Page 95 of Oathborn
“I will keep you safe, as long as you remain by my side.” A strand of his hair had fallen into his eyes, and he reached to push it back. Just like hair to get in the way of a solemn moment like this. If he had any faith he’d look handsome bald, he’d shave his head but—
Ah, his thoughts had wandered away again. At least this time, Zari was not crying. Instead, she was reaching out to touch the offending strand. “It’s already turning white. I thought—”
A useful distraction. “Magic cannot hold glamour.” That was all she needed to know about the complexities of who he was. “This…” he ran a finger through a cluster of strands, jagged at the end from the last time he’d cut it. The brown had already receded, leaving the snowy-white shade behind. “…Is supposedly a representation of the light of the moon, and is therefore holy or some other sentimental shit like that.”
“You’re so flippant,” Zari said. “If you’re really a Godspeaker—if the gods are real, then wouldn’t they—”
“Smite me for my vulgar tongue?” Tivre offered her a crooked grin. “Truly, I look forward to the day I can convince them to do so. Alas, our four goddesses have yet to be so inspired as to turn me into a pile of cinders, despite all my best attempts to provoke them.”
“I still cannot believe that they exist.”
“Careful, they might see such a statement as a challenge.” He tapped the tip of her nose, the way Javenthal used to do to him when he tired of Tivre’s questions. “You should get some sleep.”
“What about you?”
“Inviting me into your bed, my, my.” He tried for the sensual tones he so often used as another form of glamour, but he couldn’t maintain the charade, not now. “I assure you, I shall remain a gentleman and keep watch while you slumber.”
“You were never a gentleman.” She snuggled under the blanket. “You’re just a pain.”
Tivre sketched out two more sigils, filling the small space with a gentle heat like a hearth fire. “That’s the whole problem, isn’t it?”
He wasn’t a gentleman. He was a fae and a Godspeaker. His destiny had already been dictated by the divine. As he knelt by her side, she pressed closer to him, still shivering. He frowned. Wasn’t the tent warm enough?
“I don’t want to be alone,” Zari admitted. “Call me weak, but—”
“I do not find you weak, though you are certainly exasperating.” Mirroring her earlier gesture, he ran his fingers through her hair. She didn’t pull away, but rather, let her head fall onto his lap, her body relaxing at his touch. “Does this help?”
“It feels nice.” Her eyes slid closed. “Though… maybe we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“And what is it we’re doing?” he asked, his voice huskier now. He wanted her to answer with a matched tone, wanted both of them to be distracted for a little while. Because if she matched his tone, then surely she’d match his desire, and kissing would be far easier than this weak attempt at comforting. Friendship was hard. Seduction was much easier.
Sadly, Zari gave no indication she’d like to be seduced. At least not at the current moment, as she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. “We’re traveling to the isles,” she replied. “To rescue my father, and to help Hazelle stop the war.”
“Ah.” So the idealistic ray of sunshine already convinced Zari to join her. “I don’t think there’s a proper way to stop a war.”
Stars above, did he know how badly Zari wanted such a thing. Knew she would risk her own life, again and again, if it meant preventing a war from erupting. He’d heard her say it, not yet in this reality, but in countless dreams. Visions of other futures, other possibilities, and perhaps even the future they were headed for. Heard her scream in frustration as bombs fell, as bullets raked across an open field. Indeed, he’d known her heart’s desire long before he’d met her. It was the most admirable thing about her, and she had no idea yet it even dwelled within her.
Tivre’s smile turned rueful, and he waited for Zari to start snoring before he finished his thought. “But I do think it is worth trying.”
As she slept, Tivre continued to stroke her hair, as if that, and not her exhaustion, was the only reason she slept.
In the morning, neither of them spoke about their discussion the night before. Instead, Zari asked questions about fae magic, and Tivre did his best to answer them as vaguely as possible. “There’s no point in learning about it,” he said. “You have no fae blood. You cannot summon sigils, so you cannot weave magic. It’s as simple as that.”
“Won’t someone suspect me of being a human?”
He shook his head. “I won’t have you on the isles for more than a few days. You’ll come, you’ll meet the Queen, I’ll take you to your father, and then we’ll get both of you on your merry way.”
“Why haven’t you sent my father home if it is so simple?”
Damn her perceptiveness, Tivre thought. It would be much easier if she’d nod and go along with his brilliant plan. “Because,” he said, slowly. “Your father was recovering from his wounds.”
“For ten years.”
It was, in a way, true. Because General Ankmetta was still in a state of recovery. Or perhaps, in a state of not recovered. Tivre still wasn’t sure. Nor did he have any real hope that Zari, with her knowledge of human medicine, might be able to solve what Tivre couldn’t. For the general lay, as if asleep, for nearly as long as he’d been trapped on the isles. “I will take you to your father, Zari, and then get you off the isles. You have my word.”
“Is it true that the fae cannot lie?” Zari asked. “Like in the stories?”
Tivre burst into laughter. “We must have been the ones to invent such tales, which are all the better for fooling you short-lived mortals.”
