Page 131 of Oathborn
Her hand clenched to her chest, Zari desperately hoped he would keep his word.
Chapter fifty-one
Tivre
Tivre had watched Daeden and Zari leave the Royal Isle with a pit in his stomach. Powerless to stop them, unless he wanted to endanger them all, he’d had to bite his tongue. Couldn’t even bring himself to look either of them in their eyes, knowing Zari’s would burn with betrayal and Daeden’s would be… empty. Devoid of any feeling, emotion, anything that Tivre would recognize as part of the fae he cared about.
Because he refused to believe the Oathborn mark was part of Daeden. That magic, no matter how deeply woven it was into his bones and blood, couldn’t belong to Daeden. Not when it could control him, change his actions, even his thoughts.
Nothing good will come of caring for one who is Oathborn.
The voice from a long-ago memory echoed, and Tivre closed his eyes at the wave of pain that came with it. The Crescent Blade would always eventually kill its wielder. The power it offered came with an inescapable condition. Javenthal had known that when he’d accepted the burden, but Zari… she was mortal. Frail.
It had been a trap, and he’d let Zari stumble into it.
Tivre had gambled so much on bringing Zari here instead of Annette. After last night, he’d grown worried it was a wager he’d not be able to win. The Mark of Artem changed the future. The Queen plotted something, surely. She’d not forgotten her deepest hope, that her son would return to her.
Tivre had once shared a vision of a day where Javen returned and embraced her in the throne room, as if all the past was forgotten. The belief in that vision had all but consumed her. She wanted her son’s love, but she’d never beg for his forgiveness.
So he knew, whatever she’d meant to do with the mark, it was to aid in her quest to bring Javen home.
As for Syonia? Tivre could only guess. The goddesses would never grant Tivre any awareness of what Syonia conspired to do, nor offer Syonia any of his plans. She could not know Zari was an average human girl, not unless Zari herself had revealed the con. Tivre had never considered Syonia much of a threat. Now, his skin prickled with the discomfort that he might have deeply underestimated her.
Like a fool, Tivre had served the Queen faithfully before Syonia came to the palace. He’d been raised alongside the Prince himself, and she’d grown up in the mage’s tower. The last time Tivre had trusted the Queen… Celene had been killed.
He sighed. Unlike most fae, Tivre wasn’t naturally a fighter. He’d never been in a fistfight and avoided blades as much as he could. As helpful as it would be to duel Syonia, he did not think he’d win, not without magic. The same magic the goddesses would surely bar him from if he tried to use it to kill another Godspeaker, no matter how odious she was. The goddesses had their own rules, their own sense of justice. Tivre was not one to wager on their mercy.
What good could Tivre’s plans do, either? Kissing Zari had been reckless. Attempting to let her see her father had been pure stupidity. Her quest to retrieve the Crescent Blade would kill her.
Of that, he was sure, for his own prophecy, uttered decades ago, rang in his ears, reminding him of that.
Goddess-blessed, goddess-chosen, never more than one remains.
The blade chooses once, but revenge a second time claims.
He’d been mad enough the day Javenthal claimed the sword, knowing it would forever change his best friend—his only friend—and his destiny. Atleast the Crown Prince had been aware of the sword’s magic. Zari would know nothing.
He paced down the hall to his room but stopped. If he kept walking to the end of the hall, if he took that small staircase up one flight…
The hair on the back of his neck prickled at the thought. He hesitated.
Go,a voice whispered, crackling with all the power of the divine.Tides are changing, and you must be aware, lest you drown.
“Comforting, as usual,” he muttered out loud to whatever goddess had bothered to speak to him.
Faint, unearthly laughter was the only reply.
The steps leading up to the Crown Prince’s room were narrow and dusty. Tivre nearly slipped on them more than once as he followed their spiral upward. Given he’d noticed another set of prints in the dust leading the way ahead, he was less than surprised when he reached the massive door to find it ajar.
With a single sigil, he pushed the door open a bit wider, allowing him to see into the set of rooms he’d once spent a great many hours within. The suite was untouched, the furniture still in the same place, the bookshelves still filled, the grand mirror…
Currently blocked by Syonia herself, who was busy trying on one of Javenthal’s old royal circlets. Clearly very enamored with her own reflection, she didn’t even notice as Tivre crept up behind her, all the while weaving a spell.
He tossed the magic at the mirror, and its surface shimmered, like a lake disturbed by a thrown rock. Syonia gasped, finally aware of his presence, just as the reflection in the mirror changed, revealing what Tivre’s spell had summoned: a memory of Javenthal himself, as Tivre best remembered him. Tall, proud, with the Crescent Blade at his side and that same royal circlet Syonia was still wearing on his own brow.
“I thought you might want a reminder,” Tivre drawled, “of the only heir the Queen recognizes.”
“For now,” Syonia muttered. “How little you know.”
