All the better to be gawked at, Talasyn thought sourly, but the truth was that the guests didn’t even wait until she and Alaric were seated to do that. All music and conversation ceased and people stood up and every gaze swiveled to them as soon as they appeared in the doorway.
A little old man draped in the royal livery sidled over to Talasyn’s side. She didn’t notice him until he announced her and Alaric’s entrance—in a booming voice that bounced off the rafters and nearly made her jump.
“Her Grace Alunsina Ivralis, Lachis’ka of the Nenavar Dominion, and her consort, His Majesty Alaric Ossinast of the Night Empire! Long may they reign!”
The last part struck Talasyn as odd. She didn’t reign over anything. She wasn’t the Zahiya-lachis yet—
No, she realized, a chill shooting down her spine, but I am the Night Empress.
Or she would be very soon. After her coronation at the Citadel.
There was movement all throughout the ballroom. The lords and ladies of Nenavar were sinking into bows and curtsies and the Kesathese officers were saluting. The music started up again as the imperial couple walked into the ballroom, crossing the dance floor to reach Urduja and Elagbi’s table. Talasyn was about to execute a curtsy of her own to the Dragon Queen, out of habit, but Elagbi caught her eye, stopping her with a slight shake of his head. The Night Empress was outranked only by her husband.
“Emperor Alaric,” Urduja drawled. “Welcome to the family.”
“Thank you, Harlikaan.” Alaric’s tone was courteous but the muscles of his arm tensed in Talasyn’s grasp, through the silk of his sleeve. “The honor is mine.”
Elagbi stuck out his hand, which Alaric—after some hesitation—shook with his free one. “Take care of my daughter,” said the Dominion prince, fixing the younger man with a level stare.
“I will,” Alaric replied in a voice that was slightly strained at the edges.
Elagbi turned to Talasyn and kissed her on the forehead. It was such a tender gesture that a lump formed in her throat, but it was over much too soon and then she had to face Urduja, who merely offered her a brisk nod.
“It was a beautiful wedding, Empress.” Whatever Urduja might have thought of the power shift, her painted features were an imperturbable mask, concealing her thoughts entirely.
Elagbi let out a soft chuckle. Three pairs of eyes turned to him, quizzical. “I was merely thinking,” he explained, “that this is a most unexpected outcome.” He placed an affectionate hand on Talasyn’s arm. “When I revealed that you were my daughter at the Belian garrison—had anyone told me back then that you’d one day marry the man you were taken prisoner with, I’d have thought them quite mad!”
Talasyn cringed. Leave it to her carefree father to make things even more awkward. Urduja looked thunderous, clearly unimpressed by her son’s attempt at small talk. And Alaric—
Alaric frowned, as though something had just occurred to him and it wasn’t adding up.
But he would have had scarce opportunity to dig deeper if he’d wanted to. Now that the exchange of greetings was over and done with, there remained one more custom standing between the wedding party and dinner. Alaric escorted Talasyn onto the middle of the dance floor as the string orchestra launched into a slower melody and the lights were dimmed.
“They have taught you how to waltz, yes?” he murmured in her ear.
“A fine time to ask!” she snapped.
The line of his mouth relaxed. “Just checking.”
Facing each other in the center of the ballroom, beneath the twinkling lights of a bronze chandelier as big as a skerry, they assumed the closed position—his right hand on the small of her back, her left hand curled on the jut of his shoulder, their other hands clasped together at chest height. They fell into motions that Talasyn had started learning months ago. She’d needed dance lessons because balls were part and parcel of court life, but she would never in a million years have been prepared for her first official dance being the literal first dance at her own wedding.
It did not go as smoothly as she’d hoped.
“Talasyn.” Alaric sounded annoyed. “You’re supposed to let me lead.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “I’m the one who leads.”
“No—” He broke off. Understanding dawned on his face. “Very well. Apparently, they do things differently here in the Nenavar Dominion.”
As their dance progressed, she could tell that he was making a concentrated effort to adapt. However, old forms were hard to break. “You’re still not letting me lead,” she said through gritted teeth. It was less a dance and more a tug-of-war.
Alaric scowled but obediently readjusted his stance, forcing himself to turn pliable in her hands. That was the moment when everything changed.
The music washed over them, airy strains of an arched harp, lightly skipping lutes, a silvery floor zither, the bowed swansong of spiked fiddles. Their audience faded away as they fell into the graceful, sweeping melody. He held her as close to him as her wide skirts would permit, his eyes charcoal-dark in the candlelight. Her dress caught the radiance of the chandeliers and the illusion was such that its swirling panels of gold were reflected on his face.
After their duels, after going through all those forms of breath and magic, they knew the rhythm of each other’s body too well to pretend otherwise. They swayed and they glided and she led him into a twirl, feeling the heat of his tall, strong frame even after she spun away, entranced by it every time she came back to him. They moved together like water and moonlight.
Alaric felt like a menagerie animal as he sat at the head table with Talasyn while the Nenavarene court scrutinized them. He picked at each dish brought out by a never-ending parade of smartly dressed attendants and took sparing sips from each vintage that was poured to complement the various courses.
Beside him, Talasyn was faring no better, unenthusiastically prodding at her spiced lamb with a bejeweled fork. There was a rustle of silk as she tried to cross her legs and failed, thanks no doubt to the voluminous inner layers of her skirt. She huffed, irritated, and resorted to taking out her frustrations on the lamb on her plate, hacking at it with a viciousness ill-suited to their elegant surroundings.
“That thing’s dead enough, surely,” Alaric drawled.
Talasyn’s eyes remained glued to her plate. She’d been avoiding his gaze ever since the end of their dance, and he could hardly blame her. Something had passed between them, some smoldering charge. But with the entire court looking on, there was no space to examine it further.
Alaric’s knee started bouncing under the table—a mannerism that he rarely indulged in, but he was bored and uncomfortable and this night couldn’t end soon enough. He didn’t realize that he was jostling Talasyn’s leg until he felt a light slap on his knee and he glanced down to see her hand still poised above it, her wedding band sparkling on her ring finger.
“Did you just spank me?” he asked, incredulous.