The Hurricane Wars: A Novel

The days that followed were a whirl of bargains and compromises and concessions, interspersed with impasses and threats, all thinly veiled by a veneer of steel-laden courtesy. Queen Urduja preferred to play the role of observer as her advisers haggled in her name, but Alaric could afford no such luxury. Every lesson imparted by his father and the tutors of his boyhood, lessons in diplomacy and governance and economics, was now put to the test.

Talasyn had a habit of livening up these meetings whenever she interjected with a pointed remark, her tone laced with suspicion and contempt, and the Nenavarene negotiators scrambled to cover up her gaffe. Every morning, she arrived in another stunning dress and headpiece, her face an exquisite painting, but Alaric’s mind kept wandering to that night in the garden, when she had been in her smock and breeches and he had been able to see the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. How her dark eyes had blazed like a lit match when she cut him down to size. Something had seized within his chest that night, at the sight of the Talasyn that he remembered, except this time not on a battlefield, but standing amidst orchid blooms beneath a starry, amethyst-tinted sky.

He tried not to look at her from across the council room, because every time he did a ghostly echo of sensation followed—the dip of her waist and the curve of her slender spine pressing against his bare hands, the heat of her skin seeping through the thin fabric that had bunched up beneath the pressure of his fingertips. Before that night, it had been years since he’d touched another person without his leather gauntlets. His father always insisted that armor was crucial to realizing one’s full potential as a warrior; only by shutting out unnecessary external stimuli could he most effectively wield shadow magic.

But just one brush of bare skin had awakened some long-forgotten hunger. Now it was as if Alaric’s hands burned with need, even though they were safely encased in black leather once more.

When it almost became too much, when he began to fear that this odd yearning might actually drive him to act, Alaric was fortunate to have another memory to distract himself with. Namely, Talasyn jeering at his ill-advised slip of tongue, back when the Hurricane Wars were drawing to an end all around them. Her jibe had felt like a blade slipped between his ribs, swift and precise.

He had no desire to examine why it had hurt, and he didn’t begrudge her for what she said, as he certainly hadn’t been on his best behavior, either—but it was good to have a reminder that his reactions to Talasyn weren’t the reactions he had to other women, and he needed to be more careful.

By the fifth day of negotiations, Kesath and Nenavar had hammered out a mutual defense pact and were polishing the final details for a trade agreement. It was not without its casualties; Lueve Rasmey’s polite smile was a little worn at the edges, and Commodore Mathire and Niamha Langsoune seemed one comment away from wringing each other’s necks. Even the unflappable Urduja had begun to get snappish with her own advisers. Meanwhile, Prince Elagbi, who Alaric had determined was present for moral support more than anything else, looked bored out of his skull, as did Sevraim, who was there in his capacity as Alaric’s protection and thus was expected to contribute nothing to the proceedings.

Alaric still had not figured out what it was that the Dominion actually wanted. According to Gaheris, they had to be after something more than a peace treaty to offer up their Lachis’ka so willingly. But he could no longer put off making it clear what his people wanted above all else.

He cleared his throat in the tense silence that had ensued after the two sides begrudgingly agreed on a price point for Kesathese long-grain rice and peppercorns. “In addition to everything that has already been discussed, we would also be interested in purchasing aether hearts from Nenavarene mines.”

Talasyn snorted under her breath, but Alaric heard it, and against his better judgment his attention shifted to focus solely on her. When she caught him looking, he hid his burst of ill-advised interest behind a taunt. “Her Grace wishes to comment?”

She turned her nose up at him. “I find it amusing that Kesath embarked on its campaign of terror against the rest of the Continent for the sake of aether hearts, and now you’re going around begging for more, is all.”

“An empire’s work is never done,” Alaric said curtly. “Particularly when the defeated enemy blows up their own mines as they retreat. I sincerely hope that wasn’t your idea, by the way. I would hate to see you castigate yourself for further motivating Kesath to sail southeast.”

It was a petty remark, and not all that accurate considering that Kesath would have needed to neutralize the Dominion anyway, aether hearts or not, but Alaric had no regrets. Talasyn looked as though she was seconds from launching herself across the table at him. It was the most entertained he’d ever been inside this council room.

“In any event,” he continued, “Kesath is not begging. We will be happy to pay a fair price for Nenavarene crystals, should Her Starlit Majesty allow it.”

All eyes darted to Urduja, who gracefully inclined her silver-crowned head. “As with all other goods, we shall discuss a price, Emperor Alaric. Is that the extent of your trade interests, then?”

It was a perfect segue, too freely given. Vague suspicions tugged yet again at the back of Alaric’s mind, but he pressed on. There wouldn’t be a more opportune moment than this. “Just one more thing, Harlikaan. We formally request that Kesathese Enchanters be granted access to what you call the Void Sever, in the interest of expanding aethermancy knowledge and in exchange, of course, for trade concessions that we will be happy to grant—”

“Absolutely not!” Talasyn interrupted him. Again. This time, though, one of the Dominion advisers, the Rajan Gitab, nodded in agreement with her, so fervently that his spectacles were in danger of slipping down his nose. “The Night Empire cannot be allowed anywhere near the Voidfell’s nexus point!” Talasyn continued. “They created the stormships with the Tempestroad—who knows what fresh hell they’ll come up with if provided with a reservoir of death magic? If we willingly hand it over to them?”

Alaric had been anticipating such a reaction, but Mathire waded into the fray before he could get a word in. “We created the stormships to keep our nation safe. We unleashed them only when a Nenavarene flotilla made to attack us unprovoked,” she pointed out. The Dominion nobles all collectively stiffened. “But Emperor Alaric has already promised that Nenavar won’t suffer Sardovia’s fate if no terms are violated. You have nothing to worry about, unless you’re thinking of making such an unwise move again.”

“Well, forgive me, Commodore,” Talasyn snarled at Mathire, and Alaric could only sit there and marvel at how his bride-to-be was ready and willing to fight with anyone, at any time, “if I don’t set much store by the word of invaders—”

Urduja held up a hand, her fingers glittering with long jewel-studded nail cones and a multitude of rings. Talasyn’s lips clamped together and her whole demeanor changed, slinking into a mutinous silence. It put Alaric rather in mind of a cat who’d been told to go away.

“While it would be an honor to contribute to the advancement of aethermancy throughout the Northwest Continent,” Urduja said in such a way that there was only the implication of sarcasm, not the presence of it, “the Voidfell is currently . . . volatile. We ceased our own extractions the previous month, and as such we cannot in good conscience let Kesath destabilize the nexus point any further.”

“What do you mean by volatile?” Talasyn demanded just as Alaric was about to ask the same thing.

Urduja exchanged glances with the other Dominion nobles. Glances that spoke volumes, that made it clear Talasyn had been left out of the loop regarding a critical piece of information.

“You were not told, Alunsina, because it is among other things a delicate matter pertaining to national security,” said the Zahiya-lachis. “However, we are telling you now. So please listen.” She then addressed the Kesathese delegation. “The Voidfell is indispensable to Nenavar. Legend has it that it was the first nexus point to break through the veil of aetherspace on our shores. Over the centuries it has provided us with a means to defend ourselves. However, there is a price—one that the Dominion pays every thousand years.” Urduja looked at Talasyn. “You have wondered why the Void Sever flares so brightly. Your instincts were correct; this is not normal. Usually, it behaves like any other nexus point. However, as the sevenfold lunar eclipse draws near, the Void Sever has begun to rage within its banks. On the night all seven moons vanish, it will break free and wash over Nenavar. It will wither the fields and jungles that are in its path, killing all life. Not even fish and coral will be safe. Since they can manipulate void magic in its extracted form, our Enchanters have experimented with pushing back the Voidfell whenever it discharges in its usual manner. But for years, all attempts have been unsuccessful.”

Alaric fought to maintain a blank expression. He had never before heard of any type of Sever being capable of destroying an entire country when left to its own devices. In his life so far, all the chaos that magic could wreak had been when it was shaped by human hands.

“The Fisherman’s Warning,” Talasyn abruptly supplied. “That’s what the people of the Sardovian Coast called it—the amethyst light on the horizon.”

“Here, it is known as Dead Season,” said Urduja. “It takes the work of generations to rebuild in the aftermath of the Voidfell’s fury. By conducting mass evacuations and storing all the seeds and livestock that we can, Nenavar gets better at mitigating the effects of the disaster each time. But it is only now that we may have found a solution to avoid it altogether.” She gestured first to a stunned Talasyn, then to Alaric, who tensed in his seat as it finally dawned on him that this was what the Zahiya-lachis had been after all along, what she’d so easily traded her granddaughter’s hand for. “At the Belian garrison, the two of you created a kind of shield that disrupted a void blast. Such magic has never been observed before in our history. We believe that this combination of the Lightweave and the Shadowgate could be the key to preventing the catastrophe. If Kesath wishes to be granted access to the Voidfell and to benefit from everything else that this treaty with Nenavar offers, then Your Majesty must work together with Her Grace and learn to replicate and refine the barrier until our Enchanters can determine how to magnify its effects and encompass the whole Void Sever on the night of reckoning.”

Urduja stared at Alaric impassively, waiting for his response, but his thoughts were moving at a glacial pace as he processed all that had been said. At the corner of his eye, on the other side of the table, Talasyn was slack-jawed and trembling faintly with that anger of hers, which always seemed too big for her slight frame to contain. The Nenavarene had lied to her; that much was clear. She’d asked about the Void Sever’s behavior and she had either been brushed off or promised that there was no cause for concern.

Why hadn’t her grandmother wanted her to know until today?

“If memory serves,” said Commodore Mathire, “the next sevenfold lunar eclipse, which we on the Continent refer to as the Moonless Dark, isn’t for another five months. Emperor Alaric cannot be expected to neglect his duties in Kesath for so long. What if we refuse?”

“Then we will have wasted our time with these negotiations.” Alaric took it upon himself to respond, because he would not give Urduja the satisfaction of being the one to say it. “And five months from now we will have lost all the resources that this alliance has only just made us privy to.”

The resources that we badly need, he thought. Crops and livestock and aether hearts and other raw materials, to offset the infrastructural damage and agricultural losses that the Continent had sustained after a decade of warfare.

The Dragon Queen smiled as though she’d read his mind. The trap was sprung. “Full marks, Your Majesty.”

“There are other nations,” Mathire argued. “Friendlier ones and just as wealthy that we can form alliances with. Ones whose heirs presumptive are not former enemies of Kesath.” Her voice rose as she warmed to her topic. “If Nenavar is going to be taken out of the equation in five months’ time anyway, why should His Imperial Majesty even lift a finger to help?”

The aforementioned Imperial Majesty unleashed a slew of curses in the privacy of his own head. Alaric had known that Mathire was an aggressive negotiator, as all of his father’s old guard were, but he had never expected her to be so rash. With him and Sevraim cut off from the Shadowgate, they were going to be slaughtered in this very council room.

But Urduja didn’t immediately start calling for Kesathese heads. She leaned back, her jewel-coned fingers steepled together. “You could let us fend for ourselves,” she said contemplatively, “but any treaties you’ll draft with other nations won’t be much good in the long run, I fear. We have exhaustively detailed records from all other Dead Seasons in the past. A pattern has emerged. Every time the Void Sever erupts on the night of the sevenfold eclipse, it has a wider and wider area of effect. Last time, the magic crossed the Eversea—into the far waters of the Northwest Continent.”

“That’s why the Sardovian Coast called the amethyst light a warning.” Talasyn’s tone was one of horrified revelation. “It heralded rough seas and months of meager catch. The Voidfell killed most marine life in the fishing holds.”

“Precisely,” said Urduja. “This year promises to be the worst one yet. We’ve calculated that the Voidfell’s flare will wash over the Northwest Continent.”

Mathire sucked in a shocked breath. At the periphery of Alaric’s vision, Sevraim fidgeted; in contrast, he himself had gone still and tense.

“I could be lying, of course.” Urduja leveled an inscrutable gaze at Alaric. “Would you rather find out for yourself? Nenavar knows how to survive such a catastrophe, as we have been doing this for a very long time. The same cannot be said of Kesath.”

We won’t survive it. The realization sank deep into Alaric’s being, turning him cold all over. There was no choice. The Night Empire was doomed if they didn’t cooperate with the Dominion.

Everything that he had fought for nearly all his life was in danger of being wiped away. Swept into oblivion by a tide of amethyst, of rot.

“Wait.” Talasyn’s brow wrinkled beneath her golden crown. “The nursery rhyme—the one about Bakun—this is what it’s referencing, isn’t it? All moons die, Bakun rises to eat the world above. It’s about the Moonless Dark and the Voidfell.”

Urduja pursed her darkly painted lips and nodded, but didn’t say anything else. It was Prince Elagbi who elaborated, leaning toward Talasyn to speak in a gentle tone. “The myth of Bakun is commonly accepted to be the ancient Nenavarene’s explanation for the sevenfold eclipse and the void storm, yes. What the Northwest Continent calls the Moonless Dark, we call his time. The Night of the World-Eater.”

Alaric wanted to cut in and ask Talasyn for the specifics of the Bakun myth. But he suddenly felt like an intruder as father and daughter fixed their gazes upon each other. Talasyn looked bewildered and betrayed, and Elagbi contrite.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked him, speaking more softly now. “This was clearly the plan from the start—the very reason for this marriage alliance. How could you keep this from me?”

Elagbi’s features crumpled with obvious shame at having disappointed her.

Urduja sighed. “Do not be too hard on your father, Lachis’ka. I ordered that he not tell you. You’ve fought us every step of the way regarding this betrothal, and I feared that you would have been even more unwilling if you prematurely learned that I wished for you to train together with the Night Emperor. But you must understand the gravity of the situation by now, and it is my hope that you will cooperate, as time is of the essence.”

Talasyn’s eyes flitted from one solemn Dominion noble to another, as if daring them to speak up. One after another, they avoided her gaze. By the time she finished, Alaric watched as her shoulders slumped in defeat, all the fight gone out of her. The Talasyn he had come to know never backed down, would never let herself be beaten in this way, and suddenly he loathed everything about this scene. To his left, Mathire was struggling to repress a smirk at the Lightweaver’s discomfiture, and Alaric felt a wave of revulsion. He shot his officer a glare and she quickly worked her features back into a semblance of neutrality.

And what was it about this moment, Alaric wondered as he studied his betrothed from across the table, that made him understand? Talasyn was hanging her head and he couldn’t see her face clearly, but he somehow knew that she was close to breaking. Had he been here before? Yes, perhaps—all those times when he reached for his father but was bitterly rebuffed. All those times when Gaheris had taken him to task for his failings in front of the entire court. The innocent hopes for a better father soon giving way to self-reproach for not being a better son.

The only way to avoid falling victim to such pain was to become stronger than it. Apparently, Talasyn had yet to master that crucial lesson.

“It’s settled, then,” Alaric announced, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. No one, not even the Lightweaver, should have to endure an audience for this. “Her Grace and I will endeavor to develop this new magic over the next five months. I must insist, however, that the two of us be provided with all necessary information going forward. Surely there is no more need for secrets between our two realms.”

“Of course,” Urduja replied smoothly. “I shall be the paradigm of transparency from now on.”

There was a limit to how far one’s rage could carry them. Talasyn had spent the past sennight fueled by anger at her impossible situation, but now it had reached its tipping point and drained away. Talasyn was beyond anger. She was beyond sadness or humiliation, even. She had agreed to this marriage not just to save her comrades, but for the Nenavarene—her people, her family. Not only had they allowed her to be left in ignorance, her grandmother had chosen to expose this in front of Alaric and the other Kesathese.

She laid numbly in her bed as evening crept in. There was a knock on her door—perhaps Jie, or even Elagbi, but she ignored it. All of the emotions that she should have been feeling—it was as though she viewed them through a sheet of glass, and there was nobody that she wanted to talk to.

Except . . .

What should I do? she asked Khaede.

Kill everyone, the Khaede who lived in her head promptly responded.

Talasyn almost cracked a smile at imagining that. Usually, whenever she thought of Khaede, it would be with a near-physical ache, but she couldn’t even summon the strength for that now.

Only once the morning’s light crept in through the window did she rise and prepare herself to meet Alaric in the Roof of Heaven’s atrium. She changed into garb that suited aethermancing—a tunic, breeches, boots—silently daring anyone to challenge her on it.

Urduja had informed Alaric and Talasyn that Nenavarene Enchanters would be summoned to the capital to observe firsthand the creation of their light-and-shadow shield. When Talasyn walked into the atrium, Alaric was already present, standing beside a small group of men and women garbed in lengths of vibrant checkered fabric arranged in various ways, a mode of dress characteristic to Ahimsa, one of the seven main islands—a bustling metropolis that served as Nenavar’s center for aethermanced technology.

In his severe black attire Alaric looked practically comical next to the Enchanters, like a dour, overly large thundercloud. But, for some reason, Talasyn was fixated only on his gray eyes. They regarded her with a hint of softness as she approached. Curiosity, maybe, or concern, after yesterday’s events lingered in the air between them. Her face flamed and she determinedly ignored him, turning instead to the woman who led the group of Enchanters.

Ishan Vaikar, the stout and curly-haired Daya of Ahimsa, curtseyed to Talasyn with a slight limp. Talasyn knew that hidden underneath Ishan’s checkered skirt was a golden prosthetic in lieu of the right leg that she had lost fighting in the Dominion’s civil war.

“Your Grace. If you and His Majesty would be so kind as to position yourselves in the middle of the atrium?”

As Talasyn complied, she searched the surrounding windows and balconies for any sign of Urduja or Elagbi, though she knew it was in vain. Security precautions dictated that they be far away when the sariman cages were removed from the Night Emperor’s vicinity, and the atrium had been selected for its distance from the royal family’s wing of the palace.

Talasyn did spot dozens of servants peeking out from behind curtains or pillars, or crouched down low looking through glass. They were technically not supposed to be watching, but mere technicalities were no match for Nenavarene curiosity.

Alaric noticed the spectators as well. “Is it always like that here?” he asked.

For once, she wasn’t in the mood to order him to stop talking to her. She was tired. And, yesterday in the council room, he had to his credit taken no apparent pleasure in the hurt that she’d failed to disguise, and he’d even insisted that the Dominion be more forthcoming in the future. Granted, that last part was probably more for his own benefit—but, still, Talasyn had felt a little less alone when he said that.

Grasping at straws again, she mused, her eyes flickering over his sullen profile in the early-morning sun.

“Gossip is a way of life here,” she told him. “You’ll get used to it.”

The corner of Alaric’s mouth lifted slightly. An odd thought struck her then: What would he look like if he smiled?

No sooner had the question crossed her mind than a sliver of mortification pierced through it. Why was she thinking about Alaric Ossinast smiling? She was clearly more emotionally overwrought than she’d assumed.

A few meters away, Ishan stepped forward. This was the signal for the palace guards at the periphery of the atrium to take the sariman cages down from the walls and move them further away. The Lightweave came rushing back just as Ishan raised the barrel of a slender void musket, the same model that Talasyn had first encountered on the Belian range.

“I am ready when you are, Your Grace, Your Majesty,” the daya sang out, entirely too gleeful for someone holding a lethal weapon, and Talasyn swallowed a nervous lump in her throat. She looked toward Alaric, and he met her gaze, searching for confirmation. They both nodded.

Ishan pulled the trigger. The violet bolt of the Voidfell streamed toward Alaric and Talasyn. They each conjured their daggers and hurled them forth, just as they’d done when that pillar in Lasthaven was bearing down upon her.

Only, this time, the result was far different.

In that there was no result at all.

Light and shadow slammed into each other, sparking, and the void bolt roared as it devoured them. Suddenly there was nothing but amethyst barreling toward Alaric and Talasyn, no shield to stop it, and the Enchanters were screaming—

Talasyn’s world tilted abruptly as Alaric tackled her to the ground. She would have landed face-first, but his arms clamped around her, cushioning her from the worst of the impact. There was a guttural hiss as the void bolt swept past the space where they had just been standing. She was on her stomach, staring at the marbled pattern of the stone tiles as Alaric curled around her, over her. He expelled a quick breath, and as he did so, his soft lips grazed the shell of her ear. She could feel his heart pounding against her spine.

She didn’t know how long they lay there, adrenaline pulsing through their bodies, fit to burst. She felt small tucked beneath Alaric’s broad frame, surrounded by the warmth of him. As the sunlight grew hot against her head, she noted—as she had in that cell at the bamboo garrison, so long ago—that he smelled of sandalwood. There was a hint of cedar as well, and the peppery bite of juniper berry, warmed by a touch of sweet, resinous myrrh. He smelled like the alpine forests back on the Continent. What an odd thing for her to notice. What an odd thing for him to hold her like this.

Ishan and her Enchanters were running toward them, but their footsteps sounded muffled. The Kesathese crown prince blocked out everything else, as he always did.

Not the prince, Talasyn corrected herself in her daze. He’s the Night Emperor now.

“Are you all right?” he asked, low and hesitant. The words ghosted across her cheek, causing a shiver to shoot down the nape of her neck.

“Get off.” She elbowed him in the ribs, defensive for reasons she couldn’t explain.

By the time they had both scrambled to their feet, the Nenavarene Enchanters had formed a concerned huddle around them. Ishan was wringing her hands in dismay. “Lachis’ka!” she cried, pushing past Alaric in order to inspect Talasyn from head to toe. “I do apologize! From the way that it was described, I assumed that the shield could be replicated like—like that—” She snapped her fingers. “And I solemnly swear on the windswept bones of my foremothers that, had I suspected there was a chance of your magic not taking effect, I would never have fired—oh, Your Grace, can you ever forgive me?”

“I’m none the worse for wear, Daya Vaikar,” Talasyn hastened to reassure her. “But I don’t know why it didn’t work, either.” She frowned, looking down to examine her hands. “The circumstances aren’t much different from the two previous times.”

“The eclipse,” Alaric said quietly. He absentmindedly scratched at his jaw as he appeared to think it over. It was a boyish gesture, one that Talasyn couldn’t help but marvel at; but, when everyone’s attention snapped to him, his hand dropped back to his side and his demeanor immediately shifted, became colder, more imperious. His next words were more self-assured. “On both occasions when the Lachis’ka and myself successfully created a barrier, the moons were out and one of them was in eclipse.”

Ishan’s dark eyes went as round as the celestial bodies in question. Talasyn had come to know her as an inquisitive woman by nature, and now she saw Ishan’s mind churning with this new revelation. “Yes. That does make sense. Countless feats of aethermancy are tied to the natural world. Rainsingers in lands to the south can reportedly communicate with one another across great distances by looking into fresh puddles, while Firedancers to the east can do so in the flames of wildfire. I’ve certainly never heard of light and shadow magic forming a greater whole before, but a lunar eclipse strikes me as the prime moment for such a phenomenon to occur.” She rounded on her gaggle of Enchanters with alacrity, demanding, “When is the next one?”

“In a fortnight, my lady,” one ventured.

“Then, if Her Grace and His Majesty are willing, we will reconvene at the time of the eclipse and try again.” Ishan turned back to Alaric and Talasyn. “If I may also suggest—I noticed that the two of you conjured daggers earlier, which is offense magic. For our purposes, I believe that the barrier may be stronger if you were to craft shields and combine those.”

Alaric nodded readily enough, but Talasyn hung her head.

“I can’t make shields,” she muttered. “Or anything that doesn’t have a pointy end. I was taught the basics of aethermancy by a Shadowforged who defected to the Allfold. She didn’t have any formal training, so both of us were at a loss on some things.”

Alaric frowned, his eyes darting toward her and then away quickly. It was unclear if he was reacting to the mention of Vela or to the revelation that Talasyn had been lucky to survive the Hurricane Wars for as long as she did.

“I can teach you,” he said stiffly, still looking ahead.

And, before Talasyn could even process that, Ishan was stepping between them, clapping her hands in delight. “Wonderful! I’ve no doubt that Her Grace will prove as excellent a student in this as she has been in everything else.”

Talasyn shot a skeptical look over the top of Ishan’s head at Alaric. “Surely the skill of the instructor has a lot to do with it.”

He lifted one massive shoulder in a shrug, the ends of his thick black hair brushing against his high collar. “I have had formal training. That alone makes me more qualified than Ideth Vela, regardless of any complaints you might care to lodge against my character.”

“Your character,” Talasyn retorted, “is just one of the many complaints that I have about you, Ossinast.”

They glared at each other as an uncomfortable Ishan edged away. Perhaps her anger had not run dry after all, Talasyn thought darkly. Count on her hatred for His Royal Ninnyhammer to cut through the numbness. It was a mixed blessing, but she would take it.