20. Tivre
Chapter twenty
Tivre
T ivre hated the woods. Granted, he hated most places, but the woods especially.
He preferred his room, or the royal library, or anyplace with a nice cozy couch, a fire, and a good assortment of snacks.
Yet, he’d been the one to volunteer to head toward the village.
He’d find Zari, then return with her to where the others waited.
At least, he hoped Zari was in the village, based on the glimmers of his magic he’d still sensed on her.
The plan had been a difficult one to get the other two to agree to, but thankfully, Hazelle finally realized the need to keep Daeden away from Javen.
An Oathborn, like Daeden, would be locked in combat to the death against Javen, it was what had doomed Quila.
And unlike that death, Tivre knew Daeden’s would destroy him entirely.
After that he had her aid in crafting some cobbled-together excuses they could use as a workaround for Daeden’s Oath.
Hazelle was a terrible liar, Tivre, a much better one.
At least, both of them knew how to word things with just enough truth to maneuver around a given Oath.
An awful talent for one to have, and yet, one Tivre had relied on far too often.
Tivre wrapped his arms tighter around himself, missing Daeden’s warmth.
He longed to rest, even for a little while, but to sleep would allow the dreams to come, which he dreaded.
He was a Godspeaker. His dreams were no more his than the Oathborn’s lives were their own.
Magic did not value free will, nor did it care for one’s own wishes .
A branch snapped. He turned, straining his eyes in the dark. Was that a figure in black, moving in the shadows? He shook his head, reminding himself ghosts did not exist. The dead remained so.
So, why had he thought he’d seen…
Searching for a distraction, he dug in his bag until he retrieved the candy he’d bought. Each one crunched in an explosion of artificially sweet flavors. He loved how creative the Rhydonians were with their sweets, for even the candy shaped like apples or lemons tasted nothing like fruit.
Just as he popped a green candy into his mouth, another branch cracked. Tivre cleared his throat, only to feel the distinct pressure of a knife against his skin.
“Lookee here,” a gravelly voice said. “I found a little fae all alone in the big woods.”
Tivre tried to keep his voice calm. “How do you know I’m fae?” His glamour should have mostly held, at least to hide his eyes and ears.
“Your hair’s white an’ you ain’t old.”
“Astute,” Tivre mumbled. Damn his hair’s inability to stay hidden.
He could glamour everything else about himself, but those strands always gave him away eventually.
He’d considered wearing the face of a much older human, in an attempt to make the white hair work with the rest of his disguise, but he’d found mortals never quite trusted their elders as much as they did a handsome young person.
The man smacked him with his free hand. “No speakin’ that fae language.”
“That was in your language, good sir.”
Another smack, this one hard enough that white stars lingered in the edges of Tivre’s vision, before the man demanded, “You got some leaf on you? Give it here, and I’ll let you live.”
Ah. The man was an addict. Cadevesh, a poisonous Fae-cultivated lily, bloomed at night and smelled as sweet as death.
Some Rhydonian soldiers had gotten their hands on the white trumpet flowers and, with that self-destructive streak all mortals had, decided to consume them.
Smoking the plant caused intense hallucinations, enough to drown out any other thought until it eventually killed them.
The Queen found it a fitting revenge. Tivre found it horrid.
“I don’t have any,” Tivre said.
“That’s a lie. I smelt it in town. Followed you here.”
Odd. Cadevesh was rare south of the Gloaming, and these days even a pinch of it could fetch a fortune on the black market. So who in a place like Wesburg had enough to smoke for pleasure? Tivre rocked on his heels, stalling for time. “I do have money, if that would be preferable?”
“I can get money from your dead body.”
“Well, yes, but considering you could have also looked for cadevesh on my corpse, I think you do not wish to kill.”
The man’s hand pulled away. “You… You’re readin’ my mind. Doin’ fae magic.”
“Yes, I can read minds. For I know you don’t want to kill.” Tivre kept his voice low, like speaking to a spooked horse. “And I know you hunger for more cadevesh to keep away the nightmares of the war.”
The man’s eyes grew wider. “You… You could tell that?”
Yes, but not from the man’s undoubtedly shattered mind. From the military insignia on the blade’s hand, the close-cropped hair, and because few Rhydonian men had escaped the draft.
“You’re creepin’ me out.”
“Then you should stay away—” Tivre wiggled his fingers, “—before I call deep and powerful magic to me.” Closing his eyes, he chanted ominous words in his native tongue, or at least, chanted his last three meals and assumed the intonation would do the work of improving the context.
As Tivre droned on, the man scrambled away. Once he was gone, Tivre stopped his muttering and slumped back against the log. Why was it always so much more effort to save someone’s life?
He reached down, only to find the spilled candy was now covered with ants. He sighed. So much for his snack. Time to head into town, find Zari, and get back to the journey. As he stood, a low, rolling thunder cracked in the distance. Tivre froze .
Not thunder, no.
Magic. Raw, wild, unconfined magic, emanating from someone both powerful and completely out of control. Traces of it skimmed over his skin like a layer of frost. Tivre shivered.
Hoofbeats sounded against the mossy dirt of the woods.
Once more, Javen had found him. Though Tivre ducked behind the fallen logs, he felt no hope at all that he’d escape detection. Javen had spared his life once. He would not do so again.
Only minutes later, the horse and rider thundered into view. “Show yourself!” Javen yelled, not in Rhydonian, but the fae tongue. Branches cracked as Javen dismounted, his sword jangling in its belt. “Are you a coward now?”
His heart still in his throat, Tivre blinked, considering the words. He’d never been one any fae would call particularly brave. Obnoxious, yes. Over-confident, perhaps. Brave, though? Doubtful.
Was it possible Javen wasn’t looking for him, after all?
Aside from the Queen, there was only one other who deserved Javen’s fury.
One that Tivre had told himself was long dead.
It had been so long now, so many years without a single confirmed sighting.
Tivre’s heart thudded harder against his ribs, as he wondered if that newspaper article had told the truth.
Was Blood Ember still alive?
Javen howled with rage. Magic burned in his eyes and along his arms, all his careful glamour shredded away in his rage. If any Rhydonian saw him now, they would barely recognize him. Another crack of magic, as loud as cannon fire, snapped through the air as he shouted, “Show yourself, Blood Ember!”
Ah. Clarification indeed. For that anguished howl had not only provided a name, but was also not in Rhydonian.
For Javen to lose control, to shout in a language Tivre knew the man had sworn off…
vengeance had overtaken his reason. If Tivre wanted to, he could attack now.
Even his cloaking glamour, hasty though it may have been, seemed to be enough to keep Javen’s eyes off him.
Tivre risked another glance at the figure astride the horse, noticing the bloody mark on his neck, a sure sign Javen’s own magic reserves were rapidly depleting. Nor did Javen have the Crescent Blade he’d once wielded, which had amplified his power greatly.
With Javen this distracted, Tivre would have a solid chance of winning the fight.
Victory would mean killing the oldest friend Tivre had. Even if that friendship was long since corroded, Tivre found himself unable to attack. His hand remained outstretched, the first of a chain of sigils floating there. Still, he couldn’t strike.
He tried to tell himself that killing Javen would protect not only Zari, but Daeden too, but his mind responded by replaying childhood memories. Games of chess and cards, days spent together in the library, evenings sitting by the grand fireplace, begging stories off whatever adult fae was near.
The hoofbeats thudded again, as Javen turned his steed to plunge deeper into the forest, the noise of his shouts fading as well. Tivre pushed himself to his feet, leaving Javen behind in the woods to demand vengeance from a ghost.
There was no way Blood Ember had survived. Tivre was sure of it. He had to be sure of it, or he would surely be Blood Ember’s next victim.
No amount of cleverness or luck would save him then.