Page 51 of The Hurricane Wars

It would hurt too much.

“It’s settled, then,” Alaric interrupted just when Mathire looked as if she was about to blow a gasket. “We willcelebrate”—he couldn’t quite seem to contain his sarcasm—“the nuptials here in Nenavar, and then there will be a coronation in Kesath.”

Mathire scowled but dutifully made a note on one of her meticulously organized sheaves of parchment. Talasyn’s jaw throbbed from the strain of clenching it, and it wasn’t long before the dam broke and her words spilled out in a rush. “I don’t want to go to Kesath.”

Alaric’s gray eyes flickered to her from across the table. “As my wife, you will have to hold court at the Night Empire’s capital every once in a while,” he coolly informed her, and he didn’t know, he wouldneverknow, the way her heart skipped a beat as he referred to her ashis wife. “We can discuss a schedule later. It doesn’t even have to be more than once every few months, if that’s what you prefer. Whatisn’tnegotiable is your coronation.”

He was so remote, so different from the sullen yet patient man who had sat with her yesterday throughout all her fumbled attempts at shield-making. It occurred to her that this was another kind of mask he wore. Not wolf, but politician.

Or maybe—maybe the patient tutor was the mask. Talasyn had no idea. She couldn’t make sense out of this stranger who was to be her husband, and now the future was looming before her, a future where she would have to go into enemy territory as his bride, the spoils of war—

Her breathing shallowed. Alaric studied her warily, the beginnings of a frown tugging at his lips.

Urduja broke the regal silence with which she’d been presiding over the negotiations. “Emperor Alaric is correct, Alunsina. Your father and I will, of course, accompany you to Kesath for your coronation. As for your subsequent visits, I am sure that His Majesty will allow you to take whoever you wish to make your stays more... bearable.”

Alaric nodded. “Each and every one of Her Grace’s courtiers will always be welcome at the Citadel.”

I don’t want to go anywhere with you,Talasyn wished she could snap at her grandmother and her father, still smarting from their subterfuge.Nor with you,she wished she could hurl at her betrothed, still frustrated with his existence in general.

You have to do this,she reminded herself. She brought the faces of Vela and the other Sardovians to the forefront of her thoughts. She grasped for strength in her memories of Khaede and Sol and Blademaster Kasdar. She envisioned death’s amethyst light washing over the darkened shores of this land and its people who had welcomed her back and called her their own.

You have to do this.

Talasyn subsided, leaning back in her seat, features composed in front of the Dominion nobles and the Kesathese. Her claws retracted.

This way, everyone gets to live.

She was dawdling, surely.

That was the only explanation. No one would take overan hour to eat lunch and change into training clothes unless they were doing it on purpose.

Alaric forced himself not to fidget where he sat on the grass. In truth, it came as no great shock that Talasyn was making him wait. Earlier in the council room, she’d turned quite pale when her return to the Continent became the subject of discussion. It made sense, he supposed, that she was in no hurry to see him again.

Or to go to Kesath, for that matter.

A distant roar like the sound of a stormship being torn apart pierced the afternoon stillness. Alaric looked up, and awe blossomed within him. A dragon was flying miles and miles above the Roof of Heaven, its mighty wings silhouetted against the hot sun. The green-scaled length of it snaked through the clear blue sky in an undulating ribbon, forming loops and whorls as it soared ever on.

When it disappeared from view, Alaric’s gaze fell back to earth—and landed squarely on Talasyn.

She had paused in her approach to track the movements of the great beast, but now that it had gone, her eyes met his, golden sunlight lancing through their depths to bring out the same wonder he felt. Scrubbed free of powders and pigments, her freckled features and the line of her pink mouth had gone soft. And for a brief moment, there amidst the orchids, by the waterfall, he forgot that they were anything other than two people who had just shared a marvelous sight.

Then she lifted her chin and stalked over to him in a huff, and the illusion dissipated. But perhaps a part of him was in it, still, because, once she had closed the distance between them and gracelessly settled into a meditation pose that mirrored his, he asked, “Do they truly exude flames?”

Talasyn subjected him to a penetrating stare, as though searching for the trick up his sleeve. Alaric had none, and she must have eventually realized it because she gave a stiff nod.“The orange seaweed that I’m sure you’ve been served here on more than one occasion, it’s called breath-of-fire. It grows only in Nenavarene waters, near where the dragons like to lair. The fire in their bodies heats up the current, making that particular variety of seaweed thrive.”

“The dishisrather good,” Alaric ventured. Breath-of-fire was silky with a hint of crunch, and had a briny flavor that the palace cooks enhanced with a piquant sauce of rice vinegar and chilies. “The same can be said for Dominion cuisine in general, I find.”

“Agreed. So much better than the food back home—”

Talasyn broke off abruptly, but it was too late. The word hung in the space between them, as ominous as a thundercloud.

Home.

“We were fighting a war.” In his haste to cover up the silence before it could turn awkward, Alaric blurted out what first came to mind. “Everything was rationed. It stands to reason that our food can’t compare to...”

He trailed off, realizing that he, too, had made a mistake.

The Continent that they both called home, the war that they’d both fought—on opposite sides. It all came rushing back, bringing with it echoes of the sore point in the negotiations earlier.

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