An uneasy silence descended. Her eyes tracked the jut in the elegant column of his throat as it bobbed.
“I was curious about how our magic fused together. Nothing more,” Alaric finally said, every word laced with a careful, steely precision that Talasyn could never hope to match. “You getting yourself killed before I got to the bottom of it—that was my sole concern. However, if you insist on continuing to be this difficult, then it’s not worth it. Moving forward, let us focus only on this”—his mouth twisted—“political alliance.”
It was a knife between her ribs, this reminder that she was about to wed someone who truly despised her. It wasn’t that she craved Alaric’s approval—no, his was the last in the world that she wanted—but a cavernous space had been hollowed out in her heart over the years, and his words echoed there beside older ones: that she wasn’t worth it; that she was too difficult for anyone to bother with. An orphan who was too mouthy. A soldier with only one friend. A Lightweaver who could barely master the basics. A Lachis’ka who was too coarse-mannered. And now a bride who would never be loved.
Talasyn once again sought refuge in the welcome and familiar surge of her fury, which was never far away when Alaric was concerned. “All right,” she snapped. “Keep this in mind, then, moving forward.” This time she was the one who stepped into his personal space, glaring daggers up at him. She couldn’t tell him to his face but she promised him silently, without him knowing it, with venom rising up her throat, that the Hurricane Wars weren’t over. That someday the Night Empire would fall.
“I was Sardovia’s Lightweaver,” Talasyn growled. “I have held my own against you and your Legion. I am also Alunsina Ivralis of the Nenavar Dominion, Elagbi’s daughter and the Dragon Queen’s heir. I am She Who Will Come After, and I have power here. The next time that you manhandle me, you will regret it. Do you understand?”
Alaric’s fingers twitched and then curled back into his palms. He was regarding her as if she were some wild creature, but also a cypher that he was trying to decode. The seven moons shone down upon them, and, as the silence stretched, the trickling of the water and the heady scent of orchids reached her awareness once more.
Finally, he offered her a stiff nod. “I understand.” The words should have been a surrender, but he delivered them more like a tactical retreat. “Until the morning, then, Your Grace.”
Talasyn did not give him the opportunity to leave first. She turned on her heel and stomped off to her chambers, fuming, struggling against the urge to turn her head even as she felt Alaric’s gaze on her back.
So much for regaining inner peace.
Chapter Eighteen
The days that followed were a whirl of bargains and compromises and concessions, interspersed with impasses and threats, all thinly veiled by a veneer of steel-laden courtesy. Queen Urduja preferred to play the role of observer as her advisers haggled in her name, but Alaric could afford no such luxury. Every lesson imparted by his father and the tutors of his boyhood, lessons in diplomacy and governance and economics, was now put to the test.
Talasyn had a habit of livening up these meetings whenever she interjected with a pointed remark, her tone laced with suspicion and contempt, and the Nenavarene negotiators scrambled to cover up her gaffe. Every morning, she arrived in another stunning dress and headpiece, her face an exquisite painting, but Alaric’s mind kept wandering to that night in the garden, when she had been in her smock and breeches and he had been able to see the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. How her dark eyes had blazed like a lit match when she cut him down to size. Something had seized within his chest that night, at the sight of the Talasyn that he remembered, except this time not on a battlefield, but standing amidst orchid blooms beneath a starry, amethyst-tinted sky.
He tried not to look at her from across the council room, because every time he did a ghostly echo of sensation followed—the dip of her waist and the curve of her slender spine pressing against his bare hands, the heat of her skin seeping through the thin fabric that had bunched up beneath the pressure of his fingertips. Before that night, it had been years since he’d touched another person without his leather gauntlets. His father always insisted that armor was crucial to realizing one’s full potential as a warrior; only by shutting out unnecessary external stimuli could he most effectively wield shadow magic.
But just one brush of bare skin had awakened some long-forgotten hunger. Now it was as if Alaric’s hands burned with need, even though they were safely encased in black leather once more.
When it almost became too much, when he began to fear that this odd yearning might actually drive him to act, Alaric was fortunate to have another memory to distract himself with. Namely, Talasyn jeering at his ill-advised slip of tongue, back when the Hurricane Wars were drawing to an end all around them. Her jibe had felt like a blade slipped between his ribs, swift and precise.
He had no desire to examine why it had hurt, and he didn’t begrudge her for what she said, as he certainly hadn’t been on his best behavior, either—but it was good to have a reminder that his reactions to Talasyn weren’t the reactions he had to other women, and he needed to be more careful.
By the fifth day of negotiations, Kesath and Nenavar had hammered out a mutual defense pact and were polishing the final details for a trade agreement. It was not without its casualties; Lueve Rasmey’s polite smile was a little worn at the edges, and Commodore Mathire and Niamha Langsoune seemed one comment away from wringing each other’s necks. Even the unflappable Urduja had begun to get snappish with her own advisers. Meanwhile, Prince Elagbi, who Alaric had determined was present for moral support more than anything else, looked bored out of his skull, as did Sevraim, who was there in his capacity as Alaric’s protection and thus was expected to contribute nothing to the proceedings.
Alaric still had not figured out what it was that the Dominion actually wanted. According to Gaheris, they had to be after something more than a peace treaty to offer up their Lachis’ka so willingly. But he could no longer put off making it clear what his people wanted above all else.
He cleared his throat in the tense silence that had ensued after the two sides begrudgingly agreed on a price point for Kesathese long-grain rice and peppercorns. “In addition to everything that has already been discussed, we would also be interested in purchasing aether hearts from Nenavarene mines.”
Talasyn snorted under her breath, but Alaric heard it, and against his better judgment his attention shifted to focus solely on her. When she caught him looking, he hid his burst of ill-advised interest behind a taunt. “Her Grace wishes to comment?”
She turned her nose up at him. “I find it amusing that Kesath embarked on its campaign of terror against the rest of the Continent for the sake of aether hearts, and now you’re going around begging for more, is all.”
“An empire’s work is never done,” Alaric said curtly. “Particularly when the defeated enemy blows up their own mines as they retreat. I sincerely hope that wasn’t your idea, by the way. I would hate to see you castigate yourself for further motivating Kesath to sail southeast.”