Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 16

With the coming of the next dawn, Kinallen began to show signs of recovery, however slow; burnt down huts being rebuilt anew, peasants on their way to the fields again, hunters out in the woods.

Farren rose from where she knelt before the statue of Draedona at the shrine in the village cemetery. The small graveyard was perched upon a wooded hill not far from the waterfall.

Stoney eyes of the moss-clad, weather-worn Goddess of Death regarded her with a placid smile, arms outstretched as though ever waiting for an embrace to be returned. Nightshade was her flower, but it was hard to find in this untimely return of winter.

"May Draedona watch over you." She placed the few off season blooms she could gather at the pedestal, in homage to those who had died protecting the village. And the commander.

The same she'd done five years ago for the martyrs of the battle of Brihurst Isles, and this was a thing she preferred to do alone in secret. Insults directed at her she could take, perhaps some she even deserved. But Farren did not want people mocking her sincere respect for the fallen.

They don't cheat through life, making deals like I do. They face death in a fair challenge.

They don't need to tear apart their souls to become stronger, unlike me.

And the thing troubling her the most was the dagger, the main cause of all this trouble. Presumably a God's weapon, it seemed to sense that she was ...wrong.

It knows about my deal.

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From her perch on the stable roof, Farren watched the silvery column of smoke billowing from the chimney of the Olde Weasel inn, having just tended to the mare she'd rode to and from Brittlerock. Taking a hearty bite from the green apple she was eating, she rested her hand on the crystal dagger at her belt.

Till now, no one had objected to her keeping it, whether it was due to everyone being too exhausted to argue she was not sure, but she had made up her mind she was keeping it.

The ancient power that bled from the weapon, Farren felt herself connected to it, like a centuries-old bond rejuvenated the moment she'd got her fingers wrapped around its grip.

Does this thing sense what my deal with the Lord of Despair has done to my soul?

Stomping footsteps caught her attention and she looked below. Karles approached the stable, a lit Smoke Roll between his teeth, unaware of her presence on the roof. Leaning tiredly against one of the poles, he took a drag and let out a puff of smoke.

"Damn you, Valerie."

"Yeah," she said dreamily, raising her eyes to the pearly white sky and thought of him, how awfully upright he was. "Damn."

Oh, how she'd love to catch him off guard once again.

Karles nearly choked on the smoke and whirled to face her. "Where'd you sprung from?" he said, "-and don't you go fawning over Valerius. That fellow's naught but trouble."

"Too good for me, you mean."

Karles took another drag, and considered this. "Actually, yes. You're the trouble. I should warn him instead."

"As you should," she said. "But first, I want to know about what it is you have been cooking up, you and your Valerie. Don't deny it-- you've been stressed ever since you two talked on the way from Brittlerock. What are you planning?"

Karles fell silent.

Farren leaned over the edge of the roof, one arm dangling. A chestnut mare below seized that opportunity to claim the tribute of the half-eaten apple, missing Farren's fingers only by an inch, and munched contentedly.