40. Zari
Chapter forty
Zari
Z ari stared out at the night sky above and the vastness of the sea below her. She’d never seen sights like this before. Despite the practical part of her brain whispering worries, she ignored it, treasuring the unforgettable moment.
Garrick’s letters had described the thrill of flying, of trusting a structure made of canvas and wood to carry him high above the treetops. She’d read those letters a hundred times, never dreaming she might someday take flight, as well.
Granted, the way they flew, the wings wrapped in sigils, Tivre conducting their paths as magic streamed behind them like ribbons, was far from any piloting Garrick would have recognized.
The plane rattled and shuddered with every gust of wind, its thin canvas wings groaning like they might tear away.
The open cockpit left the icy air biting at her cheeks and tangling her short hair, and the roar of the engine filled her ears.
The stars seemed closer, close enough that if she reached up, perhaps she might catch one in her hand.
And the sea! It was so dark, as dark as the sky above, devoid of any light at all.
Even the moon’s gentle glow did nothing to illuminate the waters.
The great cliffs ringed a crescent bay, and if she squinted, she could almost make out the shape of islands, far from them and stretching out toward the horizon .
What awaited her on the isles? She found herself thinking back to Yansin’s stories, to his warnings about fae magic, and most of all, to his kisses. The time they’d spent together had been so sweet, so lovely, so perfect.
Something she doubted she’d ever find again.
Under the plane, a narrow strip of beach extended from the base of the cliffs. It grew larger as the plane began its descent. Its hopefully planned descent.
“Tivre!” Zari shouted.
“Mm?” he looked back at her, his eyes bright.
“Are you planning to land?”
“I think so?”
It was not an answer that gave her any confidence.
The plane dropped lower, bringing them closer to the sea. Jagged rocks jutted from the surf, white foam churning around their black spines. The cliffs themselves rose sheer and grim around them, their weathered faces streaked with salt and lichen, crowned by heather and wind-bent pines.
“Tivre!” she said again. They were running out of beach to land on.
The sea crashed endlessly against the stone, the sound carrying even above the engine’s roar.
A scream tore from her mouth as the plane’s wheels hit the beach, rattling the whole plane. Zari clutched the seat, desperate for something solid to hold. The plane skidded forward, spraying up waves of wet sand. Massive, sharp rocks protruded from the sea ahead like hungry teeth.
Without a second thought, Zari leapt from the plane.
She hit the sand hard, rolling as she did, the particles scratching her exposed skin. As she pushed herself upright, she watched as the plane careened toward the sea and the massive rocks scattered within its depths.
“Tivre!” she screamed, as she saw a white-haired figure leap from the other side.
The plane exploded on impact with the jagged rocks. Heat washed over her in a wave. Plumes of smoke billowed up around the raging fire. She blinked, feeling her eyes burn. A loud snap, and green smoke in a billowing curtain appeared, wrapped around the fire, and snuffed it out.
She turned to see Tivre standing nearby, one hand held out. The last tendrils of smoke returned to him, like a falcon returning to its master.
He could control smoke.
Zari sucked in a breath of cold sea air. Somewhere, another fae who could control smoke plotted to break the Accords. “How difficult is that magic?”
“To fly a plane? Oh, not hard at all, only seventy years of study, countless nights of translating unreliable text, at least three meltdowns at failed attempts, and a dozen or so explosions.”
“No, the smoke spell. How hard is it?”
He shrugged.
“Tivre!” she snapped his name, again, for what felt like the millionth time on this journey. “That looked just like the smoke which killed Rhydonians! Both in the capital and Lochna. If we could determine who did it, then we could stop them.”
“Stop them from what?”
“Breaking the Accords!”
“And how would we do that?” His gaze sharpened, a smirk appearing on his lips. “You wear an Oathborn mark for a few weeks and already have considered murder. I do so very much look forward to what comes next in your new bloodthirsty hobbies.”
She refused to take the bait of his cruel words. “I meant we could ask for help, tell others what they did.”
Tivre raised one white eyebrow. “Most fae would no doubt celebrate her attempts.”
“Her attempts?” There was no mistaking his use of the pronoun. “You know who’s been behind that purple smoke? Then why haven’t you done anything?”
“There’s nothing to do. Not yet. ”
Zari sighed. As much as part of her wanted to shake him until he listened to her, it would do no good. They needed to get to the isles. She’d talk to her father. He’d understand.
If he was still alive.
The dark thought circled back in her brain.
She shook her head, forcing it away, and stared out at the horizon instead.
Only faint hints of misted isles broke the endless expanse of black sea.
A powerful yearning overtook her as she imagined what it would be like to dive into the water, to feel the pull of the current, to—
“Step back.” Tivre said. “Or the sea will claim you.”
Zari blinked, realizing she’d been walking forward, as if in a trance.
She retreated, turning her back away from the strange siren call of the water.
There was little coastline anywhere along the cliffs, except for another outcropping, barely visible in the darkness.
There, a bright silvery ribbon split the cliff, as water rushed over the edge and crashed down.
Thomasin Falls. That land seemed flatter, and far wider, than the beach they stood on now. It was close to where Garrick had said he would take off for his bombing mission over the isles. “Why didn’t we—”
“Because there lies a grotto that holds the most dangerous weapon the fae possess,” Tivre replied. “The Crescent Blade slumbers close to that waterfall, and I will not risk drawing near.”
Her eyes widened. “So it’s real?”
Tivre’s white eyebrows arched. “You have traveled with fae, seen a plane fly by magic, and have slept in a tent woven from starlight. You doubt the existence of a sword?”
“A sword? No. A talking blade, perhaps.”
Tivre shook his head, muttering something about foolish mortals and their limits of imagination. Zari ignored that and pressed on with her questions. “How do other fae travel to the isles? If not by plane?”
“We use the tunnels, beneath the cliffs.” Kneeling by a cluster of rocks, Tivre pulled out a small metal box, then opened and passed her a bundle of clothes. “Get changed. ”
“Tunnels? But we would have found—” Zari found herself caught on the word we . They’d both used it. Tivre for fae, her for her fellow Rhydonians. “The soldiers, digging trenches…”
“If they were unlucky enough to find a tunnel, they’d be dead. Sigils carved into the stone walls emit a poison that steals the breath of any without magic.”
“How can you be sure?”
Tivre’s expression darkened. “I am the one who carved them.”
Her hands tightened on the bundle of clothing, as a wave of fear washed over her. There were times Tivre terrified her, reminding her just how little she knew of the fae and their magic. Times, too, she remembered how Javen had warned her that Tivre’s hands were stained with blood.
Once assured of privacy behind another cluster of rocks, Zari examined the gorgeous clothing: a pale blue tunic with wide bell sleeves, a large band of shimmering fabric, and a pleated skirt.
She grinned, realizing the skirt had pockets, and stashed her father’s pocket watch into one.
Her father’s letters, she folded carefully into the other.
Then, she wrapped the band of fabric over her shoulders like a stole.
Of the remaining objects, one was a hand-sewn shirt, and the other, perhaps bandages, a hand-span wide.
Walking back, the pleats of the fabric made a soft shhhh-ing noise, a tiny echo of the roaring ocean. The large sleeves, so strangely open, let cool air hit her forearms. Her bare feet sank into the wet sand, pebbles and shells poking the tender flesh.
“Ouch!” she yelped.
“Clothing shouldn’t hurt, as far as I know.
” Tivre had pulled off his sweater, and wore only a now-tattered shirt, leaving most of his bare chest exposed.
Though she’d tried to avert her eyes, she’d already noticed the scar, dangerously close to his heart, with the starburst pattern of a bullet wound.
“Bare feet,” she mumbled, embarrassed at how red-faced she was at the sight of him .
While Tivre spoke, he wrapped his wrists with a white strip of fabric. “You left off the undershirt and the underwrapping. For your, uh—” He made an abstract motion. “Your bosom.”
“Please don’t say that.” Her blush spread down her neck. It was one thing to imagine, to want, to have dreamed about Yansin touching her there, and quite another for Tivre to comment on it so flippantly.
“Why not? It’s a body part.”
“Some body parts should not be mentioned.” She snatched the shirt and the long strip of fabric and waited for him to turn around. He didn’t. Gesturing with a finger, she muttered a curse word at him. He laughed, winked, but finally did as directed.
The material tingled as she wrapped it close against her skin. “There’s magic in this fabric? Why?”
“To, uh, hold your b—the b-word I am not allowed to say—if you have to run or jump.”
Zari smiled. The outfit, for all its decadence, was more maneuverable than any ballgown. “So many layers.”
“You all wear almost as many. With those strange… corsets and lacy whatnots.”