Chapter 14 Sariel #2
The young soldier nodded and then hurried away.
Sariel tilted his head to the side, analyzing the knight.
Competent. Confident, but only in what he could control.
His prayers revealed concern for his soldiers, but also fear about his ability to prepare them.
Sariel suspected him a good man, though whether he remained one as the war progressed, he doubted.
Good men died, or became terrible men, once bloodshed began and the consequences of every failure meant a field of corpses.
Better to become heartless than mourn every life lost.
Or perhaps that was just Sariel’s own opinions talking.
“Have you a name?” Tristan asked.
“Sariel,” he answered. He dared not offer his family name, not when he didn’t know what Faron might have chosen. And under no circumstances would he dare call himself Sariel Godsight.
“All right, Sariel. What’s brought you here, to Princess Isabelle’s army? Cause, coin, or family?”
Sariel analyzed what he had deduced of the man and debated a proper answer. He could influence the knight’s decision with radiance, but that control would fade with time. If he wanted to join Faron without incident, he needed to convince Tristan properly.
Which meant the truth itself should be sufficient.
“King Bentley is a threat to those I hold dear to me,” he said, thinking of Tara in Barkbent Town. “I want him gone. That I might fight alongside my brother in doing so is a boon.”
Sir Tristan stared a moment and then grunted.
“I’ve heard worse reasons. Do you know how to fight?”
Sariel’s lips curled into a half smile.
“I know how to kill.”
“I suppose they’re one and the same during war,” Tristan said. “Follow me. I’ll take you to Ludwig and get you enlisted. Welcome to Doremy’s army, Sariel. I pray to Leliel you don’t make me regret it.”
Sariel signed his name, accepted a poorly fitted set of padded leather, and listened to a brief overview of how his days would go, where he would bunk, when he would be paid, and whom he would report to.
By the time he finished, the drills had ended and the evening meal had been doled out among the camp.
The mood was jovial, everyone’s spirits buoyed by the fort’s capture.
Though there were several smaller fires about, a larger bonfire burned in the farthest southwest corner of the tent formations.
It was there Sir Tristan’s recruits gathered, circling the bonfire, and it was there Sariel finally caught up to his brother.
“I see you’ve done well without me,” he said, approaching the flames and appreciating their heat against his skin. A dozen eyes turned his way. Faron glanced over his shoulder, saw him, and lurched to his feet. His smile was wider than the horizon.
“Sariel!” he said, throwing his arms around him. Sariel endured the hug like he would a sudden rainstorm.
“Everyone, this is my brother Sariel,” Faron said when finished, and gestured to those gathered around the fire with wooden bowls in hand. “Sariel, these are my friends.”
Of course you already have friends , thought Sariel as he endured the introductions.
There was Alex, the green-eyed giant who would be in charge of Sariel’s “training.” A young freckled man with red hair named Bart.
A cold-eyed woman named Rowan, a field surgeon, from what Sariel gathered.
Several others, two spry and young brothers much too lively and optimistic to survive a war, and an older man, heavily scarred, who was clearly there for coin and nothing more.
They were all from Argylle and had turned traitor to their homeland and joined the army of the Bastard Princess.
“Do you mind if we speak for a moment?” Sariel asked his brother. “In private?”
“Of course,” Faron said, and led him away from the bonfire.
“You didn’t wait for me in Clovelly,” Sariel said once they had some space to talk.
“I had to keep on the move,” Faron replied, offering nothing more than that. “I trusted you to find me, and you did.”
“Yes, I did find you, already enlisted in an army, and apparently making a name for yourself… Ram.”
His brother laughed.
“I didn’t pick it. They named me while I was recovering from a bath of burning oil.”
Sariel crossed his arms and glared.
“You chose our path without me,” he said. “You chose Isabelle. Why?”
“What is there to say?” Faron asked, his mood turning somber. “She’ll be an acceptable tool. She hates the Church of Stars and hates the east for spreading it. What more could we ask for?”
“Does she have the resources for victory? The potential support from nearby kings and queens to form an alliance? Who are her enemies? Who could stop her, once her ambitions grow beyond this little squabble with her neighbor?” When Faron did not answer, Sariel sighed and shook his head.
“You don’t know any of it, do you? As always, you trust your strength and charisma to be enough.
And when it isn’t, it will be up to me to pick up the pieces and make them fit. ”
Sariel turned to leave, but Faron grabbed his shoulder and held him still.
“You don’t know her,” he said. “You haven’t seen the way people look at her. She will be enough. More than enough. Just have a little faith.”
Sariel glanced over his shoulder and smirked. “In the goddess?”
Faron pushed him and flashed his widest, most handsome grin.
“In me.”