She hauled herself up over the battlement and onto a balcony, her feet on flat, solid flooring once more. The royal palace was perched atop steep limestone cliffs that overlooked the sweeping city of gold that she had once seen in a vision. From this tower, she had an excellent view of lush gardens, gleaming waterways, and busy streets dotted with landing grids where constant streams of airships—coracles and freighters and pleasure yachts and consular barges alike—came to dock. The skyline was dominated by curvilinear buildings fashioned from stone and gold and metalglass, although none stood as tall as the Roof of Heaven itself, and tucked among them were pockets of residential areas, where houses atop wooden stilts sported brightly colored facades and ornate stucco pillars, capped by upturned eaves and multi-inclined roofs that were home to bronze weathervanes depicting roosters and pigs and dragons and goats, swiveling with each breath of wind.
Surrounding the urban sprawl—sprouting up immediately right along its borders, in fact—was a rainforest that went on for miles upon miles in every direction, interrupted only by patches of the odd small town here and there. The horizon was ringed with the blue-gray silhouettes of distant mountains.
Aside from the thousands of skerries, atolls, cays, sea stacks, and smaller inhabited clusters jutting out from their bed of turquoise waves, there were seven main islands in the Nenavar Dominion. One for each moon of Lir, as chroniclers enjoyed pointing out. Eskaya—and Port Samout, and the Belian range—were located on Sedek-We, largest of the seven and Nenavar’s hub of governance and commercial activity. Talasyn had spent most of her time here, under close watch, becoming more acquainted with her father and her grandmother when she wasn’t being taught Nenavar’s language, history, culture, and social graces by a never-ending slew of tutors. She had been formally presented only two months ago, but the Zahiya-lachis remained tireless in ensuring that her heir was up to snuff. It was a monumental task, getting the aristocracy and the masses to accept an outsider to someday rule over them. Talasyn needed to look, sound, and act as Nenavarene as possible. Always.
“Alunsina Ivralis.” She said the name out loud, testing the shape of the name on her tongue. The passage of time had done nothing to take away from its unwieldiness. She frowned to herself. “Bit of a mouthful.”
There was a melodious laugh from somewhere behind her. “You’ll get used to it, Your Grace.”
Talasyn turned around. Jie, her lady-in-waiting, was leaning a slim shoulder clad in shell beads and silk against the doorway leading out to the balcony, arms folded and ankles crossed in a jaunty pose.
This was another aspect of Talasyn’s strange new life that was taking some getting used to—the fact that she had a lady-in-waiting. Jie was from a noble house and would one day inherit a title of her own. Her family had sent her to court so that she could gain political experience and make promising alliances. She was the one who made Talasyn look presentable and accompanied her during meals and the stretches of idle hours between lessons.
“You and the guards don’t have to watch me all the time, you know,” Talasyn told Jie in Nenavarene, the words coming easily to her thanks to a combination of intensive study and some innate adeptness that she could only ascribe to her magic. Since being here and in the proximity of a Light Sever, the aether within her had responded like a seedling to sunshine. “The Roof of Heaven is a fortress. I hardly think that random kidnappers or assassins would be able to infiltrate so easily.”
“Most dangers come from inside the palace walls, Lachis’ka,” Jie replied. “But, as it is, Her Starlit Majesty has sent for you.”
Talasyn struggled not to groan. She had quickly learned that even the tiniest sign of disrespect for Urduja made most people uncomfortable, if not alienated them completely. “Lead the way, then.”
“Actually . . .” Jie giggled, tucking a windblown strand of wavy brown hair behind her ear, coffee-colored eyes flickering over Talasyn’s sweat-stained tunic and ratty breeches. “Let’s get you freshened up first, Your Grace. It’s a tea.”
The Dragon Queen’s salon was an airy complex in the eastern wing, decorated with frescoes and geometric carpets dyed bright shades of purple, orange, and red. Like most other rooms in the royal palace, it boasted white marble walls and accents of ivory and gold, shining in the sunlight that filtered in through stained-glass windows.
The gauze-woven hibiscus blossoms adorning the champagne skirt of Talasyn’s chiffon dress rustled as she crossed her legs—or, well, as she tried to cross her legs, anyway. If she shifted her thigh up any further, she’d rip a seam. There was no doubt in her mind that Khaede would be cackling her head off if she could see Talasyn right now.
Not like you would look any better, Talasyn imagined snapping at her absent friend.
Khaede was still missing. Talasyn had fallen into the habit of having pretend conversations with her as though she weren’t. It was childish, perhaps, but better than torturing herself with all the worst-case scenarios.
She placed one pointy-shoed foot back on the floor as Urduja observed her from across a rosewood table laden with delicate pastries and porcelain cups. The Zahiya-lachis had yet to apply the elaborate cosmetics that she donned for public appearances, but her bare face was every bit as intimidating with its granite-carved features and its penetrating stare.
“I want to ascertain that there is no bad blood between us after my last command,” Urduja said in a tone that implied Talasyn didn’t have much choice in the matter. “You must have come to your senses by now.”
“I have, Harlikaan,” Talasyn assured her, mustering a reasonable facsimile of a contrite expression as she addressed Urduja with the Nenavarene equivalent of Your Majesty and lied through her teeth. They’d had a screaming match a few days ago because Urduja had declared it too risky for Talasyn to continue frequenting the Sardovian hideout in the Storm God’s Eye. Talasyn had decided that no one was going to tell her where she could and could not go, but her grandmother didn’t need to know that. It would be all too easy to liberate a moth coracle from one of the many hangars in the dead of night and be back in Eskaya by dawn. For that plan to work, however, Urduja had to believe that Talasyn was compliant.
The Zahiya-lachis dropped the subject. She never discussed the Sardovians, if it could be helped. Her closest allies had been taken into her confidence but, generally, as far as the Dominion was concerned, no deal had been brokered and Ideth Vela’s fleet did not exist in any capacity within the boundaries of the archipelago.
Instead, Urduja moved on to the next point of contention that had featured in her and Talasyn’s blazing argument a few days prior. “I understand that you wish to know more about these abilities of yours, which is why you have incessantly lobbied to be granted access to the Belian Sever. However, such access was not part of the terms. You are my heir and it is high time that you focused on your royal duties and on learning how to rule. I am not long for this world and I would rather like to head to the next one secure in the knowledge that I have left my realm in capable hands.”
Talasyn bit back a multitude of retorts. Sneaking into the ruins of the Lightweaver temple would be difficult, given the soldiers that regularly patrolled the area, but she would just have to try. “I bow to your judgment as always, Harlikaan,” she placidly stated.