Urduja Silim. The Zahiya-lachis of the Nenavar Dominion, with a twisted crown and white-powdered face and jet-black gaze like winter steel. Her throne eclipsed the two others in both opulence and breadth, a construct of pure gold with clawed feet and stylized wings sprouting from the backrest that spread halfway up to the ceiling, unfurled like a dragon’s in midflight and sprinkled all over with jade, opals, rubies, diamonds, and gems that Alaric couldn’t even name.
“That chair alone could commission a fleet of ironclads,” he heard Sevraim remark to Mathire as they approached the platform, which also had a sariman cage mounted at each end.
Elagbi ascended the steps and took his place at his mother’s side while the rest of the welcoming committee melted into the watchful crowd. Alaric straightened his spine, taking care not to let his shoulders droop into their instinctive slight hunch, and Mathire clicked her heels and saluted Queen Urduja. Alaric felt Sevraim come to a sharp halt beside him as Urduja’s royal guards fanned out to both circle the Kesathese delegation and barricade the platform.
“Emperor Alaric.” Urduja’s imperious tones rang throughout the hall. “I bid you welcome to my court. Before we commence with the negotiations, allow me to state for the record that I would like for us to listen to each other with open minds and strive to work together in ensuring a prosperous future for our two realms. It is my sincerest wish that your journey here will not be in vain, whether by your own doing or others.”
The pretty speech ended on a firm note, as if it had been a warning all along. A warning that seemed to very pointedly include their audience of nobles, who were watching the scene as if they had collectively stepped on something malodorous. Alaric could only imagine the uproar that must have taken place when Urduja announced her granddaughter’s betrothal to him.
There was movement at the corner of his eye, a flash of white-streaked reddish-brown hair—Mathire had broken her rigid stance to dart him an urgent look. Right. It was his turn to say something.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Queen Urduja, as well as for your wisdom in facilitating a mutually beneficial solution to this territorial dispute,” said Alaric. The Nenavarene needed to be reminded that this arrangement was their sovereign’s idea. “My people are tired of war and yours would rather not start one. We are therefore united by a common purpose, and I have every faith that we will manage to broker an enduring, fruitful peace.”
These weren’t empty words. Not for him. He had been on the front lines ever since he was sixteen years old. This alliance was his chance, too, to know what it was like to live without the hurricanes.
Urduja graciously inclined her head. “Then, if it pleases His Majesty, you may approach the throne and meet our Lachis’ka.”
Alaric felt as though his legs were made of lead as he ascended the marble steps that seemed to go on forever, an entire hall fixated on his every movement. When he reached the top of the platform, he noticed that there was a cunning gleam in the Dragon Queen’s eyes that he didn’t like, a gleam that made his gut curl with foreboding. Before he could dwell on it, however, the figure on the rightmost throne stood up and emerged from behind the screen and swept toward him. His train of thought screeched to a halt.
Nenavarene women are the most beautiful in all the world, Gaheris had said, but beautiful couldn’t even begin to describe Alunsina Ivralis. She wore a dress of rich oceanic blue, the bodice gold-flecked and skintight, hanging from her bare left shoulder in an artful slash while her right shoulder was capped by an eagle-wing pauldron made entirely of gold, attached to a sleeve of what looked like golden chainmail encasing her slim arm. Her skirt was a voluminous, ballooning thing, studded with crystalline beadwork, the silk hem bunched up into swirling rosettes to reveal the yards of sheerer gold fabric that lay beneath, every inch painstakingly embroidered with the coiled dragon that was the insignia of the Nenavarene Royal House. Her crown of stars and saltires was made of gold, set with sapphires, and her eyes were dramatically rimmed with kohl, a smattering of gold dust at the edges—and there was something familiar about their tawny depths that Alaric couldn’t parse. In fact, there was something about her, in general, that tugged at him. He was too flustered by his physical reaction to immediately decipher what it was, but when he finally did, the breath caught in his throat.
She reminded him of Talasyn. Her stature, the color of her swept-back hair, even the way she moved. It was a cruel joke that he would now have to wed someone so similar to the girl who plagued his thoughts.
“Lachis’ka.” Alaric bowed his head, retreating into prescribed formalities the same way that he fell into combat forms by rote. “May this signal the beginning of an amicable relationship between our two realms and . . .”
He trailed off mid-sentence as he lifted his gaze back to her features. His brain was starting to catch up, starting to realize that—
—underneath the opulent silk and the lavish jewels—
—underneath the cosmetics that hid her freckles and sharpened her cheekbones and softened the strong line of her jaw—
—underneath all of that—she was—
“Amicable relationship?” Talasyn hissed, with narrowed eyes and a feral flash of teeth, and Alaric’s heart all but stopped beating in his chest. “Not fucking likely.”
Chapter Sixteen
Talasyn did not hold much truck with the finery of her father’s people. That wasn’t to say that she detested looking at the Nenavarene lords and ladies in their resplendent attire, but actually wearing these things herself was a different story. Perhaps concluding that her granddaughter would be a more amicable hostage if provided some measure of freedom, Queen Urduja usually allowed Talasyn to scurry around in simple tunics and breeches when her presence was not required at a meeting. Talasyn was little used to the scratch of embroidered silk and the constraints of heavy jewelry and layered skirts.