The mirror in Talasyn’s dressing room was a polished glass oval framed by carved hummingbirds and squash vines, inlaid with lustrous chips of mother-of-pearl. She sat in front of it, once again laced into a spectacle of a garment, this one sewn from banana-stem fiber that gave it a multichromatic sheen, her neck stiff from bearing the weight of yet another gaudy crown. Jie pored over her with a plethora of long-handled willow brushes, dipped into small golden pots of various powders in order to paint on a face that would befit the Nenavarene Lachis’ka at a formal event.
Like any other day, Talasyn suffered in silence while her lady-in-waiting worked a different kind of magic. Unlike any other day, the inside of her head was all fuzzy with thoughts of Alaric. Of his stupidly large body so close to hers, warm and unyielding. Of his palms engulfing her shoulders, of the ridged leather of his gauntlets gliding along her neck.
By the World-Father’s yellow fingernails, she’d shivered. She’d actually shivered at Alaric’s touch, goosebumps prickling her skin. He’d taken such liberties with her, and she—
She hadn’t hated it.
It had made the oddest sort of yearning bloom within her.
Never mind that he was the cruel Night Emperor, the brutal Master of the Shadowforged Legion. She had, for a few horrifying moments, stared at his mouth, her traitorous body singing as that mouth drew closer. She had leaned back against him and tipped up her chin. She had wanted to be warmed all over. To see where it led.
Sol had liked to hold Khaede that way, Talasyn remembered. He would sneak up behind Khaede and put his hands on her shoulders or around her waist, rasping out a greeting before pressing a mischievous kiss to her neck, in plain sight of everyone.
Whenever Talasyn had seen that—whenever she saw how grumpy old Khaede melted into Sol’s arms—she had always wondered what it would feel like, if it was her and someone who loved her.
And now Sol was dead and Khaede was gone and Talasyn was grasping at straws again, likening the affection the two had shared to that pale parody of it in the plumeria grove which had been nothing more than an unfortunate, inexplicable accident between her and the man she hated, and who hated her.
She felt sick to her stomach.
Alaric had been about to kiss her, hadn’t he? Granted, she could claim no personal experience regarding such things, but it had been heading there, hadn’t it? Why?
Why would he even attempt to kiss her? And why, despite knowing what he was and all that he had done, had she even wanted him to?
Hate is another kind of passion, Niamha Langsoune had said the day the Kesathese arrived. Perhaps it was that. An aberration, like accidentally tapping into a different frequency because aetherwave wires had crossed. It could never be anything more than that, and Talasyn resolved to put it out of her mind—maybe even stab Alaric if he attempted to bring it up.
“You know, Your Grace,” Jie chirped as she deftly ran a willow-stick, the tip coated in ground-up brown pigment, through Talasyn’s brows, “I was just thinking the other day that Emperor Alaric isn’t so terrible-looking for an outsider. In my opinion, as far as physical appearances go, you could have done far worse. I’m serious!” she exclaimed with a slight laugh as Talasyn sputtered. “He’s a bit on the broody side and somewhat frightening, dressed all in black like that, but he’s tall and he has beautiful hair. And his mouth, it’s very—”
“Y-you stop right there!” Talasyn nearly shrieked, her reflection scarlet in the hummingbird mirror.
She couldn’t tell whether Jie’s lack of resentment toward Alaric was simply the girl making the best of a bad situation or genuine disinterest in the threat that Kesath posed to her homeland. Talasyn suspected that it might be the latter. Jie had grown up in a castle with a host of servants attending to her every whim, secure in the knowledge that she would one day inherit the title of daya from her doting mother. She was sixteen years old, incredibly chatty, and seemed not to have a single care in the world.
Still, a command from the Lachis’ka was a command, and so Jie didn’t pursue the topic. However, her eyes sparkled with amusement as she dusted a pale shimmery powder over the bridge of Talasyn’s nose. “Is there courtship on the Northwest Continent, Your Grace? Here we give small tokens of our affection, send letters, hold hands under the promise jasmines when they’re in bloom, steal a kiss or two. The boys serenade us outside our windows as well. Is it similar elsewhere?”
“I wouldn’t know. I never had time for any of that.” It occurred to Talasyn that what Jie had said didn’t quite adhere to her own observations of Nenavarene culture. “I thought that most marriages among the Dominion aristocracy were arranged.”
“Yes, but there are those who wed for love,” said Jie. “Such as my cousin, Harjanti, the Daya of Sabtang. I hope to someday be as fortunate.” Her smile was soft and dreamy and unjaded, so far removed from Talasyn’s own experiences at that age, fighting a war an ocean away. “And for you, Lachis’ka, I hope that Emperor Alaric will romance you properly. Stolen kisses and all.”
Jie tittered, highly pleased with herself. Talasyn was spared from having to respond by the musical notes of wind chimes, as light and airy as birdsong. Jie excused herself to see who had sounded them.
When she returned to Talasyn, she announced. “Lachis’ka, Queen Urduja and Prince Elagbi are here to see you.”
Wonderful.
Talasyn struggled not to roll her eyes. She didn’t particularly want to talk to her grandmother and her father, but—she could. I am amenable, as Alaric had said in that prissy tone of his, and remembering that ensured that Talasyn was biting back a smile and shaking her head at his insufferable antics as she followed Jie into the solar.
It was her solar but, just like her bedchamber, it had been designed with the comfort of a refined aristocrat in mind. Lustrous rosewood had been fashioned into delicate chairs and scroll-legged tables. The white marble walls were covered in pastel-hued paintings of cherry blossoms and egrets and dancing figures with stars in their flowing hair, all accentuated with generous splashes of gold leaf. Artfully scattered throughout the airy space were bronze sculptures and elaborate woven baskets. In one corner, perched atop a dragon-shaped pedestal, was an enormous arched harp, gathering dust; the young Urduja Silim had reportedly played like a dream before assuming the mantle of leadership, but Talasyn had thought that the instrument was some kind of weapon when she first laid eyes on it.
Queen Urduja had made herself comfortable in one of the chairs, but Elagbi bounded up to Talasyn, beaming. “My dear, you look lovely—”
“Thank you,” Talasyn replied in a flat tone of voice. She didn’t return her father’s embrace, and his arms awkwardly fell away from her.
Urduja shot Jie an imperious look, waiting until the girl had scampered out of the solar before telling Talasyn, “Your father and I would like to clear the air regarding certain matters.”
Talasyn sat down. Elagbi did as well, his dark eyes bearing the wounded look of a pup that had been kicked one too many times, and Talasyn willed her resolve not to crumble. He had done her wrong and she wasn’t willing to let him forget it anytime soon.
Urduja cleared her throat lightly. “I understand that you are angry at us for withholding the information about the Voidfell. I would like to explain why—”
“I already know why,” Talasyn interrupted. She’d had plenty of opportunity to agonize over it. “You were afraid that the Amirante would change her mind about sheltering in Nenavar and I would have no impetus to stay and your reign would destabilize further because you had no heir.”
Urduja didn’t deny it. Incensed, Talasyn continued, “You said that you suspected the Night Empire would try to invade. But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? You knew that they would, because you’ve been around long enough to realize that it was inevitable. And you even welcomed it, because an alliance with the Shadowforged while you had a Lightweaver granddaughter was Nenavar’s way out of another Dead Season. You had that marriage offer ready to go—perhaps ever since it was reported to you that Ossinast and I had created a barrier that could cancel out the Belian garrison’s void bolts. When I suggested to Vela that we come here, I was playing right into your hands, wasn’t I?”
Urduja’s dark-tinted lips stretched into a smile. And the horrifying thing was that it was genuine. There was no warmth in it, that was true, but there was a certain pride. “Almost perfect, Lachis’ka. You fail to see the entirety of the bigger picture. In the future, consider every angle. That skill will serve you well when you are queen.”
“Harlikaan,” Elagbi pleaded, “Talasyn is hurting right now. We owe it to her to explain.”
“That’s precisely what I’m doing,” Urduja huffed. “Alunsina, I decided to leave it as late as possible—to let you and the Night Emperor find out together—for a very simple reason. Ossinast does not trust you. He probably never truly will, given your shared past. Had you known about the Night of the World-Eater before he did, had you been in on it when I sprung the new information on him, that would have made things even worse. But now he has reason to believe that you are guileless, to a certain extent. That I have not fully taken you into my confidence. That you are nothing at all like my conniving court.”
He does more than believe that, Talasyn thought numbly. Alaric had sympathized with her. He had given her his sincere perspective on the situation. “Why—” Her voice cracked. She tried again. “Why tell me at all, then?”
“I almost wasn’t going to. I deemed the risk too great,” said Urduja. “But your father”—she shot a long-suffering glance at Elagbi—“felt that, if we let this go on, it would cause damage to our relationship as a family that would prove impossible to repair.”
“And because it would be another lesson for me, right?” Talasyn muttered.
“You are learning,” said Urduja.
“I’m tired of being a pawn.” Where did it come from, this bluntness? Perhaps the memory of Alaric saying that her grandmother underestimated her. Perhaps even just that she was fed up. “I don’t want this to happen again. If I am to play my part in saving Nenavar and the Sardovian remnant, we have to work together.”
“You are dictating to me, Your Grace?” Urduja challenged.
“Not at all, Harlikaan,” Talasyn said evenly, holding the older woman’s gaze with a steel that she had never expected herself capable of. “I’m simply advising you on the best way forward. On how, as I see it, we can get out of this mess unscathed.”
When Urduja finally nodded, Talasyn was left with the impression of having just barely dodged what would have been a killing blow. She made a valiant attempt to prevent her relief from being too evident, although she was certain that the Zahiya-lachis’s jet-black eyes missed nothing. In the same vein, she fought back the wave of guilt that assailed her. She was doing what she needed to do. If Alaric took issue, he should have made different choices in life.
But it all came creeping up on her, like splinters of a dream just upon waking. The shadows swirling around Alaric in pain and fury as he spoke of his grandfather’s death, misguided as his version of events was. His distant tone when he told her about his mother—so carefully blank, like armor drawn over a vulnerable spot.
Why should she think about these things now? Why should she care?
Elagbi clapped his hands together. “Now that that’s been sorted out,” he said, with a cheer slightly strained at the edges, “shall we head down to supper?”
A purple carpet of stars fell over the Roof of Heaven and the seven moons in their various phases emerged from behind wisps of cloud. Standing beside an open window in the corridor outside the banquet hall, Alaric peered down at the Dominion’s capital city, which was so brightly lit and bustling that it could almost have been the middle of the day.
Talasyn would arrive at any moment. He was nervous, still thinking about what had happened in the plumeria grove—or what had almost happened. Earlier, he’d wanted to kill Sevraim, but now he was grateful for the interruption.
He was Shadowforged. He couldn’t go around kissing Lightweavers, no matter how pretty and betrothed to him they were. And it would only be a marriage of political convenience, anyway. She would never feel the same—
The same as what? What did he feel?
The heat was getting to him, he decided. A humid breeze seeped in through the window, and Alaric tried not to be too obvious in the way he angled his body to catch as much of it as possible. The majority of his wardrobe was ill suited to Nenavar’s tropical climate. He was far too warm in his black high-collared cutaway tailcoat layered over a shirt of ribbed ivory silk.
He knew that Sevraim and Mathire were similarly suffering in their black-and-silver dress uniforms. The two of them had been scowling when the steward ushered them into the banquet hall after informing Alaric that he and Talasyn—as it was in their honor that the event was being held—would be the last to enter, that he was expected to escort her inside, where all the other diners were waiting. The palace guards posted by the closed doors were clearly struggling to disguise their looks of suspicion and contempt as they stood within striking distance of a would-be invader, but, fortunately, Alaric didn’t have to endure it for long.
Because suddenly she was there, appearing from around the corner.
His breath caught at the sight of her. Talasyn wore a dress spun from iridescent teal fabric, textured and crisp, with silver dragons lavishly embroidered along the square neckline, the high waist, the hem of the flowing skirt, and the cuffs of the wide sleeves that trailed almost to the floor, revealing glimpses of a blood-red lining. Her hair was loose, cascading from beneath a silver crown that resembled a multi-spired temple rising up from glimmering oceanic waves, a ruby-eyed dragon’s head perched at the center.
She didn’t hesitate when she caught sight of him, closing the distance between them with her chin held high. As she came to a stop a few inches away, Alaric saw her usual death stare had been replaced with uncertainty. Her eyes, which usually blazed with fury, were rendered a lighter shade of brown by the glow of the torches and somehow seemed gentler because of that, yet no less potent in their scrutiny.
The moment in the plumeria grove hung uneasily between them. He stiffly offered his arm out to her, and Talasyn turned just the slightest bit pink. It was fetching. Alaric briefly considered punching himself in the face.
Compliment her, he remembered Sevraim’s advice from the other day. Now seemed like a good time for it, but Alaric couldn’t force the words past his throat. What if she punched him in the face?
Talasyn took his arm while he stood frozen in indecision, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Ready?” was all that Alaric could say rather hoarsely in the end, as the guards pushed the doors open.
She nodded, and he led her forward. Into a swell of light and music and glittering people.
Alaric didn’t think it was an exaggeration to presume that he’d seen city streets shorter than the table, which ran down the middle of the banquet hall. It was draped with woven cloths in a dizzying patchwork of different patterns and colors and set with an array of crystal centerpieces and jewel-encrusted plates and goblets. The red-lacquered chairs blazed bright with gilded lotus scrollwork beside it, and the people occupying them rose to their feet as one at the Night Emperor and the Lachis’ka’s entrance—with the exception of Queen Urduja. She watched cannily from the head of the table as the obsequious steward led him and Talasyn to two empty chairs, which he noted with some mild alarm were right next to each other and smack-dab in the middle of the table. He would be surrounded by Nenavarene all throughout supper, effectively cut off from Sevraim and Mathire.
Attending this feast already felt like a mistake.
Talasyn’s slim fingers dug into Alaric’s arm as they followed the steward. She’s nervous, he realized, glancing down to see her bottom lip trembling. Whoever applied her cosmetics had done an expert job in rendering dewy skin and rosy cheeks, but no amount of soot and beeswax on the lashes or champagne-hued pigments on the lids could disguise the apprehension in her brown eyes. Not when she was this close to him.
“It’s not too late to make a run for it,” he quipped.
“I’m in pointy shoes,” she shot back. “With heels.”
“So that’s why you seem taller. Not by much, though.”
“We can’t all be overgrown trees, my lord,” she retorted, and she was so oddly adorable in that moment, in her defiance layered over the nerves that she was trying to hide, that the line of his mouth softened with the beginnings of a genuine smile.
“My lord,” Alaric repeated. His tone was not as mocking as he would have liked. “I certainly prefer that to all the other names that you’ve called me throughout our fractured acquaintance.”
“Shut up,” Talasyn hissed. “It’s all those etiquette lessons. It won’t happen again.”
Her hand dropped back to her side as she took her appointed seat. The other diners followed suit, along with Alaric, whose arm, he firmly told himself, did not—did not—suddenly feel bereft of her touch.
Cuisine was the one aspect of Dominion culture that Talasyn had had no problem wholeheartedly embracing thus far. To someone who’d subsisted on scraps until she was fifteen and then on bland rations served in Sardovian mess halls for five more years, Nenavarene dishes were a rainbow of delights with their complex spices, enticing aromas, and scrumptious textures.
Sadly, tonight’s peculiar circumstances ensured that she was unable to pay as much attention to the food as she usually did. A selection of small plates was paraded out first: slices of fermented pork and chili peppers wrapped in banana leaves; tiny, chargrilled squid served whole on the skewer brushed with garlic and lime juice; pickled greens resting on beds of glass noodles. It all tasted like dust in her mouth.
She was too conscious of Alaric’s presence beside her. She felt as though she couldn’t breathe properly. Her every nerve ending sparked at his nearness, sandalwood-and-juniper-scented and imposing.
Earlier, out in the corridor, she’d nearly been brought up short by the sight of him in formal attire. His high-collared black coat, embellished with the Kesathese chimera in dusky gold brocade, clung to his broad shoulders and added a lean elegance to his silhouette. The slim fit of his black trousers flattered his rangy hips, his muscular thighs, and the athletic length of his legs. With his naturally haughty expression only slightly softened by the thick black hair that fell about his face in casual waves, he looked every inch the young emperor, radiating power and self-assurance.
It did—something—to her. It made her heartbeat stutter over some peculiar cliff’s edge between her midsection and her throat. And, to make matters worse, Jie had called attention to Alaric’s lips earlier and now Talasyn couldn’t stop glancing at them. The sensual fullness of them. The wickedness. How they had come so close to touching hers hours ago. She was sure she’d even caught the beginnings of a smile earlier, but she was likely mistaken. She wholeheartedly blamed her lady-in-waiting for this dire state of affairs.
It also didn’t help that it fell upon Talasyn to make the necessary introductions between Alaric and the people seated near them, and those lords and ladies eventually began lobbing pointed conversational volleys designed to not quite hide their displeasure with the betrothal.
“I believe, Your Majesty, that you and Her Grace knew each other prior to her return to Nenavar,” purred Ralya Musal, the feather-clad Daya of Tepi Resok, a smattering of hilly islands that comprised almost half of the Dominion’s southernmost border. “Would you care to enlighten us as to the nature of that acquaintance?”
Talasyn held her breath. Everyone at the table already knew what had transpired—if not the nitty-gritty details, then the vague and overarching shape of it. They just wanted to trip Alaric up.
There was a brief silence as he picked at his plate, obviously buying time while he formulated a diplomatic answer. “Several months ago I was made aware of the existence of a Lightweaver among the ranks of the Sardovian Allfold. As Master of the Shadowforged Legion, I attempted to neutralize her, but I was ultimately unsuccessful. Now that the aforementioned Sardovian Allfold has been dealt with, I look forward to working with Her Grace to ensure an era of peace.”
Talasyn would have snorted at Alaric’s wry summary of their shared war-torn past, but something else drew her focus; at his mention of the Lightweave and the Shadowgate, several gazes subtly flickered to the sariman cages hung on the walls before swiveling back to him. They fear it, she thought, remembering her early days in the palace when Urduja had advised her to refrain from using her abilities so as not to attract undue attention. They fear us.
She caught herself with a frown. There was no us when it came to her and Alaric Ossinast. She might be marrying him, but she was not on his side.
By the holes on the World-Father’s shirt, I’m marrying him.
There it was again, the throb of panic that coursed through her system like the first pulse of a straight-line wind from a stormship sent slamming through city streets, made all the more charged because Alaric was beside her and he looked like . . . like that.
“Is that what you were doing in the Belian garrison, Your Majesty?” asked Ito Wempuq, a portly rajan from the lotus-strewn Silklands. “You were ensuring an era of peace?”
“Call it unfinished business between myself and your Lachis’ka,” Alaric replied. “However, judging by the fact that you have a Lachis’ka, I’d venture to say that it all worked out in the end.”
He was reminding the nobles that Alunsina Ivralis had only reconnected with her heritage because of him. Which in a way was true, but that didn’t make it any less infuriating. Talasyn could hardly blame the elderly Daya Odish of Irrawad when she thundered, “You committed trespass and destruction of property, injured several of our soldiers, and stole one of our airships, Emperor Alaric! How are we supposed to trust Kesath after all that?”
Alaric’s grip tightened around his fork. “I do not regret my actions, as I did what had to be done at the time. The point of this new treaty is to prevent further discord between our realms. Upon ratification, I assure you, Daya Odish, that I won’t be the first to renege on the terms.”
More than a few pairs of eyes darted to Talasyn. The nobles were waiting for her to either defend the betrothal or join in cutting the enemy down to size, and the next words to issue from her lips would dictate the flow of the conversation.
But Talasyn’s mind had gone blank. Common sense demanded that she present a united front with the Night Emperor, yet how could she appear to submit so meekly to this marriage?
She glanced down at the new course that had arrived just a few minutes ago, that she had been in the middle of, and, in a moment of panic—
“This soup is sublime, don’t you think?” Talasyn all but choked out. She had never before described anything as sublime in all her twenty years of existence, but the Dominion nobles seemed to swear by this adjective.
Rajan Wempuq’s brow wrinkled in utter confusion. “Your Grace?”
“The soup,” Talasyn repeated doggedly. “The cooks have outdone themselves tonight.”
Ralya was the first to move in the abrupt stillness, bringing her spoon to her lips and tasting the dish in question, which consisted of tender chunks of pheasant stewed in a broth of ginger and coconut milk. “Yes,” she said slowly, “it’s exquisite.”
“A marvel,” Jie’s cousin, Harjanti, hastened to opine. The deep-set, coffee-colored eyes that were so much like Jie’s were almost beseeching as she turned to Daya Odish. “Would I be wrong to presume that such fine pheasant can only have come from Irrawad, my lady?”
Daya Odish appeared startled for a moment—and more than a little piqued that the discussion had taken a completely different turn—but social norms dictated that she respond to Harjanti’s question. “Not at all. The island of Irrawad prides itself on being Eskaya’s sole supplier of this particular game bird. It is one of our primary exports, second only to moonstone.”
Harjanti’s curly-haired husband, whom she’d married for love, as Jie had put it, gave a jolt—almost as though his wife had kicked him under the table, Talasyn thought wryly. His name was Praset and he spoke up in a tone that was pleasant enough, aching shin notwithstanding. “I’ve been thinking of breaking into the moonstone-mining industry myself. Perhaps the Daya Odish could give me some tips?”
Talasyn made a mental note to thank Harjanti and Praset as the conversation shifted to mining. Beside her, Alaric raised the soup spoon to his lips, but not before she glimpsed their upward curl. Was he smirking? The faintly amused glance that he sent her way served to prove her suspicions. He was smirking at her for idiotically blathering on about the soup. The nerve!
She fumed all the way to the main course, but she made it a point to engage in courteous small talk with the other nobles. Alaric found his footing as well, conversing mutedly with Lueve Rasmey, who was seated to his right and who gradually looped him into her own circle of high-society matrons. Everyone was speaking in Sailor’s Common for Alaric’s benefit and everything was going well, for the most part. No one seemed inclined to start flinging laurel-bark wine in anybody else’s face. Talasyn could relax . . .
Alaric leaned closer. “Would my lady care to share her expert culinary opinion on the roast pig?” he murmured in her ear.
“Very funny,” she grumped.
“I take it that means it is less than sublime?”
Talasyn stabbed a chunk of bitter melon with her fork, fantasizing that it was Alaric’s head. “I should have left you to Daya Odish’s mercy. Or lack thereof.”
She could swear that he nearly grinned.
At least they were back to their normal bickering. At least the incident in the plumeria grove hadn’t changed anything between them.
In truth, it left her feeling a little out of sorts. Some indication that he, too, had been affected by their almost-kiss wouldn’t have gone amiss.
“Will Her Grace remain with us after the nuptials?” queried Ralya, causing Talasyn to immediately straighten up in her seat and look away from Alaric. “Or will the Lachis’ka’s court relocate to the Night Empire’s capital?”
“I’m staying here, Daya Musal,” Talasyn answered, and a wave of visible relief passed through all the Nenavarene who were listening.
“I remember when you were born,” Wempuq told Talasyn with gruff fondness. “They rang the gongs in the Starlight Tower all morning, all afternoon. Gave me a damnable headache, but no one would have dreamed of leaving Eskaya at that point. There was celebration and there was feasting throughout the streets.”
“The birth of the next Zahiya-lachis is always a joyous occasion,” Lueve chimed in. “Of course, His Royal Highness probably remembers it differently.”
The older nobles chuckled. Talasyn glanced further up the table at Prince Elagbi, who was blissfully unaware that he was now the subject of discussion. “What did my father do?”
“He was running around like one of our pheasants after its head has been cut off,” said Odish with a snort. “The labor lasted all through the night, you see. Prince Elagbi was so worried that he threatened to throw the attending healer into the dungeons.”
“I told him, ‘Your Highness, please calm down, would you care for a drink?’” boomed Wempuq. “He then threatened to throw me into the dungeons as well!”
Their part of the table erupted into laughter. It wasn’t long before Talasyn joined in, merriment bubbling its way up her throat at the image of her mild-mannered father ordering the Lachis-dalo to arrest random people. She threw her head back, laughed hard and long, and, when it was over—when she had settled down—Alaric sat frozen, staring at her as though he’d never seen her before.
“What?” Talasyn hissed after furtively checking to make sure that everyone else was too caught up in mirth and in reminiscing to notice. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Nothing.” Alaric shook his head as if to clear it. And then he—
He did something odd just then. He reached out so that his fingers brushed against the teal sleeve that covered her upper arm. It seemed too deliberate to be an accident, but he retracted his hand as swiftly as though it had been burned. As Talasyn continued to narrow her eyes at him, perplexed, he returned all of his attention to his food, and he did not glance her way again for a long, long while.
Alaric had never been one for big events. He’d suffered through a surfeit of galas that his parents had dragged him to back when they’d still been maintaining the illusion that all was well between them. This banquet was by far grander than any of those affairs, funded as it was by the Nenavar Dominion’s bottomless coffers, but the feeling of revulsion that it elicited was very much the same.
It was the sheer artifice of it all. With the exception of his own retinue, no one at this table would hesitate to order his assassination if they thought that they could get away with it. Yet here they were, eating and chatting as if nothing was wrong, and he had to play along because that was what politics entailed.
Alaric’s thoughts drifted to Talasyn and how heartily she had laughed at Rajan Wempuq’s anecdote. For some reason, he had been expecting a sound lighter than air to complement her elegant gown and the stately surroundings, but her laughter had been vibrant and dulcet and unrefined. It had been a moment devoid of falsehood, her sparkling eyes warm like brandy. So he’d reached over to try to touch her, for whatever reason, like some brainless oaf, but at least he’d held himself back just in time.
He revised his previous conclusion. There was one other person at this feast who wouldn’t give any order to assassinate him. Talasyn would kill me herself, he thought, and it was with something that was dangerously close to affection, because that made her the most genuine person in the room.
A hush fell over the end of the table nearest the entrance, gradually spreading to the rest of the guests. Lueve trailed off in the middle of recounting an amusing story from her years as Urduja’s lady-in-waiting, her mouth hanging open in mid-sentence at the sight of something to Alaric’s left.
He turned to where the daya—and everyone else—was looking. A lanky figure stood in the open doorway, in an ensemble that was markedly out of place at a formal event, consisting only of an embroidered long-sleeved vest and trousers gathered at the ankles. There was an ornate band of leather and bronze slung around his hips, to which a hand crossbow was holstered. The new arrival’s tousled hair fell across his forehead and his walnut-brown eyes blazed as they swept the banquet hall. The expressions of the people that gazed back at him ranged from confusion on Talasyn and the Kesathese delegation’s part to full-blown alarm on that of the Dominion nobles.
“Who is that?” Talasyn inquired, sounding curious but careful to keep her voice low.
“Trouble.” It was Harjanti who answered, agitated. “Lady Lueve’s nephew, Surakwel Mantes.”
“He loathes the Night Empire,” added Ralya, shooting a look in Alaric’s direction that could have passed for nervousness. “This isn’t good at all.”
