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Jon nodded and made his way over to the men, leaving Fadon staring at the horizon.
“Problem, Captain Trajan?”
Fadon didn’t need to turn around to know it was the Servant, whose slow cadence and soft deep voice could be nothing but belonging to the Owl, as if the Basilica trained them to speak that way.
“A storm, a big one.” Fadon folded his arms across his chest.
“Do you plan on staying here, then?”
“We’ll ride back a few miles south. My Second may have spotted a cave. We’ll leave soon.”
“Very well.”
After a moment, sensing Demos was still standing behind him, Fadon asked, “Is she truly better?” He turned then to face the Servant, to read the truth or lie once he received an answer.
Demos met the Ongahri’s eyes without any submission whatsoever. Fadon found it unsettling in someone who wasn’t his sibling or friend. The blue-eyed man was nothing to him, yet he knew an equal when he saw one, both owners of their own fate, no matter who they were pledged to.
“She is. She needed the rest, is all,” Demos answered. Truth.
Fadon studied him. They were both the same height, the same breadth. Fadon had the uncanny feeling that he was looking at some kind of mirror that projected a person’s opposite. Where he would expect to see dark eyes and hair, olive skin, and little clothing, he instead saw golden skin and hair, eyes like a clear sky, a body covered in pristine white robes. The sun facing its inverse, the night.
Loud voices broke the spell, and Fadon turned his gaze ahead to the road. There, standing face to face in a fighting stance, were Hargo and Clay, practically spitting at one another.
Irritation welled up in Fadon. He marched toward the two men, catching snippets of their snarls, before he stood in front of them, his hand on the back of Clay’s nape.
“What on Ongar is going on?” he asked, looking back and forth between them.
“It’s Hargo’s turn to wipe down the horses but he’s saying you gave the order to ride out.”
“Which he did, you shit!” Hargo argued.
“I heard otherwise,” Clay said, his face contorted in outrage. “You’re just being your usual lazy self, Hargo, and this time I’m not going to do your job!”
“How about you go fuck yourself!” Hargo spat, targeting Clay’s feet.
“Enough!” Fadon barked at them. “You,” he pointed at Hargo, “see to the damn horses. We are leaving but not until that blasted carriage is fixed. And you,” he released Clay, turning a stern eye on the warrior, “you come to me with complaints, you don’t take it upon yourself. What’s gotten into you both?”
“Sorry, Captain,” Hargo and Clay both said, not too happy to be chastised but finally calming down.
“Now go.” Fadon rubbed his face, feeling his age for the first time in his life.
“What was that all about?” Jon asked, walking over to Fadon.
“Idiocy, that’s what that was.” He looked around the camp, trying to see anything that he’d missed over the past few days, reading into their overall attitudes. He had noticed a bit of restlessness in them, had witnessed a few sharp words thrown. Was his men’s morale faltering? Or was this just some petty—but out of the blue—tiff between two hotheads?
“Jon. Have you noticed any dissension in the ranks that I’m not aware of? Petty squabbles?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe some restlessness. But that’s to be expected. All that rain, and the slower pace hasn’t made for the best traveling. And if I may, as your friend?”
When he didn’t finish, Fadon prompted him with a wave of his hand to continue.
“All right. You have your moments of… how should I put it?”
“Just put it, Jon,” he said with a grunt of annoyance, eying his friend.
“Surliness. But lately you don’t seem to be yourself. Distracted, more impatient than usual. It’s the chit, isn’t it?”
Feeling needled, Fadon scoffed. “It is not the girl. As much as I wish my wretched lazy brother had done the right thing instead of me fetching her, and all this wasting of valuable time fixing and maintaining luxury items like coaches… Well, it is what it is. But no, it’s not her. It’s not the Owl’s presence either.”
