Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2)

by Blair Bancroft

  The sacrifices a man had to make for a crown . . .

  For power.

  But this was no time to lose his concentration. The king had tasked him with freeing Psyclid, and even if M’lani would be more hindrance than help, he suspected that if he failed—or ignored his vow to marry the blasted girl—he could end his days as an Arcturian polecat, maybe a grizzoid. He might be the Sorcerer Prime, but together, Ryal and Jalaine were a formidable force. He’d found that out the day he pulled a Medusa on L’ira. Considering what a fydding idiot he’d been at that age, he was fortunate to be alive.

  Every city had its dark side, even on Psyclid. Gradually the street lamps grew fewer, the buildings lost their glow. Deep shadows lurked in doorways and down the length of dark alleys. Their footsteps echoed in the silence of empty streets.

  “You sure you know where you’re going?” the major asked.

  “I was born and raised here.” Relenting a little, Jagan added, slowing his steps. “I’m following directions left at the crystal shop. Other than that . . .” He shrugged. “I suppose this is where I admit you might be right. Anything could happen.”

  “If you’ll pardon my saying so, Excellency,” Sergeant Joss Quint offered, “T’kal Killiri didn’t look like a man who’d welcome the Archeron Ambassador into his rebellion.”

  Jagan hoped the darkness hid his smile—he had a reputation to maintain, after all. “You are right, Sergeant. Which is why we’ll go invisible a block from the building and reappear inside as ourselves.”

  The two Reg marines nodded. That was a strategy they understood.

  Five minutes later, the three men, fully cloaked, stood poised at the door to the building designated as their rendezvous with the Crystal City rebels. Tentatively, Jagan reached out, allowing his talent to penetrate the invisibility screen around them. A great jumble of magic rushed back at him. Mallick! The room was filled with talent. Killiri must have assembled all his troops for this occasion.

  Not the private meeting he had anticipated.

  Shoving a flicker of warning aside, Jagan grudgingly acknowledged Tal Rigel’s forethought. Marines at his back were a great comfort at this moment. Clearly, S’sorrokan had a good deal more experience at guerrilla warfare than the Sorcerer Prime.

  Jagan nodded to the sergeant. The big marine bent down and opened the door.

  Chapter 5

  The Princess Royal is about to acquire a suitor. Jagan’s words still echoed inside M’lani’s head. No matter the hopes and dreams of either of them, the Prince of Darkness was coming for her, bound by a vow precipitated by rash words she had blurted out so her sister could marry the man she loved.

  And just maybe because you’ve always wanted him for yourself.

  M’lani, seated at her dressing table, dropped her head into her hands and moaned. How could she have been so stupid?

  Nephew of the former Sorcerer Prime and approved playmate, Jagan Mondragon had been a demon child, tormenting both princesses as his powers developed. Laughing as they shrieked and ran when confronted by an ever-more-dangerous array of conjured creatures or the sudden illusion of a bottomless canyon in the midst of the royal park. Or, as his powers grew greater, suddenly finding themselves in a small boat being swept toward a mighty waterfall.

  All the more frustrating when the Orlondami sisters, daughters of the king and the ParaPrime, showed few signs of having any talent at all.

  But secretly, never quite admitting it to each other, they had been awed by his talent, adoring him like the tormenting older brother they never had.

  Until one day . . .

  M’lani raised her head, green eyes drilling into the depths of the image staring back at her from the mirror. Until one day Jagan’s latest creation, a rather nasty looking baby dragon, huffing smoke, stopped chasing the girls, did an admittedly wobbly U-turn, hurtled through the air, and smacked Jagan in the chest, knocking him flat on his backside. The dragon vanished, as if it had never been. L’ira, just turned sixteen, stood over him, hands on hips, gloating, while M’lani gaped, uncertain what startled her most—her sister’s unexpected telekinetic skill or confirmation that Jagan’s conjurings tended to be real, not illusion.

  And then the scene had gone from triumph to terror. L’ira’s long black hair became a mass of pencil-thin snakes writhing and twisting about her head. A vision out of the legends of Old Earth. L’ira screamed, a cry of pure terror that undoubtedly carried all the way to the palace. The snakes vanished. Smiling the superior smile that drove both sisters wild, Jagan bounced lithely to his feet. For a long moment the three of them stared at each other, before the girls turned and ran. M’lani suspected that was the moment L’ira had determined to run away from her destiny as Jagan’s wife.

  Not that M’lani had ever blamed her. At the time, attending the Regulon Space Academy had seemed the most effective method of escape. And L’ira had never been the same since her first glimpse of Cadet Talryn Rigel that never-to-be forgotten summer when he visited his parents at the Regulon ambassador’s residence on Psyclid.

  But over the years Jagan had grown from a reed-thin elf with cavernous dark eyes into a strikingly handsome man. He had made some small effort to tame his temper and outgrow his tendency toward pranks. At least in front of any member of the royal family. And with L’ira gone—and feared dead, until she suddenly materialized in the royal suite less than two moon cycles ago—M’lani, inevitably, entertained thoughts of having Jagan for herself.

  So with all the arrogant confidence born of a long line of Orlondamis, she had not hesitated to volunteer to take her sister’s place as bride of the Sorcerer Prime. L’ira might not be able to handle him, she’d thought grandly, but she could.

  Fizzit! That had been stupidity talking, not arrogance or sisterly self-sacrifice.

  Not that Jagan wasn’t gorgeous.

  Powerful.

  Terrifying.

  “M’lani, my dear.” With a gasp she bounded to her feet as Queen Jalaine walked toward her, smiling. “I take it you have no objection to our inviting the new ambassador from Archeron to dine with us?”

  “You saw?”

  “My dear, it is quite impossible for the ParaPrime not to feel the presence of the Sorcerer Prime. Jagan has grown amazingly powerful, fulfilling the promise of his childhood. Your father and I were impressed. To hold elaborate disguises for six people in the midst of a room bursting with Psyclid talents, as well as armed Regulons, was a feat of true genius.” Looking thoughtful, Jalaine added, “Are you saying he actually showed himself to you?”

  “For a few seconds, yes.”

  “A reveal to you alone—even more remarkable. Your father was right, it seems. Jagan bears watching. He may have finally learned to control his power.”

  “He ran away,” M’lani snapped. “How can he be trusted?” Yet he’d managed six disguises, one a woman . . . Fizzit! That middle-aged cypher in the baggy gray gown must have been B’aela Flammia! Jagan had the nerve, the colossal insensitivity, to bring that woman with him when he was pledged to—

  “Come.” Jalaine, her face fixed into the bland obscurity demanded by long hours at court, led her daughter to a chaise longue covered in a lavender brocade shot with gold. When they were seated side by side, the queen said, “Jagan is . . .” She drew a deep breath and tried again. “Our position frequently demands that we do things we might not wish to do. Your sister, with your help, has somehow managed to break free. Yet freedom comes with a price. She is now married to a man at the top of the Empire’s Fugitive List. A man considered a criminal in at least twelve star systems. And she has left you to pick up the pieces—by far the largest of which is Jagan Mondragon. He may be incredibly gifted, but he cannot be loosed on this planet without a counterweight. Without someone to remind him that the gifts of the Sorcerer Prime are intended to help his people, not instigate chaos.”

  “But, Mama, I am nothing to him. A kito who can do no more than buzz about his head, hissing uselessly of disaster.” Tea
rs brimmed, overflowed, running unchecked down M’lani’s cheeks. “I must have been mad when I volunteered. I have no talent, no power . . . and he doesn’t even like me,” she added on a wail. “He wants L’ira.” Not to mention B’aela.

  Jalaine stood, eyes blazing. “You are the daughter of King Ryal and the ParaPrime. You are M’lani Sayelle Zarana Orlondami, and you will find a way to manage Jagan Mondragon.” Jalaine, transforming from queen to mother, circled her arms around her daughter and held her tight.

  In a sudden flash of understanding, Jagan knew how L’ira and Rigel had felt when they tracked him down to that empty warehouse on Hell Nine. They’d known he was there—he and L’ira had established a link. Just as he knew Killiri was in the warehouse—and not just because they had an appointment. Yet in front of him was nothing but a sea of looming shadows. The vast room echoed their footsteps as they moved toward a pinpoint of light, a single large crystal surrounded by more dark amorphous shapes than Jagan deigned to count. Fyd! So much for having a private meeting with the leader of Crystal City’s rebels.

  He had been leery of Killiri ever since the night the Psyclid rebel and his men had ambushed them on the way back to their shuttle after the meeting with Ryal and Jalaine. The rebellion had researched Killiri after that. An engineer, a builder, that’s all the man was. Not a noble bone in his body. Yet after K’kadi’s little lapse with the shuttle cloak, Killiri had made them all look like fools. The truth was—and Jagan was reluctant to admit it—when the Regs came, T’kal Killiri set his feet on the path of guerrilla warfare. Jagan Mondragon ran.

  Too late to do anything about it now There was nowhere to go but forward.

  Jagan and his ever-present marines slowed to a halt some six feet short of the ring of dark, hooded shadows that had metamorphosed into an eerie re-creation of the circle Jagan’s hooded minions had formed on Hell Nine. Mallick! How could they know? Or was Killiri simply clever enough to think of using classic sorcerer garb to welcome the Sorcerer Prime?

  Were the hooded figures a subtle form of mockery? Dimi! He’d strip the fydding monks’ robes right off their backs!

  “Killiri!” Jagan snapped. “Enough of this nonsense. Step forward.”

  A low chuckle. One of shadows, not the tallest, pushed back his hood and stepped into the dim circle of light cast by the crystal. Jagan felt a frisson of awareness, startled to discover he saw the Psyclid rebel leader as clearly as if a spotlight suddenly illuminated the figure that radiated physical power as well as leadership skills. An oddity Jagan thrust aside. He had, after all, met the man before. Undoubtedly, his memory was filling in what his eyes could not quite see. Broad shoulders, muscled arms, lean hips. Sharp brown eyes set deep in a rugged face framed by a riot of warm brown curls held ruthlessly in check by a leather thong at the nape of his neck. Older than himself by five to ten years. Everything about T’kal Killiri radiated confidence, a calm certainty of his position.

  The long-time rebel leader offered a cool nod of acknowledgment. “Mondragon. Welcome back to Psyclid.”

  A deliberate hit if he’d ever heard one. Fyd! He’d strip them all bare, right here and now. Wipe that smirk off Killiri’s face. A sizzling silence reigned as Jagan fought his temper. Maybe he’d just strip Killiri bare . . . That ought to be enough to show who was boss.

  Perhaps a small dragon . . . Something, anything, to wipe the smirk off a Psyclid who faced the Regulon invasion while the Sorcerer Prime took ship to the rim of the Quadrant.

  Anton Stagg’s precise military voice sliced through the tension. “I believe we’re all on the same side here.”

  Incredible. A Reg marine dared open his mouth when two titans were dueling . . .

  Not two titans. He’d never give the encroaching engineer that much respect.

  Suddenly, a booming laugh. Evidently, Killiri had no problem with a Reg marine sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. He stripped off his long brown robe, dropped it to the floor. The other shadows followed his lead, revealing a distinctly odd sight on Psyclid, a mixed array of Psyclid males and females, all garbed in gray, black, or brown.

  “Isn’t that like saying, ‘Look, look, I’m a rebel?’” Jagan inquired, eyebrows arching in Killiri’s direction.

  “We are a new cult,” Killiri responded with the smoothness of long practice. “We agitate for buildings made of something other than crystos. Some even say we have taken on religious overtones, as we posit that the goddess surely has a male consort.”

  Jagan’s jaw almost dropped open, betraying his reluctant admiration. The Regs worshipped Omnovah, a male god, which would naturally make them sympathetic to a cult challenging the power of the Psyclid goddess. It was brilliant, almost frighteningly so. T’kal Killiri was even more than Rigel and the Hierarchy suspected.

  The Psyclid rebel crossed his arms. “So you have come to show us how to get rid of the Regs,” he challenged.

  Here it was, the great bone of contention, and Jagan had scarcely had time to adjust to the clear message that even the Sorcerer Prime could not walk in and take over the Crystal City rebels.

  A slight rustle as his two bodyguards went from danger mode—hands hovering over Steg-9s concealed under their oversize shirts—to parade rest. Major Stagg’s response to Killiri’s words—the meeting was now in business mode.

  But not for long, Jagan feared. He had hoped to ease into the linchpin of the plot to free Psyclid, but it appeared he wasn’t going to have that luxury. Every head was turned his way, waiting for him to demonstrate he was worthy of the title of Sorcerer Prime.

  One little dragon—just something to knock the skepticism off the ring of faces around him . . . Jagan caught back a sigh and addressed Killiri, man to man. “On the way back from Hell Nine, we were attacked by a fleet of Regs, so badly outnumbered our situation seemed hopeless. But four of us created a creature so huge, so terrible that the fleet scattered and we were saved—”

  “With the help of Princess L’ira as well,” Major Stagg inserted neatly.

  Fyd! Rigel must have given the batani major orders over and above his jumped-up promotion. Otherwise the marine was too well-trained to open his mouth when his superiors were speaking.

  “The message is clear,” Jagan pointed out, his voice firm and steady even as he battled his volatile inner self. “We can defeat the Regs . . . if we practice enlasé.

  A sibilant whoosh of breath from every Psyclid rebel was drowned by Killiri’s roar: “You’re mad! Enlasé is forbidden.”

  “It is forbidden because of its great power. But to rid us of the Regs, King Ryal and Queen Jalaine have given their approval. As has the Council of Elders. Reluctantly. S’sorrokan gives his approval, the rebel Hierarchy as well. I have vowed to the king that I will do this and I will. Somehow we will find a way. But we cannot do it without your cooperation.”

  “This from the man who ran to the far end of the Quadrant at the first sign of trouble.”

  Mallick! He’d like to transform Killiri into a fragile flitterfly, uselessly fluttering its colorful wings against a Reg battlecruiser.

  “I was saving our magic, the best of our practitioners.” Jagan’s words fell flat, as he had known they would. Killiri and his rebels did not believe him.

  “We see the reluctance behind your vows,” the Psyclid rebel continued. “The one to free Psyclid and the one to wed Princess M’lani. A pairing that has more than dynastic significance.” Jagan’s temper, already on edge, began to build toward incandescent. “Even Ryal and Jalaine do not trust you. They set the princess as your watchdog. So come back to us when she is by your side. Then, and only then, will we consider working with—”

  “No! It’s too dangerous.” M’lani might be a princess without talent, or two thoughts to rub together, but she was now his responsibility. Involving her in the rebellion was out of the question.

  “Since we discovered the existence of a rebellion larger than our own small efforts,” Killiri continued, ignoring Jagan’s protest, “we have l
earned much, including the fact that the ParaPrime Designate still lives—our Princess Royal, L’ira. The Regs taught her to navigate a starship, S’sorrokan taught her to risk her life for a cause. Why should the Princess M’lani be any different? It is time for her to join the rebellion as well.”

  M’lani, his jailer. As ordained by King Ryal and Jalaine, the ParaPrime. Jagan’s protests died in his throat. He and M’lani were irrevocably bound. Whether either of them wished it, she had become part of the rebellion. Though what good she could do, Jagan could not imagine.

  “Go home, Jagan Mondragon. Come back only when your betrothed accompanies you. Then we will talk.”

  “Sir?” the major prodded when Jagan didn’t move, too busy enjoying a vision of T’kal Killiri and his minions writhing on the floor as Sorian slime snakes.

  Something. He had to do something. Just a taste of magic to show the pretentious bastard who was in charge. Power surged, demanding to be used. Now. This very moment.

  Great goddess! This must be how L’ira felt when she slammed the krall into Liona Dann’s face.

  A dragon took shape, tail lashing, breathing fire. It was supposed to be small, a mere baby floating in the air, like the one he’d sent chasing after L’ira and M’lani so long ago. But somehow it continued to expand—four meters, six . . . ten—until it filled the warehouse’s empty space, splayed feet planted on the floor, the curve of its spiny neck rising to the cavernous ceiling, its flaming mouth bending closer and closer to Killiri and his band of rebels.

  They broke, screaming, stampeding toward a door in the back corner of the vast room.

  “Mondragon!” The major’s hand clamped down on Jagan’s arm.

  Fyd!

  The dragon wavered, then winked out, leaving a lingering stench of heavy smoke. “Sorry,” Jagan called into the darkness. But the rebels were gone.

  Chapter 6