After the soup was cleared away, servers entered with cut-crystal dishes filled with a variety of tiny Psyclid sea creatures, cold, raw, and subtly flavored with lemon, dill, buerra, and something M’lani could not quite place. In the pause between courses, General Grigorev said to Queen Jalaine, who was seated on his right, “Your Majesty, I believe you were present at the recent incident at the Ascension Day Parade.”
“Incident, General?” the queen returned. “I was under the impression there was no incident.”
Admiral Kamal turned a snort of laughter into a cough, covering his mouth with his hand. “Beg pardon,” he muttered. M’lani’s lips twitched as she made note of the fact that the Reg admiral had a sense of humor.
Kamal was merely a Rear Admiral, she knew, all that was deemed necessary to command Crystal City’s frigate, the Kepler, and the three other frigates spread out over Psyclid space, plus the bevy of shuttles that moved military personnel and supplies from the spaceport down to the surface of the planet. Rand Kamal was in his mid-forties and still handsome enough to turn heads. M’lani had long thought it a shame he was a Reg.
Anatol Grigorev, on the other hand, was not likable. A man with no concept of tolerance or compromise, he was heartily disliked long before he became Acting Governor General. The epitome of a proper Reg officer, he was tall and blond, with a chiseled jaw that reminded M’lani of the ancient tales of Gods and superheroes. Unfortunately, that was where the resemblance ended.
Grigorev did not pretend to misunderstand the queen’s words. “It is true, Your Majesty, that we have done our best to ignore the incident—our troops are fearful enough of Psyclid magic without wildly exaggerated tales being told on every street corner.”
M’lani’s hand jerked, causing her fork to clang against the crystal bowl. Nine pairs of eyes flicked in her direction, one of them her mother’s who sent a sharp warning. Well, too bad. If the general wanted to think Psyclids and Regs alike were telling exaggerated tales, that was fine. All the better for the rebels.
“When we set foot on Psyclid,” General Grigorev continued, “we expected strange. We thought, however, that we had learned to live with it.”
M’lani repressed a smile as she thought of the dawn patrol picking up naked Regs on a daily basis, some of them waking up chirping like birds, growling like grizzoids, or huffing and puffing as if they thought they were dragons on attack. And what must the Regs think of Psyclid boys and girls keeping veriballs bouncing in the air, defying the law of gravity. Or the formless, mysterious “ghosts” that flitted through the streets of Crystal City, darting into theaters, tavernas, sporting events, particularly those where Regs gathered, sending the enemy fleeing while Psyclids hissed their joy. All little things. Until now.
“We have most sincerely expressed our sorrow that General Yarian suffered from the incident,” King Ryal offered. “Which, I assure you, was as much a surprise to us as it was to you. But surely you cannot blame all Psyclids for what was clearly the act of a few rebels.”
M’lani sucked in a breath. Her father had just admitted to Psyclids instigating the incident when she thought they had agreed to let it lie, unexplained and festering in Reg minds.
“Not a few, I think,” the general returned. “I am told what happened is well beyond the power of any single Psyclid. And that joining Psyclid minds for sorcerers’ tricks is forbidden.”
“It is.”
“Then how did this happen?” Grigorev shot back, losing his diplomatic façade. “Perhaps you can explain it, Majesty,” he declared, turning to Jalaine. “I am told you are a skilled practitioner of Psyclid magic.”
Not a sound in the room as everyone stared at Psyclid’s queen. Goosebumps rose on M’lani’s arms. Her mother and father had to be able to deny all knowledge of rebel activities, keeping well above the action, holding their places as symbols of Psyclid’s hope for freedom. Which is why they were never told of rebel plans.
The queen allowed her shoulders to droop, rippling the layers of a gown as brilliant as a summer sunset. “I fear my magic is ceremonial, General. “I perform traditional rituals at religious ceremonies and an occasional Tri-moon Festival. And never do I break the rule which forbids mind-melding. It would be sacrilege.” She opened wide green eyes to General Grigorev and offered a tentative smile. “I assure you, sirs . . .” She turned to Admiral Kamal. “If there was sorcery at the Ascension Day Parade, it was none of my doing. Nor of any member of my family.”
All true, M’lani thought. But would the Regs believe her?
“But you know how it was done,” the general persisted.
“We can only presume the rebels are joining minds,” Ryal said. “Otherwise, your informants are correct. Such an act would have been impossible.”
“And they are likely to do it again.” Not a question.
For a moment the king was silent. “I would suggest,” he said at last, “that what we saw was a demonstration, a suggestion of power to come—the ability to stop anything, anywhere, any time.”
“Omnovah save us,” Admiral Kamal murmured.
M’lani memorized the stunned looks around the table, so she could describe them to Jagan, L’rissa, and the other rebels. Disgustingly, the Starals and D’lila Lyrae looked more horrified than the Regs, whose military minds were trained to the stoic. From now on, M’lani vowed, those three Psyclids would be at the top of the rebel’s list of collaborators.
Only General Grigorev’s face remained completely impassive. “You are saying there is nothing we can do to stop this?”
Ryal shrugged. “The situation is as new to us as it is to you, General. We are a nation of peace. Of people who study the power of the mind, settle differences, no matter how great, without ever taking a life. How much influence the rebels will have, how many others they can encourage to join them, I have no idea.”
“But it is likely the power of this mind-melding will grow?”
“General,” D’lila Lyrae interrupted gently, “we have food waiting to be eaten. Talk like this will undoubtedly turn our stomachs sour. Surely we may save such serious topics for after dinner.”
General Grigorev scowled at his hostess before offering an abrupt nod. “Until after dinner then, when we will discuss what you will do to stop this.” He gestured toward Ryal and Jalaine. “And what I will do if you fail.”
Chapter 15
After her maid left the room, M’lani continued to sit at her dressing table, fear and defiance mingled in the long-lashed green eyes staring back at her from the mirror. She could not recall spending a more unpleasant evening. Ever. Not even directly after the invasion. After dinner, General Grigorev had grown increasingly incensed by the royal family’s assertion that they had no knowledge of who the rebels were; therefore, they could not influence rebel actions. Attempts by others to mellow the acting Governor General’s tone had failed until Admiral Kamal pointed out that it was not reasonable to expect effective edicts from a king whose power had been stripped from him.
While the general sputtered, Ryal and Jalaine had stood as one, made their farewells, and swept out, M’lani following in their wake. Their bodyguards, all six of them, were waiting in the corridor, whisking them to the royal limm before Grigorev could decide he had been insulted, as his guests, however royal, had not been granted permission to leave.
Not a good night for the rebellion. Slowly, M’lani stood, shedding her filmy nightrobe and laying it over the back of a chair near her bed. As she pulled back the covers, something on the other side of the bed popped into view. Her heart hitched. She sucked in a harsh breath, recovering quickly to hiss, “Jagan! How long have you been there, you beast?”
He offered an enigmatic grin from the depths of a comfortably upholstered chair, where he had been sitting, quite invisible.. “Long enough.”
“How dare you watch me undress?”
“A taste of delights to come.”
“You are abominable! Is that how you waste your gifts? Sneaking around women�
��s bedrooms, playing voyeur?”
“Hardly a waste when the rewards are so arousing,” he purred.
“Get out!”
“Apologies, my little destructor, but I can’t. I must know what transpired tonight.”
M’lani closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and reached for her nightrobe. Not that it covered her much better than her nearly transparent gown—as the appreciative gleam in Jagan’s eyes confirmed when she knotted it tight and turned back to face him. Fizzet! Did he have an eye for every female in his life, switching from one to the other with the same ease as changing his clothes?
Not why he’s here. This is business.
But you want him to admire you, do you not?
Business. Rebel business, her common sense countered.
M’lani grasped that thought and held it. “It’s not good,” she told him, rounding the foot of the bed to sit in a chair next to his.
Jagan leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”
M’lani launched on a nearly word-for-word account of the evening, heavily laced with derogatory remarks about General Grigorev, with particular vitriol for the three Psyclid collaborators.
“So Kamal and Strang are capable of seeing reason,” Jagan said as M’lani’s story wound to a close, “but Grigorev is not.”
“And the Starals and D’lila Lyrae are traitors.”
“Nothing we didn’t already know,” Jagan murmured, “but Grigorev is going to be a problem. No more turning a blind eye to Psyclid quirks.”
“Quirks that have recently slipped their bounds. Destroying armaments and freezing Regs in full parade is quite an escalation from stripping drunks.”
“And they say females are not logical.”
“Jagan, I swear . . .” M’lani cut off her words when his only response was a chuckle.
He slumped back in his chair, eyes closed, one finger raised to keep her silent while he considered what she’d told him. M’lani fought back hot words that might have given her some satisfaction but which, she knew, could only be a detriment to the rebellion. Bound in chains that could not be broken, she and Jagan had no choice. Squabbling was allowed, but not in moments of crisis, which this surely was.
“There’s an expression from Old Earth,” he said at last. “When a smart fox was hunted, he ‘went to ground.’ Found a hidey hole and laid low until the hunt passed him by. “I’ll explain the matter to Killiri—”
“He won’t like it.”
“No. But he’ll like endangering the royal family—or whoever Grigorev is threatening—even less. So the plan is, the rebels will go to ground until the Tri-Moon Festival—”
“Killiri will never go for that. He has people who can’t participate.”
Jagan groaned. “M’lani, will you kindly let me finish? This one we’ll do on our own. My people . . . and you. If my idea works. Meanwhile, I’ll tell Killiri this keeps his group from exposure, a long hiatus making his next action all the more effective.”
Slowly, M’lani nodded. “I’ll do my best to convince L’rissa to help him accept being left out, but I fear it’s not going to go down well.”
Jagan sat up, as if on a spring, his whole body indicating a switch from conception of a plan to implementation. “Forget Killiri. Let’s talk about you. Tell me, M’lani, can you destroy a conjuring?”
It was only much later, when Jagan was long gone, that M’lani realized his “next time” in her bedchamber had come and gone, and his promises, the ones that curled her toes, were as unfulfilled as Psyclid’s freedom.
The Tri-Moon Festival—when all three of Psyclid’s moons shone full in the night sky—occurred but once a year, to much celebration, laughter, love, and a strong dollop of magic. A holiday as old as the planet’s first settlement, it attracted people of all ages, even Reg occupation troops. The Festival was tolerated, as even a martinet like General Grigorev knew that attempting to ban the celebration would instigate massive unrest far more damaging than any rebel efforts so far.
M’lani, seated with her parents in the front row of an outdoor amphitheater, facing the stage, seethed. Partly from excitement, partly from fear she might fail, partly from frustration that it was B’aela who was somewhere in the crowd with Jagan, D’nim, T’mar, Tor, and the marines. B’aela, who should have been long gone to one of the provinces, along with the Sorcerer Prime’s other followers, but who had stayed for this very special addition to the Tri-Moon festivities. Tonight, Jagan and his people were not in disguise but walked freely among the people, garbed in the deeply hooded sorcerers’ robes that were only tolerated by the Regs on ceremonial occasions.
Jagan had shrugged off any suggestion they might be recognized, but M’lani had doubts. Jagan Mondragon was as well known on Psyclid as the royal family.
For herself, she had no qualms—no one expected rebellion from that nonentity, the younger Orlondami princess. And rightly so, if not for the same reason. Would she be able to control her newfound power well enough not to turn tonight’s efforts into disaster?
What would her mother think when . . . ? Jalaine was not participating in the religious portion of tonight’s ceremonies, as she often did, leaving the ritual opening of the festivities to the priestesses of the Golden Crystal. The truth was, Ryal had forbidden it, saying it was too soon after General Grigorev’s threats toward the royal family. And since Jalaine agreed with him, she had not protested.
If they only knew what their daughter was about to do . . . Goddess help them all if anything went wrong.
After the inspiring prayers and graceful beauty of the opening ceremonies, when even the Regs kept a respectful silence, the tone of the evening switched to the wonder and delight of entertainment, as three of Psyclid’s greatest magicians performed, interspersed with feats of agility and acrobatics by the best performers on the planet.
Cheers echoed through the night air as a magician on the raised stage directly in front of the royal family disappeared his assistant, leaving only the long swath of cloth she had been swinging on twenty feet above his head. M’lani caught the look on one of their Reg guard’s face as he swallowed hard, his eyes going wide. Her lips twitched. Surely by now the Regs had seen the truth. These magicians used no tricks, no sleight of hand. True Psyclid professionals, they could disappear anything at any time, no enlasé needed, thank you very much. Invisibility, teleportation, transmogrification—perhaps a tiny mouse was even now scampering away backstage. Who knew? No Psyclid was gauche enough to ask a magician for his secrets.
The next magician was even more stunning. After calling a Reg soldier from the crowd, and engaging him in enough conversation to indicate he really was a Regulon and not a Psyclid in Reg uniform, the magician coaxed him into a man-high box, waved his wand, and the soldier popped up back in the seat where he started.
The crowd roared, while the Regs among them turned pale.
Magic. True magic.
More cheers as two rows of colorfully dressed Psyclid dancers came tripping onto the stage to a lively tune from the orchestra. The Reg officers, evidently shoving their worries aside, settled back in their seats. Later, there would be public dancing and a good deal of drinking, as well as many attractive Psyclid femaless who might not object to fraternizing with the enemy . . .
Fifteen minutes later, they were all standing for the Psyclid National Anthem, the traditional close to the Tri-Moon performances, a custom not outlawed by the Regs. M’lani’s heart was threatening to pound its way out of her chest. It was worse than the night at the Heavy Weapons Depot. Then she had been naive, confident, so sure she could handle anything.
Tonight she knew better.
Screams rose from the back of the crowd—from those whose vision wasn’t obscured by the rise of the stage and its towering backdrop. Arms raising, pointing . . . people knocking over chairs as they scattered, moving backward, looking upward.
The screams and shoving subsided as Psyclids and Regs alike realized the Reg battlecruiser coming into view was one-te
nth regulation size. It passed above the stage to hover over the field where a large platform of polished wood had been put down for dancing, tables with food and drink ringing the edges. The onstage lights went dark. Uneasy silence as everyone stared, undoubtedly wondering if this was part of the show or . . . something else.
Sudden gasps, more pointing as a huntership appeared, its scale in proportion to the battlecruiser. For a moment it paused, long enough for everyone to read the name emblazoned on its side. S’sorrokan. Leader of the rebellion.
More screams—both terror and triumph—as laser cannons lit the night, both ships firing. The front of the crowd pushed backward, almost toppling those behind. It was illusion, all illusion, they knew that, and yet . . . Through the turmoil many could hear General Grigorev shouting for his aides, demanding action, demanding they get rid of “those things.”
All Jagan had to do was let go of the battlecruiser and it would pop out of existence, but that wasn’t the effect he wanted. M’lani gulped, gripped the back of her chair, and shot the battlecruiser out of the sky, its not-quite-illusionary pieces drifting slowly to the ground, some in flames.
Stunned silence as the rebel ships’ cannon and lasers ceased fire. Abruptly, it went from hover to rapid ascent and shot out of sight.
“Impossible!” Grigorev roared. “Mass hypnosis,” even as everyone started talking at once.
M’lani smiled as their guards rushed the royal family to their limm. She smiled all the way home. She was still smiling when a jubilant Jagan walked into her bedchamber in the wee hours of the morning.
She was not smiling at noon the next day after one of the king’s courtiers came rushing to the royal apartments to inform them that General Grigorev had arrested every magician, magician’s assistant, and priestess who participated in last night’s performance.
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