As indicated in the Dominion’s tersely worded missive, which had been delivered to the stormship via a crested brown-and-white eagle the size of a canoe, the envoy was Niamha Langsoune, the Daya of Catanduc. Her cross-collared peach-and-apricot robes swished gently with every step, celestial patterns embroidered in copper thread bringing out the burnished tones of her smooth skin. Elaborately stylized paints and powders adorned her graceful features underneath a jewel-encrusted scarf that had been wrapped around her jet-black hair like a halo. Alaric did his best not to gawk, acknowledging her flawless curtsy with a nod before gesturing for her to take the seat across from him at the long table. It was a private audience, with both side’s guards waiting outside the closed doors.
“Daya Langsoune,” Alaric began, “I trust that your journey was a pleasant one.” From Port Samout, it had taken all of fifteen minutes for her skerry to reach the Night Empire airships, but he figured that it didn’t hurt to be polite.
“As pleasant as can be expected, with the threat of war looming over our heads.” Niamha’s voice was disarmingly bright and clear, like a glass bell. In truth, she seemed far too young to have been designated envoy for such a delicate matter. Alaric estimated her to be around the same age as Talasyn was, and then he steadfastly banished his treacherous thoughts about the missing Lightweaver from his mind.
“It doesn’t have to be a war,” he told Niamha. “Should the Zahiya-lachis deign to swear fealty to the Night Empire, not a single drop of Nenavarene blood need be shed.”
“I would not be so certain, Your Majesty. Let me tell you something about my people.” Niamha leaned forward, as if about to impart a great secret. “We will not be ruled by outsiders. If Queen Urduja bows, our islands will revolt.”
“And what are your islands compared to Kesath’s ordnance?” Alaric drawled. “I have the advantage. I have the stormships and your magic. I could decimate the Nenavar Dominion’s army in a fortnight using only half of the imperial fleet.”
“You could, but then you will be king of ashes,” Niamha shot back. “We would sooner salt our fields and poison our waters, burn our castles and bury our mines, and kill every last one of our dragons before we let any of it fall into the Night Empire’s hands.”
“While that would certainly be tragic, it’s still a preferable outcome to Kesath having to share this corner of the Eversea with an independent, uncooperative monarchy. One that sought to destroy us nineteen years ago,” he retorted. “We are wasting time, Daya Langsoune. I expected us to either discuss surrender or to declare hostilities, not to posture and play word games.”
“I did not come here to surrender, Your Majesty. And only a fool would declare hostilities while behind enemy ranks.” Niamha’s ink-black eyes gleamed. “Queen Urduja wishes to avoid bloodshed, same as you. Luckily enough for all of us, Nenavar has a time-honored tradition of settling differences between rival factions via one very efficient method.”
Alaric’s jaw clenched. “Which is?”
“I bring you an offer from She Who Hung the Earth Upon the Waters,” said the envoy. “An offer of marriage to the heir of her throne.”
At first, Alaric was absolutely certain that he’d misheard. After several moments passed with Niamha watching him patiently, he found his voice, his brows knitting together. “Over the years, we have been gathering what intelligence we can on the Nenavar Dominion, as I am sure that the Dominion has done with Kesath.” She smirked, giving away nothing and everything all at once, and he continued, “According to these reports, you have no Lachis’ka. Elagbi’s daughter disappeared during a failed uprising and is presumed dead.”
“Your reports are outdated,” Niamha declared with relish. “Alunsina Ivralis was returned to us some time ago. A union between our two realms would be beneficial for all, don’t you think? The Dominion retains its autonomy and the Night Empire gains access to Nenavar and the riches within.” She stood up. “I’ll take my leave before I outstay my welcome, Your Majesty. We shall await your response to either begin marriage negotiations or exchange broadsides, and rest assured that we are prepared to do either. But do take your time—you have the advantage, after all.”
Niamha swept out of the room in a rustle of silk, leaving Alaric alone and stunned, wrestling with the enormity of the choice set before him.
“They want something.”
His father’s voice echoed low like distant thunder through a place that was not a place. A room that did not exist in the material world.
Gaheris called it the In-Between, this pocket dimension accessible via the Shadowgate. He had found it when he began delving deeper, past the known boundaries of magic. It was a space that could be occupied by more than one aethermancer at the same time, facilitating a method of instantaneous communication across even the vastest distance. The In-Between required tremendous focus and effort to maintain, and thus far Alaric was the only one among the Legion who had mastered such an art.
As a child, he’d clung to the fanciful notion that the In-Between was special, something that belonged to him and his father alone. Perhaps there was a small part of him that still believed so now.
Amidst flickering walls of shadow energy and aetherspace, Gaheris was deep in thought, head bowed, long fingers curled under his chin, unmoving. By contrast, Alaric was restless even as he stood respectfully still, his gauntleted fist clenching and opening at his side in slow, tentative spasms.
“The Dominion wants something from us,” Gaheris repeated. “Given how quickly they responded, they had their offer ready well before we made contact. I must admit that I’m curious.” He looked up, his gray eyes holding Alaric prisoner in their murky depths. “But, in any case, Daya Langsoune is right. A conjugal union between the Night Emperor and the Lachis’ka of the Nenavar Dominion would be most pragmatic.”
“Father.” The protest was ripped loose from Alaric’s throat before he could stop it. “I cannot marry a woman I do not know.” He couldn’t marry at all. A wife had never figured in his plans, and he had no wish to be shackled by the same sort of arrangement that had hung his parents out to dry.
“We must all make sacrifices for our cause. It would not do to falter now.” Gaheris’s tone took on a sinuous cajolery, sinking its thorns into Alaric’s soul. “It is your destiny to rule. With the wealth of Nenavar at your disposal, with the Huktera at your back, you will build an empire on a grander scale than even I could have ever dreamed.”
“It won’t be my wealth, it won’t be my fleet,” Alaric muttered. “It will still belong to—”
“Your bride. Who will one day be the Zahiya-lachis. Who will be all too eager to share her earthly possessions with her husband if she is properly wooed.”
Alaric grimaced. Pride kept him from saying it out loud, but Gaheris seemed entirely too confident in his son’s abilities to woo anyone. “I don’t know if it would be advisable to wager the future on a woman’s heart,” he remarked instead.