Chapter Three
C HAPTER T HREE
He was wearing his mask when they met again.
Talasyn descended the ramp of the diplomatic schooner that had borne her from Kesath’s shoreline to its capital city, then stopped to look around. They were high up on one of the docks that spiraled from the Citadel’s control tower in long strips, like the arms of an octopus. The coolness of the spring air lanced through her bones, a foreign sensation after her long absence from the Northwest Continent.
She had only ever seen the Citadel in maps before. A few years ago, in a fit of desperation, Ideth Vela and the rest of the Sardovian Allfold’s War Council had toyed with the idea of rescuing their soldiers from its prisons, but they’d nixed any such plans when it became clear what they would be up against.
Now that she was walking above the Citadel with her grandmother, her father, her lady-in-waiting Jie, and their royal guards, the Lachis-dalo, Talasyn could understand why Vela had changed her mind.
This was one great military stronghold rather than a living, breathing city. A series of starkly cut stone buildings and bare courtyards were tucked away behind thick walls lined with sentry towers and ballista platforms. Unlike Nenavarene settlements, where the skies were filled with ships cutting one another off and racing for prime spots on landing grids, here sleek vessels bearing House Ossinast’s chimera on their sails drifted through the air at a sedate pace, in carefully controlled lanes. Beyond the walls was nothing but barren fields and stormship hangars, stretching onward to the horizon.
“Haven’t been here five minutes and I’m already depressed,” Jie grumbled as she, along with the rest of the Nenavarene delegation, trailed after Talasyn.
“Be quiet,” Queen Urduja hissed. Talasyn heard Prince Elagbi chuckle before he, too, was shushed by his mother.
In all honesty, Talasyn was inclined to agree with her lady-in-waiting, but Alaric’s tall, broad figure, standing stock-still a few feet away to receive her, demanded all of her attention. He was in his battle regalia: spiked pauldrons and clawed gauntlets, chainmail tunic and belted cuirass, a mix of black like night and crimson like blood. Strands of wavy dark hair fell across his pale brow. His gray eyes regarded her blankly above the obsidian half-mask bearing a carven design of snarling wolf’s teeth.
Behind him were Sevraim and two identically armored figures. The Shadowforged twins. The Thing and the Other Thing, as she called them in the privacy of her head.
Talasyn had no idea what Alaric was thinking as she crossed the distance between them on legs that she had to will to remain steady. It felt as though the walkway, built of metal grids that stretched high above the city that was not a city, threatened to shatter with every step she took.
When she came to a stop in front of him, he inched closer until she was forced to look up to see his face.
“Lachis’ka,” he murmured.
It had been a fortnight since she’d last heard his voice. Time had not in the least diminished its effect on her. Those deep, rich tones of honey mead and oak, lent a muffled, smoky quality by his mask, sent an unwelcome thrill somersaulting through her stomach.
“Emperor,” Talasyn replied as calmly as she could manage.
Alaric tilted his head up for a brief moment, idly perusing the heavens. “You brought your warships,” he remarked, acting for all the world as if he could see the outriggers and moth coracles hovering over the Eversea that she’d left behind at the Kesathese port, instead of doubtless having been briefed on their presence by the harbor guards. “Perhaps I should take offense.”
“You’re the one meeting me in full armor,” Talasyn pointed out.
“We were training. You arrived earlier than expected.” He glanced at her companions over the top of her head. “Queen Urduja. Prince Elagbi. Welcome.”
“What am I, sour goat-liver soup?” Jie asked in a whisper that carried, and Talasyn had to hastily fight back a snort.
Alaric turned on his heel and led the way to the control tower, the Nenavarene delegation following him—rather like a gaggle of finely dressed ducklings, Talasyn observed with some amusement.
But it was an amusement that was quick to fade when the two identical legionnaires wedged themselves on either side of her while they walked.
Unlike the helms of most of the Shadowforged, including Sevraim, the winged design of the twins’ helms exposed wide patches of their faces. They were light skinned like Alaric, with long raven-black hair bound high on their heads and fawncolored eyes that were narrowed at Talasyn in dislike. The last time she had encountered them was at the battle of Lasthaven, where they’d been heartily trying to kill her and she them. Without the adrenaline of combat blotting out all the little details, Talasyn finally noticed the subtle difference between the twins: the one on her right—whom she decided was the Thing today—had a small beauty mark on her cheek.
“Hello, little Lightweaver,” the Thing said with a sneer. “Or should I start calling you Princess ?”
“She cleans up so well, doesn’t she?” the Other Thing opined from Talasyn’s left. “I almost didn’t recognize her.”
“Oh, I’d know that smell anywhere,” the Thing said airily. “Smells like Sardovian scum.”
There were squawks of outrage from Jie and Elagbi, as well as a noticeable stirring among the Lachis-dalo. Before any of them could exacerbate the situation by coming to her defense, as the twins clearly wanted, Talasyn spoke, her head held high.
“I am the Nenavarene Lachis’ka, not a princess.” She stared straight ahead, at Alaric’s back. He had tensed somewhat. “You will address me as ‘Your Grace,’ and after my coronation as the Night Empress, you will call me ‘Your Majesty.’”
A stunned silence fell over the group, punctuated only by the sound of footsteps slowing on the metal walkway. Talasyn braced herself for retribution, the magic in her veins simmering to life at this great height. Gods, if her attackers tried to push her off—
Sevraim guffawed, as loud as a crack of thunder. “Oh, well done , Lachis’ka!” He looked over his shoulder, waving a gauntleted hand at the twin on Talasyn’s right, the one with the beauty mark. “This is Ileis.” He then indicated the twin on Talasyn’s left. “That’s Nisene. And I have never seen anyone shut them up that fast.” He playfully elbowed Alaric. “Isn’t it amazing, Your Majesty?”
The Night Emperor ignored him. “Talasyn,” he said without turning around. “Come here.”
He was giving her a convenient excuse to get away from the twins. Still, she bristled at his high-handedness and opened her mouth to take him to task for it—
“Walk with your husband, Lachis’ka,” Queen Urduja said from behind her. The warning was implicit in her regal tone: Talasyn couldn’t afford to make any more of a scene than she had already gotten swept up in.
Talasyn pushed past Ileis and Nisene, the weight of their resentful gazes boring into her nape. Perhaps there was some benefit to be had in reigning over her former enemies after all. She wouldn’t deny that she felt a surge of satisfaction at having gotten the last word with the reminder that the Shadowforged Legion would soon be her subjects. It made marrying Alaric almost worthwhile.
She hurried over to his side and tucked her hand into the crook of the elbow that he held out to her. Her fingers closed around a scaled leather armguard stretched over solid muscle, and it rose up to engulf her—the memory of how his bare arms had felt beneath her wandering hands. She was going to burst out of her skin at any moment, and she couldn’t help but sneak glances at his inscrutable profile as they entered the dimly lit corridors of the Citadel. How in the name of all the gods and the ancestors was he so calm ?
Then again, they had agreed that the kiss in the Belian amphitheater and all else that happened in her bed had meant nothing. Alaric was merely staying true to his word. It meant nothing because it was nothing, and so he was treating it as though it were nothing, which it was. And she should, too.
“Are you attempting to cut off my circulation, Your Grace?” His low rumble broke through her reverie.
“Sorry.” She loosened her constricting grip on his arm.
Alaric fell silent. His gray eyes flickered to her and lingered a beat too long before darting away again. Was he thinking about their wedding night as well? For him, was it also the ghost that walked between them, the invisible current that trembled with their respective awareness of each other?
Clear your mind, Talasyn scolded herself. She hadn’t sailed all the way to Kesath just to be crowned the Night Empress. Once they had a moment alone, she needed to ask Alaric if he’d found Khaede. He had promised to look for her friend in the Citadel’s prisons—and if Khaede was here, then Talasyn wasn’t leaving without her.
She needed all her wits in order to pull that off.
In the end, the Nenavarene contingent was shown to a suite of interconnected rooms, where they were expected to stay until Talasyn’s coronation the next afternoon. Aside from the bedchambers, there was a dining room and a lounge, all sporting black stone, large mantelpieces, and polished but simple furniture, with the odd ancient tapestry here and there. Queen Urduja’s brows had already nearly disappeared into her hairline by the time Alaric stated, as they stood in the circular lounge at the conclusion of the short-lived tour, that all meals would be brought to them by the servants.
“You will not be dining with us, Your Majesty?” the Zahiya-lachis inquired.
“My schedule does not permit, Harlikaan,” he replied, dryly polite. “However, there will be a gala tomorrow, after the coronation. We will take our meal together then.”
Urduja nodded, slightly mollified that not all semblance of hospitality was lost in this strange new world.
Alaric exited the lounge without another word, leaving Talasyn staring at the empty space where he’d been. In all her stress-filled imaginings of what their reunion would be like, she hadn’t expected it to be this … anticlimactic. She was bothered . And annoyed with him.
She stomped over to a table laden with wine and an assortment of small plates, where Jie and Elagbi were helping themselves.
Jie bit into skewered cubes of grilled duck’s blood and chewed tentatively, then made a face. “It’s bland!” she exclaimed, aghast.
Elagbi squinted mournfully at the remnants of the vegetable roll between his fingers. “The bean sprouts are soggy, and the dressing is most uninspired.”
“It will be up to Her Grace to introduce the finer points of Dominion cuisine to the Night Emperor’s court,” Jie declared.
Talasyn blinked at them, her cheeks bulging around a piece of egg-dipped sticky rice cake. They stared at her and she shrugged as she swallowed, then reached for the plate of vinegar-cured prawns and sea-grapes without the slightest hint of remorse. Food was food, after all.
She eventually had to stop eating because Queen Urduja beckoned her over to the lounge’s sole window. Talasyn went reluctantly; they had more or less been ignoring each other since the fight that had earned her some measure of freedom within Nenavar’s borders, but she should have known that such a state of affairs was too good to last.
“I have never before left the Nenavar Dominion,” the Zahiya-lachis said, as though it were a point of pride—which it probably was for her. She was speaking in Sailor’s Common. “So far, I am not impressed by what I find. A most shabby domain.”
Talasyn wanted to tell her grandmother that there was beauty only hours away. That it would become clear the moment one saw them why the snow-laden Highlands were called the Spine of the World. She longed to say that it was spring and the canyons of the Heartland would be teeming with silver-blue rivers, its gorges bedecked in greenery and its meadows covered in flowers.
But all of this belonged to a Sardovia that no longer existed, and so instead she pointed out, “You only have to endure it until the day after tomorrow, Harlikaan.”
“Indeed.” Urduja extended a slim arm dripping with silk and gemstones to indicate several spots with one stiletto-coned finger. “You will need some fountains there, there, and there. A promenade connecting the various buildings would not go amiss—perhaps with some flowering trees.”
“I don’t think beauty ranks very high on the Night Empire’s list of priorities,” Talasyn remarked.
“It should. The masses appreciate a bit of flair. This city is the heart of your empire, yes? You need to keep its inhabitants happy, and to do that , you need to make it livable.”
“It’s not really my empire—” Talasyn started to protest, but Urduja cut her off with an impatient shake of her head.
“There’s no use thinking like that anymore, Alunsina. The chips have fallen into place. No one knows what the future holds, but for now”—the Zahiya-lachis gestured to the skyline once more, this time sweeping her hand as if to encompass it in its entirety—“the Night Emperor is yours, his lands are yours, his power is yours. It’s time for you to rule.”
“You’re sounding awfully enthusiastic about this.” Talasyn narrowed her eyes at her grandmother. “You like the idea of having a granddaughter on the Kesathese throne.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” countered Urduja. “What matriarch would object to her house gaining more influence, more prestige? ‘ We will become a major player on the world stage ’—you told me so yourself, the day after your wedding.”
This won’t last forever. The Night Empire will fall, Talasyn wanted to argue, but at that moment Urduja folded her hands together, her right forefinger tapping on the curve of her left hand’s knuckles with painstaking deliberation.
Talasyn froze, recognizing the warning gesture for what it was. She glanced around the lounge, bringing her awareness of every inch of it to the forefront.
Every inch of its architecture , to be exact.
The curved walls. The elliptically arched roof. Certain rooms in the Roof of Heaven were also built like this, engineered to deliver sound to a focal point …
Urduja’s finger ceased its tapping and stretched out to languidly indicate an enormous ebony-wood mantelpiece that occupied a portion of the wall from floor to ceiling.
It was large enough to conceal the entrance to another chamber, where someone could listen to the conversations in the lounge.
How had Urduja known …?
“I account for everything,” the Zahiya-lachis reminded her, lowering her voice as she switched to the Nenavarene tongue just in case, echoing words that she had said a fortnight ago, “and so I am caught unprepared by nothing.”
It dawned on Talasyn that Urduja had sought to lull whoever was listening into a false sense of complacency by making them think that the Dominion was content to revel in their newfound position and to occupy themselves with superficial matters such as redecorating—rather than hiding the last bastion of the Sardovian Allfold within their borders.
“It also does not escape me,” added Urduja, “that your husband has put us up in this dingy corner wing, isolated from the rest of the Citadel.” She kept her tone light. To make any potential eavesdroppers believe the topic was still frivolous, even if they couldn’t understand the words. “Which implies he wants to limit his people’s exposure to you, and that , in turn, means there’s either something he doesn’t want you to know, or he has no true interest in a lasting alliance, or both.”
Talasyn’s stomach hurt. Was it the questionable vegetable roll? No—this was a different kind of pain. It spread to her extremities, leaving her numb.
What Urduja was saying made perfect sense, but it shouldn’t matter to Talasyn that Alaric had hidden motives. So did she.
Combined with the chilly reception he’d just given her, though, the realization stung.
She was going to betray him. That had always been the plan. Now she just had to be wary that he had something up his sleeve as well, but the bigger picture remained unchanged. It should be unchanged. And yet—
What’s going on with me? Why do I feel hurt?
Maybe it really was food poisoning.
“What should I do?” Talasyn asked.
Urduja patted her arm. “Keep your head down, and keep it clear. At your coronation tomorrow, I shall be at my most charming and sociable and will find out what I can—or, at the very least, get a handle on the general feel of things.”
“If your intuition is right, then the Kesathese aren’t going to be all that talkative,” Talasyn said.
The Zahiya-lachis smirked. “I do love a challenge.”
Don’t you ever grow tired, Talasyn wished she could ask her grandmother, of always being two steps ahead of everyone else? She couldn’t imagine what it was like to have to live that way. But it was time to start learning.
Night in Kesath was a rolling darkness under a blanket of starspeckled clouds and a bitter wind. Talasyn peered out from the lone panel of metalglass in her chambers, taking in the lightless Citadel that stretched below her in swaths of never-ending, nearly solid black. Hers was the only window burning at this late hour, when not even the bright glow of the fire lamp on her bedside table could dispel the oppressive shadows.
In her mind’s eye she was flying in a wasp coracle, its striped sails emblazoned with the Allfold phoenix. She steered it over the Citadel, over all the other settlements on the vast Kesathese plains, eventually clearing the cliffs until she glided down into what had formerly been the Sardovian Hinterland. On and on she went, over the Great Steppe, where she’d grown up, and above the spine of the Highlands, where Khaede and Sol had gotten married and he had fallen in battle only hours later. And after the mountains came the Heartland, that place of last stands, its cities now splintered into pieces by the Night Empire’s stormships. The same empire that had now spread to cover the whole Continent.
Talasyn pressed her palm to the window. The chill of metalglass against her bare skin brought her back from the ruins of Sardovia, back into this room.
Guilt, her constant companion lately, clawed at her soul like an animal. After all this time, she had returned to the Continent—married to the man who had been instrumental in destroying most of it.
I had to, she told her reflection as it stared back at her accusingly in the dark glass. This way, everyone gets to live.
Except for Gaheris.
She couldn’t actually do anything to him for now. Nenavar needed to stay in Kesath’s good graces to stop the Voidfell. But afterwards she could look forward to finding a way to get to the Regent, to kill him, and in doing so help the Sardovian remnant reclaim their lost homelands.
After —she could believe in an after.