There it was again, the throb of panic that coursed through her system like the first pulse of a straight-line wind from a stormship sent slamming through city streets, made all the more charged because Alaric was beside her and he looked like . . . like that.
“Is that what you were doing in the Belian garrison, Your Majesty?” asked Ito Wempuq, a portly rajan from the lotus-strewn Silklands. “You were ensuring an era of peace?”
“Call it unfinished business between myself and your Lachis’ka,” Alaric replied. “However, judging by the fact that you have a Lachis’ka, I’d venture to say that it all worked out in the end.”
He was reminding the nobles that Alunsina Ivralis had only reconnected with her heritage because of him. Which in a way was true, but that didn’t make it any less infuriating. Talasyn could hardly blame the elderly Daya Odish of Irrawad when she thundered, “You committed trespass and destruction of property, injured several of our soldiers, and stole one of our airships, Emperor Alaric! How are we supposed to trust Kesath after all that?”
Alaric’s grip tightened around his fork. “I do not regret my actions, as I did what had to be done at the time. The point of this new treaty is to prevent further discord between our realms. Upon ratification, I assure you, Daya Odish, that I won’t be the first to renege on the terms.”
More than a few pairs of eyes darted to Talasyn. The nobles were waiting for her to either defend the betrothal or join in cutting the enemy down to size, and the next words to issue from her lips would dictate the flow of the conversation.
But Talasyn’s mind had gone blank. Common sense demanded that she present a united front with the Night Emperor, yet how could she appear to submit so meekly to this marriage?
She glanced down at the new course that had arrived just a few minutes ago, that she had been in the middle of, and, in a moment of panic—
“This soup is sublime, don’t you think?” Talasyn all but choked out. She had never before described anything as sublime in all her twenty years of existence, but the Dominion nobles seemed to swear by this adjective.
Rajan Wempuq’s brow wrinkled in utter confusion. “Your Grace?”
“The soup,” Talasyn repeated doggedly. “The cooks have outdone themselves tonight.”
Ralya was the first to move in the abrupt stillness, bringing her spoon to her lips and tasting the dish in question, which consisted of tender chunks of pheasant stewed in a broth of ginger and coconut milk. “Yes,” she said slowly, “it’s exquisite.”
“A marvel,” Jie’s cousin, Harjanti, hastened to opine. The deep-set, coffee-colored eyes that were so much like Jie’s were almost beseeching as she turned to Daya Odish. “Would I be wrong to presume that such fine pheasant can only have come from Irrawad, my lady?”
Daya Odish appeared startled for a moment—and more than a little piqued that the discussion had taken a completely different turn—but social norms dictated that she respond to Harjanti’s question. “Not at all. The island of Irrawad prides itself on being Eskaya’s sole supplier of this particular game bird. It is one of our primary exports, second only to moonstone.”
Harjanti’s curly-haired husband, whom she’d married for love, as Jie had put it, gave a jolt—almost as though his wife had kicked him under the table, Talasyn thought wryly. His name was Praset and he spoke up in a tone that was pleasant enough, aching shin notwithstanding. “I’ve been thinking of breaking into the moonstone-mining industry myself. Perhaps the Daya Odish could give me some tips?”
Talasyn made a mental note to thank Harjanti and Praset as the conversation shifted to mining. Beside her, Alaric raised the soup spoon to his lips, but not before she glimpsed their upward curl. Was he smirking? The faintly amused glance that he sent her way served to prove her suspicions. He was smirking at her for idiotically blathering on about the soup. The nerve!
She fumed all the way to the main course, but she made it a point to engage in courteous small talk with the other nobles. Alaric found his footing as well, conversing mutedly with Lueve Rasmey, who was seated to his right and who gradually looped him into her own circle of high-society matrons. Everyone was speaking in Sailor’s Common for Alaric’s benefit and everything was going well, for the most part. No one seemed inclined to start flinging laurel-bark wine in anybody else’s face. Talasyn could relax . . .
Alaric leaned closer. “Would my lady care to share her expert culinary opinion on the roast pig?” he murmured in her ear.
“Very funny,” she grumped.
“I take it that means it is less than sublime?”
Talasyn stabbed a chunk of bitter melon with her fork, fantasizing that it was Alaric’s head. “I should have left you to Daya Odish’s mercy. Or lack thereof.”
She could swear that he nearly grinned.
At least they were back to their normal bickering. At least the incident in the plumeria grove hadn’t changed anything between them.
In truth, it left her feeling a little out of sorts. Some indication that he, too, had been affected by their almost-kiss wouldn’t have gone amiss.
“Will Her Grace remain with us after the nuptials?” queried Ralya, causing Talasyn to immediately straighten up in her seat and look away from Alaric. “Or will the Lachis’ka’s court relocate to the Night Empire’s capital?”
“I’m staying here, Daya Musal,” Talasyn answered, and a wave of visible relief passed through all the Nenavarene who were listening.
“I remember when you were born,” Wempuq told Talasyn with gruff fondness. “They rang the gongs in the Starlight Tower all morning, all afternoon. Gave me a damnable headache, but no one would have dreamed of leaving Eskaya at that point. There was celebration and there was feasting throughout the streets.”
“The birth of the next Zahiya-lachis is always a joyous occasion,” Lueve chimed in. “Of course, His Royal Highness probably remembers it differently.”
The older nobles chuckled. Talasyn glanced further up the table at Prince Elagbi, who was blissfully unaware that he was now the subject of discussion. “What did my father do?”
“He was running around like one of our pheasants after its head has been cut off,” said Odish with a snort. “The labor lasted all through the night, you see. Prince Elagbi was so worried that he threatened to throw the attending healer into the dungeons.”
“I told him, ‘Your Highness, please calm down, would you care for a drink?’” boomed Wempuq. “He then threatened to throw me into the dungeons as well!”
Their part of the table erupted into laughter. It wasn’t long before Talasyn joined in, merriment bubbling its way up her throat at the image of her mild-mannered father ordering the Lachis-dalo to arrest random people. She threw her head back, laughed hard and long, and, when it was over—when she had settled down—Alaric sat frozen, staring at her as though he’d never seen her before.
“What?” Talasyn hissed after furtively checking to make sure that everyone else was too caught up in mirth and in reminiscing to notice. “Why are you looking at me like that?”