“B’aela always keeps a firm eye on her personal future. After all, she knew there was no future for the two of us.”
“I suspect,” M’lani said slowly, juggling the many motives behind B’aela Flammia’s surprise move, “she is still thinking of the rebellion first . . . and perhaps planning to enjoy her association with the admiral while she is at it. Coupling, even without love, brings pleasure, does it not? We provide ample evidence of that, I believe.”
Jagan’s head jerked up, his black eyes piercing, as for the first time in their conversation he concentrated on his wife. “You are saying our marriage is loveless?”
“No, of course not.” M’lani’s head whirled. Back to B’aela. Quickly. “I don’t hate her, at least not any more. When I saw what happened to her—I have some idea what it’s like to be a Reg captive, after all—well, instead of B’aela being my worst enemy, she became human. My heart wept for her. And when I heard she had slipped away and gone to Kamal, I could only gasp in admiration.”
“You are avoiding my question.”
A bristling silence touched with sadness stretched between them while M’lani searched for words that would make sense to herself as well as to Jagan. “When we were children, I often thought I hated you—your teasing was abominable, you know. But I also admired you, even hero-worshipped you at times.” She paused, royal pride tempering the words that needed to be spoken. “That night—the night of L’ira’s wedding—I was not sacrificing myself. I truly felt that marrying you was the right thing to do.”
“And?” Jagan challenged.
“Passion is a great comfort . . . but, yes, I hoped you would come to love me in time. Silly me, I believe I even hoped you would love me more than B’aela, perhaps even more than my sister. Which seems so shallow now, does it not? With the rebellion fully occupying our time, how can we find time to indulge in something as selfish as exploring our emotions?”
Jagan’s fingers pulled hard on the straight black hair above his forehead, willing the pain to help him think straight. His marriage simply was. A necessity he had accepted. But now she wanted love? At least that’s what he thought M’lani was saying in the convoluted female reasoning coming out of her mouth.
Fyd! He’d known her all her life, always thinking of her as a sister rather than a mate. He even cared for her, as brothers did for bratty little sisters. And he’d thanked the goddess for the mysterious passion that exploded between them when they touched. Otherwise, bedding that little sister might have been more than awkward.
But love?
Had he ever loved anybody? Some would say, only yourself, his inner voice mocked. And you weren’t exactly happy when L’ira ran off to the Space Academy. So . . . he’d loved L’ira. At least he’d thought so at the time. B’aela , however, had been business . . . and need. The mutual enjoyment of two souls who understood each other.
And, besides, didn’t M’lani know love had no part in a royal marriage? Clearly, Ryal and Jalaine had failed to imbue their daughters with the proper attitude.
Love, ha!
Yet L’ira and Rigel made it work. Rebellion and love in one tight little package. Though he was willing to bet not all went smoothly in the privacy of their suite at Veranelle. Ryal and Jalaine? Well, K’kadi was proof that theirs was a marriage with more than a few twists. Jagan sometimes wondered if Ryal had any other surprises dangling on the Orlondami family tree.
M’lani was waiting for him to say something, and as far as comforting words were concerned, his mind had gone blank. Slowly he stood up, walked around the low table between them, and sat down beside her. “M’lani . . . for thousands of years great sorcerers were celibate, and more and more I see the reason why. Look what’s happened to K’kadi since he fell in love. Believe me, I quaked at having to trust him with the shuttle, and that absurd vision of B’aela and Kamal could only be the product of an overactive imagination.“
Jagan shook his head and returned to making his point. “I never spent much time thinking about it, but some of the old ways still influence our thinking. I have always held myself aloof, enjoying bodily pleasures but never letting them distract me from whatever magic I was practicing at the moment. Even B’aela—believe me—never kept me from that.”
M’lani remained turned away, her body stiff, uncompromising. “Will you tolerate the way things are between us until Psyclid is free?” Jagan asked. “Will you do what L’ira must surely do for Rigel? Give me time to get the burden of rebellion off my shoulders before I can cope with the great weight and responsibility of love?”
“How lovely to be able to compartmentalize so easily,” she murmured.
Fizzit! “M’lani . . .”
“No, no, it’s all right. You have made yourself quite clear.” She stood. “If you will excuse me, I believe I hear my bed and a good book calling.”
She sailed out of the room, back stiff, head high, while Jagan issued a string of soft profanity in five languages, including Old Latin.
“We can’t just sit on our hands for the next Tri-Moon while the whole fizzeting planet learns enlasé. And how to control their romantic impulses,” T’kal Killiri added bitterly.
“I didn’t say that,” Jagan returned, “just that there’s no sense taunting Kamal into becoming another Grigorev.”
“I thought your witch was taming the beast.”
“She’s still at the Golden Crystal,” L’rissa interjected quickly. “She’s heard nothing from him.”
“Well, fyd that idea.”
Tonight they were in a new meeting place, a basement storeroom in the Crystal City Archives, small by the standards of the Regulon Interplanetary Archives, although it made up for lack of size by its strange and wonderful content—musty and mysterious volumes on ancient magic. With the entire building spelled to keep all foreigners out, it seemed the rebels’ safest meeting space yet. Jagan had been forced to work some very special sorcery to get his Reg marines through the door.
T’kal glanced around the ugly little room, scowling. “I can’t keep them idle, Mondragon, while the rest of Psyclid catches up. We have to keep our hands in, else we’ll be useless when the time comes.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Jagan said, “but getting into a cycle of raid-retaliation-raid-retaliation doesn’t make much sense either.”
M’lani, who had been talking with some of the women, strolled up in time to hear his words. “Kamal isn’t Grigorev,” she offered. “As long as we avoid killing his men, I don’t think he’s going to do anything outrageous.”
“Lovely,” Jagan mocked. “We can freeze a shuttle to the dock, zap his communications, and the kindly admiral is going to do nothing?”
“It’s war, fyddit!” T’kal declared, his voice rising enough to shift all eyes in their direction.
“A few more days,” M’lani pleaded. “Give B’aela a chance.”
“Kamal’s as tough as he is shrewd,” T’kal growled. “I don’t give a pok how good Flammia is, she’s not going to turn him. What the . . .”
A whoosh of air from two dozen throats as B’aela’s image appeared just above their heads, the room’s low ceiling making it close enough to reach out and touch. One daring rebel did exactly that, his hand passing through the illusion undisturbed. He backed up, muttering a warding spell. Another image popped into place beside the Psyclid witch. Admiral Rand Kamal.
“I can’t believe it,” M’lani whispered. “A vision all can see, when we are underground and so far from Blue Moon.”
“The boy grows stronger,” Jagan agreed, his eyes narrowing to slits.
“How does he know this is where we are or what we’re discussing?” L’rissa asked, eyes wide with awe.
“He cannot explain,” M’lani responded. “And we’ve given up asking.”
More gasps, as next to the portraits of Kamal and B’aela, another vision appeared—the stage of the amphitheater where the Tri-Moon Festival was celebrated. Ryal and Jalaine held center stage, Jagan and M’lani st
anding just to their right. The vision expanded to include a wildly cheering audience. And fireworks.
“He never could resist fireworks,” M’lani murmured.
“Everyone knows the prince is mad,” T’kal growled. “Yet you actually believe this nonsense?”
“In return for the normalcy he was born without,” Jagan said, “he seems to have been endowed with remarkable gifts.”
“I think he’s saying,” M’lani offered slowly, “that the association of B’aela and Kamal will play a role in gaining our freedom.”
B’aela may seal the deal,” Jagan added, “but I suspect the admiral is already sensing a shift in direction, fresh winds blowing through the Empire. I’m beginning to think he needs only a nudge in the right direction.”
For the space of ten seconds, the amphitheater was replaced by a grinning face framed in a halo of pale drifting hair. And then K’kadi was gone. After a short pause while they waited to see if there would be more, noise swept the room as everyone talked at once.
L’rissa shot a glance at her brother, whose expression was even more thunderous than usual. “I think he’s saying the Tri-Moon Festival is Freedom Day.”
“Too far away,” T’kal growled. “We’ll lose our edge.”
“I agree,” Jagan said. “We lose ground if we sit idle. How about disrupting communications? Nobody gets hurt if we jam cyberspace. What do you say, Killiri? Let’s bait the tiger and see what happens.”
A moment’s pause. “Very well,” T’kal grumbled, “but don’t think I trust the visions of some misbegotten boy who nearly got us all killed the night we met.”
“There wasn’t a Reg soldier in sight!” L’rissa protested.
“There could have been.” T’kal Killiri, stubborn to the end.
“What else can we do that doesn’t kill people?” Jagan asked.
L’rissa’s eyes lit up, glowing with mischief. “Strange sights against the full moons,” she offered. “Howling wolves and soaring birds.”
“What about me?” M’lani demanded.
“You,” Jagan said, favoring her with a stern look, “are too dangerous. “You might make Kamal really angry.”
“Another night at the Heavy Weapons Depot. Please!”
Jagan, ignoring her, turned back to T’kal. “Fine. We’ll start small, see what happens.”
T’kal nodded as the Sorcerer Prime grabbed his wife’s arm, leading her toward the circle L’rissa was forming. Tonight’s practice session: enlasé, followed by jamming skills.
“Strang!” Admiral Kamal greeted his aide with enthusiasm. “Sit and tell me what you found out.”
“Every word the witch told us was true. Except nine guards boast of violating what they call the Sorcerer’s witch-bitch.” It’s a wonder she’s still alive.” For a moment the colonel paused, looking down, his hand covering his expression.
“Any officers among them?”
“One. A lieutenant.”
“And the class she was teaching?”
“Some magical nonsense which no Reg understands and no Psyclid will admit to. But it’s clear she was betrayed by a jealous female with an active imagination. The young man involved nearly pissed his pants when I questioned him, assuring me his girlfriend had gone mad. That the witch was merely passing along ancient Psyclid traditions.”
Kamal tapped his fingers on his desktop. “Arrest all nine,” he ordered. “Have them brought here. They can warm the cells downstairs.”
“They won’t understand, sir. They were bragging when they told me about it, without a moment’s hesitation.”
“Then it’s time we set an example, is it not? It would appear Grigorev’s attitude is wide-spread. The idiots probably thought his manner of death nothing more than a nasty rumor.”
“Yes, sir,” Strang returned faintly. “I’ll do it now.”
“Wait. Never mind,” Rand Kamal said as the colonel rose. From the look on your face, I see I’d best do it myself. From what you’ve said, any other face on the screen and the senior officers might think it a joke.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” The colonel saluted. “My report is on your portapad, sir.”
For a long moment after Colonel Strang’s departure, Rand Kamal stared into space, the vision of B’aela Flammia’s battered face as clear as if she were still sitting before him. He knew what she wanted—the sultry Psyclid’s message could not have been more clear. And if he took her up on it, his alienation from the Empire would begin. Not much doubt about that.
Except that it had already begun. Little more than vague uneasiness until the night he came straight from Grigorev’s gory body to discover the Princess Royal had been beaten. And then came his interview with B’aela Flammia.
It had been seven days now. Surely it was only politically correct if he called on her to see how she was recovering . . .
Chapter 31
They waited until a night when Red Moon was full. Until the glowing blood-red orb of Psyclid’s nearest moon rose above Crystal City at a time when most people had finished their evening meal and many were heading out in search of entertainment. To everyone’s surprise, in the course of practicing enlasé, Tk’kal and his weres had discovered that in most cases the power of the mind meld could prevent unwanted shifts at full moon. Even at Tri-Moon, when three full moons lit the night sky, most of T’kal’s younger and weaker weres could be kept from turning into their animal form.
Nonetheless, Jagan and T’kal had agreed to play it safe. The goddess and Tycho repairs willing, they had scheduled Psyclid Freedom Day for two weeks before Tri-Moon, when there would be no possibility of were-ravens, bats, foxes, bears, or wolves breaking the human chain needed to make enlasé work.
Tonight, however, made few demands on the pack. Jagan, T’kal, and L’rissa would bear the burden of what was merely a warm-up, a practice run for the big moment when Psyclids would take back their planet in one great hammer-blow of rebellion.
Just as the moon peeked over the horizon, the rebels began to gather in a sheltered space behind the amphitheater in the Royal Park. One by one, they slipped through the small portal in the warded circle formed by a dozen adept witches.
“You sure you can do a wolf, Mondragon?” T’kal Killiri taunted, though with more humor and less bite than usual. “Or do we have to look at that batani dragon of yours again?”
“A live model might help,” Jagan returned blandly.
T’kal huffed, then chuckled, something close to a grin spreading over his rugged features. “Well played, Sorcerer.” He disappeared inside the amphitheater’s rear door, where some of his men were setting up the sound system for the evening’s foray into psychological warfare.
M’lani, though determined not to react, could not stifle her gasp a few minutes later, as a large gray wolf, yellow-green eyes glowing with challenge, trotted out of the building. Knowing T’kal was a were and actually seeing him in wolf form were two entirely different things.
“May I touch you?” M’lani whispered. The wolf obligingly moved forward, stopping in front of her. “I beg your pardon,” she said, as she touched the mottled rough gray fur. “I am accustomed to illusions, but this . . .” Sensing she might have violated some were protocol, she stepped back, adding, “Thank you. I look forward to telling my parents there are phenomena on Psyclid they know nothing about.”
The wolf stalked over to Jagan and struck a pose. A ripple of laughter swept the rebel gathering. Sorcerer and beast exchanged a long look before Jagan called to the techs: “Ready, sound?” After receiving a swift affirmative: “L’rissa?”
“I’m ready.”
“Perimeter?” Jagan said into his hand-held, receiving in return a chorus of all-clear’s. He nodded to L’rissa, who after a swift hug from M’lani, disappeared around the side of the amphitheater. Soon a giant oryx rose above them, spiraling into the night sky.
M’lani followed the flight with concern. L’rissa was the only person at risk tonight. The rest was all illusion.<
br />
She stepped back, joining the onlookers, as Jagan took B’aela’s hands and they both looked skyward, directly at the glowing surface of Red Moon. This was rebel business, and jealousy had no place here. Nonetheless, M’lani couldn’t help but wish she was the person with the necessary gifts to be holding Jagan’s hands.
A giant wolf’s head suddenly appeared on the surface of Red Moon, its teeth bared in a snarl only slightly less menacing than a dragon. A cacophony of wolf howls rose above the sounds of the city at night, echoing eerily down every street and alley. Pre-recorded by the pack and broadcast over electronic devices, the effect was enough to send shivers down every spine, even those who knew the source. Only a very few on Psyclid had ever caught sight of the old Earth creatures, and it was likely even less knew what fearful predators they once had been. Yet atavistic terror remained. The wolf’s-head illusion, the howls, were enough to cause the bravest soul to tremble.
And then the slavering wolf was joined by the soaring body of the giant predator known to all, an oryx. The wolf’s image contracted, making room for the broad wingspan of the bird to be fully silhouetted against the moon’s red glow. The bird swooped and dived. The wolf’s jaws opened, baring its teeth, just as a well-timed menacing snarl echoed into every corner of the city.
M’lani shivered. Magnificent! But enough was enough. If the Regs realized the oryx wasn’t an illusion . . . If someone was smart enough, fast enough, to aim a laser cannon . . . “Jagan?” she called. “Jagan?”
For several seconds neither sorcerer nor witch moved a hair, standing as if carved from stone, every fiber of their beings focused on the terrifying creatures outlined against the glowing red moon. Then with no visible signal, Jagan and B’aela broke hands, stepped away from each other. The wolf vanished, leaving the great predator bird the sole target in the night sky.
T’kal, T’kal . . . ? Frantically, M’lani searched the darkness around her, a sigh of relief whooshing out as he came around the corner of the building in human form, wearing a hastily donned brown monk’s robe. “They’re going to shoot her down!”
Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Page 24
