She came so close to standing up and walking to the door to let Jagan in that the air whooshed out of her lungs as she realized such a mundane action was no longer necessary. How perfectly awful if she failed what, for all Killiri’s honeyed words, was yet another test.
Oh, dear goddess, what if this didn’t work? Would they have to woo the stubborn engineer all over again?
Jagan, come in. Now!
Silence stretched. M’lani, counting silently, was on six when the door opened, and Jagan Mondragon stood aside to allow L’rissa Killiri to precede him into the room.
Ah, goddess be praised. The revolution lived.
If the four of them survived the next hour.
“I liked him,” M’lani told her mother as they enjoyed a private moment in the queen’s sitting room the next morning. Seated one on each side of a dainty S-curved settee upholstered in peach silk, they were able, with only a slight angling of their bodies, to enjoy an intimate face-to-face conversation. “He is stalwart, dedicated,” M’lani continued before pausing a moment, lips twitching. “It is, however, clear his respect for the royal family does not extend as far as the Sorcerer Prime. Daman Killiri meets Jagan man to man, eye to eye. We may have laid dragons and blatant distrust to rest, but I fear the rebel leadership is far from their last argument.”
“You have done well, my dear. Your father and I are pleased.”
“It was . . . satisfying to feel useful.”
Jalaine—garbed in an asymmetrically layered gown of cheerful glowing colors—suddenly drooped, her carefully composed façade crumbling to reveal sorrow tinged with what might have been guilt. “M’lani, my dear, life has not been fair—you have had neither the fun and frolic nor the responsibilities of a proper princess. And your father and I have not helped, keeping you closer than even the Occupation warranted. At first we feared you would follow your sister out into the world, and after the invasion all we could do was hold you tight and pray your life was not forfeit to the Empire, as we thought L’ira’s was.”
“Mama—”
“No, child, let me finish.” Jalaine drew a deep breath that sent the thin layers of her rainbow gown rippling over her regal figure. “And now, even though we know L’ira lives and is blessed with marriage to a man she loves, our terror grows, because we can no longer cower inside Crystalia and simply endure. We have no choice, you see. We must do what is right and sacrifice our second daughter to the rebellion as well. And suffer the guilt of knowing we have not prepared you for what you must face.”
M’lani’s long and graceful fingers squeezed together in her lap. “I suppose it’s stupid—or merely ignorant—but I’m not afraid of being Princess Royal, nor of being Jagan’s wife.” An infinitesimal shake of her head before she added, “When we were children, I adored him—and then I feared him. And finally, when he was Sorcerer Prime, he became this fascinating, god-like creature not quite of this earth. Only to plunge off his pedestal when he ran away.”
M’lani bowed her head, huffing a sigh. “But the night L’ira came back, and Jagan with her, everything changed. I saw him as my old friend and playmate and as a potential hero of the revolution. Not a god, just a man—though one with special gifts. And I wanted to be part of that. I wanted what L’ira had—a man of my own and an opportunity to fight. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I knew what I was doing when I offered myself as Jagan’s bride.”
M’lani raised her head to meet her mother’s solemn gaze. “It was the right thing to do, Mama. And somehow all will come right in the end.”
Jalaine heaved a sigh, steepling her hands before her face. “I believe you have forgotten something, my dear.”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes, that.” Jalaine took her daughter’s hand, enveloping it in both of her own. “Your father and I are delighted to see you coming into your talents at last, but the Gift of Destruction is not what we wished for you. As you have seen, it is deadly. If you cannot learn to control it, all is lost.”
“And if I can control it, I could be the greatest weapon our rebels have. Perhaps even the best Tal Rigel has.”
The queen gripped her daughter’s hands so tightly M’lani winced. “Not if you adhere to the king’s dictate!”
“Mama, the Regs have to go!”
Jalaine sprang to her feet, the colorful layers of her gown swirling around her as she stalked to a window overlooking the palace gardens. “Great goddess!” she exclaimed after several moments of tense silence. “We have set a flame to guard a pile of tinder.”
Chapter 9
How did one practice the Gift of Destruction in a palace full of priceless objects, not to mention people, at least half of them foreign, hostile, sharp-eyed, and bearing arms? M’lani, now suspecting her own power might have disintegrated the note Jagan sent to her inside that crystal, attempted to re-create the moment in the privacy of her room. Unfortunately, she was sitting at her desk at the time. Her request to the palace steward for a new desk was accompanied by a look so haughty his curiosity shriveled to no more than fleeting puzzlement.
Well, fizzit! She’d liked that desk. And her favorite pens that disappeared with it. Her monogrammed stationery. All the little things one accumulated in a desk, like the box of bon-bons she bought on that interminable excursion with Mama.
Clearly, she needed to develop focus, and just as clearly she could not experiment in the palace. Perhaps the courtyard in the wee hours of the night?
The head gardener had tears in his eyes when he saw the scorched earth which only the day before had been a bright patch of yellow and lavender flowers. He’d gone off, muttering darkly about the fizzeting Sorcerer Prime being up to his old tricks, and M’lani was happy to let him do so. Until she realized the gardener must know Jagan was back. But how? She sighed. Very likely Mama wasn’t the only Psyclid who could feel his presence. Or even more likely, the palace walls had eyes and ears. Which of course they did. Thank the goddess for the loyalty of long-time servants.
Therefore she had little choice but to develop a sudden fear that she was putting on weight—necessitating some form of exercise, perhaps a daily walk in the park just outside the palace walls? M’lani’s satisfaction with this bright idea dimmed as she recalled her inevitable companions, the security guards. What she needed was someone she could trust—preferably a female member of the Psyclid policia . . .
As M’lani peered into a mirror, tweaking her long auburn waves into place, re-applying her lip tint, and making sure her gown was suitably regal, she composed her argument. Surely, such a small gesture of trust as granting her a Psyclid bodyguard would hurt no one and go far to smooth the inevitable uneasiness between the Reg military and Psyclid policia.
For a moment doubt swept her. The Regs were so fizzeting stiff-necked. A request for a Psyclid bodyguard could cause the Captain of the Guard to jump to the conclusion that she was up to something. Which she was.
She supposed she could go invisible—she might even be able to sustain the illusion long enough to get out of the palace, but over the wall? Through the park? She’d leave telekinesis to L’ira, thank you very much. She had enough problems with this unwanted new danger dropped in her lap without experimenting with any more talents.
Avoiding a second glance in the mirror, she sent for the Captain of the Household Guard, who was, of course, a Reg.
The park was so lovely M’lani could only wonder why she hadn’t thought of walking here before. They used to, she and L’ira, long years ago. They had been encouraged to play with other children, to meet and greet the people of Psyclid, to see what life was like outside the walls. And then the Regs had come, and the royal family was placed on what could only be called house arrest. Now, however, after all these years, the Occupation seemed to have mellowed, becoming so much a part of their lives that no one questioned it. Although, truthfully, she had been surprised when the Captain of the Guard only grumbled a bit before arranging for a female sergeant in the Psyclid policia to be one of the Princ
ess Royal’s guards on her walks through the park.
Even now, as M’lani strolled past fountains, flowerbeds, and flowering bushes, down paths that wound beneath a canopy of trees and eventually opened to a veriball field and a series of bounce-ball courts, she could scarcely believe she was free.
Her spirits soared. Almost to the point of forgetting why she’d come.
She paused, ostensibly to watch some boys manipulating a veriball, some clearly gifted with grav skills as the ball stayed in the air longer than any foot, fist, or head could manage on its own. One of the boys caught sight of her, the ball dropped, rolling straight toward her.
It disappeared.
“Pok!” her Reg guard muttered. Kaya Samadi, the new female Psyclid guard, stared at the space where the ball had been then raised wide, incredulous eyes to the Princess Royal. The boys made a show of hunting for the ball, but they seemed to sense the magic in the air and, behind their hands, were thoroughly enjoying the joke on the poor dumb Reg. None of them, praise be, showed signs of the shock that would accompany recognition of the Gift of Destruction. They were standing there, looking expectant, waiting for her to bring the veriball back.
But she couldn’t. It was gone. Forever.
M’lani rallied, dredging up words from only-the-goddess-knew-where. “I am so sorry I startled you into losing our ball,” she told them. “I will see that it is replaced immediately. Sergeant Samadi, please see that a new veriball is delivered here immediately.”
As the Psyclid guard spoke into her comm unit, M’lani saw suspicion then comprehension dawn in the eyes of one of the older boys. A gleam, a nod of approbation. Oh no! Boys were ghoulish little animals, everyone knew that. Certainly Jagan had been. Her secret was safe.
After assuring the boys a new ball would arrive within minutes, M’lani moved on. Soundlessly—and when no one was looking—a tree stump disintegrated into slivers. A rock the size of a large male foot would no longer divide the waters of the narrow stream tumbling around it. A leaf skittered onto the path and was no more. She might have been mistaken about no one looking. Kaya Samadi had settled into what appeared to be a deliberate distraction of her Reg counterpart. At least open flirtation with the enemy in front of one’s Princess Royal did not seem normal behavior for a member of the Psyclid policia.
M’lani, her confidence buoyed by successfully focusing on smaller and smaller objects, was tempted to a more grandiose gesture. Without concentrating quite as carefully as she had been, she chose a dead tree limb thirty feet off the ground and . . .
The branch, as thick as a fat man’s leg, crashed onto the path so closely in front of them that M’lani found herself flat on her stomach, breathless beneath the weight of both her bodyguards. Dear goddess, how stupid could she get? She’d severed the branch instead of disintegrating it. Hmm—was that something she could learn to control as well . . .?
“Highness, are you all right?”
Stupid Reg sergeant almost sounded like he cared.
The man scrambled to his feet, then carefully raised M’lani up to join him. Together, they eyed the fallen branch, a good two meters from end to end. “A miracle, Highness. Another step . . .”
“I would appreciate your not mentioning this to the king and queen,” M’lani returned hastily. “I love the park, I would hate to see my walks curtailed.”
“Yes of course, Highness, but I must put this in my report to the Captain.”
M’lani nodded. “Naturally, Sergeant, but I trust you will emphasize that this incident could be nothing more than an act of nature.”
“I will emphasize that the forest, particularly around the pathways, should be better maintained.”
M’lani beamed at him. “Excellent, Sergeant, I could not agree with you more. And now, yes, I can see the words bursting from both your lips. It is time to return to the palace. Shall we?”
All the way back she feared her legs would collapse. Even the sight of the boys playing with their new veriball did little to allay her nerves. How could she criticize Jagan for recklessness when she had nearly killed herself and her companions along with her? How was the Psyclid rebellion to survive when its two leaders confronted each other with all the wariness of Arcturian polecats vying for the same territory, and she—supposedly Jagan’s watchdog—couldn’t even protect herself, let alone save her people from the collateral damage her ineptitude was likely to bring down about their heads.
A veriball could be replaced.
People could not.
M’lani shut herself in her room and did some serious soul-searching. She had waited her whole life for just one of the gifts other Psyclids took for granted. Now that she had it, she recognized it for what it was. A curse.
“Their Royal Majesties, Ryal and Jalaine,” a stentorian voice announced. “Her Highness, Princess M’lani.”
Grim thoughts chased through M’lani’s head as she followed her parents into the suddenly silent ballroom, down a hastily cleared aisle as the Psyclids bowed or curtsied and the Regs deigned to incline their heads while barely bending their eternally stiff necks. She absolutely despised the Emperor’s Birthday Ball, but every year they attended while every year she wondered what would happen if they didn’t.
M’lani had to admit the Regs did Occupation well—certainly, they’d had enough practice. Invasion, submission, leave all government intact, appoint a governor general, encompass the country with just enough troops to keep the masses in line, and that was that. Another planet added to the Emperor’s personal score sheet with scarcely a ripple on cosmic horizons.
Except, that is, for the Emperor’s Birthday Ball, where M’lani was certain every Reg in the room was gloating behind their masks of polite ennui. To twist the knife still further, this year the event was being held at the estate of one of Psyclid’s most powerful families, cousins of some sort. Traitors! Blinded by thought of Psyclid collaboration with the enemy, M’lani came close to stumbling into the arms of Colonel Alric Strang, resplendent in his black dress uniform, embellished with silver buttons and braid. His firm hand clutched her arm, preventing her from making a fool of herself in front of the cream of Psyclid and Reg society.
“I beg your pardon,” M’lani gasped. Strang. Of all the persons she did not care to encounter . . . A Reg who was difficult to hate, he inevitably made her uncomfortable.
He leaned forward, whispering, “Try not to bare your teeth at the Governor General, Highness. He has no sense of humor.”
Oh, fizzit! Had she let her feelings show? If Strang could so easily read her emotions, her days as a rebel would be numbered. “Thank you, Colonel,” M’lani murmured and moved down the receiving line, following in her parents’ wake, being careful to heed the colonel’s advice as she was greeted by retired Admiral Hagan Yarian, the Governor General, and their hosts, the Conde and Condessa Staral.
“You look charming, Highness,” Staral oozed, “but when do you not?” M’lani’s hostility bent a trifle, not from the conde’s compliment but from a surge of satisfaction at the sour envy radiating from his wife, a strikingly attractive woman but at least fifteen years older than her glowing royal guest.
With a regal nod M’lani swept on but never made it to the chairs designated for the royal family. With all the arrogance of a Reg conqueror, Colonel Strang swept her onto the dance floor, ignoring her protests. “I know quite well you have not attended a ball since the Emperor’s last birthday, and do not tell me you don’t like to dance.”
With a rueful laugh, she agreed. The music, the movement, the smiling faces. Gowns in every hue creative Psyclid minds could invent. Styles kept only for grand events—the women eschewing asymmetrically hemmed columnar gowns for minuscule fitted bodices and whirling circular skirts decorated with lace and brilliants, embroidery and flowers. The Psyclid men all in narrow white trousers with jackets and contrasting shirts in almost as many different colors as the females.
M’lani drew in a deep breath. The room was too warm, casting up a stra
nge mix of ladies’ perfumes and men’s colognes, of the scent of Psyclid, tainted by the ever-present intrusion of those heinous outsiders, the Regs. The light seemed to dim, the room’s many colors blending into a swirling gray mud pool, dragging her down . . .
“You should dance more often, Highness.”
What? M’lani forced herself back to the reality of the moment. The colonel swept her in a circle, somehow managing to pull her closer as he did so.
“You are too young to lead such a circumscribed life.”
Circumscribed! She came close to planting her feet on the shiny wooden floor and refusing to move. “Circumscribed, Colonel,” she hissed. “You turn my life upside down and call it ‘circumscribed’? Are you mad? I am the Princess Royal of a conquered kingdom. Short of a prison cell, that’s about as circumscribed as it gets. Am I to smile and be happy and dance the night away while my people work as drudges for the greater glory of your Emperor, may he rot—”
Over the sound of the music she’d swear she heard the faint tinkle of crystals swaying in the room’s three chandeliers.
Do it and I’ll wring your neck! Jagan’s silent message was so clear he might as well have been shouting in her ear.
How had he felt her anger? And, great goddess, was it happening again? Papa would never forgive her.
Cool air sent a shiver up her spine. They were outside on the terrace, not another person in sight. The colonel was looking down at her, blue eyes solemn. “And somehow I thought you didn’t have a serious thought in your head, Highness. I stand corrected.”
She made a stab at humor. “You can see why they don’t let me out very often.” Amusement brightened his eyes, and she had to admit he was taking her gaffe better than expected.
“I like you, M’lani Orlondami, now more than I did when I saw you as nothing more than a beautiful ornament. And rest assured, I have no intention of repeating your tirade to anyone. Why shouldn’t you think as you do? It’s perfectly natural.”
Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Page 7
