Page 62 of The Truth-Teller's Bargain
She marked the other. “For deeds returned to memory.”
The words settled between them, quiet and unadorned.
Dawes placed the length of dark thread in her palm. “The Traveler’s Thread,” he said. “So Aevensor knows he is expected.”
Her grip tightened once more around Cyrus’s hand before she forced it to loosen. The absence came immediately, cold and final, but she reached for the thread anyway, fingers fumbling as she looped it loosely around his wrist, tying it as she had seen on the others.
Dawes waited until the knot was set before reaching for the burlap sack at Cyrus’s side—the one containing everything thathad been found on him. It rested near his hip, its mouth tied, the shapes of its contents pressing faintly against the rough weave. Dawes loosened the cord and reached inside, searching with careful hands before drawing out a chain.
It was worn smooth with use, the metal dulled where fingers had handled it often. At its end hung a small pendant: a wolf, unmistakable in its form. A symbol of Nehalennia. It had been set aside from the rest of his belongings. The other items would be wrapped, tagged, and sent onward, returned to whatever home was awaiting word of him.
“A token,” Dawes said quietly. “Something that passed through his hands.” He placed it in hers.
The metal was cool against her skin as Alethea lowered the pendant carefully, resting it over Cyrus’s heart. She let the chain fall in a loose curve across his still chest. The wolf caught the morning light briefly.
Dawes inclined his head. “Now his name.”
Her hand lingered over the wolf pendant. The morning was quiet—the kind of quiet that made every breath feel louder than it should.
“His name was Cyrus Galanis,” she said, the words barely more than breath.
Dawes bowed his head.
“Seen and remembered.”
The words settled into silence.
Alethea did not know if she could do this—stand among the dead and call it purpose; watch the cost mount and still believe in what awaited at the end of it.
But there was no road behind her anymore.
Only this one.
“Meseira is the province; Aegea is its crown.
Hyelea may rule the kingdom, but it is Aegea that feeds it, arms it, and reminds it what power looks like without a coastline to hide behind.”
—THERYN MYR, ROADSIDE OBSERVATIONS & OTHER IMPOLITE TRUTHS
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hunter’s Moon, Day 26.
Two and a half days brought them across the winter plains to Aegea, capital of Meseira, the great middle province of Lenorea. The rebel army, a concentrated force, was equipped with hearty horses and enough carts and wagons to transport anyone unable to walk or ride. Alethea slept in one of the designated medical carts for the entire first day, only waking for dinner before going right back to sleep. Several times, she woke to find Nakir, Emi, or Balthasar close by. They kept her up to date on their progress and how long it was expected to take, and each of them kindly asked how she was doing. Dorian, one of the many Healers, also visited frequently to inspect her bandages and utter incantations over the wound.
The few times she did wake up, Alethea enjoyed watching the verdant green of Lenorea fade into true winter from the back of the medical wagon. Hyelea, nestled in the seaside province of Ionia, experienced warm weather year-round, but Meseira was a landlocked province that experienced an actualwinter season. They’d told her how it was even worse in Ephesus, where the weather was known to be frigid in the winters, with brutal snowstorms that lasted days, even weeks. Setta, to the south, and Edysos, to the west, both enjoyed less extreme climates.
When she slept, Alethea swore she dreamed, but each time she awoke, warnings on the tip of her tongue, the memories faded. She tried keeping a journal beside her to quickly write down whatever she could remember, but by the time she’d reached for a pen, the thoughts were lost to her.
The unit didn’t set up their full campsite each night. Most of Nakir’s soldiers found a wagon and kept close to one another for warmth. Alethea was hardly well enough to leave the medical cart, but she quickly discovered she missed sharing a space with Nakir. She’d taken for granted how safe and protected she felt whenever he was nearby.
On the second night, she awoke with a start, jolting upright so quickly she nearly tore her wound open again.
“Shh,” his familiar voice soothed.
It was pitch-black inside the cart, and probably not much brighter outside, so it took several seconds for her eyesight to adjust enough to see Nakir stationed next to her small cot. His back was to the wall, legs crossed. Despite the sleeping forms surrounding them, he’d managed to sneak in.
“Nakir,” she whispered, reaching out her hand for him in the darkness. He took it gently, his touch warm and reassuring, and brought it to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her fingers that sent warmth radiating through her.
