Chapter 44 Faron
FARON
T he sun was setting when Faron and Sariel arrived at Isabelle’s command tent, come at her behest. The brothers stood before her, and she dismissed her handmaidens so they might be alone.
“Thank you for coming, both of you,” she said. She sounded tired, and despite the brushing of her handmaiden, her hair was still dirty from the road. Deep circles surrounded her eyes. Faron wondered if she’d slept at all since their battle at Twin Gates.
“We are here to serve, my queen,” Sariel said, and he bowed low. Faron detected a hint of sarcasm in the act, and disliked it.
“Indeed,” Faron said, and crossed his arms. “Is something the matter?”
Isabelle looked down at her map spread out on her table, illuminated by two lit candles in tin holders. That map had accompanied her steady conquest of both western Kaus and the midlands. Her fingers brushed the frayed edges, and it was a moment before she was comfortable enough to speak.
“I know you two are unlike any others in my army,” she said slowly, carefully. “And it is not just in your prowess upon the battlefield. You know things you should not. You carry wisdom of the land like seasoned travelers. You discuss tactics like marshals, despite claiming to be mere mercenaries.”
Her gold eyes flicked up from the map, and they shimmered with radiance.
“And when I look upon you, I see a light I do not see in others.”
Faron’s chest tightened. Would this be it? Would this be when their ever-living nature was revealed to the queen? And why did that thought thrill him as much as it frightened him?
“We are here,” Sariel said softly, offering nothing in response to her conjecture. “What do you desire?”
Isabelle drummed her fingers upon the table.
“From our very first battle at Wendway Fort, you two have been instrumental in my conquest. I would have you help me now, when my heart is most troubled.”
She gestured to the map, and the figures gathered together to represent the protectorate. So close on the map, so very close, loomed the drawn representation of Racliffe and the triangle in the sea that was the Tower Majestic.
“Those I trust have split their opinions on two paths,” she explained.
“One is to fall back, secure our positions, and delay our assault upon Racliffe until the winter passes. We’ll establish supply lines across the Sapphire Mountains and take several key cities along the edges of the Astral Kingdom.
Our enemies’ armies will regroup, but so will we, and it is our side that maintains the greater numbers and resources. ”
“And the other plan?” Faron asked.
“The other is that we make straight for Racliffe, to put an end to this madness once and for all. We still possess the numbers and the siege preparations necessary to breach the walls. With Mitra Gracegiver slain, we cut the head from both the Church of Stars and the Astral Kingdom. I believe the armies that remain, upon learning of this, will sue for peace instead of continuing the war.”
Isabelle glared at Racliffe on the map, her fingernails digging deeper into the table.
“Two plans, each with faults and weaknesses. And I don’t know which to choose. I would hear your wisdom, you brothers who are still mysteries to me.”
The more Faron thought about it, the more obvious the proper response, and so he was shocked when Sariel spoke up in support of a third.
“We should retreat entirely back across the mountains,” Sariel said.
“The battle at Twin Gates was devastating to our momentum. We are not invincible, and your army is fallible. We need to better prepare our assault on the entire Astral Kingdom, with proper supply lines and even greater numbers. Haste matters not, so long as our victory remains inevitable.”
Faron shook his head, unable to believe the suggestion. Even the queen seemed shocked by Sariel’s desire.
“You would have us flee?” he asked. “That is ridiculous. Our victory is already inevitable. We need only the strength to see it done.” He turned to Isabelle.
“March upon Racliffe. I don’t give a damn about the other armies or our supplies.
Our army is vastly superior. We go, and we claim our victory. ”
“To retreat after one minor loss,” she said to his brother. “You truly think it would be wise?”
“You asked my opinion, and I gave it,” Sariel said. “Something about all of this unsettles me. It is as if Eder wants us to invade Racliffe, and that alone gives me pause.”
“A pause born of fear,” Faron insisted, his temper igniting. “You have no faith in this army, do you? Even after all our victories, you are willing to fall back, play matters carefully, and risk nothing, just to ensure your victory.”
“Is that not the wise thing to do?” his brother asked, glancing at Isabelle. “I know ourselves, and our numbers, and they are both limited, and both not enough.”
“Which means you don’t believe in Isabelle,” Faron said, stepping closer. “You don’t believe in her, or in Leliel.”
Sariel’s eyes narrowed. “Should I?”
So many conflicting emotions warred within Faron, but as he fought for the right words to say, a sudden clarity overcame him. Of what he believed. Of whom he believed in.
“Yes,” he said, watching his brother’s reaction carefully. “You should. You and I both know there is no one like her, that there has never been anyone like her. No one born with her gifts. No one who has united the people. Not since the breaking of the Anaon Kingdom centuries ago.”
Sariel’s face darkened at the mention.
“You would reference an evil we created as justification for her being… chosen?”
Faron had never worshiped Leliel. He had lived too long, and seen too much, to hold faith in the goddess. At least, that was what he thought. Now, though, he looked to Isabelle and believed. At least, he wanted to believe.
“There has to be something more,” Faron whispered. “These powers we possess, the eternal lives we live, there must be a point. I think, for once, I’m willing to believe it is the goddess humanity has worshiped since time immemorial.”
Sariel grabbed Faron by the shirt and yanked him close, and his voice decreased to a furious whisper.
“Will you never tire of making the same mistakes?” he asked. “When time claims her, and Isabelle perishes, must I burn you on yet another pyre like I did after Belladonna?”
The name hit Faron like a stone across the forehead. His memory sparked with a thousand casual smiles, whispered nothings, and loving touches. He could not even move, he was so shocked, so overwhelmed. Pain and grief from the memories. Fury at such callous behavior from his own brother.
Sariel, meanwhile, showed not the slightest hint of regret. He shoved Faron away and then turned to address the silent queen.
“You and I both know the truth of your claims,” he said. “Trust that the goddess will deliver you Racliffe, but I will play no part in such a farce. If you sacrifice caution, you have only yourself to blame if we stumble and fall at the end of our journey.”
Faron crossed the space between them, shoved Sariel’s shoulder to turn him, and then slugged him across the mouth. Sariel staggered, blood dripping from his split lip. His eyes flared wide, and he looked like a wild animal suddenly aware of the presence of a hunter.
“If at the culmination of our work, you lack faith in yourself, then hold faith in me ,” Faron said, and he pointed a finger at Sariel. “Not him. If you knew who he was, who he truly was, then you would never trust him.”
“Careful, brother,” Sariel said, wiping his chin.
“No,” Faron said, feeling all the more secure in his decision.
“Now is not the time for care. Eder is breaking an already dark and straining world upon the back of his sin-obsessed church, and we must be a light to counter that darkness. We will be the hope people need. We will be the faith they lack, and give them the freedom they deserve.”
Silence followed, tense like twisted wire ready to snap.
“Eder?” Isabelle asked carefully, her tone measured. Faron winced at the mistake. Eder , he’d said, instead of Mitra .
“I’ve said my piece,” he insisted, pretending nothing was amiss. “Trust in Sariel if you wish, but do not come to me with the tears that are sure to follow.”
Isabelle circled the table, and she reached out for him. “Faron…”
“No,” he said, and shook his head. “Just… no. No more arguments. You have never doubted before, Isabelle. Do not let Sariel’s poisoned words have you start now.”
Faron lowered his voice, once more speaking to his brother of a thousand years.
“I have already marched upon Racliffe to end the reign of a tyrant, and at Isabelle’s side, I shall do so again. Make peace with that, Sariel, or begone from us forever.”
He exited the tent, marching with feverish energy.
He didn’t know where to go. He didn’t know what he wanted.
Fury and betrayal burned, a potent mix in his chest, and when he gazed upon the sprawling camp of soldiers from all nations of Kaus, come together to destroy the Astral Kingdom, he told himself to feel pride and joy at the accomplishment.
… must I burn you on yet another pyre…
Faron collapsed to his knees behind a wagon, turned, and pressed his back to its wheel. He buried his head in his hands.
Her name had been Belladonna. A woman of fierce intellect who had challenged Faron’s every learned knowledge, sometimes correctly, sometimes incorrectly, and never caring which.
She only sought to learn. Her eyes had sparkled like emeralds, her smile came easy, and her laugh had warmed his heart as he pretended to be a mere farmer, working away his days in a field.
When he met her, Belladonna’s hair had been a brilliant blond brighter than the sun. When she passed away in his arms, fifty years later, it had been white as new-fallen snow.
It all flooded back to him, no longer hidden behind a comforting haze.
The protection of the pyre faded, as it always did.
Tears built, and he was powerless against them.
He clenched his fists and pressed them to his face, wishing he could make them stop, wishing he could make the memories go away so the sorrow could not lash him like brittle leather and broken glass shards.
A wet nose pressed to his fists, and when he looked up, Iris was there, licking his face.
The simple, caring act was enough to break him completely.
Faron sobbed and grabbed the coyote, pulling her so he could bury his face in her fur.
She endured it stoically enough, and when he let go, she sat before him, licked his nose once more, and then whimpered.
“I’m all right,” Faron whispered, and he wiped away the last of his tears.
It hurt, but hurt could be good sometimes.
An entire life of marriage was returned to him, and no matter how deeply it cut, at least there were moments of joy and happiness to cling to, memories to give him the strength to keep walking this damned world where age and death would never bless him with their sting.
“I’m all right,” he repeated, and gently stroked her fur. “Thank you.”
He looked to the stars, and he felt himself falling into a past that no pyre, no matter how fierce, could truly consume.
“But if you would stay a while longer, I would tell you stories of a woman I once knew,” he said, and closed his eyes. “A scholar from Reycha by the name of Belladonna…”