Page 36 of Oathborn
Her eyebrows furrowed. “Except for my father.”
Ah. Of course the general’s daughter would be perceptive. Her father was intelligent too, never one to be easily conned.
Tivre found himself fighting the urge to be more honest with her and share his plans. Such things would only endanger her further. Bad enough he was dragging her to the isles on the thinnest of hopes that her presence would shift the scales of fate. “He remains a special exception, and I am sure you are glad of that.”
“I’m not even sure I believe you.”
“I can still return to the capital and fetch Annette instead,” Tivre replied. “Or you can take me at my word. It is your choice.”
Carefully, she studied him. “Tell me another reason to trust you,” Zari finally said. “Something that isn’t a bribe or a threat.”
It was a good demand. A difficult one for him to answer, but a good one all the same. They’d have time, later on the journey, to prepare her to masquerade as an Oathborn, but if he didn’t earn her trust now, he might never. Tivre’s fingers went to the bracelet on his wrist, loaded down with warding charms. They were thankfully silent.
“Because I lived through the horrors of the war, and I want to never see such things again. I want the isles and Rhydonia to remain at peace, even if it is the flimsy peace of the Accords. And because,” he tapped the newspaper. “Regardless of who committed them, these events suggest that someone else, someone cruel and powerful, wants the opposite. I was there when the Accords were written in ink and magic, Zari. I know they can be broken, and I will fight such a thing with my dying breath.”
“Me going with you… it helps keep the peace?”
“In a roundabout fashion, yes.” Now was not the time to reveal to her that he’d seen other futures, ones where she did not journey with him, and how quickly the carnage began in those scenarios. Annette would have made an incredible soldier for the Queen, able to infiltrate Rhydonian high society and assassinate key members of Parliament.
Zari would never do such things. She was not Oathborn, so her free will remained her own. If he tried to explain, she’d argue, insist her friend would never commit such crimes. She had no real understanding of the compulsion of the Oath, how deeply it ran through the blood, and the awful price paid if one dared to break it.
“I’ve spent a decade believing my father died to preserve the Accords,” Zari said. “I am willing to risk my life for him, and for his peace.”
“So be it,” Tivre said. When the meal was over, he led her back toward the cabin. His hand kept hovering at the small of her back, as he warred with his better judgement. Part of him ached to offer her whatever small comfort he could, namely of the physical sort, but he knew better. So, he leaned past her to open the door, then pushed her inside and announced, “Rest well. Don’t open my bag. It bites.”
He slammed the door closed before she could protest.
Once Zari was safely inside the cabin, Tivre raked a hand through his hair, checking that the glamour still held and that it remained a perfectly ordinary shade of brown.
Then he ambled off in search of the gentleman’s train car, as he’d learned it was called. With its plush red chairs and gold crown molding, it was surely meant to remind Rhydonian gentlemen of their hunting lodges.
For Tivre, who found it after only a brief search, it promised quiet, something he’d suddenly found himself longing for. He sank into the nearest chair and let his senses drift outward, probing for any sign of danger lurking beneath the civilized calm.
Nothing. Not a single trace of magic at all. The journey would be bumpy, but boring, in which case, he might as well enjoy himself. Or at least, enjoyhimself as much as Rhydonian sensibilities would allow. Although he’d had human lovers, he never enjoyed the fussing around potential scandal that came from bedding a mortal.
Tivre bought a glass of rum. It burned, pleasantly, against his lips, so similar, and so different from the enchanted fae liquor he was more used to.
“Hey!” someone asked. “Do you play cards?”
Tivre smiled, his glamoured fangs pricking his lips. Because hedidplay cards, though usually not with mortals. Rather, he bet against the very goddesses who tried their best to define every living being’s fate. Zari’s false Oathborn mark was the greatest gamble yet.
Grinning, he placed his bet at the table.
Chapter thirteen
Zari
Exhausted from a night without sleep and a very long morning, Zari collapsed onto the cabin’s narrow bed. Even if it was only mid-afternoon, she craved rest. Her father used to tell her that any tempest was better navigated after a good night’s sleep.
The narrow cot creaked and swayed as the train journeyed north, making her rest fragmented and worrisome. Tivre had yet to explain how they’d go from the terminal stop, a small town called Wesburg, all the way to the fae isles.
Indeed, Tivre had yet to explain many things. Her thumb traced over the mark on her wrist. A crescent made sense, for the stories said fae magic was strongest at night. The droplet, though. Was it blood? Water? Would Tivre tell her if she asked? Doubtful.
As sunlight spilled through the cabin’s small window, Zari gave up on sleep. She washed her face in the basin, then finger-combed her tangled curls into some semblance of order. When she turned, her elbow caught the edge of Tivre’s bag on the dresser. It slid off with a thump, spilling a bundle of papers and a few neatly tied bunches of dried herbs across the floor.
Muttering a soft curse, Zari knelt to gather them. Her fingers paused on the papers—recognizing the strangely familiar looping script. Her breath caught. She’d seen handwriting like this before, even though she couldn’t read the language.
Zari dug through her purse to find her father’s letters. Carefully, she sifted through the worn pages until she found the one that had surfaced in her memory. It had arrived only a few months before he’d died.
