Page 106 of Oathborn
“To, uh, hold your b—the b-word I am not allowed to say—if you have to run or jump.”
Zari smiled. The outfit, for all its decadence, was more maneuverable than any ballgown. “So many layers.”
“You all wear almost as many. With those strange… corsets and lacy whatnots.”
For all he’d terrified her before, now Tivre seemed his usual absent-minded, harmless self. Zari rolled her eyes. “What do you know about corsets?”
“I know they come off with a sigil or two.” He lobbed a pair of thick wool socks at her.
Rolling her eyes, she tugged on the socks, and then, recalling the pin Hazelle had trusted her with, fastened it onto the belt sash, similar to how Tivre’s own looked. His pin was silver, in the shape of an hourglass cupped by a crescent moon. Zari’s fingers skimmed over the star on hers, thinking of Hazelle and wishing she was here now.
Her fingers worked out tangles in her hair as she debated whether she should pull it back. What did the other fae do? Both Hazelle and Daeden wore theirs down, with little braids to keep it away from their eyes. Hers was too short and too curly for such a thing.
Glancing over at Tivre again, she saw him wrap the strip of silk she’d thought was a scarf around his waist. Tivre’s was held closed by a pin similar in shape, but different in design from the one Hazelle had given her.
The collared shirt beneath kept the wool from itching her skin, and the pleated skirt felt much lighter than any bustled walking dress. They were also, aside from the slippers, too big. “You had these clothes ready for Annette, didn’t you?”
“What does it matter when destinies are so often picked up by someone else, reused, and reshaped? For even I was a simple child until my own destiny denied me the quiet life I desired.”
“You were still fae.” How could anyone made of magic ever lead a quiet life? “Are you… are fae human? I mean, apart from magic and…”
“Is that not why our people fight yours? Both sides claiming to be human but neither side admitting the other might be human, too?”
“But you’re immortal! And magical!”
“And you bear children easily and create things like combustion engines,” he shrugged. “The bird envies the tortoise’s lifespan, and the tortoise envies the bird’s freedom. In any case, it is far past time we make for the isles.”
He flicked his finger and there, as if a blanket had been torn off, appeared a small, dark wooden rowboat. Tivre held out his hand and escorted her to the boat. All the while, she thought of how much warmer Yansin’s hand had been to hold.
As a child, Zari had taken many boat rides around placid lakes back home. Those lazy afternoon experiences were quite different from this. Here, the black waves sloshed hard against the boat, and a wicked chill made her skin prickle. They cut through the water faster than they should have as they maneuvered against the tide. Tivre barely seemed to paddle the boat. Magic must be propelling it along.
Beyond them, the isles loomed so dark, so mysterious. Few lights gleamed on them, providing no details on fae dwellings. “How many isles are there?”
“There are thirty-six Great Isles, each with their own Stellaris. Then, some smaller ones with crofting families. The Royal Isle rounds us out to forty.”
“Which isle holds my father?”
“I will ensure you see him,” Tivre replied, a non-answer if there ever was one. “Until then, you will speak to no one of the general.”
More half-truths and mysteries. She shook her head. A sharp cliff face of an isle rose up, black stone jutting up from black sea. Zari let her hand drop, wanting to dust her fingertips in its cool—
“Don’t!” Tivre shouted.
“I won’t fall over. Besides, I’m a strong swimmer.”
Tivre glared at her. “Our sea does not kill by drowning.”
She pulled her hand back. What hellish place was this if even water could kill? With nothing else to do, she closed her eyes. Around them, wind rushed, fast and cold. Voices called to her as if from dreams, and that same unearthly music she’d heard the night she met Tivre echoed. Fighting against the murmurs, she summoned memories of normal things, of her medical textbooks and tasks at the hospital, to push away all the ethereal, impossible sounds.
Just as she was silently reciting the warning signs of precipitous labor in a patient, Tivre cleared his throat. “We say our sea is the source of all magic.”
“So that’s why the magic fades as you go south. The water supply.”
“Yes,” Tivre said. “Any points further south than your capital, there is no sigil magic. Elemental magic, perhaps, back in the days when the great beasts walked the earth, but nothing like ours.”
Eventually, the boat scraped upon sand. Now, she noticed how carefully Tivre exited the boat, how his trousers tucked into his boots so no skin might be touched by the surf. “Welcome to the Royal Isle,” he said.
A set of stairs, carved from pure white stone, beckoned to her. Her hand went to her pocket, and she found her father’s pocket watch once more. None of the hands moved. Zari wound it. Nothing happened. She lifted it to her ear. No ticking.
