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The death of Matron Mother Arafel was a tragedy that could only lead to war. Chadra didn't particularly want war, but the Matriarch's Council back home would likely brand her a traitor if she didn't at least make overtures. So she was making overtures.
It was an embarrassment really, not just for the Eldrin, but for their own security too, which had been described—repeatedly—as impenetrable. Arafel had been cold by the time they found her. Chadra still wasn't certain it hadn't come from within, her people favoured poison but there was nowhere better to use a blade to throw off suspicion. And she couldn't honestly say that if she'd stumbled upon the assassin she would have not simply looked the other way. Of course her first suspicions had been of her sister, but upon discovering Baltana's absence she turned them elsewhere. Baltana always had a flair for the dramatic—she wanted an audience and she'd want their mother to acknowledge how clever she was before she met her end. But soon she discovered Baltana was dead too, in an attempt to take an artifact Chadra did not care about, to do something unbelievably stupid that Chadra also didn't care about. Probably an assassination. Nalfein hadn't been forthcoming, but she would question him more thoughoughly once they got home when all of this posturing was over. She didn't care about the Empire or the whole charade of joining it, she'd take her retinue and gladly never make contact with them again.
Chadra was not a good person, nor was she kind but she didn't have her mother's religious-zeal-boardering-on-obsession or her sister's cutthroat inflated ambition. Grief nestled in the sentimental part of her that her mother hadn't managed to harden. It was irrational really; she hadn't loved them, hadn't even liked them, but still she felt sorrow for their passing.
The blood red mourning gowns hung like spectres, the intricately beaded veil displayed like a severed head on the table before them. It felt melodramatic, like the opening scene from the final act of a tragic opera. The veil was wrong, she couldn't tear her eyes from it. It wasn't elaborate enough for the death of a Matron Mother and her eldest daughter, even though her maids had done well to hastily combine Chadra's veil with her mother's. Each was only appropriate for showing sympathy for the death of an unallied noble, like, for example, a dwarven princess. That felt like a failure more than anything else, her inability to uphold the traditions of her people in a foreign land. The veil glittered accusingly at her. With a sigh, she rolled onto her back and waved a hand. As it had each night before, the tent above her became transparent, the stars and the moon revealed to her in all their shining glory. Despite herself Chadra let herself relax into the trancing couch. Only a handful of days were left before they could leave, she could get through that. Once she was home there was the Matriach's Council to deal with. And Lolth. And then, perhaps, there would be a future.