Why should she think about these things now? Why should she care?
Elagbi clapped his hands together. “Now that that’s been sorted out,” he said, with a cheer slightly strained at the edges, “shall we head down to supper?”
A purple carpet of stars fell over the Roof of Heaven and the seven moons in their various phases emerged from behind wisps of cloud. Standing beside an open window in the corridor outside the banquet hall, Alaric peered down at the Dominion’s capital city, which was so brightly lit and bustling that it could almost have been the middle of the day.
Talasyn would arrive at any moment. He was nervous, still thinking about what had happened in the plumeria grove—or what had almost happened. Earlier, he’d wanted to kill Sevraim, but now he was grateful for the interruption.
He was Shadowforged. He couldn’t go around kissing Lightweavers, no matter how pretty and betrothed to him they were. And it would only be a marriage of political convenience, anyway. She would never feel the same—
The same as what? What did he feel?
The heat was getting to him, he decided. A humid breeze seeped in through the window, and Alaric tried not to be too obvious in the way he angled his body to catch as much of it as possible. The majority of his wardrobe was ill suited to Nenavar’s tropical climate. He was far too warm in his black high-collared cutaway tailcoat layered over a shirt of ribbed ivory silk.
He knew that Sevraim and Mathire were similarly suffering in their black-and-silver dress uniforms. The two of them had been scowling when the steward ushered them into the banquet hall after informing Alaric that he and Talasyn—as it was in their honor that the event was being held—would be the last to enter, that he was expected to escort her inside, where all the other diners were waiting. The palace guards posted by the closed doors were clearly struggling to disguise their looks of suspicion and contempt as they stood within striking distance of a would-be invader, but, fortunately, Alaric didn’t have to endure it for long.
Because suddenly she was there, appearing from around the corner.
His breath caught at the sight of her. Talasyn wore a dress spun from iridescent teal fabric, textured and crisp, with silver dragons lavishly embroidered along the square neckline, the high waist, the hem of the flowing skirt, and the cuffs of the wide sleeves that trailed almost to the floor, revealing glimpses of a blood-red lining. Her hair was loose, cascading from beneath a silver crown that resembled a multi-spired temple rising up from glimmering oceanic waves, a ruby-eyed dragon’s head perched at the center.
She didn’t hesitate when she caught sight of him, closing the distance between them with her chin held high. As she came to a stop a few inches away, Alaric saw her usual death stare had been replaced with uncertainty. Her eyes, which usually blazed with fury, were rendered a lighter shade of brown by the glow of the torches and somehow seemed gentler because of that, yet no less potent in their scrutiny.
The moment in the plumeria grove hung uneasily between them. He stiffly offered his arm out to her, and Talasyn turned just the slightest bit pink. It was fetching. Alaric briefly considered punching himself in the face.
Compliment her, he remembered Sevraim’s advice from the other day. Now seemed like a good time for it, but Alaric couldn’t force the words past his throat. What if she punched him in the face?
Talasyn took his arm while he stood frozen in indecision, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Ready?” was all that Alaric could say rather hoarsely in the end, as the guards pushed the doors open.
She nodded, and he led her forward. Into a swell of light and music and glittering people.
Alaric didn’t think it was an exaggeration to presume that he’d seen city streets shorter than the table, which ran down the middle of the banquet hall. It was draped with woven cloths in a dizzying patchwork of different patterns and colors and set with an array of crystal centerpieces and jewel-encrusted plates and goblets. The red-lacquered chairs blazed bright with gilded lotus scrollwork beside it, and the people occupying them rose to their feet as one at the Night Emperor and the Lachis’ka’s entrance—with the exception of Queen Urduja. She watched cannily from the head of the table as the obsequious steward led him and Talasyn to two empty chairs, which he noted with some mild alarm were right next to each other and smack-dab in the middle of the table. He would be surrounded by Nenavarene all throughout supper, effectively cut off from Sevraim and Mathire.
Attending this feast already felt like a mistake.
Talasyn’s slim fingers dug into Alaric’s arm as they followed the steward. She’s nervous, he realized, glancing down to see her bottom lip trembling. Whoever applied her cosmetics had done an expert job in rendering dewy skin and rosy cheeks, but no amount of soot and beeswax on the lashes or champagne-hued pigments on the lids could disguise the apprehension in her brown eyes. Not when she was this close to him.
“It’s not too late to make a run for it,” he quipped.
“I’m in pointy shoes,” she shot back. “With heels.”
“So that’s why you seem taller. Not by much, though.”
“We can’t all be overgrown trees, my lord,” she retorted, and she was so oddly adorable in that moment, in her defiance layered over the nerves that she was trying to hide, that the line of his mouth softened with the beginnings of a genuine smile.
“My lord,” Alaric repeated. His tone was not as mocking as he would have liked. “I certainly prefer that to all the other names that you’ve called me throughout our fractured acquaintance.”
“Shut up,” Talasyn hissed. “It’s all those etiquette lessons. It won’t happen again.”
Her hand dropped back to her side as she took her appointed seat. The other diners followed suit, along with Alaric, whose arm, he firmly told himself, did not—did not—suddenly feel bereft of her touch.
Cuisine was the one aspect of Dominion culture that Talasyn had had no problem wholeheartedly embracing thus far. To someone who’d subsisted on scraps until she was fifteen and then on bland rations served in Sardovian mess halls for five more years, Nenavarene dishes were a rainbow of delights with their complex spices, enticing aromas, and scrumptious textures.
Sadly, tonight’s peculiar circumstances ensured that she was unable to pay as much attention to the food as she usually did. A selection of small plates was paraded out first: slices of fermented pork and chili peppers wrapped in banana leaves; tiny, chargrilled squid served whole on the skewer brushed with garlic and lime juice; pickled greens resting on beds of glass noodles. It all tasted like dust in her mouth.
She was too conscious of Alaric’s presence beside her. She felt as though she couldn’t breathe properly. Her every nerve ending sparked at his nearness, sandalwood-and-juniper-scented and imposing.
Earlier, out in the corridor, she’d nearly been brought up short by the sight of him in formal attire. His high-collared black coat, embellished with the Kesathese chimera in dusky gold brocade, clung to his broad shoulders and added a lean elegance to his silhouette. The slim fit of his black trousers flattered his rangy hips, his muscular thighs, and the athletic length of his legs. With his naturally haughty expression only slightly softened by the thick black hair that fell about his face in casual waves, he looked every inch the young emperor, radiating power and self-assurance.