The envoys erupted in protest. Outraged babble piled upon gasping indignation.
Holkar ignored them serenely. He turned back to his empress. Shakuntala was staring at him—blank-faced, to all appearances. But Holkar could sense her loosening self-control.
From the side of the chamber, Irene sent him an urgent thought. End it, Dadaji. Give her space and time, before she breaks. The rest can be negotiated tomorrow.
Apparently, telepathy worked. Or perhaps it was simply that two people thought alike.
“Marry Rao, Empress,” decreed Dadaji Holkar. Then, in words so soft that only she could hear: “It is your simple duty, girl, and nothing else. Your dharma. Let your mind be at ease.”
Those father’s words removed all doubt. Shakuntala was fighting desperately, now, to maintain her imperial image. Beneath the egg-thin royal shell, the girl—no, the woman—was beginning to emerge.
Dadaji turned, but Kungas was already on his feet, clapping his hands.
“Enough! Enough!” the Kushan bellowed. “It is late. The empress is very weary. Clear the chamber!”
No envoy, outraged or no, wanted to argue with that voice. The rush for the door started at once. Within a minute, the chamber was empty except for Irene, Kungas, and Dadaji. And the empress, still sitting on her throne, but already beginning to curl. As soon as the heavy door closed, she was hugging her knees tightly to her chest.
Years of discipline and sorrow erupted like a volcano. Shakuntala wept, and wept, and wept; laughing all the while. Not the laughs of gaiety, these, or even happiness. They were the deep, belly-emptying, heaving laughs of a girl finally able—after all the years she had swallowed duty, never complaining once of its bitter taste—to wallow in the simple joys and desires of any woman.
Kungas stepped to her side and embraced her. A moment later, squirming like an eel, Shakuntala forced him onto the throne and herself onto his lap. There she remained, cradled in the arms of the man who had sheltered her—as he had again that day—from all the world’s worst perils. Since the day her father died, and Malwa made her an orphan, Kungas had never failed her. The child found comfort in his lap, the girl in his arms, the empress in his mind. But the woman, finally out of her cage, only in his soul. Choked words of love and gratitude, whispered between sobs, she gave him in return. And even Kungas, as he stroked her hair, could not maintain the mask. His face, too, was now nothing but a father’s.
Dadaji began to move toward the empress, ready to share in that embrace. But Irene restrained him with a hand.
“Not now, Dadaji. Not tonight.”
Holkar looked back, startled. “She will want—need me—”
Irene shook her head, smiling. “Her wants and needs can wait, Dadaji. They are well-enough satisfied, and Kungas is there for her tonight. He will shelter her through her joy, just as he guarded her through despair. Tonight, Dadaji, you must give to yourself.”
He frowned, puzzled. Irene began pulling him toward the door. “There is someone you must see. Someone you have been seeking, since the day she was lost. She should already be in your chambers.”
By the time she opened the door, Dadaji understood. By the time she closed the door, he was already gone. She could only hear his footsteps, pounding down a corridor. It was odd, really. They sounded like the steps of a young man, running with the wind.
* * *
The lamps were lit, when Irene entered her own chambers. Her servants, knowing her odd tastes from months of experience, had prepared her reading chair. Tea was ready, steeping in a copper kettle. It was lukewarm, by now, but Irene preferred it so.
As always, her servants had taken several books from the chest and placed them on the table next to the lamp. The books had been chosen at random, by women who could not read the titles. Irene preferred it so. It was always pleasant, to see her choices for the night. Irene enjoyed surprises.
She sat and took a sip of tea. Then, for a few minutes, she weighed Plato against Homer, Horace against Lucretius.