Page 115 of Oathborn
Zari’s heart started to ache, imagining the heartbreak Tivre must have gone through.
“We have a saying. All is forgiven the night before a battle. It was supposed to be a mercy for those seeking a scrap of comfort before facing one’s own death.” Tivre pushed open a door and led her through. “Battles were rare, for many thousands of years, and that saying was little more than a bit ofsuperstition. For all of us who came of age during the war, it became a way of life.”
What a terrible way to live,she thought.To never know who might survive, to mourn so many lost that grief becomes mundane.
Tivre looked around the next corridor. “Be swift. Keep holding my hand, for we’ll have to pass the Oathborn as they practice.”
Her heart lodged in her throat. If anyone was going to catch them, surely it would be battle-trained warriors. Daeden’s senses had always seemed so sharp, his footsteps so silent. How were they to sneak past a whole regiment of practicing Oathborn?
Tivre merely held a finger to his lips—those very same lips she’d just been kissing—and led her forward. As they walked, his steps silent and hers echoing down the marble hall, she became aware of another set of sounds. A slow, steady beat of a drum.
Thud. Thud. Thudthudthud.
Despite herself, as they drew near and the drum’s sound increased in volume, Zari stopped to look. The doorway was mostly blocked by a massive statue, but leaning past it, she caught the faintest hint of a vast throne room. Zari took another step forward, spurred on by a combination of curiosity and fear.
The room’s high arching ceiling was easily four stories above ground. The pillars throughout seemed to be made of pure white marble, which gleamed like moonlight. Inside the room, amid lights that floated and spun on the faint breeze, more than one hundred Oathborn moved in perfect harmony.
Clad in sleek black tunics that shimmered like ravens’ wings, they trained in perfect unison. The dance, of drawing the blade, lunging, feinting, blocking imaginary attacks, was so similar to the one she’d seen Daeden practice in the mornings of their travels.
The sight of him alone had been fearsome. This symphony of death, of a hundred fae blades flashing, a hundred sets of glowing eyes set in deadly concentration, was the stuff of nightmares.
Over it all, the drum’s steady cadence rang out, keeping every one of them locked in perfect harmony.
These were the Oathborn who had destroyed entire Rhydonian regiments, who decimated villages and assassinated generals. Who could descend into a soldier’s trench and run it through, leaving nothing but bodies behind. These were the horrors she’d been warned about, since she was a child. The warriors from nightmares, the murders of countless Rhydonians.
They were terrifying, and they werebeautiful.
Their long hair, in shades that varied from midnight to seafoam, fanned around them as they spun, their blades slicing through the air. Their steps were silent, but so graceful, turning the deadly practice into an art form. If any one of them faltered, if any misstepped, blood would be shed.
She doubted any ever would. They stayed in rhythm. As she watched, they started to sing, calling back the responses to the words bellowed by the only Oathborn not moving with the others. Instead, the tall male stood, arms behind his back, one step below the empty throne. Clearly, he was a leader, a commanding officer. His black hair matched his dark tunic and the black gem on the hilt of the sword at his side. His eyes searched the ranks, as if seeking the smallest of infractions. His calls were answered, again and again, by the assembled fae before him.
She recognized his voice, finally. He was the Oathborn who had accompanied the Queen. A strange sense of familiarity clung to him, as Zari studied his form. She assumed it was simply her recognizing another military leader, from a childhood spent watching her father take a similar role of respect and surveillance.
“Come,” Tivre whispered to her. “Before we’re seen.”
“I…” She could not look away. Their grace enchanted her, the way a wildfire might. Compelled her forward, even as it spelled her doom.
The drum’s rhythm echoed in her very bones, replacing the feeling of her heartbeat. Tearing her eyes away, her gaze landed once more on the statue in front of them. The stone sword seemed to shimmer. She blinked, twice, sure it was a trick of the light. When she looked again at the statue, taking in thesight of the two figures, one descending from above, a sword in hand, the other, with arms outstretched to receive the weapon, they seemed as ordinary, and as beautiful, as before.
A cool wind swept past her, making the hair on the back of her neck prickle. The figure holding the sword seemed to turn, then, and stare, directly at Zari. Stone eyes gazed upon her, and the carved lips turned up in a smile.
Zari clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling her scream.
The statue turned back to its previous position.
Tivre pulled her away, dragging her around the corner. “What?” he whispered. “What did you see?”
“The… the statue.” Her mouth tasted as dry as sand. “Didn’t it… isn’t that some magic trick? The figure with the sword—”
“The goddess?” Tivre asked. “What of her?”
A goddess. Of course. That was what the statue depicted. Based on the stories she’d been told by Yansin, she wondered if the sword was the Crescent Blade? For he’d told her the tale of the Maiden arriving in a cloud of smoke to offer the blade to its first wielder. Despite her lack of faith, Zari found herself shivering. “She looked at me. Or I thought… I thought she did.”
Tivre sighed, shaking his head. He leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers, his green-eyed gaze becoming all she could see. “You’re imagining things, Zari Ankmetta. I assure you, the goddesses do not turn their gaze upon one such as you.”
“But—”
“Enough.” This time, he kissed her cheek. The warmth lingered there, as if to break whatever enchantment she’d fallen under. “Keep following me. Down these stairs. We’re nearly there.”
