Emerging from the depths of the Deliverance the next day, the Kesathese shallop drifted past the Nenavarene harbor, lugsails on its twin masts rippling black and silver in a breeze too warm for Alaric’s liking. It was surrounded by a formation of ghostly Dominion coracles steered by helmsmen who were not only guiding the outsiders to the capital city but also watching their every move like hawks.
Alaric entertained the possibility that this was a trap, that he and his retinue would be slaughtered upon landing at the Roof of Heaven. It was an unlikely prospect, but he found himself almost wishing for it. A swift, violent death seemed preferable to marrying a stranger, some coldly beautiful, viperous Nenavarene woman.
As he stood at the bow of the shallop while it cruised further inland, a lush paradise unfolded miles below his feet, a maze of winding roads and rivers embedded in an expanse of green jungle. He scarcely had eyes for any of it, however, because for some reason his thoughts had strayed to Talasyn.
As the months had worn on without any sign of her, the notion that she might be dead had begun to creep up on him. It bothered him more than he cared to admit that their paths might never cross again, that he might never again see her teeth clenched in a snarl and the wiry muscles of her arms straining with every pulse of the radiance that she spun from her fingers. Granted, if she were still alive, that would only be prolonging the inevitable, but . . .
But the last that Alaric had glimpsed of Talasyn was her unkempt braid tossing in the wind as he turned and walked away from her amidst a tangle of smoke and ruins. And that felt wrong, somehow. Unceremonious, and far too abrupt.
He wondered, without really meaning to, what she would think if she ever heard about his impending marriage. He wondered this while feeling a vague, dull ache that he didn’t understand.
Talasyn looked up as the door to her chambers swung open, puzzled that it was Elagbi who entered instead of Jie, who was supposed to prepare her for the initial meeting with the Kesathese delegation.
“What are you doing here?” Her tone was a little too sharp, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
“I wanted to apologize.” There were bags under her father’s eyes. “I know that you are resentful because I didn’t speak up as emphatically as I should have.”
“The Dragon Queen’s word is law,” Talasyn muttered. “No one in the Dominion defies her.”
“That’s no excuse. You are my daughter and I should have fought for you, right then and there,” Elagbi said gravely. “I have since attempted to sway her from this course. Her mind is set, but I was able to persuade her to let you attend the marriage negotiations.”
Talasyn cocked her head. “How did you manage that?”
Elagbi flashed her a tired, solemn smile. “A great deal of appealing to Her Starlit Majesty’s compassionate nature . . .” At this, Talasyn snorted. “. . . as well as reminding her that the Night Empire needs to be made aware that the Lachis’ka has power of her own. And, also, by promising her that I’ll stop you from punching Ossinast the moment you see him. I’m not as young as I once was, though, so I might move a touch too slowly.”
The corner of Talasyn’s lips twitched in a reluctant smirk. She was far from mollified, but at least her anger had been redirected to those more deserving. The negotiations were supposed to be conducted between the two heads of state and their trusted advisers. This concession that Elagbi had managed to wrangle had been hard-won.
“One more thing,” said the Dominion prince. “The mood at court is currently divided. There are those who see this union as a lucrative deal, and there are those who see it as a betrayal of everything that the Dominion stands for. Kai Gitab, the Rajan of Katau, belongs firmly in the latter group, but your grandmother has assigned him to the negotiation panel.”
Talasyn blinked. “Why?”
“To mollify the opposition. Queen Urduja felt that it would be wise to ensure that all interests are represented, especially since she has assigned Lueve Rasmey of Cenderwas the role of chief negotiator. Daya Rasmey is one of Urduja’s closest allies, so the addition of Gitab balances things out. He has earned a name for himself as incorruptible and devoted to his ideals. With him on the panel, no one can accuse the Zahiya-lachis of selling out Nenavar. And with you reining in your distaste for the situation, more of the court will follow your lead.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Talasyn muttered. “They’ve known me only a few months.”
“That is immaterial,” said Elagbi. “You are She Who Will Come After. There is no shortage of nobles striving to prove themselves indispensable to your future reign. However, since Gitab is on the negotiation panel, I advise you to tread with care.” He sighed. “At least Surakwel is off gallivanting elsewhere, or we’d have an even bigger problem on our hands.”
“Who’s Surakwel?” Talasyn asked.
“A damnable headache,” Elagbi replied with a trace of humor. “His young lordship Surakwel Mantes is Daya Rasmey’s nephew. He is one of the main critics of Nenavarene isolationism, believing that the way forward is for us to integrate with the rest of Lir. Around three years ago, he and a few other nobles began lobbying the Dominion to join forces with Sardovia against the Night Empire. If anyone is going to be vigorous in their objection to this betrothal, more so than Gitab, it’s Surakwel.”
“I like him already,” Talasyn said. “What did you mean by off gallivanting? Where is he?”
“No one knows. Bit of a wanderer, that boy. He spends most of his time away from Nenavar, getting all sorts of foolish outsider notions into his head.”
“You were a wanderer in your younger years, too, Amya,” Talasyn chided. “And you married an outsider.”
Her father flushed with pleasure as he always did when she called him the Nenavarene word for father. It was the joy of lost time found again. “That I was, and that I did.”
Elagbi left when Jie arrived, gingerly carrying the Lachis’ka’s crown perched atop its velvet cushion. Talasyn stared at the object as she felt Jie’s apprehensive gaze dart over her form. She’d never made an effort to conceal how much she hated being prissied up, and it always took a lot of gentle cajoling to get her to cooperate. Today, however, was a different story.
An intimidated opponent is much easier to negotiate with, Vela had said four months ago on Queen Urduja’s flagship. While Alaric was in possession of superior ordnance, it was Talasyn who had the element of surprise on her side. He didn’t know that she was Alunsina Ivralis. And Elagbi was right—the Lachis’ka did have power of her own, and she could submit to this farce of a marriage on her terms.
But she needed to look the part.
Taking a deep breath, Talasyn undid the frayed band that was holding her hair in the simple braid that she preferred, letting the whole chestnut-colored mess tumble down her shoulders. “All right,” she said to Jie, “do your worst.”
A congregation of Dominion nobles received Alaric at the front steps of the Roof of Heaven. They were led by a tall copper-skinned man who regarded him with stern jet-black eyes.
“Emperor Alaric.”
This appeared to be the signal for the other nobles to sink, as one, into the briefest and most perfunctory of curtsies and stiff bows.
Alaric nodded, surmising the man’s identity from his dragon-shaped circlet. “Prince Elagbi. Well met.”
“It is good of you to think so,” Elagbi replied with dripping sarcasm, and Alaric bit his tongue to avoid snapping, I don’t want to marry your daughter, either. Fine diplomacy it would be if he and the Dominion prince came to blows.
As Elagbi led the way, his guards immediately closed in, covering all avenues of escape with martial precision—all women, whose imposing frames and alarmingly heavy-looking armor made Alaric wish that he’d brought more soldiers of his own. He had his legionnaire Sevraim and the shallop’s crew for protection, and the latter group wouldn’t even be accompanying him inside. Kesathese High Command had clamored for a display of strength, but Alaric had pointed out that an overabundance of warriors at what was ostensibly a peacemaking overture would have made the other side more defensive than they already were. Besides, Nenavar was well aware that the wolf at the door had fangs—or dragonslaying magic, to be more accurate.
Alaric had brought Mathire with him, too. She wasn’t the most politically adept of his officers, but he’d banked on a woman in a position of authority making the matriarchal Dominion more well disposed toward them. Of course, that was before Mathire had given the order for her ship to fire on the dragon. Gods, he hoped the thing wasn’t dead.
Nevertheless, the small retinue was a show of good faith, as was Alaric’s agreeing to the negotiations being held on Nenavarene soil and the lack of the mask that he normally donned in situations wherein there was a high chance of a battle breaking out before he’d even stepped foot in the palace.
And it was a magnificent palace. Of that, there could be no doubt. Shining in the morning light, its facade of pristine white marble gave the illusion that the limestone cliffs on which it rested were laden with fresh snow in the heart of a verdant rainforest. It possessed an array of stained-glass windows, slender towers, and golden domes. The ornate arch over the main entrance was gold as well, and as they passed beneath it, Alaric heard Sevraim curse under his breath, a sound that was in sync with the disquieting sensation of the Shadowgate being cut off. The cages that Alaric now knew contained living creatures within were hung up along the hallway at regular intervals, the bulky, opaque cylinders incongruous with the paintings, carvings, and tapestries that adorned the shimmering white walls.
“Kindly excuse us for taking such precautions, Your Majesty,” Elagbi said in much the same tone as the one with which he’d greeted Alaric while nodding to the cages. “Our people do not trust the Shadowgate, especially when it is wielded in the proximity of the Zahiya-lachis.”
“I don’t mind at all, Prince Elagbi,” said Alaric, affecting nonchalance. “I am only sorry that these cages clash with your lovely decor.”
“I pray that you won’t attempt to rectify the situation by smashing any of them and letting the sariman loose.”
Alaric was probably not going to hear the end of that for a while, but at least he’d now learned that the jewel-toned birds that possessed the ability to nullify magic were called sarimans. “As long as your hospitality is not revoked, there will be no need for me to cause any trouble,” he told Elagbi curtly.
Walking quietly beside him, Commodore Mathire shot Alaric a look of thinly veiled amusement. She had known him ever since he was young, and he’d always gotten the impression that she found him entertaining. That annoyed him a little. He was the Night Emperor, not some silly child.
The Dragon Queen’s throne hall was deeply ostentatious. Alaric was used to Kesath’s streamlined architecture and the practical interiors of the stormships, which emphasized functionality over aesthetic. He nearly stopped in his tracks upon crossing the threshold into a vast chamber, its walls paneled with gold leaf and draperies of crimson silk, its polished marble floors strewn with cream-and-burgundy carpets that sported intricate constellations of seed pearls and sapphires. The high-vaulted ceiling was adorned with bas-relief carvings of birds and lilies and dragons chasing one another through rollicking ocean waves. It would have emptied out the Night Empire’s treasury to decorate and maintain this space. And the people—
The people fell deathly silent when Alaric’s group entered. He’d never seen such a gathering in all his life, every single individual bedecked in luxurious fabrics and riotously colorful feathers, dripping with glittering gems from head to toe.
Neither had he ever been the recipient of such a concentrated mass of wary glares.
“We’re not welcome here, Your Majesty,” Sevraim murmured from behind his helm. “They still see us as invaders. I would advise you to tread with caution.”
“Don’t I always?” Alaric retorted out of the corner of his mouth. “Despite your attempts to influence me to the contrary?”
Sevraim chuckled. He was strolling, utterly relaxed, the dark eyes behind his obsidian visor alighting on the Nenavarene ladies on the sidelines with interest. If he hadn’t been wearing his helm, he would have been winking at them and raking a hand through his hair, Alaric was fairly certain of that.
He should have brought the twins instead.
At the end of the hall was an enormous platform consisting of bands of white, red, and gray marble that loomed over the courtiers in the same manner that the limestone cliffs of the Roof of Heaven loomed over the capital. There were three thrones perched atop the steps; the one on the left was empty, obviously Elagbi’s, while the one on the right was occupied by a feminine figure draped in blue and gold but otherwise obscured by a translucent wood-framed screen held by two attendants. Alaric wasn’t ready to scrutinize his future bride too closely just yet, so he focused all of his attention on the woman seated in the middle.
Urduja Silim. The Zahiya-lachis of the Nenavar Dominion, with a twisted crown and white-powdered face and jet-black gaze like winter steel. Her throne eclipsed the two others in both opulence and breadth, a construct of pure gold with clawed feet and stylized wings sprouting from the backrest that spread halfway up to the ceiling, unfurled like a dragon’s in midflight and sprinkled all over with jade, opals, rubies, diamonds, and gems that Alaric couldn’t even name.
“That chair alone could commission a fleet of ironclads,” he heard Sevraim remark to Mathire as they approached the platform, which also had a sariman cage mounted at each end.
Elagbi ascended the steps and took his place at his mother’s side while the rest of the welcoming committee melted into the watchful crowd. Alaric straightened his spine, taking care not to let his shoulders droop into their instinctive slight hunch, and Mathire clicked her heels and saluted Queen Urduja. Alaric felt Sevraim come to a sharp halt beside him as Urduja’s royal guards fanned out to both circle the Kesathese delegation and barricade the platform.
“Emperor Alaric.” Urduja’s imperious tones rang throughout the hall. “I bid you welcome to my court. Before we commence with the negotiations, allow me to state for the record that I would like for us to listen to each other with open minds and strive to work together in ensuring a prosperous future for our two realms. It is my sincerest wish that your journey here will not be in vain, whether by your own doing or others.”
The pretty speech ended on a firm note, as if it had been a warning all along. A warning that seemed to very pointedly include their audience of nobles, who were watching the scene as if they had collectively stepped on something malodorous. Alaric could only imagine the uproar that must have taken place when Urduja announced her granddaughter’s betrothal to him.
There was movement at the corner of his eye, a flash of white-streaked reddish-brown hair—Mathire had broken her rigid stance to dart him an urgent look. Right. It was his turn to say something.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Queen Urduja, as well as for your wisdom in facilitating a mutually beneficial solution to this territorial dispute,” said Alaric. The Nenavarene needed to be reminded that this arrangement was their sovereign’s idea. “My people are tired of war and yours would rather not start one. We are therefore united by a common purpose, and I have every faith that we will manage to broker an enduring, fruitful peace.”
These weren’t empty words. Not for him. He had been on the front lines ever since he was sixteen years old. This alliance was his chance, too, to know what it was like to live without the hurricanes.
Urduja graciously inclined her head. “Then, if it pleases His Majesty, you may approach the throne and meet our Lachis’ka.”
Alaric felt as though his legs were made of lead as he ascended the marble steps that seemed to go on forever, an entire hall fixated on his every movement. When he reached the top of the platform, he noticed that there was a cunning gleam in the Dragon Queen’s eyes that he didn’t like, a gleam that made his gut curl with foreboding. Before he could dwell on it, however, the figure on the rightmost throne stood up and emerged from behind the screen and swept toward him. His train of thought screeched to a halt.
Nenavarene women are the most beautiful in all the world, Gaheris had said, but beautiful couldn’t even begin to describe Alunsina Ivralis. She wore a dress of rich oceanic blue, the bodice gold-flecked and skintight, hanging from her bare left shoulder in an artful slash while her right shoulder was capped by an eagle-wing pauldron made entirely of gold, attached to a sleeve of what looked like golden chainmail encasing her slim arm. Her skirt was a voluminous, ballooning thing, studded with crystalline beadwork, the silk hem bunched up into swirling rosettes to reveal the yards of sheerer gold fabric that lay beneath, every inch painstakingly embroidered with the coiled dragon that was the insignia of the Nenavarene Royal House. Her crown of stars and saltires was made of gold, set with sapphires, and her eyes were dramatically rimmed with kohl, a smattering of gold dust at the edges—and there was something familiar about their tawny depths that Alaric couldn’t parse. In fact, there was something about her, in general, that tugged at him. He was too flustered by his physical reaction to immediately decipher what it was, but when he finally did, the breath caught in his throat.
She reminded him of Talasyn. Her stature, the color of her swept-back hair, even the way she moved. It was a cruel joke that he would now have to wed someone so similar to the girl who plagued his thoughts.
“Lachis’ka.” Alaric bowed his head, retreating into prescribed formalities the same way that he fell into combat forms by rote. “May this signal the beginning of an amicable relationship between our two realms and . . .”
He trailed off mid-sentence as he lifted his gaze back to her features. His brain was starting to catch up, starting to realize that—
—underneath the opulent silk and the lavish jewels—
—underneath the cosmetics that hid her freckles and sharpened her cheekbones and softened the strong line of her jaw—
—underneath all of that—she was—
“Amicable relationship?” Talasyn hissed, with narrowed eyes and a feral flash of teeth, and Alaric’s heart all but stopped beating in his chest. “Not fucking likely.”
