“I already know why,” Talasyn interrupted. She’d had plenty of opportunity to agonize over it. “You were afraid that the Amirante would change her mind about sheltering in Nenavar and I would have no impetus to stay and your reign would destabilize further because you had no heir.”
Urduja didn’t deny it. Incensed, Talasyn continued, “You said that you suspected the Night Empire would try to invade. But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? You knew that they would, because you’ve been around long enough to realize that it was inevitable. And you even welcomed it, because an alliance with the Shadowforged while you had a Lightweaver granddaughter was Nenavar’s way out of another Dead Season. You had that marriage offer ready to go—perhaps ever since it was reported to you that Ossinast and I had created a barrier that could cancel out the Belian garrison’s void bolts. When I suggested to Vela that we come here, I was playing right into your hands, wasn’t I?”
Urduja’s dark-tinted lips stretched into a smile. And the horrifying thing was that it was genuine. There was no warmth in it, that was true, but there was a certain pride. “Almost perfect, Lachis’ka. You fail to see the entirety of the bigger picture. In the future, consider every angle. That skill will serve you well when you are queen.”
“Harlikaan,” Elagbi pleaded, “Talasyn is hurting right now. We owe it to her to explain.”
“That’s precisely what I’m doing,” Urduja huffed. “Alunsina, I decided to leave it as late as possible—to let you and the Night Emperor find out together—for a very simple reason. Ossinast does not trust you. He probably never truly will, given your shared past. Had you known about the Night of the World-Eater before he did, had you been in on it when I sprung the new information on him, that would have made things even worse. But now he has reason to believe that you are guileless, to a certain extent. That I have not fully taken you into my confidence. That you are nothing at all like my conniving court.”
He does more than believe that, Talasyn thought numbly. Alaric had sympathized with her. He had given her his sincere perspective on the situation. “Why—” Her voice cracked. She tried again. “Why tell me at all, then?”
“I almost wasn’t going to. I deemed the risk too great,” said Urduja. “But your father”—she shot a long-suffering glance at Elagbi—“felt that, if we let this go on, it would cause damage to our relationship as a family that would prove impossible to repair.”
“And because it would be another lesson for me, right?” Talasyn muttered.
“You are learning,” said Urduja.
“I’m tired of being a pawn.” Where did it come from, this bluntness? Perhaps the memory of Alaric saying that her grandmother underestimated her. Perhaps even just that she was fed up. “I don’t want this to happen again. If I am to play my part in saving Nenavar and the Sardovian remnant, we have to work together.”
“You are dictating to me, Your Grace?” Urduja challenged.
“Not at all, Harlikaan,” Talasyn said evenly, holding the older woman’s gaze with a steel that she had never expected herself capable of. “I’m simply advising you on the best way forward. On how, as I see it, we can get out of this mess unscathed.”
When Urduja finally nodded, Talasyn was left with the impression of having just barely dodged what would have been a killing blow. She made a valiant attempt to prevent her relief from being too evident, although she was certain that the Zahiya-lachis’s jet-black eyes missed nothing. In the same vein, she fought back the wave of guilt that assailed her. She was doing what she needed to do. If Alaric took issue, he should have made different choices in life.
But it all came creeping up on her, like splinters of a dream just upon waking. The shadows swirling around Alaric in pain and fury as he spoke of his grandfather’s death, misguided as his version of events was. His distant tone when he told her about his mother—so carefully blank, like armor drawn over a vulnerable spot.
Why should she think about these things now? Why should she care?
Elagbi clapped his hands together. “Now that that’s been sorted out,” he said, with a cheer slightly strained at the edges, “shall we head down to supper?”
A purple carpet of stars fell over the Roof of Heaven and the seven moons in their various phases emerged from behind wisps of cloud. Standing beside an open window in the corridor outside the banquet hall, Alaric peered down at the Dominion’s capital city, which was so brightly lit and bustling that it could almost have been the middle of the day.
Talasyn would arrive at any moment. He was nervous, still thinking about what had happened in the plumeria grove—or what had almost happened. Earlier, he’d wanted to kill Sevraim, but now he was grateful for the interruption.
He was Shadowforged. He couldn’t go around kissing Lightweavers, no matter how pretty and betrothed to him they were. And it would only be a marriage of political convenience, anyway. She would never feel the same—
The same as what? What did he feel?
The heat was getting to him, he decided. A humid breeze seeped in through the window, and Alaric tried not to be too obvious in the way he angled his body to catch as much of it as possible. The majority of his wardrobe was ill suited to Nenavar’s tropical climate. He was far too warm in his black high-collared cutaway tailcoat layered over a shirt of ribbed ivory silk.
He knew that Sevraim and Mathire were similarly suffering in their black-and-silver dress uniforms. The two of them had been scowling when the steward ushered them into the banquet hall after informing Alaric that he and Talasyn—as it was in their honor that the event was being held—would be the last to enter, that he was expected to escort her inside, where all the other diners were waiting. The palace guards posted by the closed doors were clearly struggling to disguise their looks of suspicion and contempt as they stood within striking distance of a would-be invader, but, fortunately, Alaric didn’t have to endure it for long.
Because suddenly she was there, appearing from around the corner.
His breath caught at the sight of her. Talasyn wore a dress spun from iridescent teal fabric, textured and crisp, with silver dragons lavishly embroidered along the square neckline, the high waist, the hem of the flowing skirt, and the cuffs of the wide sleeves that trailed almost to the floor, revealing glimpses of a blood-red lining. Her hair was loose, cascading from beneath a silver crown that resembled a multi-spired temple rising up from glimmering oceanic waves, a ruby-eyed dragon’s head perched at the center.
She didn’t hesitate when she caught sight of him, closing the distance between them with her chin held high. As she came to a stop a few inches away, Alaric saw her usual death stare had been replaced with uncertainty. Her eyes, which usually blazed with fury, were rendered a lighter shade of brown by the glow of the torches and somehow seemed gentler because of that, yet no less potent in their scrutiny.