36. Tivre
Chapter thirty-six
Tivre
I n one of the ancient tomes Tivre had read, a fae mage had once created a spell so powerful she’d been able to turn herself into a bird.
The book spent chapters explaining how this allowed her to create useful maps.
Tivre had been more enchanted by the idea of easily escaping conversations.
All one would have to do was toss a few sigils into the air, and then poof, flap away from obnoxious chatter.
Granted, no record of the spell remained, and Tivre had never been able to come close to creating one.
This thought crossed his mind again as Zari pestered him while they walked toward Kirkton.
They’d only rested for a few hours that first night, and now were halfway through the day, and still over another day’s walk to the town.
If they were birds, Tivre mused, not only would they be flying, but Zari would be silent. Or, he supposed, chirping, or cawing, or whatever birds did. Regardless, the noise would be a welcome change from her questions.
She asked him, “Did Javen know my father? And why did the Queen kill his family? And—”
“And, and, and.” Sighing, Tivre rolled his hand with each word. “So many questions.”
“You need to be more honest with me. You didn’t tell me Javen was married to Hazelle’s sister, or how little free will an Oathborn has or—”
“I did hint at the latter, and I didn’t think the former was useful information,” Tivre replied. She’d certainly be in for a rude awakening if she thought the unpleasant overlap of lives and families ended there. “Besides. When have I led you astray?”
Her lips pressed together, and her fists clenched. A thin trickle of blood coated her finger, dripping onto the tattered hem of her dress, hinting at a reopened wound.
“On second thought, don’t answer that. Give me your hand.
” He waited, his own palm outstretched until she finally relented.
Tivre sighed. He couldn’t tell her how much he wished she had never been hurt, because far more hurt lay in her future, unless he found a way to alter its course.
To be a Godspeaker was to know the future, and to fail, again and again, to change it.
As he’d so recently been reminded.
He’d been so sure Javen would fight him, not the others.
So sure that he’d wagered Daeden’s life on the bet, and nearly lost him.
Even if Daeden had survived the fight, it would be at the cost of Javen’s life.
Despite everything… Tivre still couldn’t dream of losing the one he’d considered his only friend.
“Can you explain Oathbreaking, at least?” Zari asked.
“Not much to explain. Breaking an Oath shatters one’s mental and physical state.
Every moment brings another wave of ceaseless pain.
Their sleep, plagued by nightmares. Their waking days, cursed.
Even the smallest Oathborn child, upon making eye contact with an Oathbroken, will fight to destroy the broken one or end up perishing themselves. ”
Zari shuddered. “So they can never be around another Oathborn.”
He nodded. The pain, the tortuous whispers of Oathbreaking, those could be accepted by anyone with a strong will to live, but to break was to lose the camaraderie and shared destiny the Oathborn grew up believing in. Oathbreaking cursed one to an immortal, lonely life.
Understanding dawned on her face. “Javen knew I wasn’t really an Oathborn because I didn’t fight him.”
Tivre nodded. “Magic is both wondrous and horrifying. It is that latter trait most forget.”
He wouldn’t. Not after watching Liyale break.
All of those she’d called family turning on her, her loved ones suddenly her greatest foes.
Her blood, staining the floor of the great hall where she’d once practiced.
Her laughter and smile, gone forever, all because she’d dared to stand against the Queen’s cruelty.
With a wave of his free hand, he summoned a chain of sigils and wrapped them around Zari’s palm.
The green light paled as the wound healed.
Zari watched, her eyes wide, clearly fascinated by the process.
When the healing was complete, he plunged a hand into his pocket. “Would you like a horehound candy?”
Zari shook her head. “How can you wield such impossible power as to heal wounds, and yet…”
“Not care at all about it?” he finished her thought for her, or at least, what he assumed her thought would be. “Simple. Because I can heal little wounds like your cut, or perhaps restart a heart now and then, but I cannot save every life I wish to.”
No, instead he’d had to watch so many die, powerless to save them. Unless he stopped the brewing war, he knew his fate would be to witness more die pointless deaths.
Those thoughts kept him occupied and silent for most of their walk.
When they made camp, they did so with little more than a logistical conversation around who would take first watch.
Tivre offered and Zari did not protest. He assembled her tent for her, since she lacked the necessary magic to do so, then, once she climbed in, he remained outside by the small fire.
Her mood seemed different. He couldn’t quite pinpoint why.
Something Tivre greatly disliked about others; They never said what they were feeling.
If they would just provide him a written list of their feelings on any given matter, it would certainly make his life easier.
Maybe her shoes were too tight, or maybe she hadn’t liked the bread and cheese he’d offered for dinner.
She certainly hadn’t eaten much. Perhaps he should—
The sound of a woman sobbing cut through his thoughts.
Tivre pushed himself to his feet and half-lunged, half-crawled into her tent.
There, Zari sat cross-legged, head in her hands.
Instinctively, he reached for her, though he knew he was rubbish at offering comfort in moments such as this.
He patted her shoulder, his hands feeling clumsy and useless. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I can’t sleep. I can’t even… When I close my eyes, I just see the bodies of the soldiers.”
“The soldiers?”
“In the fort. Blood Ember… it…” Her words came out as short gasps. “The newspaper photos. The stories… Blood Ember is real, and it’s out there. What if…”
It only occurred to Tivre now that he hadn’t seen the bodies.
If Hazelle had identified the corpses as killed by Blood Ember, then it was indeed true.
The monster survived. Tivre closed his eyes, thinking back to Javen’s desperation in the woods.
Perhaps the two would meet and kill each other, and at least Tivre’s life would become a great deal simpler.
“You are far too calm,” Zari said. “If Blood Ember is out there, how long do we have? It killed Garrick, and everyone at Lochna.”
“Except your father. Surely that offers some hope to you.”
“How can you be so certain he lives?” she asked, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“Who do you think saved him?” Tivre fought the urge to brush away her tears.
Her eyes widened. Oh. So she’d never put two and two together. Wonderful. This was bound to be a delightful conversation.
“You!” she shouted. “You dragged him to your isles, instead of—”
He pulled away from her, frustrated by how little she understood. “Zari, I am made of the very magic of the isles. I can go no farther south than the capital, and even that drains me. How was I supposed to carry an injured man all the—”
“Injured? Why did he survive the attack when no one else did?”
“No survivors, and yet common knowledge of such a thing. How odd.” Tivre shook his head. “There are few who have lived after Blood Ember’s attack, that is true, for the beast was created to be a weapon to equal anything you Rhydonians would ever invent. ”
It was all his fault. Tivre had been the one to see visions of bombers decades before they were invented.
He’d described them to the Queen, sketched pictures of their wings and deadly cargo.
In return, she’d plotted and crafted the worst thing magic had ever wrought: a monster entirely dedicated to killing those who opposed her.
“But my father lives?”
“He does,” Tivre assured her. “We still have over a day’s journey left to Kirkton.
You should rest.” Summoning magic, Tivre wove through a spell for protection, then flung it at the tent.
Sigils stretched out over the fabric, racing along the woven lines like molten metal.
“No one will harm you. Not here. Not tonight.”
Her lips trembled. “I can’t… Not now”
Tivre looked levelly at her. “No one has ever broken through one of my warding sigil chains. If I say you will be safe, believe me.”
“Why should I?”
Dropping his gaze, Tivre studied his hands. The still-applied glamour made them look as mortal as hers. “There has not been a fae as powerful as me for thousands of years. Even now, our fire and this tent are fully cloaked. We are invisible to them, unperceivable even to other fae.”
“Then why did Javen—”
“Javen isn’t tracking us. He’s looking for Blood Ember.”
Zari shuddered. “So it’s close? And I’m just supposed to sleep, knowing that?”
“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—”