The Hurricane Wars: A Novel

Talasyn did not hold much truck with the finery of her father’s people. That wasn’t to say that she detested looking at the Nenavarene lords and ladies in their resplendent attire, but actually wearing these things herself was a different story. Perhaps concluding that her granddaughter would be a more amicable hostage if provided some measure of freedom, Queen Urduja usually allowed Talasyn to scurry around in simple tunics and breeches when her presence was not required at a meeting. Talasyn was little used to the scratch of embroidered silk and the constraints of heavy jewelry and layered skirts.

As such, while she was aware that she currently looked very glamorous indeed, she was also, not to put too fine a point on it, dying inside. Jie had laced up the bodice a bit too securely in an effort to imbue curves where there were none, and the pins holding Talasyn’s crown in place dug into her scalp like talons. Her face was pancaked with layers of powder and metallic pigments, her lips sticky with the peach lacquer that had been brushed over them to offset her bold eyes. She felt too stiff and too warm, and also rather like a fraud, but she gladly acquiesced to these discomforts because the look on Alaric Ossinast’s face made it all worthwhile.

Her hackles had started rising practically from the moment he walked into the throne hall with his companions, one of whom she recognized as the staff-wielding legionnaire from the battle of Lasthaven. Sevraim, one of the twins had called him. Talasyn had been expecting Alaric to arrive in his usual armor or perhaps the grand robes of his new office, but instead he wore a starkly tailored, belted black tunic over black trousers, and in place of the clawed gauntlets of his battle regalia were plain leather ones. The only nod to embellishment was the silver brooch in the shape of his house’s chimera crest, affixing a cape that flowed with his every step like a raven’s wing. She would never admit it out loud, even with a knife to her throat, but the simple attire flattered his lean figure, emphasizing his broad shoulders and his formidable height. With his mane of thick dark hair framing his pale face as he’d purposefully stridden toward the platform, seemingly oblivious to the court’s stares and whispers, he’d looked every inch a prince. And not a charming, gallant one like Elagbi, but a sinister prince who brought blood and battle and ill omens.

Therefore, it was all the more satisfying when his jaw dropped once he realized that she was Alunsina Ivralis.

Talasyn was standing right in front of him. She had the privilege of watching all trace of urbane courtesy vanish from his features as it morphed into complete and utter shock. His gray eyes went wide and his complexion drained of color so that he was now as white as a sheet. Even after her hostile declaration, which she had pitched low so the courtiers would not overhear, he remained silent for several more seconds, gaping at her like a fish plucked from water.

It was a petty sort of triumph that swelled in Talasyn’s chest, but it quickly faded into bewilderment when something like relief spasmed across Alaric’s features. The expression lasted only for a second, just long enough for her to register its similarity to the look on many a soldier’s face when the all clear was sounded—we live to fight another day—and then it was gone.

“A fine trap you’ve set,” he said coldly, glancing around the hall as though expecting Sardovian soldiers to pop out from the shadows at any moment. There was a stir below the platform as Sevraim recognized Talasyn and tried to rush up the steps, but was blocked by the Lachis-dalo closing ranks around him, the scrape of blades being drawn piercing the silence.

“It is no trap, Your Majesty,” Urduja declared. “The kaptan of the Belian garrison noticed Alunsina’s resemblance to her late mother and summoned the prince. After Kesath won your Hurricane Wars, Alunsina returned to us to seek sanctuary and to claim her birthright.”

“If the patrol hadn’t apprehended us at the shrine, I would never have been reunited with my family,” Talasyn told Alaric with venomous sweetness. “So, really, I have you to thank for that.”

“And who else sought sanctuary with you?” he retorted. “Am I to find Ideth Vela among your retinue? Is Bieshimma long-lost royalty as well?”

“I have no idea where the others are.” The lie rolled off her tongue with ease, as it should; she’d rehearsed it frequently enough. “I was separated from them during the retreat. If you think that this is some sort of ruse, you can search the Dominion yourself.”

But demanding to search the archipelago would be an unforgivable breach of jurisdiction, as well as tantamount to calling the Nenavarene head of state a liar—which would hardly endear the Night Empire to an already wary populace. Alaric was in a difficult position and he knew it, and he obviously knew that Talasyn knew it, judging from the way that he was glowering at her. She arched a brow at him in challenge as he continued to frown down at her and she could almost see the vein throbbing in his forehead and, oh, she was enjoying this far too much.

“Are the two of you quite done making a scene?”

The question dripped like icicles from Urduja’s lips, shattering the world that was Alaric and Talasyn alone. Talasyn wanted to argue that it wasn’t as though they’d been shouting at each other but, on second thought, their tense standoff was already eliciting speculative murmurs from the gathered nobles. Not to mention the minor chaos that was erupting below the platform.

I’m always so shortsighted when it comes to you. Talasyn seethed at the sullen emperor looming over her. Alaric had the habit of eclipsing everything else, making her throw caution to the wind for the sake of crossing blades and wits with him on the battlefields they’d fought over. This magnificent hall was a kind of battlefield as well. She had to be smarter, had to start using the same weapons that Queen Urduja wielded with such skill.

“I believe His Majesty and I have finished being reacquainted.” Talasyn tried to say this with an air of sophisticated loftiness, but it only sounded bitingly sarcastic. Oh, well. Practice would make perfect—she hoped. “Shall we proceed with the negotiations?”

“What the hell is going on?” Sevraim demanded as Alaric stalked down the platform. The legionnaire’s usual nonchalance was conspicuously absent. “Why is the Lightweaver dressed up as the Nenavarene Lachis’ka? Is the Dominion in cahoots with the Sardovian Allfold? Is—”

“Be quiet, Sevraim,” Alaric grunted, aware they had an audience. In a low tone, he proceeded to explain the situation to his flabbergasted companions while the gathering of Dominion nobles looked on with varying degrees of amusement and ire.

“I for one don’t believe that Vela doesn’t have anything to do with this,” Mathire hissed when he was finished. “It’s too much of a coincidence. They can’t possibly think that we’ll go along with it.”

“We can either storm out of here and brace ourselves for another war—or we can play their game for now,” said Alaric. “I will need you to be at your best during the discussion of terms, Commodore. They’ve already managed to blindside us with this reveal. See that it does not happen again.”

The proceedings were moved to the council room adjacent to the throne hall. Studying Talasyn as she sat across from him at the mahogany table, Alaric had a hard time reconciling this vision clad in the blue and gold of Nenavar with the ragged soldier he’d come to know. In fact, despite the barbs traded a few minutes ago, he could almost believe that there had been some mistake, that she was a different person entirely. But she was currently staring at him as though he was a particularly stubborn speck of dirt on her shoe, and that was a very Talasyn look. One that Alaric had no problem raising an eyebrow at, which clearly served to incense her further.

If he was being truthful with himself, he’d felt relief at seeing her, once the initial shock wore off—relief to know that she was alive, after all—but this was the kind of weakness that needed to be examined in private. Right now, he would do well to govern his emotions by clinging to the more familiar territory of their mutual dislike for each other.

She was sitting between Prince Elagbi and a middle-aged brunette clad in opals and sunset-hued, loom-woven fabric, who’d introduced herself as Lueve Rasmey, Urduja’s right hand and the daya whose family controlled the Cenderwas Veins, where all manner of gems and precious metals were mined. To Elagbi’s left was Niamha Langsoune, who flashed Alaric a pretty little smile that he didn’t trust at all, and further down the table was a thin, scholarly-looking sort of fellow named Kai Gitab, the Rajan of Katau.

In lieu of aristocracy, Alaric had Commodore Mathire beside him while Sevraim guarded his back, positioned between him and the wide windows that occupied the entire length of one wall to expose the sweeping vista of rainforest. Queen Urduja was similarly protected by her royal guard as she presided at the head of the table, her icy crown glittering in the light of day.

“Before anything else, let us dispose of the elephant in the room,” said Urduja. “Nineteen years ago, Nenavarene warships sailed to the Northwest Continent unprovoked, with the intention of providing reinforcements to the Lightweavers of Sunstead in their war with the Shadowforged. This flotilla left Dominion shores without my knowledge or my consent. I was vehemently against interfering in the affairs of outsiders when such was proposed to me. The people responsible—the ones who went behind my back after I expressly forbade sending aid to Sunstead—were rogue elements of my court, who, I assure His Majesty, are no longer a factor.”

Alaric’s eyes shifted again to Talasyn, who had gone pale, biting her lip as she looked toward Elagbi. The prince had suddenly found the surface of the table to be of great interest.

“The present-day Dominion,” Urduja concluded, “will approach these talks with the best of intentions and we will keep our end of whatever bargains are made.”

Alaric was surprised by the Zahiya-lachis’s bluntness, but he inclined his head graciously. She could just be covering her tracks but, in the grand scheme of things, her speech was harmless enough to let slide for now. This marriage alliance made it all too clear that Nenavar had already learned its lesson when the first stormship destroyed its flotilla in one fell swoop.

“We shall treat it as ancient history, Queen Urduja,” said Alaric. “There can be no moving forward while the past hangs over our heads.”

Despite his words, he glanced over at Talasyn and Elagbi again, puzzled by their strange reactions to Urduja’s mention of rogue elements. There was something curious there.

Urduja nodded at Lueve Rasmey, who spoke up in pleasant tones that were at odds with the atmosphere of the room. “As chief negotiator for the Nenavar Dominion and on behalf of Her Starlit Majesty Urduja Silim, She Who Hung the Earth Upon the Waters, allow me to formally call this meeting to order. I have been instructed to proceed as if these were traditional marriage negotiations—”

“With all due respect, they are not,” said Mathire. “This is a political union between two governments, with entire armies and economies at stake. It would be a disservice to both sides—and certainly the cause of many misunderstandings—if we were to treat this as an ordinary marriage.”

“The esteemed commodore can surely be forgiven,” said Lueve without missing a beat, chipper smile intact, “for her ignorance of Nenavarene customs. Among the upper echelons of our society, marriage is a political union. With it we form alliances, broker peace between rival houses, and seal trade partnerships. This is the mindset with which we are approaching these nuptials.”

The direction that the conversation had taken drove home one very important point that Alaric had somewhat been refusing to process, but was now finally starting to sink in.

Talasyn.

His would-be bride was Talasyn.

He was going to marry Talasyn.

It was surreal and it was ridiculous. Across from him, the girl in question was beginning to look alarmed, as though it was also dawning on her that it was their shared future being discussed in this room.

Alaric was suddenly gripped by the chill certainty that if Talasyn started outright panicking, he would, too. Seizing an opportunity to get this over with as soon as possible and focus on practical matters rather than his impending breakdown, he addressed Daya Rasmey. “Kesath looks forward to all the diplomatic and trade benefits that will spring forth from this union. In return, there is much that we can offer the Lachis’ka.”

“Aside from the continued safety and survival of her people, of course,” Mathire supplied.

“I did not realize that we were here to exchange threats,” said Niamha. “Nor did I think that anyone would issue threats this deep inside territory not their own.”

Alaric resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose to ward off an oncoming headache. “The Lachis’ka will gain the title of Night Empress, and all the power and prestige that comes with it. Naturally, we will expect Nenavar’s full cooperation as we endeavor to maintain prosperity and stability in this corner of the Eversea.”

“Cooperation that we will be only too glad to provide,” said Prince Elagbi, “as long as it does not infringe on our sovereignty. That is one of our two non-negotiables—that Dominion law prevails in Dominion space.”

Alaric nodded. “And what is the other non-negotiable?”

“That my daughter be treated with the utmost kindness and respect.” Elagbi’s dark eyes were as hard as flint as he met Alaric’s gaze. “That never will a hand be raised to her in anger, that never will she be made to feel any less than who she is.”

Talasyn turned to Elagbi, the look on her face a mix of gratitude and disbelief. This gave Alaric pause. Her expression made him think of certain things that he’d wished for during his own childhood. How he had longed for someone to give a damn about his welfare. For a parent, for anyone, to stand up for him—

No. Those were a child’s insecurities, the chips on a foolish boy’s shoulders. They had no place in an emperor’s head.

“Her Grace Alunsina Ivralis will be treated in accordance with how she behaves herself,” Alaric said curtly, brushing aside how odd it felt to refer to Talasyn by another name.

“Am I to be your obedient wife, then?” Talasyn spoke for the first time since taking her seat, hurling each word at him like a spear. “Shall I simper while millions suffer under your tyranny?”

Gods, he really was going to get a headache. “Nothing that happened in Sardovia will happen in Nenavar as long as the Dominion upholds its end of this bargain.”

“I am their end of this bargain!” While some traitorous part of Alaric had always found the Lightweaver magnificent in her defiance, gold and gemstones gave her a sharper edge, made her burn as if she were a vengeful goddess. Her eyes flashed like bronzed agates afire with the dawn. “You come here all high and mighty to seek my hand in marriage and you bring with you the commodore who razed the Great Steppe and the legionnaire who participated in the siege of Lasthaven, not to mention that you yourself have killed countless of my fellow soldiers. So—forgive me if I am not too enthused by all of this, you cruel, pompous ass!”

Alaric could feel a vein in the hollow beneath his left eye start to twitch, as it always did when he was about to lose his temper. Trying not to appear too obvious about it, he inhaled slowly, and when next he spoke, it was in steady tones. “Your fellow soldiers?” he repeated. “If you still consider yourself Sardovian, my lady, then these negotiations are a waste of time and effort.”

He watched her lips press into a taut line. She looked so angry that it wouldn’t have been a surprise if she’d started levitating. When she didn’t say anything, he continued, “Even if I were spineless enough to apologize for military actions undertaken during a time of war, I would hardly do so at the behest of a temperamental child. We made the crossing in the hopes of coming to terms and avoiding yet another blood-soaked conflict, but if the notion offends your sensibilities so much, Lachis’ka, all you have to do is say the word and I will see you again on the battlefield.”

In the stony silence that ensued, Queen Urduja leaned forward in her seat, immediately drawing everyone’s attention. “I believe that tensions are too high to facilitate any sort of agreement presently. May I suggest that we put this meeting on hold?” Based on her demeanor, this was more of a command. “We can resume negotiations tomorrow, when we have all gotten suitably used to one another. In line with this, the Kesathese delegation is more than welcome to stay here in the palace, where they will be treated as honored guests.”

Lueve’s pleasant composure had faltered during Alaric and Talasyn’s verbal duel—in fact, it had appeared as if she were having a heart attack when Talasyn called the Night Emperor an ass—but, now that her sovereign had stepped in, the chief negotiator was quick to gather her bearings. “Yes, Harlikaan, I believe that would be ideal,” she said smoothly. “We shall adjourn for now.”

Kai Gitab had held his peace all throughout the meeting. In Talasyn’s experience, the rajan was a shrewd and extremely calculating man who dispensed words as reluctantly as a miser parted with their coins. Once the Kesathese delegation had left the room, however, he turned to Urduja. “Begging your pardon, Harlikaan, but I am not sure that it is prudent to let the Night Empire have the run of the Roof of Heaven while a formal treaty has yet to be drafted.”

“I am quite certain that Ossinast won’t slaughter us in our beds,” Urduja said dryly, “although some people appear to be rather set on persuading him to do that.”

Talasyn bristled as her grandmother shot her a pointed glare. Before she could defend her actions, however, Niamha piped up, drawing everyone’s attention, “More of that sort of thing might prove beneficial to our side. The Night Emperor strikes me as the type of man who is very difficult to rattle. Somehow, though, the Lachis’ka rattles him. I was watching him closely earlier. It seems that he can do a remarkable job of keeping a level head until prolonged interaction with Her Grace.”

“We just really hate each other, that’s all,” Talasyn mumbled, embarrassed.

“Hate is a kind of passion, is it not?” Niamha countered.

“I’m— Passion?” Talasyn echoed in a squawk, a hot blush suffusing her cheeks. “There’s no— What are you talking about—I can’t stand the sight of him and the feeling is mutual!”

Niamha and Lueve observed her with varying degrees of amusement. “It would seem,” Niamha remarked with a faint grin, “that Her Grace still has much to learn about the ways of men.”

Elagbi clapped his hands over his ears, which made Lueve Rasmey burst into peals of melodious laughter. “Perhaps we should stop teasing the Lachis’ka,” she quipped. “I doubt that Prince Elagbi’s tender paternal heart can take much more.”

“Yes, well, before he starts weeping all over the place”—Urduja narrowed her eyes at Talasyn, who stiffened upon realizing that she wasn’t off the hook just yet—“I cannot stress this enough, Alunsina. If Kesath hadn’t gotten their hands on void magic, we might have stood a chance. As it is, however, they’ve already wounded one of our dragons. The Night Empire is only willing to negotiate because they don’t want to expend resources any more than we do, and it is your duty to ensure that they remain willing. If you fail, the consequences will be dire for all of us. Govern your pride, Your Grace—or, at the very least, be smarter about how you cling to it.”

The Kesathese delegation had an entire wing of the palace to itself. A large bronze door in Alaric’s chambers opened out into an orchid garden with a miniature waterfall, bisected by two stone paths. One led from his door to a westward hallway, while the other met the first path at its terminus and linked up with what appeared to be someone else’s suite of rooms in the opposite wing, judging from the canopy bed that he glimpsed through a gap in the curtains on the other side of the garden.

Such luxury was not without its price. There were sariman cages affixed to the walls and pillars at seven-meter intervals, shutting off the Shadowgate, making it impossible to speak to his father in the In-Between. And there was also the fact that the pleasant garden view was ruined by Commodore Mathire, who was trampling all over the neatly trimmed grass with pacing footsteps.

“I don’t care what the Lightweaver or that old hag said, this has to be a trick.” Mathire was obviously still smarting from her gaffe in the council room. Her face was pale with fury.

“First of all, Urduja Silim is hardly a hag,” Sevraim pointed out from where he sat beside Alaric on a stone bench, “and, secondly, that’s the Night Emperor’s grandmother-in-law you’re talking about.”

“Prospective grandmother-in-law,” Alaric corrected. “A prospect that seems to be diminishing with each passing second.”

“To your very great sorrow, I’m sure, Your Majesty.” Sevraim uttered this with enough sarcasm to make it sound like a joke, but not quite enough to disguise the shred of curiosity that lay within. He was studying Alaric with a look that verged on knowing, although Alaric didn’t have the slightest idea what Sevraim thought he knew. “I cannot believe that the Lightweaver and the Lachis’ka have turned out to be the same person. All those months spent looking for Talasyn and she was here all along. It’s—”

“A trick!” Mathire repeated hotly. “A ploy orchestrated by Ideth Vela!” She stopped pacing in front of Alaric, squaring her shoulders in determination. “Your Majesty, we are well within our rights to demand proof that there is no collusion going on. We cannot gamble the security of our empire, especially when the Nenavarene have a reputation for being less than forthright. All we have is the Lightweaver’s word that she fled here after the war, but that begs the question as to who else could have fled here with her. If I may be so bold as to insist—Kesath must be allowed to search Dominion territory, to determine for ourselves that they don’t have the Sardovian fleet tucked away somewhere within their shores.”

“We can make that request after we’ve hammered out the terms of the marriage contract,” Alaric conceded. “That way, the negotiations will be over and done with and it will be less critical to abstain from offending Nenavar.”

“And if we turn up no evidence of Sardovia, Your Majesty, do you mean to go through with it?” Sevraim asked. “Will you marry a sworn foe?”

Alaric would rather eat glass shards, but his father’s words were at the forefront of his mind. Of course, there was every chance that Gaheris would sing a different tune upon learning the identity of the Lachis’ka. As of now, though . . .

“I will do what I must,” was Alaric’s stoic reply, “for the sake of the Night Empire.”