Page 48 of Fate's Wicked Oath

My laugh was low and wicked. He was right.

“Is your magic the reason you don’t want to be touched?” he asked.

He’d been careful to heed my request since I made it days ago, not coming in contact with me except for sparring and a few necessary moments since, all of which I had initiated. There was subtext in his question: magic, or another reason?The truth was a bit of both: I’d spent my teenage years terrified of nonconsensual interaction, run ragged by constant vigilance, until one unwanted grope defined my reputation; cut off a man’s hand, and word tends to spread. Still, I wasn’t sure I wanted Faren to know about the sensitivity that I couldn’t turn off. It was a weakness—something to be exploited. We might’ve been getting along fine now, but he was still my adversary.

Yet his kindness made me want to tell at least a partial truth. To feel the connection of someone who empathized. Before I could elaborate, however, low voices came from inside the barn.

“Sounds like they’re up,” Faren said. “I assume you’ll want to get a move on.”

“Yes.”

I stood. Faren did, too. A gentle breeze kicked up, casting a flurry of yellow poplar leaves into the air. A falling twig caught in my hair, and when I tried to pull it out, the brittle bark tangled painfully in the strands. Unable to see the snarl, I tugged harder, wincing when the twig refused to slip free.

Faren’s throat bobbed, as if he were holding back. Finally, he asked, “May I?”

I was tempted to leave the twig where it was, but that seemed senseless. With a grumble, I turned around. “You aren’t going to slit my throat, are you?”

“You don’t understand my Order at all, do you?”

“So it’s your Order that keeps you from murdering me?”

“You don’t understand my character, either.” He walked up behind me, leaving a foot of space between my back and his front. His voice was close when he added, “I’d prefer it to be a fair fight.”

I huffed a single, defiant laugh. “Fair? Against me?”

I felt his answering chuckle gust against my neck. How was it that he never took offense at my superior skill? “I’ll have to touch your hair,” he said. “Is that alright?”

I almost told himnever mind. But he already stood close, and within the faint aura of his warmth, I found myself swaying back on my heels. “That’s fine.”

Gently, he began to unravel the twig from my hair. I could feel the slight tremor in his hands, the reluctance. A loose strand skimmed my neck, and his fingers followed, brushing my skin to loosen the knot around the wood. The contact was ticklish, prickly—I tensed.

“Sorry,” he said. “Too light?”

How did he know?I wondered, but of course he knew. We possessed the same sensitivity.

His hands became firmer and more efficient. The slight tugs while he worked were far better than grazing touches, more palatable for my magic, and there was a moment when I felt like I didn’t mind his closeness.

But he did not linger. The moment the twig pulled free, he stepped back. “There.” His tone was thick—hoarse.

I turned around, about to thank him, but—

“There you are,” Orna interrupted, poking her head out of the double doors. “Faren, do you mind lifting one of the crates into the wagon?”

Embarrassment flushed my cheeks, though I wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Of course,” Faren told Orna, following her into the barn. Before he disappeared through the double doors, though, he glanced back at me with a lopsided grin.

18

Don’t Forget Your Place

Mariana

Our first travel day was long, boring, and slow—but blessedly uneventful.

We’d packed all that remained of the homesteaders’ valuables into their rickety wagon: clothing that had survived the fire, some scant rations, a few tools, and the chickens contained in wooden crates. Atop Simon, I led the way. Behind me, Orna drove the wagon, the dairy cow yoked and marching steadily onward. Orna’s loom and most of her wool had been destroyed, but she’d found some yarn among the wreckage of her home and—from the driving seat—she multitasked with knitting. Pete rode in the back with his leg elevated, whistling at his dogs as they drove the sheep.

Faren took up the rear, looking the proud picture of a gallant knight with his shiny armor and impressive steed—yet his manner was warm and personable as he regaled Pete with stories from knighthood. I found myself listening, too, caught upin the cadence of Faren’s voice and the heartiness of his laugh. I hated to admit it—even to myself—but he had a knack for brightening spirits, if only temporarily.