"How bad is it, Your Majesty?" Alazon asked quietly.
"They've taken at least five universes," Zindel said flatly. "As far as we know, every soldier—and civilian—we had in those universes is either dead or prisoner. And somehow—" he met the two Voices' eyes "—they managed to keep a single Voice from getting the warning out, as well."
Kinlafia's belly muscles clenched, and he felt Alazon's sick awareness of what the Emperor was telling them.
"They've advanced over four thousand miles in less than two weeks," Zindel continued. "The sort of transport and logistics capability that suggests is going to be terrifying as soon as its implications sink in, and the existence of these . . . dragons, and these lion-eagle things of theirs, is going to be even worse. But, frankly, what's going to hit home the hardest, going to have the most catastrophic effect on public opinion, is that they launched this entire attack while they were negotiating with us."
Kinlafia's teeth grated together with fresh fury, and Zindel snorted with cold, bitter anger of his own.
"They've truly done it this time," he said harshly. "First, Shaylar's murder. Now this . . . this treachery and the murder of my son. The heir to the throne. The whole of Sharona is going to explode in fury. Any possible hope we ever had for stopping this insanity is gone forever. Whether we're ready for it or not, whether we want it or not, we're in a fight for our very survival, and my son—"
His voice broke savagely. It took him three tries to get it under control again.
"My son's death will not be in vain," he grated at last. "We're going to take every one of those portals back. We're going to drive those bastards back into the universe they came from. And I don't mean the universe on the other side of the portal you helped capture, Darcel—I mean their home universe. We're going to shove them back and bottle them up and blow them apart so hard it'll knock them back into the godsdamned Stone Age." He stared hard into Kinlafia's eyes. "And you, Parliamentary Representative Kinlafia, are going to help me do it."
"Yes, Sir." Kinlafia met that hard, bitter stare of steel across Alazon's head and nodded once, sharply. "Yes, Your Majesty," he agreed in the voice of a man swearing an oath. "No matter what it takes."
"Good."
Zindel's voice was different, too. It was the voice of an emperor accepting an oath of fealty. Then the grief, the anguish, in his eyes shifted. It turned into something else, equally hard, and yet somehow almost . . . desperate.
"And the other thing you're going to help me do, Darcel—" he added in a chilling tone "—you and Alazon both—is to find a way to keep that bastard Busar from forcing Andrin to marry one of his monstrous sons."
Kinlafia's heart lurched.
"Oh, dear gods. . . ." he half-whispered.
How could he have missed it? He'd already realized that Andrin had just become the Crown Princess of Sharona, or shortly would, and that meant—
"I will personally put a bullet through every last one of Chava Busar's sons before I let any of them marry your daughter, Your Majesty," he said, and felt Alazon shudder in his arms. Shudder with the thought of Andrin wed to any member of Chava's family . . . and with her Voice's knowledge that he meant every single word he'd just said.
"Good." Zindel chan Calirath's eyes could have frozen the heart of hell itself, but then he made himself inhale deeply.
"Good," he repeated. "But now let's try to figure out a way to stop it without throwing our world into a civil war at the same time we have to deal with these Arcanan butchers."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Kinlafia nodded and the Emperor turned to Alazon.
"Shamir is canvassing our allies' delegations," he told her. It was a sign of his own grief and shock that, despite his outward self-control, he'd clearly forgotten that he'd already told them that. "I expect him back within the hour. Please contact the members of the Privy Council. This crisis won't wait; tell them we'll meet two hours from now, and I want Orem Limana present, as well. We'll need him to help us coordinate portal traffic."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Thank you. Thank you both," Zindel said.
Then he drew a deep breath, turned and walked back out the door through which he'd entered the room. Kinlafia heard the sound of weeping from beyond that door, and the Emperor moved like an exhausted swimmer in deep water as he returned to his grieving family.
The door closed behind him, and Alazon buried her face in Kinlafia's shoulder and spent one long, desperate moment weeping while he held her close. Then she tilted her face up and gave him a trembling smile full of courage, and he kissed her very gently.
"Let me know when you have a free moment," he said. "I'll feed you some dinner and rub your feet."
"That's an offer more precious than diamonds," she said, making herself smile once again even while her eyes swam with fresh tears. "Consider it a date."
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.
a familiar Voice Called softly in the back of his brain, and he was out of bed in a 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 he
r 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 inevitable. If Isseth hadn't requested it, we probably would have had to do it ourselves. Not that Isseth—or Chava—did it to do us any favors!"
Fresh anger swirled about deep inside Darcel Kinlafia, but he made himself step back from it. He remembered what Janaki had told him about the deadliness of hatred, yet that wasn't what let him step away from the demons of his inner fury. No, it was the woman in his arms. The lifeline he clung to. And as he did, he felt her clinging to him, in turn. Their strength flowed together, melding, merging into something greater than the sum of its parts, and he turned her tear-soaked face up to his and kissed it gently.
"All right," he said softly. "His Majesty was right about Andrin needing to rest. Well, so do we. Come with me."
He stood, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her through the moonlight towards his bedroom door. She looked up at him, and he smiled crookedly.
he Told her,
her Voice murmured in the back of his mind.
He laughed softly, despite their grief, despite their loss, and kissed her once again.
she Told him.
he turned back the light spread at one side of the enormous bed and tucked her under it, he bent over to kiss her once again, very gently
'Chapter Thirty-Five
The tension in the Emperor Garim Chancellery could have been used to chip flint as Darcel Kinlafia settled into the place in the gallery to which his candidacy for the House of Talents entitled him.
The sunlight streaming in through the windows framed in the black-and-white banners of mourning revealed a very different set of faces from the ones he'd seen there just the day before. The vast majority of naysayers and fence-sitters had disappeared. Today's faces were shaken, sick . . . and enraged.
Zindel chan Calirath, who should have been at the Temple of Saint Taiy, preparing for his coronation, sat like a statue of Ternathian granite. The black mourning band around his right arm was matched by the bands around the arms of every other man and woman in that enormous chamber, and the flags of every nation of Sharona flew at half-mast. The death of the heir to any imperial throne was always a world-shaking event; the death of this particular heir had shaken an entire universe to its foundation.
Andrin Calirath sat beside her father, her own face pale and drawn with grief. The preparation of her Glimpse had done nothing to lessen her sorrow or the profound, brutal shock of her loss, and nothing could have prepared her to deal wi
th her younger sisters' grief. She'd argued against her father's decision the night before, but she knew now that he'd been correct. She had needed rest . . . and she was profoundly grateful that her mother and sisters had no official reason to be here this morning. Indeed, she wished desperately that she hadn't had to be here, either. But there was absolutely no choice about that, despite her youth.
With Janaki's death, Andrin Calirath, at seventeen, had become not Heir-Secondary to the Winged Crown of Ternathia, but Heir Apparent to the Throne of Sharona, and all the crushing weight of the multiverse seemed to be bearing down upon her shoulders.
I should still be with my tutors, a small voice wailed in the back of her mind. I'm not ready for this—it wasn't supposed to be my job!
Yet even as that little voice cried out in protest, she knew it was her job. That it had always been here, waiting for her, if anything happened to Janaki.
Shamir Taje, unlike Andrin, was not in his place at his Emperor's elbow. Since the formal ratification of the Act of Unification, Taje, as the effective First Councilor of the worldwide empire to be, had replaced Orem Limana as the presiding officer of the Conclave. Under the terms of the Unification, the Conclave was to continue to function as the effective caretaker government of the new empire until after the formal parliamentary elections scheduled for two months after the official Coronation. Now, that Conclave's members sat almost as still as Zindel as Taje stepped up to the podium Orem Limana had occupied when it first assembled.
"This Conclave is now in session," Taje announced. "All rise for the invocation."
That morning, the invocation was short and to the point: Guard us, heavenly protectors, and help us choose wisely in this battle to save ourselves.
Then Taje took the podium once again.