Sabrina did try to sleep, mostly because she couldn't think of anything else to do, but it was useless. After hours of tossing restlessly in the huge bed that had never felt like it belonged to her, she got up, went to her study, and turned on her comconsole. She'd had no leisure for research while she was Regent; she'd had people to do it for her. But she knew where to start, connecting her console to the huge Royal Archives housed somewhere else in the vast complex of Palace Royal at Dansestari.
It took her a while to get the hang of the search protocols and figure out the right key words, but in the end she gathered a collection of files she thought would give her an objective overview of the past ninety-two years. She browsed through them, then decided her brain was working too slowly to absorb any meaningful information. So she launched another search, this time using Tassan's name.
He had kept a low profile over the years, she realized as she looked over the results of her search. Mostly he was mentioned in connection with the Citizens Council; he had, for a time, acted as Chair and Royal Liaison after the space accident that wiped out half the original Council, including General Daman nar Zhahghai, who had helped her plan Rayland's funeral. She was sorry she had not been there to pay her respects at his.
Tassan had not kept his leadership position for long, surrendering it after a mere year and a half, probably the earliest he felt he could, she guessed. She wondered if he had longed to retire from the Council altogether. Would he have done so if he'd known she wasn't coming back for such a long time?
The most recent holoimage of him was twenty years old. She had to look at it for a few moments, tracing the picture of him she held in her mind over the lined, hollowed face in the image. She would not have immediately identified him if she had met him in the street, and that disturbed and grieved her so much that she had to switch off the image for a moment, burying her face in her hands.
It doesn't matter. It wasn't his face I fell in love with. His heart, his spirit, they're still there, she told herself. But were they? Who knew what ninety-two years had made him?
She took a deep breath and moved on to another file. This one was a catalog of his best-known works. She knew the earliest ones, remembering with a smile how she had asked Haaron to bring her samples of his work so she could get to know him a little. Would she be able to trace out his life, find out if he had been happy, by looking at the rest of his career?
There were several portraits of her, most of them done immediately after the Regency. Some, she could tell, were based on holos of official occasions; those were mostly in museums or public spaces. But two of them he must have painted from memory, and they were by far the most true: one of her in deep mourning, sitting with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, looking down at them almost as if meditating; the other a brighter scene, standing beside a window with sunshine streaming in, looking thoughtfully, with the hint of a frown, at an official pad. The catalog noted that several other portraits of her were known to exist, but had never been made available for public display. She wondered what those were like, and whether Tassan had hung them on his walls to remember her, or thrown them in a closet to forget her.
Some time after the Regency he had returned to landscapes, always his best work; then a child began to appear more frequently, posing in picturesque gardens or peering curiously into a corner of what otherwise seemed the picture of a deserted room. The catalog told her this was Tassan's adopted son, Farlan. As she watched the boy grow into young adulthood in a series of paintings, she realized he reminded her of someone, so she ran a search on his name.
"Oh..." she breathed, closing her eyes for a moment. His birth name had been Farlan Darice, son of Landra Darice. She'd held the rank of Subcommander when he was born, and died two years later during an expedition to a distant Realm world. She had left him to Tassan's guardianship in her will, and he had officially adopted the boy five years later, after his birth father, a soldier from a Realm world Sabrina had never heard of, met a fate similar to Darice's. There was no evidence that Darice had ever married him, or in fact ever seen him again after their posting together on Lthos. There was a story behind that, Sabrina knew, but it was nowhere in these files. Perhaps, after all, it was none of her business.
Sabrina's happiness that Darice and Tassan had evidently remained close friends helped offset the flood of grief she felt at learning at last the details of Darice's fate. She remembered her bodyguard's wry humor, unshakeable loyalty, and genuine sympathy, and how much her emotional support had meant during the horrific days following the Battle for Dansestari. And, Sabrina knew, it would not have been possible for her to have had so much time with Tassan if Darice had not been sympathetic to them. Sabrina would have given a great deal to be able to see Darice's gallant grin one more time.
I must count myself lucky to get to see Tassan, she thought wearily. I promised him. I never promised Darice.
But what was she going to say to Tassan? What could she say? I'm sorry? I love you? Which to say first? She switched off the screen again and sat with her chin in her hands, leaning on the desk, trying to come to a decision. But her mind kept wandering away from the scene tomorrow, bringing up past meetings instead. She recalled the first time he'd saved her life—the night they'd gone up to the conservatory and been ambushed by Homeworld agents. She'd been sitting right here, perplexed about some problem she did not now remember, desperate for company and cheer, when he'd come to ask permission to paint her roses. How strange to find herself sitting here contemplating their reunion and possible farewell. It felt like yesterday that she was just beginning to know him. She could still see him so clearly, standing in her doorway, hesitant and wary.
With a sigh, she rubbed at her face and glanced up at the door—and jumped, gasping, to see a figure standing where she had been imagining Tassan.
"Sorry to startle you," Ford said, coming forward. "I had a feeling you wouldn't be asleep. I came to return this." He handed her the blaster she'd had earlier. "I thought you might like it to be charged. It's been drained all these years, you know, with all of us in and out of here. We used to play with it, I'm afraid. Fortunately we never managed to shoot each other before Mother found out and had it drained. You shouldn't need it here, but," he added with a grin, "you do seem to have had an incredible knack for finding trouble in places where you should have been safe."
She accepted the blaster from him wordlessly, trying to get her heart and breathing under control again. "Thanks," she managed after a moment. She glanced at the wall chronometer. "What are you doing up?"
"Oh, I don't need much sleep," he said, shrugging. "I'm told it's a Wayfarer thing. I like to putter around in my workshop when everyone else is asleep and I won't be disturbed."
"Oh," she said, unable to think of a more intelligent reply.
"You, on the other hand, need sleep," he said. "Tassan Nikolar hasn't seen you in ninety-two years. You don't want to show up with dark circles under your eyes, do you? It will surely disappoint him."
Sabrina gave a small, reluctant smile. "It will offend his aesthetic sensibilities. But it's probably the way he remembers me."
"Nonsense," Ford said. "I've seen some of his portraits of you."
Her smile grew more genuine. "Tassan once told me that he wasn't a flattering portraitist, but I think he was lying. All the ones I've seen of me are dreadfully flattering. After all these years of painting the idealized me, he probably has forgotten that I looked like death through most of the Regency. I wonder if he does remember the reality, or if, over the years, he's adopted what seems to be the popular historical view?"
"Are they really so different?"
"Ford, you've been in my head. You know they are."
"Not really." He sat down, facing her across the desk. "Are you sure it's not your perception that's altered over time? I know you consistently underestimate yourself. It wouldn't surprise me to find that you did so to an even greater degree in retrospect." He frowned. "Don't you ever feel the temptation to stand up and say, 'Look at what I've done!' Aren't you proud of your work?"
Sabrina opened her mouth to answer, then paused. "Yes. Yes, of course I am. But...I guess I can always think of ways it could have been done better. I may think I've done okay, but I don't think I always acted in the best possible way."
"Sabrina, nobody always acts in the best possible way. Not even Mother," Ford said.
"Certainly not," she said, with a glint of humor. "For that first little while aboard Khediva, Mara was the most dangerous thing we had to deal with! She didn't know what she was doing, back then. But she was always so sure of herself. In that way, she and Scotty are a lot alike. They decide, and then they don't doubt anymore." She paused and drew a deep breath. "I have no doubt whatsoever than Scotty made the decision to set off that explosion and then did it, just like that. No agonizing. Maybe he thought for a moment, just a split second, how sad it would make us—" She broke off and swallowed hard.
"Sabrina," Ford said, "he didn't just sit there and let it blow him up. I found him quite a way from the blast crater. He was running, trying to get out, when it went off. He tried to live. Never think otherwise."
It was a long time before she could speak. "I don't know if that makes it better or worse."
"Better, surely. It means he'll fight to live. And Father will help him." He got up. "Now. Enough talk. It's long past time for you to be asleep."
"Oh, Ford," she sighed. "It's no use. I did try. I just can't sleep. Not with all this pressing on me."
"What, didn't you sleep at all during the Regency?" he teased.
"Yes, but only because—" She broke off, blushing a little. She must not say, only because Tassan was with me.
Ford waited a moment to see if she would finish, then said, "You probably just need a hot drink. Let's see what they've stocked your kitchen with, shall we?"
"I don't know if they have yet," Sabrina said, getting up and following him, curious.
"If they haven't, the Chamberlain's let things slide shamefully," Ford said. He entered the kitchen and looked around for a moment, until he spotted the cabinet he wanted. Inside it were several wine bottles. "Ah ha! Nothing but the best for you, Cousin, I see. Hm, what are you in the mood for?"
"I don't know. Last time I was here, there wasn't much wine. The vineyards had been wiped out by the Xoentrols."
"Then I shall have to give you a crash course," Ford grinned. "We'll start with Bathiran wines. I'm partial to them, for many reasons, not all of them political. Let's see...great shards of the Crystal, they've given you a bottle of the Prince's Reserve without telling me! I should have made you a gift of—and it's the 13650 vintage!" He shot her an amused look over his shoulder. "Whatever else you did when you were here last, Cousin, you seem to have left an impression of having expensive tastes!"
Sabrina gave a little laugh. "I don't know how they would have known, since we scavenged our clothes from your dead grandmother's wardrobe, made tablecloths out of old draperies, and carpets out of frayed tapestries!"
Ford set the bottle on the table and began searching for glasses. "I was thinking of making hot spiced wine, but this is too good a vintage to do that to. You must drink it as it's meant to be drunk. Ah ha." He found two glasses and began pouring out the wine. "It's pretty heady stuff. Go slowly at first." He took a sip, closed his eyes, and smiled. "Excellent. Even I don't have this very often."
Sabrina swished the ruby-red wine around in her glass and sniffed at it experimentally. She wasn't a red wine enthusiast in general, but this didn't smell at all like the Chianti and Merlot wines she knew on Earth. She took a sip; the wine seemed to spread a pleasant warmth as it went down. It was rather heavy, almost like port, and certainly strong, but it had a pleasant, subtle sweetness. The second sip tasted even better. "It's very good."
Ford chuckled. "When you visit Bathir, Cousin, you must be a little more enthusiastic than that, I warn you! We're very proud of our wines."
Sabrina asked, "Do you export this?"
"Not the Prince's Reserve," he replied. "We do export some vintages, of course. It's a small part of our trade; watergems still make up most of our revenue. And we have a growing tourism business. Word's gotten out how beautiful the principality is. I think it has to do with the Academy's reputation. People come from all over to attend it, and they spread the word when they go home. You really must come and see it, Cousin. I gather you were there strictly on business last time."
"I'm afraid so." The wine was giving her a pleasantly dissociated feeling, pushing the pain and fear away. "Mmm. It tastes good, but the effect is wonderful."
Ford chuckled. "Once you open the bottle, you have to finish it; it doesn't keep. Here, have another glass."
She let him fill her glass and sipped at it leisurely, leaning back in her chair. She hadn't relaxed since setting foot on the planet, she realized. "I should take a gift," she said suddenly. "If we're going visiting. What do you think he would like?"
"Sabrina, he's waited all this time just to see you. Your presence is what he wants. I doubt anything else will make an impression."
"I should take him something anyway. Roses, maybe? Peace roses. That's how I've remembered him all these years...." she trailed off into a yawn. "I always meant to take him something from Earth. I didn't get the chance."
"Never mind," Ford said. He was pulling at her elbow, she realized in slow surprise. "Come along; back to bed with you. You're half asleep already."
"No I'm not..." Another huge yawn belied her words, and she stopped arguing, padding along beside him to the bedroom.