Page 3 of The Truth-Teller's Bargain

Age of Upheaval, Y 217. Hunter’s Moon, Day 15.

Ten years later.

This was not the first time the queen had summoned Princess Alethea to the dungeons. The guards’ expressions held no signs of shock or surprise as she passed by them, daintily picking up the skirt of her pale blue embroidered gown to keep the puddles of who knew what from sullying the delicate hemline. It wasn’t vanity—Alethea simply wasn’t looking to give her mother yet another reason to criticize her. She tiptoed around the edges of each dripping pool as if she knew their locations by heart. In any other kingdom, she mused, was it strange to see a princess in a dungeon? In the court of the Crimson Queen Zenobia of Lenorea, it was not strange at all.

Alethea sometimes wondered what her mother’s advisors thought of this arrangement. Precious few knew the true nature of her visits, but undoubtedly, whispers lingered. Most werewise enough to stay silent. Zenobia had more than earned her title of the Crimson Queen.

The torches cast dim shadows along the stone corridor, the air thick with the stench of rot. Alethea forced herself to ignore the desperate pleas echoing from the cells she passed.

“Princess, save us!”

“Please, tell my daughter…”

“End it now. I beg you.”

She could help none of them. Her normally schooled expression only faltered at one of the last cells, where an older man sat crumpled, imprisoned for a crime he had not committed.

Alethea knew her mother had placed him in this cell so she would have to pass him at the last moment every time she was summoned for this purpose, to remind her of the consequences of going behind her back. Only total obedience was acceptable in Zenobia’s court.

The man in the cell did not look up or acknowledge her in any way. It was almost worse than if he’d begged her for mercy. She fought for composure as she hurried past him toward the guarded door at the end and slipped quietly into the interrogation chamber.

Queen Zenobia stood in the corner of the dark room, her white hair hanging in perfect waves down past her waist. She was immaculately dressed, as always, her status and wealth on display with her blue and gold-threaded gown. She was always ready to entertain at court, despite the grim setting.

Bound to the chair in the center of the room was a man by the name of Goran Arranil, recognizable by his vivid red hair. Dirt and blood marked his pale, freckled skin, and his left eye was swollen shut. Yet even captive, he exuded a quiet calm. His stormy blue eyes held a fierce determination, refusing to yield even now.

The walls around them were adorned with instruments ofpain and torture, and judging by the state of him, several had already been used—though Alethea was certain her mother had not sullied her own hands doing so.

The three of them were alone now.

As the Great Lord of Ephesus, Goran ruled the northernmost province of the Kingdom of Lenorea. He was in his late fifties, a widower with only one child—a daughter slightly older than Alethea.

She knew better than to betray her shock at the sight of him, schooling her expression and simply offering her mother a silent curtsy as the door closed behind her.

The Great Lords and Ladies ruled over the provinces of the Kingdom of Lenorea and reported directly to the queen, who only answered to the Empress Illyria Macierre herself. Alethea had never been permitted to visit Ephesus, so the province lived in her mind as hardly more than a sprawling location on a map and a list of qualities she’d learned in her studies. But this man was very real, and in terrible danger, alone in a room with Alethea and the queen.

“You’re late,” the queen stated, her tone as flat as ever. It was clear she held no tenderness or warmth for her daughter. She had learned, over ten years, to feel nothing when her mother looked through her. “The Great Lord Arranil stands accused of treason. My spymaster has reported that he is leading a rebellion against me. It seems the day I have always warned you about is upon us.”

Her motherhadalways warned her this day would come, but for it to finally be here was another thing entirely. Ephesus shared a border with their own capital province Ionia, and a rebellion brewing there, or in any of the territories, spelled danger for the kingdom.

“Describe his crimes fully,” the queen commanded.

Alethea had been trained for this, molded to navigate thetreacherous waters of politics and court life in one very particular way.

In contrast to her own racing heart, Goran’s breathing stayed even as he studied them. His eyes were too intelligent, too knowing. The fact Alethea had been summoned here already told her what would happen to him. Her powers were a well-guarded secret, and those who discovered them were not often permitted to keep their lives. Her stomach sank like a boulder. She didn’t know the Great Lord Arranil very well, and though he’d never exactly hidden his contempt for her mother, he had always been polite—even sometimes kind—to Alethea in their few interactions.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She curtsied again, turning to the prisoner while keeping her face neutral. She knew better than to express any distaste for her work. Alethea only had one thing to offer her mother: her gift.

Her power came quickly now, though still imperfectly controlled. She closed her eyes and drew deeply from that shallow well of magic.

“This man is Goran Arranil,” she spoke, white filling her eyes. “He stands accused of treason against Queen Zenobia Onasis. These accusations are true.”

Sometimes, the words she spoke shocked her, like intrusive thoughts forcing their way past her lips.

Goran’s eyes widened again. Alethea pitied him for what was to come and hated herself for her role in it. Her stomach churned as she continued to pull from her well of magic. The truth weighed heavily on her—as it always did—each prophecy both a burden and a revelation. Through the connection she felt his fear, his desperation… and then something else, unbidden and strange. A reverence that didn't belong to her. She severed it quickly, before it could take root.

“Yes,” her mother added, almost dismissively, as if what shehad already done was no miracle at all. In a tone laced with indifference and impatience, she continued, “Tell me more.”

Alethea responded quickly. “Yes, Your Majesty.” She drew in another deep breath and dug deeper, but she struggled to find the next words. Sometimes, she had to force her way into answers by attempting to say the wrong things, knowing the curse would stop her before an untruth could pass her lips. She fought to say Goran had plotted to assassinate the queen, but the words wouldn’t come. Her head ached as she pushed further.