Page 48 of The Truth-Teller's Bargain
“Nakir,” Balthasar rumbled, sensing the places his friend was going. “Nakir, don’t. Don’t go there.”
“We’re done,” he rasped, staring at the blood on his hands. “We’re done looking for the Truth-Teller, whatever thefuckit is. I won’t do this anymore.” Bitterness laced every word, his self-condemnation palpable.
“What you’re feeling is understandable, Nakir.”
Nakir’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched in frustration. “No. I’m every bit the fucking monster they say I am. He isn’t the first. And if I don’t stop... he won’t be the last. I won’t do it. This ends here. We’re going back to Ephesus. And we don’t speak about the Truth-Teller.” The resolve in Nakir’s voice filled the room with a dark chill, his decision final and irrevocable. “Noteveragain.”
“One final matter, my lord, though I add it only out of duty and not fearmongering.
The Hasan whelp lives—and he has grown into something far more formidable than the boy your king once dismissed. The desert tells strange stories of him now: a swordsman as precise as a surgeon, a Necromancer whose shadow falls long across the dunes. Some even whisper that Roman Kentigern himself honed the creature’s talents.
I advise His Majesty be warned: sparing the Hasan heir may yet prove the gravest miscalculation of his reign.”
—A LETTER TO LORD PETROS MARAKON OF HYELEA, WRITTEN BY LORD SAMIR VEKROS OF RAI’SHARR
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hunter’s Moon, Day 24.
The two days passed uneventfully, and after many stops for rest, the convoy arrived at the rebel encampment. Alethea did her best to help the newcomers get settled, silently following orders when needed and blending in as just another set of hands. It took the camp well into the night to get all the Hyeleans established, settled, and fed. These people were just that. Regular people. Common folk. Most of them had never touched a weapon before, though many had spent years working farmlands or hauling hay.
Alethea watched from afar as Nakir, Kerrigan, and Dawes assessed those interested in being outfitted for fighting, while others were given assignments to tend to the livestock and supplies. They worked together so seamlessly as a unit she wondered how none of them had telepathy. Several of the newcomers would be sent to join the rest of Nakir’s army, wherever they were, but many were staying in the smaller camp of concentrated forces.
She knew her time of reckoning was incoming. She would have to face Nakir and be held accountable for what she’d done. The regret was a poison within her, spreading rot through her veins. A part of her wondered if he could ever forgive her, or if she could even make it through the conversation with her dignity intact. Her terrible mistake ate at her as she remembered all the times she’d disobeyed her mother and what it had cost her.
She busied herself with helping around camp. Nakir’s soldiers readily accepted what assistance she could offer. She lacked the skills of many in the encampment, but she washed dishes and stirred boiling pots and served stew with eager hands.
By the time she felt his eyes on her, night had set in, and Alethea was exhausted.
Nakir stood a few yards away, arms crossed as he leaned against the side of a supply cart. Once she became aware of his piercing amber gaze, she could not ignore it. It was time for her to pay for what she’d done.
Alethea passed the ladle to another soldier and quietly excused herself, muttering away the gratitude she was offered by the cook. She approached Nakir slowly, knotting her fingers together, and was opening her mouth to begin her prepared apology when a sudden flame cut her off.
She hardly had time to duck as a fireball soared her way, singeing the ground in the exact place she’d just been standing. Nakir had yanked her out of the way and now stood directly between Alethea and Kerrigan, whose flames reached her furious gaze.
“Absolutely not.” His voice was even and calm despite his grip on Alethea’s arm.
Kerrigan’s flames grew brighter at her sides, her eyes wild in the shadows they cast. “Did you think we wouldn’t find your Sending Ritual? Iknewyou couldn’t be trusted! Stupid, foolish girl!”
“Kerrigan.Enough.”
Alethea realized it wasn’t just Nakir and Kerrigan. Dawes, Emi, and Balthasar were upon them as well, just outside the range of Kerrigan’s fire. Every other soldier had cleared out. Alethea caught sight of Emi’s ready form, her own eyes widening as she watched the younger mage’s fingertips spark, ready to jump in the moment Nakir gave the order.
“I’m sorry,” Alethea pleaded. “Please. I didn’t mean for this...” Her words trailed off, eaten alive by the roar of the flames.
Nakir turned to face her, and she winced reflexively at the anger she beheld. He immediately released his hold on her, and she thought she saw concern flash on his face for a moment, reminding her of their time in the glen.
He regarded her, the space between them charged like the moment before a storm breaks. “Did you intend to betray us when you sent that message to the queen?” he asked pointedly, his tone still even and calm.
“No,” Alethea vowed. “I... I was afraid. In my vision, I saw...” Her gaze shot to Kerrigan, whose rage was barely contained. She could still see it—Kerrigan’s body, the burial silks, Nakir’s face when he found her.
“What did you see?” he pressed, lowering his voice.
“I saw... your victory.” Alethea’s lip trembled.
“Then why would you send the message!” Kerrigan demanded, the flames around her hands growing with her rage until they flared up her wrists, all the way to her elbows.
Alethea shrank further, wishing in this moment that she wasn’t such a coward. The prospect of violence terrified her, and the reality of it unfolding before her eyes was paralyzing. “And I saw... death.”
