1. Tivre #2
With a small sigh, Tivre looked away from the depressing statue. Colossal pillars, cool and white as winter moonlight, soared up to a vaulted ceiling. The silvery stars painted on the high curved ceiling glittered, as if winking at him.
“You’re late,” Olan muttered to him.
“Or early for tomorrow,” Tivre fired back, still staring at the ceiling.
Tivre purposely did not make eye contact with any of the Oathborn warriors standing in the shadows.
A mere glimpse of one Oathborn in particular—tall, blond, handsome—and Tivre’s eyes burned.
He’d thought he had loved Daeden, and perhaps he still did, for it was out of tenderness that Tivre had let him go.
No good could ever come of caring for one cursed by the Oathborn magic.
The Queen’s speech was a blur to Tivre, who nearly missed the places where he was supposed to offer some ritual phrase or religious commentary.
For someone who conversed with goddesses, Tivre didn’t consider himself much of the devout type.
When the Queen cleared her throat, he’d hastily mutter a wise-ish sounding line before resuming his pondering.
Eventually, the Queen ceased her talking, yielding the floor to the Stellaris, who each gave updates on crops, fish harvests, and other boring topics.
Tivre hated economics almost as much as he hated grief.
“The South Star Isle stands ready to provide for those in need this coming winter,” Stellaris Hazelle said.
The Queen scoffed at her charity, making a noise like she’d swallowed a bug.
Hazelle, despite being the youngest fae there, barely of age to be considered an adult, kept her voice steady. “We already have an early harvest of root vegetables, and our smokehouses are full of fish. We have enough to share with those who hunger.”
“And what will you demand in return?” asked another, poorer Stellaris.
A century ago, when the latest war against the humans began, the fae isles were full of life: farmers, artisans, and warriors.
Now, the isles were nearly empty, depleted of population and wealth.
Still, the Stellaris remained proud. They’d stab each other in the back for a scrap more power, if they could.
Indeed, many in the room had. Only the Queen held them in check, and that was out of the fear she commanded, not respect.
Hazelle glanced over her shoulder, a wisp of blonde hair shaking free of her braid’s confinement. “Nothing. I have no wish for anyone to starve.”
The Queen cleared her throat. “Enough. Stellaris Hazelle, this trap of yours is a waste of time.”
“It is no trap!”
The other gathered fae whispered and laughed, clearly disagreeing with Hazelle’s naive optimism.
The Queen, too, ignored Hazelle’s outburst, and held up her hand, summoning the Oathborn waiting in a corner of the room. One tugged open the far door, which led down to the dungeons. A single, solemn bell rang, and the hair on the back of Tivre’s neck prickled.
What a subtle way to show her power, Tivre thought, to cut off Hazelle’s act of charity with this incoming pageantry of death. No one would remember Hazelle’s kindness. Instead, it would be the Queen’s cruelty that ruled the isles.
As the bell tolled, every Stellaris snapped to attention. Only Hazelle was bold enough to ask. “An execution? Whose?”
“Does it matter?” Tivre muttered. Bracing himself for what would come, he resumed staring at the ceiling.
“A human, who desecrated our isles with his very presence!” The Queen’s voice rang out with fury as she detailed the crime committed. A foolish fae fell in love with a human and smuggled him onto the isles. Not the first time such an act had happened, nor would it be the last.
The scene unfolded exactly the same as every trial before. No mortal was ever found innocent, and so, the players remained the same. The horrified mortal. The guilty fae, sobbing and utterly powerless to stop the Queen’s wrath. The cruel Queen and her emotionless executioner .
With a single wave of her hand, ruby rings glinting like drops of blood, the Queen summoned Olan forward from where he stood at her side.
The Queen had no consort, no lover, no family.
Instead, the one she kept closest was her Oathborn protector, and her chosen executioner.
He stared down at the trembling human and sobbing fae with an emotionless expression as he drew his sword.
It gleamed, the blade as sharp as it was wicked.
The guilty fae babbled excuses of how this mortal was trustworthy, was kind and sweet and a hundred things that would not change the Queen’s mind.
Queen Cassendelle hated everything about humans.
If she could, she would eradicate every one of them from the world, to render her own perceived justice for sins committed by a few humans a thousand years ago.
With a single swing of Olan’s heavy blade, it was all over. The human dead, and the fae alive, but cursed with grief that would haunt her for her undying life.
“And so to all mortals,” the Queen said, clearly ready to move on to other business. “Their death is our triumph.”
Tivre blinked. Silver light danced at the edge of his vision.
No. Not now.
Tivre squeezed his eyes closed, as if that would stop the inevitable.
It didn’t.
The sea roared in his ears, and his heart seemed to stop, as a voice that was not his own spoke.
The cadence of the words, the rhythm of the poetry the divine used, echoed in his mind while snatches of the vision appeared.
The Rhydonian capital loomed, a massive city full of smokestacks and buildings.
Tivre saw a young woman with an Oathborn mark on her wrist, saw himself bring her back to the isles…
and all the destruction that came alongside her.
“No,” Tivre whispered, not sure if he spoke aloud. Like wresting control of a ship in a tempest, he fought back against the vision, pleading to be shown alternate futures, better ones, more peaceful ones.
For once, the goddesses yielded. Fog covered his view, and when it cleared, another human woman stood before him, in another vision .
This woman, he recognized, with her stubborn tilt of her chin and her brown eyes bright with conviction.
He’d seen her in countless other possible realities, other visions and dreams. Only now did he understand why.
The peace between fae and human rested on the shoulders of one mortal woman, who had no magic, no wealth, no powers.
She was ordinary, and that would be her salvation.
Just as swiftly as the vision began, it receded, pulling away from him in a rush that left him gasping for air.
Reality returned to him. He was on the floor, as he so often was at the end of his visions, curled up, muscles tight, arms locked around his head as if protecting himself from blows.
Every part of him ached as he pushed himself to sit up.
Tears, hot, obnoxious, stupid tears, burned in the corners of his eyes as he realized everyone assembled had seen him fall to the will of the goddesses, would have seen him convulse and mutter whatever words the divine wished of him.
“Tivre!” the Queen snapped. “What did you see?”
He froze. “Hmm?” he asked, stalling for time. Just how much had she heard?
“Your vision. You spoke of an Oathborn that you would bring here from the Rhydonian capital city. You said she would bring about all that I have dreamed of.”
“I did?” Tivre cleared his throat and tried to sound more sure of himself. “I did.” While the goddesses allowed him to see the future, they didn’t provide additional details. A fact he’d tried multiple times to explain, though no one ever listened.
The Queen nodded. “You will bring her directly to me. She will be useful.”
To the Queen, all Oathborn were tools, serving her will.
Not living, breathing beings. Though less than a quarter of all fae were born with the mark signifying their blood carried the Oathborn magic, she still treated them as expendable.
She’d even tried to recreate the magic on other fae, and thankfully failed.
One was either Oathborn, or not. Much like one either had green eyes, or one did not .
It was just that having green eyes didn’t usually ruin one’s life to the degree that being Oathborn did.
“As… as you wish,” Tivre murmured, grasping at the fragments of his vision, desperate not to lose them.
Around him, the Stellaris all whispered theories of what he might have seen. Some muttered about a lost Oathborn, others about a chosen one. Still others cursed Rhydonia, and all the humans who dwelt there.
Good. He’d succeeded, and held the details inside, refusing to allow the goddesses to speak through him. Tivre knew that the quest would result in his death if he dared to return without someone. As to the identity of that person, there, he had two choices.
One would be the Oathborn the Queen wished for, and the other… someone unexpected. Someone not Oathborn, not fae, not part of any grand destiny at all.
The Queen smiled. “I tire of this peace. The Oathborn girl is critical to my desire to end it.”
Tivre bowed, as he was supposed to, and held his breath, which he probably wasn’t, until the conversation in the throne room returned to other matters.
After, Tivre was halfway to the royal gardens, intent on hunting down some strawberries, when Hazelle grabbed him by the arm.
“You’re really going to bring an Oathborn back from Rhydonia?
” she asked, her eyes wide. Though she’d recently reached the age of maturity for a fae, she still looked too young to carry the weight of ruling an entire Isle. “Can I come?”
Tivre burst into laughter. “You, journey south to Rhydonia’s capital city? You’ve never even left the isles.”
He glanced back at the throne room, at the spotless floor, already cleansed of the mortal’s blood, and the Queen, still upon her throne, deep in thought.
She, too, had not left the isles in a long time, which was a blessing.
If the Queen had been the type to take up the Crescent Blade, as her mother had…
the blood shed by mortals would have filled every river of Rhydonia.
Hazelle tugged on his sleeve with her hand. “But I know the mortals’ language! And I have the clothes my sisters used to wear when they snuck—”
“Those clothes are now almost a hundred years out of style.” Tivre gestured at Hazelle’s outfit, the embroidered gown with bell-like sleeves, the thick fabric belt with her isle’s pin and her set of swords tucked through it, and the pleated underskirt.
A stunning ensemble, but one which would have looked equally fashionable a thousand years prior.
“Nothing here changes,” Tivre said. “Our days pass like minutes, our months like hours. For mortals, time consumes them, and all they make, and all they do.”
“So they stop liking their clothes after a certain amount of time passes?” Hazelle grinned, her eyes alight with curiosity. “See! I must journey with you. They’re so fascinating, and so strange, and so—”
“Deadly, Zelle,” Tivre used the nickname he’d called her when she was still young enough to throw apples at his head. “Rhydonians have little love for fae. You would slow me down and endanger yourself.”
“What if Daeden came with me?”
Tivre flinched. “Leave your cousin out of this. The Queen will assign Quila as my escort.” And her assurance that Tivre would return.
The Queen plotted to restart the war, to return the isles to the glory now gone. A part-human Oathborn would not be bound by the Accords. If the Queen had her under her command, she could instigate a full-blown war within weeks.
And then, Tivre’s promise to Maqui would mean nothing at all.
From his visions, Tivre knew the chain of deadly events that would begin the day the part-human Oathborn arrived on the isles. There was another way, a loophole, that could prevent all those lost lives.
He just needed to bring someone else to the isles. Someone entirely mortal. A normal human, without the compulsion of the Oath, would be able to evade the Queen’s demands .
The only tricky part would be locating a human who would be willing to travel with him, to risk her life and the Accords.
That was where the rest of his vision kicked in. He needed to find her, the other woman he’d seen. She was brave. Intelligent. Caring. Working with her, provided he could keep her alive, would fulfill an old promise he’d made.
It shouldn’t be too hard, Tivre decided. After all, she was someone with nothing to lose, and everything to gain from the con.