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His eyes widened.
"Why in the multiverse would you hate wearing a gown that makes you look like a goddess?" he demanded, and her entire face flamed at his simple sincerity. Then she surprised him with a tart rejoinder.
"Because it weighs about sixty pounds, the corset is made of steel, these stiletto-heeled shoes pinch my feet and make my calves scream, and the trailing skirts and these ridiculous, yard-long sleeves tend to snag on things—like other people's swords, three thousand year-old statuary, and the occasional rosebush."
"Oh." It was his turn to laugh. "Oh, dear. How are we going to get through the day in these things?"
"By gritting our teeth, smiling, and thinking very hard about long, hot baths and witch hazel for the chafed spots and bruises."
"Bruises?"
"You don't want to know," she assured him. "I did mention that the corset is made out of steel, didn't I?"
She gave him a bright smile. "Still, at least we both have the comfort of someone to commiserate with now. And, speaking of 'now,' we really must get moving. The marshal's reserved a place of honor for you."
She hadn't been joking about his position in the parade, he discovered when they arrived at the designated float. The bunting-draped vehicle, drawn by a beautifully matched pair of gray Shikowr geldings, was smaller than many of the others ... but it was also sandwiched between those of the Portal Authority's first director and the imperial family.
And, unlike First Director Limana or the Emperor's family, he had his float all to himself.
He turned towards Alazon and opened his mouth, but she spoke before he could.
"First," she said firmly, "it's far too late for us to be changing the order of the parade now. You're stuck with this one. Second, it was First Director Limana's suggestion that you be assigned your own float, and I think his instincts were right. And third, His Majesty wants your political career properly launched. In other words, there's no way out, so you might as well just climb up there, smile, and pretend you like it."
He almost argued anyway. Fortunately, his own sense of the ridiculous came to his rescue before he completed the process of making a fool out of himself, and he bent his head in submission.
"Yes, ma'am," he said meekly.
"Good. Now, get!"
She made shooing motions with both hands, and after making certain he had the rapier throttled into at least temporary submission, he started obediently up the short, steep ladder.
He managed to make it to the top without killing himself or any i
Once he was reasonably confident that he wasn't about to plunge to his doom, he drew a deep breath and looked around him at the assembling spectacle.
Since the still officially independent Kingdom of Othmaliz was this afternoon's host, the Othmalizi Army's marching band formed the parade's vanguard. A troop of the Seneschal's Own Dragoons followed, and was followed in turn by a company of Imperial Ternathian Marines, then a company of Uromathian infantry, one of Farnalian cavalry, and on and on.
The "floats" were interspersed among the marching and mounted formations, and the imperial family's was actually rather near the end of the entire procession. In fact, despite the ruler-straightness of Emperor Daerha Boulevard, the official parade route, Kinlafia (whose vision really was as good as he'd told Alazon it was) found it almost impossible to make out details of the leading formations simply because of the sheer distance involved.
The floats also varied widely in size. Kinlafia's was one of the smallest; the imperial family's was undoubtedly the largest. Where his had only two wheels and was towed by a single pair of Shikowrs, the Emperor's float was a six-wheeled, articulated wagon towed by an entire six-horse team of tall, black Chinthai. The massive draft animals, descended from ancient heavy cavalry mounts, were taller at the shoulder than Kinlafia, and their flowing manes and tails had been elaborately braided and threaded with silken streamers in the green and gold of the House of Calirath.
Zindel chan Calirath himself sat on a throne which rose considerably higher than Kinlafia's, although the broader vehicle at its base promised greater stability. At least, Kinlafia certainly hoped it did. The thought of watching the future Emperor of Sharona plunge to his doom from a parade float left a little something to be desired from a public relations viewpoint.
Empress Varena sat beside him, on an equally elevated throne, and all three of their daughters were grouped around them on thrones of their own. It was fairly obvious from where Kinlafia sat that young Anbessa wasn't exactly enthralled, but it was equally obvious that her mother had "reasoned" with her to good effect. Razial, on the other hand, seemed excited, eager for the spectacle to begin.
And then there was Andrin. Kinlafia gazed at her for several seconds, trying to gauge her emotions from the set of her shoulders, the angle of her head. He couldn't. And yet, he could.
He grimaced and shook his own head. Was he really interpreting her emotions correctly? Or did he just think he was? How much of what he thought she was feeling was real, and how much was simply an echo of that devastating moment in which he had shared the Emperor's Glimpse?
No one could claim that your life's been exactly boring for the last two or three months, Darcel, he told himself. But the last thirty-six hours have to have established a new all-time record, even for you. A
private audience with the Emperor, Alazon, an invitation to a quiet little supper with the entire imperial family, and then Her Imperial Highness Grand Princess Andrin.
It didn't seem possible. Still, at least it had all come at him so quickly he hadn't really had time to come to grips with it. That was good, because he rather suspected that when he finally did have the opportunity to sit down and think about it, it was going to scare the holy living hell out of him. It was one thing to think about ru
Somehow, he didn't think his life was ever going to be "boring" again.
Andrin made a soft, soothing sound to Finena as the falcon shifted uneasily on the back of her elaborate chair. The sound itself was all but inaudible against the surf of background voices, but the falcon didn't have to physically hear it to recognize it. Her head bent, and the razor-sharp beak stroked gently against the side of Andrin's neck. Then the bird straightened once again, standing proud and motionless on her perch.
The good news was that Finena had already endured a half-dozen parades back home in Ternathia. The bad news was that none of them had been even remotely like this one was going to be. The rumble of voices which was making Finena nervous came almost entirely from the Calirath Palace staff—of which, admittedly, there seemed to be somewhere in the vicinity of fourteen million, she thought wryly
—and her family's personal retainers. Once they began moving out of the Palace gates and down the formal parade route, and the thousands upon thousands of spectators began to cheer, it was going to get infinitely worse.
"There," she murmured, reaching up to stroke Finena's folded wings comfortingly. "There, love. If it gets too bad, you can always fly back to the Palace." She smiled crookedly. "I wish I could," she added.
Her father glanced at her as if he'd heard her. He hadn't, of course—not as quietly as she'd spoken, and not through all the background noise. But he hadn't really had to. She'd realized, over the last several weeks, that her father actually knew her even better than she'd ever thought that he did. She'd never doubted his love, the time that he always somehow saved for his children. But since the disaster at Hell's Gate, he'd shown an almost terrifying awareness of what was inside her. What she felt, what she feared, what she dreamed of and about as all of them swept inexorably into the future. It was immensely comforting and simultaneously frightening, in an obscure sort of way.
Don't be silly, she scolded herself. And don't be a coward, either. You know why it's scaring the daylights out of you!
And she did know. It frightened her because she knew too much about the Calirath Talent. She knew how hard and fast the Glimpses were falling upon her father, because they were falling upon her, too.
Yet there was one enormous difference between her Glimpses and his.
Those gifted—or cursed—with the Calirath Talent were not given the ability to Glimpse events in their own lives. There were times—many of them, in fact—when a Calirath's Glimpse did tell that person a great deal about what was going to happen to him or her. But even when that happened, there was almost always a ... blind spot. A blankness. A cutout in the vision where the person whose Glimpse it was ought to have been and which kept him from Seeing himself, his actions ... his fate. No one knew why that was, yet it was true. With one exception.
There was one Glimpse that was given to most of those who carried the activated Calirath Talent, and cold comfort it was. It was the Glimpse of their own violent deaths. Not in accidents, or of disease, because the Calirath Talent didn't work that way. A Glimpse revealed the consequences of human actions, human events, not the simple workings of fate or chance. That was one reason there'd been so few successful assassinations of Caliraths over the mille