Authors: David Weber,Linda Evans
"What do you mean, 'too late,' Your Majesty?" Kinlafia asked tautly.
"I mean Andrin and I have been Glimpsing Janaki in combat for the last eight days." Zindel's face suddenly looked years older. "I mean we can't tell from what we've Seen what happens to him. But what we have Glimpsed is terrifying, Darcel … and the message he sent to chan Geraith is even more frightening. Whatever Andrin and I may be Glimpsing, Janaki expects to die."
Kinlafia felt as if he'd just been shot through the chest, and his face went suddenly white under its deep tan. Memories of Janaki-of his laughter, his kindness and compassion, his zest for life, and his obviously deep and abiding dedication to the lifetime task to which an accident of birth had condemned him-rushed through the Voice, and his hands tightened like claws on the armrests of his chair.
"He may be wrong," Zindel said. "His Talent is weaker, as I've said. He may be misinterpreting something he's Seen, and I pray to the Triad that he is. But the very weakness of his Talent makes the clarity of his Glimpse more frightening. There are several reasons why it might have been clearer, sharper, than ours, but there's no point in pretending that the most likely reason isn't that he's interpreted it correctly."
"My gods, Your Majesty," Kinlafia whispered. "I don't know … I mean, what can I say? Do?"
"I don't know what you'll do if Janaki is right." Zindel's eyes were dark, glistening with the unshed tears of a strong man, an Emperor, who was also a father whose son had just prophesied his own death. "All I know is that if he is, Andrin will need you … and you will be there for her."
"Does she know? About Janaki's message, I mean?"
"No, she doesn't. Neither does her mother." Zindel looked away, gazing out the windows at the garden, and his voice had become distant, as if he were speaking to himself … or possibly to his son. "I don't know if I'm going to tell them. On the one hand, I should. They have a right to know. But, on the other hand, suppose Janaki's wrong, as I pray he is? Should I tell them, put that burden on them, now, of all times, when it may never come to pass at all? And even if Janaki is right, telling them now won't change what will happen. It will only let them worry, anticipate. It's bad enough knowing myself, should I inflict that same pain, that same worry, on two of the five people I love most in all the multiverse?"
"I don't know what to say, Your Majesty," Kinlafia admitted softly. "I wish I did, but I don't."
"I know you don't, Darcel." The Emperor-elect of Sharona reached across and patted Darcel Kinlafia on the shoulder almost comfortingly. "I know you don't. But when Andrin needs you, you will know."
Andrin Calirath was not quite eighteen years old, and her mother had always had strict notions about proper etiquette and the degree of decorum expected out of a daughter of the aristocracy. Whereas many a young Ternathian noblewoman might have attended her first public ball by the time she was sixteen years old, or even as young as fifteen, Andrin's very first formal ball had been to celebrate the ratification and signing of the Act of Unification only twelve days earlier.
She'd expected to be giddy with excitement at the opportunity, and the truth was that she had enjoyed herself. But not as much as she'd expected to. Perhaps it was simply that pleasures anticipated always loomed greater than pleasures actually experienced. She suspected, however, that the answer was rather simpler than that.
Andrin was the eldest daughter of the man who would become the first Emperor of a united Sharona tomorrow afternoon in the magnificent Temple of Saint Taiyr of Tajvana, the traditional site of Calirath coronations for almost two thousand years. Where other nobly born young ladies of her age could spend their formal "coming out" ball in a whirl of excitement and enjoyment, Her Grand Imperial Highness Andrin could not. Her entire evening had been rigorously regimented, planned out ahead of time with the precision of a professional military operation.
She hadn't really blamed anyone. She was who she was, and there was no point pretending it could have been any other way. But the fact that she understood why it had happened hadn't magically-she winced a little as that particular adverb occurred to her-restored some sort of spontaneity to the occasion.
Still, she'd enjoyed her first ball immeasurably more than she was enjoying her second.
One thing an imperial princess could count upon was that she would never find herself unattended. Not only was she accompanied everywhere-except on the dance floor itself, at any rate-by Lazima chan Zindico or one of her other bodyguards, but she was also the inevitable center of a veritable bison herd of young (and not so young) male aristocrats, all determined to impress her with their sparkle, their wit, their good looks, and-above all-their eligibility.
The only one of them who hadn't all too obviously been thinking of himself in terms of matrimonial prospects (and her in terms of breeding stock, she thought tartly) was Howan Fai Goutin. The Crown Prince of Eniath had partnered her for two dances, before he bowed to the dictates of etiquette and withdrew to allow others to seek her hand. Those two dances had been blessed interludes, in which she could enjoy the physicality of movement without being subjected to witty comments or bits of profound political-or literary, or philosophical, or even (gods help her) religious-insight. (Why, oh why, had the word that she was "bookish" had to get out amongst the "marry-me-because-I'm-so-impressive" crowd?!) Unlike the others, Howan had simply danced with her, and most of her suitors had regarded him (while, no doubt, composing their own next witty sally) with a certain tolerant pity. For all its lengthy history, Eniath was a postage-stamp kingdom, and one which had already aligned its policy with the Caliraths. There was no need to buy Eniath's loyalty with an imperial marriage … and the entire kingdom was scarcely worth a Ternathian duchess' hand, far less that of an imperial grand princess who stood second in the line of succession to the throne of all of Sharona.
So they had allowed her two dances worth of freedom, waited while he'd bowed to her, kissed her hand, and withdrawn gracefully. And as soon as he had, they'd closed in once again to impress her with their own enormous suitability for her hand. It could even have been rather flattering, under the right circumstances … for all of, oh, fifteen seconds or so. By now, what she found herself hankering for most strongly was a good revolver and an extra box of ammunition.
Finena swiveled her head from her perch on the exquisitely stitched and gemmed leather gauntlet on Andrin's left wrist, looking up at her human friend with an eye Andrin was privately certain gleamed with approval. Her own lips twitched ever so slightly at the thought, yet not even that image, delectable though it might be, could break through the shell of … of what?
She couldn't answer that question, hard though she'd tried. She knew her terrifying Glimpses of Janaki were a huge part of it, of course. They were too strong, too persistent, for her to just brush them aside, however hard she tried. However frequently she reminded herself Glimpses often failed, or turned out to have been misunderstood or wrongly interpreted, especially when they concerned loved ones. She'd felt the bumblebees swarming under her skin again, felt the needles and pins of prophecy pricking in her bones, and she knew something-something dreadful-was going to happen to her brother.
Shalana the Merciful, please, she thought. Please let this Glimpse be wrong. Protect Janaki.
If only her father hadn't so obviously been Glimpsing something similar, it might have been easier for her to convince herself she was wrong. But she'd seen the same unspoken fears in his eyes, felt his Talent resonating against hers, and she knew what it was he hadn't told her mother.
Her haunted eyes tracked across the ballroom floor to where Empress Varena swirled through the graceful measures of a Uromathian waltz with the Prince Regent of Limathia (who appeared to have finally forgiven her father for the famous "godsdamned fish" remark). The Empress' head was tilted to one side as she smiled at her partner, moving with all the skilled grace which had seemed to elude Andrin, despite the best efforts of veritable troops of dancing masters, for so many years of her adolescence. Varena radiated vivacity, zest, confidence in the future, as she looked forward to her coronation as Empress of Sharona on the morrow.
But Andrin knew. She knew the burden of the Calirath Talent lay even heavier on the shoulders of imperial consorts who lacked that Talent than on any who possessed it. Her mother couldn't experience any Glimpse directly, yet she knew when her daughter and her husband were gripped by the cruel pincers of precognition. And she knew how desperately they sought to protect her from the often frustratingly murky visions of the future which haunted them. Despite her smiles, despite the confident, gracious image she projected, she knew they were protecting her now … and even someone far less intelligent than she would have had very little difficulty figuring out which of the people she loved was most probably in danger.
And yet, she did her duty. She shouldered the burden she had agreed to bear the day she accepted Zindel chan Calirath's hand in marriage, and the even greater one no one could have predicted, which would settle upon her tomorrow. She hid her fears, pretended she was unafraid. Pretended even to her husband and her daughter that she wasn't terrified by the future which they, unlike she, could at least Glimpse, however imperfectly.
As Andrin watched her dancing, smiling, she wanted to weep. Weep for her mother's courage, for the crushing weight of the duty she had accepted so many years before.
"Your Highness?"
Andrin blinked herself back into focus and turned her head.
"Yes, Voice Kinlafia?"
"I was hoping you might be kind enough to allow me to partner you for the next dance, Your Highness."
The tough-looking, brown-haired Voice looked out of place in the ballroom. Not because he wasn't perfectly attired, and one of the better-looking men present, but because he made the other, younger, far more nobly born males still orbiting Andrin look as callow and untried as they actually were. Many of them had the tanned, lean fitness of the sports field, but his bronzed, muscular hardness went far deeper than that, earned in a far harder school where the stakes had been infinitely higher than who won or lost some trophy. He was far too old for Andrin, of course-at least twice her age, and probably more-but for just a moment, as she looked into those warm, somehow compassionate brown eyes, she felt a deep envy of Alazon Yanamar.
"I promise I won't walk all over your slippers, Your Highness," Kinlafia told her with a twinkle. "Mind you, I wouldn't have promised any such thing for this waltz, but the next dance is from New Farnal, which means I actually know the steps."
He smiled so winningly she had to chuckle, despite her mood.
"I'd be delighted," she told him, and the crowd of disappointed aspirants parted like ice floes around the bows of a Farnalian icebreaker as he escorted her towards the head of the line forming for the next dance.
"You'll have to excuse me for a moment again, dearling," she told Finena, and the falcon launched from her gauntleted left wrist. Fortunately, the Caliraths' attachment to their falcons was sufficiently well known-not to say notorious-that no one seemed particularly astonished or upset when Finena went flashing overhead. The falcon settled on her perch, under the watchful eyes of Brahndys chan Gordahl and Ulthar chan Habikon, and Andrin offered her hand to Kinlafia.
"Thank you, Your Highness." He bent over it, pressed a kiss to its back, and then they took their places as the orchestra played the first few bars of a New Farnal country melody and the step-caller called out thecircle dance's first movement.
The dance was far more lively than the stylized, refined waltz which had preceded it. Kinlafia was obviously familiar with the steps, although despite his athleticism, he was not Howan Fai Goutin's equal as a dancer. Yet there was something profoundly soothing about him, and Andrin found herself actually laughing with delight as he twirled her through the dance's movements. And as she did, she realized it was precisely for that moment of escape that Kinlafia had asked her to dance.
It came to an end at last, and she tucked her hand into his elbow. He started to escort her back to where her abandoned suitors waited, but she looked up at him with a winsome smile
"If you please, Voice Kinlafia," she said, "I think I'd prefer a glass of lemonade."
"Nothing could please me more, Your Highness."
From one of the nobly born butterflies who had been fluttering about her so assiduously all evening, it would have been a pleasant nothing. From Kinlafia, it was a completely sincere statement, and she squeezed his elbow gently. He glanced down at her with a small smile, and she realized there was no need to explain to him what that squeeze was for.
Lazima chan Zindico trailed watchfully along behind, his eyes searching constantly for any tiny flaw in the crowd, any possible sign of danger for his charge.
He didn't find one, of course, which didn't prevent him from settling into what Andrin privately thought of as his "brooding protector mode" as Kinlafia seated her at one of the small, candlelit tables placed to catch the pleasant evening breeze swirling in through the wall of opened double doors. Kinlafia glanced at chan Zindico with a much more measuring eye than most of the young sprouts who had pestered Andrin all night ever showed. Obviously, the Voice recognized chan Zindico for what-and who-he truly was, whereas most of the spoiled, pampered aristocrats saw him only as one more item of furniture.
Andrin liked that.
Kinlafia disappeared for a moment or two, then returned with not one glass of punch, but four… and Prince Howan Fai Goutin and Alazon Yanamar. Andrin thanked the Voice for the glass and raised it to her lips a bit more quickly than she might otherwise have to hide her smile. She'd wondered when Alazon would turn up. She also wondered how long it would be before the reporters noticed that wherever "candidate Kinlafia" happened to be, the Emperor's Privy Voice was virtually certain to turn up, and vice versa. The thought tickled her fancy, and her eyes gleamed mischievously as she considered how she might twit the two of them. The two Voices were busy looking at one another, and Andrin's dancing eyes met Prince Howan's equally amused gaze for just a moment.