She rose on her toes to kiss him once more, and then they both gathered themselves to face what must come next.
Chava Busar stood in his strategically chosen spot beside the buffet tables, watching the hysterics which were now fully underway in the Grand Ballroom, and worked hard to keep from smiling in delight.
The truth was still sinking in, he thought. Out on the dance floor, women sobbed into silk handkerchiefs and men wore murderous expressions. He heard curses and vows of dire vengeance in a score of languages, and the sound was sweet, sweet to his ears.
Janaki chan Calirath had gotten himself killed. Gotten his head nipped clean off like a chicken by some sort of huge bird or monster, if the rumors were to be believed.
It was absolutely delicious. In one fell swoop (his own choice of verb made him chuckle mentally behind his impassive expression, considering the nature of Janaki's executioner), the utter disaster which his political ambitions had suffered was reversed. All he had to do was grasp the opportunity swiftly and intelligently. By this time next week, that horse-shaped, gangling, hideous giant of a schoolgirl was going to find herself profoundly married. And not long after that ... .
He looked up as the Seneschal of Othmaliz waddled over to his corner of the ballroom. The Seneschal contemplated the weepers and cursers, then looked Chava in the eye.
"What a pity," he said.
"Yes, isn't it?" Chava agreed, allowing one corner of his mouth to quirk upwards ever so slightly.
"I imagine tomorrow will be quite a busy day for us all," the Seneschal continued. "There'll have to be another session of the Conclave to deal with this latest crisis. And, of course this is going to force a postponement of the Coronation. So sad." He sighed. "So very sad."
"True." Chava nodded, then cocked his head to one side. "One's heart goes out to the Emperor's family at such time, of course. Still, there are responsibilities which must be met, aren't there? And plans which must be adjusted. Or in some cases—" he looked deep into the Seneschal's eyes "—accelerated. I do trust that the Comforters will be keeping the Emperor and his entire family in their thoughts."
"Oh, I think you need have no fear on those grounds, Your Majesty," the Seneschal assured him.
Someone knocked on Darcel Kinlafia's door at three o'clock in the morning.
He jolted awake and jerked upright in bed, momentarily confused by the soft white moonlight falling through open windows where warm breeze stirred white draperies. He'd been dreaming of combat—a ghastly, nightmarish mishmash of his own memories, fighting at the swamp portal, the massacre of his survey crew, and the combat he'd seen through the Glimpse he'd shared with Zindel—and he wasn't certain, at first, what had awakened him.
Then the knock sounded again.
"Darcel," a familiar Voice Called softly in the back of his brain, and he was out of bed in heartbeat. He snatched up a night robe as he crossed the apartment, somehow managing, with the moonlight's aid, to avoid stubbing his toes as he dodged around the furniture of a living room to which he wasn't yet accustomed. Then he snatched the door open and found her standing in the hallway, trembling.
He didn't speak. He simply opened his arms, and she fell into them, weeping. He held her close, rocked her gently, then guided her into the living room. He drew her down beside him on the divan in a pool of moonlight, and she huddled against him while she sobbed.
He surrounded her with his arms, with his love, with the caress of his Voice and the bond between them.
There were no words, for there was no need for words. There were only the two of them, clinging to one another in the midst of their grief, and that was enough.
"Reports are still coming in from Traisum," she whispered finally. "Chan Geraith's first report of the battle was relayed while he was still eleven hours out from Salbyton. He's sent three more since then.
It's ... horrible."
She relayed the images Kaliya chan Darma and Lisar chan Korthal had transmitted up the Voicenet.
Images of Fort Salby, still smoking, with a huge, monstrous winged creature draped over one tower.
Images of men burned into twisted charcoal, or lying like tattered scarecrows where lightning had left them. Bits and pieces of the bodies of Sharonian soldiers, and strewn among their mangled bodies the tumbled carcasses of the unnatural fusion of lion and eagle which had killed them. More bodies, breaches in a wall of adobe and stone, things which looked like horses, but obviously weren't, shattered platforms filled with the broken bodies of Arcanan soldiers, gun pits, row after row of bodies laid out in canvas shrouds ... .
They went on and on, a catalog of destruction and desecration, and Darcel Kinlafia fought the surge of acid trying to come up out of his belly. His arms tightened around Alazon, and he held her while she shared the horror with him.
The images ended at last, and he kissed her hair, murmuring wordlessly to her. He never knew how long they sat there, just being there for each other, clinging to their love like some last, unshakable rock of sanity in the midst of a multiverse gone mad.
"How are they holding up?" he asked finally.
"Andrin is sedated now, too," Alazon said. "She didn't want to take it, but His Majesty insisted. She wanted to stay with Razial and Anbessa, but she has to rest—really rest."
Kinlafia nodded, his jaw tightening once more.
"The Empress is in deep emotional shock," Alazon continued. "She knew the danger was there, but somehow it seemed so remote, especially when Janaki was ordered home with the Arcanan prisoners.
But I think ... I think she'd guessed what's been worrying His Majesty and Andrin. She just didn't want to admit it to herself. He's her only son, Darcel, and—"
Her voice caught raggedly, and she shook herself.
"I already told you Razial had been sedated, but she's awake again. And Anbessa is finally realizing what's happened, I think. Both of them were clinging to their mother when I left the imperial apartments.
And Zindel—"
Her voice broke off again.
"What about him?" Kinlafia pressed gently, and she inhaled deeply.
"I've never seen His Majesty like this. He can barely speak above a rasping whisper. It's more than just losing his only son. He feels responsible for the massacres, for failing to move quickly enough and get reinforcements forward soon enough."
"That's ridiculous!" Kinlafia snapped in hot defense. "I've worked that transit chain, Alazon. Nobody could have moved in troops or material any faster—nobody! He isn't a god, to wave one hand and magically transport a division!"
"I know all that, Darcel. And he knows that, too. But he's a Calirath. He feels responsible for the deaths, for the undermanned forts. And he's not the only one." Alazon shivered. "Orem Limana is nearly suicidal with remorse. He feels like he's betrayed them, all of them—soldiers and civilians—by trying to build new forts before he had troops in place to adequately man them. Before he had artillery in place to defend their walls."
"He's not a soldier," Kinlafia protested. "It's not his job to think like one. Besides, no one ever intended those portal forts to stand up to anything more dangerous than a few bands of brigands! There's never been anything more dangerous than a few bands of brigands—until now!"
"I know that, too." She nodded. "And the Emperor knows that. When Yaf Umani Spoke to me from Exploration Hall, he Said His Majesty's ordered two of the PA's Distance Viewers to watch the First Director twenty-four hours a day until this emotional shock passes. The Emperor has ordered Orem not to suicide."
That shocked Kinlafia. Orem Limana was one of the strongest men he'd ever known. If he was that shaken, then ... .
"What about the First Councilor's contacts with the other delegations?" he asked.
"It's going to be ugly," Alazon told him. "The Emperor was right about that, too. Isseth's requested an emergency meeting of the Conclave later this morning."
"Isseth?" Kinlafia repeated incredulously.
"Everyone knows perfectly well that Chava is really behind it," she said. "No one's going to admit it, though."
"And the Coronation?"
"That's been postponed," she said bitterly. "This 'spontaneous' request for a Conclave session supersedes it, under the circumstances."
"That's just wonderful."
"Actually," she said unwillingly, "it was inevitabe. If Isseth hadn't requested it, we probably would have had to do it ourselves, under the circumstances. Not that Isseth—or Chava—did it to do us any favors!"