Chapter 5 #3
Alethea struggled for something to say. “I’m so sorry,” was all she could manage, her palms sweating. She saw Ker slip an arm around Emi. Dawes and Balthasar were silent, the air around them stilted.
“It’s all right,” Emi promised, and Alethea almost believed her. “It was a long time ago. Nakir was the one who saw me through it.”
Something shifted uncomfortably in Alethea’s chest at that—something she had no business feeling, and promptly ignored.
“I wasn’t sure what to do with myself when I graduated, so I came back home and tried to find some...
purpose. Eventually, my parents got sick of me hanging around.
Turns out lightning isn’t helpful in a garden.
” Her joke brought some levity back to the table, and Alethea let go a long breath.
“Goran approached me and asked if I’d help him and Kerrigan recruit and train mages.
I’ve been here ever since. Five years? Six, maybe? ”
Dawes let out a chuckle as he added, “She also moonlights as Nakir’s conscience.”
Balthasar smirked behind his tea.
“Someone has to keep you all in line,” Emi quipped, and Alethea was relieved to see a genuine smile on her lips. “Honestly. I stay behind for one mission and you kidnap a princess.”
Dawes threw his hands up defensively. “I had nothing to do with that one.”
Alethea blushed. “What do you all... do here?” she asked.
“I’m in charge of a few of the units,” Dawes said, running a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard, but Emi whacked him on the shoulder.
“You are not in charge of a few units,” she reprimanded. “He’s our General at Arms. And a great one at that.”
Dawes’s smile at Emi’s praise was genuine, if a bit flustered by the pride in her voice.
He chuckled as he continued. “Spent a few decades in the Imperial Forces, but I grew up on a farm outside Sardes. And as of right now, we’re yet untested in the field.
” He patted his bag. “We’ll see how morbid these reports start to get after we’ve actually faced battle. ”
Alethea’s stomach knotted at the idea of the people around her fighting for their lives—fighting for a crown.
Ker grinned, and Alethea swore she saw fire in the girl’s eyes. “I help Emi train the mages for combat. I also run the forge when I have a moment of spare time. So if you need a blade, Princess, just come find me.”
Alethea’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. “I would more than likely find myself on the receiving end of it before I put it to any use.”
Kerrigan raised her mug of ale. “Bah! Everyone should learn how to defend themselves. Even princesses.”
She had a point, but the idea of using a weapon on another had Alethea’s stomach turning uncomfortably.
“There are other uses for a blade than life and death—but if it comes to that, might as well have a good one.” Kerrigan laughed.
Alethea had never grown accustomed to the violence of the world.
Every execution, every assassination, every weapon drawn had always haunted the corners of her thoughts.
The brutality of battle felt foreign and terrifying.
Her heart, burdened with empathy, resisted the notion of causing harm, even in the name of self-defense.
As she looked at Kerrigan, the skilled warrior with her unyielding conviction, Alethea couldn’t help but feel a pang of inadequacy.
In a world that demanded strength and steel, she found herself perpetually adrift.
“The violence of war is not for everyone.” Balthasar spoke up. “Not everyone in this camp wields weapons of steel.”
Ker grinned, leaning forward, toward her friend. “And how many knives do you have on you, spymaster? Seven? Ten?”
Dawes chuckled, but Alethea glanced up at Balthasar with wonder and curiosity.
“You’ll never know,” he shot back with a sly smirk.
But something Kerrigan had said stuck with her. “You’re the spymaster?” she asked in a reverent whisper.
Balthasar met her gaze. “Is that so hard to believe, Your Highness?”
Alethea thought about the way the man moved so silently, so quickly. She’d imagined spies to be small and inconspicuous, and Balthasar was anything but.
“There’s nowhere Bal can’t get into,” Dawes boasted.
Magic swelled under her tongue as she spoke the words: “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
Bal’s smile widened for a moment before a more somber expression appeared.
“Yes, Your Highness. We have. I’m not surprised you didn’t remember.
You were unwell.” He placed a hand atop hers.
Her thoughts shifted as if directed by some external force as she recalled the guard who’d carried her from the dungeons to her tower after interrogating Goran Arranil, and her eyes widened in astonishment.
“That was you?”
“If I had a gold piece for every time I’d heard those words spoken about Balthasar Corvinus, I’d be able to retire from this life of treasonous rebellion as a wealthy man,” Dawes declared, prying her from her moment of wonder and shock.
“I’m what’s commonly known as an Empath,” Bal admitted.
Empaths were rare mages who could read and even alter the emotions of those around them.
Alethea imagined how the ability would allow Balthasar to go unnoticed, despite his appearance, if he could easily soothe and redirect feelings of suspicion or concern—though it didn’t account for the masterfully silent way he was able to move about the world.
But if Bal was actually the guard who’d carried her to her towers, then he would have seen her with Goran and could have potentially pieced together what her mother had used her for. Did he know she was an Oracle? What else had his time in the castle revealed to him?
Fear clawed at her chest, her breath held hostage in her lungs at the thought of what her mother would do if she knew Alethea’s secret was out.
She’d already spilled the truth to Nakir—no doubt he’d briefed the others.
Where would this end? And would they suffer as the others had at the Crimson Queen’s hand?
“It’s all right,” Balthasar said, his voice a balm for her growing fears. As quickly as the anxiety came, it faded.
It took too long for her to realize Balthasar had taken those feelings away, and she immediately wished for them back. Those terrible sensations in her body reminded her of who she was and how she deserved to feel after what she’d done.
“Don’t!” she hissed abruptly, pushing back from him. She tried not to notice the way they all watched her then, like some specimen in a jar.
“My apologies,” Balthasar offered quickly, and his influence on her emotions faded. “You’re right—I should have asked.” He inclined his head toward her. “Your feelings are understandable, but your secrets are safe here.”
She peered around the table at the four strangers, each of them reflecting the same thought.
Suspicion, as they had every right to feel.
But the pity was too much for her to handle.
What a poor princess, used as a weapon for her mother’s machinations while she wears the kingdom’s finest gems. She was certain each of the members of Nakir’s so-called Dark Court had a sad story, a haunted past. Here they all were, actually doing something about it instead of sitting in a tower waiting to be rescued.
Alethea swallowed hard and nodded in response as the warring thoughts churned inside of her. Joining them was the thought of betraying her mother, but standing by and refusing to correct injustices? That would be betraying herself.