Page 60 of Oathborn
Yansin leaned closer as her eyelids fluttered closed. The kiss was brief, barely long enough to register, and yet, still stole her breath. By the time she opened her eyes, he was back to sitting next to her, and though the blanket was still wrapped around their shoulders, he was, regretfully, a respectable distance apart from her.
“Now,” he said, still smiling, “to keep us safe, proper, and utterly respectful, shall I tell a bedtime story? How about the farm boy and the big red fox?”
“You cannot be serious.” One moment, they’d been near to scandal, and now, he was offering her a children’s tale about the importance of chores?
“Oh, I am dreadfully serious indeed,” he replied, though his dimple showed as he fought a grin. “For if I do not tell it, how shall I remember to wash the dishes before we leave in the morning?”
She laughed. “I’m more impressed that you can wash dishes.”
“I can do many wonderful things,” he pulled her closer to him, his arm around her shoulder. “Least of which is telling a decent bedtime story.”
“I will admit I wasn’t expecting the change of direction.” Her face still burned so she hid it against his shoulder. “Especially given how enjoyable…”
“How enjoyable our prior course of action was becoming?” Yansin rested his chin on her head. A sense of safety washed over her, a security she’d not felt since she began the journey north.
It was followed by the slightest bit of guilt, that she’d not spared a thought for the safety of Hazelle and the others since she’d escaped from Javen. Surely the fae were fine, well on their way to the rendezvous point at Lochna. All of them seemed capable, and Daeden was an Oathborn warrior. If anyone could…
Zari shuddered, suddenly aware of the strangeness of her thoughts.If anyone could survive an attack by Javen and the other soldiers, it would be an Oathborn.Except… Oathborn were the enemy, and the Rhydonian soldiers the heroes, in every story, in every newspaper article, in everything Zari had ever known.
Until now.
“On second thought,” she said, her voice unsteady, “a bedtime story does sound appealing, after all. A peaceful one, with no war or battles.”
Nodding, Yansin launched into the story, telling it with amusing hand motions, dramatic pauses, and different voices for each character. When he finished, she was smiling, her fears faded. “Did your father tell stories, too?” she asked. “I wouldn’t mind hearing one. Surely, there must be some common ground between the fae and humans, at least in the tales we tell children.”
“A noble hope,” Yansin replied. “Perhaps the stories will disappoint you, for fae are fond of battles.”
“Were any battles ever fought against evil creatures?” she asked, thinking of bedtime stories of ancient wars against cruel kings or vicious beasts.
“There are tales told of those chosen by the goddesses to carry their blessed sword against the legions of evil. My father’s favorite stories were of Artemisia, a fae selected by the goddesses to draw the Crescent Blade, though she was a mere outpost guard. But,” he sighed, “the fae’s current Queen is her direct descendent, so I fear that tale will not bring you the peace you hope for.”
Zari’s eyes widened. “I’d like to hear more about the Queen.”
Yansin drew his knees to his chest, suddenly seeming fragile, as if all his quiet strength had fled. “I will tell you what little I know of Queen Cassendelle, tomorrow. Stories too grounded in what we fear will not serve us well before sleep.”
Instead, he started to hum a lullaby. His gentle voice glided over the tune, as soft as silk sheets. “Sleep, sleep, for dawn is soon. Tomorrow, tomorrow, shine as brightly as the moon.”
The unfamiliar tune carried a magic in its rhymes, soothing her racing heart. Like a lifeline to a desperate sailor, the music pulled Zari from her fearful thoughts and into sleep.
Chapter twenty-three
Tobias
The house that Javen and the Crimsons had commandeered was the main headquarters of the town’s small police force, which meant it was stocked with enough basics for him to make a fire, some soup, and most importantly, some coffee.
Tobias sipped from a mug as he studied the book of fae symbols. He sighed, running a finger down the open page, looking at all the characters he had yet to memorize. To think he’d hidden his aptitude with language for fear of being stuck with a boring desk job. No one ever asked a translator or an accountant to hunt down a fae spy.
Perhaps, he mused,boring was not such a bad thing where careers were concerned.
Studying the set of twisting shapes that made up another fae word, Tobias jotted down a note. He’d noticed a few grammar rules, or at least, theories that he would like to prove or disprove as he further studied the language. How he’d go about doing so, when Javen hadn’t even acknowledged the book, Tobias wasn’t sure.
Questions still swirled in his head in regard to the translations. Was it a tool Javen had used on the front? Did other Crimsons have a copy of it? Who had been the fae to provide the words? Even the stories Tobias had heard of wildlings suggested they grew up not knowing how to speak theirfae ancestor’s language. The words were too complicated, too supernatural, for a mere mortal to pronounce.
Tobias wasn’t so sure about that. Then again, right now, he wasn’t sure about much.
He’d returned from the search in Lockwood Manor hours ago, but Javen was nowhere to be found. So Tobias, his head still buzzing with the encounter, the memory of that cold blade against his neck so vivid, decided the best thing to do was to stay busy with other work.
A clatter from the kitchen made Tobias sit upright. “Who’s there?” he demanded as he rose, taking the pistol from his belt.
