“In a fortnight, my lady,” one ventured.
“Then, if Her Grace and His Majesty are willing, we will reconvene at the time of the eclipse and try again.” Ishan turned back to Alaric and Talasyn. “If I may also suggest—I noticed that the two of you conjured daggers earlier, which is offense magic. For our purposes, I believe that the barrier may be stronger if you were to craft shields and combine those.”
Alaric nodded readily enough, but Talasyn hung her head.
“I can’t make shields,” she muttered. “Or anything that doesn’t have a pointy end. I was taught the basics of aethermancy by a Shadowforged who defected to the Allfold. She didn’t have any formal training, so both of us were at a loss on some things.”
Alaric frowned, his eyes darting toward her and then away quickly. It was unclear if he was reacting to the mention of Vela or to the revelation that Talasyn had been lucky to survive the Hurricane Wars for as long as she did.
“I can teach you,” he said stiffly, still looking ahead.
And, before Talasyn could even process that, Ishan was stepping between them, clapping her hands in delight. “Wonderful! I’ve no doubt that Her Grace will prove as excellent a student in this as she has been in everything else.”
Talasyn shot a skeptical look over the top of Ishan’s head at Alaric. “Surely the skill of the instructor has a lot to do with it.”
He lifted one massive shoulder in a shrug, the ends of his thick black hair brushing against his high collar. “I have had formal training. That alone makes me more qualified than Ideth Vela, regardless of any complaints you might care to lodge against my character.”
“Your character,” Talasyn retorted, “is just one of the many complaints that I have about you, Ossinast.”
They glared at each other as an uncomfortable Ishan edged away. Perhaps her anger had not run dry after all, Talasyn thought darkly. Count on her hatred for His Royal Ninnyhammer to cut through the numbness. It was a mixed blessing, but she would take it.
Chapter Nineteen
A schedule was begrudgingly agreed upon. For the next fortnight, Alaric and Talasyn would attend marriage negotiations in the morning and practice aethermancy in the afternoon. If the negotiations wrapped up with plenty of time to spare before the eclipse, they’d then spend whole days training.
Because Talasyn was certainly in no mood to talk to her grandmother, it was Ishan Vaikar who prevailed upon Queen Urduja to have the sariman cages moved further away from the orchid garden that connected the Lachis’ka and the Night Emperor’s respective bedchambers. The atrium was too accessible to everyone, and Talasyn had no wish to be gawked at on a daily basis.
That first afternoon, the day following the monumental failure in front of the Ahimsan Enchanters, Talasyn arrived at the orchid garden before Alaric.
Why was she nervous? What was the reason for these butterflies rippling in the pit of her stomach? She thought about yesterday, his strong arms around her, his lush mouth at her cheek, his scent of spice and forest. She thought about how he’d scratched at his jaw in a rare, unguarded moment. It jarred her that the Night Emperor, the dark warrior she’d met on the ice, could be capable of such a human gesture. It set her to questioning whether he had more of that in him, beneath the trappings of office and his lethal precision in combat.
Talasyn thought of these things without knowing why she thought of them, why they gnawed at her so. If Khaede were here—
No. Khaede would castigate her for these odd reactions that she was having to Alaric Ossinast, as would Vela and all her other comrades. Still, Talasyn yearned to meet with the Sardovian remnant, not just to discuss her impeding marriage with Vela, but to check for herself that everyone was doing all right, there in the Storm God’s Eye.
And also to check if—and to hope against hope that—Khaede had made contact and reached them, and was safe along with her child.
Talasyn resolved to sail to the isles of Sigwad as soon as she could. From Eskaya, the journey took about six hours by airship, and crossing that windblown strait was perilous, especially with the ever-present threat of the Tempest Sever, but she had managed a handful of times in the past and she would again. She just had to seize the opportunity once it came.
In a bid to take her mind off things, even if only for a little while, Talasyn began feeding the fish that lived in the pool. The bright rays of early afternoon streamed into the orchid garden as Talasyn reached into the pouch that she’d brought with her when she’d changed out of her court attire and scrubbed her face bare. Retrieving a handful of pellets that she scattered across the surface of the water, which immediately clouded with flashing scales and fins that rippled like wisps of colored smoke, she smiled to herself. She could always count on the ikan’pla to cheer her up. They were pretty fish, with distinct individual personalities and quirks, and they knew her only as the one who fed them, not the one who would save them or who would one day rule. The lack of layers to her simple interaction with them was a balm to her soul.
There was a rustle of black at the corner of her eye as Alaric entered the garden. Talasyn paid him no mind at first, mulishly keeping her gaze fixed on the ikan’pla in the water. His steps were hesitant, almost as though he were being compelled to approach her even though he knew that it was a bad idea, and he sat down on the stone bench beside where she was kneeling on the grass with all the wariness of a man straying deep into enemy territory. Which wasn’t too far off base—she’d made it clear to him in no uncertain terms that this was her turf, after all.
“Your grandmother should have told you about the Voidfell right from the start,” he said after a long silence. “You deserved to know.”
Hearing that from someone was like finally being able to take a breath after days in an airless room. But to hear it from him—of all people—
“It’s nothing,” Talasyn muttered.
“It isn’t nothing. She didn’t trust you and she underestimated your capacity to deal with the new knowledge. That’s an untenable state of affairs, considering that you’re her heir.”
Talasyn hated that he had a point. But he had no idea, he could never have any idea, about the position that she was really in, this precarious balancing act that was contingent on remaining in Urduja Silim’s good graces.
She sniffed. “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. This way of life is all still new to me and I’m only having to adapt to it because of Kesath’s actions. A Kesathese is the last person in the world who should be passing judgment on me and my family right now.”
“I was not passing judgment,” Alaric said with maddening calm, “merely trying to offer some advice.”
“I don’t need it.”
He gave a sigh that was frustrated and weary all at once, and she remembered how he’d called her difficult in this very same garden.
Good, she thought. She wasn’t here to make things easy for him.
“Shall we begin?” he said abruptly. It was a command rather than a question, and he joined her down on the grass without waiting for her response.
Irked, Talasyn swung to face him. Alaric had adopted a meditation pose, legs crossed and feet upturned and back ramrod-straight, gauntleted hands resting on bent knees. She followed suit with some reluctance. Beside them, the waterfall burbled and the pool splashed merrily against its banks.