No more tolerance. Reprisals had begun.
Chapter 16
“Mondragon now!” King Ryal roared.
“You can’t!” Jalaine cried. “Not immediately after hearing about the arrests. It puts Jagan at risk.”
“A minimal problem for our insouciant Archeron Ambassador when our best and brightest are held by Grigorev and the dim-wits who follow his lead.”
“Jagan is our best and brightest,” M’lani declared in a voice loud enough to penetrate the cacophony of quarreling parents.
The king returned scowl for scowl. “No one was supposed to be hurt. You promised.”
“No one was hurt,” M’lani countered. “How could we anticipate the GG was going to go crazy and arrest everyone on stage. I’m surprised he’d didn’t include the orchestra.”
“Give him time,” Ryal growled. “The man is meshug.”
“No one wishes to argue with you, midamaran,” his wife assured him, “but you cannot summon Jagan under these circumstances. It’s a danger to us all.”
“Have you slept with him?”
M’lani gasped, as the question seemed to be addressed to her mother, until she caught the direction of her father’s gaze. “Indeed not!” she proclaimed, her rage strong enough to conjure wisps of smoke.
“Why not? He’s certainly paid you enough visits in the middle of the night.”
“Papa,” M’lani breathed, thoroughly shaken because her father’s thoughts matched her own. Jagan seemed to have forgotten his moment of lecherous insinuation that promised more than talk. Not that their secret meetings hadn’t helped them explore the adult versions of themselves. Certainly, she had found depths in Jagan she hadn’t known existed, but the slimeworm hadn’t gone beyond an occasional flirtatious gleam in his dark eyes or an appreciative curl of his lips. Fizzit, but it was hard on a woman’s ego.
Nor had she realized her parents were aware of Jagan’s nocturnal visits to Crystalia. Twenty-one years old and she felt like a mortally embarrassed teen.
“Summon him,” Ryal snarled to a loyal aide who was still hovering in the doorway, patiently waiting the result of the royal argument. “We will discuss his failure to honor the Princess Royal.” At an urgent wave of the queen’s hand, the aide pressed his back so hard against the door it appeared he wanted to crawl into the wood. He did not, however, leave the room.
“By not sleeping with me?” M’lani exclaimed, embarrassment lost in outrage.
Queen Jalaine, slack-jawed, stared at her husband, who usually kept his whimsical side well hidden. The whimsicality he had passed on to K’kadi. When it was in full sway, who knew what might happen?
Ryal rose from his throne-like chair in the royal apartments. Head down, he paced the floor, shoulders rounded, the lines in his face appearing deeper and more rough-cut than usual. As he reached the far wall for the third time and turned to face them, he proclaimed in the far-reaching voice of a herald, “Jagan Mondragon, Sorcerer Prime, ran away at the first hint of hostility, leaving him ineligible to marry the only surviving Psyclid princess. My queen and I, therefore, looked elsewhere. Who better than a young and charming ambassador from a previously unknown planet?” The king paused dramatically, only slightly lowering his voice to add, “Particularly when he has taken to visiting said princess in her bedchamber.”
“The Archeron Ambassador could never get past the guards,” M’lani declared, much incensed, though joining in his fantasy.
“Perhaps Royan Vivar del Cid has hidden talents we knew nothing about?” the king returned blandly.
“Papa, you are being absurd.”
“A-ah,” the king proclaimed, “I have it now. The Ambassador is a shape-shifter, scurrying through my palace as a rat, or possibly a roach . . .”
“Ryal,” Jalaine scolded, “stop playing with us and say something useful.”
“I am angry!” he shouted. “And sick at heart. For I see no way past a campaign of reprisals. No matter how clever the rebels are, no matter what they do, Grigorev’s response will escalate. If he will seize priestesses, he will target our children next. We must re-think our approach.” He slumped into his royal chair, propping his chin on his hand, one leg thrust out in front of him. “Therefore,” he decreed, “we will follow the old adage about killing two birds with one stone. I do not care to have the Sorcerer Prime sneaking in and out of my house, whether it’s ‘just talk’ or not. And as the rebellion grows, not even his stalwart Regulon marines can save him if Grigorev becomes suspicious.”
“Ryal, have you thought this through?” Jalaine asked on a whisper. “By summoning him at this hour, you risk casting suspicion—”
“I act on instinct. As Jagan does, as L’ira does. As M’lani did the night she shattered glass. Granted, instinct is not infallible, but sometimes it is all we have.” Ryal held up his hand, palm out, more like a blessing than a decree. “The Ambassador’s position will be greatly strengthened by marriage to the Princess Royal. Basically, he would have to take a knife to Grigorev’s throat to get himself arrested. As for M’lani, everyone loves a wedding. If nothing else, Grigorev will think it a wonderful bone to throw to the masses, a spectacle to divert everyone’s attention from something as dangerous and unappetizing as war. And a bride,” he continued, warming to his topic, “is sacrosanct, a woman who can do no wrong.”
“What about B’aela?” M’lani demanded, crashing her father’s flight of fancy back to reality.
“My informants,” Ryal returned, emphasizing the pronoun, assure me the Sorcerer’s followers will be gone within the week.”
“How delightful. His bed will still be warm.”
“M’lani Sayelle!” Jalaine cried. “For shame.”
“When you did this to L’ira,” M’lani said to her father,” she did not mind. “She and Captain Rigel had been sleeping together for some time, but Jagan and I don’t even like each—”
“Not another word. There is no other way to protect you. Or Jagan.”
“I fear he is right,” Jalaine murmured. “A great upheaval is coming, and you must work closely with Jagan to keep the rebel cause from faltering.” And for that,” she added in considerably more emphatic tones, “you need to keep him alive.”
“Oh, very well,” Ryal huffed. “We will speak with the Sorcerer in the morning.” The king’s azure eyes narrowed on his daughter. “First order of business, rescue the hostages.”
M’lani, hands folded in front of her, regarded her father from limpid green eyes. “Before or after the wedding?” she inquired.
“Let’s say your plan works,” T’kal Killiri challenged, “have you thought about what you’re going to do with them? It’s not as if you can give them a hug and send them home.”
“Their families will need shelter as well,” L’rissa added.
“My mother has offered the Abbey of Danomi in Kang-Ki,” M’lani said. “It has ample guest accommodations, as well as the advantage of being half way around the planet.”
Tonight they were meeting in an empty dwelling on the third floor of a shabby building that reeked of smells M’lani refused to analyze. This entire portion of Crystal City was new to her, a shock in fact. She had not known Psyclid had an underbelly. And she should have.
T’kal frowned. “All fine for the priestesses, but what about the others?”
M’lani favored the Psyclid rebel leader and sometime shape-shifter with a regal look learned at her mother’s knee. “I assure you, Daman Killiri, our priestesses reach out to all those in need, regardless of sex, race, religion, or lack thereof.”
“Those who wish it may go to magicians’ enclaves when the hunt has quieted,” Jagan said. “They too have guest quarters suitable for families.”
“No.”
They all looked up, startled, to find Major Anton Stagg with his square chin set in defiance. “Your religious houses are the first place the Regs will look. Priestesses, magicians, what could be more obvious?”
“Oh.” M’lani’s eager face
sagged. “Then what should we do?”
“You could scatter the hostages throughout the planet, divide them among people willing to take the risk. But I promise you every village and town will be searched—the cities, block by block. Grigorev is not a man to leave so much as a stone unturned.”
“You want us to leave them to rot?” Killiri demanded.
“No, of course not.” L’rissa grabbed her brother’s arm. “Listen to him! He’s a soldier. He understands the military mind.”
“Out with it, Stagg,” Jagan snapped. “What are you thinking?”
“How many will there be, sir, when you add the families?”
“Fizzet!” T’kal Killiri muttered, clearly caught without an answer.
“We made a list,” M’lani said, “L’rissa and I. Fortunately, only a few are married. Including children, the count is fifty-three.” The look on T’kal’s face was priceless. Clearly, he had not thought beyond the hostage rescue to the danger of leaving their families behind. There were times when he reminded her all too much of her father.
Jagan’s Chief of Security nodded. “Then two shuttles is all we’ll need to take them to Blue Moon.”
Out of the corner of her eye M’lani caught the moment of unguarded admiration on L’rissa’s face as the major made his suggestion. Oh. My. How had she missed it? Her new friend was in love.
“We need the magicians here,” Jagan countered.
“Not yet. It will be months,” the major said, “perhaps a Tri-moon or more, before your enlasé is up and running worldwide. They can return as easily as they leave. You’ve already proved that possible.”
“One forgets,” Jagan murmured, “or at least I try to. But you’re always here, aren’t you, you and Quint, watching, your Reg ears privy to all our secrets. Are you truly our friend, Stagg? Or in the end will you bring us all down?”
M’lani sucked in a breath, knowing she should intervene, but any semblance of soothing words failed her. Jagan, don’t be a fool. And, oh fizzit, L’rissa looked as if she were about to burst into tears.
The two marines stood tall, squaring their shoulders, towering over Jagan, the tallest Psyclid in the room. “Our loyalty is to Tal Rigel,” Anton Stagg told him. “He assigned us to you, which makes you our responsibility. We may not like it, you may not like it. But do not ever question our loyalty again.”
Jagan, please . . .
Profound silence filled the room as the Sorcerer Prime steepled his hands in front of his face and fought a final battle with his doubts about the ever-present Reg marines.“You are suggesting Blue Moon create a refugee settlement?” he said asked at last, his words swiftly followed by a whoosh of released breaths from the onlookers.
“It seems the logical place, sir. Dama Rigel will see they are well housed and fed. And they will be safe. With no citizens on Psyclid at risk.”
“And when they threaten our children?” Killiri asked.
“Then they too will go to Blue Moon.”
“It’s happened before,” M’lani offered. “On old earth. People sent their children away from danger zones so they could be safe.”
Jagan, who was no more inclined to admit he was wrong than T’kal Killiri, offered one last negative. “What makes you think Blue Moon is going to be willing to take them?”
M’lani drew herself up to her full height, which was a good twelve millimeters above her sister’s diminutive stature. “I may be allowed to criticize Princess L’ira on occasion. You do not have that privilege. My sister will do whatever is necessary to further the rebellion. The people of Psyclid are still her responsibility. She will be happy to offer Blue Moon’s protection.”
Jagan’s hand jerked in the gesture they had all come to interpret as, Let it be so. “Send a message to Blue Moon, warn them to be ready.”
“Would it not be more diplomatic to ask?” M’lani inquired sweetly.
“Word the message any way you want,” Jagan returned shortly. “Now let’s get down to figuring out how we’re going to get the hostages out.”
M’lani, taking L’rissa with her, drew the marines into a far corner of the room, where they went to work on the communique to Blue Moon. Sergeant Joss Quint was the comm specialist who kept them in touch—though messages were rare, as the risk was great, with Reg detection devices constantly on the lookout for suspicious signals.
“Do you think the Regs will torture them?” M’lani asked at one point as they struggled to get maximum information into a minimum of words.
“They can’t reveal anything because they don’t know anything,” L’rissa replied.
“That’s the point. We have to get them out of there before . . . before they die because they’re completely innocent.”
“That’s war, Highness,” Joss offered. “Innocents get hurt.”
M’lani nodded. “Collateral damage, that’s what they call it. My father brought us up on stories of how bad things were on Old Earth. That is how our people became pacifists.”
“A lot of good it did them,” Joss muttered. “Apologies, Highness,” he added hastily. “I mis-spoke.”
“Invasion and occupation was not a lesson any of us wished to learn, Sergeant.”
“Yes, Highness.” Joss hung his head.
M’lani looked down at the scribbles, cross-outs, and daunting messiness of the message she had been transcribing to her hand-held. She played with it a few minutes, deleting most of what they had written, finally reading aloud, Need safe haven for fifty+ refugees. Can you help? M
L’rissa smiled at the brevity; the marines nodded their agreement. “Then please encode and send.” M’lani transferred the message to Joss’s hand-held.
As the sergeant bent to his work, Anton and L’rissa drifted away, leaving M’lani alone, gazing across the room at Jagan and the band of rebels gathered closely around him. Including B’aela Flammia, her dark beauty even more alluring, more taunting, than usual.
M’lani fought to hide a stab of pain. B’aela would be gone in a week, but did it matter? The batani witch wasn’t gone from his heart nor from his life. He had told her so himself.
Well . . . he hadn’t said anything about his heart, but he wouldn’t, would he?
A giggle from behind, followed by a baritone chuckle. Oh, to be part of such an uncomplicated romance as the one developing between L’rissa and Anton . . .
Then again, did the major know his love could turn into a giant bird of prey at will?
Clearly, princesses weren’t the only ones with problems . . . though surely hers were more imminent.
We will schedule the wedding for the full of the Red Moon. The king’s decree echoed through M’lani’s head. Red Moon full. Too soon, too soon.
“Highness, it’s done, the message sent.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” M’lani moved forward, toward the huddled group of rebels. Time to detach Jagan from the witch.
Chapter 17
Blue Moon
Immersed in a tub of warm oiled and scented water that came all the way up to her chin, Kass Rigel closed her eyes and tried to put the rebellion out of her mind. Just one hour of being normal, of living life as it used to be when Blue Moon was her family’s vacation playground—a land of lush greenery, flowers, fields of grain, animals, and people living in quiet harmony . . .
The dream of a wistful child! She should be ashamed of herself for wanting to avoid reality. Except for a few snatched moments like this, peace and quiet were things of the past, lost in a life besieged by bulletins of dangerous clashes between rebels and Regs, or vivid recollections of her own personal encounters with the enemy, like that nightmarish journey back from Hell Nine. Even if she lived to a hundred and fifty, the moment when she had picked up the nearly crippled Astarte and dropped it in front of a jumpgate would haunt her for the rest of her life. If she hadn’t managed it, the rebellion would have been over then and there.
She and Tal never spoke of what happened, not even of the intensely emotional moments when Kass
woke from her collapse to find Tal sitting by her bed. It was too painful, too close a call. The only solution—find the Regs’ Achilles Heel, because matching their firepower was clearly impossible. And, oddly enough, the answer to the problem might be the man she had run all the way to Regula Prime to escape. Jagan Mondragon. The miserable coward who, at the first sign of invasion, had taken ship to the far side of the Quadrant. How M’lani could even think of marrying him . . .
And yet Jagan was not Sorcerer Prime simply because he was the latest in a long line of Mondragon magicians. He had power, great power. And, incredibly, if he could harness the many other talented minds on Psyclid, it was possible he could provide exactly what the rebellion needed—a postern gate where the rebellion could sneak in and take the head of the Empire down before its far-flung arms and legs knew what was happening. Psyclid, the Regulon Empire’s weak spot. A planet of peace-lovers determined to be peaceful again.
Water rippled as Kass shrugged. Jagan, a hero of the revolution? Frankly, it seemed highly unlikely.
As unlikely as a Psyclid Royal Princess becoming a cadet in the Regulon Space Academy.
She gasped as the bathing room door opened, letting in a burst of cool air.
“What a delightful sight after a miserable day,” Tal drawled, leaning back against the door he had swiftly closed behind him.
Water splashed out of the tub as Kass sat up abruptly, eyes wide. “What’s happened now?”
Tal made a leisurely inspection of her breasts, glistening with moisture from water well laced with scented oils. “Nothing I can’t forget about for an hour or two,” he suggested silkily.
“Tell me now!” Kass demanded, reaching for a towel.
Tal forestalled her, lifting her out of the tub as easily as if she were a bar of soap. Kass shrieked. “You’ll get wet!”
“Who cares?” Tal nuzzled her neck, even as he enveloped her in the towel before crushing her tight to him, his nose buried in the knot of black hair pinned on top of her head. “Tell me, woman, how did I ever get along without you?”
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