Talasyn stared at the dragons. They were too big for her senses to encompass but she drank in the sight of them, anyway.
It had struck her as odd that the Zahiya-lachis’s flagship didn’t have an armed escort. Even if the W’taida possessed weaponry hidden somewhere in its black-and-gold facade, amidst its copper struts, surely a handful of coracles wouldn’t have gone amiss, given that the head of state was about to deal with an unpredictable element in the form of desperate, battle-hardened outsiders.
But who needed coracles, who needed cannons, when they had these? The two dragons positioned themselves on either side of the floating castle and hung aloft on the wind, flapping their mighty wings. They eyed the carrack warily, ready to spring to action at a moment’s notice, at the first sign of threat.
They probably breathed fire as well. There was no reason to presume otherwise, now that the age-old rumors of their existence had ended up being true. Those who’d posited that a dragon could bring down a stormship had been correct. Those gargantuan claws alone looked perfectly capable of tearing through metalglass in one swipe.
Talasyn was struck by the overwhelming urge to—to cry. To scream. To rage at the heavens. The creatures were terrible and beautiful, and what was left of the Sardovian Allfold beheld them far too late. She thought about how many lives would have been spared if the Dominion had agreed to help in the fight against the Night Empire. The stormship fleet wouldn’t have been Gaheris’s trump card for long. The Hurricane Wars would have ended before the cities in the Heartland were razed to the ground. Darius would never have become a traitor, Sol and Blademaster Kasdar would still be alive, and Khaede wouldn’t be missing in action.
But all it took was one glance at Vela’s expression for Talasyn to pull herself together. The Amirante looked stricken, as though her thoughts were running in a similar vein. Not wanting to add to the burden, Talasyn schooled her features into something blanker and more restrained and, after a while, so did Vela.
The aetherwave crackled to life. The brisk voice on the other end ordered the Summerwind to halt and informed them that they could now send a small boarding party “at their earliest convenience,” whatever that meant.
“I think they’re implying that they’ll have those big damn worms eat us if we don’t get a move on,” Bieshimma grumped.
Bieshimma could not, of course, join the boarding party, given what he’d done the last time he’d been in Nenavar. After some discussion, Vela decided that a group of two people was as small and as non-threatening as it could get, and she and Talasyn headed for the grid that contained the carrack’s skiffs—tiny flat-bottomed vessels that were frequently used as shuttles or escape pods.
The crowd of soldiers and refugees parted for them deferentially, but Talasyn was all too aware of their mutterings of unease and their lost, questioning gazes. She couldn’t blame them; they were within range of the dragons, and one good blow from those scaled tails could probably break the Summerwind in half. All eyes were on her as she helped the Amirante into the skiff, fired up the aether hearts, and steered away from the carrack’s decks, toward the shimmering castle in the sky.
The dragons were huge from a distance. Up close, the sheer breadth of them made Talasyn feel about as significant as an ant. Their jewel-toned eyes tracked every movement of the skiff and its passengers, missing nothing. She didn’t breathe until she and the Amirante made it to the landing grid carved into the rock at the base of the castle—and, even then, she didn’t, couldn’t relax.
Elagbi was waiting for them at the threshold of the main entrance, accompanied by the same Lachis-dalo who’d been guarding him on the Belian range. Stock-still at first—nudged forward only by Vela—Talasyn approached the regal figure nervously, having no idea what the standard procedure was for greeting your estranged father on your second meeting. Should she hug him? Gods, she hoped not. Perhaps she was expected to curtsy, since he was a prince, but she was the heir to the throne, wasn’t she? Did she rank above him? Maybe he was the one supposed to curtsy—no, that was wrong, men didn’t—
Elagbi solved her dilemma by clasping her hands in his. “Talasyn,” he said warmly, the gentleness in his dark eyes somewhat at odds with his aristocratic demeanor. “Everything pales before the joy of seeing you once more. I regret that it has to be under such grievous circumstances.”
“I—I’m sorry about—about last time,” Talasyn stammered, inwardly cringing at how very undignified she sounded compared to him. “I had to get back right away—”
“No harm done,” said Elagbi. “We recovered the alindari that you commandeered without any trouble. And you were not the one who left a trail of injured Nenavarene soldiers in your wake.” His expression soured as he uttered this last part, and in that moment Talasyn felt a crystal-clear kinship with him. She was all too familiar with what it was like to have one’s day ruined by Alaric Ossinast.
Talasyn labored through the introductions. Vela inclined her head at the Dominion prince, and Talasyn belatedly noticed that she was standing tall even though the newly stitched wound that raked her from sternum to hip was surely still aching.
“Your Highness.” Vela’s usual flinty tone was somewhat more restrained. “We thank you for granting us an audience.”
Elagbi smiled and bowed, one leg drawn back across the ground, right hand pressed to his abdomen while the left swept out in an elegant flourish. “Amirante. It is my honor. I in turn thank you for taking my daughter in and treating her kindly all these years. Now, if you’ll please follow me . . .”
The Lachis-dalo swarmed around them as they filed into the castle. The winding hallways of the W’taida were every inch as opulent as its exterior suggested. The walls and floors were lined with gold-flecked marble in a muted bronze hue. The metalglass windows were paneled with dark ivory and offered panoramic views of the islands in their bed of turquoise waves, the dragons hovering watchfully above. Talasyn would have been hard-pressed to believe that she was on an airship, if not for the hum of aether hearts beneath her feet.
Elagbi and Vela engaged in quiet, somber conversation as they discussed what had happened, how Sardovia’s last bastions had fallen and why the survivors had set course for Nenavar. Talasyn was grateful that Vela had taken the reins. It felt as if there was no end to the castle and she didn’t think that she was ready to traverse its many long corridors while making small talk with the man she had only recently learned might be her father.
They came to a halt at a set of golden doors covered with intricate carvings. There were two guards stationed on either side and, while Elagbi spoke to them, Vela fell back to murmur to Talasyn, “If I may offer some counsel for our upcoming meeting with the Dragon Queen: it would be best if I do the talking. By which I mean to say—do not let your temper get the best of you. And don’t cuss.”
“I don’t cuss that much,” Talasyn retorted with no small amount of belligerence. “Why do we have to walk on eggshells, anyway?”
“Because, if the old stories are to be believed, it takes a certain kind of woman to hold on to power in the cutthroat nest of political intrigue that is Nenavarene society,” Vela replied. “Queen Urduja would be very much that kind of woman, given how long her house has reigned. We must proceed with care.”
The guards pushed open the doors, and Elagbi summarily ushered Vela and Talasyn into the presence of the Zahiya-lachis.
In contrast to the rest of the W’taida, where the dawn streamed in like rivers, the throne room’s floor-to-ceiling windows were shrouded by opaque drapes of rough navy silk—for privacy, Talasyn supposed. This would have made the large chamber impossibly dark if not for the presence of fire lamps, different from the ones of the Continent in that they gave off a pale and radiant light with a tinge of silver-blue, casting an ethereal gloss over the marble pillars and the celestial-patterned tapestries, over the unmoving silhouettes of the queen’s Lachis-dalo stationed at various ingress points, and over the dais at the end of the hall, upon which perched a stately white throne. The woman sitting on it was too far away for Talasyn to make out her features, but something about her posture called to mind the highly venomous adders that lurked in the grass of the Great Steppe. They would watch from atop gleaming coils when another life-form encroached on their territory and took their time deciding whether the intruder was worth the effort needed to strike.
“This place is normally bustling with courtiers,” Elagbi said as he led Vela and Talasyn deeper into the throne room. “However, due to the sensitive nature of this meeting, my mother and I thought it best to be discreet.”
“Seems to me they could’ve taken a smaller airship, then,” Talasyn mumbled to Vela.
“It’s a show of power,” Vela replied calmly, also keeping her voice low. “Of strength and grandeur. An intimidated opponent is much easier to negotiate with.”
Talasyn wondered at the Amirante’s use of the word opponent, but she couldn’t help agreeing that it was difficult not to feel cowed as they approached the dais and she got a closer look at the Dragon Queen.
Urduja of House Silim was old in the way that mountains were old—imposing and awe-inspiring, having transcended the ravages of time while other lesser entities had been destroyed. Her snow-white hair was gathered into a tight bun by chains of star-shaped crystals that trailed down to decorate her high forehead, underneath a crown that looked as if it had been carved from ice, twisting gracefully up toward the star-studded ceiling like many-pronged antlers. The tips of her long lashes were spiked with tiny fragments of diamonds that glittered over eyes the color of jet, and her lips were painted a shade of blue that was almost black, striking against her olive skin. She wore a long-sleeved dress of currant-red silk shot through with silver thread, its wide shoulders and the flared hem of its hourglass skirt embellished with a multitude of iridescent dragon scales and fiery agate beads. The column of her throat was encased in layers of fine silver bands flecked with rubies, and the fingernails of one hand, adorned with gem-encrusted silver cones as sharp as daggers, tapped idly on the armrest of the throne as she waited for the group to break their silence.
Elagbi cleared his throat. “Most Revered Zahiya—”
“Let us dispense with the formalities. My sycophants are not around to appreciate them.” Urduja spoke in flawless Sailor’s Common, her voice as cold as her crown. “Amirante Vela, after all these failed attempts on your part to rally the Dominion to your cause, I had hoped that you would get the message. Instead, you bring the Hurricane Wars to my borders.”
“It is a war that we can still win, Your Majesty,” Vela declared. “With your help.” At first glance she seemed every bit as confident as Urduja, holding her head up just as high, but Talasyn was close enough to notice the Amirante’s pallor and her clenched fists—no doubt from the strain of soldiering on through her injury.
The Zahiya-lachis arched one elegantly sculpted brow. “You are asking me to send my fleet into battle against the Night Empire on your behalf?”
“No,” said Vela, “I am asking you for sanctuary. I am asking you to open your borders to my fleet and allow us to shelter here while we regroup our forces once more.”
“Then I would be harboring Kesath’s most despised enemies,” Urduja drawled. “Gaheris has not yet turned his eye to Nenavar, but I highly doubt that he would be willing to let this lie.”
“He doesn’t have to find out—and, even if he does, what can he do?” Vela argued. “This archipelago cannot be breached by warships en masse, not with your dragons.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Outsiders are very unpredictable.” A trace of anger finally leached into Urduja’s frigid tone. “That general of yours—Bieshimma, if I recall—did a perfectly good job of trespassing not too long ago.”
“So did I,” Talasyn blurted out.
Everyone turned to look at her, but she only had eyes for Urduja, who stared down from the dais with a carefully blank expression. Talasyn’s common sense was screaming at her to be quiet and let Vela handle things, but she was tense and anxious from recent events, desperate to help her comrades who were scattered throughout Lir trying to evade Kesath’s wide nets. She had to do something.
“I trespassed, too,” she continued, willing her voice not to crack. “That’s how your son found me.” Was she talking too loudly? She couldn’t accurately gauge her volume over the adrenaline pounding in her ears. “If Prince Elagbi is right, that means that I’m your granddaughter. That means I can ask you to at least hear us out.”
Urduja studied her for several long moments. There was something in the Dragon Queen’s eyes that Talasyn didn’t like—a certain shrewdness, a certain glint of triumph that made her feel as though she’d walked into some sort of trap. Vela reached out and gripped her arm, a gesture that elicited a lump in Talasyn’s throat from how protective it was, even though she didn’t understand the reason behind it.
“You’re right, she does look like your dead wife,” Urduja said to Elagbi after a while. “More than that, I recognize the backbone. Perhaps it is Hanan’s, perhaps it is even mine. I believe that she is Alunsina Ivralis. But, tell me”—she cocked her head—“why should I listen to the daughter of the woman who instigated the Nenavarene civil war?”
The blood froze in Talasyn’s veins. Her stomach hollowed out. At first, she thought that she’d misheard, but the seconds continued to tick by and the Zahiya-lachis continued to wait for her answer. Silent and deadly. The serpent about to strike.
Talasyn remembered asking Elagbi how the civil war had started, how he hadn’t been able to respond before the alarm for Alaric’s escape went up. She looked at the man who was her father, and he had turned pale; she looked at Vela, and the Amirante had retracted her hand from Talasyn’s arm, clenching it into a fist even though she remained stone-faced upon being confronted with this unexpected information.
“Well.” Urduja’s cold drawl was initially addressed to Elagbi. “I see that you haven’t told her everything.” To Talasyn she said, “Not only did your mother, Hanan, cause turmoil by refusing to be proclaimed my Lachis’ka after this son of mine brought her here and married her, but she also went behind my back to send a flotilla to the Northwest Continent, to help Sunstead in their conflict with Kesath. The sole reason being that the people of Sunstead were Lightweavers like her. Not a single outrigger from that flotilla made it back home, thanks to Kesath’s stormship. My other son”—and here her nostrils flared with a trace of anger—“used that catastrophe to further his own ends. He blamed me for it, he said that I was weak, and he led hundreds of islands in a bid to oust me from the throne so that he could take it for himself. Half a year of bloodshed that pushed a millennia-old civilization to the brink of ruin, and it can all be traced back to the outsider, Hanan Ivralis. You are of my blood, true, but you are of her blood as well. How can I trust you, Lightweaver?”
Urduja spat the name as though it was a curse. Talasyn was stunned, unable to come up with a way to salvage the situation, her thoughts somehow racing while at the same time contained in sluggish patterns.
“Harlikaan.” Elagbi squared his shoulders, his dark gaze entreating as it fixed on the Zahiya-lachis. “You know as well as I do that my wife was manipulated by your enemies. It wasn’t her fault. Even if it were, Talasyn wouldn’t be similarly responsible. She grew up in an orphanage, far away from the bones of her ancestors. She is a victim of these circumstances, not the one who should be blamed for them.”
Urduja still didn’t look convinced. Granted, she didn’t look much of anything at all, her pristine features giving very little away, but Talasyn was at her wits’ end. If Nenavar didn’t agree to harbor the Sardovians, it was over. They didn’t have enough supplies to continue sailing the skies above the Eversea until they reached other nations that might not even welcome them at all. Not to mention the fact that every minute spent over open water was another minute that they risked discovery by Kesathese patrols.
A decade of sacrifice—of blood and sweat and heroes and loss—couldn’t come to such a floundering end. Talasyn would do anything.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” she blurted out. “I can’t apologize for something that happened when I was only a year old, but if you agree to grant us sanctuary you won’t be getting any trouble from me. I swear.”
She held her breath. And waited.
Urduja’s dark lips curved into a smirk. “Fine. I’ve made my decision. There is a cluster of uninhabited islands in the westernmost reaches of my territory. We call it Sigwad, the Storm God’s Eye. It is located in the middle of a narrow strait that none may enter without my permission, as the waters are turbulent and the winds are always rough—and it is the site of Nenavar’s Tempest Sever, which activates frequently. Those islands will provide sufficient refuge for the Sardovian fleet, I believe.” For a brief moment, she seemed amused by the bewildered silence that followed her announcement. Then she addressed her next words to Vela. “To clarify, the Tempestroad steers clear of the island group, but it does wrap around it, filling the rest of the strait. The way to the Storm God’s Eye is dangerous, yes, but it’s very remote while still under my jurisdiction, and no one will bother you there. That makes it the best option for your purposes. Therefore, Nenavar’s borders will be open to Sardovia for a fortnight, during which you may evacuate your troops into the strait. My patrols will be instructed to look the other way, but I do not guarantee my protection should you give them any cause for complaint. Any airship or stormship—” she sneered around the word—“that attempts to enter the Dominion after the allotted time will be shot down on sight. But the Allfold may shelter here until they are ready to take back the Northwest Continent.”
Talasyn could not feel relief. Not yet. There was a frenetic current in the air—as well as a stiffening in Vela’s posture—that told her that there was a catch.
And, indeed, it wasn’t long before the Dragon Queen added, “In exchange, Alunsina will, of course, stay in the capital. Where she will assume her role as Lachis’ka of the Nenavar Dominion.”
In the privacy of his suite on board the Deliverance, the largest of Kesath’s stormships and his father’s primary mode of conveyance in both war and affairs of state, Alaric removed the obsidian wolf’s-snarl mask that covered the lower half of his face, placing it on a nearby table.
He’d just come back from scouting to the west of the Eversea, having found no trace of the Sardovian remnant. Not even wreckage. Gaheris was in a relatively pleasant mood, still exulting in his decisive victory, but that wasn’t going to last when he once again remembered that his son had let the Lightweaver escape.
Alaric was to blame, honestly. He’d allowed her to slip from his grasp, for reasons that were still unclear to him after long hours of combing through his memories of their encounter during the siege of Lasthaven. Something had made him walk away, something that he had no name for—and, shortly before that, something had made him propose that she come with him.
He cringed every time he recalled that part in his mind.
Gaheris had professed some curiosity about the Lightweave and the Shadowgate combining, but in the end he had decreed that Shadowforged needed nothing from Lightweavers. So why, in the name of the gods, had Alaric put forward such a suggestion to the girl who was his greatest enemy?
And why couldn’t he stop thinking about her now?
Perhaps he felt sorry for her. Everything she’d ever known was dust.
Alaric strode over to the windows and peered out, through layers of metalglass, at the twisted remains of several Heartland cities several miles below. The death toll for the capital alone numbered in the hundreds of thousands. It was a scale of destruction the like of which had not been seen since Kesath annexed the Hinterland, the same event that had led to Ideth Vela’s defection and begun the Hurricane Wars.
But it was well and truly over. The Night Empire had triumphed. The Shadow had fallen over the Continent, as it had always been meant to.
Alaric gazed down upon the wasteland, with its leveled buildings and its sea of corpses, and he wondered if it had been worth the cost. A stray thought and nothing more, but it lingered, right up until the aetherwave transceiver in his suite crackled to life and he was informed by one of the Legion that his father wished to see him.
While Ideth Vela’s sternness was a thing of legend, Talasyn had rarely seen her truly vexed. The woman who had received news of Coxswain Darius’s betrayal practically without batting an eye was now pacing the length of the small anteroom where Urduja had agreed to let her and Talasyn have a few minutes alone to discuss the proposal.
“Did you see how quickly she came up with those terms?” Vela demanded. “She planned this from the very beginning, before we even set foot on this ship.”
“It was rather fast, Amirante,” Talasyn cautiously agreed.
“This means that her reign is in jeopardy,” Vela muttered. “She needs to secure the line of succession. The other noble houses are surely vying to replace a queen with no heir. Urduja’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep her throne.”
You’d better have a good reason for summoning me from the capital in the midst of the succession debate, Talasyn once again remembered Elagbi saying to Rapat. Had the Zahiya-lachis been besieged even then? Perhaps even since Sintan’s rebellion was vanquished and the ship bearing Alunsina Ivralis never returned . . .
Vela rounded on Elagbi with startling alacrity as soon as the Nenavarene prince joined them in the anteroom. “You,” she thundered, seeming not in the least bit cowed by his royal rank. “Did you know about this? Did you know what the Dragon Queen had in store for us?”
Elagbi held up his hands in pleading, in promise, his eyes fixed on Talasyn. “I swear to you, I did not.”
The Amirante’s rage would not be quelled. “We came here in good faith,” she retorted bitterly. “Not so that your daughter could be coerced into your nest of vipers.”
“No one is coercing her,” said Elagbi, pale-faced and looking as miserable as it was possible for a prince to look. “You have the Zahiya-lachis’s word that you will be free to go should you decide not to take the deal.”
“And then what, Your Highness?” Vela snapped. “Let the Night Empire weed us out like rats as the months pass? Let Talasyn be burdened by the knowledge that she could have prevented it? This is coercion, whether or not you dress it up with pretty words.”
A slow, anxious horror was dawning on Talasyn at the prospect of being separated from her comrades and thrust into some bizarre new world. She wanted nothing more than to rage at the unfairness of it all and at the uncertainty of the time to come, and maybe even burst into tears at the fierceness with which Vela was fighting for her. But she’d decided back in the throne room that she needed to do something and this was something. This was the only thing. She had to be strong.
“I’ve made my choice,” she announced. She stared only at Elagbi, because the sight of Vela’s face might shatter her resolve. “I’ll do it. I will be the Lachis’ka.”
Gaheris kept a utilitarian office on the Deliverance. It was not a large room, as most space on the stormship had been allotted to its vast array of aether hearts. It was constantly plunged in shadow, the only sources of illumination a few weak slivers of afternoon sun filtering in through the gaps in the window drapes, well out of reach of the seated figure in the middle of the room—until a withered, skeletal hand was extended into the grayish light, beckoning Alaric closer.
Alaric had long suspected that light hurt his father’s eyes and the perennial gloom that he draped himself in was to hide his current state. Though Gaheris was only fifty years of age, he looked easily twice that number. He had accomplished great feats of shadow magic during the Cataclysm and he had, in the years that followed, spent most of his time experimenting with aetherspace, pushing his body to the limit. It had taken a physical toll, although his magical prowess was now beyond measure.
Alaric had been seven when the war between Kesath and Sunstead broke out. He’d witnessed his father’s gradual deterioration, often wondering if it was a glimpse into his own future. For all of Gaheris’s assurances that knowledge was worth the cost, he had yet to teach Alaric his more taxing secrets—the Master of the Shadowforged Legion was needed on the front lines.
“You have not yet found the Sardovian remnant.” It was a statement rather than a question. The voice was a hoarse rattle, burbling icily from a wizened throat. “You let the Lightweaver get away and now you cannot find her and the others. She could be on the other side of the world by now—and, with her, Ideth Vela. The realm is not secure as long as Vela draws breath and as long as there is a Lightweaver for people to rally around. A match to strike against the darkness.”
Alaric bowed his head. “I apologize, Father. We have searched extensively, but if you will clear us to sail southeast—”
“No. Not yet. We are not yet prepared to tangle with the Nenavar Dominion. They might be on high alert, as they have every right to be after what you did.”
Alaric held his peace. Silence was a pitiful defense, but it was the best recourse available to him at the moment.
“It is not yet the time. I have plans for the southeast,” Gaheris continued. “Plans that I shudder to leave in your less-than-capable hands, but who knows—perhaps the added responsibility will do you good.”
Alaric stilled.
“Now the real work begins. I pray that you will not disappoint me,” his father intoned. “Are you ready, Emperor?”
Alaric nodded. He felt strangely hollow. “Yes.”
