Given K’kadi’s amazing talents, disaster was anticipated at any moment.
Psyclid—Red Moon full
The distance from the palace of Crystalia to the site of the royal wedding—the amphitheater where the Tri-Moon Festival was held—was less than two kilometers. The wedding procession of the Princess Royal, M’lani Sayelle Zarana Orlondami, was three times that long. Winding through the heart of Crystal City, it was carefully designed to give maximum exposure to the bride, her attendants, the King and Queen, and the numerous musicians and dancers adding to the excitement and grandeur of the event. Psyclid police were hard put to keep the surging crowds out of the streets, Reg soldiers gaped, while their superior officers watched discreetly from behind windows well above the procession. Vid cameras hummed, the excited voices of newscasters offering moment-by-moment descriptions of the proceedings.
Two hovercycles led the procession, proudly manned by Psyclid police sergeants, one of them Kaya Samadi, chosen by the royal family for her occasional service as the princess’s bodyguard and for her ability to remember where her loyalty lay. Following the hovercycles were three rows of acolytes, marching five abreast and carrying tall poles, each with seven rows of seven tiny bells. Their young faces shone with joy, awe, and sheer excitement as they moved forward in the carefully choreographed steps they had been practicing for nearly a full Red Moon cycle.
Behind them glided row after row of priestesses, garbed in red, gold, and bright blue—representatives of every abbey and convent on the planet. Pipes trilled, accompanied by small tymp drums, suspended from the musicians shoulders and played by soft mallets, the tuned and pulsing rumbles punctuated by the occasional clear tone of a triangle or the tinkling clash of miniature cymbals.
Full-throated cheers rang out as the open groundcar carrying Psyclid’s royal rulers appeared. Cheers so loud they echoed down the route of the procession all the way to the amphitheater, where General Grigorev, Admiral Kamal, Colonel Strang and other high-ranking Reg officers waited, not having been invited to participate in the procession. None of them missed the startling contrast between this parade and the one they had staged for the Emperor’s birthday.
A large vehicle with a flatbed completely covered in flowers came next. In the middle of the bower of flowers, a harpist played, her fingers rippling over the strings in a waterfall of sound that hushed the cheers while everyone absorbed the ethereal beauty of the music and the exquisite grace of the rainbow-garbed dancers who followed after, swaying and bowing to the harp’s rippling glissandos, their hands sweeping high then low, their agile twirling all the more remarkable for being executed on pavement.
Behind the dancers, another groundcar, this one with three of Psyclid’s loveliest and highest-ranking maidens, garbed in layers of fuschia, rose, and palest pink. Each carried a long-stemmed bouquet of bi-color roses, deep pink and gold.
After the princess’s attendants came a group of young girls and boys. Dressed in white, they scattered rose petals from seemingly bottomless baskets, a feat of magic the Regulons failed to notice until hours later.
And then the star of every wedding, the bride. The Princess Royal rode in an open palanquin, supported by two long wooden poles and four stalwart Psyclids. Again, the honor of bearing the princess had gone to members of the Psyclid police force. From the sparkling yellow diamond tiara on her head to the matching brilliants covering her slippered feet, she shimmered under the noonday sun. Asymmetrical layers of tissue-fine golden amber silk fell from her shoulders to her toes, all of it overlaid with an intricate openwork fabric in spun gold thread.
Instead of cheering, the crowd simply caught their breaths, and sighed. Here was their future queen. The future of them all. Quite possibly their only hope.
M’lani smiled and waved, as a proper princess should, but deep inside she felt the love, the outpouring of hope from the crowd. She even sensed the negatives, the hard-headed ones who questioned a marriage to a foreigner, a nobody, no matter how handsome and charming he might be.
Just wait, she promised. In the end you won’t be disappointed.
And to her sister, who had been married in black shirt, pants, and boots in a hasty ceremony in the royal apartments. she added, This is for you too, L’ira. I hope K’kadi is letting you see it.
The procession, seemingly floating on a wave of good wishes, reached the amphitheater, the participants settling into carefully practiced positions, as King Ryal and Queen Jalaine, led by the golden-robed priestesses, walked down the long aisle. The king settled into a front-row seat, while the queen was handed up the steps to the stage, graciously allowing her escorts to seat her in a throne-like chair. The priestesses settled in the rows behind the king, a few ignoring their training long enough to glare at the row of Regulon military elite on the other side of the aisle.
The fussy little courtier who was directing the proceedings chivvied M’lani’s attendants into place, one behind the other, then spoke into his comm unit. Trumpets sounded, followed by the tymps rolling out a call that might well have been to battle. M’lani, poised at the rear of the long aisle, repressed a smile. Little did the Regs know that’s exactly what it was.
A sudden hush as everyone, except perhaps the Regs, anticipated what came next. Even the crowds pushing against the barriers surrounding the amphitheater fell silent, parting like the Red Sea of ancient tales to allow a rider on a white horse to pass through. A horse with braided mane and tail and colorful ribbons flying from bridle and saddle. The rider was wearing full black pants that billowed at the tops of his shining black boots, a scarlet shirt, gathered at sleeves and cuffs and almost lost beneath a plethora of gold chains and dangling crystals. He sat tall and arrogant, a man in charge, as befitted the consort of a princess. Or Psyclid’s Sorcerer Prime.
Jagan fought to keep his image as Royan Vivar del Cid firmly in place. Seething with rage and frustration was not the way to approach one’s wedding. But it was Jagan Mondragon who was marrying the Princess Royal. Jagan Mondragon who intended to be the savior of his people. Jagan Mondragon who would someday be king. And, instead, all his people were seeing was M’lani marrying some stupid ambassador from a heretofore unknown planet. Something only the Regs could applaud. It was a wonder the crowd wasn’t jeering instead of standing respectfully silent as he dismounted, climbed the steps, and bowed to Jalaine, Psyclid’s Queen and High Priestess.
Holding out his hand, Jagan helped her to her feet. They stood shoulder to shoulder, looking down the long center aisle. After making sure the attendants were in place, the queen nodded to the orchestra conductor, and the two-hundred-year-old bridal march, created by one of Psyclid’s greatest composers, reverberated from the orchestra pit, spread out over the amphitheater, and carried to the farthest reaches of the thousands assembled for this great day.
The guests stood. The attendants paced down the aisle, as radiant as the perfect Psyclid day. Even General Grigorev, Jagan noted, looked almost mellow. But then his eyes snapped to M’lani. He had always known she was beautiful—unlike L’ira, she had never suffered an awkward age. But this? He supposed it was the circumstances, the traditions, the color, the music, the drama, but she was glorious, walking up the aisle all alone, head high. He’d swear the gold of her gown, her green eyes, the shine in her auburn hair caught the sunlight as brilliantly as the diamonds in her tiara.
This vision was marrying him.
No, she had already married him. Today she was marrying the Archeron Ambassador. Was that bigamy?
Disgusted with himself, Jagan swatted whimsy away. This wedding was for show. And a grand show it was. Their wedding would demonstrate that the royal family still mattered, still had power and respect. That the people of Psyclid could indulge in the hope that good times would come again.
Even if they had little faith in the Ambassador from Archeron.
The music rose to a grand flourish and ended as the bride reached the stage. Jagan and M’lani turned, backs to the audience, and faced Quee
n Jalaine. Words were spoken, vows made, followed by all the ceremony their first wedding had lacked. During nearly an hour of prayers, well-meant marital advice, dances, tinkling bells, sweet wafts of incense, and more rumbles from the tymps, Jagan fought a battle against himself. For just a moment, one moment, he longed to show himself as he really was. Perhaps . . .
Perhaps . . .
The final prayer ended. Jalaine, High Priestess of Psyclid, presented the happy couple to the wedding guests. Applause, drowned by a mighty roar from the vast crowd. The orchestra struck up the recessional . . . and suddenly a mighty dragon, large enough to overtop the stage and a third of the audience, burst into life, breathing fire. For what seemed a lifetime, its red-hot heat and huge pointed teeth hovered above the rows of Regulon officers. To a man, they blanched and ducked. M’lani hid her surge of satisfaction by covering her face with one hand, as if in fright. The dragon soared skyward, wings spread wide, criss-crossing the crowd twice in a sudden switch to benign mode, before flying off over the spires of Crystalia, where it hovered briefly, folding its wings as if in prayer before winking out as suddenly as it had come.
“You’re mad,” M’lani whispered. “But it was grand.”
Jagan grinned. “Come, wife, we have a reception to get through before we can get down to the rest of the business for the day.”
To cheers that would leave many in the crowd hoarse for days afterward, the newlyweds descended from the stage and walked back down the aisle, taking time to acknowledge all the greetings and well-wishes as they went. As they did, Jagan’s spirits soared. He saw it in their faces, felt it in his soul. These were Psyclids, and some of them had seen what he dared not show. Today’s manifestation confirmed what they had not quite believed until now. Jagan Mondragon, Sorcerer Prime, was here to stay.
Chapter 22
They hadn’t planned for dancing in the streets.
“Fyd!” T’kal Killiri muttered as their large tran, loaded with rebels, was forced to make a U-turn for the third time in five minutes. Attempting to maneuver an invisible six-wheel transport van through a crowd of celebrants was clearly impossible.
“Go around.” Jagan spoke to the driver via his comm unit since the tran’s cab was separated from the windowless rear by a panel of one-way glass. “Back streets only.”
“We’re already behind schedule,” T’kal growled. “Our timing will be off.”
“We do it tonight, timing off or not. The shuttles are en route.”
As Killiri slumped back against the glass panel that allowed those inside a clear view of the road ahead, M’lani attempted to smooth things over. “We expected celebrations but not like this. It’s amazing.”
“They liked the dragon licking at Regs’ throats,” L’rissa offered. Although it was dark inside the tran, they could hear the grin in her voice.
A snort from T’kal, followed by Jagan’s slightly smug, “It appears they got the message.”
“The Regs sure did!” Joss Quint inserted. “That was some beast.”
Jagan’s comm unit buzzed. He listened, raised his voice and relayed, “We’re clear to the underground ramp. Five minutes.” He threw up a small green ball of light, illuminating the rear of the tran in an eerie glow. Eight of the rebel best and his two marines looked back at him—the maximum they could take and leave room to pack in twenty-eight more on the return trip.
Jagan offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile, well aware bonding with others was not one of his skills. “You each know your role,” he told them, “and you’re smart enough to improvise if you have to. So let’s do this. Fifteen minutes and we’re out of there.” Heads nodded, everyone seemingly eager to tackle Reg HQ.
As the tran, cloaked in invisibility, approached the gated ramp at the rear of the building, one of Killiri’s teams made sure the guards experienced a few frozen moments they would remember with nothing more than a guilty start of inattention. Another team lifted the gate, and the transport van rolled through, backing into a space that would allow it a straight run up the ramp and out into the Psyclid night. A third team would maintain the tran’s invisibility while Jagan and the others went for the hostages.
Silently, all but the driver and the invisibility talents followed the marines to the far side of the underground garage. When M’lani destroyed the lock on the building’s outer door, the countdown began. Somewhere an alarm was sounding. It couldn’t be helped. The rebels weren’t yet ready to immobilize an entire building, and all Jagan’s resources were needed to maintain the invisibility of both hostages and rescuers. Therefore, they had to work fast, dealing with Reg guards when they must.
M’lani’s eyes were sparkling by the time she took out the third heavy door, and nothing more lay between them and the hostages but the door to the room containing four cells full of hostages. The guards had one startled moment as the door disintegrated before they turned to statues. As Jagan dropped their invisibility cloak, cries of joy rang out from behind the bars; tears fell. Ignoring the guards’ keys, M’lani popped the cell doors open.
T’kal quickly organized the hostages into groups, the stronger supporting those too weak to make it on their own. Jagan, ever watchful, wondered if it could really be this easy. Maybe the Regs had never upgraded the old Psyclid security protocols, which had been minimal. “Here’s how it’s going to work,” he told the hostages. “We’re going out of here invisible—I promise the Regs won’t see us. We have a tran waiting in the garage. We’ll explain the rest as we drive. Understood?”
Solemnly, they all nodded. Jagan turned to T’kal. “Position your people and let’s go.”
Being able to create an invisibility cloak was a common talent, though few could maintain it beyond four or five minutes. So there were no gasps of surprise when the walls of the room turned to a gray haze and a soft fuzzy glow outlined each of their bodies. “You can see each other,” Jagan instructed for the benefit of the youngest among them, “but no one can see you. Now move!”
They were only half-way down the long corridor to the garage, however, when three well-armed soldiers burst through a door twenty feet ahead. Jagan froze them in place, allowing Anton and Joss out of the invisibility bubble long enough to calmly shove the soldiers aside. A few gasps and a moan or two from fearful hostages, but prodded by the rebels, they moved on.
The distance across the garage to the tran seemed to have increased tenfold. M’lani allowed the group to plow ahead, while she and Jagan dropped out of the bubble long enough for her take out the tires and treads of every military vehicle parked in the garage. By the time they returned to the tran, it was fully loaded. The driver put the vehicle in gear and headed for the exit ramp.
Ten feet from the gate, he hit the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a screeching a halt. At street level, three armored groundcars faced the ramp, one of them blocking it completely. Spotlights shone down from an attack helo circling overhead, its two long, slim laser cannons clearly visible.
“M’lani?” Jagan said, his voice suddenly cold, remote. Commanding.
“Freeze them!” she countered.
“I like to think I am omnipotent, but I’m not. I’m handling all I can manage, and our reb freeze team isn’t up to the task. This one’s yours.” When she remained ominously silent, he added, “Your sister did it.”
M’lani choked. “I know.”
“The people in this tran are yours. Yours to save, yours to toss away, along with the leadership of the whole rebellion.”
Sick at heart, M’lani nodded. Amidst soft sobs and prayers from the hostages, Jagan unbarred the rear door; he and M’lani slipped out—though not before giving orders for the driver to zoom out the moment the way was clear. “We can take care of our ourselves,” he assured T’kal, who was clearly skeptical.
Keeping their personal invisibility cloaks in place, Jagan helped his bride climb the outside ladder to the roof. When they were settled, flat on their stomachs, he spoke only two words: “Do it.”
M’lani thought of the priestesses, the dancers, some of whom were little more than children. The magicians with all their talents—talents needed by the rebellion. She thought of L’rissa and T’kal. Anton and Joss. Jagan. Herself.
Yet how could she kill? Papa would never forgive her.
“M’lani!”
Dear goddess, this was the moment she’d dreaded. No choice, no choice. M’lani forced herself to assess the situation. As lethal as the laser cannons looked, the helo couldn’t actually see them, and blowing up the entrance to the garage just because rebels might be lurking there did not seem a solution that would appeal to ever-pragmatic Reg minds. Which left the three armored cars with their smaller, rapidfire guns that could penetrate the tran without doing much damage to the building itself. But the tran was invisible. So how much damage could the rapidfires do? The primary problem was the armored car directly in front of them.
Blessed goddess, forgive me!
The armored car disappeared in a flash of light. Their tran surged forward. The helo fired, gouging a hole in the pavement where they’d been sitting but a moment before. Jagan pinned them to the tran’s roof with magic as the vehicle lurched from side to side in a wild zigzag designed to avoid the helo’s next shot, as well as the hail of bullets from the remaining armored cars. The tran might be invisible, but a continual spray of laser fire aimed straight down the street could scarcely miss. Papa, forgive me! M’lani, bouncing roughly between the tran roof and Jagan’s tight grip, aimed for one of the cannons, and took out the helo’s cockpit instead. The helo burst into flames, spinning . . .exploding into a million shards of lethal debris before it hit the ground, engulfing the remaining armored cars, as well as the entire parking area behind Reg headquarters.
Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Page 17
