Page 5 of Oathborn
By the time he reached the throne room, the other figures stood in their places. The Oathborn guards along the wall, the Stellaris—leading ladies of each fae isle—arrayed in semi-circular rows according to rank. The Queen, upon her throne, and her most trusted Oathborn, Olan, at her side.
The only absence was that of Tivre’s younger counterpart, Syonia. Which explained why he’d been called: the Queen would never stand in front of her subjects without a Godspeaker, though she preferred Syonia’s fawning subservience to Tivre’s… well.His personality, overall.
The role, officially, of a Godspeaker, was a blend of advisor and religious figure, but given that the Queen took no advice and the goddesses gave no mercy, Tivre was often bored. If the goddesses required his action, they would call to him on their own time, not at the Queen’s whims.
So for now, he ambled toward his place, letting his gaze wander. He first studied the massive marble statue, which guarded the entrance. It depicted one of the goddesses bestowing the Crescent Blade upon a so-called worthy Oathborn.
Tivre thoughtdesperatemight have been a better descriptor, given the pleading expression on the Oathborn, their turmoil so great that they were willing to surrender their life to the sword’s whims. Magic, especially magic from the divine, always had a price.
With a small sigh, Tivre looked away from the depressing statue. Colossal pillars, cool and white as winter moonlight, soared up to a vaulted ceiling. The silvery stars painted on the high curved ceiling glittered, as if winking at him.
“You’re late,” Olan muttered to him.
“Or early for tomorrow,” Tivre fired back, still staring at the ceiling. Tivre purposely did not make eye contact with any of the Oathborn warriors standing in the shadows. A mere glimpse of one Oathborn in particular—tall, blond, handsome—and Tivre’s eyes burned. He’d thought he had loved Daeden, and perhaps he still did, for it was out of tenderness that Tivre had let him go.
No good could ever come of caring for one cursed by the Oathborn magic.
The Queen’s speech was a blur to Tivre, who nearly missed the places where he was supposed to offer some ritual phrase or religious commentary. For someone who conversed with goddesses, Tivre didn’t consider himself much of the devout type. When the Queen cleared her throat, he’d hastily mutter a wise-ish sounding line before resuming his pondering.
Eventually, the Queen ceased her talking, yielding the floor to the Stellaris, who each gave updates on crops, fish harvests, and other boring topics. Tivre hated economics almost as much as he hated grief. “The South Star Isle stands ready to provide for those in need this coming winter,” Stellaris Hazelle said.
The Queen scoffed at her charity, making a noise like she’d swallowed a bug.
Hazelle, despite being the youngest fae there, barely of age to be considered an adult, kept her voice steady. “We already have an early harvest of root vegetables, and our smokehouses are full of fish. We have enough to share with those who hunger.”
“And what will you demand in return?” asked another, poorer Stellaris. A century ago, when the latest war against the humans began, the fae isles werefull of life: farmers, artisans, and warriors. Now, the isles were nearly empty, depleted of population and wealth. Still, the Stellaris remained proud. They’d stab each other in the back for a scrap more power, if they could. Indeed, many in the room had. Only the Queen held them in check, and that was out of the fear she commanded, not respect.
Hazelle glanced over her shoulder, a wisp of blonde hair shaking free of her braid’s confinement. “Nothing. I have no wish for anyone to starve.”
The Queen cleared her throat. “Enough. Stellaris Hazelle, this trap of yours is a waste of time.”
“It is no trap!”
The other gathered fae whispered and laughed, clearly disagreeing with Hazelle’s naive optimism.
The Queen, too, ignored Hazelle’s outburst, and held up her hand, summoning the Oathborn waiting in a corner of the room. One tugged open the far door, which led down to the dungeons. A single, solemn bell rang, and the hair on the back of Tivre’s neck prickled.
What a subtle way to show her power,Tivre thought,to cut off Hazelle’s act of charity with this incoming pageantry of death.No one would remember Hazelle’s kindness. Instead, it would be the Queen’s cruelty that ruled the isles.
As the bell tolled, every Stellaris snapped to attention. Only Hazelle was bold enough to ask. “An execution? Whose?”
“Does it matter?” Tivre muttered. Bracing himself for what would come, he resumed staring at the ceiling.
“A human, who desecrated our isles with his very presence!” The Queen’s voice rang out with fury as she detailed the crime committed. A foolish fae fell in love with a human and smuggled him onto the isles. Not the first time such an act had happened, nor would it be the last.
The scene unfolded exactly the same as every trial before. No mortal was ever found innocent, and so, the players remained the same. The horrified mortal. The guilty fae, sobbing and utterly powerless to stop the Queen’s wrath. The cruel Queen and her emotionless executioner.
With a single wave of her hand, ruby rings glinting like drops of blood, the Queen summoned Olan forward from where he stood at her side. The Queen had no consort, no lover, no family. Instead, the one she kept closest was her Oathborn protector, and her chosen executioner. He stared down at the trembling human and sobbing fae with an emotionless expression as he drew his sword.
It gleamed, the blade as sharp as it was wicked.
The guilty fae babbled excuses of how this mortal was trustworthy, was kind and sweet and a hundred things that would not change the Queen’s mind. Queen Cassendelle hated everything about humans. If she could, she would eradicate every one of them from the world, to render her own perceived justice for sins committed by a few humans a thousand years ago.
With a single swing of Olan’s heavy blade, it was all over. The human dead, and the fae alive, but cursed with grief that would haunt her for her undying life.
“And so to all mortals,” the Queen said, clearly ready to move on to other business. “Their death is our triumph.”
Tivre blinked. Silver light danced at the edge of his vision.
