Page 62 of Fate's Wicked Oath

“Because you couldn’t do the job.”

“Well,” Faren retorted, “you couldn’t be a Mighty Knight.”

“I couldeasilybe a Mighty Knight,” I said. “Parading around and looking pretty?”

His eyes danced with the unspoken quip:You think I’m pretty?

Autumnal colors and the odd spillage of gray light from the storm clouds above reflected in Faren’s breastplate like a painting. His cheeks were flushed from the chill, his hair flawlessly windswept.

Hewassomething to behold.

“There’s a lot more to being a Mighty Knight than parading,” he said, ever the staunch defender of his Order.

“Paradingissome of it, though, right?” I teased.

He lifted his chin. “Parading is harder than it looks.”

The argument was halfhearted, and I laughed. More and more of our arguments had been halfhearted, lately.

“You aren’t charismatic enough to parade,” Faren added. “There’s also your abject aversion to crowds.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“Besides, we all know that Mighty Knights must look like storybook heroes,” he said. “You simply don’t have the jawline for it.”

“So, you admit that looking pretty is part of it, but I’mnotpretty enough?” I rested a palm on my breastplate, feigning hurt. “I think that’s the cruelest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

The lines beside his eyes creased with a warm smile. “Apologies, Ana, it’s just the cruel truth.”

His attention lingered on me for a few leisurely strides of our horses, and I had the distinct sense that he did not, in fact, find me displeasing to look upon.

But that was a path we ought not veer down.

“I can sense the Morta,” I said, answering his question from before. “In addition to a sword and breastplate imbued with magic, my Oath grants me a certain sensitivity for the movements of abominations. An ability to track them with greater accuracy.” I swept my gaze over the undulating fields. “Ibelieve it ventured south after it attacked Pete and Orna, skirting along the Western Wood, perhaps, but emboldened enough to stray into the countryside.”

“So we continue south,” Faren said, “and hope we find it before it finds another homestead or town to terrorize?”

“That’s my logic.”

“Very well. You’re the authority.”

I tugged at the collar of my shirt, suddenly clammy from the unexpected warmth between us.

The day unfolded with fits of rain and bursts of sunshine. We rode through orchards and ate apples off trees. We skirted pastures that were dotted with sheep and waved at shepherds on distant hills. Over small streams and through thickets of birch and aspen, we kept mostly silent, lost to our own thoughts.

Eventually, we came upon a field of sunflowers—a smear of orange across the countryside. Great grooves had been carved into the earth, interrupting the neat rows of flowers; as we rode closer, I scented soil and decay. The faintest reek of cursed blood.

“Is it…?” Faren whispered.

My nod was solemn. A Morta had made a mess of the field. I saw no traces of humans, though—no boot-steps or hoof-prints in the mud. Indeed, birds frenzied over the sunflower seeds, showing no sign of disturbance. It’d been here, but not for a while. We were perhaps a day behind.

I urged Simon forward, skirting the swath of trampled stems where the Morta had traveled. The surrounding blooms were slumped and sodden from the fits of rain, far past their late-summer prime; they bonked against my legs as we rode, leaving wet patches on my trousers.

Birds took to the sky, flocking in a great murmuration above our heads, their wingbeats stirring the wind. Faren watched them, his mouth parted with wonder, even as his eyes pinched. It was a feeling I knew well: the bitter mix of awe and heartache over what this territory had become.

“The night I heard the robin call, I saw your fellow hand you a vial,” Faren said, not looking at me. “Was it a poison, a drug, or a cure?”

My fingers tightened around Simon’s reins; I’d been expecting the question for days, now. “You know I can’t answer that.”