Page 85 of A Monsoon Rising

“There could besomeassurance,” Ishan said tentatively. “Aethermancy is passed on through the blood. We don’t know if the properties conducive to eclipse magic are in the blood of House Ivralis or House Ossinast, but”—her gaze dropped to her lap, as though she’d suddenly found her folded hands ofgreat interest—“we can preserve both if Her Grace and the Night Emperor’s line remains unbroken.”

There was a collective swift intake of breath from Lueve, Niamha, and Elagbi. The Zahiya-lachis was too canny to show much emotion, although she tensed just the slightest bit. But the prince, who had been holding his peace throughout the meeting—while looking, frankly, somewhat bored—now looked utterly horrified.

And Talasyn, or the girl that Talasyn had been before, would have been horrified as well. She would have turned red and stuttered, she would have railed against the very prospect of bearing an heir with Alaric Ossinast when she’d already had to marry him and would one day destroy his empire.

But she had learned a thing or two from her grandmother. She was watching Rajan Gitab, who was studying the other council members’ reactions with the faintest crease in his brow.

“One might hear a pin drop,” Gitab remarked idly. “The Lachis’ka and the Night Emperor arealreadybound by matrimonial duty to preserve the bloodline. Surely this new objective isn’t too far off from that?”

Talasyn forced her lips to stretch into a smile, vaguely amused, serene. “You will have to forgive my father, Rajan Gitab. He can’t take this kind of talk when it comes to his only child.”

Elagbi coughed. “I truly can’t.” He sagged against the backrest of his chair.

Urduja made a show of checking the wall clock. “Let us reconvene to discuss this further at a later date,” she said. “Alunsina has her hands full preparing Iantas for tomorrow’s festivities.”

But the way she briefly held Talasyn’s gaze made it clear: the next time they spoke on this matter, it would be without Kai Gitab in attendance.

It wasn’t that Alaric expected orwantedthe Nenavarene to prostrate themselves at his feet for saving them from the grim specter of Dead Season, butsomegratitude from the royal tailor would have been nice.

However, when said tailor barged into Iantas in the afternoon, Alaric had to endure several minutes of little indignities, as usual. He would probably have handled it a lot better had he gotten enough sleep, rather than having been unceremoniously woken by the incessant screeching of a skua at his bedroom window, bearing the news that his stormship had returned to Port Samout after fleeing the Voidfell along with the Nenavarene vessels.

In addition, Belrok had turned quite pale upon first catching sight of Alaric’s scar, and although the tailor had quickly composed himself, this reaction hadn’t endeared him to Alaric in the slightest.

“I believe this concludes our last fitting, Your Majesty,” Belrok told Alaric as an assistant carefully tucked the masquerade getup into a chest. “I shall conduct some final alterations and deliver the completed ensemble tomorrow.”

“You mean it’s not yetdone?” Alaric snapped.

“I take pride,” Belrok said with icy hauteur, “in the flawless quality of every garment that leaves my shop. There are a few minor details that could be improved upon. Of course, these are easily missed by all but the trained eye—”

Alaric knew exactly where Belrok could shove his trained eye, but he was eager to put this unpleasant encounter behind him as soon as possible. They left his study and were forced to walk together in awkward silence because they were both headed downstairs, Belrok’s assistants trailing behind them.

As sheer luck would have it, they encountered Talasyn and Niamha in the foyer. Once the greetings were over and donewith, Belrok turned to Niamha with an enthusiastic cry. “Daya Langsoune! My light, my muse!”

“Come off it, Belrok,” said Niamha, but she didn’t hesitate to take his arm with an enchanting smile. “Her Grace and I have just finished smoothing out the wrinkles in the masquerade’s seating chart.”

“You nobles are no fun,” Belrok chided. “What’s life without a diplomatic crisis every now and then?”

“Honestly, I doubt Daya Rasmey can take much more at this point,” Niamha quipped, and Belrok burst into hearty laughter. “Although she was relatively refreshed at council earlier. The miracles that avoiding Dead Season can achieve!” She turned to Alaric. If the scar on his face bothered her, she didn’t show it. “Incidentally, thankyoufor that, Your Majesty—”

“How are you?” Alaric blurted out, staring at Talasyn. Asked as though they hadn’t seen each other in ages, as though they didn’t live together.

Before he could take back his inane question, she said, “I’m fine.” Her gaze was glued to her shoes.

“That’s good,” he said.

“And yourself?”

“I’m … good.”

Alaric was dimly aware that Belrok was looking between him and Talasyn with horrified fascination.

“Shall we have tea, Master Belrok?” Niamha suddenly chirped, dragging the tailor away without waiting for an answer. “I shall see you at the masquerade, Your Grace, Your Majesty!”

“But—” Belrok was still protesting as Niamha ferried him out the castle doors. His assistants bowed to Alaric and Talasyn and then they, too, left.

“I actuallydidhave tea prepared,” Talasyn muttered, casting a somewhat forlorn glance at the empty spot where DayaLangsoune had been standing. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?”

It took Alaric a beat and a half to realize that his wife was talking to him. “Let’s.” He hoped he didn’t soundtooeager.

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