Still, a command from the Lachis’ka was a command, and so Jie didn’t pursue the topic. However, her eyes sparkled with amusement as she dusted a pale shimmery powder over the bridge of Talasyn’s nose. “Is there courtship on the Northwest Continent, Your Grace? Here we give small tokens of our affection, send letters, hold hands under the promise jasmines when they’re in bloom, steal a kiss or two. The boys serenade us outside our windows as well. Is it similar elsewhere?”
“I wouldn’t know. I never had time for any of that.” It occurred to Talasyn that what Jie had said didn’t quite adhere to her own observations of Nenavarene culture. “I thought that most marriages among the Dominion aristocracy were arranged.”
“Yes, but there are those who wed for love,” said Jie. “Such as my cousin, Harjanti, the Daya of Sabtang. I hope to someday be as fortunate.” Her smile was soft and dreamy and unjaded, so far removed from Talasyn’s own experiences at that age, fighting a war an ocean away. “And for you, Lachis’ka, I hope that Emperor Alaric will romance you properly. Stolen kisses and all.”
Jie tittered, highly pleased with herself. Talasyn was spared from having to respond by the musical notes of wind chimes, as light and airy as birdsong. Jie excused herself to see who had sounded them.
When she returned to Talasyn, she announced. “Lachis’ka, Queen Urduja and Prince Elagbi are here to see you.”
Wonderful.
Talasyn struggled not to roll her eyes. She didn’t particularly want to talk to her grandmother and her father, but—she could. I am amenable, as Alaric had said in that prissy tone of his, and remembering that ensured that Talasyn was biting back a smile and shaking her head at his insufferable antics as she followed Jie into the solar.
It was her solar but, just like her bedchamber, it had been designed with the comfort of a refined aristocrat in mind. Lustrous rosewood had been fashioned into delicate chairs and scroll-legged tables. The white marble walls were covered in pastel-hued paintings of cherry blossoms and egrets and dancing figures with stars in their flowing hair, all accentuated with generous splashes of gold leaf. Artfully scattered throughout the airy space were bronze sculptures and elaborate woven baskets. In one corner, perched atop a dragon-shaped pedestal, was an enormous arched harp, gathering dust; the young Urduja Silim had reportedly played like a dream before assuming the mantle of leadership, but Talasyn had thought that the instrument was some kind of weapon when she first laid eyes on it.
Queen Urduja had made herself comfortable in one of the chairs, but Elagbi bounded up to Talasyn, beaming. “My dear, you look lovely—”
“Thank you,” Talasyn replied in a flat tone of voice. She didn’t return her father’s embrace, and his arms awkwardly fell away from her.
Urduja shot Jie an imperious look, waiting until the girl had scampered out of the solar before telling Talasyn, “Your father and I would like to clear the air regarding certain matters.”
Talasyn sat down. Elagbi did as well, his dark eyes bearing the wounded look of a pup that had been kicked one too many times, and Talasyn willed her resolve not to crumble. He had done her wrong and she wasn’t willing to let him forget it anytime soon.
Urduja cleared her throat lightly. “I understand that you are angry at us for withholding the information about the Voidfell. I would like to explain why—”
“I already know why,” Talasyn interrupted. She’d had plenty of opportunity to agonize over it. “You were afraid that the Amirante would change her mind about sheltering in Nenavar and I would have no impetus to stay and your reign would destabilize further because you had no heir.”
Urduja didn’t deny it. Incensed, Talasyn continued, “You said that you suspected the Night Empire would try to invade. But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? You knew that they would, because you’ve been around long enough to realize that it was inevitable. And you even welcomed it, because an alliance with the Shadowforged while you had a Lightweaver granddaughter was Nenavar’s way out of another Dead Season. You had that marriage offer ready to go—perhaps ever since it was reported to you that Ossinast and I had created a barrier that could cancel out the Belian garrison’s void bolts. When I suggested to Vela that we come here, I was playing right into your hands, wasn’t I?”
Urduja’s dark-tinted lips stretched into a smile. And the horrifying thing was that it was genuine. There was no warmth in it, that was true, but there was a certain pride. “Almost perfect, Lachis’ka. You fail to see the entirety of the bigger picture. In the future, consider every angle. That skill will serve you well when you are queen.”
“Harlikaan,” Elagbi pleaded, “Talasyn is hurting right now. We owe it to her to explain.”
“That’s precisely what I’m doing,” Urduja huffed. “Alunsina, I decided to leave it as late as possible—to let you and the Night Emperor find out together—for a very simple reason. Ossinast does not trust you. He probably never truly will, given your shared past. Had you known about the Night of the World-Eater before he did, had you been in on it when I sprung the new information on him, that would have made things even worse. But now he has reason to believe that you are guileless, to a certain extent. That I have not fully taken you into my confidence. That you are nothing at all like my conniving court.”
He does more than believe that, Talasyn thought numbly. Alaric had sympathized with her. He had given her his sincere perspective on the situation. “Why—” Her voice cracked. She tried again. “Why tell me at all, then?”
“I almost wasn’t going to. I deemed the risk too great,” said Urduja. “But your father”—she shot a long-suffering glance at Elagbi—“felt that, if we let this go on, it would cause damage to our relationship as a family that would prove impossible to repair.”
“And because it would be another lesson for me, right?” Talasyn muttered.
“You are learning,” said Urduja.
“I’m tired of being a pawn.” Where did it come from, this bluntness? Perhaps the memory of Alaric saying that her grandmother underestimated her. Perhaps even just that she was fed up. “I don’t want this to happen again. If I am to play my part in saving Nenavar and the Sardovian remnant, we have to work together.”
“You are dictating to me, Your Grace?” Urduja challenged.
“Not at all, Harlikaan,” Talasyn said evenly, holding the older woman’s gaze with a steel that she had never expected herself capable of. “I’m simply advising you on the best way forward. On how, as I see it, we can get out of this mess unscathed.”
When Urduja finally nodded, Talasyn was left with the impression of having just barely dodged what would have been a killing blow. She made a valiant attempt to prevent her relief from being too evident, although she was certain that the Zahiya-lachis’s jet-black eyes missed nothing. In the same vein, she fought back the wave of guilt that assailed her. She was doing what she needed to do. If Alaric took issue, he should have made different choices in life.
But it all came creeping up on her, like splinters of a dream just upon waking. The shadows swirling around Alaric in pain and fury as he spoke of his grandfather’s death, misguided as his version of events was. His distant tone when he told her about his mother—so carefully blank, like armor drawn over a vulnerable spot.