Page 97 of Oathborn
“And your magic helps you.” Tivre gestured to the girl’s wrist. Only now did Zari notice what she’d missed before. A large mark, in the shape of a crescent and teardrop. “Doesn’t it?”
“Don’t know ’bout that.” The girl’s lips pressed together stubbornly. “But I like your hair! Can I pet it?”
“I—you—”
Before he gave permission, the girl darted forward and sank her hands in his tousled mane. She laughed delightedly, even more when Tivre winced at her tugs. The child looked nothing like Yansin, but something about her seemed familiar, as if she’d seen those eyes before. “Do you want to come with us?” Zari asked. “We can get you something to eat?”
“Cake?” the girl asked.
“Maybe,” Zari replied, not willing to bet there was a baker in such a small town. “But something better than berries, surely. What’s your name?”
“Ashali.” The girl grinned. “An’ yes. Cake soon?”
“After a good meal,” Zari countered. Who knew when the child’s last meal had been? She turned to Tivre and addressed him. “She’s coming with us.”
“Need bankie,” Ashali announced. Before they could stop her, she sprinted past the cottage.
Zari chased after her, following her down a dirt path to an overgrown thicket of raspberry bushes. For being such a little child, she moved at a quick, agile speed. It was only when Ashali paused to pluck one bright red berry and eat it that Zari caught up. With a gap-toothed grin, the girl offered another, mostly squished one, to Zari, before ducking down and squirming beneath the branches.
“Ashali!” Zari said. “What are you—”
“Typical young Oathborn,” Tivre stopped a few feet away. Unlike Ashali, or really, any fae she’d met so far, he always had a languid, lazy way of moving. “They’re as bold as kittens and as foolhardy as puppies.”
A rather sweet sentiment for those who would grow up to be the Queen’s best soldiers.
Tivre passed Zari an item. She took it, curiosity rising within her. They were tiny boots made of a material that looked distinctly familiar. Turning the boot over, she recognized the material as leather from his violin case strap. “You’re a cobbler?” she asked.
“No, I’m a fae,” he snapped, exasperated. He wiggled his fingers. “Magic. They’re made from magic. I’m not having her tracking muddy footprints everywhere.”
He made it sound as if they’d travel with her for some time. Perhaps all the way back to the isles.
“Why did you ask her about how she’s survived?” Zari asked.
“She’s Oathborn. Their magic always seems to help them in the wilderness, no matter how young they are. It’s not a topic I’ve studied enough to have more details than that.”
With a wriggling of branches, Ashali reappeared from the thicket. “Bankie!” She thrust a bundle of gray fabric toward Zari. The knit was denser and heavier than it looked, its weight surprising her. As Zari’s fingers brushed the surface, the lacework seemed to stir like water, the patterns rippling and reforming. One moment it was the restless sea, waves cresting and falling in threads of silver; the next, a scatter of islands emerged, each marked with a tiny building that glowed faintly against the shifting weave. The ocean beat against the islands, waves crashing into them like ripples of silk.
Zari shook her head, freeing herself of the strange dreamlike illusion. When she blinked again, the blanket was just beautiful lace. Perhaps a bit of purple light clung to the edges, or perhaps it was a thin ribbon, twisted through the stitches.
His eyes wide, Tivre asked, “Who gave you this, little one?” He took it from Zari in a reverent way, his long fingers gliding over the lacework.
“Dis a bankie,” she said as if Tivre was the one not understanding. It was an amusing sight. She patted his leg and said the word slowly. “Bank-ie.”
“What’s wrong?” Zari murmured to Tivre.
“This is the work of a master mage.” Tivre carefully refolded the blanket. “Every single stitch is a piece of magic. It protects her from all matters of things, wounds, the cold, heat…”
Ashali, bored with their conversation, resumed picking raspberries.
Wordlessly, Tivre stood and went into the cottage, leaving Zari with the child. She busied herself helping with the berry picking, as most of the ones Ashali selected went straight to her mouth. By the time Tivre returned, with a strange expression on his face and a stack of four books in his arms, Zari had filled both pockets of Yansin’s faded coat with berries.
Tivre still didn’t speak as he shoved the books into the small bag he carried. There must have been magic in the bag’s fabric, for there was no way the books should have fit.
Ashali giggled and patted his hair. “Nice puppy.”
The smallest memory pulled at Zari, as if she’d seen that grin before. But no, children often looked alike. Round-cheeked and wide-eyed, innocent and hopeful and chaotic, all the things that faded with the years.
“I’ll go back for—” he began, turning toward the cottage again.
