Urduja sighed. “Do not be too hard on your father, Lachis’ka. I ordered that he not tell you. You’ve fought us every step of the way regarding this betrothal, and I feared that you would have been even more unwilling if you prematurely learned that I wished for you to train together with the Night Emperor. But you must understand the gravity of the situation by now, and it is my hope that you will cooperate, as time is of the essence.”
Talasyn’s eyes flitted from one solemn Dominion noble to another, as if daring them to speak up. One after another, they avoided her gaze. By the time she finished, Alaric watched as her shoulders slumped in defeat, all the fight gone out of her. The Talasyn he had come to know never backed down, would never let herself be beaten in this way, and suddenly he loathed everything about this scene. To his left, Mathire was struggling to repress a smirk at the Lightweaver’s discomfiture, and Alaric felt a wave of revulsion. He shot his officer a glare and she quickly worked her features back into a semblance of neutrality.
And what was it about this moment, Alaric wondered as he studied his betrothed from across the table, that made him understand? Talasyn was hanging her head and he couldn’t see her face clearly, but he somehow knew that she was close to breaking. Had he been here before? Yes, perhaps—all those times when he reached for his father but was bitterly rebuffed. All those times when Gaheris had taken him to task for his failings in front of the entire court. The innocent hopes for a better father soon giving way to self-reproach for not being a better son.
The only way to avoid falling victim to such pain was to become stronger than it. Apparently, Talasyn had yet to master that crucial lesson.
“It’s settled, then,” Alaric announced, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. No one, not even the Lightweaver, should have to endure an audience for this. “Her Grace and I will endeavor to develop this new magic over the next five months. I must insist, however, that the two of us be provided with all necessary information going forward. Surely there is no more need for secrets between our two realms.”
“Of course,” Urduja replied smoothly. “I shall be the paradigm of transparency from now on.”
There was a limit to how far one’s rage could carry them. Talasyn had spent the past sennight fueled by anger at her impossible situation, but now it had reached its tipping point and drained away. Talasyn was beyond anger. She was beyond sadness or humiliation, even. She had agreed to this marriage not just to save her comrades, but for the Nenavarene—her people, her family. Not only had they allowed her to be left in ignorance, her grandmother had chosen to expose this in front of Alaric and the other Kesathese.
She laid numbly in her bed as evening crept in. There was a knock on her door—perhaps Jie, or even Elagbi, but she ignored it. All of the emotions that she should have been feeling—it was as though she viewed them through a sheet of glass, and there was nobody that she wanted to talk to.
Except . . .
What should I do? she asked Khaede.
Kill everyone, the Khaede who lived in her head promptly responded.
Talasyn almost cracked a smile at imagining that. Usually, whenever she thought of Khaede, it would be with a near-physical ache, but she couldn’t even summon the strength for that now.
Only once the morning’s light crept in through the window did she rise and prepare herself to meet Alaric in the Roof of Heaven’s atrium. She changed into garb that suited aethermancing—a tunic, breeches, boots—silently daring anyone to challenge her on it.
Urduja had informed Alaric and Talasyn that Nenavarene Enchanters would be summoned to the capital to observe firsthand the creation of their light-and-shadow shield. When Talasyn walked into the atrium, Alaric was already present, standing beside a small group of men and women garbed in lengths of vibrant checkered fabric arranged in various ways, a mode of dress characteristic to Ahimsa, one of the seven main islands—a bustling metropolis that served as Nenavar’s center for aethermanced technology.
In his severe black attire Alaric looked practically comical next to the Enchanters, like a dour, overly large thundercloud. But, for some reason, Talasyn was fixated only on his gray eyes. They regarded her with a hint of softness as she approached. Curiosity, maybe, or concern, after yesterday’s events lingered in the air between them. Her face flamed and she determinedly ignored him, turning instead to the woman who led the group of Enchanters.
Ishan Vaikar, the stout and curly-haired Daya of Ahimsa, curtseyed to Talasyn with a slight limp. Talasyn knew that hidden underneath Ishan’s checkered skirt was a golden prosthetic in lieu of the right leg that she had lost fighting in the Dominion’s civil war.
“Your Grace. If you and His Majesty would be so kind as to position yourselves in the middle of the atrium?”
As Talasyn complied, she searched the surrounding windows and balconies for any sign of Urduja or Elagbi, though she knew it was in vain. Security precautions dictated that they be far away when the sariman cages were removed from the Night Emperor’s vicinity, and the atrium had been selected for its distance from the royal family’s wing of the palace.
Talasyn did spot dozens of servants peeking out from behind curtains or pillars, or crouched down low looking through glass. They were technically not supposed to be watching, but mere technicalities were no match for Nenavarene curiosity.
Alaric noticed the spectators as well. “Is it always like that here?” he asked.
For once, she wasn’t in the mood to order him to stop talking to her. She was tired. And, yesterday in the council room, he had to his credit taken no apparent pleasure in the hurt that she’d failed to disguise, and he’d even insisted that the Dominion be more forthcoming in the future. Granted, that last part was probably more for his own benefit—but, still, Talasyn had felt a little less alone when he said that.
Grasping at straws again, she mused, her eyes flickering over his sullen profile in the early-morning sun.
“Gossip is a way of life here,” she told him. “You’ll get used to it.”
The corner of Alaric’s mouth lifted slightly. An odd thought struck her then: What would he look like if he smiled?
No sooner had the question crossed her mind than a sliver of mortification pierced through it. Why was she thinking about Alaric Ossinast smiling? She was clearly more emotionally overwrought than she’d assumed.
A few meters away, Ishan stepped forward. This was the signal for the palace guards at the periphery of the atrium to take the sariman cages down from the walls and move them further away. The Lightweave came rushing back just as Ishan raised the barrel of a slender void musket, the same model that Talasyn had first encountered on the Belian range.
“I am ready when you are, Your Grace, Your Majesty,” the daya sang out, entirely too gleeful for someone holding a lethal weapon, and Talasyn swallowed a nervous lump in her throat. She looked toward Alaric, and he met her gaze, searching for confirmation. They both nodded.
Ishan pulled the trigger. The violet bolt of the Voidfell streamed toward Alaric and Talasyn. They each conjured their daggers and hurled them forth, just as they’d done when that pillar in Lasthaven was bearing down upon her.