Page 43 of Oathborn
Yes. He could stay. There was no war here, no death. Only the ceaseless dance of the stars, the lullaby of the ocean tides, the promise of oblivion.
“Please.”
He’d listened to too many people begging him to stay, to help, to—
Silver light swirled, leading Tivre further away from reality. The inevitable fate of every Godspeaker; to give into the siren song of magic, to surrender entirely to the divine, to disappear.
Howeasyit would be to surrender.
To never return.
“Tivre,” a voice said.
A kiss, soft, on his forehead. Arms around his shoulders. Steady, constant pressure, breaking all the rules of their religion. Godspeakers weren’t supposed to be touched, not when they were amidst the magic itself.
Which was unfair. So unfair, because Daeden’s touch helped him ground himself, as Tivre struggled against the tide. Leaning into Daeden’s shoulder, he let the taller fae take his weight. Breath by breath, he fought toward reality. Just as he was about to break through, the crackle of wrongness, of sharp thorns and biting flames, caught at him.
Broken magic. Was it close by?
Tivre strained to listen closer, but as he did, the eerie hum of that shattered spell faded. Slowly, like fog lifting, Tivre’s vision cleared.
“Easy, easy.” Daeden whispered. For as strange as it must have been for an ordinary fae like Daeden to see Tivre surrender to the source of all magic, Daeden managed to remain calm. “What did you find out?”
“Nothing,” Tivre said. “Nothing I do not already know.”
Because of course Javen would be on their trail by now, hunting Tivre down. Telling Daeden such a thing would bring trouble. If it was only Zari, Tivre had made plans to deal with Javen. Now, he’d have to protect all of them with a new set of plans and his con had only gotten more dangerous. The binding magic of the Oath made everything so much more complicated.
Tivre yawned.
Daeden kissed his forehead. “You scared me.”
“You allowed yourself to be scared,” Tivre retorted, annoyed at the words. He wouldn’t have needed to tap into the divine if Daeden and his cousin had stayed, safe, on the isles. “Hazelle wanted to make an impression on the new Oathborn, didn’t she?”
It made sense. Hazelle was, in a manner of speaking, next in line for the throne. Not because of blood, but rather, her family line was the second oldest. As the Queen had no heir, if she was to die, the right to rule would pass to Hazelle. Though the Queen would be damned if that ever occurred.
Daeden nodded. “I equally wished to travel south. When I heard the news, I wanted to make sure you didn’t need help. Sen Quila-”
“Is dead.” Tivre had tried, more than once, to summon feelings of grief for the fallen fae, but couldn’t, not without paralyzing himself in grief for all those he’d failed to save before her.
“How?” Daeden asked.
Tivre had to choose his words carefully. He knew Daeden would report back whatever was said to the Queen, even if he didn’t wish to. An Oath of speaking aloud the truth was one of the easiest she could give. No Oathborn ever survived as a liar. Not unless they wished to break their Oath and face the ceaseless torment and deadly loneliness which would follow.
For to break an Oath was to cut ties forever with the other warriors who shared the mark, who saw their existence, their bond, as something deeper than blood and truer than starlight. If an Oathbreaker looked into the eyes of an Oathborn, death would follow.
“The Traitor,” Daeden finally admitted. No fae had uttered Javenthal’s name since his betrayal.
Tivre refused to share that the Traitor now had a human name, as well as a career. Better to let Daeden think the Traitor suffered alone and forgotten in the shadows, rather than making a name for himself as a commanding officer of the Rhydonian military.
“Does he still draw breath?” Daeden asked, his voice cold and hard.
“I do not know,” Tivre lied.
A long moment passed between them. Daeden’s blue eyes searched Tivre’s face until the intensity faded from the Oathborn’s expression, replaced by that soft fondness Tivre felt so spoiled by. For all that Daeden had been trained to be a perfect warrior, he’d never lost his innate gentleness.
“I feel as if strange things are afoot,” Daeden admitted.
“No more than they usually are.” Tivre ran his fingers over Daeden’s calloused palm. “Trust me.”
