Page 130 of Fate's Wicked Oath

“My Oath is who I am,” Faren said, his voice muffled by discomfort.

“No, it isn’t.” Oderin gave Faren an empathetic smile. “I will not force you to forsake your Oath, Faren, but if you intend to help me with this, I do suggest you get comfortable with the possibility.”

Faren licked his chapped lips. Squared his shoulders. “I want to help,” he confirmed. “But I have a condition.”

Oderin raised a brow, waiting.

“When this is over, Mariana goes free.”

A short laugh. “That’s…not what I expected you to say.”

“That’s my condition.”

“I can’t make any promises,” Oderin said slowly, “but you have my word that I will do what I can to see it done.”

Faren gave him a quick nod. “What’s the rest of this disastrous plan?”

“You have an acquaintance with Archer Loth, do you not?”

“I do,” Faren said slowly.

“Send word to him of your promotion,” Oderin suggested. “Tell him to bring a few extra knights of his own—friends of yours, perhaps. Folks who might want to see your triumph.”

Oderin’s meaning was clear: in case of interception, a letter like that would appear innocent enough. Faren didn’t know Archer well, but the man was cunning. He would easily understand Faren’s underlying meaning.

“He’s likely already on his way,” Faren pointed out. “I’ll have to send a private messenger to intercept their path, and even then, summoning more knights from Lothgaim will take time.”

“Then it’s a good thing you arrived here when you did.”

Faren shifted on his feet. “Everything in me recoils against the idea of breaking my Oath,” he said hoarsely. “I despise the Lord for what he’s doing to Fenrir, but my loyalty to the realm remains.”

“Then you should have no trouble breaking your Oath to save it,” Oderin said simply. “An Oath is like armor, Faren. Itgrants us strength, but it doesn’t make the man underneath.” He smiled. “I will not force you,” he repeated, “but I do ask that you consider what you care about most, and what you’re willing to give up to defend it.”

Faren loosed a heavy sigh and shoved the scroll in his pocket. “I’ll send the letter.” He made for the door, then hesitated with his hand on the knob. “Was my connection to Archer another part of the reason you sent me to Yar?”

“Did you fall in love with Mariana before or after you learned about the Lord’s corruption?”

Faren huffed. He’d onlyrealizedit recently, but when he thought back on their travels together, Faren had the distinct sense that he’d been in love with Mariana for quite a while now. “I’m not sure you’ll like my answer.”

Oderin smirked as if his answer was the same. He crossed the room until they stood face to face. “Archer possesses a retinue of Mighty Knights who are not bound to our Lord; they might prove useful.” A pause. “Hewaspart of my reasoning,” Oderin confirmed, “but that doesn’t mean I didn’t also believe in you.”

Faren nodded, feeling oddly encouraged. One way or another, his mission had been a success.

But his real duty wasn’t finished. “I’ll have the letter sent within the hour.”

Oderin placed a hand on Faren’s shoulder. “First, you’ll see a healer,” he said. “You can’t save the realm on one leg.”

46

Stranger

Faren

With shaking hands, Faren reached for the candle on his bedside table in the infirmary and dribbled wax onto the folded letter. For the past hour, a healer had been at work on him, cutting away the inflamed flesh around his wound, applying all manner of stinging topicals, and threading both sides of the puncture with stitches. He’d tried to distract himself from the discomfort by writing his letter to Archer, and as a result, his handwriting was a mess—but it would have to do.

Faren pressed the profile of his fox figurine into the wax, sealing the letter with the most authentic symbol he could think of on short notice. It was likely that his family was traveling in Archer Loth’s caravan; if Archer didn’t recognize the makeshift seal, Faren’s brother, Rown, would.

With the letter prepared, Faren shifted in the bed, wondering how soon he could leave and find a messenger. His leg currently rested on a stack of pillows, the skin exposed to the cool air. The healer had disappeared into a back room in search of bandages, and perhaps more tools with which to torture him.Her ministrations had been agonizing; eventually, he’d given up on magically staunching the pain altogether. It’d been easier to grit his teeth and accept his suffering.