Page 51 of Fate's Wicked Oath

“I won’t.”

Heris straightened, stepped back. Suddenly, the sounds of night were all around us again: the wind hissing through the trees, critters scuttling in the blackberry bushes, Pete’s distant snores. I turned to go, but Heris gripped my wrist.

“You left this in Yar,” he said, pressing a vial into my palm. It was the one I’d dropped when Faren distracted me during my fight with the Morta. I hadn’t had a chance to use it, for fear of him witnessing its effects, so I’d left it behind. “Use it on the abomination you allowed to escape. We cannot afford the creature roaming into towns where gossip can spread, and we need as many turned as possible for what’s to come.”

Even after he released my arm, my skin still prickled from his touch. I shoved the vial into my pocket. “Already part of my plan,” I ground out.

“Don’t forget your place, Mariana,” Heris said. “Your freedom relies on your cooperation.”

19

Ana

Faren

We need as many turned as possible for what’s to come.The words ricocheted in Faren’s mind, taunting him as he packed up his gear and mounted Sunny the next morning.

Over the past few days, Faren had forgotten the secondary part of his mission: uncovering what he could about the Valiant rebellion. He’d been too caught up in what he’d seen in Yar, the homesteaders’ plight, and the shifting sands between himself and Mariana. But what he’d overheard last night—the tail end of a conversation shrouded by sound magic—clanged like a wake-up bell, demanding he open his eyes and focus.

Oderin had implied that Mariana was a weak link in her faction, forced to comply due to some leverage or promise held over her by her leader. Faren had never met Heris Morvain, and therefore did not know the sound of his voice, but he knew the sound of authority.

He also knew the sound of a threat.

Your freedom relies on your cooperation.

Freedom. Was that what Heris had promised her? Mariana’s sentence was supposed to be for life, which made a guarantee of liberation undeniably valuable. Faren would be hard-pressed to see another reason for Mariana—independent, cunning, and capable as she was—to serve anyone other than herself.

But what did herservicereally mean? And how could Heris promise such a thing?

You left this in Yar.

Last night, Faren had watched through the blackberry bushes as a tall, rangy figure with a longbow strapped to his back had handed Mariana…something. It had glinted in the starlight, not metallic, but perhaps glass?

Use it on the abomination.

During the Morta fight in Yar, Faren had heard the clank of a bottle, had seen Mariana fumbling. He’d thought she’d dropped a dagger, but perhaps he’d been wrong. Were the Valiant attempting to give Mortapotions? To drug them? To…alter them in some way?Turned, Heris had said. Remembering how Phina’s associate had almost turned into a Morta in the middle of the city, that phrasing didn’t make any sense to Faren.

Unless the Valiant had discovered a cure?

Fates, the idea was dizzying. And unlikely. Not even Fenrir’s most acclaimed alchemists had uncovered a cure for the curse that plagued the abominations. But it was clear to Faren that the Valiant had a resource of some kind at their disposal—a card up their proverbial sleeve. And Mariana knew what it was.

From his place atop Sunny at the back of their travel party, Faren found himself persistently glancing in Mariana’s direction. She sat tall in her saddle, hips swaying with the easy strides of her charcoal-gray gelding. Her hair was loose. Faren couldn’t help but recall how soft the strands had felt under his fingers the day before. The sensation had unraveled somethingin his stomach; it felt worryingly like the knot that secured his resolve.

He tried to tap into the hatred he’d felt at the start of their mission, a simple loathing that took no context from the nuanced sides of her he’d witnessed since then—but his heart, gut, and instincts wouldn’t let him. She might’ve served a vile criminal, and been complicit in a rising rebellion against the Lord, yet…

Yet.

Faren breathed deeply, trying to clear his head. The air was frigid in his lungs, but the sun was bright and cheerful. Flocks of small birds darted in and out of the hedgerows, chirping merrily. Deer took note of their caravan and fled, bounding with great leaps into a bordering grove. All around, the fertile hills of Fenrir rolled toward distant horizons in shades of autumnal browns and stubborn greens.

At midday, the travel party reached a wide basin where an offshoot of the River Wend burbled happily, hemmed in by reeds, red-stemmed dogwoods, and magnificent old willows. They parked the wagon and paused, allowing the horses, heifer, sheep, and dogs to drink from the clear water.

Pete and Orna were in good spirits, all things considered. In spite of Faren’s conflicted inner state, for much of the morning, he had endeavored to keep up morale, regaling them with tales from his Mighty Knighthood and silly stories about his sisters. His efforts seemed to have paid off, and when Pete and Orna settled in the grass to snack on apples in the sunshine, their laughter was comfortable.

Giving them privacy, Faren meandered a little ways up creek, to where Mariana sat on a boulder. A great weeping willow swayed behind her in a spectacular cascade of gold; when the wind stirred, leaves twirled down like paper confetti, sprinkling her head and shoulders. Her elbows were on her knees, wristsloose. She still wore the gloves Orna had gifted her, with vambraces strapped tightly over her forearms. The silver winked in the shifting light.

What was going on behind those watchful eyes? When exactly had Faren stopped disliking the cold expression on her face? Why did he instead feel like he was teetering on the edge of one of her sharp cheekbones? The only soft thing about her was her mouth, which was quick to cut him open with insults. And he must’ve been a glutton for punishment, because—in spite of everything—he’d missed their constant bickering over the past couple days.

Faren wanted to say something, to break the odd silence that lingered between them, but he couldn’t find the right combination of words. So instead, he drew his sword, Mercy, and leveled it under the delicate curve of her jaw.