It did—something—to her. It made her heartbeat stutter over some peculiar cliff’s edge between her midsection and her throat. And, to make matters worse, Jie had called attention to Alaric’s lips earlier and now Talasyn couldn’t stop glancing at them. The sensual fullness of them. The wickedness. How they had come so close to touching hers hours ago. She was sure she’d even caught the beginnings of a smile earlier, but she was likely mistaken. She wholeheartedly blamed her lady-in-waiting for this dire state of affairs.
It also didn’t help that it fell upon Talasyn to make the necessary introductions between Alaric and the people seated near them, and those lords and ladies eventually began lobbing pointed conversational volleys designed to not quite hide their displeasure with the betrothal.
“I believe, Your Majesty, that you and Her Grace knew each other prior to her return to Nenavar,” purred Ralya Musal, the feather-clad Daya of Tepi Resok, a smattering of hilly islands that comprised almost half of the Dominion’s southernmost border. “Would you care to enlighten us as to the nature of that acquaintance?”
Talasyn held her breath. Everyone at the table already knew what had transpired—if not the nitty-gritty details, then the vague and overarching shape of it. They just wanted to trip Alaric up.
There was a brief silence as he picked at his plate, obviously buying time while he formulated a diplomatic answer. “Several months ago I was made aware of the existence of a Lightweaver among the ranks of the Sardovian Allfold. As Master of the Shadowforged Legion, I attempted to neutralize her, but I was ultimately unsuccessful. Now that the aforementioned Sardovian Allfold has been dealt with, I look forward to working with Her Grace to ensure an era of peace.”
Talasyn would have snorted at Alaric’s wry summary of their shared war-torn past, but something else drew her focus; at his mention of the Lightweave and the Shadowgate, several gazes subtly flickered to the sariman cages hung on the walls before swiveling back to him. They fear it, she thought, remembering her early days in the palace when Urduja had advised her to refrain from using her abilities so as not to attract undue attention. They fear us.
She caught herself with a frown. There was no us when it came to her and Alaric Ossinast. She might be marrying him, but she was not on his side.
By the holes on the World-Father’s shirt, I’m marrying him.
There it was again, the throb of panic that coursed through her system like the first pulse of a straight-line wind from a stormship sent slamming through city streets, made all the more charged because Alaric was beside her and he looked like . . . like that.
“Is that what you were doing in the Belian garrison, Your Majesty?” asked Ito Wempuq, a portly rajan from the lotus-strewn Silklands. “You were ensuring an era of peace?”
“Call it unfinished business between myself and your Lachis’ka,” Alaric replied. “However, judging by the fact that you have a Lachis’ka, I’d venture to say that it all worked out in the end.”
He was reminding the nobles that Alunsina Ivralis had only reconnected with her heritage because of him. Which in a way was true, but that didn’t make it any less infuriating. Talasyn could hardly blame the elderly Daya Odish of Irrawad when she thundered, “You committed trespass and destruction of property, injured several of our soldiers, and stole one of our airships, Emperor Alaric! How are we supposed to trust Kesath after all that?”
Alaric’s grip tightened around his fork. “I do not regret my actions, as I did what had to be done at the time. The point of this new treaty is to prevent further discord between our realms. Upon ratification, I assure you, Daya Odish, that I won’t be the first to renege on the terms.”
More than a few pairs of eyes darted to Talasyn. The nobles were waiting for her to either defend the betrothal or join in cutting the enemy down to size, and the next words to issue from her lips would dictate the flow of the conversation.
But Talasyn’s mind had gone blank. Common sense demanded that she present a united front with the Night Emperor, yet how could she appear to submit so meekly to this marriage?
She glanced down at the new course that had arrived just a few minutes ago, that she had been in the middle of, and, in a moment of panic—
“This soup is sublime, don’t you think?” Talasyn all but choked out. She had never before described anything as sublime in all her twenty years of existence, but the Dominion nobles seemed to swear by this adjective.
Rajan Wempuq’s brow wrinkled in utter confusion. “Your Grace?”
“The soup,” Talasyn repeated doggedly. “The cooks have outdone themselves tonight.”
Ralya was the first to move in the abrupt stillness, bringing her spoon to her lips and tasting the dish in question, which consisted of tender chunks of pheasant stewed in a broth of ginger and coconut milk. “Yes,” she said slowly, “it’s exquisite.”
“A marvel,” Jie’s cousin, Harjanti, hastened to opine. The deep-set, coffee-colored eyes that were so much like Jie’s were almost beseeching as she turned to Daya Odish. “Would I be wrong to presume that such fine pheasant can only have come from Irrawad, my lady?”
Daya Odish appeared startled for a moment—and more than a little piqued that the discussion had taken a completely different turn—but social norms dictated that she respond to Harjanti’s question. “Not at all. The island of Irrawad prides itself on being Eskaya’s sole supplier of this particular game bird. It is one of our primary exports, second only to moonstone.”
Harjanti’s curly-haired husband, whom she’d married for love, as Jie had put it, gave a jolt—almost as though his wife had kicked him under the table, Talasyn thought wryly. His name was Praset and he spoke up in a tone that was pleasant enough, aching shin notwithstanding. “I’ve been thinking of breaking into the moonstone-mining industry myself. Perhaps the Daya Odish could give me some tips?”
Talasyn made a mental note to thank Harjanti and Praset as the conversation shifted to mining. Beside her, Alaric raised the soup spoon to his lips, but not before she glimpsed their upward curl. Was he smirking? The faintly amused glance that he sent her way served to prove her suspicions. He was smirking at her for idiotically blathering on about the soup. The nerve!
She fumed all the way to the main course, but she made it a point to engage in courteous small talk with the other nobles. Alaric found his footing as well, conversing mutedly with Lueve Rasmey, who was seated to his right and who gradually looped him into her own circle of high-society matrons. Everyone was speaking in Sailor’s Common for Alaric’s benefit and everything was going well, for the most part. No one seemed inclined to start flinging laurel-bark wine in anybody else’s face. Talasyn could relax . . .
Alaric leaned closer. “Would my lady care to share her expert culinary opinion on the roast pig?” he murmured in her ear.
“Very funny,” she grumped.
“I take it that means it is less than sublime?”
Talasyn stabbed a chunk of bitter melon with her fork, fantasizing that it was Alaric’s head. “I should have left you to Daya Odish’s mercy. Or lack thereof.”
She could swear that he nearly grinned.