“This way, Admiral.” The equerry ushered him into the presence of Darroch Rysor Karlmann von Baalen, ruler of the Regulon Empire.
The emperor was a fine figure of a man, with erect military bearing, though no von Baalen had been in a battle since his grandfather had begun the successful conquest of neighboring star systems more than a two hundred years ago. The present emperor’s father had carried on the military expansion, increasing Regulon-controlled star systems from six to nine, though admittedly from the safety of his palace. Darroch von Baalen, well served by the war machine fashioned by his grandfather, had added three more, though his only acquaintance with a starship was an occasional visit to the bridge of a newly launched battlecruiser. Yet his power remained absolute, the High Council rarely disputing his dictates, whether belligerent, wise, or whimsical. Vander Rigel had never understood the reasoning behind this phenomenon, but with so many sycophants ready to enforce every word from the emperor’s mouth, all efforts to modify the power structure had been ruthlessly quashed.
Emperor Darroch was, however, getting along in years, with no sign that any of his children or grandchildren had either the intelligence or hunger for power necessary to rule a goodly portion of the Nebulon Sector. The emperor was tall, a bit too slim, his muscles withering with age. A mane of white hair crowned a lined face and fading blue eyes that might not have witnessed battles but were well aware who gave the orders for death and destruction. His lips had never been full, but over the years they had narrowed to little more than slits near the bottom of a long, narrow face. His nose, appropriately, always reminded the admiral of a hawk.
Vander Rigel bowed. “Excellency.”
“Sit, sit.” The emperor waved a hand toward two comfortable seats in front of a sunny window, taking one for himself.
No firing squad then. Even a stoic military man like Vander Rigel admitted to a frisson of relief.
A slight frown crossed the emperor’s deeply lined face. “You were Ambassador to Psyclid at one time, were you not?”
Thankful for the neutral façade he had perfected over his many years as an officer and a diplomat, the admiral hid his surprise well. “Yes, sir, I was.”
“Do you recall the younger princess—a girl with one of those weird Psyclid names?”
“M’lani, sir? Yes, I remember her well, though she was only a child when I was there.”
The emperor’s frown turned to a scowl. “She has caused a great deal of trouble. Not only is she dangerous, she is fomenting rebellion. Grigorev wants her gone.”
“You can’t do that!” Vander Rigel, shaken out of his customary calm, gulped back hot words and re-phrased. “Excellency, I have no idea what the princess has done, but she is a not simply a member of the royal family, I understand she is destined to be queen. Touch a hair on her head and the Psyclids will rise up, flexing every one of their powers—”
“Nonsense, it’s all nonsense!”
The admiral took a deep breath, fighting his inborn Rigel arrogance. “Excellency, I spent two years on Psyclid, and I must tell you, you are wrong. The Psyclids have powers we cannot even imagine. Powers we need to respect.”
“We ran them down like mice, their resistance as futile as a babe’s. What kind of powers are those?” the emperor mocked.
“They are a peace-loving people and were unprepared for war. But I promise you, if you harm the Princess M’lani, you will rue the day. Grigorev might find himself on all fours, barking like a dog.”
“You jest.”
The admiral locked eyes with the emperor. “No, sir, I do not. Tell Grigorev to stand down.”
“Barking like a dog?” the emperor muttered, his gaze still challenging.
“Believe me, sir. You do not want to make the Psyclids angry. Please, I beg of you, leave the princess alone.”
“She destroyed three armored machines!”
“Did she now?” In spite of his strict military discipline, the admiral’s lips twitched.
The emperor described the scene in the park, adding, “And she was undoubtedly involved in destroying a third of our Heavy Weapons Depot several months ago. And likely up to her neck in the hostage escape as well.”
Dangerous indeed. “Nonetheless, sir, she is a sovereign princess and, as such, untouchable. Although you might make clear,” the admiral conceded, “that it would be best if she doesn’t repeat her performance.” Something the princess was likely being told by everyone who knew her. Clearly, the girl needed to be a bit more circumspect.
“That’s your trouble, Rigel,” the emperor growled. “You’ve always been a moderate. Too soft-hearted.”
“I have found it the wisest approach, Excellency.”
“Moderation did not bring us twelve star systems!”
“No, sir, of course not, sir. Our military did that. And I assure you I am as proud of their accomplishments as you are.”
“Humph!” The Emperor banged his fist against the arm of his chair. “Grigorev won’t like it.”
“Knowing Grigorev, I am surprised he paused long enough to ask permission.” Perhaps not the wisest thing to say, but the general was too much the martinet for a planet like Psyclid. A bad fit.
“He did not. I had the story from Kamal, my youngest sister’s son.”
Fyd! That was a surprise. Rand Kamal had ignored the chain of command, plunging the matter of the Princess M’lani straight into palace intrigue. Why? Was it possible his reason was altruistic, that there was no other way to deter Grigorev’s rampage after the hostages escaped?
Carefully, the admiral offered, “I believe General Yarian would have been more perceptive of Psyclid feelings, perhaps avoiding this crisis altogether.”
The emperor shook his head. “Unfortunately, he has shown no sign of improvement. I am ordering him home.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir. He was a good man.”
“And younger than I. Those batani Psyclids ruined him!”
“All the more reason to treat them with caution, Excellency.”
“Caution?” Darroch roared, bounding to his feet, the admiral swiftly following him up. “I am Emperor of the Regulon Empire. I do not do caution.”
Fyd! “I beg your pardon, Excellency, but caution is exactly what is needed. Inform the princess that you will stand no more nonsense, then let Psyclid retreat into somnolence. They value peace and life above all else. Leave the princess alone, leave the children alone, and all should be well.” Omnovah! After a lifetime of honor and honesty, he hadn’t known he could be such a liar.
Emperor Darroch waved agitated fingers in the admiral’s direction, a sign the conversation was over. Vander Rigel bowed and strode out, carefully closing the door behind him. Incredibly, he was still a Five-star Admiral, a member of the High Council, retired Admiral of the Fleet, retired Ambassador to Psyclid.
And chief instigator of rebellion on the Empire’s home world, Regula Prime.
Psyclid
“Enough!” Hands fisted at her sides, M’lani stalked across the living area of the Archeron embassy. Shoving the amber satin draperies aside, she searched for the spires of Crystalia, which rose above buildings and trees just over two kilometers away. Home. Where Jagan wanted her to go. Just until this nonsense blows over. But she was beginning to suspect Grigorev wasn’t quite sane—a man of great power to whom the word No was nothing more than a challenge. He would violate the sanctity of the palace as quickly as the diplomatic immunity of the Archeron Embassy.
The irony of it all. She, who had been appointed Jagan’s keeper, the person to pick up the pieces the Sorcerer Prime’s reckless nature strewed in his wake, had brought the wrath of the Empire down on them.
But when she’d seen those children with heavy guns pointed straight at them, she had let outrage overwhelm her common sense. And now it was likely she would pay for it. Or others would, for Jagan would never let them take her.
Or would he? She suddenly felt very young and stupid. Had she laid them all open for seizure and
interrogation? Jagan, her parents, Anton, Joss, T’kal, L’rissa, even B’aela, D’nim, and T’mar? For Jagan’s three followers had gone into the countryside as themselves, not under the magical disguises they had used at the embassy. Psyclids, Jagan said, must recognize and trust them as emissaries of the Sorcerer Prime. But if they were caught, they and everyone associated with them would die. With none of the hesitation that would occur with the arrest of the royal family and the Archeron Ambassador.
And all because foolish head-strong M’lani had lost her temper.
“It’s not that bad,” Jagan said, coming up behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders. “I wish I’d been there. They say you were magnificent.”
“Why is it so quiet? I don’t understand. Two whole days and not a sign of a Reg.”
“Maybe it’s like the Heavy Weapons Depot. They’re going to ignore it.”
“They can’t,” M’lani countered. “There must have been four families there, and at least a dozen soldiers. They couldn’t silence them all.”
“They could, but I don’t think they did.” Jagan spoke slowly, worrying the problem through. “Grigorev may have shown some sense and asked for a ruling from a higher authority.”
“On Regula?”
“It’s possible the matter has gone all the way to the emperor.”
“Oh, blessed goddess,” M’lani breathed. “That monster certainly isn’t going to spare me. Jagan!” She clutched the fullness of his black shirt. “You can’t fight Grigorev over this. We’re not ready. Everything we’ve worked for will be destroyed.”
Jagan rested his forehead on top of her head. “I can’t let him take you. You have no idea—”
“You must! Do you hear me, Jagan?” M’lani’s head came up so fast she nearly cracked his chin. “The rebellion cannot lose you to some Quixotic gesture.” She bit off her words, eyes going wide. “They’ll take me to Grigorev, won’t they? He’ll want to question me himself?”
“Very likely.”
“Good. I’d like that. I shall be delighted to tell him—”
Jagan shook her. “M’lani, won’t you ever learn? You cannot confront the GG. He can have you beaten. He can order your execution. Oh, there might be ripples of shock throughout the sector, but no one is going to challenge the Empire over some Psyclid princess foolish enough to kick a Regulon Governor General in the teeth. Metaphorically speaking.”
M’lani huffed. “Nonetheless, if they come for me, you will let me go. I assure you,” she added grimly, “if I am threatened, I am not the one who will die.”
“Fizzit! You cannot fight them all!”
She never had a chance to answer. The rumble of heavily armored groundcars echoed from the street outside. A tramp of booted feet, followed by a heavy fist pounding on the embassy door . . .
Chapter 25
“The royal witch, sir,” the captain of the guard announced with a curl of his lip, giving M’lani such a hard shove toward the general’s desk that she nearly ended up in an ignominious heap on the floor.
Arms flailing, she found her balance in the nick of time, coming to rest on her feet little more than a meter from the Governor General, who seemed to be enjoying making a show of sitting in the royal presence. Fury shook her. To be dragged from the embassy in a grave violation of sovereign rights honored for thousands of years, thrown none too gently into a sleek Reg groundcar by hard-faced soldiers with no respect for her rank, and now almost literally tossed at Grigorev’s feet . . .
Not even M’lani’s considerable imagination had prepared her for this. Falling back on years of royal training and the inborn arrogance of a family that had held the Psyclid throne for a thousand years, she gathered the scattered shards of her dignity around her and stood tall, chin high, and silent. Let Grigorev explain this outrage. If he could.
In the past M’lani had made an effort to ignore the acting Governor General, but now she studied him as intently as he was studying her. He was a burly man, with the aggressive stance of a born bully. His military-short light brown hair was only lightly threaded with gray, his blue eyes so light they were almost transparent. Even his face was well-muscled, with high cheekbones framing a nose too small for his broad mouth and square chin. Some might call him handsome—D’lila Lyrae perhaps?—but M’lani felt only revulsion.
One word fit, however. Intimidating. She had wanted this meeting, but now . . . Now at last she recognized the futility of it. Everything about General Anatol Grigorev indicated he had passed beyond reasonable discussion some time in the distant past.
“So how did you do it, Witch?” he barked, a statue suddenly springing to life. “Have you sent my machines to another dimension? Or to some hidden location where your foolish rebels think to use them against us? If they can figure out how they work,” he added with biting scorn.
Startled by his misunderstanding, M’lani remained silent. Go along with his misconception, tell the truth, or perhaps . . .?
“I am M’lani Sayelle Zarana Orlondami del Cid, Princess Royal, future ruler of Psyclid and wife of Royan Vivar del Cid, the Archeron Ambassador. No one other than our king and queen have the right to question me.”
The general flicked his eyes toward one of the three guards in the room. Like an automaton, the man stepped forward, delivering a back-handed blow that sent her staggering across the room, to sprawl on the carpet, a gray mist before her eyes, head whirling, thought impossible. Hands dragged her across the floor, flung her into a chair. Her brain, struggling back to reality, registered that someone had set the chair directly in front of the general’s desk.
“I repeat, Princess Witch, what have you done with my machines—the ones that disappeared from the Weapons Depot, the three armored cars at the park? Well, speak up, girl! The sergeant didn’t hit you that hard.”
You’re a dead man, you just don’t know it. A comforting thought, enough to revive her voice. “You mistake the matter, General. The machines are gone, never to return.”
The pale blue eyes sparked. “I grant your people have certain gifts, Witch. I even grant that telekinesis may be possible. There are Fleet records of a Psyclid cadet who could make weapons trajectories dance to a tune of her own making, but gone as in gone forever, that is absurd. I suggest you try telling the truth before I advise the sergeant to hit you with something besides the back of his hand.”
“Call in Lieutenant Rasman,” M’lani demanded, her voice growing stronger with each word. “Ask him what was left of his armored cars. A scattering of debris, that was all. Debris from vehicles that will never come back.”
“Impossible!”
Willing her throbbing head to move, M’lani looked around the room, settling on an armless chair similar to the one she was sitting on. To the guard standing next to it, she said, “I advise stepping away from that chair.” The soldier, clearly not as much of an unbeliever as his commanding officer, moved with alacrity. The chair disappeared.
A startled yelp, a whoosh of multiple breaths, a soft string of awed profanities from both general and guard.
“Bring it back,” Grigorev ordered.
“I cannot. Look at the dust on the floor. That is all that is left.”
“No-o.” The general shook his head. “This is not possible.”
“It is a rare gift,” M’lani conceded, struggling to sit tall when her body was demanding she give in and collapse to the floor.
A nod to the sergeant and he struck her in the stomach with the full brunt of his powerful fist, sending both princess and chair crashing to the floor. For M’lani the interview was ended.
As dawn approached, Jagan was still pacing the floor of the embassy’s primary living area. He shouldn’t have listened to her. He should have summoned his dragon and destroyed the lot of them.
Hardly, his inner voice mocked, overruling his weaker emotions. Using his powers would put an end to his masquerade as the Archeron Ambassador, likely ending his life and M’lani’s as well, with T’kal and his rebels tumb
ling down with them. Psyclid would be firmly back under the yoke of the emperor, and Tal Rigel’s hopes set back by years, perhaps forever.
So he had let M’lani go, willing himself to believe her assurances that she wanted an opportunity to talk with the general, perhaps negotiate a sensible truce. But he had a bad feeling . . . every one of his senses was screaming that something was wrong.
He burst through double doors that led onto the third-floor balcony, sucking in cool night air, raising his face to the swirling charcoal gray clouds obscuring Psyclid’s moons. An omen? He hoped not.
When had he begun to care? When had M’lani metamorphosed from brat to appealing female? To someone who was more than the Princess Royal? More than a wife whom he was obligated to defend?
Jagan gazed out over the deceptive beauty of Crystal City at night and reminded himself M’lani was still a headstrong, pampered princess, who had plunged them all into trouble. And yet . . . Jagan’s hands white-knuckled around the balcony railing as he raised his face to the threatening sky. Ah, goddess, I’m the sinner. Keep her safe. Bring her back to me.
A soft rustling sound had him spinning to his left, poised to fight. But all he saw was a raven, perched on the balustrade, its head cocked to one side, its dark beady eyes glittering in the ambient light from inside. Fizzit! Not an ordinary bird. Jagan opened one of the doors and the raven flew inside, coming to rest on the back of the sofa.
“You know,” Jagan drawled as the raven transformed into S’bella Cyr, one of T’kal’s rebels, “my father was a great sorcerer, and one thing he assured me was that shape-shifting was the stuff of legends.”
S’bella, a highly attractive young woman who was clutching a sofa cushion in front of her for a modicum of modesty, offered a tinkling laugh. “T’kal so enjoys the few moments he can confound the Sorcerer Prime.”
Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Page 19
