Page 19 of A Monsoon Rising

It smelled like him.

She had never developed the habit of associating certain scents with certain people. In Hornbill’s Head, everyone had smelled like the Great Steppe, dusty and sunbaked, and the Sardovian regiments had used the same kind of standard-issue lathers. Among the Nenavarene court, the mix of various perfumes and oils was too confusing to try to make sense of—and it was downright cloying on occasion, to the point that she would sometimes sneeze in a crowded hall.

Alaric, though, was different. Talasyn just hadn’t realized how much until she entered a room she’d never been in before and knew instantly that it was his because of the scents that hung in the air. There was the warm fragrance of sweet myrrh in his soap, mingled with juniper berries and the spice of the sandalwood water that he splashed on after shaving, as well as a hint of honey from his pomade. Underscoring all of these, also, was the slightly acidic tang of coffee, the earthiness of leather, and traces of vellum and ink.

She spent ages standing in the middle of the room, agonizing over whether it was more proper to sit at his desk or to remain on her feet while waiting for him. She also didn’t know whether she was here to be mad at him for abandoning her atthe gala or to squeeze more information out of him. She still hadn’t decided what tack to take by the time Alaric stumbled in.

Their eyes met, then widened in sync as the door slammed shut. There was a gash on his forehead. His shoulders sagged and his body dipped forward in the beginnings of a slow, terrible collapse.

Talasyn hurried over to Alaric, bracing him in her arms before he could hit the floor. “You’re injured!”

“Your powers of observation are—” His sentence cut off into a sharp hiss as he pressed one gloved hand over his ribs.

Burdened by her dress and heeled shoes, it took some effort to haul him onto the bed, but she finally succeeded. His face was a worrying gray at the edges against the black sheets, and his fine tunic was soaked through with—with blood—

She wrestled the tunic and his formal gloves off him, her heart clenching in sympathy as he grunted with each jolting movement, and sat down beside his sprawled form. Now he was bare from the waist up, but she couldn’t afford to be embarrassed; all of her attention was on the bruises and lacerations marring his skin like some gruesome star chart.

“What happened?” she demanded, vehemence leaching into her tone. These weren’t battle wounds. He’d had to have stayed still for them to be this concentrated. And she recognized the telltale jagged edges left by the Shadowgate. “Who did this to you?”

Alaric turned his head to the side, avoiding her gaze, his lips clamped shut.

“Tell me.” Talasyn put her hand against his cheek, urging his eyes back to hers. “Or I’ll go to your guards and ask them instead.”

“Don’t.” Within the depths of his pupils, sparks of silver aether flashed. But this stirring of magic brought on by an abrupt surge of emotion vanished just as quickly as it hadappeared, its wielder utterly sapped of strength, his pride running aground on her stubbornness. “It was my father,” he said hoarsely. Every word sounded ripped from his throat. “In punishment for my shortcomings—” He shuddered with a fresh spasm of pain, eyelids twitching as he closed them, long lashes fluttering against the tops of wan cheeks. “A lesson.”

Talasyn had known, of course, that Gaheris was cruel, but it had never before occurred to her that this cruelty would extend to his son.This is how he keeps him chained.The epiphany brought with it a rush of nausea. That the Master of the Shadowforged Legion did not fight back told her this had been going on for a long time. It had beeningrainedin him to not fight back.

She reached out to scrub some of the blood off his face with the pad of her thumb, and her stomach twisted when he flinched at her touch. She thought about the orphanage keepers and how they’d made a game of hitting her and the other children, how she’d snuck out on her own as soon as she was able.

Alaric’s mother had left. He’d had nowhere to run.

“I’ll tell Sevraim to call for a healer,” Talasyn announced, getting to her feet.

“He already offered to. I told him to get lost.” Alaric’s large fingers clamped around her wrist, dragging her back down. “No one else can see.” She hesitated, unconvinced and worried sick. He added, his tone uneven and his grip on her tightening, “Don’t, Talasyn.”

His blatant panic forestalled all argument. A leader could not appear vulnerable to his people. Not so soon after a war. His thumb brushed across the inside of her wrist in fretful strokes, and her free hand moved as though of its own accord, wrapping around his, squeezing in reassurance as she asked, “Do you have any bandages, then? I can—”

“Leave it,” Alaric told her through clenched teeth. “I’ll take care of myself.”

“You’re in no condition—”

“I can manage—”

“No, youcan’t!”

He gave a start at her raised tone, his powerful body twitching as though it longed to curl in on itself in a protective ball. Thoroughly chastened, she cradled his cheek, the walls that she had so carefully built around herself in his presence crashing down. “Alaric,” she pleaded, “let me help you.”

“You shouldn’t even be here.” Despite his rough, strained words, he leaned into her touch with a quiet desperation that made up her mind for her.

“I am, anyway,” she retorted. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He opened his eyes and suddenly she was staring into the liquid silver of them, glazed over with terror and anguish. Perspiration dotted his brow. It was several long moments before he spoke again. She could see various decisions playing out across his conflicted features and, above it all, the yearning for comfort. For relief from his suffering.

“My back’s worse off,” he admitted.

Talasyn bit her tongue to keep from scolding him for taking his sweet time telling her. She helped him roll over onto his side, and then she had to stifle a gasp at the sight. Gaheris’s magic had lashed at him with tendrils of thorns and heat. The striated wounds crisscrossed down his spine, weeping drops of scarlet on singed skin. How had Alaric survived this? How couldanyonehave survived this? What kind of father would do this to his son?

Later,she thought. She could ask questions later. For now, she had to concentrate on the daunting task at hand.

---