“The last time I saw that one was a year ago,” Daya Odish told the other guests, drawing Talasyn’s attention. “He showed up at court and pressed upon Her Starlit Majesty the need for us to intervene in the Hurricane Wars—rather loudly, I might add. Surakwel was convinced that the Night Empire would soon pose a grave threat to the Dominion.”
Rajan Wempuq let out a gusty snort. “Well, he was right, wasn’t he?” He glanced at Alaric from beneath bushy brows, as though only just remembering that the younger man was there, within earshot. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Alaric replied curtly.
Surakwel was now rising to his feet before the Zahiya-lachis. “My journeys were pleasant enough, Harlikaan.” Unlike most of the other nobles, he spoke Sailor’s Common with the ease of one who used it frequently. “My homecoming, not so much, as I have just learned that you are in the process of brokering an alliance with a murderous despot.”
Like every other personage in Alaric’s immediate vicinity, Talasyn stiffened in her lacquered chair, her eyes darting to him. But her betrothed showed no reaction whatsoever.
At least, at first glance.
Alaric had peeled off his black kidskin dress gloves at the start of the feast. He reached for his wine and it occurred to Talasyn that he held the goblet tighter than was strictly necessary, his bare knuckles clenched to white.
Still, his expression remained neutral as he drank. When Niamha fluttered past, clearly on her way to Surakwel’s side, Alaric called out, “Your friend doesn’t like me very much, Daya Langsoune.”
“I do apologize, Your Majesty,” Niamha hurried to say. “I’ve known him since we were children. He’s rather impulsive and opinionated. I shall set him straight at once.”
Niamha had barely taken another step when Urduja spoke again, freezing the Daya of Catanduc behind Talasyn’s seat and effectively putting an end to the ripples of scandalized murmuring that had blossomed among the diners. “First of all, my lord, you will remove your weapons in the presence of your sovereign. Secondly, there is a proper time and place to air your grievances with my decision, and this banquet is not one of them.”
“On the contrary, Harlikaan, there is no better time and place,” Surakwel retorted even as he unholstered his crossbow and tossed it onto the floor. “Everyone is here to bear witness as I formally protest this union.”
“The boy has a death wish!” Praset exclaimed, aghast.
“I’ll say,” Talasyn muttered under her breath. “Throwing a loaded weapon around like that, he’s going to impale his own foot.”
Alaric gave a nigh silent chuckle, the soft sound short-lived but tinged with dark amusement. It was the first display of emotion he’d shown since Surakwel stormed in.
“I’ve been to the Northwest Continent,” Surakwel was telling the Zahiya-lachis. “I’ve seen for myself the devastation that the Night Empire has wrought. This is not what Nenavar should stand for.”
“I won’t sit here and be lectured by a boy who spends eight months of each year elsewhere in the world,” Urduja stonily declared. “Given such a busy schedule, how could you even presume to know what Nenavar stands for?”
“I know that we don’t coddle war criminals!” Surakwel shot back heatedly. “I know that we value our independence! I know that I told you years ago that we should help the Sardovian Allfold before the situation worsened—and I was right!”
“Yes, he’s dead, the fool,” sighed Daya Odish. “What a pity. I will miss him.”
But Talasyn could see for herself that the mood at the table was slowly shifting. Some of the lords and ladies were exchanging disgruntled looks, as if they agreed with Surakwel. He was giving voice to their own resentments, their own fears.
“The Night Empire will not last, Harlikaan.” He sounded earnest, impassioned, almost as though he was now begging Queen Urduja. “Justice and liberty will win out in the end. This is an opportunity for us to be on the right side of history for once.”
There was some part of Talasyn that could appreciate how neatly Surakwel had cornered the Zahiya-lachis. By confronting her out in the open, he’d ensured that she couldn’t fall back on the same reasons she’d given Talasyn about how it would be better to let the Night Empire think that the Dominion was willing to cooperate. Still, Talasyn was shocked that Urduja would let anyone defy her so brazenly—in full view of her entire court and a fellow head of state—without having him clapped in chains or banished from her sight.
Talasyn’s confusion must have been apparent, because Niamha leaned in to whisper, “Lord Surakwel is popular with the younger set, and his family commands one of the largest private armies in the archipelago. Their matriarch is bedridden; Surakwel is her only child, and thus he is her heir. Not to mention that he is also related to House Rasmey, one of Queen Urduja’s staunchest allies. She can’t afford to step on Lady Lueve’s toes.”
Urduja’s next words substantiated Niamha’s explanation. “We will discuss this some other time, Lord Surakwel,” she said with an air of ringing finality, and that was how Talasyn realized that her grandmother had been caught off-guard and was now feeling around for a chance to regroup.
But Surakwel was having none of it. “When will we discuss it?” he pressed. “When the deal is final and Nenavar is at Kesath’s beck and call? When Her Grace Alunsina Ivralis has been sent into the jaws of the wolf? You say that you won’t sit here and be lectured by myself, Harlikaan, but neither can I just stand quietly by and let our Lachis’ka marry the Night Emperor!” He whirled around to glare at Alaric. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself, Your Majesty?”
Talasyn could hear her own heartbeat in the deathly stillness, but Alaric’s pale features were still carefully blank, even though the attention of an entire hall was now on him. He slouched back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Unfortunately, there is nothing left to say,” he drawled. “His lordship seems to have done all the talking for me.”
Talasyn hadn’t thought it possible for Surakwel to look more furious than he already did, but he was swift to prove her wrong. She could almost taste it, the rage of someone who believed in something. That was the most dangerous kind. It burned.
“Then you leave me no choice, Ossinast.” Surakwel drew himself up to his full height, his demeanor taking on a certain ceremonious bent. “By my right as an aggrieved citizen of the Nenavar Dominion—”
“Lord Surakwel!” Prince Elagbi thundered from his seat on Urduja’s left, an emphatic warning that was summarily ignored.
“—in accordance with the ancient laws of the Dragon Throne—”
Lueve Rasmey was halfway out of her chair, hand pressed to her heart. “Surakwel,” she murmured, her bottom lip quivering.
“—I, Surakwel Mantes of Viyayin, Lord of the Serpent’s Trace, hereby challenge Alaric Ossinast of Kesath to a duel without bounds!”
To their credit, Alaric’s entourage reacted with admirable celerity; before Talasyn could even finish processing what Surakwel had just said, Mathire stood up and bolted to Alaric’s side, accompanied by a man who had to be Sevraim. Devoid of helm and armor, Sevraim was lankily built, with curly dark hair and mahogany skin. He flashed Talasyn a lazy salute before speaking to Alaric.