Page 132 of Oathborn
“I know a great deal more than you about Her Majesty,” Tivre retorted. He waved his fingers at the mirror, shifting the image so that it was Queen Cassendelle’s likeness that now peered out at them. “As I have lived here my whole life, under her careful eye. She has never had love for anyone but Javenthal. Do not fool yourself. We are her tools, her link to the divine. She does not—”
“You lie!” Syonia threw magic at the mirror, and it shifted to show the Queen braiding Syonia’s hair. A truth, or a daydream of hers? “She cares for me like a daughter! If the Traitor is no longer alive then—”
“The throne would pass to the South Star,” Tivre chided. “As is tradition.”
Syonia scoffed. “Not if she appoints me as her heir.”
Tivre’s irritation flared, strong enough that it rippled through his magic. In a sudden burst of green light, the entire mirror shattered into a thousand shards. They flew outward, tiny daggers slicing through all they hit. Syonia screamed, throwing her arms up to shield herself.
The pieces of glass slashed through her sleeves, leaving angry red lines of blood.
Tivre glared at her. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You fear Zari will take a spot you see as your own? You think the Queen will choose you over her son, over the only person she’s ever loved? And—”
“And I am right!” Syonia wiped a bead of blood off her cheek. “I have foreseen it, and the goddesses donotlie. If that girl dies, then the Traitor shall never return to the isles and—”
“You still won’t be heir!”
“Doubt me all you wish!” Syonia snapped her fingers, her own purple sigils springing to life. “But I will have all I dreamed of. I have worked too hard to be denied. The war will start again, and the Queen shall turn to me as her most trusted resource. This crown belongs to me.”
“You are a fool,” Tivre replied.
Was this all the goddess who had spoken to him wished for him to see? The ravings of one utterly wrong?
Syonia strode past him and pulled the curtains of the large window open. She laughed, a low, oily noise. “How little you know, Tivre. For even if your Oathborn girl brings the sword back, I shall ensure her death.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“A pity, truly.” Snapping her fingers again, she summoned thick purple smoke. It grew stronger, billowing from her open hand. The same smoke he’d seen at Lochna. Dangerous, near-sentient with its tendrils.
He fought his way forward. He could no longer see, or even sense Syonia. She must have already left, perhaps through the window. It didn’t matter. He had to get out of this room before he choked to death.
Finally, he stumbled outside, back into the hallway. He turned, rubbing his eyes, and collided with the solid body of another being.
He looked up into the cold, impassive face of Olan. Cold green eyes, like frost-covered leaves, glared back down at him. “What were you doing in that room?”
Glancing behind himself, he noticed there was no trace of smoke. “Looking for a book.”
“Indeed.” Olan did not sound as if he believed a word of the bluff. “Yet you have no book in your hand.”
“I read it and placed it back on the shelf.” Tivre smiled. “I’m a very fast reader.”
Olan’s free hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword. “What of the Oathborn wildling girl? Where is she?”
“She’s—” Tivre began, then froze. Syonia had said she acted under the Queen’s guidance. Yet, Olan would know of the Queen’s will, if that was the case. “Where do you think she ought to be?” Tivre asked, pivoting.
“In your care and keeping, as directed.”
A shiver once more ran down Tivre’s spine. Ghostly laughter rang in his head. “I should go look for her then.”
“I will escort you to your room,” Olan replied. “As the Queen has ordered me to. The matter of the Oathborn girl is no longer your concern.”
“But!”
“There are no rebuttals to the Queen’s order. She will—” and Olan froze, his usually impassive face shifting into an expression of pure rage.
A massive wave of magic tore across the entire sea like a wave, bringing a gust of chill air that triggered a sudden frost. It knocked out the window at the end of the hall, sending glittering threads of ice over the stone walls. Fae across all the isles would see the glittering ice covering spring buds, the frost icing over their walls and clouding their breath. That same effect had happened when Javenthal claimed the blade. Then it had been midwinter, and no one would have noticed.
“This is…” Olan began, rage dripping from every word. “Who dared…”
