There was a saying in Kesath, one of the many that Alaric had committed to memory back in his schoolboy days because he’d practiced writing it over and over again in the High Calligraphic script of the imperial court: If you pluck the unripe balsam-pear, you must eat the bitterness. It meant reaping the consequences of bad decisions. It meant being careful what one wished for.
It was a saying that flashed across the surface of his mind in a censorious loop as he and Talasyn hiked up the Belian mountain range, bearing heavy packs filled with supplies. The airship that had borne them from Eskaya to Belian had been left behind at Kaptan Rapat’s garrison, along with their respective guards—although in Alaric’s case it was guard, singular, in the form of Sevraim, and that had been the problem. The ruins of the Lightweaver shrine were too overgrown and fragile for any vessel to dock there, and Alaric had refused to be outnumbered by Dominion soldiers in the remote wilderness with no escape route. The Zahiya-lachis hadn’t been all too keen on entrusting her granddaughter to two Kesathese Shadowforged, either. As a compromise, only Alaric and Talasyn would set up camp at the shrine and train there and hopefully catch the Light Sever discharging, so that she could commune with it.
The end result was this—Alaric alone in the Nenavarene jungle with his wartime enemy and political bride-to-be, who was clearly still irate with him because of the quarrel on board his stormship and the one on the rooftop in Eskaya.
In truth, his own anger was dulled by the undeniable confirmation that her former comrades weren’t sheltering in Nenavar, but the weather was most assuredly not improving his disposition one bit. Early mornings in Kesath were chilly gray affairs, breath curling through the air in garlands of silver vapor. Here in the Dominion, it was already as hot as a Kesathese noon in summer and infinitely more humid—even more so than the last time Alaric had trekked here, in secret, focused only on stopping the Lightweaver before she could get to the nexus point.
It was funny how life turned out, but he was in no mood to laugh. It was so very warm.
And it didn’t help matters that Talasyn was wearing a sleeveless tunic and linen breeches that clung to her like a second skin, causing his thoughts to go down dangerous roads. He heartily blamed Sevraim for this, with all that talk of heir-making.
“Are you absolutely certain that we’re heading in the right direction?” Alaric had to raise his voice because Talasyn was several feet ahead of him, stomping amidst vines and shrubbery with a pointedness that drove home her low opinion of this little sojourn of theirs.
“Forgotten the way already?” she called back without so much as glancing over her shoulder.
He rolled his eyes even though she couldn’t see it. “I took a different route then.”
“And how is the unconscionable bastard who gave you the map?”
“Commodore Darius is enjoying the sweet taste of victory and the privileges of his new rank, I imagine.”
Why did he say things like this, things he knew would serve only to antagonize her further? She slowed her pace long enough to glower at him and he thought that he might have an answer in the way her brown eyes flashed in the sunlight, in the way her freckled olive skin was framed against all this jungle green and gold.
With a huff, she turned back to the path and continued stamping ahead, and he trailed after her, trying to derive some satisfaction from having gotten the last word.
Talasyn spent the entire morning wishing for a tree to fall on the Night Emperor.
She was also unbelievably exhausted. The trek to the ruins of the Lightweaver shrine would have been grueling even for someone who’d had a good night’s sleep, and she’d only managed four hours on her and Surakwel’s journey back to the Roof of Heaven. She was lightheaded as she hiked, the world around her taking on a parchment-thin quality.
But a curious thing happened as she and Alaric ventured deeper into the jungle, climbed further up the slope. Perhaps it was the fresh air seeping into her lungs, the smell of earth and nectar and damp leaves, the way that the physical exertion was making her heart race, or the verdant wilderness—whatever the case, Talasyn felt lighter than she had in ages. She hadn’t been able to appreciate it properly last night, pressed for time and urgency nipping at her heels as she crossed the mangrove swamps of the Storm God’s Eye, but here and now, with entire days stretching ahead, she realized how much she needed to get away from the stifling atmosphere of the Nenavarene court, even if it was just for a little while. Even if it was with Alaric Ossinast. Though she had no faith in her ability to not stab him before it was over.
Talasyn’s stomach began growling. “We’ll stop for lunch after we clear this pond,” she announced to the empty space in front of her. There was a grunt of agreement from behind, and she snickered as she pictured Alaric huffing and puffing in the sweltering tropical climate in his black clothes.
The pond was deep and muddy from recent rains and a narrow plank bridge had been built across it. It was half submerged, but it would do. Talasyn crossed without incident, careful not to slip on the slimy wood.
Alaric wasn’t so fortunate. A great splash echoed throughout the jungle stillness and she whirled around to see him disappearing beneath the brown water. She made to hurry back onto the bridge, but stopped when his head popped up again. He was sputtering, his drenched black hair clinging to a face coated in grime.
“Master of the Shadowforged Legion but can’t cross a pond!” Talasyn exclaimed.
Alaric scowled, spitting out a mouthful of dirt as he paddled in the direction of the bridge. “Lightweaver but can’t make a shield.”
His retort barely carried across the water, but it reached her ears well enough. She flashed him a rude gesture, palm up and thumb stretched out and index finger curling inward. He blinked, and it seemed to her that he was more surprised than outright offended.
To Alaric’s credit, though, not everyone could be as poised as he was while struggling to extricate themselves from what was more or less liquefied earth. He moved with assurance, almost as though he’d meant to fall into the pond. Talasyn watched with one eyebrow raised as he scrambled onto what looked like an overturned tree trunk, with the clear intention of using it as a foothold to hop back to the bridge.
Except that it wasn’t a tree trunk. The moment Alaric’s full weight pressed down on it, it . . . stirred.
He careened into the water once again, with another mighty splash, just as the hulking visage of a swamp buffalo broke the surface. It was thrice the size of a full-grown man, red gills fluttering in grooves on the sides of its thick neck. Its tough hide was the color of charcoal and its scarlet eyes, set between enormous sickle-shaped horns, focused on Alaric with a mindless, primal fury.
Not only had its territory been invaded, but it had also been trodden on.
It let out a bellow that shook the treetops, and it charged, through the pond water, as gracefully as a fish. Talasyn spun a radiant spear and flung it with all her strength, but the swamp buffalo wove away from it with shocking swiftness before ducking beneath the arc of Alaric’s own shadow-smithed lance.
Talasyn waded into the pond to help—she was not about to explain to the host of Kesathese warships waiting beyond the archipelago that she’d let their sovereign get gored to death—but the water had barely reached her ankles when Alaric’s hoarse command stopped her in her tracks.
“Stay there.”
He summoned the Shadowgate in the form of a crescent blade, which he threw toward the muddy banks. As the blade sailed through the air, its handle sprouted a chain of crackling, inky magic, the other end coiled around his gauntleted fist. The blade sank into the earth behind Talasyn and then the chain’s links began folding in on themselves and Alaric was propelled along by the decreasing length. The swamp buffalo gave chase with enraged huffs and snorts, horns lowered, as it stampeded after its prey, all the way to the shallows.
Talasyn prepared to spin another weapon, to engage the creature at close quarters, but once the shadowy blade and its midnight-black chain vanished and Alaric scrambled to his feet, he grabbed her by the wrist, and before she knew it, they were running, the swamp buffalo in hot pursuit. It crashed through the undergrowth, the ground trembling beneath its heavy hooves, every toss of its horned head knocking aside young trees as though they were mere kindling.
This is how I’m going to die, Talasyn thought, blood pounding in her ears, legs pumping frantically, the brown and green of the jungle blurring past the corners of her vision. In the woods. Killed by the world’s angriest cow.
Alaric had let go of her wrist, but he was keeping pace beside her. He conjured a war axe to hack at the low-hanging branches blocking their path, occasionally transmuting it into a spear to hurl at their pursuer and then replacing it with a new axe. It was a display of concentration, timing, and magical ability that Talasyn had never before witnessed, had never been capable of.
Not to be outdone, she conjured spears of her own and hurled them at the pursuing beast as well, one after the other. Light and shadow sang through the air, side by side. But the swamp buffalo was as agile on land as it was in water, and it made dodging the barrage look like an effortless task.
And just when they had been running so long and so hard that a stitch welled up her side and her thighs were on the verge of collapse and her heart was about to give out—
—the minor earthquake and the awful sounds of the dread beast’s charge came to an abrupt halt.
Talasyn dared a glance over her shoulder. In the distance, the swamp buffalo had turned around and was disappearing into the bushes, content to have chased the intruders away. Sheer relief made her knees go weak and she sagged against a tree trunk, chest heaving while sweat pooled on her skin and she sucked in one huge lungful of air after another.
Alaric braced a hand on the tree trunk next to hers. He doubled over, panting as well. Several minutes passed with the two of them wheezing and gasping beneath a canopy of leaves.
Finally—when her breathing evened out; when the faint black dots swimming before her eyes receded—Talasyn turned to Alaric. He was plastered in mud from head to toe, not only from his unexpected dip in the pond but also from his magic dragging him bodily through its wet banks. His waterlogged hair hung limply around a frowning angular face, where the only pale complexion to be seen was in small streaks and patches. His tailored clothes with their fine fabrics were now more brown than black.
In this moment, the Night Emperor of Kesath resembled some new species of glum creature that had just emerged from a mudhole—which was more or less what had happened.
She burst out laughing.
Seeing her smile up at him for the first time was like taking a crossbow bolt to the chest. Her brown eyes crinkled at the corners and sunlight danced off the curve of her pink lips, casting her freckled cheeks in a warm glow.
The breath that Alaric had only so recently regained caught in his throat. No one had ever looked at him like this, with such joy, and when she started laughing, it was deep and vibrant, a song floating through the chambers of his soul. His ears rang with the melody, the sight of her burned into remembrance.
I would give anything, he thought, for this not to be the last time. For her to smile at me again, and laugh like the war never happened.
After a while, it sank in that she was laughing at him, and he shot her a withering glare.
This served to set Talasyn off even more. She clutched at rough bark as though for dear life, practically howling while Alaric flushed red underneath the mud that caked his skin.
Eventually, her laughter tapered off into mostly silent giggles, interspersed with the occasional snort. “Are you quite finished?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“Yes.” She straightened up, wiping away tears of mirth with slim fingers. “It’s practically a Nenavarene rite of passage, to almost be murdered by a swamp buffalo.” She retrieved the map and the compass from her pockets, checking to see if they were still on the right course.
“First the dragon, then the messenger eagle that looked like it would have no compunction about disemboweling my men, and now this bovine,” Alaric grumbled. “At this point, I should just assume that all the animals in the Dominion are out to kill me.”
“Not just the animals.” But there was no real ire in Talasyn’s tone; she said it with the offhandedness of habit. She put away the navigational tools and gestured up ahead. “We were chased in the direction of the ruins, at least. There’s a stream nearby where we can have lunch and you can . . .” Her mischievous gaze flickered over him, mouth twitching with the beginnings of a fresh surge of laughter. “. . . wash off.”
“If an uncommonly large fish doesn’t murder me first,” he deadpanned.
She snorted, in a manner that was almost—companionable. Something that felt uncomfortably like hope stirred in his chest. Had she gotten past their most recent fights? If this was what it took for her to stop being angry with him, then perhaps being covered in mud wasn’t so terrible . . .
Minutes later they reached the stream, a clear ribbon of water that burbled down the mountain slope, bordered by moss-covered rocks. As Alaric gingerly perched on one of the rocks and kicked off his boots, Talasyn very deliberately turned her back to him and began unpacking rations with more meticulousness than such a task required.
Her sudden shyness was at odds with how they’d been trying to kill each other months ago. Still, he was grateful for the privacy and sought more of it by ducking behind a thick wall of tufted reeds growing at the edge of the waterline, where he stripped off his muddy garments.
The coolness of the stream was a refreshing balm after hours spent trekking in the sweltering heat. He scrubbed off every inch of grime, idly listening to the song of water over stone and all the unseen, possibly murderous animals chittering in the treetops. It wasn’t anything at all like baths back at the Kesathese Citadel or the Nenavarene Roof of Heaven, with the perfumed steam of heated water wafting from marble tubs, but he found it pleasant, nonetheless.
When Alaric emerged from the stream and rooted around his pack for a change of clothes, he eschewed the long-sleeved, high-collared tunics for just a fitted black undershirt and armguards. After a moment’s hesitation, he tossed the leather gauntlets back into his pack as well. The weather demanded it.
Talasyn had laid out the rice cakes and salted venison, and she was brewing ginger tea in a kettle powered by a Firewarren-infused aether heart. She looked up at his approach and blinked. Once, twice, her mouth parting slightly. Before he could wonder aloud at her strange behavior, she averted her gaze and pushed the woven bamboo plate full of food toward him without a word.
As they ate, sitting there on the grass, he frantically cast around for a suitable topic of conversation.
“Kaptan Rapat was remarkably unenthused to see me again,” he ventured.
“Can you blame him?” She popped a rice cake into her mouth. A whole one. “He was happy to see me, though.”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” He had meant to be sarcastic, but for some reason the image of her golden features lit up with laughter rose to the forefront of his thoughts, and his remark ended on a note that was disturbingly sincere even to his own ears. He compensated by clearing his throat and adding wryly, “You are, after all, the paragon of virtue and good cheer.”
“We’re both well aware that you leave me in the dust where those two things are concerned,” she sniped, cheeks bulging as though she were a chipmunk storing acorns for the winter in the forests back home. Then she swallowed, and he tried to recall if he’d seen her chew the rice cake at all. “I hope your legionnaire behaves himself while he’s their guest.”
Alaric grimaced. “I left strict orders, but Sevraim and behave don’t exactly belong in the same sentence.”
“I can imagine.” Talasyn plucked a strip of salted venison from their shared plate. “Bit bold, isn’t he? Chatty the other day, too—although he never said a word during negotiations.”
“While I have long since given up on instilling even an ounce of decorum in Sevraim, we are fortunate that he is sometimes aware of when to hold his peace,” said Alaric. “He is here strictly as my protection and is content enough to keep to that role, since politics bore him.”
“You had no trouble temporarily relieving him of his duties.” Talasyn bit into the venison, tearing it in half with a sharp yank of her teeth. “Do you really trust me that much?”
Alaric was so aghast watching her fall upon their rations like a starving animal that it took him a while to realize she’d asked a question. He shrugged. “I trust that you have enough common sense to not do anything foolish.”
Her words from the other afternoon came back to him. One day people will have had enough of you. And when they finally denounce you, I won’t think twice before joining them. She fidgeted, and he could tell that she was remembering, too.
“No, I won’t do anything foolish.” Talasyn looked so upset at having to make that promise that Alaric nearly laughed. “I say things when I’m mad, but I’ll try not to make this more difficult than it already is.”
He nodded. “As will I. This is most likely as far as we’ll ever get to having any faith in each other, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Agreed,” she said as she chewed.
“For what it’s worth,” he mumbled, “my behavior on the Deliverance was unbecoming. I shall endeavor to make certain that it doesn’t happen again.”
There was a part of Alaric that couldn’t believe that he was apologizing to the Lightweaver. His father would have a fit if he found out.
But Gaheris would never find out. That was the thing. He was an ocean away. Alaric had never felt as far from his father as he did now, here in this wilderness. There was something strangely liberating in that.
Talasyn coughed, as though she’d choked on her food from sheer surprise. To wash it down, she took a generous swig of ginger tea, peering at him over the rim of the cup in something like contemplation.
“Thank you,” she finally said. “I shall also—endeavor—to do the same.”
And while the Hurricane Wars would always be felt between them, like two shards of a cracked pane of glass separated by the spidery white line of fracture, there at least seemed to be a mutual agreement to not talk about it anymore. At last. Instead, Alaric watched in amazement as Talasyn reached for another rice cake and shoved it into her mouth at the same time as the second half of the venison strip.
By the gods. He was unable to tear his gaze away. She ate like she fought. Relentless and without mercy.
It was only when she smacked her lips together, the pink fullness of them glistening from the ginger tea, that some instinct—some sense of self-preservation—made him decide to abruptly become very interested in the grass, the nearby stream, the moss on the rocks, anything that wasn’t her.
