Page 79 of Fate's Wicked Oath

“I find that hard to believe,” he said, staring out at the twilit town.

He breathed deeply, smelling woodsmoke, livestock, and loam. It reminded him of his family’s estate, the green scent of fertile country. Voices wafted up from the valley, too, and as they rode closer, Faren saw that in spite of the dimming light, the townsfolk were abustle. They were carrying crates from one cottage to another, affixing sunflower and laurel garlandsto fences, wrapping ribbons around posts, and arranging paper lanterns along a path leading up a hill to the east, where more citizens were erecting a white tent.

Faren briefly wondered if this was Waldron’s Mirror Festival, but no, the timing was wrong—the Mirror Knights had set out before Faren and Mariana had and would’ve already toured the Fateful relics through Waldron by now.

“Any idea what they’re celebrating?” Faren asked.

Mariana sighed wearily. “It’s always something.”

Their horses’ hooves clip-clopped down the main road. Folks took note—offering friendly nods, whispering amongst themselves—but none paused. Like other towns along the Wend, Waldron was modest, but it was also a waypoint on the High Road, and clearly not unaccustomed to knights and travelers passing through.

Eventually, Faren and Mariana came upon a great inn at the southern end of town. It was a sturdy structure with a charming facade, the roof a patchwork of new and old thatching, the wraparound porch streaked with freshly milled boards. Above the door was a painted sign depicting a laughing opossum; it had stubby white teeth, a pink nose, and a curling pink tail, with a flower tucked behind one round gray ear.

“No proper inns?”

Mariana’s grumble was rather sardonic. “You’ll see.”

They dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching post out front. In spite of the bustle about town, this building was quiet, the outside lanterns unlit.

“Remove your breastplate,” Mariana instructed, making no move to take off her own. “Your Order will only complicate matters.”

Faren unbuckled the straps and set the metal piece on the ground beside the hitching post, then removed his golden vambraces, too. Mariana did not bother to obfuscate her Valiantuniform, and at first that seemed unimportant—hers was a secret Order, and therefore her black breastplate meant little to common folk—but then, darkly, it occurred to Faren: they were here for potions, a secret to which his Order was not privy—or, at least, not the knights of his rank. Staring up at the garland-draped inn, he considered the allegiance of the folks inside.

But Mariana did not wait for him to steel himself. As soon as he was stripped of his armor, she strode up the porch steps and flung the door open.

Inside was a pub, cavernous and dim. The tables and chairs were empty, the hearth cold. Bottles shone behind the bar, tidy and polished. More garlands, along with ribbons in autumnal shades, had been wound around the railing of a wide staircase leading up to a second floor. Though no one was here, the room possessed an inviting feel to it, the wood well-worn, the scent a pleasant mix of yeast and ale and herbs.

“Knock, knock,” Mariana called. There was a renewed intensity in her demeanor, a harshness that Faren saw through.

Nails tip-tapped on the hardwood floor, followed by a deepwoof. A huge wolfhound appeared, its wiry gray hair dusted with silver around the muzzle. It went right for Faren, snuffling around his boots, its feather tail wagging. Faren bent, patting the dog on its scraggly head.

“Mariana Bellkeep,” came a feminine voice, measured and wry.

The speaker materialized in a lantern-lit doorway behind the bar. She wore a simple green dress, cinched at the waist, accentuating ample curves. Her hair was a rich auburn, woven down one shoulder in a thick braid. Amber eyes took in Mariana with quick efficiency—then flicked to Faren, lingering with curiosity.

“And you brought a companion,” she said, swinging a rag over her shoulder.

“Temporary travel acquaintances,” Faren corrected good naturedly, glancing at Mariana with a quick smile.

The woman’s lips pulled into an amused tilt. “My condolences, ah…” she hesitated, waiting for his introduction.

“Faren Hayward,” he said. “And you are?”

“Anya Alvara,” the woman answered. “Welcome to the Pretty Possum Inn & Pub.

29

Mariana’s Friends

Faren

Mariana barely acknowledged their pleasantries. She strode for the bar and—to Faren’s shock—leaned over the counter and brazenly poured herself an ale. “Let’s not waste time,” she said. “Where’s the alchemist?”

“I have a name, you oaf,” said another woman, appearing from upstairs.

She was blonde, freckled, taller than Anya, with a pert nose and mouth. Faren had met her before, this past spring. He would recognize her royal coloring anywhere, the rather uncanny—but most certainly meaningless—resemblance to Queen Yvira, whom Faren had gotten a glimpse of when he was a boy on a visit to Marona with his family.

When he’d last encountered the alchemist, she had been looking for Mariana. At the time, Faren had written her off as a Collegium student who’d been in way over her head, but… WassheMariana’s source for potions?