The Lachis-dalo were on edge as they disembarked from the skerry that had ferried them from the diplomatic schooner to the Deliverance. Talasyn couldn’t say that she blamed her guards. While they were technically not in enemy territory owing to the terms of the agreement, the sight of hordes of Kesathese soldiers assembled in the hangar bay for their arrival was still unsettling. In fact, Talasyn herself had spent most of the schooner voyage from Eskaya running through escape scenarios in her head.
Granted, the dress that Jie had wrangled her into wasn’t particularly conducive to escape. While the saffron-yellow bodice was so liberally embellished with seed pearls and quartz crystals that it could probably deflect an iron crossbow bolt, it was . . . staggeringly low-cut. One sudden move on Talasyn’s part would give the Kesathese fleet the type of eyeful that nobody wanted. The skirt was very stiff, too; it hugged her hips and her thighs, flaring out slightly below her knees, gathered here and there into large fan-shaped pleats. If she tried to run, she’d rip a seam.
Talasyn therefore felt rather constrained and unhappy as she stepped into the hangar bay of Alaric’s stormship. He headed up the vanguard, with Sevraim behind him.
“So many soldiers, Your Majesty,” Prince Elagbi mused as he and Talasyn approached Alaric. “One might think that you don’t trust your allies.”
Alaric ignored the slight. “Welcome aboard, Your Highness, Your Grace.”
He looked at Talasyn, really looked at her, for the first time since her arrival, and—
She didn’t know what happened, exactly. His gray eyes fell on her face first, then drifted lower. His gauntleted fists clenched at his sides and, for the briefest of moments, a look darted across his pale features that put her rather in mind of someone choking to death on their own tongue. But it was gone as quickly as a flash of lightning, as soon as he drew a swift inhale.
Alaric turned on his heel and marched out of the hangar bay. Talasyn and Elagbi were left with no choice but to follow him, trailed by the Lachis-dalo. Talasyn was puzzled by Alaric’s behavior and she made to ask her father about it, but changed her mind. Elagbi, too busy studying his surroundings with awe, had clearly not noticed that anything was amiss. The interior of the Deliverance was nothing compared to the floating castle that was the W’taida, but the Nenavarene prince had never been on a stormship before, and Talasyn supposed that, for him, every inch of the austere space carried a certain novelty.
Sevraim fell into step beside her. His handsome face was hidden by his obsidian helm, but Talasyn could practically hear the unctuous smile in his voice when he said, “How wonderful to have you onboard, Lachis’ka. It certainly livens up this drab old place.”
“I don’t doubt that you are alone in such a sentiment,” Talasyn said archly.
He waved a dismissive hand in Alaric’s direction. “Pay His Cranky Majesty no mind. He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”
“Sevraim,” Alaric warned. “Do not bother Her Grace.”
“Is the privilege to bother her reserved only for yourself, Emperor Alaric?” Sevraim quipped, and Talasyn’s jaw dropped.
But, instead of smiting the legionnaire where he stood, Alaric merely tossed Talasyn a long-suffering glance over his shoulder as he kept on walking. “My apologies.”
Sevraim laughed. The manner in which he teased Alaric reminded Talasyn of how Khaede used to tease her, and there it was again, that abrupt jolt of the chasm of loss at Khaede’s absence, at not knowing what had become of her.
It was harder to set aside today than it had ever been, but Talasyn eventually managed—by ruminating on the very odd fact that Alaric could apparently tolerate one of his subordinates talking to him in that manner.
The thrum of aether hearts pulsed through the steel walls, accompanied by the groaning of machinery as the stormship began to move. At Alaric’s stern nod, Sevraim left, most likely to take up his position as the Deliverance cruised over the archipelago. Alaric led the Nenavarene delegation to the officers’ wing, where he stopped and turned to Talasyn and Elagbi.
“Would you care for some refreshment?” he asked.
Talasyn gave a start. “Refreshment?”
“You have been very gracious in adhering to my request that you accompany me outside Eskaya. It would be the height of rudeness to put you up in the lounge without offering the finest vintage that I have on board.” The invitation was extended without a semblance of warmth. It was clear that Alaric was going through the motions of social niceties, fully expecting his guests to refuse. “I understand if my presence would be intolerable, given the situation. You may feel free to make yourselves comfortable while I’m overseeing the search.”
It was impulsive and ill advised, but Talasyn decided to call his bluff. “Some wine would be lovely. And I must insist that you join us, Your Majesty.” Petty triumph sparked in her veins as surprise and annoyance flickered over her betrothed’s face. “Surely you can delay pressing your nose to the windows and squinting down at the ground for an hour or so.”
Alaric glanced at Elagbi as if half hoping that the latter would help him out of the mess that he’d gotten himself into. Instead of courteously declining, however, the Dominion prince was content to follow Talasyn’s lead, flashing a brilliant, toothy smile. “Yes, yes!” Elagbi boomed. “Her Grace and I would be most honored to drink with you, Emperor Alaric. Thank you!”
“The honor is mine,” Alaric gritted out. “Please follow me.”
After the Sardovian Allfold’s crushing defeat, the majority of Talasyn’s daily routine had been spent in the marble halls and extravagantly furnished rooms of the Roof of Heaven. Thus, the lounge that Alaric showed them to was rather underwhelming, even though the bottom-dweller that Talasyn had once been would have swooned at the luxury of upholstered furniture and windows that spanned the length of the entire wall on one side, displaying a breathtaking panorama of Nenavar’s green mountains and sandy beaches sprawled beneath clear blue skies.
With the Lachis-dalo stationed outside, the three royals took their seats—Talasyn and Elagbi on the settee, Alaric in a black leather armchair that appeared too small for him, as Talasyn suspected most standard-sized seating would be. He hunched in on himself and stretched his long legs out further than was strictly decorous. It would have been endearing if he’d been anyone else.
A mousy aide brought in a bottle of wine and three slim flutes carefully balanced on a tray, which he set down on the table. He uncorked the bottle and was about to start pouring, when Alaric stopped him with a crisp “We’ll help ourselves, Nordaye.”
Giving a deep bow, the aide scurried out of the lounge.
“Ah, cherry wine.” Elagbi sounded reluctantly impressed, eyeing the label on the bottle. “Imported from the Diwara Theocracy. This is a rare treat, Emperor Alaric. You have good taste.”
Alaric blinked, as though the compliment had thrown him off-balance. “Thank you,” he said at last, awkwardly. “It is nothing, of course, compared to Nenavar’s currant red.”
“The Lachis’ka doesn’t care overly much for the red. She finds it too astringent,” said Elagbi. “Perhaps the cherry wine will be more to her taste.”