Page 88 of Fate's Wicked Oath

“He wasn’t kidding.”

“So the Morta don’t spawn from the geothermal pools. They are former men. Formerknights.” His voice sounded muffled, as if he were wiping a hand over his face. “Knights take Oaths before the Lord, so the Lord must be…” He let out a pained groan.

I couldn’t answer. My Oath wouldn’t let me. Sympathy was a rot inside my stomach, making me feel wretched for leaving Faren alone in his realization, the decay of everything he thought he knew.

“And Hattie found a way to reverse it,” Faren whispered. “A cure that the Valiant know about, but the Lord does not?”

I wracked my brain for something to say,anysort of confirmation that my Oath would allow. Ultimately, I opted for the common language between us: goading. “I used to believe that Mighty Knights were thick-skulled,” I said delicately. “I was wrong to think that about you.” It was all I could offer, a glib hint at his correctness, when what he deserved was comfort and confirmation.

Faren was silent for a while, save for the rustling of blankets. “What else do you think about me?” he asked finally.

The question was an echo of earlier, not exactly flirtatious, but seeking.

Whatever he sought, I couldn’t give it to him. The limitations of my Oath were proof.

“I need—something. From downstairs,” I said weakly, drawing the covers back and snatching the dressing gown from where I’d left it on the floor. “I’ll be right back.”

I slipped out the door before he could respond.

31

They Don’t Stand a Chance

Mariana

There was nothing I needed from downstairs, but I went anyway, descending the steps with bare feet and a raw heart.

This was why I never opened up. The helplessness was too much to bear. Desire and empathy warred within me, and they were both losing battles. My Oath prevented me from being honest with Faren about his allegiances—hislife’s purpose—and my sentence prevented me from any sort of meaningful companionship. I’d learned long ago that, for someone like me, closeness was simply an invitation for loss.

I could not act on my desire. I couldn’t risk caring about him any more than I already did. I had to get some distance.

To my relief, no one stirred in the inn—they must’ve all gone to bed. Circling the banister, I went behind the bar and poured myself an ale. Knocked it back. Poured another, then wandered in the direction of the smoldering hearth.

It wasn’t until I’d nearly reached the seating area that I spotted Idris reclined in one of the plush chairs, shrouded in shadow.

“Oh, I—” I stammered. “I’ll go.”

Idris gestured to the chair opposite his. “You’ve already helped yourself to an ale. Might as well drink it.”

The old wolfhound—Wicker—lay before the weak fire; he peeked one eye open as I came around the chair and sat. Idris sipped his own ale, staring into the embers. I could see only the outline of him in the dimness, but he seemed relaxed, content—the opposite of my edginess. Sitting in uncomfortable silence with the younger brother of the man I’d once loved and lost—who still probably blamed me for Grinnick’s death—was far preferable to lying awake mere feet away from Faren.

“Can’t sleep?” Idris asked.

“Are you really out of rooms?”

A flash of teeth in the dark. “You’ll have to ask my bride.”

I rolled my eyes and settled back into my chair, slurping my ale.

“Is the room not to your liking?” Idris asked.

“The room is fine, it’s the company I wish to escape.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

I lifted my tankard to my lips again, foam tickling my upper lip. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs with your aforementioned bride?”

“You’re thinking of my wedding night,” Idris said. “That’s tomorrow. Tonight, we sleep apart. It’s tradition.”