Page 64 of Fate's Wicked Oath

So was he.

How often do you even step foot outside the castle grounds?Mariana had taunted him on their way to Yar. Finally, he was beginning to understand her vitriol toward him; he was beginning to feel it toward himself.

“What happened?” Faren asked.

Percival sunk into the chair atop the stage, his short legs kicking nervously. In the dimness of the empty hall, his face sagged. “You must know, don’t you? Must I speak it?”

Faren swallowed. He could feel Mariana’s presence beside him, rigid. “Any casualties?” Faren asked delicately.

“No, thank the Fates.”

Faren loosed an exhale. Nodded, relieved.

But Percival’s expression quaked. “Horrendous, it was,” he said. “In all my years…” He made a small, disturbed sound. Shook his head.

Faren knew Percival’s terror intimately, could feel the memory of the Morta in Yar pressing at the edges of his vision. But Faren would not afford himself weakness—not now. It did not matter that seeing innocent folks in pain and peril—so far removed from the splendor of his Order in Fenrir City—made him feel more like a mighty failure than a leader. It was his duty to put on a brave face. To demonstrate fearlessness and control. To give the people of this town someone to believe in—and do his best to follow through.

Faren rolled his shoulders back, the leather straps of his armor squeaking. “Did it…” He trailed off, feeling the sting of his Oath magic in the back of his throat, warning him not to divulge too much. He licked his lips, fumbling with his words, unable to ask what he needed to do his job.

“After we lit fires, it fled,” Percival answered. “Westward.”

“How long ago?”

“In the wee hours of the morning.”

The Morta that had attacked Orna and Pete’s cottage had done the same: coming in the darkest part of morning only to flee toward the Western Wood once they’d lit their home on fire.

Percival’s attention traced curiously over Mariana’s armor, and he stroked his ample mustache. “This is not the first time a knight with a black breastplate has come to town,” he said, “in the aftermath of an attack.”

Faren stiffened, shocked by this revelation. “Did the knight give a name?”

“Idris Togren,” Mariana said.

Percival’s eyes widened—then cut to Faren, questioning.

Mariana took a step forward, hand resting on the hilt of her weapon, demanding the mayor’s attention. “Have you seen others like Idris? Like me?”

“Not that I recall,” Percival said.

“Good,” Mariana said. “If you do, they are not welcome. Tell them nothing. Do you understand?”

“I—” Percival gripped the arms of his chair. “Should we not warn neighboring towns? Report to the Lord that there’s an…an…abominationon the loose?”

“A rabid animal.” Mariana’s words were thick. “It was no more than a rabid—”

“No,” Percival interrupted. “No. It most certainly was not—”

Mariana stepped onto the stage, looming over Percival. He leaned back in his chair, mustache trembling. “What you saw,” Mariana said slowly, savagely, “puts you in grave danger. You cannot speak of it. You cannot spread word. You cannot trust any newcomers—especially those asking after it.” She leaned closer. “Ifsomeone asks, you tell them it was a rabid animal. Do. You. Understand?”

Percival peered past Mariana at Faren, flummoxed and searching.

Faren climbed onto the stage and—with the back of his hand—pressed on Mariana’s shoulder, urging her to give the mayor space. Her attention snapped down to the contact, then back up at his face; his touch seemed to pull her out of the snarling, frantic instinct she’d slipped into. She stepped back, and Percival’s grip on the arms of his chair slackened.

“She’s right,” Faren said, and both Mariana and Percival seemed surprised that Faren was siding with the intimidating, black-clad knight. “Rumors and conjecture will only spark fear and spread misinformation.” Faren stood tall, using his imposing height and the regal effect of his armor to bolster his sense of command over the situation—to put Percival at ease.“I must insist on your discretion. Trust that the Order of the Mighty is here now and has the situation well in hand.”

Percival’s eyes darted between Faren and Mariana, his mustache shifting as he weighed Faren’s words.

“Do you trust in the Order of the Mighty?” Faren prompted the mayor, hating himself for the blind loyalty he was demanding—hating to have been put in this position by his Lord. Mariana had borne a similar task foryears, and it made Faren’s skin crawl to think that he had once disparaged her for it. “Will you afford us discretion, so we may do our honorable duty?”