25. Tivre
Chapter twenty-five
Tivre
T ivre enjoyed magic a great deal. It was endlessly fascinating to him, full of riddles and puzzles. It could create objects from nothing, change appearances, and reshape memories. It could not, however, make walking any easier, which he found incredibly annoying.
Especially right now, as he stomped along the path made by a much faster, much taller, and much stronger fae than him.
At least the view of Daeden’s back wasn’t an unpleasant one.
The same couldn’t be said for Hazelle’s company, as she insisted on remaining nearly glued to Tivre’s side, as if he might disappear.
Which was quite frustrating as, if he could, he absolutely would vanish, to be free of her disapproving glare.
“What,” he finally muttered. “Is it something I said?”
“You do say many things, most of which are annoying.” Hazelle grabbed him by the arm and pulled him further away from Daeden. “How did Javenthal know to come looking for us?”
“You know, he goes by Javen these days. Captain Javen, of the—”
“I don’t care what he calls himself!”
As anger flushed her cheeks, Tivre saw the reflection of her sister. The two resembled each other, and in more than just appearance. Liyale, for all she’d been Oathborn, had never been one to be cowed by the duty of the Oath. She’d pushed the limits until the day the Oath had shattered.
That had been the first Oathbreaking in a thousand years.
No one expected another to follow, let alone for it to have been Javenthal’s.
He had been the perfect warrior, the fae that centuries of prophecies suggested would bring about a new age.
When he’d broken, so many had wept over the anguish that those longed-for times might not come.
Other fae, however, were not the ones who received the visions.
That duty belonged only to Godspeakers, and they, above all, knew that visions could be twisted or shifted as the divine’s whims changed.
For Javenthal had brought about a new age.
It just was one, with its fragile Accords and the bloodthirsty Queen, that almost no one had ever longed for.
“Enough,” he told Hazelle.
He had no further words for her, none that he would risk with Daeden so close. Not for the first time, he closed his eyes to test the magic of the Accords. Their bindings pulsed in the air, stronger each mile he’d drawn closer to Lochna, where they had been signed.
The Accords held. Lesser rules had already been broken, perhaps, for General Ankmetta had requested a number of provisions, such as a decreasing of weapons and hostility.
The man, for all his intelligence, never fully understood how magically complex the fae half of the Accords were.
He’d always believed they were just a peace treaty, like so many before them.
But they were not. Magic coursed through them, nearly as strong as an Oath, binding the peace to two specific clauses. No Oathborn fae shall kill a human on human lands. No human shall kill a fae, unless in self-defense.
Javen’s Oathbreaking must have kept him outside those clauses, just as part-fae were exempt.
That was why Annette would have been so useful, and so deadly, for the Queen.
If Annette had an Oath to kill the prime minister of Rhydonia, she would have done so without any repercussions from the Accords.
The magic could not bind wildlings. Hence why it was safer to bring Zari to the isles.
Once she saw her father, he’d let the Queen give her one of those assassination Oaths, offer to help ensure Zari did so, and then bundle her up and escape with her.
She’d return to her life relatively unchanged, except for a mark on her wrist that would never come off .
It would help keep the peace, but for how long?
The Accords could still break. Any Oathborn with strong enough conviction or hatred, could push through that moment’s hesitation.
The magic slowed their actions, but did not entirely stop them.
No doubt Quila, had she lived, would have found a way to eventually kill a human for doing something as odious as breathing.
Likewise, a human, spying a fae out for a walk, could shoot them, and the war would begin once more.
The Queen longed to find a way to enjoy the protection of the Accords while still wreaking havoc on the humans.
She wanted the mortals eradicated, for every human now living to pay the price of revenge she’d held in her heart for almost a thousand years.
As if their deaths could bring back the family she’d lost, the life she’d wanted, the land she’d called home.
As if anyone’s deaths could bring happiness to someone else.
Tivre had long ago decided there were many things better not to share with other people. His favorite snacks, his bed—for longer than a few hours—books that he wanted returned, secrets, and most recently, the fact that they were being followed.
Daeden’s senses were focused on the route ahead, catching up with Zari, and breaking through into the Gloaming, where their magic would be stronger.
Which was good, because Tivre’s own senses, aided by his magic, trailed behind, like the train of an elegant gown, fanning outward, feeling for any signs of life.
The humans following them were not Javen’s men, nor were they soldiers. If he had to guess, they were friends of that cadevesh-addicted man from Wesburg. Tivre’s magic had returned whispers of their conversation, mutters of how, if they could kill a fae, they’d be rich men.
Rich? Doubtful. Doomed? Absolutely .
Not that they would provide any danger, not when Tivre had his magic, and Daeden had his Oathborn skills. No, if the men attacked, they would die swiftly.
The problem was that if Daeden killed them, the Accords would end. Tivre had no doubt Daeden would push past the momentary hesitation Quila had felt from the Accords’ magic, if it meant protecting Hazelle. Or even protecting Tivre himself.
Which meant Tivre would have to be the one to kill the men, which would be dreadfully obnoxious, as by the sounds of it, most of them seemed to have family or friends back home who would miss them.
Even if they didn’t, they were still living, breathing beings. They did not deserve death. No one did.
“Tivre?” Daeden called, turning to search for him. His worry sounded genuine, not manufactured by any Oath, and Tivre wanted to believe it. The Queen’s orders, including ones kept secret from Tivre, muddled everything.
Still, Maqui, Daeden’s own mother, had once guarded Tivre, during the war.
She’d been given an Oath, forced to protect him above anyone else, even though it meant sacrificing other Oathborn to do so.
Those warriors had trained together for centuries, were united by bonds stronger than friendship or even kinship.
The Oath made her abandon them. How much she must have hated him, the prideful young Godspeaker, barely older than her son, and yet confident enough in his magic that he was sure he could find a way to stop bombs from falling.
Maqui had never let any of her frustrations show… not until those last terrible moments of her life, when she’d finally broken the Oath. If she’d lived, that breaking would have cursed her forever. She would have never been able to see her son again, never return to the isles at all.
Tivre had researched Oathbreaking for years, chasing any shred of hope that there might be loopholes in its terrible magic.
He found none. Instead, he’d only grown more disgusted with the magic of the Oath in the first place.
Breaking an Oath triggered four curses, one for each goddess.
The first was the Matron’s wrath, which came on as sudden, agonizing pain.
The second, the Mother’s agony, brought forth more ceaseless suffering.
If the combination of those two did not stop the Oathbreaker’s heart, they would find no rest from the Child’s taunts, whispering their worst fears to them.
It was the last, the Maiden’s loneliness, which Tivre found the most cruel.
Once an Oath was shattered, the broken one could never make eye contact with another Oathborn.
To do so would trigger a deep and unyielding blood-rage within the Oathborn, who would fight against the broken one until one of the two were dead.
The curses, together, destroyed any semblance of joy an Oathbroken fae might find in their hard-won freedom.
“Tivre,” Daeden said again, his voice louder. It took Tivre a moment to realize that Daeden now stood directly in front of him. One sword-calloused hand reached to brush a white lock out of Tivre’s eyes. “You have leaves in your hair,” he said.
“Decoration.” Tivre replied. “As well as camouflage. Multi-purpose fashion. Can even serve as a snack, if need be.”
The smile that crossed Daeden’s face suggested that he found Tivre himself a bit delicious, leaf-adorned hair and all. “You are so clever with your words.”
“And my tongue.” Tivre winked.
A handsome blush spread over Daeden’s cheeks. “Indeed. But do try to keep pace? I cannot lose you.”
“No, that would make the Queen rather cross, I assume.”
“That wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie,” Tivre cut him off. “It would besmirch your reputation as the most perfect Oathborn in centuries.” As well as one of the oldest that lived.
The war had decimated the Oathborn. Daeden should have gone to the front lines in the last days—he had been old enough.
He was close in age to Tivre, but Javenthal had conspired to keep Daeden safe.
Ironic, that now he was the greatest threat to Daeden’s life.
Daeden rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t stand when they say that about me. ”
“It’s true. You’ve only lost to Sen Olan in duels this year, or have I been misinformed?” Given Tivre had watched all the duels from a window of the palace, he knew he was right.
“I didn’t know you cared about such things.”