Page 4 of Oathborn
The Accords Will Fall When the Lost Oathborn Returns.
The Accords were the document that governed, both legally and magically, a peace between fae and humans. The Lost Oathborn… that was far less clear.
“Helpful, Tivre,” he muttered, as he didn’t remember writing such a dire warning. Not that he doubted he had—his handwriting was unique—but sometimes when he had visions, neither what he foresaw nor his actions to record the flashes of images, would disappear from his memory.
Foreseeing the future was such a dreadfully messy business. If he’d had a choice, he would have greatly preferred the ability to peer into the past, or perhaps to have supernatural knowledge of the perfect way to cook an apple tart.
A knock sounded at his door. He raked a hand through his snow-white hair, a pit in his stomach. Few people came to visit him uninvited. Company, this early in the morning, was never a good sign.
When the doors swung open, a surly Oathborn fae warrior stood at the door. Herlong hair pulled back into a bun, her black uniform accented with two knife belts, her sword at her hip and the intense focus in her eyes were all the typical trappings of the role. It was the Oathborn magic in their veins that made them loyal to the Queen, but the decades of training that honed them into her perfect weapons.
Tivre didn’t waste time with a greeting. If Quila was here, then Queen Cassendelle would—“Ah,” he muttered, for the Queen did indeed follow her warrior.
Tivre glanced down, ensuring he was clothed, albeit in yesterday’s attire, and smoothed a hand over his wrinkled green velvet tunic. The matching trousers he’d left behind, somewhere between the party and his bedroom. At least he still had his socks. He’d knitted them and he would have hated to lose them. It was so hard to get a sock heel just right.
As he bowed his head, he caught a glimpse of the Queen’s stern face, her dark hair held back by her silver crown, and her red lips, so bold against her pale skin, pursed in displeasure. In other words, like she always looked. Beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
She asked, “What is that horrid thing doing?”
“Playing music.” He offered a smile that neither female returned.
The Queen rested her hand on her sword, fingers brushing over the gemstones in its silver hilt. “I cannot think while such awful Rhydonian noise fills the room. Quila, destroy it.”
Her last sentence was a command. Not just a command, an Oath.
Quila’s eyes flashed, as the magic activated. “My word is my Oath, and my Oath my life.” The ritual words fell from Quila’s lips as she drew her sword. She stalked forward.
Tivre’s heart lurched. It had taken him years to get magic to replicate the human’s electricity. Taking a deep breath, he draped himself over themechanized music player, and wrapped his arms around it. In an attempt to save the device, he lied. “It is part of my research.”
Quila paused. The Queen commanded her to break the phonograph, but not to injure Tivre. An Oath was a statement, with a clear scope and goal. Which meant if one was clever, which Tivre was quite sure he was, and swift, which hecouldbe, one might circumvent an Oath.
Or one might perish in the process, which was always a bit of a risk.
“What research?” the Queen drawled, clearly unimpressed. “I don’t recall you mentioning this device before.”
“To ensure the shield remains strong.” A lie, but also his sole leverage against the Queen. Without the shield he’d forged, the isles would be vulnerable to the deadly force of Rhydonian bomber planes and whatever other terrible weapons they’d invented since the war ended.
“You’ve said that about every trinket, gear, or scrap of metal with which you’ve desecrated our isles,” the Queen sighed. For a moment, he was once more a child under her tutelage, failing to live up to her expectations. Then again, he’d had a lifetime—or several lifetimes, as the humans measured them—of doing precisely that. “Why must you vex me so?”
“It’s a gift, truly.”
“I will allow you this hideous little machine,” she said, “for now. Quila, stand down. Tivre, you are expected in the throne room. Make yourself presentable.”
Her words carried the faint hint of a threat, though the Queen dragging him to the throne room by his wrist would not befit her station, nor impress those of the Court who waited.
Sheathing her blade, the intensity of Quila’s glare did not diminish. Tivre cleared his throat. He knew she harbored no affection for him. In truth, few fae held Tivre in any sort of regard, which he greatly preferred to the alternative. Better to be disliked than to be a disappointment.
He flashed a smile at Quila. “Has anyone told you that you look lovely in that tunic? The black truly complements your hair, I think. Adds a nice, solemn touch to your overall sunshine-and-roses personality.”
“Do not pester my soldiers,” the Queen scolded before sweeping down the hall, away from him.
Her soldiers. Her weapons. To the Queen, everyone else was a pawn, especially her Oathborn warriors. If war ever began again, the Oathborn would be on the front lines.
When the lost Oathborn returns…
Tivre spared one more glance at his frantically scribbled notes. He’d clearly wanted to remember the warning. The fact that the Queen wanted him in attendance today, unlike most days, could mean nothing good at all. An unsteadiness had crept into his thoughts, as if he stood upon shifting sands, where one false step would kill him.
After dressing in a new outfit, Tivre took his time meandering down the long halls. He knew every roundabout way, every forgotten nook, from his lonely childhood spent within the palace. A Godspeaker was both too valuable a thing to lose sight of, and yet, too powerful to be allowed any family ties. As for friendships, Tivre tended to ruin those himself.
