Chapter 20 Faron
FARON
A fter the victory at Greenberg, Isabelle’s army spent the next week marching north, making its way toward the nation’s capital of Vendom.
What reports Faron overheard painted King Bentley as frightened and desperate, abandoning all outer lands and preparing the capital for a lengthy siege.
So it was strange when, one morning, their marching orders directed them not north, but to the east.
“Did Bentley muster a real army after all?” Faron wondered aloud. He and his brother sat by a small campfire, freshly burning to ward off the morning chill. A faint few stars still lit up the pale sky.
“Or she fears an ambush on the main road,” Sariel said. He shrugged. “It is too early for such pondering. If you’re curious, go ask.”
It would be a bit longer before the cooks arrived to dole out their porridge, so Faron shrugged and patted Iris on the back. The coyote slept beside him near the fire, and she opened a single eye at him to glare.
“Stay with Sariel,” Faron said as he stood.
Iris snorted, closed her eye, and went back to sleep.
“I don’t anticipate her being a bother,” Sariel said as he added another few twigs he’d scrounged up to the fire.
Faron trudged through the quiet morning camp, nodding greetings at the few who were up and about. He thought about asking Alex, or perhaps Sir Tristan, but decided against it. Building a relationship with Princess Isabelle was key, and so he made for her tent instead.
No guards, just Isabelle already awake, packing maps and tokens from her table while two handmaidens gathered up her things from the small dressers they lugged around on wagons. Isabelle noticed his arrival and hesitated.
“Yes?” she asked.
Faron flashed her his grandest smile.
“Those of us who are awake are getting confusing orders,” he said. “I thought I’d come hear clarification from Leliel’s chosen herself.”
It was very much a breach of both protocol and chain of command to come here directly, but he’d had her eye ever since his injury, and his rescue of Marshal Oscar had further indebted her to him.
He fought off a smile. His kiss upon her hand had also gained her attention, for a very different reason.
“Sally, Trisha, a moment, please,” she said, and the two women hurried out with quick, polite nods. Once they were alone, Isabelle gestured to a small, half-curled piece of paper remaining on the table.
“You get along well with my soldiers,” she said, sounding both tired and bubbling with nervous energy. It was a strange mix, coming from someone who always seemed so regal and in control. “Perhaps you can help me decide.”
Faron picked up the note and skimmed the message. It was short and to the point. Her father, King Henri Dior, had finally passed away after a yearslong illness. Isabelle was to return to Doremy’s capital of Leyval to be coronated her nation’s new queen. Faron set the note down, his mind racing.
“Decide what?” he asked.
Isabelle grabbed her sword belt from where it rested atop her dresser and began strapping it on.
“We will be putting a halt to our conquest and diverting our march for a visit to Leyval,” she said.
“Should I keep quiet the reason? The death of a king is always a tenuous moment for a kingdom, especially in wartime. Do I make a show of mourning? Where now lies the path that best guides us to victory?”
Faron disliked her uncertainty, unbecoming of the woman he knew.
“ Are you mourning?” he asked quietly.
Isabelle yanked the belt much too tightly and then held the leather in a quivering hand.
“No,” she said. “I have mourned his passing for months now.” She looked up at him.
“I feel relief. I feel pride, for I shall be queen. What I do not feel is guilt for either emotion, Faron, but what of those who follow me? Will they understand?” She hesitated.
“Aubert says they may view me as heartless and cruel if I do not mourn my father properly.”
Faron crossed the room to lift her shield up from where it leaned against her bed. He held the polished steel out to her.
“I think your people love you,” he said, and meant every word. “Take us to Leyval, and with all haste. Those who fight for their princess will fight all the harder for their queen.”
“Beautiful,” Bart said a week later when staring up at the walls of Leyval. “How could anyone think to conquer it?”
“Far bigger cities have fallen than this,” Faron said as they marched toward the open gates, Iris close to his hip and looking nervous at the sheer number of people. “But can’t say I would relish the attempt, either.”
It had been close to a hundred years since Faron had visited Leyval, the capital city of Doremy, and he was impressed by its growth.
The city was built up against the Warmwind Mountains, walled off with stone, and then ringed with seven towers.
The towers were new, and the main portcullis significantly thicker and better reinforced than he remembered.
Storming those walls would be unpleasant, and given the abundance of mountain springs that flowed from the Warmwinds’ peaks into the city’s many wells, a siege could drag out for a dangerously long time.
Sir Tristan’s group marched near the front, matching the growing reputation Faron and Sariel had given them.
The respect was welcome, though still far from what Faron desired.
If he and Sariel were to influence the zealous Isabelle, he needed her to trust him fully and consider him a confidant.
Close, though, he was definitely close. That she had invited him to join her table at the coronation feast was sign of that.
Faron grinned at the wide-eyed Bart as they passed through the portcullis and into city streets walled on either side with enormous pine buildings, their fronts waving little black strips of cloth as a sign of mourning.
Faron had declined that invitation to her table, of course.
No one else in Sir Tristan’s group had been invited to join him, not even Sariel.
He needed Isabelle to understand they were all together.
There would be no plucking him out of his group of friends, whose loyalty he had carefully cultivated like a gardener planting and watering a precious plot of land.
“You never visited anywhere outside Clovelly, did you?” Faron asked.
“No,” Bart said, shaking his head. “This city is… Just look at it!”
“I could take you to a few places worth visiting,” Derek said, listening in from behind them. Faron glanced over his shoulder.
“Would they be places Bart’s mother would approve of him visiting?” he asked.
“Not any of the fun ones!” Derek said, and winked.
Bart blushed, but he stood tall and tried to hide his discomfort.
“Let’s worry about the feast first, all right?” he said.
“Fair enough!” Faron said, clapping excitedly. “A feast, and a coronation!”
Doremy’s castle was far more elegant than one might expect to find, given the squat, utilitarian look most of Leyval’s homes bore.
Its stone walls were painted white, and its inner courtyard encapsulated not with stone but with wide iron bars to allow even those passing by a glimpse of the rows of eulmore trees surrounding carefully trimmed circles of fiery blanketflowers.
Tables filled the courtyard, and in the left half the bulk of the army sat with mugs in hand.
Hundreds of city folk joined them on the right, though plenty intermingled, with soldiers eager to tell stories of the multiple victories that had followed since the war began.
The food was hardly extravagant, mostly buttered clapbread, but the ale flowed freely, and it did not take long for nearly everyone to be a bit red in the face.
The night ran deep, and the dozens of candles lit upon the tables started to dwindle low.
“It’s a shame we won’t get to witness the coronation,” Rowan said, sitting on a little stool next to Faron. “I’ve never seen Isabelle in a dress. I bet she looks beautiful.”
“You sure she’s even wearing one?” Alex asked. The big man had joined their table and downed two enormous mugs already. He elbowed an annoyed Derek next to him as if he were about to tell the funniest joke. “I bet she’ll take her vows in full plate. That’s our Bastard Queen, ain’t it?”
Faron looked to the castle. Its doors were open, granting a glimpse into the interior, where dozens more gathered, drinking and feasting from far more elegantly stocked tables.
They were the nobility, and not just of Doremy.
Rumors abounded that King Allan of Armane was in attendance.
Some hundred years or so ago, Doremy and Armane had been one nation.
With the king’s arrival, hopes ran wild that, because of Allan’s open hatred of King Bentley, he would be willing to unify the lands once more.
Inside, the three lords of Doremy would officially coronate Isabelle Dior Queen of Doremy.
Outside, the soldiers would hear only a hint of the fanfare and the subsequent trumpet calls.
A bit of a shame, but Faron was fine with that.
At least he could drink and eat to his heart’s content without upsetting some uptight noble.
He grinned at Bart, Rowan, Alex, Derek, and then Iris sitting quietly underneath the table.
“Hungry?” he asked softly, tossing a bit of bread to her. She snatched it up and lay back down to chew. The coyote was nervous, but she leaned her weight against his leg, his presence comforting to her.
Faron smiled. Yes, the company was definitely better out here.
“Where’s your brother off to?” Alex asked, stirring Faron from his thoughts.
In answer, Faron gestured to the far western edge of the surrounding iron fence. Sariel leaned against the fence, Redemption propped across his shoulders and his head turned low. If not for the tankard of ale he occasionally sipped from, one might believe he had nodded off.
“Lurking,” Faron said. “It’s what he does best.”