Forgive Aubert his caution. He has been my family’s adviser since I first learned to crawl, and he is rather protective of me.”
“Does that protectiveness extend to the battlefield?”
Aubert’s demeanor was carefully controlled, his voice as calm and smooth as a secret pond.
“I count numbers and track provisions. I do not man the battlefield, soldier, but I ensure we have food in the bellies and coin in the pockets of those who do fight. I shall let you decide which is more important to winning a war.”
Despite his ribbing, Faron decided he liked this Aubert fellow. He was proud of his work, and there was no hiding his adoration of the princess.
“Forgive me,” he said. “The pain has robbed me of my manners.”
Isabelle knelt beside him and shifted her legs to get comfortable.
“Let me see if I may do something about that,” she said, and settled her hands upon his face. He closed his eyes and listened to her pray.
“Beloved Leliel, this man has given much to your cause, and fought well in defense of your honor. Ease the suffering of his flesh. Make well his wounds, and grant him the strength to face these coming days. For your kindness, your mercy, and your love, I thank you.”
Her hands retreated, but she did not leave. Her voice fell to a whisper, and when their eyes met, he felt himself held captive.
“Why are you here?” she asked softly. “What reason brings someone like you to my camp?”
The hairs on his neck stood on end. Surely she could not sense the radiance within him… right?
“Because the Astral Kingdom needs to be broken,” he whispered back. “And I think you might be the one to do it.”
Isabelle stood and did not acknowledge his answer.
“Some call you brave, and others, reckless, but no man in this camp doubts your strength, or the lives you saved breaking open the fort. I am glad to have you among my soldiers, Faron, and should you require anything else, do not hesitate to let me know.”
“Bart,” he said, closing his eyes. “Bartholomew Fairgrove is his full name. He was one of the initial crew for the ram, part of Sir Tristan’s recruits. Did he survive?”
“I do not know,” she answered. She glanced at her adviser. “But I shall have Aubert make sure you are sent an answer. Is he family?”
“A friend,” Faron said. “Just a rare friend.”
The princess and her adviser exited the tent. Faron did his best to relax. There was no reason to expect the worst. No reason to dwell on such dark thoughts as the time slowly passed.
The tent flap opened, and before he could sit up, Iris was atop him, licking the unburned portion of his face.
“Hey, hey, hey, now,” Faron said, turning away from the slobber. “You act as if you haven’t seen me in forever.”
“True, but the past few hours have felt like forever,” Bart said, entering the tent after Iris. The coyote retreated, allowing Faron to get a good luck at the young man. Not a scratch on him. Faron smiled. Excellent. Relief replaced the anxiety in his chest.
“You’re well,” he said while scratching Iris behind the ears. “That’s good.”
“All thanks to you.” Bart sat on his haunches, his smile not lasting long. “Faron, you… I’m sorry, your face, it’s my fault. If you’d lifted your shield, if you’d protected yourself and—”
“No,” Faron interrupted, his voice harsh enough that Iris flattened her ears and retreated beyond his reach. The coyote’s reaction was enough to give Faron pause, and he fought to better control his words.
“No,” he said again, and flashed his best smile. “I promised to take care of you, and I keep my promises. An eye? My face? Small prices to pay to save a life.”
Bart looked ready to cry. He clenched his hands, unable to meet Faron’s gaze.
“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know how I’d do this without you.”
“You’d find a way. Now, head on out of here. It’s been a long day.”
Bart stood, called Iris’s name, and then exited the tent. Iris padded closer, giving him one last nudge against his arm with her forehead.
“I know,” he said, patting her side. “I also promised to show you the world. I won’t break that promise, either.”
She left, and once alone, Faron snuffed out the last of the candles and sat on his blanket. Such matters always felt best done in darkness. He pressed his hands to his scarred face, his palms flat against the burns, and then called upon the innate magic within him.
“Make right the flesh,” he whispered. “Return sight to that which is blind.”
The power flowed through him, slowly and steadily.
If given time, his wounds would heal on their own, even if he did not purposefully flood them with radiance to quicken the process.
It was a tricky conundrum he’d often faced whenever he partook in human wars.
During a lengthy campaign, it was hard to disguise the rate at which he healed.
Even if someone lopped off a hand or leg, it would grow back within weeks.
Whenever he suffered such terrible wounds, he normally had no choice but to desert and begin a new life with a new name somewhere far away from those who remembered him.
But not here. Not when he could shift attention onto another.
Silver light washed over his face, cleansing the scars. He blinked, and though the colors blurred and swam for a bit, his eyesight returned. He reached for his wounded back, then thought better of it. Isabelle had only prayed over his face, and that visible portion would be more than sufficient.
He slept.
Come morning, Faron awoke to Miss Rowan shaking his arm.
“Sleep later, eat now,” she said. Faron rolled over from his stomach and onto his back, the thick blanket flopping off him. Rowan immediately retreated, the bowl of porridge dropping from her hands.
“Faron?” she asked.
Faron stood and gently touched his face, making a show of it. He then looked to her, not needing to say a word.
Still, this wasn’t enough. He exited the tent, leaving her to stand shocked and still in her tent, whispering something inaudible to herself.
He found himself in the center of the fort, new tents sprung up in rows to either side of him.
Soldiers turned to greet him, and they all showed confusion or shock at his healed face.
Only a scar remained, a long swath of pale skin to mark the burn’s departure that would vanish completely in a few more days.
A crowd had begun to follow him by the time he arrived at the command tent. Isabelle was locked in discussion with her marshal but froze at the sight of him. She hid her shock well. Disturbingly well.
Faron approached her, well aware of how many eyes were upon them.
“Your prayers,” he said, projecting his voice so all would hear. “Your kind touch. Princess Isabelle, you have worked miracles.” Then, to the shocked onlookers: “Once blind, but now I see! Praise be the goddess, and her chosen!”
Princess Isabelle crossed the distance between them as cheers flooded the fort. Her golden eyes locked onto his, and they held him prisoner. His healing surely surprised her, yet she spoke as if everything were according to her desires.
“The goddess rewards those who give to her their all,” she said.
She drew her sword. The ringing of steel silenced the crowd.
Faron lowered to his knees in response. “And she expects much from those whom she has blessed. Faron, yesterday, you were but a soldier, lacking even family or land name. I would bid you rise, and serve as my protector. Will you accept this? The honor, the privilege, and the responsibility?”
Faron bowed his head, needing to do so to hide his grin.
“I do,” he said.
Her sword pressed against his shoulder.
“Then rise, child of Leliel, for I name you Faron Godsight, friend of Doremy and honorable warrior of her future queen.”