Page 94 of The Truth-Teller's Bargain
Alethea gently touched his arm, her brow furrowing in concentration as she delved into the depths of her power. The atmosphere around them seemed to thicken with anticipation.
“He’s... in a shallow grave, beneath the unforgiving desert sand,” she murmured. Her own discomfort mirrored the anguish in her words, and she withdrew from him, the murmurs of the crowd swirling around them. “I’m so sorry.”
The man’s eyes brimmed with tears, his voice barely a whisper as he asked, “What happened to him?”
“He... was betrayed,” she replied, her voice steady despite the sorrow clinging to her words. “He tried to warn them, but they turned on him.”
“Who? Who turned on him?” the man demanded, his voice breaking with grief and anger.
“I... I don’t know,” Alethea admitted, her heart heavy with the burden. “I’m sorry.”
Amidst the sea of onlookers, someone shoved the grieving young man away, stepping into his place, their eyes filled with their own desperate hope.
The man before her, his weary eyes etched with desperation, was clearly burdened by the enormity of his concern. His dark hair was streaked with gray, his pale blue eyes tired and bloodshot from countless sleepless nights. “My wife is sick,” he rasped, his voice a fragile thread of hope. “Nothing we’ve tried is making it better. Can you heal her?”
A deep sadness pulled at Alethea as she gently touched his shoulder. The air around her seemed to shimmer with ethereal energy when she spoke, her voice carrying a quiet assurance.
“I’m not a Healer,” she began softly. “But you can put away your pride and take her to the temple of Anya. Seek out the wisdom of Priestess Helena. She can heal your wife.”
A frenzy gripped the crowd then, an avalanche of faces and voices closing in on her from all directions. The air crackled with urgency as people surged forward. Alethea’s eyes glowed fiercely, drowning out the world around her. A forceful grip on her arm threatened to unbalance her as strangers clamored for her attention.
The crowd bombarded Alethea with a torrent of questions, each one a plea for hope or a desperate search for answers. Some asked about missing loved ones, their voices trembling with fear and anguish, while others inquired about the fate of distant friends or relatives.
Heart-wrenching cries filled the air as parents begged for news of their lost children and spouses sought reassurance about partners gone astray. Voices rose above the noise, questioning the fate of soldiers who’d never returned from distant battles,and the whereabouts of stolen treasures or hidden riches. Each query carried with it a glimmer of hope, a flicker of belief that Alethea held the key to their deepest anxieties and darkest mysteries. Fingers grasped and tugged at her, their urgency pulling at the very core of her being.
She saw none of them through the blinding light of her powers; the shimmering force that flared from her eyes. The Weave surged through her, amplifying the tumultuous energy. She had little control over what spewed out of her, the words tumbling into the crowd with every frantic question asked. Each plea etched a new line of exhaustion on her face, bringing a weariness that seemed to seep into the very core of her being.
“Stop this at once.”
Quiet fell over the crowd as a familiar presence found her, strong hands holding her shoulders. But it wasn’t the voice she so desperately wanted—the one that would bring her comfort and reassurance.
“Alethea, you need tostop.”
The commanding voice belonged to Xytharia Quellcrest. Her haunting presence brought a hush to the crowd. Even in the diverse city, there were few who looked like the High Priestess.
Blinking against the residual glow clouding her vision, Alethea slowly emerged from the depths of her prophecy, the contents of her stomach threatening to make a reappearance. The brilliance of the sun returned, illuminating the Aeshlien standing protectively over her, shielding her from the clamor of the courtyard. Alethea felt her knees weaken, the strain of her powers threatening to crumble her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Xytharia hissed, blood-red eyes narrowed.
“Helping,” Alethea replied, her voice raw.
“You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”
Amidst the chaotic cries and insistent voices, Xytharia hauled Alethea away. Tears welled in her eyes, blurred visions ofconcerned faces and desperate pleas, as Xytharia expertly navigated them past the throng, shielding her from the petitioners. Her grip was firm until they reached the sanctuary of the castle keep. There, the echoing shouts of the crowd faded into the distance as the heavy doors swung shut behind them.
With the safety of the castle walls surrounding them, Xytharia released her hold on Alethea’s arm, giving her a moment to breathe. Alethea shrank, rubbing her arm.
“It’s true then,” Xytharia stated ominously. “You’re an Oracle. The Truth-Teller.”
“Yes,” she affirmed, her voice a mere whisper in the storm of her thoughts. They stood alone in the dimly lit chamber. The guards were undoubtedly summoning the Great Lord and Lady at this very moment, and she had no doubt Nakir would descend upon them soon.
“Then tell me,” Xytharia demanded, her voice low and intense, her aura pulsating with power as she stepped closer. “What do I need to defeat Roman Kentigern?”
Alethea could hear Nakir’s voice echoing in the recesses of her mind, reminding her she didn’t have to tread this perilous path; she didn’t have to keep giving more of herself.
But that name kept coming up, over and over again, like a haunting refrain. It was familiar in a way it shouldn’t be, like an echo of a dream—or a nightmare.
Alethea took Xytharia’s hands, waiting in the quiet until she could feel the woman’s strong, steady pulse. The words didn’t want to come. They seemed to coil within her like sentient things, conscious of the peril they could unleash upon the world once spoken. It felt like wrestling with unruly spirits, each syllable a battleground where her will clashed against an opposing force.
