Everything about her screamswarrior—the broad shoulders, the muscular forearms, the steady gaze. Now that I’m no longer quite as parched, I can feel my wits returning, and with it some recognition of who this woman might be. There have been rumors of her over the years. Most assumed she died.
Is that the same nose, the same jawline from the portraits? I study her face with watering eyes, just as she inspects us both.
“Who are you?” she finally asks.
“Dietan Cornwallis Arthur William Maximillian Conrad Barclay-Bruce Armandale-Macrae, Crown Prince of Loegria and heir presumptive to Alarice.” The truth spills out of me before I can stop it. I don’t even realize what I’ve said until Aren glares at me, her eyes wide.
“And you?” the woman asks Aren.
“Aren Bellamore of Evandale,” she answers dutifully.
Her reply surprises the woman. She raises a curious eyebrow and then turns back to me. “Are you two really married?”
“Engaged but not really,” I admit, unable to stop the truth from slipping off my tongue.
“We’re only pretending,” Aren says. She looks surprised at her own honesty and clamps her mouth shut to stop herself from saying more.
My eyes flick to the cup. Whatever the woman gave us wasn’t just water.
“So, a prince and a…” she starts.
“Barmaid,” Aren supplies.
“A prince and a barmaid. How curious. And not a married couple as you claimed to be.”
“We didn’t mean to deceive you,” I say quickly. “We were desperate for help. We didn’t want to look suspicious.”
“Heh. A Loegrian prince wandering the Great Waste, suspicious?” The woman chuckles. “Can’t be. So, what business do you have here? What brings you to the remains of Estyrion?”
I try to come up with a lie—something easy. That we got lost, that we were kidnapped and abandoned, that we were separated from our party. But the words refuse to form. I try to say anything but the truth, and my tongue feels like cement in my mouth. I fight desperately for control over my own mind, closing my eyes, focusing like I’ve practiced for years to quell the Rings, but the impulse to tell the truth is still overwhelming.
“We’re here to solve my problem,” I finally blurt out. My heart thunders in my chest. I know that if she asks, I’ll tell her the entire truth—and I can’t. “Don’t ask me to reveal any more than that, I beg you.”
She raises her eyebrows, then looks at Aren, who’s fighting so hard against her own honesty that her whole body is shaking.
“Please,” I say, to draw her attention back to me and spare Aren. “It’s my problem, not hers.”
“What problem?” she asks.
Of course she would.
Anyone would, after hearing my answer.
I wince as I am compelled to speak. “I seek help from the one who calls himself King Osian of Engel.”
At that, her eyes darken. “What for?”
I clench my fists, fighting my own tongue. The longer I remain silent, the more it feels as if my mind is melting. I can’t stop myself. I answer, practically gasping as the pain disappears the moment I spit out, “To stop the coming war.”
The woman smiles. “That may be your truth, but no one can stop the Usurper of Penrith from marching on the rest of Albion. And I doubt Osian wants to stop him. The King of the Waste is in league with the Usurper.”
Well, this is…terrible news.
I meet Aren’s frightened gaze, and it takes everything in me not to reach over and take her hand.
“Now tell me the truth,” the woman says. “Why are you here?”
This time, the words tumble out immediately, as if pulled by a string. “Because I have the Rings of Fate.”
