Page 54 of The Hurricane Wars

Yesterday, when the Shadowgate had roared forth from Alaric, she’d moved away slightly, but only so that she’d have enough ground to fight back if it came to that. But those had been a soldier’s instincts. She hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t, even just for a moment, been afraid of him.

Talasyn darted a furtive glance at Alaric, hating that she was physically incapable of stopping herself from doing so. All of his attention was on Lueve Rasmey as the daya talked the Kesathese contingent through each step of the wedding ceremony and its corresponding cultural significance in Nenavar, fielding questions and objections from Commodore Mathire all the while. Alaric’s black-gauntleted fingers drummed idly on the table, the motion a focal point with the rest of him being so still. For Talasyn, nonsensical observations and memories began to creep in—the sheer size of his hand, the way it hadfelt clamped around her waist the time he lifted her away from the edge of the pool—and she hurriedly shifted her focus to Lueve before these could consume her.

Lueve’s multitude of opal rings glinted in the sunlight as she held up a piece of parchment covered in gold-flecked, wavelike script. It was her marriage contract, which she’d retrieved from the Dominion’s archives high up in the mountains for the panel’s edification; Alaric and Talasyn would sign a similar document at the dragon altar on their wedding day.

“The contract is in Nenavarene, so allow me to translate,” said Daya Rasmey. “Lueve, daughter of Akara from the Veins of Cenderwas, daughter of Viel from the Fastness of Mandayar, daughter of Thinza’khin from the Sundered Plains, is joining hands with Idrees, son of Esah from the Banks of the Infinite, daughter of Nayru from the Serpent’s Trace—”

“I think that Kesath has gotten the idea,” Urduja interrupted. “Anyway, the gist is that it goes back three generations along the matrilineal line.”

Alaric was already shaking his head, even before she’d finished speaking. “My mother was a traitor to the Crown. Her house was expunged from the Kesathese peerage and both my father and I have renounced all affiliation with her. It would be dishonest to enter into a marriage on those terms.”

Talasyn was bewildered. As infuriated as she was with Urduja and Elagbi at present, she couldn’t imagine reaching a point where she would actually renounce them, not when she’d been looking for her family all her life. The only thing that she knew about Sancia Ossinast, Gaheris’s wife and the former Night Empress, was that she had disappeared a few years before the Hurricane Wars began. There were even rumors that Gaheris had killed her. And now Talasyn wondered what Sancia had done to make her son so clearly repulsed by the mere mention of her name.

Alaric’s family reallywasa touchy subject for him.

“I believe that it would be for the best if we skipped the contract.” Prince Elagbi broke the uneasy silence. “Hanan and I didn’t sign one, either, because it isn’t the custom on the Dawn Isles—”

“And because you were married in a witch’s hut, with only one member of court to bear witness,” Urduja groused, narrowing her eyes at her son.

“Perhaps a simpler version of the contract?” Commodore Mathire suggested—to the room at large, but her gaze lingered on Alaric and it seemed all too knowing, and Talasyn was so,socurious, but she’d vowed to behave and that involved keeping her mouth shut rather than demanding answers. “Just the names of the imperial couple and their titles?”

The Nenavarene side of the panel begrudgingly accepted Mathire’s proposal. From there, the talks dragged on well past noon. Once they were adjourned, Talasyn left the council room, both glad that today’s negotiations were over and uneasy about once again having to spend the next few hours alone with her confusing betrothed and all the secrets that lurked in his gray eyes.

Talasyn was about to head into the orchid garden for the afternoon’s training session—truly, she was—when one of her guards came knocking on her bedroom door with an announcement, in compliance with the only direct order Talasyn had ever given since she settled in at the Roof of Heaven. The order to let her know when—

“The pudding merchant is here, Your Grace.”

Even though she’d made a vow to behave, it took Talasyn exactly the length of a heartbeat to decide to let Alaric wait a bit longer. With the contingent of Lachis-dalo trailing after her, she scurried out of her wing of the palace, through the marble hallways, and down the front steps of the Roof of Heaven, where a small crowd of servants had gathered togreet the merchant who sailed up the limestone cliffs on his dugout twice a month.

He was a skinny man who wore a perennial betel-nut-stained smile beneath his wide-brimmed straw hat. On his spry shoulders he balanced a bamboo pole with large aluminum buckets dangling from each end. One bucket contained fresh soybean curds kept warm by a Firewarren-infused aether heart; the other, tiny pearls of palm starch suspended in brown sugar syrup.

Most of the nobles within the palace were too stuffy for street fare, but Talasyn had no such qualms. Servants bowed and curtsied to her, but they had long since learned that she preferred to wait her turn like everyone else. Theydidbecome a little quieter, though, a little less rowdy as they chatted among themselves and with the merchant. Talasyn rather suspected that they’d been bringing him up to speed about news from the palace and the upcoming wedding before she arrived.

She stood awkwardly in the middle of the throng. It was as though she were an island, surrounded by waves of camaraderie that steered clear of her shores. It was a sensation that she was all too familiar with from her time at Hornbill’s Head and in the Sardovian regiments.

No matter her status, it seemed that it would always be her lot in life to feel alone.

Suddenly, the various streams of lyrical chatter cut off. Talasyn looked around, a nervous little flutter running through her at the sight of Alaric making his way down the palace steps.

Sevraim was never far behind his liege, but today he hung back, with Talasyn’s own guards. The hushed servants scattered before the Night Emperor as he strode toward her. Some appeared afraid, others resentful—but it couldn’t be denied that typical Nenavarene inquisitiveness overrode all other emotions. They stared and they stared, whispering behind their hands.

Alaric’s pale features grew stonier at being on the receivingend of such unabashed scrutiny. “We have an appointment,” he reminded Talasyn.

“We do,” she said in even tones. “Beforehand, however, I would like some pudding.”

“Pudding?” he repeated blankly. His gray eyes flitted to the merchant, whose sunny smile had faded, replaced with an expression that suggested he was tempted to dive behind his buckets for cover.

The wall of people that had previously stood between the merchant and Talasyn had melted away. “Two, please,” she said kindly in Nenavarene, handing him a silver coin that she fished out from her pocket. A cupful of pudding was worth only three brass pieces, but she figured that the man deserved extra for having to put up with her betrothed.

“Y-yes, Your Grace,” the merchant stammered. He retrieved two wooden cups from his dugout and ladled generous amounts of snow-white soybean curd and dark sugar syrup into them, sticking a wooden spoon into each mixture before passing both cups to Talasyn.

She held one cup out to Alaric with an air of challenge. The spectators leaned forward eagerly, waiting to see if the fearsome Night Emperor from the land across the Eversea would partake of such a humble repast.

Alaric took the cup from Talasyn as gingerly as though it were a venomous snake. The sun-warmed leather of his gauntlet brushed against her bare fingers as he did so, and that nervous little flutter coursed through her again. Where wasthatcoming from?

Shrugging it off, she brought her cup closer to her lips and scarfed down a spoonful of pudding. The starch pearls burst between her teeth and the silky soybean curd melted on her tongue in a warm wash of sweet syrup. She nearly closed her eyes at how delicious it was. This had definitely been worth being late for training.

Alaric tentatively spooned pudding into his mouth, skepticism radiating from his form. One of the serving-girls giggled and was promptly shushed by another, who was desperately trying to muffle herowngiggles.

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