12. Tivre #2
“Only the flesh of innocent children.”
That earned him an eye roll, rather than the shocked surprise he’d hoped for. Clearly, she’d given up on reacting to his comments. Which was fine. Most people, fae or human, did, eventually.
“I was wondering,” Zari began, in a tone of voice clearly meant to be coy, though it betrayed how little experience she had with being such a thing. Much like her father, she seemed the blunt type. “How old are you?”
“I thought proper manners included not asking one’s age.”
She laughed. “You? Manners?”
Tivre winked lasciviously at her, just to see her blush.
Zari was the sort of mortal who clung to a strict set of rules, informing her of how she should act.
And likewise, how scandalized she should be if situations didn’t live up to her expectations.
She would be in for a rude awakening on the isles.
“I did ask a question,” she said, and once more, he heard her father’s tone in the words.
Tivre stabbed at the mound of chopped… somethings…
on the plate. “By any measure you mortals have, I would be considered old. By fae standards, I am a youthful adult. Simply consider any fae you meet to be the age they appear to be. I have been told that I am both incredibly handsome and resemble a man of five and twenty, so that age will do fine for me.”
He chose not to mention that ages on the isles skewed younger—at least by fae standards—since many of the eldest had fallen in the war. Apart from the Queen and a handful of others, nearly all the most important fae were younger than Tivre.
Zari pursed her lips. “But you are not actually twenty-five.”
“And you are not actually an Oathborn, but we’re both pretenders, aren’t we?”
They ate their meal after that. Or rather, she ate, and he attempted to make a map of the coastline with the vegetables on his plate.
Eventually, Zari reached for the newspaper on the table; Tivre had been eyeing the headline throughout their meal.
As she read the front page, the color drained from her face.
Blood Ember RETURNS?
Victims found beheaded. Who can stop this shadow of fear and death?
“Blood Ember?” Zari jabbed the paper with one finger, her chipped red nail polish as bright as the blood must have been on the victim. Crimson, like all the blood that monster had spilled. “I thought… they said it wasn’t behind the attack. That it was…”
“What attack?” Tivre asked, though he was equally curious about the they in question.
“There was an awards ceremony. I was supposed to go with Annette, but this horrid purple smoke, it…” She shook her head. “The military said the smoke had nothing to do with the attack and that it was just some man with something terrible to prove.”
“Most of the worst ones do,” he agreed. He gestured at the paper. “This references something from yesterday, and no purple smoke at all.”
The smoke concerned him, for he only knew of one living fae with magic that color…
Syonia had beaten him to the capital. He’d known that since Quila had told him, but he’d hoped she was just sightseeing, perhaps. Taking in a bit of opera or the museums, before returning to the isles.
Instead, it sounded like she had her own agenda. Tivre swallowed hard. Her own? Or the Queen’s? Because this entire disaster had begun because the queen’s preferred Godspeaker was supposedly busy the morning he’d been called to the throne room.
He scanned the article again, eyes flicking over each word, searching for anything useful—and finding nothing.
Yesterday’s victims had been found in a tavern, but there were no witnesses, no hints of who—or what —had struck.
Only the gruesome beheadings and the speed of the killings made the officer so certain the monster was back.
Tivre knew better than to trust frightened men eager to name a villain .
Tivre thought about Javen and wondered if he had headed to the scene of the crime, if he believed it had truly been the work of Blood Ember. Or did he, like Tivre, doubt the panicked words of those eager for justice.
“So they have been covering things up.” Zari muttered. “Blood Ember has returned.”
Tivre scoffed. “Don’t jump to such a dramatic conclusion. You mentioned there were survivors. Blood Ember never leaves any.”
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, enjoy himself 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 he did play 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.