Chapter 31 Faron
FARON
D o you think we’ll get to participate in the feast this time?” Bart asked as they marched the road through the forest on their way to King Murta’s castle.
“What do you mean, ‘this time’?” Faron asked with a laugh. “I remember you getting quite drunk at Queen Isabelle’s coronation.”
The young man blushed.
“That wasn’t a feast, not really. That was a bit of buttered bread and all the beer we could drink.”
Bart jumped as Derek thumped a hand on his shoulder from behind.
“For lowly soldiers like us, that is a feast,” he said, grinning down at Bart. “What say you, a game of Wounds once we get ourselves seated at a table? It’s always more fun to play with proper drinks. We might even have some coin to gamble with!”
“Remember what I told you,” Faron said, nudging Derek away from the young man. “No gambling unless you want to lose it all.”
“I don’t remember Bart struggling to win our last few games,” Rowan chipped in.
The surgeon was never far from Tristan’s group once free of her duties.
Faron need not wonder why. He caught her sideways glances in his direction, and sometimes even returned them.
On lonely nights, he pondered sneaking over to her tent but so far had resisted the temptation.
“It’s one thing to play for pride, another for coin,” he said. “Trust me.”
“I don’t want to gamble,” Bart insisted. “I just want to eat something nicer than what I could have had when hunting back at home. That’s all.”
“I’ll raise a glass to that,” Derek said, and began describing the most succulent cuts of deer he would prefer. Faron laughed, agreeing that all of it sounded divine. The miles vanished as Murta’s castle finally appeared in the distance.
“Do you think it’ll last?” Rowan asked, walking alongside Faron, her voice lowered so the others would not overhear. “I know the armistice is only for three days, but for King Murta to play host despite the losses he suffered…”
“He might be hoping for peace,” Faron said. “A celebratory feast would be a good time to ask.”
“I hope so,” Rowan said. “I know Leliel commands Isabelle to conquer the Astral Kingdom. I know a lot of war is lurking ahead of us. But it… it’d be nice to have a few weeks of peace. To rest up and pretend the island is not at war.”
She stumbled on a stone, and Faron reached out to steady her.
Their eyes met, and Faron smiled, truly noticing for the first time the deep red of her hair and the way portions of her bangs had escaped the tie of her ponytail to curl around her forehead.
His insides warmed. Perhaps tonight could be a celebration in more ways than one.
“My parents live in Rudou,” she said, as if there had been no spark between them.
“Queen Sillia’s surrender spared them the plague of war, and so far our battles have remained within Blue River’s territory.
If peace came, then they’d never have to worry about invasion should the winds turn against us. They wouldn’t have to see…”
She trailed off. Faron sympathized. The horrors of battle were brutal, and as a surgeon, she would have seen the worst of it up close.
“That’s all up to Murta,” he said. “He could also bend the knee, swear allegiance to Doremy, and keep his crown. If he is smart, he’ll do it. Surely even his people would understand him bowing to the newly named dragon slayer.”
The procession of soldiers trailed on for several miles, with the various nobility clustered around King Murta and Queen Isabelle at the lead.
Faron and the rest of his group were not far behind, granted permission to march near the front in honor of their role in slaying the dragon.
Well, Faron’s role, he knew, but it was best to extend the honor to everyone.
It was that proximity that allowed him to see the sudden shock on King Murta’s face when he arrived at Lossleaf Castle’s drawbridge and it did not open.
“Franco!” King Murta shouted at the edge of the thin, empty ditch that surrounded the castle’s western side. “Are you blind? Lower the bridge so we might entertain our guests!”
Nothing happened. Murmurs of confusion spread.
“Excuse me,” Faron whispered to Rowan, and then pressed forward. Marshal Oscar saw his approach and frowned, but he also knew the role Faron had played in slaying the dragon and allowed it.
“Is something amiss, my queen?” he whispered.
“We shall find out,” Isabelle said coldly as she stared at the strangely dormant castle.
No soldiers walked the walls. No servants moved within the windows.
It was unnatural. With so many marching toward Lossleaf Castle, runners should have warned the castellan and servants within to prepare for their arrival. To be greeted with silence…
Unease spread as more time passed. A group of Murta’s men finally crossed the ditch and, with the help of some rope and hooks, climbed inside through one of the lowest windows.
Long minutes passed as the various nobles whispered gossip among themselves.
Only Isabelle abstained. She watched the castle with a steady gaze, to the point where Faron and Oscar shifted uncomfortably beside her.
Suddenly the drawbridge began to descend.
“At last,” Murta said, clearly feigning relief. Sweat trickled down his neck, and he tugged at the collar of his fine lavender coat. “There better be a damn good…”
The words died in his mouth. His two scouts stood waiting on the other side of the drawbridge.
One held a woman’s corpse.
The other held the corpse of a child.
“Sandra?” Murta said, taking a single, unsteady step forward. “Willis?”
He sprinted, his coat flapping behind him.
He slid to a halt at the edge of the drawbridge, his legs going weak and his entire body collapsing to his knees.
The scouts laid the bodies before him and whispered something Faron could not hear.
Murta’s response, though, was a clear shock through the group of nobles.
“ Everyone? ” the king asked. “It… but that can’t…”
With the drawbridge lowered, Faron could see into the courtyard beyond.
Several bodies lay still upon the grass.
All of them bore similar wounds. Long, deep cuts across their throats and chests.
Faron thought of the many servants and guards living and working within a castle to keep it functional, as well as serve the slain queen and prince, and feared to know their sum.
With his senses enhanced, he also heard the whispering of the scouts to their king.
“While some coin was taken, it wasn’t much, and most rooms have been left untouched. If they’re raiders, they’re unlike any I’ve encountered.”
Murta buried his face in his slain wife’s hair, wetting it with his tears.
“Sandra,” he moaned, ignoring the scout. “Why, why Sandra? Why take her from me?”
The murmurs among the nobility grew louder as realization dawned upon the lot.
“The whole castle, taken and killed?” Marshal Oscar said beside Faron. “That would take numbers and coordination few bandit raiders possess. Why strike here, and not at any of the lesser-guarded villages nearby?”
A valid question, and Faron feared the answer.
Queen Isabelle crossed the space to the drawbridge. Conversations dimmed, the nobility eager to hear her words as she addressed the weeping king.
“You have my heartfelt sympathies, King Murta,” she said. “But I have the bellies of my men to worry about. We will depart for Vendom and leave you privacy to dwell on your grief.”
Murta looked up, a bit of blood and his wife’s hair sticking to his face.
“That is your sympathy?” he asked. “That is your kindness? This… this was your doing.”
Her voice deepened, each word cutting like a knife.
“I am not the one incapable of defending my realm. It is you who had bandits steal everything you hold dear. Do not cast your guilt my way.”
The callous echo of Murta’s words lit a new fire within him. He burst to his feet, his teeth bared like a feral animal as he pointed and spat.
“Liar!” he shouted. “Their blood is on your hands!”
Isabelle’s expression, already cold, turned more brutal than a winter blizzard.
“My soldiers and I rode straight into dragon fire,” she said. “With all the west watching, I cut open its red-scaled throat. I sympathize with your grief, King Murta, but do not dare insult my honor, nor the bravery of those who fought alongside me.”
She turned away and shouted orders to her marshal.
“We move out,” she said, and cast a glance to the other gathered vassals. “And we move quickly. We have three days to make ready for war.”
Faron saw the way faces paled at her warning.
Where once those lords and petty kings had looked upon Isabelle with anger or rivalry, they now gazed in horror.
None desired to face Doremy in battle. King Murta had been the one holding them together, but his army was decimated by the dragon, and his castle slaughtered.
Come three days, there would be no war, only surrender.
Murta knew it, too, but he held no proof for his accusations. Faron suspected it wouldn’t matter even if he did. He was a man who used power to manipulate and control those beneath him. Now broken, he would be quickly abandoned. The king returned to the corpses of his wife and son and collapsed.
“Sandra,” he said, gently stroking her hair. Tears fell, his sobs undignified. “Willis… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Faron turned away from the sight, and he refused to look Isabelle’s way. He couldn’t shake his growing dread.
My soldiers and I rode straight into dragon fire , Isabelle had claimed, but that wasn’t true. One particular soldier had been notably absent. Faron pushed back through the ranks, his insides twisting.
“What’s going on?” Bart asked as Faron passed them by.
“We’re marching out,” he said, offering no further explanation than that.
His rage was growing, and he did not wish to unleash it unfairly upon his friends.
He pushed onward at a jog, passing through King Murta’s men to reach the rest of Isabelle’s.
Somehow rumors traveled faster, and confusion and unease reigned.
Some even readied their weapons, fearing a battle would break out despite the armistice.
Faron ignored the uncertain looks and fearful questions. He had but one destination in mind. One person he must confront.
For you know all that I am capable of, and all that I should not be.
Sariel lurked at the far back of the army, leaning against a juniper growing alongside the worn dirt road. His head was bowed, and his eyes closed, as if he were asleep. Faron grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close. His brother’s eyes snapped open. No, not asleep. Just waiting.
“Careful, brother,” Sariel said softly. “Others are watching.”
The fire in Faron’s belly grew hotter.
“What did you do?” he asked, having to fight to keep his voice down.
“I did as commanded.”
“An entire castle?” Faron asked, not wanting to believe. “You murdered not just the queen, but their soldiers, their servants, their families…”
Sariel leaned in close, his words only for Faron, and not the nearby soldiers pretending, poorly, to ignore the confrontation.
“You let your love of humanity blind you to the larger picture,” he said.
“The blood of those few will spare us a war against many. Not just the losses in battle, but the starvation and disease that follow. No pillaged villages. No lengthy sieges. I saved lives, Faron. Just not in the honorable way you prefer.”
“War is war, as humans will ever wage it,” Faron hissed back. “But you murdered innocents. Children, Sariel? Have you no heart, that you would murder children ?”
That finally lit a fire within Sariel. His brother smacked his hand away and then shoved him. Faron stumbled a step and reached for his sword. Redemption was ever near, resting on Sariel’s shoulders, and the hand holding the carved hilt clenched in a white-knuckle grip.
“What truly bothers you so?” Sariel asked, again in that deep, maddeningly calm whisper. “That these supposed innocents died… or that it was your precious Isabelle who gave the order?”
Faron flinched as if struck. Sariel saw and grinned, the light behind his eyes so brilliant and cruel.
“As I thought. I pray tonight cleanses you of whatever delusions you hold toward Leliel’s supposed champion. Now you see her for who she is.”
“And who is that?” he asked softly.
Sariel pressed his shoulder to Faron’s, and he spoke with an air of frightening finality.
“The future empress of Kaus, and the blade that will sever the head from the Church of Stars.”