Page 78 of Fate's Wicked Oath

He stood and went over to Sunny, untying the horse’s lead. I followed, not finished with our conversation.

“You’re coming with me to Waldron for a reason,” I said. “For the realm, no?”

He stroked Sunny’s neck. “The realm,” he repeated, as if it were an insult, a punchline to a bad joke. He swung his saddle onto Sunny’s back and began looping the leather strap of his cinch. “I’ll try not to be so mopey these next couple days.”

I reached for him, about to stay his hand. “Faren—”

“—if you promise not to shriek at every swan we see. They’re quite numerous along the Wend.”

I lowered my hand before I made contact. Bit my lip. I knew a conversational diversion when I heard one, and as Faren had done for me earlier, I accepted the pivot. “No promises,” I said. His humor wasn’t much, but it was something—an assurance that we, at least, were in as good standing as our circumstances would allow.

Faren raked a hand through his hair, glancing sidelong at me. “I still can’t believe the Maiden Morta Killer fearsswans, of all things.”

“You take my secret to the grave,” I said, “or I will personally alter your Fate.”

Yanking on Sunny’s cinch, he said, “For better or worse, sweetheart, I’m afraid you already have.”

28

Waldron-on-Wend

Faren

Ido not intend to stay long,” Mariana said as they crested the final hill leading into Waldron-on-Wend. “I’ll retrieve my potions, then we’ll go.”

The town was tucked into a narrow valley between undulating, sheep-speckled hillocks. Thatched-roof cottages were nestled in neat lines, with smoke curling from their chimneys. The river was a silver-blue curve that cut right through the orderly cobblestone streets, its glassy surface crisscrossed by footbridges. Dusk was upon the land, coloring everything in violet hues.

“You do not intend to stay the night?” The early evening breeze ruffled Faren’s hair, carrying a chill. “Enjoy a bath and bed, after so many nights on the road?”

Mariana glared at him, as if he should know better by now.

After all these days traveling south, he still didn’t know exactly why he’d come with her to Waldron—or why she’d let him. With each passing hour, he’d pondered it, meanwhile getting ever farther from his life in Fenrir City. It was his duty, of course, toinvestigate the Valiant rebellion. But it was clear now, after their conversation two days prior, that they both knew he’d come for reasons of his own, too.

Your Oath is to the realm. You love the realm.

Mariana had meant to comfort him with those insistent, rather surprising words, but his loyalty had been the very thing he’d been—to use her term—mopingabout on this leg of their never-ending quest. How could he love a realm teeming with monsters and criminals? How could he love a realm where homes burned, innocent citizens starved, and fear spread like blight? Faren could blame the Lord for the injustice and focus on the realm itself from which to draw his Mighty faith, but without both pillars of his charge—landandsovereign—his duty felt tenuous.

He’d consoled himself by reminding himself that he was only following his morals, as Oderin had instructed—gathering information so that he might see clearer—but he could not logic his way out of the treasonous truth: Faren was also here forher.

Riding beside him, Mariana stared ahead at their destination, solemn. He could blame that Fateful encounter in Brine for the ways in which his world felt shaken—her almost-admission about the Lord, the potion, the Morta's transformation—but over the past few days of riding, and camping, and sleeping mere feet from her, Faren had realized that it was their night in the Lark that had altered him most. Not something she’d said or specifically done, justthem, together, sharing, laughing. For a little while, at that corner table, the world hadn’t existed beyond the two of them.

Seeing her naked hadn’t helped matters.

Not that he’dseenmuch. He’d been too caught up in his concern over what had frightened her—but that night, as he’d settled into his bedroll, he’d found his mind circling back to her bare, muscular thighs. Her nipped waist. The curved side of one full breast. The remnants of bruising on her ribs. Seeing so muchof her light brown skin andknowinghow sensitive it was, how accustomed to pain.

Deep into the night, Faren had contemplated how he might draw pleasure from that skin instead, mapping how he would touch her to light up her magic most thoroughly. By morning, he’d felt wretched. Not just from the tight, persistent ache in his groin, but the tension in his heart and mind, too. Because it was one thing for his loyalty to falter over injustice and villainy, but it was another thing entirely for his loyalty to falter over a woman.

Ruinous. She was proving to be ruinous.

But he was getting ahead of himself. Faren would learn more in Waldron. Right now, he simply needed to keep his eyes and ears open, and his thoughts clear.

Faren raked his hair out of his face, feeling like his stitching was falling out at the seams—but refusing to come undone. “I’m aware my opinion matters little to you,” he said, “butIwould appreciate a night in a proper inn. And I’m certain you would, too.”

Her lips pressed into a pout. “You’re ‘certain,’ are you?”

“Certain,” he insisted. “Think of it: a hot, steaming bath. Soft, clean sheets. A mattress made not of twigs and pebbles and frost, but wool and down. Fresh pastry for breakfast.”

The corner of her mouth lifted with temptation, but she smothered it. “Unfortunately, Faren, you’ll soon find that Waldron is without aproperinn.”