“I trespassed, too,” she continued, willing her voice not to crack. “That’s how your son found me.” Was she talking too loudly? She couldn’t accurately gauge her volume over the adrenaline pounding in her ears. “If Prince Elagbi is right, that means that I’m your granddaughter. That means I can ask you to at least hear us out.”
Urduja studied her for several long moments. There was something in the Dragon Queen’s eyes that Talasyn didn’t like—a certain shrewdness, a certain glint of triumph that made her feel as though she’d walked into some sort of trap. Vela reached out and gripped her arm, a gesture that elicited a lump in Talasyn’s throat from how protective it was, even though she didn’t understand the reason behind it.
“You’re right, she does look like your dead wife,” Urduja said to Elagbi after a while. “More than that, I recognize the backbone. Perhaps it is Hanan’s, perhaps it is even mine. I believe that she is Alunsina Ivralis. But, tell me”—she cocked her head—“why should I listen to the daughter of the woman who instigated the Nenavarene civil war?”
The blood froze in Talasyn’s veins. Her stomach hollowed out. At first, she thought that she’d misheard, but the seconds continued to tick by and the Zahiya-lachis continued to wait for her answer. Silent and deadly. The serpent about to strike.
Talasyn remembered asking Elagbi how the civil war had started, how he hadn’t been able to respond before the alarm for Alaric’s escape went up. She looked at the man who was her father, and he had turned pale; she looked at Vela, and the Amirante had retracted her hand from Talasyn’s arm, clenching it into a fist even though she remained stone-faced upon being confronted with this unexpected information.
“Well.” Urduja’s cold drawl was initially addressed to Elagbi. “I see that you haven’t told her everything.” To Talasyn she said, “Not only did your mother, Hanan, cause turmoil by refusing to be proclaimed my Lachis’ka after this son of mine brought her here and married her, but she also went behind my back to send a flotilla to the Northwest Continent, to help Sunstead in their conflict with Kesath. The sole reason being that the people of Sunstead were Lightweavers like her. Not a single outrigger from that flotilla made it back home, thanks to Kesath’s stormship. My other son”—and here her nostrils flared with a trace of anger—“used that catastrophe to further his own ends. He blamed me for it, he said that I was weak, and he led hundreds of islands in a bid to oust me from the throne so that he could take it for himself. Half a year of bloodshed that pushed a millennia-old civilization to the brink of ruin, and it can all be traced back to the outsider, Hanan Ivralis. You are of my blood, true, but you are of her blood as well. How can I trust you, Lightweaver?”
Urduja spat the name as though it was a curse. Talasyn was stunned, unable to come up with a way to salvage the situation, her thoughts somehow racing while at the same time contained in sluggish patterns.
“Harlikaan.” Elagbi squared his shoulders, his dark gaze entreating as it fixed on the Zahiya-lachis. “You know as well as I do that my wife was manipulated by your enemies. It wasn’t her fault. Even if it were, Talasyn wouldn’t be similarly responsible. She grew up in an orphanage, far away from the bones of her ancestors. She is a victim of these circumstances, not the one who should be blamed for them.”
Urduja still didn’t look convinced. Granted, she didn’t look much of anything at all, her pristine features giving very little away, but Talasyn was at her wits’ end. If Nenavar didn’t agree to harbor the Sardovians, it was over. They didn’t have enough supplies to continue sailing the skies above the Eversea until they reached other nations that might not even welcome them at all. Not to mention the fact that every minute spent over open water was another minute that they risked discovery by Kesathese patrols.
A decade of sacrifice—of blood and sweat and heroes and loss—couldn’t come to such a floundering end. Talasyn would do anything.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” she blurted out. “I can’t apologize for something that happened when I was only a year old, but if you agree to grant us sanctuary you won’t be getting any trouble from me. I swear.”
She held her breath. And waited.
Urduja’s dark lips curved into a smirk. “Fine. I’ve made my decision. There is a cluster of uninhabited islands in the westernmost reaches of my territory. We call it Sigwad, the Storm God’s Eye. It is located in the middle of a narrow strait that none may enter without my permission, as the waters are turbulent and the winds are always rough—and it is the site of Nenavar’s Tempest Sever, which activates frequently. Those islands will provide sufficient refuge for the Sardovian fleet, I believe.” For a brief moment, she seemed amused by the bewildered silence that followed her announcement. Then she addressed her next words to Vela. “To clarify, the Tempestroad steers clear of the island group, but it does wrap around it, filling the rest of the strait. The way to the Storm God’s Eye is dangerous, yes, but it’s very remote while still under my jurisdiction, and no one will bother you there. That makes it the best option for your purposes. Therefore, Nenavar’s borders will be open to Sardovia for a fortnight, during which you may evacuate your troops into the strait. My patrols will be instructed to look the other way, but I do not guarantee my protection should you give them any cause for complaint. Any airship or stormship—” she sneered around the word—“that attempts to enter the Dominion after the allotted time will be shot down on sight. But the Allfold may shelter here until they are ready to take back the Northwest Continent.”
Talasyn could not feel relief. Not yet. There was a frenetic current in the air—as well as a stiffening in Vela’s posture—that told her that there was a catch.
And, indeed, it wasn’t long before the Dragon Queen added, “In exchange, Alunsina will, of course, stay in the capital. Where she will assume her role as Lachis’ka of the Nenavar Dominion.”
In the privacy of his suite on board the Deliverance, the largest of Kesath’s stormships and his father’s primary mode of conveyance in both war and affairs of state, Alaric removed the obsidian wolf’s-snarl mask that covered the lower half of his face, placing it on a nearby table.
He’d just come back from scouting to the west of the Eversea, having found no trace of the Sardovian remnant. Not even wreckage. Gaheris was in a relatively pleasant mood, still exulting in his decisive victory, but that wasn’t going to last when he once again remembered that his son had let the Lightweaver escape.
Alaric was to blame, honestly. He’d allowed her to slip from his grasp, for reasons that were still unclear to him after long hours of combing through his memories of their encounter during the siege of Lasthaven. Something had made him walk away, something that he had no name for—and, shortly before that, something had made him propose that she come with him.
He cringed every time he recalled that part in his mind.
Gaheris had professed some curiosity about the Lightweave and the Shadowgate combining, but in the end he had decreed that Shadowforged needed nothing from Lightweavers. So why, in the name of the gods, had Alaric put forward such a suggestion to the girl who was his greatest enemy?