Ambassador Royan del Cid accepted the queen’s invitation to dine at the palace. M’lani glanced at the crystal chrono sitting on the mantel of her sitting room’s green marble fireplace. Forty hours to endure before they heard from Jagan’s own mouth how he planned to fulfill his vow of freeing Psyclid from the Regs. Dear goddess, surely she would explode of curiosity long before the appointed—
A shiver rippled through her, stilling the fingers that had been fitfully plucking the strings of her lutá. Slowly, she lowered the instrument to her lap. She had felt this intense agitation only once before—the day she experienced a sudden urge to go shopping, a foray into the city that had led her to Jagan’s message hidden in the base of a crystal.
No, not possible. Anxiety about seeing Jagan again had her imagination conjuring more illusions than K’kadi. Yet her urge to leave the palace was strong. And at the same time . . . different. Goosebumps rose on her arms. The inexplicable is what happened to others, never to her. Did being betrothed to Jagan somehow imbue her with previously unknown sensitivity . . . ?
Absurd! She might have inherited the family good looks, but she didn’t have a gifted bone in her body. M’lani scowled at the innocent lutá lying in her lap as her slippered toe tapped the intricately patterned pastel carpet. Nonetheless . . .
She found her mother at her desk, fingers flying over a keyboard as Jalaine kept up her extensive correspondence with Psyclids throughout the realm, particularly those with the greatest psychic gifts. Every word was monitored, of course, but among the many arts practiced by Psyclids was the complex and demanding art of encryption. As always, M’lani felt a wave of admiration for her mother’s many talents, tinged with regret that she would never be able to follow in her footsteps. Papa might have stripped L’ira of her title as Princess Royal, but he could never deny her the right to become ParaPrime. A sigh hissed out. M’lani straightened her shoulders, stood tall.
“Mama?” Jalaine’s fingers paused as she turned her face up to greet her younger daughter. “Would you care to join me on a shopping expedition this morning? Surely you are as tired of the same walls day after day as I am.”
Queen Jalaine laid her hands in her lap, her green eyes widening in mocking disbelief. “An offer of shopping from the girl who swore she would never participate in such a spectacle again as long as she lived?”
Squirming under her mother’s limpid gaze, M’lani offered the only excuse she could think of. “I regret the Occupation has so exacerbated my temper, Mama. I apologize.”
“You were right, of course,” Jalaine returned, her features softening to those of a fond parent. “A shopping expedition involving both of us is indeed an exercise in pomp and circumstance gone amuck. So tell me, why are you suddenly suggesting such an excursion?”
M’lani frowned. “I am restless . . . the thought simply occurred to me.”
“Ah.” Jalaine took a moment to contemplate her daughter’s words. “The thought simply occurred to you that we should go shopping. Together?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you not think it odd when you had declared—quite shrilly as I recall—that shopping with me was anathema?”
“What are you saying, Mama?”
“You went shopping not long ago—did you feel a strong urge to venture into town on that occasion?”
M’lani looked her mother in the eye. Almost identical green gazes locked, M’lani’s wide with suspicion. “Yes,” she admitted. “I had to go shopping that day. And yes, I feel the same urge today, except that you need to come with me.”
Jalaine’s eyes snapped closed. Raising clasped hands to her chin, she breathed, “Thanks be to the goddess, you are developing powers at last.”
“No!” M’lani cried, denying the hope which would inevitably end in failure. “A bit of empathy, perhaps, nothing more.”
“Telepathy, possibly clairvoyance,” Jalaine murmured.
“No, Mama, no! I’m just your useless second daughter. There is nothing special about a female wanting to go shopping.”
Jalaine’s eyes popped open, her regal decisiveness returning with a touch to the comm unit disguised as a flower pin fixed to her gown. “Princess M’lani and I wish to go shopping as soon as the motorcade can be arranged. There, it’s done,” she said, switching her attention back to her daughter. “Let us go out and discover which one of us is right.”
How could her mother be right? M’lani thought sourly. What message could be waiting for her when Jagan was scheduled to dine with them the day after tomorrow? She would be mortified by the queen’s elaborate entourage, bored to tears by the places her mother wished to shop. And all for absolutely nothing. Her urge to go out was no more than restlessness, disgust at being trapped in the palace when L’ira was enjoying grand adventures with the rebels on Blue Moon.
With a moue of disgust, M’lani followed her mother from the room.
A short time later, she was forced to call on her years of strict training to hide a grimace as she and her mother were escorted to a long, elegant groundcar constructed of blue-tinted crystos buffed to such perfection it outshone even the walls of Crystalia. She did, however, allow herself one tiny huff of disgust as her gaze drifted over the royal crest emblazoned on the mirror-polished doors, only to encounter the two small flags above the headlights, one Psyclid, one Regulon.
As if the gray-uniformed Reg guards weren’t enough of a reminder that Psyclid was a planet occupied by the Regulon Empire.
With a sigh, M’lani looked over the rest of their cavalcade. Queen Jalaine’s personal vehicle was only the brightest part. A two-wheeled jetbyk led the procession, ridden by a member of Psyclid’s police force, a sop to local pride. The primary task of the Crystal City police—though it was never mentioned out loud—was keeping Psyclids from attracting Reg attention, whether through acts criminal or rebellious. The Regs were pleased not to be bothered, while Psyclids smirked behind Reg backs, secure in the knowledge the collaboration of their police force with the enemy was nothing more than a façade.
Behind the jetbyk was an armored personnel carrier, complete with rapidfire cannon and six men with laser rifles and Steg-9 pistols draped around the outside. A second armored vehicle, twin of the first, brought up the rear, leaving the royal groundcar looking like a blue diamond framed by lumps of coal.
It was a spectacle. All the motorcade needed was a marching band and a few Psyclids doing magic tricks.
Fizzit! M’lani thought. She’d gone mad. They were going shopping, just shopping.
But what if Mama was right and her urge to shop was some form of telepathy or clairvoyance? Shivers shook her, the view outside the groundcar’s windows blurring, a dark cloud building inside her head, threatening to turn day into night.
She didn’t want this! The Regulon occupation might be a blow to national pride, but her life remained serene, untouched.. Her older sister, L’ira, was the one who’d longed for adventure. As much as M’lani sometimes dreamed of joining the rebellion, becoming a savior of her people, she doubted she had the stomach for it. She was the quiet, peaceful one. According to her parents, the perfect counterpoint to Jagan’s flamboyance, but she greatly feared she was merely the sheltered, precious princess Jagan would run straight through, and over, his laughter echoing above her prostrate form.
No! She must make sure they didn’t go anywhere near the crystal shop.
Coward!
Sensible! M’lani shot back, scowling at her inner voice’s mockery. L’ira’s the brave one. I’m the stay-home-and-do-nothing princess.
Her lovely features contorted into a gargoyle grimace, M’lani jerked her wayward thoughts back to the groundcar. Shopping, think shopping. Mindless. Innocuous.
Gracefully—with a slightly supercilious air, as if she were nothing more than a mindless puppet—she dropped her hands into the folds of her cream-colored gown—creating the perfect illusion of the Princess M’lani and Queen Jalaine embarking on an afternoon of exploring Crystal City�
��s finest shops.
Inwardly, M’lani feared she might be sick. Not only was Jagan about to draw her into the rebellion, but she might actually be developing talent. After so many years as a nonentity, was it truly possible?
Oh, blessed goddess, how many times had she prayed—
Fizzet! What if nothing happened? What if they returned home with nothing more than purchases? What if this afternoon proved she was just as dull and uninteresting as she’d always been? That she had no intuition, no empathy . . . no nothing?
M’lani’s hands moved, white-knuckling around each other. Somehow, whatever happened, she was an Orlondami and she would endure.
The crystal shop came and went with no more than the queen indicating which pieces she wished to add to the palace’s already extensive collection. They spent time in an infant shop, where Jalaine chose a gift for a second cousin, once removed, who had just been delivered of a boy. M’lani, totally disinterested, summoned the sweetly asinine grin women were expected to assume at the mention of the word “baby” and kept it there until they were once again sitting in regal comfort on the back seat of the shimmering blue groundcar.
When Jalaine declared she must have a new hat, M’lani stifled a groan. There was no way they were going to find a rebel message in a hat shop. The art gallery, their next stop after the milliner’s, seemed more likely. Surely somewhere in this vast series of rooms . . .
Still nothing. Not a knowing tip of a head, not a wink or a surreptitious glance. M’lani’s stomach roiled. She was right, her mother wrong. She had dragged them out of the palace on a false scent, her urge nothing more than wishful thinking. Clearly, she was the giftless clod she had always been.
“I have saved the dress shop for last,” Jalaine announced. “We shall both acquire new gowns for our dinner with the ambassador. There is nothing quite like new finery to perk one up.”
M’lani, feeling utterly defeated, murmured her assent.
“Your Majesty, Your Highness.” The attractive shop manager met them at the door, slowly guiding them past models displaying the latest fashion in gowns, jewelry, and dazzling slippers. The manager’s descriptive patter was as light and smooth as the subtly illuminated gossamer fabrics.
When they reached the rear of the shop, the woman said, “What you see here is merely a taste of what we offer, Your Majesty. May I suggest you enter our showroom, where you may sit comfortably, enjoy some refreshments, and allow our models to show you the full array of our inventory.”
M’lani had to bite back a cry of relief. (Or was it dread?) This was it, what they’d come for. She knew it. She’d swear some of K’kadi’s fireworks were exploding in her head.
The manager, radiating a nice mix of eager salesgirl and classic innocence, held aside a heavy cut-velvet drapery. With assumed nonchalance M’lani and her mother entered the inner showroom. Behind them they heard the manager announce briskly, “My apologies, gentlemen, but no men allowed.” With a slight simper she whispered, “Ladies’ intimate garments and all that.”
The curtain dropped and at long last they were alone, separated from their guards.
“How fortunate no Reg females were on duty today,” Jalaine drawled.
“The goddess smiles, Your Majesty. The Regs are far too arrogant to think three females might be up to something.” The young woman led them to a row of chairs upholstered in dark blue, waited until they sat, then dropped into the chair next to M’lani, as if her legs would no longer hold her. Other than the three of them, the room was empty, not a sign of a model on the narrow raised platform that jutted out from the wall to within a foot of the chairs.
The young woman lost her smile but not her attractiveness, M’lani noted. Solemnity suited her high cheekbones, framed by wisps of golden brown curls escaping from an attempt to confine a mass of tight ringlets into a chignon at the nape of her neck. Intelligent brown eyes, a shade darker than her hair, showed no sign of the deception she had been practicing for the past few minutes.
“We didn’t know if you would come,” she said on a rush. “It is difficult to penetrate the palace. Frankly, it’s what my brother calls a ‘Hail Mary pass,’ whatever that might be.”
“May I ask which one of us you tried to reach?” Jalaine asked.
Clearly startled, the young woman offered M’lani an apologetic glance before answering the queen’s question. “You, of course, Your Majesty. You are ParaPrime.”
Implying no one thought to try telepathy on the ungifted, newly minted Princess Royal. M’lani winced.
Jalaine’s face revealed not a jot of emotion. “Go on,” she ordered.
The realization she was sitting in the presence of her queen suddenly seemed to strike the young shop manager, propelling her to her feet. “Allow me to introduce myself,” she said. “I am L’rissa Killiri. My brother has asked me to tell you we have a problem.”
Ambassador Royan Vivar del Cid, confident of his ability to sense hidden cameras or listening devices, dropped his disguise, and those of his bodyguards, the moment the door to the private royal apartments closed behind him. As protocol demanded, however, conversation remained neutral while they dined, with Jagan’s marine guards at each door. However, the two young Reg marines unbent long enough to answer the queen’s questions about whether or not their families knew they were still alive. The answer, a quiet duet of no.
Jagan had to admire the queen’s skill with people, a quality he knew he lacked. Chagrin kicked him in the gut as he realized he knew absolutely nothing about the bodyguards Tal Rigel insisted he take with him on his mission to Psyclid. He had, in fact, continued to resent the Regs’ presence, even as he acknowledged their necessity. Yet here was Jalaine recalling the men were at L’ira’s wedding, adding that S’sorrokan must think very highly of them to assign them as bodyguards to the Sorcerer Prime.
Major Stagg actually blushed, managing, “I hope so, ma’am,” leaving Jagan to realize how self-centered and insensitive a sorcerer could be. How narrow-minded and egotistical he could be.
Interactions at table were, unfortunately, not as benign as the queen’s conversation with the marines. Tensions escalated with each course, with each new wine—from stiffly polite to just shy of volcanic eruption. When the diners had emptied their crystal bowls brimming with rainbow-colored ices, accompanied by glasses of lunelle, an azure-tinted wine made only on Blue Moon, Jagan didn’t hesitate to manufacture an escape from the angry glint in the king’s eyes. He was not ready to hear what either Ryal or Jalaine had to say about fire-breathing dragons. Or pacifying arrogant rebels.
Or how he’d blown the possibility of Psyclid freedom all the way to Hell Nine.
He needed air. Now. “M’lani,” Jagan purred, “it is such a lovely night. May I tempt you to a walk about the courtyard? I trust the Regs have not put it off limits?”
“Fifteen minutes.” Ryal spoke over M’lani’s soft assent. “Then I expect you back here, we have much to discuss.”
“Yes, sir.” Jagan offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but the royal couple might as well have been carved of stone. A footman rushed forward to pull out M’lani’s chair; Jagan gave her his arm. With a cool, “You may remain where you are, Major,” he steered her out the door and through several antechambers until they could hear the splash of the fountain in the private royal courtyard. Inches short of their goal, M’lani balked, stopping abruptly inside a small room where sliding glass panels to the courtyard had been partially retracted to open the room to the balmy night air.
“Too many eyes outside,” M’lani whispered. “We will stay here.” Jagan, encouraged by the fact the room’s only illumination was flickering light drifting in from torches in the courtyard, leaned forward, his lips mere inches from his betrothed’s. M’lani might be an untalented little minx, but of necessity she was his and he had to make the best of it. Fortunately, the amount of wine he’d consumed was enough to make a grizzoid look—
“How dare you?” his betrothed cried, deliv
ering a punch to his shoulder that rocked him back half a meter. “You can’t get rid of the Regs without Killiri and his people. They are all-important to our cause, and you set a dragon on them! A big one, big as a house. Are you mad? Better S’sorrokan sends you back to where he got you. Hell Nine sounds just about right for a sorcerer who can’t tell his friends from his enemies.”
She poked him again, this time with the flat of her palm, delivering a blow that felt like the whack of an iron bar. Jagan toppled backwards, sprawling into a white wicker chair padded with fabric so pale it almost glowed in the dark. “And then there’s B’aela Flammia,” M’lani continued. “You might have made her look old enough to be your mother, but that’s who it was that day in court. Well, wasn’t it? Oh, well done, great Sorcerer Prime. Parading your mistress before the king and queen. Before me. M’lani, L’ira’s little sister, the one you’re supposed to marry?”
Jagan’s tongue froze, right along with his mind. Every curse, every spell, every bit of conjuring he’d ever known vanished before M’lani’s onslaught. Fyd! There had to be some kind of riposte, some few words to save his honor. He needed B’aela—that was it. She was essential to the rebel cause, a valuable asset.
He opened his mouth, only to find his tongue frozen, nothing but a great lump blocking his mouth. M’lani’s anger turned visible, her aura glowing red around her, the ragged outer edges turning purple. Sparks began to fly.
His awareness of danger almost came too late. He might not be able to speak but he could feel, his magic not yet powerless. Jagan sprang from the chair, tackling his betrothed with ungentlemanly strength, the two of them landing hard on an unyielding raffia rug, just as the room’s crystal chandelier exploded into a thousand pieces, spewing glass in every direction.
Beneath the shield Jagan threw up in the instant before flying glass filled the room, the Sorcerer Prime held his betrothed tight, wondering what in the name of the goddess, witchcraft, and dark mysteries of the mind had just happened.
Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Page 5
