Oathborn

31. Tivre

Chapter thirty-one

Tivre

“ Y ou are a fool.” Daeden said.

Tivre had watched Hazelle and Zari amble off toward the ruins. Zari seemed rather upset, but surely Hazelle would talk some sense into her. That meant Tivre was now alone with Daeden, who was glowering at him in that particularly handsome way he had.

“Never claimed to be anything else,” Tivre smiled, trying hard to pretend like nothing was wrong.

Trying to pretend his visions hadn’t shown him a flurry of terrifying sights.

Syonia, with a bloody sword. Javen, here at Lochna.

Daeden himself, a motionless figure in a blood-stained tunic, moonlight playing over skin that no longer held any warmth at all.

“You wouldn’t have fainted if your magic reserves weren’t drained.” Daeden continued. “Which they should not be, unless you are weaving spells you are not telling us about.”

Daeden was very good at the Tell-Tivre-How-He-Messed-Up game. He’d been practicing it for over a year now, ever since that first night they’d kissed under the stars, with winter’s ice-wine clinging to their lips.

Even if Daeden was correct in his assessment, which, annoyingly, he was, Tivre couldn’t tell him the truth.

The roles they were born into, Oathborn and Godspeaker, made honesty impossible.

Tivre’s dreams were full of visions of the past as well as potential futures.

Sometimes, the visions returned, again and again, to the same setting, but offered no indication of when or why the location was important .

Lochna was one such place that haunted him.

Lochna, with its still, deep waters and the jagged mountains above.

He’d seen the mists roll in at Lochna so many times now.

Both in reality and in dreams. Not only of potential futures, but of that terrible night eleven years ago, when only three people had survived.

Himself, Ankmetta, and Javen. All of them cursed in their own ways after that fateful night.

Tivre cleared his throat. “You should follow Hazelle.”

“Why?” Daeden asked.

Because it would keep Daeden safe, at least for tonight.

As a longer-term strategy, Tivre was not so sure it would be a sound one.

He feared Hazelle was doomed to follow in both her sisters’ footsteps.

Like her sisters, Hazelle had a soft heart, and unfortunately, she too was bold enough to defy the Queen.

Liyale had broken her Oath to save innocents, and died as a result.

Celene had wanted peace and had been killed for such desires.

Those two daughters of the Phoenix had already fallen. Would Hazelle be the third?

At least Tivre knew, based on his visions, Hazelle would survive tonight, and therefore, her company was a safer bet for Daeden.

“Because,” Tivre said. “She’s your only living relative, and I am nothing but an occasional pleasant diversion for you.”

“You make it sound as if you are separating from us,” Daeden, always so annoyingly perceptive, said. “Are you?”

Tivre looked away from those intense, guilt-inducing blue eyes.

Tivre had no family of his own, but had read enough about the general concept to know it mattered to most. Family was why Zari trusted him as soon as he showed her General Ankmetta’s watch.

And why Daeden would follow Hazelle, away from Tivre, and away from where Javen most likely waited.

Family, too, or the lack of it, was why Tivre couldn’t ever bring himself to think of killing Javen himself.

Not when he had been the closest thing resembling the word that Tivre had ever had.

Still, Daeden lingered, watching Tivre in that way he had, as if he cared what would happen to Tivre once he was out of eyesight.

That drew Tivre back to Daeden, like a moth to a flame.

Daeden cared so much more than any lover Tivre had before, and in return, Tivre grew fond of him, his laughter, his touch, the concern in his eyes.

Even the way Daeden held him when one of the Godspeaking seizures descended upon him.

That was a comfort no one before had ever offered. He doubted if anyone else ever would.

Yes, fond was the right word for how he felt. Any other would be too dangerous.

Tivre refused to let that fondness cause his death. “Go.”

Daeden shook his head. “Come with me.”

“How simple must you be?” Tivre’s tone turned acidic, “for you not to realize that I do not wish to engage in your company. I grow tired of both you and this conversation. Go, leave me.” Tivre needed Daeden to stay away from him, to go with Hazelle and remain safe.

If it took painful words to achieve that goal, so be it.

Schooling his features to hide the pain, Daeden turned on his heel. His silent steps took him further away from Tivre; with each one, Daeden’s safety became more assured.

Once Daeden was out of sight, Tivre walked in the opposite direction, toward the rocky western side of the lake. Wind whipped around him. He couldn’t tell if it was salt water in the air or tears on his skin he tasted.

Brush and weeds had grown in abundance over the path in the past decade.

Tivre tripped more than once, cursing the stones beneath his feet.

A lifetime ago, when he’d first come to Lochna, he had marveled at how swiftly the misty tempests would swirl into existence.

He’d often escape from his tent to study them, especially late at night.

Wandering again, little brother? He could still hear Javenthal’s bemused voice, never mentioning all the reasons Tivre shouldn’t be outside in a war zone.

They weren’t siblings, not by blood, but they’d been close enough Tivre had believed him when he’d called him brother.

Tivre had always believed Javenthal, and he, in turn, had always fixed Tivre’s messes.

Even something as simple as a dying plant on a windowsill would end up being rescued by Javenthal .

You must keep at least one foot on solid ground, Tivre, or you are sure to stumble. Javenthal’s voice was so clear in Tivre’s mind, it was as if he were there, talking to him.

Such a thing was impossible. The one now called Javen would never speak so kindly to Tivre, would never again care for him as a brother might. Instead, Javen would kill him if he had the chance.

If the visions Tivre witnessed proved true, that death might occur tonight.

He’d seen Javen waiting on the western side of the lake, which was why Tivre had forced Daeden to take the other route.

Given a choice between breaking Daeden’s heart and losing him, Tivre would choose the heartbreak every time.

He trudged along as the fog thickened.

Wandering again?

Again, again, again…

The memory echoed, as ceaseless as the wind itself.

Ahead, Tivre spied the outcropping that he used to sit upon during the war. In every vision Tivre had seen of this night at Lochna, Javen had stood there, hand on the hilt of his sword, waiting. Daring Tivre to approach, expecting the showdown he’d long been denied.

Those were only visions.

In this bitter reality, Javen wasn’t there.

The rock was empty, howling wind the only noise. Nor were there footprints or motorbike tracks, nothing to hint he’d merely mistimed the meeting. Even when he peered out at the surrounding area, Tivre saw no signs of life.

The goddesses had lied. Tivre had gambled, and he’d lost.

“Were you waiting for someone, Tivre?” A honeyed voice asked, in the perfect intonation of a fae aristocrat.

Tivre whirled around, searching for the too-familiar speaker. “Syonia!” What was she doing out here? The Queen never approved of both Godspeakers being away from the isles. His skin prickled into goosebumps. “Show yourself.”

The air near him shimmered, an indication of someone attempting to remain hidden in glamour.

Syonia was weaker than him. Surely, her cloaking spell would break if he just poked at it a bit more.

He sketched three sigils and flung them toward the shimmering air.

The glamour evaporated like steam, revealing a white-haired female fae, dressed in a traveling tunic and leggings.

Her violet eyes held scathing disdain, matched by the tone of her voice. “You broke my glamour.”

“Oops.” Tivre shrugged. “Perhaps you should not have ventured south with so flimsy of one.”

He hoped to goad her into revealing exactly what gave her permission or the audacity to leave the Queen’s side.

Given his and Syonia’s rocky relationship, simply asking would reveal nothing.

Despite their shared status as Godspeakers, they had little in common.

Syonia was younger and, unlike Tivre, had been raised in the mages tower, at least, as long as the mages had lived.

Then Syonia came to the palace, barging her way into the only home he’d ever known.

Their one-sided rivalry had started then and slowly progressed from childish antics to real dangers; falsified betrayals and accusations of crimes he’d never committed.

Syonia longed to be the Queen’s only Godspeaker, and Tivre stood in the way of that goal.

If there had been a way for him to surrender his title without forfeiting his life, Tivre would not have minded at all. However, he was slightly fond of being alive, which made Syonia’s machinations more than slightly troubling.

Syonia rolled her eyes. “Perhaps you ought to act with more care, given how sensitive a mission you were sent on.” She gestured with one hand to the empty space around them. “Instead of chasing ghosts, should you not be guarding the Oathborn girl you were sent to find?”

“She is quite safe.”

“Is she?” Syonia studied her fingernails dispassionately. “I thought otherwise, given that the Traitor draws near the ruins even as we speak.”

His throat went dry. What visions had Syonia been granted?

“If she is in danger, why not go to her aid?” he asked. Already, he’d started to summon magic, still debating if his spell should be offensive or defensive. “She is, after all, what the Queen desires. ”

“Mm, I disagree. The Queen desires someone who will fulfill the prophecy. If your little human-raised Oathborn fails to survive the journey, well…” Syonia grinned. “The Queen will have to look elsewhere for her chosen one.”

Syonia had gone mad with power, or the longing for power. To defy the Queen’s wishes like this…he had to stop her.

Offensive magic, he decided. A greater drain on his already depleted resources, but necessary to stop her.

Surely he’d be able to summon a bit more.

After all, he always had before; always risked his life, always dared the divine to call his bluff.

He lived long after he deserved to and would continue to bet against those odds until he no longer could.

“You think the next chosen one will be you, don’t you, Syonia?” He stepped forward. “You have always longed for more than you were given.”

She wanted a family. Something no Godspeaker would ever be allowed to have. Tivre had mourned the same. He’d found his alternative comforts in one-night stands and ill-fated trysts. Clearly, Syonia had set her sights elsewhere, seeking power if she could not have love.

Tivre didn’t finish his sentence. He surged forward, green light dancing on his fingertips. The spell hit and tore at the fabric over her shoulder, but with one arm she blocked the rest.

Her free hand went to the dagger strapped to her upper arm. “The Queen only needs one Godspeaker.”

“How long will you last?” Tivre asked. “When the shield falls and the isles are left to the mercy of Rhydonia’s bombs?” He alone kept the shield standing these days, now that both Javenthal and Celene were gone.

“That implies Rhydonia remains.”

Tivre didn’t take the bait of a further argument.

While they’d talked, he’d been casting one-handed spells with his right hand, leaving his left in his pocket.

Syonia had no way of seeing the second set of sigils, hidden by the pocket.

Nor would she expect someone to be able to keep track of two separate weavings of magic, created at the same time.

Everyone always underestimated Tivre’s control of magic. Many never lived to do so a second time .

Like a whip, Tivre’s magic snapped forward.

Sigils blazed to life in midair, forming a chain of brilliant green light that coiled around her ankles.

With a vicious tug, it yanked her off balance.

Syonia hit the ground hard, a cry ripping from her throat as her knees slammed into the cold, unforgiving earth.

Leaves scattered around her as she struggled against the spell, but the magic only tightened in response.

Tivre drew a second set of sigils, each one burning brighter than the one before. Fury made his summoning more direct, more powerful. Her meddling could have caused Daeden’s death. How dare she—

How dare you! A voice called from inside his head, the rumbling thunder of a goddess’s demand. It shook his skull, his ribs, every bone of his body. She is chosen, as are you.

The sigils he’d cast faded, their deadly power evaporating. The goddesses denied him use of that magic. Tivre snarled. Chosen? No, more like damned. If they would not allow him to kill her, then…

Another flick of his wrist and unconsciousness claimed her. Easy. An easy temporary fix for far too complex a situation.

Knowing Syonia, she would nurse her wounded pride before heading back to the isles.

Once he returned as well, Tivre would find a more permanent solution to deal with her.

He wouldn’t report her actions to the Queen, for fear of arousing suspicion about his own actions.

Nor could he ask Hazelle for help when she was already too entangled in her own plots.

He’d only set foot on the path when the first shots of gunfire echoed across the lake.