36. Tivre #2
A useful distraction. “Magic cannot hold glamour.” That was all she needed to know about the complexities of who he was.
“This…” he ran a finger th rough a cluster of strands, jagged at the end from the last time he’d cut it.
The brown had already receded, leaving the snowy-white shade behind.
“…Is supposedly a representation of the light of the moon, and is therefore holy or some other sentimental shit like that.”
“You’re so flippant,” Zari said. “If you’re really a Godspeaker—if the gods are real, then wouldn’t they—”
“Smite me for my vulgar tongue?” Tivre offered her a crooked grin. “Truly, I look forward to the day I can convince them to do so. Alas, our four goddesses have yet to be so inspired as to turn me into a pile of cinders, despite all my best attempts to provoke them.”
“I still cannot believe that they exist.”
“Careful, they might see such a statement as a challenge.” He tapped the tip of her nose, the way Javenthal used to do to him when he tired of Tivre’s questions. “You should get some sleep.”
“What about you?”
“Inviting me into your bed, my, my.” He tried for the sensual tones he so often used as another form of glamour, but he couldn’t maintain the charade, not now. “I assure you, I shall remain a gentleman and keep watch while you slumber.”
“You were never a gentleman.” She snuggled under the blanket. “You’re just a pain.”
Tivre sketched out two more sigils, filling the small space with a gentle heat like a hearth fire. “That’s the whole problem, isn’t it?”
He wasn’t a gentleman. He was a fae and a Godspeaker. His destiny had already been dictated by the divine. As he knelt by her side, she pressed closer to him, still shivering. He frowned. Wasn’t the tent warm enough?
“I don’t want to be alone,” Zari admitted. “Call me weak, but—”
“I do not find you weak, though you are certainly exasperating.” Mirroring her earlier gesture, he ran his fingers through her hair. She didn’t pull away, but rather, let her head fall onto his lap, her body relaxing at his touch. “Does this help? ”
“It feels nice.” Her eyes slid closed. “Though… maybe we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“And what is it we’re doing?” he asked, his voice huskier now.
He wanted her to answer with a matched tone, wanted both of them to be distracted for a little while.
Because if she matched his tone, then surely she’d match his desire, and kissing would be far easier than this weak attempt at comforting.
Friendship was hard. Seduction was much easier.
Sadly, Zari gave no indication she’d like to be seduced. At least not at the current moment, as she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. “We’re traveling to the isles,” she replied. “To rescue my father, and to help Hazelle stop the war.”
“Ah.” So the idealistic ray of sunshine already convinced Zari to join her. “I don’t think there’s a proper way to stop a war.”
Stars above, did he know how badly Zari wanted such a thing.
Knew she would risk her own life, again and again, if it meant preventing a war from erupting.
He’d heard her say it, not yet in this reality, but in countless dreams. Visions of other futures, other possibilities, and perhaps even the future they were headed for.
Heard her scream in frustration as bombs fell, as bullets raked across an open field.
Indeed, he’d known her heart’s desire long before he’d met her.
It was the most admirable thing about her, and she had no idea yet it even dwelled within her.
Tivre’s smile turned rueful, and he waited for Zari to start snoring before he finished his thought. “But I do think it is worth trying.”
As she slept, Tivre continued to stroke her hair, as if that, and not her exhaustion, was the only reason she slept.
In the morning, neither of them spoke about their discussion the night before.
Instead, Zari asked questions about fae magic, and Tivre did his best to answer them as vaguely as possible.
“There’s no point in learning about it,” he said.
“You have no fae blood. You cannot summon sigils, so you cannot weave magic. It’s as simple as that. ”
“Won’t someone suspect me of being a human? ”
He shook his head. “I won’t have you on the isles for more than a few days. You’ll come, you’ll meet the Queen, I’ll take you to your father, and then we’ll get both of you on your merry way.”
“Why haven’t you sent my father home if it is so simple?”
Damn her perceptiveness, Tivre thought. It would be much easier if she’d nod and go along with his brilliant plan. “Because,” he said, slowly. “Your father was recovering from his wounds.”
“For ten years.”
It was, in a way, true. Because General Ankmetta was still in a state of recovery.
Or perhaps, in a state of not recovered.
Tivre still wasn’t sure. Nor did he have any real hope that Zari, with her knowledge of human medicine, might be able to solve what Tivre couldn’t.
For the general lay, as if asleep, for nearly as long as he’d been trapped on the isles.
“I will take you to your father, Zari, and then get you off the isles. You have my word.”
“Is it true that the fae cannot lie?” Zari asked. “Like in the stories?”
Tivre burst into laughter. “We must have been the ones to invent such tales, which are all the better for fooling you short-lived mortals.”
When she fell silent, Tivre considered that perhaps saying such a thing directly after offering his word to her was not his wisest choice. How could she know how rarely he offered such a thing, and how deeply he’d meant the promise?
Telling her was out of the question now, she’d never believe his sincerity.
As they approached Kirkton, the path they walked on widened into a cobblestone road.
The town was even less modernized than Wesburg, in part due to how fickle such things as electricity was in the Gloaming.
Of course, the fact that most of the town had been burned down multiple times during the war didn’t help with its overall economic health.
Zari turned her head, taking in the landscape around them.
“I assure you, there’s not much here in the way of cultural landmarks,” Tivre replied. “Kirkton’s only two-story building is also its only restaurant and its sole hotel. Multi-purpose, yes. Appealing to look at, no.”
“There’s something I’m looking for. ”
Soon, she plunged off the path, away from the town.
He followed her into a small thicket of trees.
Some of the lilacs were blooming, offering bright pops of purple amid the green.
Tivre was in the middle of smelling one bunch of the flowers when Zari gave a sharp gasp.
Beyond her, he spied a simple cottage, clearly abandoned.
Vines had crept over the door and no light shone in the small glass window.
“It looks like your mystery friend has—” Tivre paused. Something glimmered at the edge of his awareness, almost as faint as the scent of the lilacs.
Magic. Powerful magic the likes of which he had not sensed in years.
He froze, closing his eyes and reaching out with his consciousness.
The more he searched, the more the magic darted away from him.
It felt like plunging his hand in a rapid stream, trying to catch a fish.
Impossible, and yet so close to being in reach.
Raking his hand through his hair, he muttered a verbal spell, a perhaps reckless use of his magic.
Whoever had woven this spell might not be a friend to him.
In return, the magic he’d chased revealed itself in a roar.
He staggered backward, gasping as wave after wave of power hit him, forcing him backward.
His breathing went ragged as he muttered a second spell to shield himself.
Because this stranger’s magic would have killed him, had he wasted any more time.
Even now, sweat dripped down his forehead from exertion.
The glimmers hid a protective barrier, woven by a master mage.
A protection spell, stronger than any he’d ever seen.
Yet… something was off about its inner workings. Tivre sat down in the grass, intrigued.
Zari was safe, as the spell only targeted fae with magic, and he was curious.
It wasn’t often that magic surprised him.
All the mages were gone, except for him.
They’d fallen during the war, one by one, unable to weave spells strong enough to save themselves from bullets or bombs.
Protection spells were not easy. Even Tivre had needed the aid of both Celene and Javenthal to weave the dome which protected the isles.
So who had crafted this massive barrier for such a ramshackle cottage?
Thoughts of all else, even Zari, fled Tivre’s mind as he teased out the details of the spell.
The sigils needed to be coaxed, like a shy horse, to show themselves.
Or rather, how he thought a horse might act.
He’d always been more comfortable around magic than livestock.
These sigils refused to answer to him. They disobeyed his wishes, his commands, until finally, he realized they weren’t alive at all. Comparing them to a fish or a horse was pointless. The sigils were lifeless things, animated by a spell but no longer alive.
Which meant the mage was dead.
“Tivre!” Zari shouted. “Look!”
He lifted his head, doing his best to ignore the tears burning and caught a glimpse of eyes watching them from the shadows beyond the cottage.
“Someone’s here,” Zari said.