“I hadn’t considered that,” he eventually said. “I apologize.”
She nearly fell over. Never in a million Moonless Darks would she have expected to hear those words from his lips. Her first instinct was to be sharp, to be as ungracious as he deserved, to goad him about how he should also apologize for everything that his empire had done.
But what would be the point? He was never going to be sorry, and working with him was the only hope she had of saving Nenavar and its secret trove of Sardovian refugees. And this was also her chance to talk to someone who understood combat magic more than Vela did.
“I think that my aethermancy was also protecting me in its own way,” Talasyn heard herself confess. “I think it hid because it knew that the architects of the Nenavarene civil war wanted me dead, even if I didn’t. Even if I was too young to remember.”
“It’s not impossible,” said Alaric. “There’s a lot that has yet to be learned regarding aetherspace, but we are aware that it holds connections to time and memory. When the Shadowforged commune with our Severs, it’s also like unlocking events from our pasts, in addition to refining our magic. Enchanters seem to be immune from this effect, as they have no Sever to call their own, but myself and the other legionnaires, for example—our childhood recollections are far more vivid than those non-Shadowforged can manage, going back to an earlier age than most.”
“I can’t imagine you as a child,” Talasyn couldn’t resist quipping.
“It was several years ago.”
“Right.” She couldn’t tell where her next question came from. She couldn’t tell why it suddenly mattered. “And what do you remember, from several years ago?”
An icy look slammed over Alaric’s face. Whatever friendliness had overlain this moment, or at least lack of antagonism—maybe the very same thing that had inspired her to ask about his childhood in the first place—fizzled out, just like that. “Perhaps if you can commune with the Light Sever on Belian, you’ll be able to regain more memories of your own instead of asking for mine.”
She bit the tongue that she was tempted to stick out at him. “Daya Vaikar has already proposed to the Zahiya-lachis that you and I train at the shrine, so that I can access the Light Sever when it discharges. Queen Urduja won’t allow it, as she prefers to keep an eye on you and your contingent.” And on me.
“Hasn’t she allowed you, though?” Alaric shot back. “You have been here four months. If you’d had regular access to the Light Sever, you would probably be able to craft something as simple as a shield by now.”
Talasyn looked away. “I have lessons. And duties, as her heir.”
He made an impatient noise under his breath; then he changed the subject. “Let us try to get you to weave a shield, then. If you can.”
Talasyn was experiencing a fair bit of whiplash from the abrupt shifts in the cantankerous Night Emperor’s mood, but she decided that it wasn’t her problem. She settled for rolling her eyes at him as she waited for what his idea of a lesson had in store.
What do you remember, from several years ago?
It was a loaded question. Alaric remembered a lot of things.
The Lightweavers’ attack on the Citadel in the middle of the night. How there had been nothing but a bolted door and his mother’s embrace between him and the screaming and all the awful, blazing magic of Sunstead, until the Shadowforged Legion rallied and was able to repel the assault.
In the aftermath, he remembered the weeping that swept through the fortress as news spread that his grandfather had been slain at the gates. He remembered his father being crowned in the middle of the battlefield, in armor drenched with the old king’s blood, the promise of vengeance burning in his gray eyes, reflecting the myriad fires around him.
Alaric remembered how that night had marked a change in Gaheris, manifesting in little cruelties and obsessions that piled up over the years until Sancia Ossinast finally fled under cover of darkness . . .
Come with me. Please.
In the midst of the perfumed orchids, under the hot sunlight and blue sky of the here and now, Alaric sucked in a hiss of breath, letting it fan over the fresh ache of an old wound in his chest. He chastised himself for letting his thoughts stray into the musings of a weak fool once more. His father had done what needed to be done. His mother had not been strong enough to face it.
And he had allowed an offhand question from his inquisitive little betrothed to rattle him.
At least she hadn’t noticed.
Talasyn’s eyes were squeezed shut, her brow furrowed as she pictured a shield as Alaric had instructed her to. She had been at it for a good few minutes, which was about as long as he’d spent staring off into the distance while the past dragged him down into its mire.
“Can you see it?” he pressed. “Is it solid in your mind?” She gave a slow nod. “Now, summon it into existence just as you would a dagger or a spear.” She held up one hand in front of her. “Open the Lightweave and let it flow through you—”
A shapeless flare of golden radiance burst from Talasyn’s fingertips. Alaric leaned to the side as it rushed past him, its haze warm against his cheek. It collided with a pillar at the opposite end of the garden and knocked off a good-sized chunk of marble, eliciting a tremor in the air and clouds of pale dust.
Talasyn went as red as a beet. She ducked her head, her chestnut braid spilling over one slim shoulder as she hunched in on herself as though bracing for his derision.
It was a familiar posture. It brought him back to the early stages of his own training.
What do you remember? she had asked.
If you stay, his mother had whispered, there will be nothing left of you.
“It’s all right, Lachis’ka.” The gentleness that he heard in his voice surprised him. It was a gentleness that had no place in this situation, but it was too late to take it back. “We’ll try again. Close your eyes.”
“What was the first weapon you ever made?”
In the darkness behind Talasyn’s shut lids, the hoarse rich ness of Alaric’s voice was amplified. She fidgeted, trying not to be distracted by it.
“A knife,” she said. “It took me only a few hours to perfect one that looked like the knife I stole from the kitchens when I left the orphanage. I knew that I’d need something to defend myself with, living on the streets.”
There was no response for such a long time that she would have assumed he’d gotten up and left, if not for the familiar scent of sandalwood water lingering in the air. He must splash that on after shaving in the mornings, she thought idly.
And then it hit her—the only possible explanation as to why he was so quiet—and her natural defensiveness reared its head. “Are you pitying me?”