Page 35 of Oathborn
“I do. Order whatever you’d like.” Honestly, mortals and their focus on money. If they thought fae were strange for their love of magic, he was quite sure they were odder with their love of capitalism.
Finally, they opened the door and strode into the dining car, where Tivre relished in the lush details. The velvet seats, the paneled wall, even the bar in the corner. A far cry from how trains had looked a decade ago, and even further removed from the horse-drawn carts he remembered riding in when he’d first snuck into mortal lands. Technology stopped working on the isles. Motors seized up, guns failed to fire, and Tivre had always been fascinated with why. Studying the devices had proven difficult, as the Queen had banned mortal-made technology. If it wasn’t for Tivre’s best friend smuggling items back after venturing south, Tivre would have never learned half of what he knew.
Now, he sat across from his fake Oathborn and found he could not meet her gaze. Instead, he studied the other guests. Like he’d warned Hazelle, mortal fashion whirled as fast as a spin on the dance floor. Nowadays, the men sported little black bows at their necks instead of the waterfalls of lace from cravats. The women, no longer confined in hoop skirts, could walk two abreast in their fitted gowns. Still, he noticed they refused to wear trousers, an oddity he’d never understood. At least the outfit he’d woven for Zari seemed to be a good fit. Expensive, but sedate, nothing to draw too much attention.
They sat. Zari ordered the cheapest thing, so to balance it out, he ordered the most expensive, even if it didn’t sound appealing. Once their food arrived, Zari dug in, and Tivre, wrinkling his nose, poked at his meal. Rhydonians always covered everything in disgusting, thick gravy, including this overcooked slab of meat and lump of mushy starch. He set to work making the lump into a mountain.
Watching him, Zari whispered, “Do fae not eat?”
“Only the flesh of innocent children.”
That earned him an eye roll, rather than the shocked surprise he’d hoped for. Clearly, she’d given up on reacting to his comments. Which was fine. Most people, fae or human, did, eventually.
“I was wondering,” Zari began, in a tone of voice clearly meant to be coy, though it betrayed how little experience she had with being such a thing. Much like her father, she seemed the blunt type. “How old are you?”
“I thought proper manners included not asking one’s age.”
She laughed. “You? Manners?”
Tivre winked lasciviously at her, just to see her blush. Zari was the sort of mortal who clung to a strict set of rules, informing her of how she should act. And likewise, how scandalized she should be if situations didn’t live up to her expectations. She would be in for a rude awakening on the isles.
“I did ask a question,” she said, and once more, he heard her father’s tone in the words.
Tivre stabbed at the mound of chopped… somethings… on the plate. “By any measure you mortals have, I would be considered old. By fae standards, I am a youthful adult. Simply consider any fae you meet to be the age they appear to be. I have been told that I am both incredibly handsome and resemble a man of five and twenty, so that age will do fine for me.”
He chose not to mention that ages on the isles skewed younger—at least by fae standards—since many of the eldest had fallen in the war. Apart from the Queen and a handful of others, nearly all the most important fae were younger than Tivre.
Zari pursed her lips. “But you are not actually twenty-five.”
“And you are not actually an Oathborn, but we’re both pretenders, aren’t we?”
They ate their meal after that. Or rather, she ate, and he attempted to make a map of the coastline with the vegetables on his plate. Eventually, Zari reached for the newspaper on the table; Tivre had been eyeing the headlinethroughout their meal. As she read the front page, the color drained from her face.
Blood Ember RETURNS?
Victims found beheaded. Who can stop this shadow of fear and death?
“Blood Ember?” Zari jabbed the paper with one finger, her chipped red nail polish as bright as the blood must have been on the victim. Crimson, like all the blood that monster had spilled. “I thought… they said it wasn’t behind the attack. That it was…”
“What attack?” Tivre asked, though he was equally curious about thetheyin question.
“There was an awards ceremony. I was supposed to go with Annette, but this horrid purple smoke, it…” She shook her head. “The military said the smoke had nothing to do with the attack and that it was just some man with something terrible to prove.”
“Most of the worst ones do,” he agreed. He gestured at the paper. “This references something from yesterday, and no purple smoke at all.”
The smoke concerned him, for he only knew of one living fae with magic that color…
Syonia had beaten him to the capital. He’d known that since Quila had told him, but he’d hoped she was just sightseeing, perhaps. Taking in a bit of opera or the museums, before returning to the isles.
Instead, it sounded like she had her own agenda. Tivre swallowed hard. Her own? Or the Queen’s? Because this entire disaster had begun because the queen’s preferred Godspeaker was supposedlybusythe morning he’d been called to the throne room.
He scanned the article again, eyes flicking over each word, searching for anything useful—and finding nothing. Yesterday’s victims had been found in a tavern, but there were no witnesses, no hints of who—orwhat—had struck. Only the gruesome beheadings and the speed of the killings made the officer so certain the monster was back. Tivre knew better than to trust frightened men eager to name a villain.
Tivre thought about Javen and wondered if he had headed to the scene of the crime, if he believed it had truly been the work of Blood Ember. Or did he, like Tivre, doubt the panicked words of those eager for justice.
“So they have been covering things up.” Zari muttered. “Blood Ember has returned.”
Tivre scoffed. “Don’t jump to such a dramatic conclusion. You mentioned there were survivors. Blood Ember never leaves any.”
