Page 43 of Fate's Wicked Oath

Alarm swirled through Faren, humming in his pulse points. “What in the Fates…?”

Mariana didn’t speak. Resting her palm on the pommel of her sword, she hurried down the hill. Faren drew Mercy from the scabbard on his back and followed.

Ash stirred in the breeze. His nostrils stung with the scent of burning wood and wool. A familiar, nauseating reek wafted over them as they reached the front garden.

Mariana’s pace slowed, and Faren matched it, heel-toeing over the trampled ground. With one hand still resting on her sheathed weapon, Mariana reached up with the other to trace the Oath tattoo on her throat. Then she paused, crouched, observing a drag mark that marred the earth. Black ichor speckled the mud and the skeletal branches of dead herb bushes.

When Mariana met his eyes, she didn’t need to explain. The black blood and the extent of the damage could only mean one thing.

“I thought they didn’t venture this far from the Western Wood?” Faren said, as if saying so would disprove the signs that were so clear all around them.

Mariana stood. “They’ve been getting bolder, as of late.” She lifted her chin and called out. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

Faren’s throat squeezed as he thought of the homesteaders—along with his horse, Sunny—being attacked. His grip tightened on his sword. “Orna?” Faren joined in, his voice piercing the eerie silence. “Pete?”

There was no answer.

Faren looked around, searching for a sign of life. Something pale blue fluttered in his periphery, caught on the wooden fence leading around back, toward the barn. Faren went to it, running the cloth through his fingers. It looked like the sleeve of a dress.

“Mariana,” Faren called.

She came to his side, frowning at what he’d found. Her expression grew stony as she observed the rubble of the cottage, the splintered fencing, and the torn-up ground. She continued along the side of the house, skirting the wreckage slowly and methodically. The mud was thick, but too pockmarked to discern any fresh tracks.

Behind the cottage, the barn was miraculously intact, with deep scratches and scorching marring the wood. The double doors were closed. Faren and Mariana rushed to the barn, calling out.

“Orna? Pete?” Faren boomed.

Mariana hit the wood with the flat of her hand. “Is anyone in there?”

“Hello?” came a reluctant, feminine voice from inside.

Faren’s heart leapt as he heard the drawbar inside being removed. Then the doors were swinging open, sunlight flooding into the dark barn. Two dogs bounded out, tails wagging nervously. Orna stood before them wearing a blue nightdress, one sleeve missing. Behind her, the sheep, milking cow, and—thank the Fates—the horses were crowded into a trio of stalls. Chickens pecked at the straw littering the floor, clucking softly, seemingly roused by the sudden light inside their shelter.

With a tearful gasp, Orna rushed forward, collapsing against Faren’s breastplate. His arms came around her slight form, holding her up.

“Thank the Fates you’re here,” Orna whimpered. “At last, we’re safe.”

Faren darted a glance at Mariana, who stood off to the side, her expression flat and unreadable. He was struck by a deep sense of inferiority.WasOrna safe, now? After last night, he wasn’t sure he could live up to the promise of his armor and Order.

Faren gripped Orna’s shoulders and met her gaze. “What happened? Where’s Pete?”

Her eyes were wide and haunted. Wordlessly, she turned and led them to a bay at the back of the barn, where Pete was reclined on a pile of hay. It took a moment for Faren’s vision to adjust to the dimness, but when it did, he saw that Pete’s eyes were closed, his brow sweat soaked, and his leg…deep gashes lined his calf, and diseased veins were already blackening the surrounding skin. The sight made Faren’s own gash throb; as a Mighty Knight, he’d had plenty of training in basic healing techniques, but as a touch magician, the sight of bad wounds never failed to make him tense. And seeing what his own gashcould’veturned into did not help his feeling of unease.

Mariana elbowed past Faren and Orna and knelt beside Pete in the hay. “When did this happen?”

“Before sunrise,” Orna replied. “He seemed fine at first—in pain, but lucid—but as time has gone on…”

Mariana procured a vial from her pocket. Without pause, she wrenched Pete’s mouth open and poured the liquid down his throat. Then she closed his jaw, holding it shut. Pete stirred, coughed, struggled against her hand.

“Swallow,” Mariana ordered.

Pete squirmed a little more, then settled.

“I need water and rags,” Mariana said. When neither Faren nor Orna immediately moved, she added a harsh, “Now.”

A quarter of an hour later, equipped with the supplies she needed, Mariana tended to Pete’s wound with a set jaw and brusque manner. Orna and Faren watched as she cleaned away the dirt and blood, gradually revealing the raw flesh beneath. Orna clung to the railing of the bay with one hand and patted one dog’s head with the other, looking faint.

“Why don’t we go sit elsewhere?” Faren offered.