Page 117 of Oathborn
That sounded like Javen. “He’s not really one for small talk.”
Lockwood’s wheezing laugh echoed with the ghost of decades of cigar smoking. “That’s for sure. I figured with you, it’s because of where you’re from.”
“Karsic?” Tobias’s home was a nearly forgotten province that barely supported itself on the fishing trade. “Why?”
“He’ll use the odd Karsici phrase. I figured he must have been quite close to someone from there.”
“Maybe his wife?” Tobias caught himself looking over his shoulder as he said it, as if Javen would appear, and put a blade to his throat for gossiping. “I mean, I know she’s dead and all, but—” And, was a fae, which made it highly doubtful she’d ever been to Karsic.
Lockwood tipped his glass, a small salute. “Then, you know more than me.”
If Tobias leaned any further in his stool, he was going to fall off. He carefully righted himself. “Oh?”
“When we met, there wasn’t time for pleasantries,” Lockwood explained before he ordered a second pot pie. “He killed the fae that was about to end my life. One minute, I was staring up into those eerie Oathborn eyes, thinking I’d breathed my last and the next, Javen appeared, plunged a blade through the beast and saved me.”
Tobias swirled the last of his beer. “Is that how Javen got in with the Crimsons?”
“No. I was far, far beyond enemy lines at this point. I was looking for my son. When his radio signal vanished, I… well. A father does foolish things. Javen was there when we found the wreckage, and when we found the bodies, or what was left of them, too. We tracked that monster Blood Ember north but never located it.”
So that revenge united the two men. “I’m sorry,” Tobias hesitated, not sure if he should offer the older man a supportive arm or a pat on the back. As his Ma would say, it was better to try to do the right thing wrongly than to do nothing at all, so he clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder.
The commanding officer smiled at the gesture. “Javen was half-dead then. You wouldn’t recognize him if you’d seen him then. Tattered clothes, wild hair, that tattoo on his neck bleeding through his shirt collar. I don’t know how I talked sense into him, but I’m damned glad I did.”
Lockwood was wrong. Tobias had both seen Javen disheveled, and with a bleeding mark on his neck. There had to be a pattern, a reason for the occurrences. Javen had blamed the Queen but offered no other details. Tobias grasped at straws, desperate to understand the riddle. “Sir,” Tobias began, “is Javen a… is he… he’s human, right?”
“Mostly, as far as I can tell. One of those wildlings, I think. Part human mixed up with that damned fae blood, maybe. He’s never said much of his past. Never even gave me his first name, just a surname.”
Again, Tobias thought of how Javen said his own name, in that graceful, soft way. An accent Tobias had assumed was Northern Rhydonian until he’d come to Wesburg andmetNorthern Rhydonians. They didn’t talk much like Javen at all.
Lockwood took a long swig of his drink. “Though, speaking of that devil, he was supposed to be here an hour ago. I’ve got supplies to get south of here.”
“I can help.” Tobias leapt to his feet, seeing the volunteering as a way around admitting Javen had dismissed him earlier. If he found Javen and brought him back, then surely, there would still be use for him here.
“Good. Find Javen and get him aboard the train heading south. It leaves in five hours.”
Chapter forty-five
Zari
With a racing heart, Zari walked forward deeper and deeper into the dungeon. Water dripped somewhere. The tunnel stretched out far ahead, hinting at more cells, but she heard no voices, no signs of life. As her eyes adjusted to the low light, she noticed the narrow window of the first door was illuminated from the inside. A green glow flickered and danced. Tivre’s magic, she was sure of it.
Her breath caught. This was it, what she’d journeyed all this way for. She raced ahead, desperate now that the distance was so short. Her father. Alive. Imprisoned, but alive.
The door swung open with only a faint groan when she pulled at it. Inside was a cell, small, plain, lit by a few sigils on the wall, and a bed where a man lay, asleep.
Not just any man. Her father.
Far older and far more frail than she’d seen him last. He wore a fae-style blue tunic and loose trousers, but she’d know him anywhere with his strong, hawk-like nose and thick beard. Even if now, that same beard was streaked through with gray and his dark hair was nearly white.
“Papa,” she whispered, dropping to her knees. “It’s me. It’s Zari.”
He didn’t move.
“Papa?” she asked again, but he simply slumbered on. Her hands shook as she reached out, taking his pulse at the wrist, bending to listen to hisbreathing. His vitals were steady. Still, he didn’t wake. Comatose, perhaps, but not from any medical cause.
No. Of course not. They were on the isles, and this must have been a magical curse.
Would silverbane break the enchantment? She had a little left, pocketed that night near Lochna. Should she slip some under his tongue? What if he choked on it?
