Page 30 of A Monsoon Rising

Alaric blanched as though the array of colorful, jewel-encrusted attire worn by Nenavarene men was flashing through his mind in a parade of horrors. “Ihaveclothes.”

“None suitable for the costume event in question,” said Urduja. “As the Lachis’ka’s consort, your ensemble needs to complement hers. It’s tradition, I’m afraid, Emperor Alaric.”

Alaric gave Talasyn a hard look. She ducked her head. Shesympathized with him, but there was an uphill road to gaining the Dominion’s acceptance and they had to pick their battles.

“You can’t wear black or any other dark colors to the masquerade,” she muttered. “Or else the court will think that you aren’t happy that we stopped Dead Season—that you don’t share in their joy. So that rules out your entire wardrobe.”

She held her breath, nervous that he would argue, effectively dispelling the Dragon Queen’s notion that they weregetting along, but in the end Alaric just shrugged.

“Far be it from me to go against my empress’s wishes.” He lifted his goblet to her in a droll parody of a toast, still trying—wasn’t it just like him—to get a rise out of her even when he was acquiescing. “Let your tailor do his worst, then.”

He was still debating, long after the meal had ended and he’d retired upstairs to give Talasyn more time alone with her family, whether or not saving the world as he knew it was worth being dressed by a people as garish as the Nenavarene.

Alaric deeply hoped that feathers wouldn’t be part of the equation.

He was in bed, careful to occupy only one side of it, by the time Talasyn entered the royal chambers—or, well,stormedinto the royal chambers. She was pouting, and it was oddly adorable, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.

“Where does she get off, insinuating that I don’t know what I’m doing!” she burst out.

Alaric hazarded a guess. “Queen Urduja has reservations about us housing the villagers, I take it?”

“Yes, right before she left she said that it would have been easier to ship them to the transient homesteads on Delanep that are reserved for such a purpose.” Talasyn stomped over to the vanity and tugged her hair loose from its braid witha fierceness that made Alaric wince. “But what’s so difficult aboutthis? Iantas has enough room and enough supplies!”

“It does,” Alaric said evenly.

“She’s just annoyed that I took the initiative instead of consulting her first—” Talasyn broke off, as though it was sinking in for the first time that Alaric was in her bed. Her cheeks flushed bright pink. “I need to wash up.”

Then she all butranto her dressing room, and he was left staring at a closed door.

Alaric closed his eyes, slumping against the headboard with an utter despair that was shameful for the Master of the Shadowforged Legion to exhibit. Living with Talasyn, having her constantly in his orbit—how was he to get through this visit unscathed? They would either kill each other or end up kissing again, and it would prove disastrous either way. Their alliance and all the murkiness surrounding it was complicated enough without adding trysts to the mix.

The solution is simple,a snide inner voice told him.Simply donotkiss her.

He could do that, surely. He hadn’t kissed her at all since their wedding night, and he hadn’t kissed her during that charged moment earlier, so he wasclearlycapable of some modicum of self-control.

His eyes flew open and homed in on the door to her dressing room as a horrifying possibility occurred to him. What if she marched out of there in nearly sheer robes like those she’d wornthatnight? He’d jump off the balcony. He truly would.

Alaric’s fears, as it turned out, were unfounded. Talasyn emerged in a baggy nightshirt and loose sleep trousers, and he almost collapsed from crushing relief.

However, when she extinguished the fire lamps and gingerly tucked herself in under the covers on her side of the bed, thesmell of custard-flower soap lingering on clean, warm skin wafted over to him in the moonlight-tinted darkness, triggering an animalistic twitch of interest low in his belly.

“Goodnight,” Talasyn said in a small voice, through silk sheets.

“Goodnight,” Alaric echoed.

Doubtful,he thought.

CHAPTERTWELVE

Talasyn was awake. She knew that she was awake. Her eyes were open in the morning light that streamed into the bedroom.

But she couldn’t move. She was flat on her back on the mattress, her rigid limbs locked in place.

The chimeras were eating her alive.

Creatures of silver aether and midnight smoke gnawed at her flesh with inky teeth, their eel-like bodies wrapping around her arms and legs. They stripped her skin from her bones; they gulped her down, piece by piece.

Talasyn screamed—or tried to. Not a single drop of sound emerged from her bursting lungs, even as she strained with all her might. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t scream, she couldn’t aethermance.

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