Like any other day, Talasyn suffered in silence while her lady-in-waiting worked a different kind of magic. Unlike any other day, the inside of her head was all fuzzy with thoughts of Alaric. Of his stupidly large body so close to hers, warm and unyielding. Of his palms engulfing her shoulders, of the ridged leather of his gauntlets gliding along her neck.
By the World-Father’s yellow fingernails, she’d shivered. She’d actually shivered at Alaric’s touch, goosebumps prickling her skin. He’d taken such liberties with her, and she—
She hadn’t hated it.
It had made the oddest sort of yearning bloom within her.
Never mind that he was the cruel Night Emperor, the brutal Master of the Shadowforged Legion. She had, for a few horrifying moments, stared at his mouth, her traitorous body singing as that mouth drew closer. She had leaned back against him and tipped up her chin. She had wanted to be warmed all over. To see where it led.
Sol had liked to hold Khaede that way, Talasyn remembered. He would sneak up behind Khaede and put his hands on her shoulders or around her waist, rasping out a greeting before pressing a mischievous kiss to her neck, in plain sight of everyone.
Whenever Talasyn had seen that—whenever she saw how grumpy old Khaede melted into Sol’s arms—she had always wondered what it would feel like, if it was her and someone who loved her.
And now Sol was dead and Khaede was gone and Talasyn was grasping at straws again, likening the affection the two had shared to that pale parody of it in the plumeria grove which had been nothing more than an unfortunate, inexplicable accident between her and the man she hated, and who hated her.
She felt sick to her stomach.
Alaric had been about to kiss her, hadn’t he? Granted, she could claim no personal experience regarding such things, but it had been heading there, hadn’t it? Why?
Why would he even attempt to kiss her? And why, despite knowing what he was and all that he had done, had she even wanted him to?
Hate is another kind of passion, Niamha Langsoune had said the day the Kesathese arrived. Perhaps it was that. An aberration, like accidentally tapping into a different frequency because aetherwave wires had crossed. It could never be anything more than that, and Talasyn resolved to put it out of her mind—maybe even stab Alaric if he attempted to bring it up.
“You know, Your Grace,” Jie chirped as she deftly ran a willow-stick, the tip coated in ground-up brown pigment, through Talasyn’s brows, “I was just thinking the other day that Emperor Alaric isn’t so terrible-looking for an outsider. In my opinion, as far as physical appearances go, you could have done far worse. I’m serious!” she exclaimed with a slight laugh as Talasyn sputtered. “He’s a bit on the broody side and somewhat frightening, dressed all in black like that, but he’s tall and he has beautiful hair. And his mouth, it’s very—”
“Y-you stop right there!” Talasyn nearly shrieked, her reflection scarlet in the hummingbird mirror.
She couldn’t tell whether Jie’s lack of resentment toward Alaric was simply the girl making the best of a bad situation or genuine disinterest in the threat that Kesath posed to her homeland. Talasyn suspected that it might be the latter. Jie had grown up in a castle with a host of servants attending to her every whim, secure in the knowledge that she would one day inherit the title of daya from her doting mother. She was sixteen years old, incredibly chatty, and seemed not to have a single care in the world.
Still, a command from the Lachis’ka was a command, and so Jie didn’t pursue the topic. However, her eyes sparkled with amusement as she dusted a pale shimmery powder over the bridge of Talasyn’s nose. “Is there courtship on the Northwest Continent, Your Grace? Here we give small tokens of our affection, send letters, hold hands under the promise jasmines when they’re in bloom, steal a kiss or two. The boys serenade us outside our windows as well. Is it similar elsewhere?”
“I wouldn’t know. I never had time for any of that.” It occurred to Talasyn that what Jie had said didn’t quite adhere to her own observations of Nenavarene culture. “I thought that most marriages among the Dominion aristocracy were arranged.”
“Yes, but there are those who wed for love,” said Jie. “Such as my cousin, Harjanti, the Daya of Sabtang. I hope to someday be as fortunate.” Her smile was soft and dreamy and unjaded, so far removed from Talasyn’s own experiences at that age, fighting a war an ocean away. “And for you, Lachis’ka, I hope that Emperor Alaric will romance you properly. Stolen kisses and all.”
Jie tittered, highly pleased with herself. Talasyn was spared from having to respond by the musical notes of wind chimes, as light and airy as birdsong. Jie excused herself to see who had sounded them.
When she returned to Talasyn, she announced. “Lachis’ka, Queen Urduja and Prince Elagbi are here to see you.”
Wonderful.
Talasyn struggled not to roll her eyes. She didn’t particularly want to talk to her grandmother and her father, but—she could. I am amenable, as Alaric had said in that prissy tone of his, and remembering that ensured that Talasyn was biting back a smile and shaking her head at his insufferable antics as she followed Jie into the solar.
It was her solar but, just like her bedchamber, it had been designed with the comfort of a refined aristocrat in mind. Lustrous rosewood had been fashioned into delicate chairs and scroll-legged tables. The white marble walls were covered in pastel-hued paintings of cherry blossoms and egrets and dancing figures with stars in their flowing hair, all accentuated with generous splashes of gold leaf. Artfully scattered throughout the airy space were bronze sculptures and elaborate woven baskets. In one corner, perched atop a dragon-shaped pedestal, was an enormous arched harp, gathering dust; the young Urduja Silim had reportedly played like a dream before assuming the mantle of leadership, but Talasyn had thought that the instrument was some kind of weapon when she first laid eyes on it.
Queen Urduja had made herself comfortable in one of the chairs, but Elagbi bounded up to Talasyn, beaming. “My dear, you look lovely—”
“Thank you,” Talasyn replied in a flat tone of voice. She didn’t return her father’s embrace, and his arms awkwardly fell away from her.
Urduja shot Jie an imperious look, waiting until the girl had scampered out of the solar before telling Talasyn, “Your father and I would like to clear the air regarding certain matters.”
Talasyn sat down. Elagbi did as well, his dark eyes bearing the wounded look of a pup that had been kicked one too many times, and Talasyn willed her resolve not to crumble. He had done her wrong and she wasn’t willing to let him forget it anytime soon.
Urduja cleared her throat lightly. “I understand that you are angry at us for withholding the information about the Voidfell. I would like to explain why—”