Alaric found sleep difficult to come by that night. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Talasyn jumping in front of the shadow-spear and he saw himself veering it away almost too late, missing her heart by a hair’s breadth. He saw the spear grazing her upper arm as a shout caught in his throat. He saw her blood welling up, an accusation leaking through the sheen of her sleeve.
By the gods, he had cut her, he had nearly killed her, and his knees had buckled at the sledgehammer’s blow of horrified guilt, before he managed to compose himself and walk over to her to check that she was all right, while all those so-called lords and ladies gawked.
Why did it bother him so? It had been an accident. And he and Talasyn had certainly inflicted similar nicks on each other during their duels in time past. Hell, she’d concussed him the night they met.
Something had changed. Alaric didn’t like it.
And he especially didn’t like the fact that, whenever he closed his eyes, he could still see her pinned against the wardrobe, her slender frame too small for his hands, asking him to repeat his question in an uncharacteristically breathless, distracted voice, her brown eyes wide. He winced inwardly every time it came crashing back to him that he had slipped and called her beautiful to her face.
No doubt it was the blood loss that had led to such a grave error in judgment. Not to mention that the Nenavarene court in general was playing havoc with his senses, this gaudy world where it was growing increasingly difficult to separate pretense from reality. A world where the grubby, hot-headed soldier who had been his nemesis waltzed into his room in an elegant gown, spouting apologies, promising cooperation.
Talasyn had clearly been following her wily grandmother’s orders. It seemed that Urduja was training his little Lightweaver to become quite the politician.
His?
Alaric bolted upright in bed, a frustrated snarl escaping from his lips as the covers slid down to his bare waist. He didn’t know how long he sat there in the gloom of his quarters, its curtains drawn against the radiance of the seven moons, but eventually he felt it. Now that the sariman cages had been removed, a stern demand for entrance tugged and scratched at the corners of his magic like clawed fingers, a call that he was powerless to ignore.
You are the Night Emperor, a part of him mulishly insisted. You shouldn’t have to answer to anyone.
He shuddered. He took a deep, meditative breath, adopting a blank, calm facade right before he opened the Shadowgate. Right before he dove into the aether, where Gaheris was waiting.
The world shivered at the edges as Alaric walked into the In-Between. “Father.” He was already speaking as he approached the throne. Gaheris was no doubt displeased by the lengthy communications blackout, and he would be even more displeased by the identity of the Nenavarene Lachis’ka. Alaric was anxious to get it over with, so he explained the situation as quickly and as succinctly as possible. Gaheris’s eyes flickered, but his expression remained impassive for the most part. The only time it showed anything resembling genuine interest was when Alaric mentioned the upcoming Night of the World-Eater.
“I must admit to some . . . bewilderment,” Gaheris finally said, “regarding your failure to insist that you be able to contact me. Did you forget that we’ve had the upper hand all this time? When it turned out that your magic was crucial to saving them, did you not use this to your advantage?”
“The Nenavarene see me as the Night Empire’s figurehead, Father, and they would have questioned my authority to negotiate—”
“So it was your pride that got in the way,” Gaheris silkily interrupted. “Perhaps you did not want to lose face in front of the Lightweaver? Or perhaps you were afraid that I would disapprove of the union?”
Alaric remained silent. There was no defense left to him, not when Gaheris was talking in that deceptively gentle manner of his that almost always indicated a taste of pain in the near future. The air in the In-Between grew thinner, dark magic crackling in corners that did not exist in the material realm, strange shapes lurking in the shadows.
“Once again you have let the girl cloud your common sense,” the Regent growled. “A revelation of this magnitude—you know that you should have informed me right away, and yet you didn’t. You hid behind these sariman cages, a flimsy excuse, keeping it secret from me that you are marrying the Lightweaver that you should have killed months ago.”
“It’s better that I didn’t succeed in killing her, surely?” Alaric couldn’t stop himself from asking. “This treaty would never have been possible without her. The Night Empire would never have been able to stop the Voidfell once it reached our shores.”
His father stared at him for a long time, a searching, knowing gaze that left Alaric feeling small, fear and resentment and guilt hollowing out the inside of his chest.
“I am not so certain that you are up to this, boy,” Gaheris sneered. “The Nenavar Dominion will draw you in and they will strike at the first sign of weakness. That is their style and Urduja Silim has mastered it. How else do you think she has held on to her throne for so long? There is no doubt in my mind that she is training her granddaughter likewise. The Lightweaver will never return this bizarre infatuation that you have for her, but she will in time learn to wield it against you if you don’t nip it in the bud.”
“I’m not infatuated—” Alaric began to protest, but Gaheris interrupted him with a bitter laugh that echoed off the In-Between’s shivering boundaries.
“Shall we call it obsession, then?” the Regent demanded. “Shall we call it the fanciful notions of a weakling whom I have been entirely too lenient with? Who is in the end his mother’s son?”
Alaric looked down at his feet, humiliated. To hear someone else put it into words made him feel so unbearably stupid—and angry—that he’d let Talasyn get too close.
“Don’t think that I’ve forgotten,” Gaheris continued, “all those months ago, when she was still a nameless little Sardovian rat, how you put forward the notion that she be allowed to live. You told me that you were curious about the light-and-shadow barrier. But it wasn’t just curiosity, was it?”
“It was,” Alaric tersely insisted. He would never reveal to Gaheris the words that left his lips as he faced Talasyn beneath Lasthaven’s shattered skies. You could come with me. We can study it. Together. That had been nothing short of treason. “But are you truly not curious, Lord Regent? It’s a new thing, this merging of magic. There could be other useful applications.”
As far as attempts to distract his father from his shortcomings went, this proved to be a success. A familiar old revulsion twisted Gaheris’s skeletal features. “I will not allow the Lightweave to taint the Shadowgate any more than is necessary,” he spat. “Create the barriers with her until the Voidfell is driven back, but, afterwards, I expect you to lay this part of the alliance to rest. The Lightweave is a plague on the world. On our family. Kesath does not need it to thrive. Is that clear?”
Alaric nodded.
“For your insolence and your abysmal handling of this situation, you will be punished upon your return to Kesath,” Gaheris decreed. “For now, we must discuss what is to be done about the Nenavar Dominion and the Sardovians.”
“The Sardovians?”
Gaheris lost his temper then, slamming a withered fist on the throne’s armrest so suddenly and viciously that it took all of Alaric’s control not to flinch. “You imbecile!” In contrast to its previous mildness, his father’s voice now roared like thunder, filling the In-Between. “Had you been thinking with your brain, you might have seen what was in front of your very eyes! If the Lightweaver truly doesn’t know where the Sardovian fleet is hiding, what’s left of them will certainly attempt to find her one of these days. They might even be successful. You will have to be ever vigilant. Perhaps even try to extract their location from her if she does know it—after the wedding, once she has let her guard down a little.”
Alaric frowned. “You mean for me to go through with this?”
“Regardless of the Lachis’ka’s identity, the advantages of marrying her still stand,” said Gaheris. “Here is how you must deal with the Nenavarene from now on . . .”
The negotiations wrapped up in the early afternoon of the following day. The Kesathese delegation was firm and brusque, the Dominion uncharacteristically acquiescent. It seemed to Talasyn that they had lost more ground on this last day than they’d gained over the past sennight, but Queen Urduja obviously wanted to avoid adding fuel to Alaric’s ire. He was in the blackest mood that Talasyn had ever seen, forfeiting all trace of politeness in favor of a sullen menace which made it clear that it would take only one more misstep on the Nenavarene’s part for him to rain down the wrath of his lurking fleet on their heads.
Negotiators from both sides took turns signing the contract, the scene acquiring a ceremonial quality as scrawled names blossomed in ink at each stroke of the stylus. Alaric was the second to last to affix his signature, his penmanship an elegant cursive that was a surprise coming from the gauntleted hand that had killed so many and caused so much destruction. He then held the stylus out to Talasyn and she stepped forward on pitifully shaky legs. In line with her newfound resolve to stop acting like a petulant martyr, she offered him a courteous nod. One that he did not return, his expression stony.
Talasyn willed herself to not be mortified, hastily reaching for the stylus. As she did so, her bare fingers brushed against the leather of Alaric’s gauntlet and he recoiled, jerking his hand back as if he’d accidentally touched something disgusting.
She seethed, her pride taking another hit. Last night he’d called her beautiful and now he was acting as though her mere presence was a personal affront.
She tried to keep a steady hand as she signed the contract. Everyone in the room was watching her, their gazes inscrutable—not even Elagbi would show any emotion at a politically charged moment such as this.
Talasyn set the stylus down on the table. And, just like that, it was over.
Just like that, she was engaged.
“The wedding will be held a sennight after the eclipse,” said Urduja. “There will be more meetings over the next few days to discuss the specifics of the ceremony, but for now I think that we can safely say that this one is at an end. I will formally announce the betrothal to the public this afternoon.” She turned to Alaric and, with admirable fortitude, politely inquired, “And when does His Majesty plan to take Her Grace to the Light Sever?”
“In four days, Harlikaan,” said Alaric. “The sweep should be done by then.”
Talasyn fell into a perplexed silence, as did everyone else on the Nenavarene panel. Urduja was quick to recover, though, cocking her head. “The sweep?”
“Yes,” said Alaric. “It’s one last matter to take care of, so that we may remove all doubts about the legitimacy of this alliance.”
Urduja raised an eyebrow. “What doubts could you possibly still harbor, Your Majesty?”
“Doubts about my would-be bride’s other alliances,” was Alaric’s terse reply. “With the Zahiya-lachis’s permission, Kesath will conduct a sweep of Dominion territory. To make sure that Ideth Vela’s forces aren’t hiding anywhere.”
As the blood froze in Talasyn’s veins, the usually taciturn Kai Gitab spoke up. “Does the Night Empire mean to go around barging into houses and ransacking cellars and peeking under beds all throughout the islands?” The rajan’s tone was mild yet admonishing, righteous ire flashing in the brown eyes behind his spectacles.
He doesn’t know, Talasyn remembered in a panic. Because he was considered one of the opposition, Gitab numbered among the nobles kept in the dark about the deal between Urduja and Vela.
“Not only is that a gross breach of the contract,” he continued, “but it is also an insult to the Dragon Queen—”
“The Dragon Queen can speak freely about insults when she turns back the clock and stops one of her subjects from challenging me to a duel during a banquet,” Alaric interjected. “At that same banquet, Surakwel Mantes stated in no uncertain terms that he is sympathetic to the Sardovian Allfold. There is no telling how many others think like him in the Dominion court. The Lachis’ka, in particular, is a former Sardovian soldier. I would be remiss in my duty if I were to ignore all of this.”
Urduja nodded, her mouth set in a tight line. “Of course. It is vital that you confirm for yourself that Nenavar is not treating with you under false pretenses.” The Zahiya-lachis appeared to say this more for Talasyn’s benefit, as though she sensed mutiny in the way that her granddaughter was currently glowering. “How exactly do you plan to conduct your search?”
Alaric gestured to Commodore Mathire, who proceeded to elaborate with a smug briskness that grated on Talasyn’s nerves. “As we will be searching primarily for stormships and Sardovian airships, we will focus on aerial reconnaissance, sending ground troops only in areas of poor visibility from above. There is no need for us to go through anyone’s cellars. With multiple teams sent out, I believe that we can be done in two days, more or less, and take a third day to collate all our reports. The Night Emperor and the Lachis’ka can then head to Belian the morning after.”
“To minimize the possibility of collusion, I must also insist that the Lachis’ka stays put here in the palace, where I can keep an eye on her while my fleet is investigating,” Alaric added. “On the second afternoon of the search, I will conduct a sweep of my own, on the Deliverance, and Her Grace will accompany me.”
That’s preposterous, Talasyn wanted to snap, with a healthy dose of I’m not going anywhere with you thrown in for good measure, but Urduja was swift to proclaim, “I trust that you will not object to the presence of Alunsina’s guards aboard your ship.”
“And my presence as well,” said Elagbi.
Alaric’s jaw clenched. He most likely detested the idea of having more Nenavarene on his stormship than was strictly necessary. “I do not wish to inconvenience you, Prince Elagbi.”
“It’s not an inconvenience.” Elagbi smiled, all teeth. “As a matter of fact, I would cherish the opportunity to spend more time with my future son-in-law.”
Alaric blanched, and some small, petty part of Talasyn couldn’t help but cheer at his discomfiture.
“Lachis’ka,” he rumbled, not quite looking at her, “there will be no training here at the palace. We’ll put it on hold until we get to the Belian shrine.”
“After you’re done terrorizing Nenavar, you mean,” Talasyn muttered. Urduja shot her a warning look, which she ignored.
Alaric shrugged. “Call it whatever you like. It is of no consequence to me.”
And, with that, the signing of the treaty between the Night Empire and the Nenavar Dominion ended on the sourest of notes.
Logically, she knew that her grandmother had a few tricks up her jeweled sleeve, or else she would never have consented to Kesath’s investigation. But logic was no match for fear, and Talasyn spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of barely contained panic. She was jittery by the time evening fell and she was summoned to Urduja’s salon under cover of darkness.
Aside from the Zahiya-lachis, there were two other people in the room when Talasyn entered—Niamha Langsoune and Ishan Vaikar. The latter shot Talasyn a mischievous wink.
“As I see it, Kesath will most likely fail to realize that Sigwad exists. It’s not visible from the westernmost mainland, and the map of the Dominion that we provided them is an older one, charted before the Storm God’s Eye was annexed,” Urduja told Talasyn. “Even if they do stumble upon the strait, we have a way around that. I don’t want you to worry.”
Talasyn would have retorted that that ship had sailed if her attention hadn’t been taken up by what was in the middle of the salon.
A rectangular vivarium constructed from reddish hardwood and crystalline metalglass held one of the brown-furred, palm-sized monkeys that Talasyn had encountered on her first sojourn through the Sedek-We jungle months ago.
The vivarium was connected, via arrays of slender copper wires, to a circle of metalglass jars capped by onion-shaped seals made primarily of nickel and embellished with dials that resembled clockwork gears. Inside each jar was a molten core of sapphire magic speckled with red droplets that dripped and coalesced like mercury.
“What do you know about spectrals, Your Grace?” Ishan asked, gesturing at the creature clinging to a branch.
The little primate blinked at Talasyn with unnervingly large eyes as she replied, “Not much.”
“Well, they tend to vanish when they’re startled—or as a means to escape from predators. After studying them for years, we have determined that this vanishing is actually a method of planar shift,” said Ishan. “In much the same way that you can access the dimension known as the Lightweave, all spectrals possess an inherent genetic trait that allows them to transport themselves to another realm within aetherspace—and back again—at will. We speculate that the dragons utilize a similar mechanism, which could account for their elusiveness despite their size, although of course it is impossible to run our current model of testing on such large beasts—”
Urduja cleared her throat. Pointedly.
Ishan ducked her head, flashing an abashed grin. “I apologize. I get carried away with shop talk.” She gestured at the circle of jars and wires. “This is an amplifying configuration. We can make sariman blood pliable for us Enchanters by suspending it in magic from the Rainspring. We have been able to do amazing things with it. For example, we can retain the sariman’s inborn trait of affecting its environment within a seven-meter radius while at the same time canceling its ability to suppress an individual’s aethermancy. Then, by mixing it with the spectrals’ ability to vanish, we can . . . Daya Langsoune, if you please—”
Niamha stepped into the circle. There was a moment wherein she looked the most uncertain that Talasyn had ever seen her, but it passed quickly. Ishan fiddled with the dials on the onion-shaped caps. Once she was satisfied, she stepped away from Niamha and rapped her knuckles gently on the vivarium.
The spectral’s reaction was instantaneous. It disappeared before Talasyn could even blink. The copper filaments glowed white-hot and aether flowed between the tank and the amplifying configuration like dozens of thin, glittering streams. A reaction rippled through the molten core of rain magic and sariman blood and it blazed amidst walls of metalglass, and then—
Niamha vanished.
There was no ceremony to it. One second the Daya of Catanduc was there, and the next she was gone.
“We have had great success replicating this effect on an outrigger warship,” Ishan said into the stunned silence that filled the Zahiya-lachis’s darkened salon. “There is no reason to believe that it won’t work on Sardovian vessels, even the stormships.” She waved a hand to indicate the vivarium. “The filaments here have also been infused with aether magic extracted from sariman blood. This keeps all those affected by the amplifying configuration invisible, hidden in another plane, until an Enchanter cancels the process.”
With that, she wiggled her fingers, and the molten cores of blood and magic within each jar dimmed. The copper wires hummed one last time before stilling. The spectral materialized as soundlessly as it had disappeared, and so did Niamha, looking somewhat startled but otherwise none the worse for wear.
“Utter concealment,” Ishan pronounced with all the satisfaction of a job well done. “Completely undetectable.”
Urduja took over. “Envoys were sent to Vela’s forces several hours ago and they are coordinating as we speak,” she told Talasyn. “As long as we position these amplifiers strategically, the shelters and landing grids scattered throughout the isles of Sigwad will be shrouded from sight. From the air, it will look as though the Storm God’s Eye is uninhabited. When Kesath flies over this area, they will see nothing but sand and rock and water. If their troops search the dense mangrove forests, there will be nothing there to find. And this is all assuming that they’ll even notice that the isles of Sigwad exist. I’m certainly not going to tell them.”
“Are you all right?” Talasyn asked Niamha.
“I’m quite fine, Your Grace.” Niamha brushed off Talasyn’s concern. “It didn’t hurt at all. It was like being in a strange room with the lights out. I could move around and talk and breathe normally, even though my surroundings were—insubstantial.”
“Aetherspace is riddled with dimensions such as these,” said Ishan. “Like cells in a honeycomb. Piggybacking on the spectrals’ ability takes us to one type of dimension, which is a fairly neutral, sort of in-between place, and then there are the dimensions of magical energy like the Lightweave and the Shadowgate. Who knows what else is out there?”
“Let’s focus on matters concerning this dimension first,” said Urduja. “As you can see, Alunsina, it is all taken care of. Once Kesath discovers no trace of Sardovia within Dominion borders, Alaric Ossinast will lower his guard. But the work doesn’t end there—you will have to keep on convincing him that you have no idea what has become of your comrades. Every minute of every hour. Carry yourself like you cannot be questioned. Give nothing away.”
Talasyn was as awed as she’d been when she saw the dragons for the first time. This kind of technology had so many possible applications. The Night Empire might have invented the stormships, but it would take them years to catch up to the Dominion’s level of advancement.
It was in this moment, in a burst of sharp clarity, that Talasyn truly understood that the Hurricane Wars weren’t over. With Nenavar on its side, Sardovia could still take back the Northwest Continent. There had to be a way. She would find it. She would figure it out, one day.
Her mind was afire with curiosity. She longed to visit Ahimsa and see for herself what other marvels Ishan and her people were cooking up. But that could wait; she needed to get through Kesath’s sweep and whatever else had to follow first.
