There was a saying in Kesath, one of the many that Alaric had committed to memory back in his schoolboy days because he’d practiced writing it over and over again in the High Calligraphic script of the imperial court: If you pluck the unripe balsam-pear, you must eat the bitterness. It meant reaping the consequences of bad decisions. It meant being careful what one wished for.
It was a saying that flashed across the surface of his mind in a censorious loop as he and Talasyn hiked up the Belian mountain range, bearing heavy packs filled with supplies. The airship that had borne them from Eskaya to Belian had been left behind at Kaptan Rapat’s garrison, along with their respective guards—although in Alaric’s case it was guard, singular, in the form of Sevraim, and that had been the problem. The ruins of the Lightweaver shrine were too overgrown and fragile for any vessel to dock there, and Alaric had refused to be outnumbered by Dominion soldiers in the remote wilderness with no escape route. The Zahiya-lachis hadn’t been all too keen on entrusting her granddaughter to two Kesathese Shadowforged, either. As a compromise, only Alaric and Talasyn would set up camp at the shrine and train there and hopefully catch the Light Sever discharging, so that she could commune with it.
The end result was this—Alaric alone in the Nenavarene jungle with his wartime enemy and political bride-to-be, who was clearly still irate with him because of the quarrel on board his stormship and the one on the rooftop in Eskaya.
In truth, his own anger was dulled by the undeniable confirmation that her former comrades weren’t sheltering in Nenavar, but the weather was most assuredly not improving his disposition one bit. Early mornings in Kesath were chilly gray affairs, breath curling through the air in garlands of silver vapor. Here in the Dominion, it was already as hot as a Kesathese noon in summer and infinitely more humid—even more so than the last time Alaric had trekked here, in secret, focused only on stopping the Lightweaver before she could get to the nexus point.
It was funny how life turned out, but he was in no mood to laugh. It was so very warm.
And it didn’t help matters that Talasyn was wearing a sleeveless tunic and linen breeches that clung to her like a second skin, causing his thoughts to go down dangerous roads. He heartily blamed Sevraim for this, with all that talk of heir-making.
“Are you absolutely certain that we’re heading in the right direction?” Alaric had to raise his voice because Talasyn was several feet ahead of him, stomping amidst vines and shrubbery with a pointedness that drove home her low opinion of this little sojourn of theirs.
“Forgotten the way already?” she called back without so much as glancing over her shoulder.
He rolled his eyes even though she couldn’t see it. “I took a different route then.”
“And how is the unconscionable bastard who gave you the map?”
“Commodore Darius is enjoying the sweet taste of victory and the privileges of his new rank, I imagine.”
Why did he say things like this, things he knew would serve only to antagonize her further? She slowed her pace long enough to glower at him and he thought that he might have an answer in the way her brown eyes flashed in the sunlight, in the way her freckled olive skin was framed against all this jungle green and gold.
With a huff, she turned back to the path and continued stamping ahead, and he trailed after her, trying to derive some satisfaction from having gotten the last word.
Talasyn spent the entire morning wishing for a tree to fall on the Night Emperor.
She was also unbelievably exhausted. The trek to the ruins of the Lightweaver shrine would have been grueling even for someone who’d had a good night’s sleep, and she’d only managed four hours on her and Surakwel’s journey back to the Roof of Heaven. She was lightheaded as she hiked, the world around her taking on a parchment-thin quality.
But a curious thing happened as she and Alaric ventured deeper into the jungle, climbed further up the slope. Perhaps it was the fresh air seeping into her lungs, the smell of earth and nectar and damp leaves, the way that the physical exertion was making her heart race, or the verdant wilderness—whatever the case, Talasyn felt lighter than she had in ages. She hadn’t been able to appreciate it properly last night, pressed for time and urgency nipping at her heels as she crossed the mangrove swamps of the Storm God’s Eye, but here and now, with entire days stretching ahead, she realized how much she needed to get away from the stifling atmosphere of the Nenavarene court, even if it was just for a little while. Even if it was with Alaric Ossinast. Though she had no faith in her ability to not stab him before it was over.
Talasyn’s stomach began growling. “We’ll stop for lunch after we clear this pond,” she announced to the empty space in front of her. There was a grunt of agreement from behind, and she snickered as she pictured Alaric huffing and puffing in the sweltering tropical climate in his black clothes.
The pond was deep and muddy from recent rains and a narrow plank bridge had been built across it. It was half submerged, but it would do. Talasyn crossed without incident, careful not to slip on the slimy wood.
Alaric wasn’t so fortunate. A great splash echoed throughout the jungle stillness and she whirled around to see him disappearing beneath the brown water. She made to hurry back onto the bridge, but stopped when his head popped up again. He was sputtering, his drenched black hair clinging to a face coated in grime.
“Master of the Shadowforged Legion but can’t cross a pond!” Talasyn exclaimed.
Alaric scowled, spitting out a mouthful of dirt as he paddled in the direction of the bridge. “Lightweaver but can’t make a shield.”
His retort barely carried across the water, but it reached her ears well enough. She flashed him a rude gesture, palm up and thumb stretched out and index finger curling inward. He blinked, and it seemed to her that he was more surprised than outright offended.
To Alaric’s credit, though, not everyone could be as poised as he was while struggling to extricate themselves from what was more or less liquefied earth. He moved with assurance, almost as though he’d meant to fall into the pond. Talasyn watched with one eyebrow raised as he scrambled onto what looked like an overturned tree trunk, with the clear intention of using it as a foothold to hop back to the bridge.
Except that it wasn’t a tree trunk. The moment Alaric’s full weight pressed down on it, it . . . stirred.
He careened into the water once again, with another mighty splash, just as the hulking visage of a swamp buffalo broke the surface. It was thrice the size of a full-grown man, red gills fluttering in grooves on the sides of its thick neck. Its tough hide was the color of charcoal and its scarlet eyes, set between enormous sickle-shaped horns, focused on Alaric with a mindless, primal fury.
Not only had its territory been invaded, but it had also been trodden on.