Page 17 of A Monsoon Rising

So why don’tyoutake over again, if I’m doing such a poor job of it?Alaric thought, in a burst of sudden defiance.Ah. That’s right—you never will, because you don’t want people to know how much the Shadowgate has aged you, and you see assassins everywhere.

Caught off-guard by his own insolence, no matter how secret it was, he lowered his gaze to the floor.

“I have let you get away with far too much for far too long,” the Regent concluded. “Your wife will have to preside over her coronation banquet without you. Now … rise and face me, boy.”

Alaric got to his feet, steeling himself for what was to come. A hollow sense of despair washed over him as he realized thatthiswas why he’d initially been let off the hook when he returned from Nenavar a fortnight ago. Gaheris had been saving the punishment for the most humiliating moment that it could be inflicted—with Alaric’s new empress and her family in the Citadel, wondering along with his officers where he’d gone off to during an important celebration. On a night that marked a triumph and a turning point of his reign, he would slink back to his chambers alone and heavily injured, like a street dog hit by a cart.

His father was reminding him of his place. And there wasnothing that Alaric could do about it as the shadows enveloped him.

Nothing except stand tall and rely on his pride to suppress his cries amidst waves of debilitating pain, tendrils of magic lashing at his skin, his eyes gazing upon only darkness, swirling with flecks of aether like the ghosts of stars in some black night. He could do nothing except ride it out, breathe out each current of agony as it seared into the marrow of his bones.

And yet there was a part of him that seemed to experience all this from far away. Some tiny part of him had left his body and was wrapped in sunlight, sheltered somewhere spun from memory, a place where Talasyn carded her fingers through his hair as he lay atop her, the gentlest touch he’d ever known.

As the pain heightened, this sunlit place grew larger—

—and when the next shadow-whip cracked against a fresh wound in his back—

—when his knees threatened to give out at the renewed onslaught—

Alaric seized control of his father’s magic and, arms slicing through the air, sent the shadows roaring toward the throne.

He had no idea how he did it. He wasn’t even fully aware that he’d done it until the dust settled and the waves of attacking darkness parted from Gaheris’s form to reveal that the Regent had managed to cast a shield before he was consumed.

Through the haze of lingering anguish that ripped into his nerves like knives, Alaric dimly registered the smile of twisted delight on Gaheris’s face.

“Pain is instructive,” Gaheris whispered. “Do you understand now how it brings out the best in you? Not even I can bend someone else’s aethermancy to my will. You brim with raw power, child of darkness. I will see that you learn how to harness it properly—that you learn how toruleproperly—so that you may always keep our people safe.”

Something warm and wet was streaming down Alaric’s cheek. At first, he assumed that he’d started crying from the physical toll, but when he blinked his lashes became tangled in something too sticky to be tears. He was bleeding from a cut on his head. The hall swam before his eyes.

“F-father,” he heard himself stammer out. “I can’t—”

“You will,” said Gaheris. Black fumes of magical energy gathered around him once more, preparing for the next strike. “You are my son. Your grandsire watches from the willows. You will endure this and prove worthy of our family’s legacy.”

And the Shadowgate swept over Alaric once more, and he could no longer hold back a scream as his torment began anew.

CHAPTERSEVEN

The Hurricane Wars had shaped Talasyn in more ways than one. The most glaring way, in her opinion, was her tendency to be deeply suspicious when things were going well.

Because it was almosttooeasy, wasn’t it? And she had her Nenavarene companions to thank for that, whether they knew it or not.

At first, it was frighteningly awkward in the wake of Alaric’s departure. Every once in a while, the Kesathese officers’ questioning gazes slid to the empty seat beside her, containing no leader to take cues from. The obvious implication was that the Night Emperor thought so little of his political marriage that he had no compunctions about abandoning his wife at a feast purportedly held in her honor.

This was a uniquely excruciating brand of humiliation, to be sure, but Talasyn would rather have scooped out the World-Father’s earwax than let on that any of it affected her. As she sat straight, holding her head high beneath the weight of her new crown, Urduja and Elagbi and Jie eventually came to the rescue. There was nothing quite like the Nenavarene at their most charming, and the tension was lessened somewhat as thethree of them worked together to draw even the most taciturn diners at their table into lighthearted, perfectly appropriate suppertime conversation. After that, it was only a matter of waiting for the opportunity to present itself once the officers had relaxed and the liquor had loosened their tongues.

Talasyn didn’t make her move until Mathire was distracted. Although the Dominion nobles had run rings around the commodore during negotiations, making plain that her talent was in brute political force rather than cunning, Talasyn still didn’t trust that secretive little smile from earlier. Some instinct cultivated during the months under Urduja’s tutelage warned her not to play games with Mathire. Therefore, it wasn’t until the other woman was embroiled in discussion with some other commodores that Talasyn turned to the general sitting beside her.

“You cannot imagine my relief, General Vim”—Talasyn marshaled her snootiest Lachis’ka airs, praying that he wouldn’t see through them—“to learn that all the surviving rebels from today’s attack have been apprehended. It is commendable how swiftly, howbravelyyour men acted in the face of such an emergency.”

Talasyn could hear Urduja’s voice in her head as she watched the general’s chest puff out with pride.If you have no strong pieces on the board, then play to your opponent’s weaknesses. Ego is usually the most reliable path to someone’s downfall.

This was one of the many tidbits of wisdom that the Zahiyalachis was forever spouting during all those long, drawn-out lessons in her salon at the Roof of Heaven. Talasyn was glad that she’d been paying attention that particular day.

“Indeed, the stars will never set on the Night Empire,” General Vim proclaimed, taking another swig of brandy. His grin was broad, his cheeks were flushed, his guard was down.“The Allfold set sail for the Citadel believing that they had the upper hand—now they languish in our cells.”

Underneath the table, Talasyn’s fingers laced into her skirts, gripping the fabric so tightly that one of the pearls came loose. She leaned toward Vim, widening her eyes in a picture of innocence. “And we are absolutely certain that they’ll stay there?” She let her voice tremble from anticipation, let this arrogant man in his cups mistake her tone as fear.

“Not to worry, Empress Alunsina.” Vim grabbed a table napkin and patted at the crumbs on his walruslike mustache. “The eastern wing of the prison is so heavily fortified with ballista platforms and sentry towers that the Legion doesn’t even need to patrol it. It’s right by a mess hall, too, so at any given time there are scores of the Night Empire’s finest soldiers who will come running at the first sign of disturbance.”

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