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The unmasked legionnaire emerged from where he had been lurking behind a marble wall along the adjacent open hallway. He sauntered into the garden, flashing Alaric a cheerful grin. “How did you know that I was here?”

“You’re my only protection on Nenavarene soil. I would be quite displeased if youweren’there.”

“And allow your feisty wife to beat you to death with her bare hands? Never,” Sevraim vowed with a chuckle. “Granted, she sounded moments away from doing just that. I was about to intervene.”

“She’s not my wife yet,” Alaric grunted. “I assume you overheard everything, then.”

“I did.” Sevraim dropped down onto the stone bench, a carelessness to his movements that no one else would have dared show around Gaheris Ossinast’s son. “There are two sides to each story, I suppose. But we know thatweare in the right, so what does it matter what anyone else thinks?”

Alaric shrugged.

For the next several minutes, the splashing of the miniature waterfall was the only sound in the garden. And then Sevraim asked, “Is there something that His Majesty wishes to discuss with this humble servant?”

The words were teasing but the sentiment behind them was genuine, as only a lifelong companionship could engender. Alaric rolled his eyes and glanced at the languidly confident legionnaire who had charmed his way into almost every bedin the Kesathese court, and he scraped out, “How do I... talk to her?”

Sevraim’s lips quirked, as though he were suppressing a guffaw. Alaric felt the tips of his ears turning scarlet. He regretted his impulsive question, but it was too late to turn back.

“It’s understandable that she detests me,” he said. “I don’t believe that can ever be fixed. There’s too much bad blood. But I would like to make the situation more...” He gestured limply at Talasyn’s closed door across the garden. “Peaceful. Relatively speaking. However, no matter what I say or do, it sets her off.”

Sevraim propped his chin up on one curled fist. “Your father trained you to be a warrior and to one day be emperor—notto be the Nenavarene Lachis’ka’s consort. Least of all a Lachis’ka who wouldn’t throw water on you if you were on fire.”

“Indeed. She would be the one to set me ablaze,” Alaric muttered. “With a dragon.”

Sevraim snickered but didn’t deny it. He nodded. “There is so much more to life than war and politics, Your Majesty. Ask her about her interests.”

“Her interests,” Alaric repeated blankly.

“What she likes,” Sevraim clarified. “See if the two of you, maybe, like some of the same things, and go from there.”

Alaric was sure Talasyn’s interests consisted of his grisly demise, but Sevraim’s suggestion seemed doable enough. “Very well. What else?”

“Compliment her,” said Sevraim.

Alaric stared at him. “Compliment her onwhat?”

“Well,Idon’t know. I’ve spoken approximately ten words to her, and that was to say we were going to kill her.” Sevraim scratched his head, deep in thought. “You could stand to look a little less forbidding, at least. You could perhaps even attempt to smile at her every once in a while.”

Alaric didn’t bother to dignifythatwith a response.

“All right, smiling might be too much,” Sevraim conceded. “Just... You have to understand that the Lightweaver is doing this to save herself and her newfound people, just as you are doing it to prevent Kesath from becoming embroiled in another war while we recover from the previous one. She lashes out because she’s anxious, as anyone in her situation would be. Don’t rise to the bait she sets all the time. Mark my words, Your Majesty, you’ll thank me for it.”

Chapter Twenty-One

It was rare for Talasyn to regret losing her temper, least of all when Alaric was involved, but by the next morning she had to admit that she’d messed up. There were only eleven days left until the eclipse, and she was nowhere close to weaving a decent shield.

As she marched into the council room after breakfast, Talasyn resolved to be on her best behavior. Not only during the negotiations, but also during the training in the afternoon. As far as promises went, she deemed it rather noble of her. However, it was a promise that took a severe beating when Urduja announced that there would be a banquet later that night with all the noble houses in attendance, to celebrate the Lachis’ka’s engagement to the Night Emperor.

Still, Talasyn managed to give a stiff nod of acquiescence and do nothing more impolite than avoiding Alaric’s eyes, which were regarding her dispassionately from across the table, with no trace of his own outburst yesterday.

Remembering that outburst elicited a most peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach. Alaric usually had supreme control over his emotions, unlike her. The only times he’d appearedtruly furious with her were yesterday and that night in the bamboo cell at the Belian garrison. In those instances, she’d needled him about Ozalus and Gaheris, respectively. His family was clearly a touchy subject.

And, yet, no matter how furious he was, he had never shouted at her. In fact, the angrier he got, the lower his voice became. Now that she thought about it, it was the one trait of Alaric’s that recommended him to her. Yelling meant the orphanage, the caretakers. Talasyn yelled when she was angry because yelling for her was what anger was, how she understood it. There was something fascinating about Alaric’s quiet rage, about how easily he could restrain himself.

It made her feel—

Safe?

All around her, the negotiators were talking. Bartering, compromising, laying out the road for the future. Talasyn was barely listening. Her new epiphany pounded in her ears like blood.