Even eaten, all that was needed was that the seed was set aside. In the blink of an eye, it would plump once more. Ready to be devoured.
Zahril dipped the cherry into the truth potion. The potion was translucent, and dripped off the cherry like a thick stream of water.
“One question,” she said. “And one only. It is the kind of taste that has no flavor, but rather carves a place of knowing inside you.It is the reason why monarchs never suspect it because they can’t know it until it has happened.”
“How often are they slipped this?”
Zahril’s face darkened. “Often enough.”
Aasha had a memory of days when Zahril bolted the door behind her. Music blasting through the walls. She had thought that it was her just being prickly. Now she saw it for what it might have been: protection. What would have happened if Aasha had asked a question about Gauri? Zahril would have had no choice but to respond. The moment she did she would have placed the empire at great risk…
No wonder she hid in a tower. Away from where people might take advantage of all the ways she laid herself open out of duty to her country.
“The truth is a poison,” said Zahril.
Then she slipped the cherry between her lips, and ate.
One question.
Aasha had a thousand burning ones. She ran through them as she went through the ritual, dipping the cherry in the serum and raising it to her lips. But there was one difference.
She had already tasted this.
She knew the flavor… it had been one of the first things she had eaten. Thevishakanyaharem had given it to her, snapping off a diamond-bright icicle that had dangled from one of their fountains. She had drizzled the icicle with the poison and rolled it in sugar, giving it to Aasha like a present.We must make sure that our blood knows every poison. You are lucky to eat this so young, when your thoughts are not so dangerous and your truths are not so cutting, little one.Aasha had still been embarrassed by the serum. Especially when one of her sistersasked if she looked pretty in blue, and Aasha—who had no choice but to tell the truth for a whole week as she consumed the poison—had told her: “The sky would be so offended to see how you wear its skin that it would plunge us into night forever.” Her sister had not been pleased.
But knowing the poison also meant that it could no longer affect Aasha. She let the familiar taste settle on her tongue. The truth tasted different to everyone. For Aasha, who had never had much reason to lie, truth tasted light and sparkling. It tasted like fresh snow licked off a pane of sugar.
Zahril, on the other hand, made a face.
Aasha grimaced, wondering how the truth would change for her when she became the Spy Mistress.
“Now that you know the taste you will never forget it,” said Zahril, dragging her uninjured arm across her mouth. She pulled a shawl tighter around her, as if she could protect her heart better that way. “You may ask me a question.”
Aasha hesitated. This truth was supposed to be a moment freely exchanged. Zahril was letting down her guard… letting herin.Aasha couldn’t give her the same. The serum simply didn’t work on her.
She wondered whether she should tell her the truth, but how would she explain it without giving awaywhatshe was?
Zahril raised an eyebrow. “This wears off, you know.”
“How long does it take?”
“For this, an hour. But that is because it is half a drop diluted in water. It is an example. If enough was slipped into food, it could force a monarch to speak in nothing but truths for an entire year.”
Aasha glanced at the tattered scrap of silk on Zahril’s bedside.
Zahril caught her eye, her mouth tightening to a thin line.
“I have nothing to hide.”
Aasha swallowed.I do.
Questions were tricky things. Aasha had grown up amidst the riddles of the Night Bazaar. A question must be as precise as if it had been turned upon a lathe.
Something about that silk held her fascination. Looking at it was like not recognizing one’s own reflection in a pool of rippling water. She couldn’t quite place it, and yet she knew she should. She thought of how Zahril had clutched at her mug of tea. How her hands were fine-boned and delicate, made more unsettling against the razor-cruelty of her tongue or the cold leanings of her mind. She thought of how Zahril cradled that silk. Kept it beside her. It was not a talisman, kept for protection. It was a penance. Aasha was not one of those Otherworld beings who could suss out pain. But this was obvious.
“Ask and be done with it, Aasha,” said Zahril.
One chance to know.
