At least they were back to their normal bickering. At least the incident in the plumeria grove hadn’t changed anything between them.
In truth, it left her feeling a little out of sorts. Some indication that he, too, had been affected by their almost-kiss wouldn’t have gone amiss.
“Will Her Grace remain with us after the nuptials?” queried Ralya, causing Talasyn to immediately straighten up in her seat and look away from Alaric. “Or will the Lachis’ka’s court relocate to the Night Empire’s capital?”
“I’m staying here, Daya Musal,” Talasyn answered, and a wave of visible relief passed through all the Nenavarene who were listening.
“I remember when you were born,” Wempuq told Talasyn with gruff fondness. “They rang the gongs in the Starlight Tower all morning, all afternoon. Gave me a damnable headache, but no one would have dreamed of leaving Eskaya at that point. There was celebration and there was feasting throughout the streets.”
“The birth of the next Zahiya-lachis is always a joyous occasion,” Lueve chimed in. “Of course, His Royal Highness probably remembers it differently.”
The older nobles chuckled. Talasyn glanced further up the table at Prince Elagbi, who was blissfully unaware that he was now the subject of discussion. “What did my father do?”
“He was running around like one of our pheasants after its head has been cut off,” said Odish with a snort. “The labor lasted all through the night, you see. Prince Elagbi was so worried that he threatened to throw the attending healer into the dungeons.”
“I told him, ‘Your Highness, please calm down, would you care for a drink?’” boomed Wempuq. “He then threatened to throw me into the dungeons as well!”
Their part of the table erupted into laughter. It wasn’t long before Talasyn joined in, merriment bubbling its way up her throat at the image of her mild-mannered father ordering the Lachis-dalo to arrest random people. She threw her head back, laughed hard and long, and, when it was over—when she had settled down—Alaric sat frozen, staring at her as though he’d never seen her before.
“What?” Talasyn hissed after furtively checking to make sure that everyone else was too caught up in mirth and in reminiscing to notice. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Nothing.” Alaric shook his head as if to clear it. And then he—
He did something odd just then. He reached out so that his fingers brushed against the teal sleeve that covered her upper arm. It seemed too deliberate to be an accident, but he retracted his hand as swiftly as though it had been burned. As Talasyn continued to narrow her eyes at him, perplexed, he returned all of his attention to his food, and he did not glance her way again for a long, long while.
Alaric had never been one for big events. He’d suffered through a surfeit of galas that his parents had dragged him to back when they’d still been maintaining the illusion that all was well between them. This banquet was by far grander than any of those affairs, funded as it was by the Nenavar Dominion’s bottomless coffers, but the feeling of revulsion that it elicited was very much the same.
It was the sheer artifice of it all. With the exception of his own retinue, no one at this table would hesitate to order his assassination if they thought that they could get away with it. Yet here they were, eating and chatting as if nothing was wrong, and he had to play along because that was what politics entailed.
Alaric’s thoughts drifted to Talasyn and how heartily she had laughed at Rajan Wempuq’s anecdote. For some reason, he had been expecting a sound lighter than air to complement her elegant gown and the stately surroundings, but her laughter had been vibrant and dulcet and unrefined. It had been a moment devoid of falsehood, her sparkling eyes warm like brandy. So he’d reached over to try to touch her, for whatever reason, like some brainless oaf, but at least he’d held himself back just in time.
He revised his previous conclusion. There was one other person at this feast who wouldn’t give any order to assassinate him. Talasyn would kill me herself, he thought, and it was with something that was dangerously close to affection, because that made her the most genuine person in the room.
A hush fell over the end of the table nearest the entrance, gradually spreading to the rest of the guests. Lueve trailed off in the middle of recounting an amusing story from her years as Urduja’s lady-in-waiting, her mouth hanging open in mid-sentence at the sight of something to Alaric’s left.
He turned to where the daya—and everyone else—was looking. A lanky figure stood in the open doorway, in an ensemble that was markedly out of place at a formal event, consisting only of an embroidered long-sleeved vest and trousers gathered at the ankles. There was an ornate band of leather and bronze slung around his hips, to which a hand crossbow was holstered. The new arrival’s tousled hair fell across his forehead and his walnut-brown eyes blazed as they swept the banquet hall. The expressions of the people that gazed back at him ranged from confusion on Talasyn and the Kesathese delegation’s part to full-blown alarm on that of the Dominion nobles.
“Who is that?” Talasyn inquired, sounding curious but careful to keep her voice low.
“Trouble.” It was Harjanti who answered, agitated. “Lady Lueve’s nephew, Surakwel Mantes.”
“He loathes the Night Empire,” added Ralya, shooting a look in Alaric’s direction that could have passed for nervousness. “This isn’t good at all.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Niamha Langsoune, Daya of Catanduc, ruthless and unflappable negotiator, was the same age as Talasyn but more poised than Talasyn could ever hope to be even if she reached a hundred. The young woman broke the frozen tableau that the banquet hall had become, springing to her feet with an enviable litheness.
“Surakwel!” she merrily called out as she swept toward the newcomer, a dazzling smile on her face. Her pleated overskirt had been woven to resemble the scales of a carp, and it swirled with her every step in glimmers of white and orange and yellow. “How good of you to join us—”
“Save it, Nim,” the young lord snarled in the Nenavarene tongue. He brushed past her and made his way to the head of the table, his gaze meeting Talasyn’s and darkening in recognition for a fraction of a second as he passed across from where she sat.
So this was Surakwel Mantes. The vagabond and pot-stirrer that Prince Elagbi had told her about. Her father’s exact words had been, At least Surakwel is off gallivanting elsewhere, or we’d have an even bigger problem on our hands.
Now Surakwel was here, and Talasyn had a feeling that she was about to find out just how big the problem could get.
He drew to a halt before Queen Urduja and dropped to one knee, head bowed, the gesture more perfunctory than respectful. Urduja regarded him warily for several long moments, as if he were a mongoose that had infiltrated her viper’s nest, in the silence of a hall where even the orchestra had stopped playing.
“Welcome home, Lord Surakwel.” She spoke for everyone’s benefit, her icy tones ringing throughout the vast chamber in Sailor’s Common. Probably so that the Kesathese delegation would have no cause to believe that they were about to be murdered in cold blood. “I trust that your journeys have been pleasant.”