Page 13 of The Truth-Teller's Bargain
“A fall at this pace could be deadly,” he told her, his tone flat and cold. “Should I tie you to your saddle?”
The thought filled her with dread. Not only did it sound painful, but it also seemed humiliating. She immediately thought of Goran Arranil, tied to his chair as she’d pored through the depths of his treachery against her mother. A cold chill rolled over her, and Alethea shook her head.
“Then you need to ride with another. Dawes and Balthasar are already pushing their horses’ weight capacities.”
“Don’t look at me,” Ker stated without a moment’s hesitation, reining her horse away from the conversation to assert her boundary.
Alethea considered her options: being tied to her horse, or riding in the saddle with Nakir. Both sounded mortifying, but she decided to pick the more tolerable of the two options and ride with the Aeshlien.
As he lifted himself up into the saddle behind her, color rose to her cheeks despite his obvious efforts to keep their bodies as separate as possible. The saddle wasn’t meant for two riders, more uncomfortable the farther away she tried to be from him.With a sigh, Nakir sliced through the ropes that bound her wrists.
“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you, princess,” he growled in her ear.
Her stomach flipped, and she swallowed.
She hadn’t been this close to a man since her summer in Azmarin with Reingard. The sudden memory of the two of them tucked into various corners or cupboards, or wherever they could find time and space to be alone, had her wishing she could scrub the thoughts from her brain forever. Glancing up, she noticed Balthasar’s eyes on hers and a curious expression on his face, which only worsened her embarrassment.
“We’re less than a day’s ride from the encampment,” Nakir explained as he took the reins. He was nearly a foot taller than Alethea, and she wondered if she even made a difference to his beast of a horse. She hardly had a moment to hold on before they set off at their breakneck pace once more.
Riding with Nakir was unsettlingly awkward at first as they each tried not to touch the other. This balancing act brought about an entirely new set of aches to her already weary body, making tears of frustration well in her eyes. An hour in, she finally sighed and made the choice to let herself lean back against his chest, settling into the tempo of the cantering horse.
There was nothing soft about Nakir’s body, but the fact she was no longer fighting contact meant she could relax. She felt him tense instantly, and a tiny, rebellious part of her took note. Perhaps he should have considered this before stealing her from the woods.
He sighed behind her, slow and controlled, and then something in him gave way too.
She was surrounded by him now, the scent of cedar wood, a whisper of smoldering embers, and a darker spice she couldn’t name—something low and smoky that curled at the edge of her senses. Heat radiated steadily at her back, the rise and fall of hisbreath an unspoken presence she became acutely aware of. It shouldn’t be comforting. None of this should be comforting. And yet her muscles loosened on their own, relaxing into him.
Alethea hardly realized she’d fallen asleep until the world shifted around her. She blinked awake to the slow sway of the horse beneath her and a sweeping valley washed in the gold of the setting sun. Sometime during the ride, her cap had slipped free and her long blonde waves had come loose—spilling down her back, across Nakir’s chest, and trailing behind them both where the wind had caught it and made a hopeless tangle of the whole affair. She shifted with the horse’s gentle rocking and felt the snag of it immediately; her hair had wound itself into the joints and buckles of his leather armor as though it had been there for years.
Nakir cleared his throat. Heat crept up her neck as she turned to find him looking rather pained about it, strands of gold caught stubbornly against the dark metal. For a long moment neither of them spoke. Then she began working at the tangles, teasing her hair free strand by strand—a slow, careful thing, each pull stinging a little more than she expected. When it was done, she set about hastily rebraiding the mess over her shoulder and said nothing.
Nakir drew back on the reins, slowing their pace, and her awareness came rushing back to him all at once—his arms bracketing her, his hands sure and steady on the leather in front of her. It took some effort to drag her gaze away. She straightened in the saddle as the five of them rode into the bustling camp.
Amidst the vibrant greenery of the valley before them, a patchwork of a few hundred tents sprung up. Soldiers moved about, all dressed in similar deep navy-blue attire. Their uniforms, consisting of snug jackets with high collars, buttons, and cuffs, paired with matching trousers and sturdy leather boots, formed a moving sea of dark blue across the grassy plains.
Despite their uniforms, Nakir’s troops came in all shapes, sizes, genders, and bloodlines. She witnessed several training sessions, some soldiers practicing maneuvers with blades, while others utilized their various kinds of magic against targets and sparring partners alike. Some soldiers had opted for a break, tossing aside their jackets to enjoy an evening meal or engage in what she assumed were drills. The camp buzzed with a sense of camaraderie and purpose, showcasing a colorful blend of individuals working together toward a common goal.
But this wasn’teighteen thousand soldiers, was it? Though she was hardly versed in estimating rebel camp sizes, Alethea got the sense this was just a small fraction of that number. Where were the rest of them? She’d foreseen a thousand mages during Goran’s interrogation, but there weren’t even a hundred people present.
Balthasar chuckled from behind her as if reading her thoughts. “Welcome to the rebellion, Your Highness.”
It seemed karmic that she was likely now about to face her very own interrogation, after which she imagined she’d be locked away and ransomed back to her mother for a hefty price. An entire day had passed since she left the castle. Had the queen noticed her absence yet? Surely she had, since the news of Alethea’s prophecy had no doubt made it back to her and her advisors.
Balthasar and Kerrigan peeled off after entering camp, but Dawes hung back and rode closely behind Nakir, toward a larger tent situated in the center of all activity.
“You don’t need to hover,” Nakir murmured, throwing an annoyed look over his shoulder. The level of familiarity between them fascinated Alethea, but she was primarily focused on surviving whatever she was about to face to consider it with too much depth.
“Oh, I think I do,” was Dawes’s low reply.
Alethea didn’t know much about rebel-leader tent locations,but something in her gut told her this particular white tent belonged to Nakir. Standing outside of it was a woman who could only be a few years older than Alethea, and she did not look pleased.
Even in her displeasure, she was beautiful. Her golden skin and dark brown hair hinted at Empyrean ancestry, but it was rude to assume someone was descended from the fallen Primal god of Creation by the color of their skin or the slight point of their ears. She wasn’t much taller than Alethea, but her stern demeanor was imposing enough as she watched them approach, her russet eyes narrowed dangerously, ire reserved for a singular target.
“Told you,” Dawes shot back as he dismounted, offering his reins to a nearby soldier.
“Nakir. Vassilis. Hasan.”The woman’s voice was quiet but full of rage as she stood there with crossed arms. She was dressed in full leather armor, but she wore no weapons—though perhaps she didn’t need any, since her glare was deadly enough.
Nakir dismounted and held his hand out for Alethea to take. It was something they had done several times now, but her uncertainty made her hesitate.
