Page 25 of Oathborn
Tivre
Over a millennium ago, Rhydonia was a collection of small kingdoms with different cultures and patron saints. They believed in magic, in the unknown, and in powers beyond their mortal understanding. As their hunger for land grew, they pushed the fae north, which drove out the magic, as well. The last fae city south of the Gloaming burned eight hundred years ago, if Tivre’s memory served him.
This cathedral he now stood in must have been built at around that same time. It was a beautiful stone structure, whose now-fragmented stained glass windows very well could have been made by fae artisans. A pity humans left the beauty of the past behind so swiftly, unlike the fae, whose worship remained unchanged for millennia, and were ruled by a Queen with divine blood in her veins.
Tivre stood on the high altar of the cathedral underneath the massive stained-glass window, awash in all the feelings such things brought to him. Loss, grief, an aching for a time now gone. Closing his eyes, he lifted the violin and began a song woven through with magic.
A violin had only four strings, and yet, could make an infinite number of songs.
Magic was summoned by sigils, and there were far, far more than four sigils. Indeed, there was a near-endless catalog of them, offering countless possibilities for what one might craft. Magic was infinite, intoxicating, andfar too often, utterly useless. It could not unbreak a shattered heart nor turn back time.
Tivre had tried.
As Tivre played, he whispered the name of each sigil, rather than his usual practice of drawing them in the air. Speaking sigils was a far more powerful, and draining, way to summon magic. He needed the power and the music of the violin for what he must achieve.
A song capable of finding the one he looked for.
The song’s keening notes would spread throughout the city, until they reached her ears. Magic, like other powerful things, was not precise. The same song might undo others’ enchantments, or attract unwanted company.
Quila paced the cathedral floor below him, stalking past rows of broken pews. “She’s not here yet, Godspeaker!”
“She’s on her way.”
“Is that assurance from a vision?”
“Mm.” His answer was non-committal. In visions, he’d seen the end of the night, with the moon setting, and the Oathborn mark on the young woman’s wrist but he could not see Quila in those visions, nor any hint of what had unfolded prior to that moment.
It worried him. A little.
More so, as the song stretched on and on, until finally, the massive doors of the cathedral groaned open. An attractive young woman stepped through, her gaze glassy and distant, as if she were waking from a dream. Her gown was rumpled, and her tattered silk gloves suggested she’d fallen. Even her blonde hair was tousled, hanging in her eyes.
Tivre smiled.
She was the Oathborn part-fae human, the one he’d seen in his visions. His song had summoned her, as it unknit whatever other enchantments might be lingering on her, or any other denizen of the city. Tivre could only hope there was no part-fae depending on a glamour for their safety. It would take until moonfall for anyone’s magic to return to the way it once was.
“What am I doing here?” the woman asked, her voice elegant and lovely, just like the rest of her.
To other mortals, she probably seemed simply beautiful, not strange or supernatural in any way. Diluted fae blood had that effect. Wildlings carried their own enchantments, subtle ones that depended on each one’s family line and own magical prowess. Some were swifter, others, more talented in art, still others, luckier in gambling.
“What’s your name, dear lost one?” Tivre called down, attempting his best ethereal-voice-of-an-immortal. He had a role to play here. He’d been far more genuine in conversing with General Ankmetta’s daughter.
Then again, Zari had not been enchanted, as this young woman was. Still, how strange, how convenient it was for Tivre that the two were friends. It made his true plan, the secret one he’d not told Quila, far easier. Provided, of course, that Zari could both read and follow directions, which he certainly hoped she was capable of.
“I’m… Annette.”
Quila reached for Annette’s hands. “By your Oath and mine. You have been found.” Quila ran a thumb over the now dark Oathborn mark on Annette’s wrist.
“I don’t understand.”
No, of course she wouldn’t. The mark must have been glamoured, hidden away from her eyes by some elderly relative at her birth. Perhaps a great-aunt who also had fae blood and the folk teaching to use it.
They would have thought that hiding the mark was enough to keep her safe. If it hadn’t been for Tivre’s visions, it would have. Now, he was here to bring her back to serve as an Oathborn to the Queen.
In her gown, Annette looked nothing like a warrior, especially compared to Quila. It didn’t matter. Once she met the Queen, Annette’s free will would vanish. She would be trained, the same as any other Oathborn, and commanded to forget her home.
A motor roared, closer and closer to the cathedral, before it went silent.
For a moment, Tivre forgot to breathe. Then, a rolling tide of magic surged across the empty cathedral and burned Tivre’s lungs as he gasped. Ice frosted over the broken windows and dropped the temperature of the air around him.
