Tal grinned. “I admit it was a bit tricky at first. But we’re a long way from Psyclid, and frankly no one was paying attention. Blue Moon, that hazy spot in the sky where the royal family used to go on vacation?” he mimicked. “Evidently, it simply wasn’t worth the effort, and of course no Reg wanted to admit they couldn’t penetrate the ridó. Not a message any officer wants to send back to the Emperor.” Tal gulped down a good half of his glass of karst. “And then Kass showed us a jumpgate behind Blue Moon, on the side that can’t be seen from Psyclid. After that . . .” He shrugged. “We can send as many ships in and out as we want, with no one the wiser.”
Tal, eyeing his father with considerable respect, asked a question of his own. “You sent us Tycho. And came here yourself. Just how did you figure out we were here?”
“Speaking of Tycho, assure Rybolt his parents are safe. His sisters and their families as well. I promised him I would see to their welfare, and I have.” Vander Rigel smiled, clearly enjoying being able to demonstrate that his son was not the only clever member of the family.
“As to your question,” he continued, “your followers are loyal, but you’ve been recruiting in the Nebulon Sector for some time now, and rumors are bound to be floating about. After all, hiding places that aren’t just hunks of rock are few and far between. Also, you’ll recall I spent several years on Psyclid, visited Blue Moon, knew about the ridó and the level of sophistication hidden behind it. I also knew that, if roused, the Psyclids could be far more dangerous than Fleet has ever imagined. And then there was your Kass, the cadet from Psyclid. I knew who she was, you see. You knew her only for a few weeks as a child, but I watched her grow up. All in all, Blue Moon seemed the perfect place for a rebel base, though I’ve always hoped Fleet Command would laugh in the face of anyone suggesting such a ridiculous idea.”
Slowly, Tal shook his head. “Perhaps Fate smiles on us. There are times—late at night, when all is quiet and I am alone with my soul—I have no other explanation. For all the good people, great people, gifted people I have in the rebellion, I can find no reason why we’re still alive, why we should believe that in the end we will win.”
“Because we must.”
“Are we mad?”
Admiral Vander Rigel looked his son in the eye. “Talryn, I fear every rebellion requires its leaders to be touched by madness. Else we’d never begin, let alone triumph.”
Solemnly, father and son clinked glasses. “To family and to the rebellion,” Vander Rigel offered.
“To family and to the rebellion,” Tal Rigel echoed. Eyes fixed on the dream of a new future, they drank.
Chapter 28
Oban, central city in Psyclid’s agricultural heartland
The next time B’aela saw Jagan, she was going to wring his arrogant neck. How in the name of the goddess he thought a witch from the big city should be the one to teach enlasé to hicks from the sticks must be the wonder of the ages. She’d like to think he assigned her the heartland because he thought it safer than the teeming port cities of Belem, Kang-Ki, and far-distant Vlad, each with a Reg frigate posted overhead. He’d even sent Tor with her to keep her safe. She cast a fond look toward the giant who was happily playing a game on his hand-held. At least he was happy.
But as for herself? She was teaching wide-eyed farmers to use a skill that had been forbidden for longer than anyone could remember—a skill that terrified some yet had others breathless with anticipation. And then there were those who refused to believe that King Ryal had approved such a criminal act and her work must be part of some grand Reg scheme to degrade Psyclid lives even further than they already had.
B’aela heaved a sigh. Worst of all was that idiot boy S’van who seemed to think he was in love with her, following her every step, practically breathing in her ear. He was as thick in the head as he was in the shoulders. Not even Tor’s fiercest glares frightened him off. Yet he could anchor an enlasé circle as if he’d trained for it all his life. Which just went to show the city witch that she wasn’t as smart as she thought she was.
As if that were anything new! If she’d been smart, her sixteen-year-old self would have run from the sorcerer with the flowing black hair the moment he showed an interest in her. But, oh, how he could ooze charm when he wanted to. He’d admired her skills—she’d basked in the glow, even though she could give the fledgling wizard a year or two. And on top of that, he was heir designate to the Sorcerer Prime. Some even said he might one day be king, since the queen showed no sign of producing a son.
She should have known what that meant, of course. Jagan Mondragon would be king because he married one of the princesses. But it had taken a while for her to figure that out, and by then it was too late. She was the sorcerer’s partner in every meaning of the word. Oh, she’d come to terms with it—being the mistress, never the wife. Which didn’t make it hurt any less when he sent her away.
Not that she’d ever loved him—at least not in the romantic way every girl treasured in her heart. They’d come together too young, been too absorbed in their magic, each too selfish to give more than their bodies. And in the end they knew each other too well, shared secrets no one else would ever know. They were a highly efficient team, makers of magic, white and black. But love, as B’aela suspected M’lani felt for Jagan . . . well, the princess was welcome to that elusive emotion. The dragon was a hard man to love.
Too bad she’d had to leave Crystal City when she did. She thought she’d caught a certain look from a certain man a time or two, a questioning glance, hastily covered. If she’d been able to stay, perhaps . . .
Foolish thought. To some people, no matter how much she accomplished, no matter how well she served the rebel cause, she would never be anything but the sorcerer’s whore.
The door to her small rented cottage flew open, and six gray-uniformed Reg soldiers burst through the door. Two of them had P-11 laser rifles to Tor’s head before he even realized they were there. Two more seized her arms, dragging her up from her chair. A third grabbed her hair, pulling her head back so sharply the certainty of death stabbed through her. Her neck would snap, bringing instant oblivion. But somehow the powerful jerk stopped just short of annihilation. A fourth attacker loomed in front of her, a mix of grim triumph and loathing emanating from every pore as he intoned, “B’aela Flammia, you are under arrest for sorcery, for teaching forbidden practices, for immoral conduct, and for treason against the Empire.”
May the goddess help us both, was all she had time to think before she and Tor were herded out the door and into the back of an anonymous groundcar.
It was all over, and B’aela had no idea how things had gone so wrong.
M’lani’s lips curled in a wry smile. Even Jagan’s nightshirt was black. How odd she hadn’t known that until they came to Blue Moon. But on Psyclid they had separate bedchambers, a common custom among Psyclid’s wealthy nobles, and he had always come to her in a robe, quickly shed to reveal the full naked length of him.
“It doesn’t stop, does it?” she said quietly as Jagan slid into bed beside her. “When we free Psyclid, it’s not over.”
He gave her an odd look. “No, of course not.”
M’lani fingered the bedcovering, embarrassed to admit she had momentarily forgotten the world beyond their tiny blip on the map of the Regulon Empire. “Somehow I hoped that after getting rid of the Regs we could simply settle down and enjoy our lives, but Tal needs you, does he not? So you’ll go dashing off to inspect jumpgates, terrify the Regs with monstrous illusions, play diplomat to the Herculons—”
“Oh no, I expect Rigel will reserve the Hercs for himself.”
Ignoring his qualification, M’lani followed her train of thought. “Yet there you sit, so calm and cool about it all, knowing you’re going to be risking your life over and over—”
“Rigel’s going to want you too. You, me, L’ira—we’re among the most powerful weapons he has. You can’t expect him not to use us.”
Us.
She stared, swallowe
d hard.
“Where’s the bloodthirsty woman who came back to me after her night at the Hall of Judgment?” Jagan demanded “Where’s the princess who finally developed a touch of the ruthless? No matter what Ryal says, M’lani, the rebellion needs you. To bring the Empire down, Rigel and the admiral must use every weapon at their disposal. The Reg invasion proved that Psyclid cannot simply isolate itself from the Empire and expect to be left alone. This time we can’t rest until Darroch and the High Council are gone forever.”
“But the Reg Fleet numbers in the thousands! It’s invincible.”
“Not if we take Regula Prime.”
“I know,” M’lani wailed. “I heard you all so blithely discussing the impossible. That’s why I’m upset.”
“Fine. I’ll work for the rebellion with B’aela by my side.”
M’lani shrieked and sat up, but her plan to pummel him with her fists got no farther than mid-air as his hands clamped down hard on her wrists. They sat frozen, glaring at each other for long moments before Jagan tossed her arms away, saying with considerable disgust, “Fizzit! I’m sorry. This is supposed to be a second honeymoon.”
M’lani folded her hands in her lap, bowed her head, reminding herself of all the reasons Psyclid needed the Sorcerer Prime. Why she needed him. And he’d been trying, he really had. It was her wretched tongue that spoiled it.
If she’d had the slightest hope that love might blossom under such adverse conditions . . . well, that was a foolishness she must put behind her.
“You know I will do whatever the rebellion requires of me,” she said at last. “I am not stupid, Jagan. Now that my hopes for a quick end to all this have been dashed, I accept that it is my responsibility to do whatever must be done, though I will always attempt to do it with as little loss of life as possible.” M’lani sniffed. With as much dignity as she could manage, she wiggled to the far side of the bed, ostentatiously plumped the pillow, and slid down under the covers.
Jagan turned out the light and did the same. The seething silence was broken only when he said, “I’m sorry I said what I did, but fizzit, M’lani, sometimes you drive me wild.”
“I have never been anywhere, you know,” she said into the darkness. “Just Psyclid and Blue Moon. It’s difficult to accept there is a whole galaxy out there.”
“Even after six years of Occupation?”
M’lani huffed and wriggled farther toward the edge of the bed.
“Fizzet, woman, I’m sorry, but the truth is, life’s going to be harsh for some time to come. We need to grasp the few good moments to keep us going during the bad.”
How she hated it when he was right. “You will not mention her name to me again,” she decreed.
Jagan groaned. “B’aela’s been my chief assistant for over a decade. Her name’s bound to come up!”
“Not in bed,” M’lani grumped.
“Agreed.
She sucked in a breath as Jagan’s toes touched hers, rubbing softly, asking a question. She was tempted to pull away, allow her collapsed dreams a bit more time to heal. But even on the ridó-curtained Blue Moon, disaster could happen at any moment. Rebellion meant danger, and she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life regretting turning her back on the Sorcerer Prime when life demanded more than she had thought to pay.
M’lani twisted her foot, engaging in the game as old as time. Questing toes, tangling legs, twining arms, melding mouths, heated bodies, the spear of life thrusting home. Creating their own cocooned world amid the chaos. Making magic.
After a second long day of talks, which involved myriad plans, some clearly necessary and others wildly speculative, Admiral Vander Rigel left for his return voyage to Regula Prime. M’lani and Jagan settled into something resembling the rest and relaxation they had hoped for—their greatest challenge, beyond each other, attempting a dialogue with K’kadi and his newly discovered “voice.” They viewed the buildings being erected for the many newcomers and did an overflight by helo of Tycho’s crash site, awed at the number of engineering techs swarming everywhere, taking the giant ship apart in large chunks.
As the helo turned for a second pass, Jagan felt his hand-held vibrate. It could wait. Hard to believe the wreck below was the giant battlecruiser they had faced just short of Choya Gate last year. The cruiser that could have ended the rebellion then and there, but had not. The cruiser that was going to be at the forefront of the effort to free Psyclid.
Maybe.
Jagan’s hand-held vibrated again. What was so important it couldn’t wait until he got back? He lifted the device to eye level and scanned the message. Fyd! He tapped the pilot on the shoulder, jerked his thumb back toward Veranelle. A nod and the helo did a slow right turn and headed home. M’lani grabbed his hand-held, lifting her eyes to stare at him as the words sank in.
Their time on Blue Moon was over.
When they barged their way into Tal’s office, K’kadi was already there, projecting two portraits: B’aela Flammia and Admiral Rand Kamal. S’sorrokan’s calm had clearly been breached. He appeared ready to explode.
“Explain this!” Tal demanded the moment he saw M’lani, flicking his hand at the two disembodied heads. “I can usually understand him, but not today. Every time I ask him if Kamal took B’aela, he says no.”
“K’kadi,” M’lani said gently to her brother, whose face was twisted in a scowl of frustration, “the message we received said B’aela was taken in Oban. That’s a not-quite-city in an agricultural region more than two thousand kilometers from Crystal City. Are you saying Kamal has gone there or had her brought back to Crystal City?” Fizzit! She knew better than to ask her brother a double question.
No. No.
A-ah. M’lani sighed. If she could ask the right questions, K’kadi’s new gift should make communication easier.
“K’kadi,” Jagan inserted, “are you saying the admiral might help B’aela? As he helped M’lani?”
A beaming smile, a decisive nod of his head. Yes.
Snorts of disbelief echoed from Tal and M’lani.
“Why would you say that, K’kadi? What do you know?”Jagan demanded.
Kamal strong. Darroch weak. Jagan’s eyes sharpened their focus as K’kadi’s words began to make sense. He was about to relay the message when Tal shook his head. “I heard him. Don’t ask me why, must be osmosis,” he grumbled. “Keep going. You’re doing better than I did.”
“K’kadi, are you saying Kamal has ambitions of his own, ambitions we could play on?”
The youngest royal shrugged. Help rebels? he suggested.
“Listen, K’kadi,” Tal inserted, “your powers constantly amaze me, but a Reg Rear Admiral helping the rebels is a bit much.”
A portrait of Admiral Vander Rigel popped into view next to Kamal and B’aela.
Tal groaned, plunging his head into his hands. Speaking to his desk, he said, “The shuttle will be ready as soon as we have a window on Psyclid’s night sky. I strongly suggest stopping in Crystal City first to find out what’s going on.” He looked at Jagan. “Then on to wherever they’ve taken her.” Jagan nodded.
“M’lani,” Tal said, “you do understand rescuing her is necessary? In addition to the fact she is one of us, B’aela is a powerful witch and expert teacher. We need her.”
Mortified that he would even question her attitude toward saving B’aela, M’lani choked out, “Of course, Captain.” What in the name of the goddess had L’ira told him? Everything, naturally. Her humiliation was complete. L’ira couldn’t possibly understand. No doubt, when Jagan was her fiancé, she had been happy to have his attention so thoroughly distracted by B’aela the Witch. Fizzeting Fizzit!!
“Then go and pack,” Tal ordered. “I’m sorry your time here has been so short. K’kadi,” he added, “go chase Alala or something. I’ve had enough illusions for one day.”
In less than thirty seconds S’sorrokan was alone.
Psyclid - Oban
“Would you believe, the Sorcerer’s Whore, right
here in Oban?” the Reg guard repeated yet again, lifting his fourth mug of ripka high. “Some kind of witch she is,” he muttered scornfully to the stranger sitting next to him. “We all had her, every last one of us—with the scratches to prove it—and not so much as a wart in return.”
“So you’ve said,” his drinking partner responded smoothly. So many times, in fact, T’kal feared the images the guard’s boasts conjured would be with him forever. “Perhaps you’re mistaken, Corporal. After all, B’aela Flammia is the Sorcerer’s chief apprentice, and it’s said she went with him, the coward, when he fled at the first sign of trouble.”
“Nah.” The corporal’s head wove back and forth in a drunken attempt to nod. “We have her picture—an old one, sure—but it’s her. Not a doubt.”
“A grand catch then.” T’kal, never known for his acting skills, was pleased he managed to sound sincere. “But do you have facilities secure enough to hold a witch?” he added, as if the matter were of only passing interest.
“Believe me, that witch-bitch ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“The policia have her then?”
“Trust the Sorcerer’s whore with Psyclid cops?” The guard stopped abruptly, staring at his dark-eyed companion. “Fyd! I almost forgot you’re a Psy. Why’d you want to know where she is? Feelin’ sorry for her, are you?”
Ignoring the sudden belligerence, T’kal returned easily, “Just curious. I’m from Crystal City, here on business. I remember B’aela Flammia well from before the Occupation. I thought to offer to identify her before you get the High Command all hot and bothered about capturing some wannabe witch from the back country.”
The guard’s eyes opened wide, his shoulder slumped. “Too late,” he muttered. “The comm already went out.”
“Not too late to rescind it. Before Kamal orders her to Crystal City. Or comes here himself.”
The guard shuddered, took a long gulp of ripka, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Peering at Killiri from beneath a frown, he asked, “You sure you can identify her?”
Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Page 22
