41. Tivre
Chapter forty-one
Tivre
C oming back to the palace never felt like a homecoming for Tivre.
Even during the war, when returning meant a reprieve from violence, it was willingly reentering a cage.
Because outside of the palace, there were things to discover, adventures to be had, people to meet.
Inside the palace, there was only the cold, heavy weight of obligation.
He’d long since stopped seeing any enchantment in its construction, despite how the enchanted marble glowed faintly, the wrought iron details impossibly fine, like lacework on a grand scale.
It certainly must seem that way to Zari, who gasped as they approached. “It’s like something from a storybook.”
Was it? The Rhydonian storybooks Tivre had read told of castles full of light, love, and laughter. None of which dwelled here. Instead, he knew the four-tiered structure, made of white stone and black iron, held nothing but malice inside.
His eyes raked over the windows, seeking out the one he used to watch the world from, and the one that Javenthal had used to sneak out to come and visit him.
Two small, good memories, among so many bitter ones.
When he looked at the massive steps leading to the entrance, all he could picture was how bloody they’d been the day of Liyale’s breaking.
Atop the castle was the Queen’s nest, a small tower like a wrought iron crown. He assumed she’d be there, as she so often was, staring out at the southern shore as if waiting for someone . The one she’d do anything to bring back and the one who would never return.
“Tivre?” Zari asked gently, as if she cared about him. Which of course she didn’t, he’d spent a great deal of energy ensuring she wouldn’t.
“That is my name, yes.” Or rather, the only one he’d answer to.
“Is everything all right?”
“Might I remind you of the circumstances we are facing?” he replied, his voice low. “And how none of them can be described as all right ?”
Hazelle and Daeden, Zari, and now, Ashali. Would this foolish plan result in any of their deaths? He knew only that his life would be spared. Tivre was more useful to the Queen alive than dead.
“Is there anything I can do?” Zari asked.
“You can keep your head down when we meet the Queen. Do not look her in the eye unless she commands you to,” he replied. “Nod, smile, remember that an Oathborn has no choice but to obey. Learn the phrase, My word is my Oath, and my Oath my life. If one fails, then let the other be taken. ”
“Those are remarkably sparse instructions.”
“They’ll have to be enough.” He gritted his teeth, for it was now apparent to him that the Queen was not in her nest, but approaching them through the garden. The rolling silver wave of her will slammed into his body with as much force as a punch.
There was no time left to warn Zari. Instead, he knelt.
Thankfully, Zari did the same. Ten. Nine .
He counted backward, waiting for the Queen.
Eight. This close to her, his heartbeat changed its pace to match her own.
The line of Artem had two goddesses in its bloodline, and the raw magical power that granted them was incredible.
Few could stand against one with that much divinity mixed into their lineage.
Seven. Six. He glanced at Zari, wondering again if his lies would be enough. It had to be enough. He’d seen her in visions on the isles, in the summer, the fall, the winter. Seasons beyond this bitter spring. Proof she’d survive this first meeting.
Visions lied. He knew that. But she had to survive .
He’d made a promise.
Three. Two.
Branches rustled as the Queen moved to stand in front of them.
Tivre lifted his head to peer at her impassive face.
The Queen had looked the same for Tivre’s entire life.
A silver crown held back her waterfall of dark hair, and the same metal twisted through her scarlet tunic, with sleeves that nearly touched the ground.
A step behind her followed Olan, her ever-loyal Oathborn guard.
His tall, hawkish presence loomed, his cold emerald eyes calculating every possible threat.
Smiling without a hint of mirth, the Queen stopped walking. Her gaze raked over Zari’s kneeling form. Tivre froze. If he wavered, if he gave the smallest indication of Zari’s true identity…
“Tivre, I am surprised. You have done well. Syonia reported you failed, and yet, here stands before me a lost Oathborn returned to her rightful place.”
Syonia beat him back to the isles. Wonderful. “I am glad you are pleased,” he murmured.
“Though… the pin on her sash. Why is it the South Star’s?”
Damn Hazelle and her plotting. How had she slipped that to Zari? Why hadn’t he thought of checking her sash? Tivre fought to keep his voice even, desperately hoping Zari would not respond. “Stellaris Hazelle claimed her for her isle, in place of the sisters she lost.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Maybe he’d run out of lies, having used them up on this never-ending journey.
The Queen snarled, and her magic, crimson-red and furious, crackled around her like wildfire. “Her sisters are dead for good reason. How dare she—”
At her side, Olan cleared his throat. “A Stellaris may claim an Oathborn if she provides both sword and pin.” The tall Oathborn adjusted his stance, folding his arms across his broad chest. “So it is written in the ancient code.”
“So it is,” she replied, her fury banked, as only Olan could do.
Still, no mercy would come from his lips.
Olan was her executioner and the oldest living Oathborn.
His hatred of humans matched the intensity of the Queen’s own.
All he would offer Zari, if he found out the ruse, was fairness in accordance with the law.
In other words, a sharpened blade and a swift death.
“Yet,” the Queen continued, “I see no sword. To honor the law, she must have both.”
“The sword was lost.” Zari spoke up, as bold as ever. “My deepest apologies. If I can—”
“If you can?” The Queen laughed. “Little Oathborn, you can do many things, provided it is my will you do them. Tivre, are you sure she is the one you have foreseen?”
Was that doubt in her voice? Or proof that he’d done enough to obscure the visions he’d shared with the Queen, always keeping as much of Zari’s form in shadows as possible? “She is none other than the child of two worlds, who my visions have told me will bring about a new age.”
“Is she?” She circled Zari slowly, observing her from every angle.
What did her ancient eyes see? She’d lived for a thousand years.
How many humans had she met? How many had she killed?
“Olan, do all wildlings look so pathetic? I cannot remember the last time I’ve laid eyes on one of these unpleasant little deviations of propriety. ”
Now, Olan too, focused his attention on Zari. Before he’d become her guard, he’d led countless battles against humans. Would he spot some mortal failing in Zari that Tivre had not thought to glamour? “Their blood dilutes ours quickly. It is known.”
“So it is,” the Queen replied. “Strange how they are so weak, by themselves, and yet, have taken so much from all of us, and none, more than me.”
A lie. A damned lie, and one Tivre nearly sacrificed his life to argue against. So many fae had lost more than the Queen.
Her mother had died in battle, yes, but that was nearly two millennia ago.
As for her sister, well, it was not death that the royal heir chose, but love.
The love of a human, for whom she surrendered the throne.
An act that Cassendelle still hated her for, though she was long-dead, and blamed all the humans for that one man’s existence.
Meanwhile, Hazelle had lost everyone she’d ever loved, except Daeden, to human weapons, and still found it in her heart to care for mortals, to give Zari a pin and call her family. The contrast could not be greater, nor more full of bitter irony.
“This little Oathborn seems so weak, so mortal,” the Queen mused, leaning in closer to study Zari.
Tivre fought to keep frustration out of his voice. “You knew she was of a mostly mortal bloodline, Your Majesty, when I went to find her.”
“And yet…” The Queen grazed one finger down Zari’s neck, over the thudding pulse there. “She will need aid, I think, if she is to become what I wish her to be.”
Tivre had no warning, no prior vision, of what came next. Instead he watched, powerless, dread sweeping over his whole body, as the Queen smiled.
With one crystalline nail, the Queen scratched Zari’s neck, summoning up drops of blood against her pale skin.
Zari flinched. The cut blazed silver. Blood sigils, a dangerous, dark magic.
The Queen’s nail traced out a looping pattern of four crescents over the side of Zari’s neck.
Each one a crimson, bloody line, as the magic burned all it touched.
Still, Zari did not cry out, though her back shook from from the pain.
“Let me give her this gift, Godspeaker, to aid her weak heritage.” The Queen finished sketching the sigil of her line, four interlocking crescents, onto Zari’s now-bloody skin. With a flick of her hand, silver light flared.
Zari fell prone on the grass. She’d said the palace looked like something from a fairytale. Now, she resembled a cursed princess, doomed to die at the hands of an evil sorceress.
Only the faint rise and fall of her chest suggested she still lived, and that was a small miracle.
The Queen’s blood magic had connected Zari’s life to that of the throne, as a live wire carried electricity from a power source to a lamp.
The Mark of Artem thrummed with the power of the divine.
Which was the risk. Just like those electric mortal inventions, a sigil that offered so much power could easily blow a receptacle not prepared to receive its massive current.
If a lightbulb burned out, it could be replaced. If Zari’s heart stopped, a repair would not be so easy.
“I will see her tomorrow,” the Queen said .
“Queen Cassendelle!” Tivre called to her departing back. He rarely used her full name, her title. Right now, he needed to show respect, for Zari’s sake. “She may need time to rest. With the Mark of Artem now on her skin, she is—”
“She is the one you said will bring about a new age. The mark will aid her.” The Queen looked at him over a shoulder, a familiar smirk curving her red lips.
Tivre stared, hoping, despite knowing better, to find some empathy in her gaze. He found none, only the same uncanny familiarity that haunted him every day. That same cold, icy shade of blue, that same impassive expression, that same disdain for everything Tivre represented.
Javenthal had always been said to have his mother’s eyes.