She nodded, astonished a member of the Privy Council knew her name.
“Relatha,” Alazon laid one hand against her cheek, “all of Sharona owes you a tremendous debt. One we can’t possibly repay-”
And then she broke off suddenly and whipped around to stare at the blazing debris in the dark waters of the Straits.
“Andrin!” The shriek tore loose, high and wild and…exultant?
“She’s alive! Andrin’s alive!” The Voice was laughing, weeping, gabbling in wild excitement. “That was the captain’s Voice. The Captain of the HMS Striker. The ship’s Voice just contacted me. The Striker’s crew pulled her out of the water. It was the Prince Consort! He saved them both! Howan Fai threw her overboard. Dragged her overboard, just minutes before the Peregrine blew up. Vothan’s mercy, he jumped off the ship with her!”
Kinlafia let out a crowing, triumphant whoop and grabbed Alazon and kissed her. Grabbed Relatha and hugged her. He was all but dancing in place, nearly jumping out of his skin in his own wild relief.
“My Gods,” he gasped, “how in Vothan’s holy name did he know?”
“Andrin had a Glimpse!” Alazon’s eyes blazed with incandescent joy. “She knew the ship was going to blow up. She was choking it out to him when a boarding party rushed at them, trying to snatch her.”
Relatha gasped.
“The Prince jumped overboard with her in the middle of a gun battle. Oh, Darcel, they’re alive, both of them!”
“But-” Relatha said in confusion, “but Her Grand Highness should have drowned! Her gown must have weighed close to sixty pounds! I know it did! I’ve helped her dress, before.”
Alazon grinned hugely. “It’s sixty pounds at the bottom of the Strait now! Howan Fai cut it off her back, in the water. With his sheath knife. He’s carried it everywhere since the wedding. They were pulled from the water by a search party in a lifeboat. They’re safely aboard the Striker. That one,” she pointed to the destroyer on their left, bathed in the lurid red flames from the burning fuel and the wreckage of Peregrine. The destroyer on the right was mostly obscured by the thick black smoke boiling up from the fire.
Numb shock vanished. Relatha started to cry again. But this time, oh, gods, this time, her heart was wild with joy, not grief.
“We have to find Empress Varena,” Alazon said, dragging Relatha to her feet. “We can’t tell the Emperor yet, not till his life’s out of danger, but we have to tell the Empress and Razial and Anbessa. We have to tell all of Sharona. The Crown Princess is alive!”
They were the sweetest words ever spoken.
Epilogue
April 22
The Seneschal of Othmaliz lowered his field glasses with a wide, satisfied smile and the flames blazing out in the harbor shrank once more to a patch no larger than the palm of a man’s hand. The blaze consuming the Imperial Grand Salon was much nearer to hand, though not so near as to pose a threat to him, and far brighter. The Grand Palace’s gas mains had contributed so nicely to the unfortunate disaster.
The flames were really quite lovely, he thought smugly. It was a pity there’d been no opportunity to stretch out Zindel’s suffering, but one couldn’t have everything, and what he had was quite good enough, really.
The Uromathian Emperor had been most helpful, even if he was a crass, boorish man without a proper sense of retribution. And Faroayn Raynarg fully intended to repay him. At the moment, of course, the entire Order of Bergahl was as horrified, shocked, and surprised as anyone else in Tajvana! They had no idea how this could have happened, how an attack could have slipped past the Calirath’s highly trained armsmen and security staffs! But, equally of course, they would be eager to aid in determining how this heinous crime could have been committed. So would the highly trained Imperial Uromathian Police. And in the course of their investigation, they would produce a dead “Arcanan agent” with secret orders written in the Arcanan language on his body, orders instructing him to murder the Imperial family of Sharona.
The yammering pack of fools who were even now doubtless sobbing in anguish would be so grateful to the Uromathian for “saving” them, he’d end up ruling in his own right. Whereupon the Seneschal would have restored to him what was rightfully his. Chava Busar’s sons wouldn’t get to bed the imperial heiress or produce an imposter, but that didn’t concern the Seneschal in the least.
He’d hated that nasty hulking cow. She and that damned bird. She’d thought it was funny, watching him sweat in fear of that vicious predator on her arm. Ternathian Imperial falcons were big, mean birds that could tear a man’s face off. There’d been no way to feed it to the sharks alive like its owner, but he could always hope it had at least been crisped in the explosion.
He poured a celebratory glass of wine and sipped in genuine delight, visualizing the crown princess’ brief horror-but not, one could always hope, too brief horror-when she discovered what Chava’s shark Caller had summoned to meet her. He chuckled aloud at that thought and dipped up a spoonful of the prized Ylani caviar. He spread it on a crisp cracker, biting into the delicacy with gusto and sipping more wine. Ah, such simple joys were finally sweet, once more, without the bitterness of rancor and hatred on his tongue.
He was mentally planning the move back into his quarters in the Grand Palace when the door crashed open. He jerked around and snarled at Acolyte Raka, who was stumbling into the room, white-faced and shaking. Water dripped from his clothes onto the thick carpets.
“Your Eminence-”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed!”
Before he could snatch up something to throw at the intruder, the Acolyte gasped out, “I tried to stop them. I swear by Bergahl I did! They just tossed me into the ocean. I barely survived!”
“What are you babbling about?”
Before the shaking fool could answer, the door flew open again. Soundlessly.
Other acolytes sauntered into the room. But, no, they weren’t acolytes. They wore the garb of his own Order, and they were strong, obviously capable men…yet he didn’t recognize a single face.
Wineglass and caviar crashed to the floor as he whirled towards one of the chamber’s other doors, but he wasn’t fast enough. The men spread around the room blocking all exits-even the windows. He turned, tried to lunge for a weapon-
— and froze in place.
A blade protruded from his belly. A strange symbol was embossed on the pommel. Ever so slowly the Seneschal recognized it as a piece from the Arcanan replica weapon set he’d supplied. A rough twist tore it out of his gut and spilled more than wine on his fine rugs.
* * *
Drindel wanted more than anything in his life to run. The men with him were indubitably in Service to Uromathia, and they were worse than sharks. The Acolyte Raka, older in death than he’d seemed while alive, had at least stopped that awful neck bubbling.
Remarkably, few others had even noticed their entry. Drindel began to suspect the team he was with of boredom. Their Masker had covered their initial approach, but not even a Masker could pass a dozen men through the halls of the Seneschal’s residence without being seen. Their acolyte robes had gotten them through unchallenged, though, and the Masker could easily cover them once again if they left through the chamber’s windows and simply filtered through the ornate garden down to the shore of the strait. Drindel didn’t quite understand why Raka hadn’t raised the alarm or warned his fellow acolytes he might be pursued. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to him that they might be right on his heels. Perhaps he could be excused for not thinking that bit through, though. He hadn’t realized he was a dead man from the moment he’d stayed on the pleasure boat instead of joining the Talent-masked assault team who’d climbed the ropes up the side of the Peregrine and proceeded beyond the range of the Masker’s focused Talent, but he’d probably caught on pretty quickly when one of the other Uromathians kicked him over the side for the sharks.