“No,” he returned, frowning. She knows that when the wolf goes, she goes.”
“Sometimes the urge to show off becomes irresistible,” B’aela said, her gaze focused on the oryx doing lazy sweeps across Red Moon’s mottled surface. “Foolhardy, but glorious.”
“Go!” T’kal shouted, as if L’rissa could actually hear him. “Fyddit, girl, get out of there!”
Streaks of light cut the night sky, bursts of laser fire from at least three different directions. The oryx continued to dive and turn, its wingspan now filling Red Moon from side to side.
T’kal fisted his hands at his side, groaning in frustration. “What does she think she’s doing? Winning the rebellion single-handed? And how in the name of the goddess,” he added more softly, “did she get so big?”
Sharp exclamations from the rebels as the silhouette changed. Not an oryx falling to earth, but a creature closely resembling the amorphous monster with the fanged mouth that had threatened the Reg fleet on the way back from Hell Nine. The creature grew, blotting out both oryx and Red Moon, continuing to expand until it filled a quarter of the night sky. Screams could be heard all around them, echoing through the park, throughout the city.
“What’s going on?” They all turned to see L’rissa walking toward them, a puzzled look on her face.
M’lani blinked. “We thought . . .”
“By the goddess, I ought to shake you!” T’kal roared.
“Not me,” L’rissa protested. I followed our plans exactly. Isn’t that Jagan playing oryx?”
“Not us,” the sorcerer said, waving a hand toward B’aela to indicate they were as much bystanders to this display as everyone else.
“Look!” M’lani cried. The monster had grown so large it seemed to be threatening to swallow the city. Streaks of laser fire from Reg batteries pierced the night sky in every direction.
“Fizzit,” L’rissa breathed, turning to Jagan. “I thought you needed enlasé to do that.”
“We do.” Jaws tight, eyes narrowed, Jagan kept his eyes on the sky.
“K’kadi!” M’lani groaned. “Enjoying himself hugely, no doubt.”
“Well, I suppose he can’t chase Alala every minute,” Jagan murmured. “I’m beginning to think the boy has an eye on my title.”
After taking a few more moments to savor the wonder of her brother’s power, M’lani heaved a sigh and cast her thoughts toward Blue Moon. Thank you, K’kadi, but we all need to go home now. Without laser fire.
The monster opened its great maw and seemed to swallow Crystal City’s tallest building. Then it winked out, leaving red laser streaks uselessly cutting the star-filled sky.
Scary. Her little brother was becoming truly scary. Who knew where his powers would stop?
“Well done, everyone,” Jagan said into his hand-held. “Go home, knowing tonight would have been a success, even without that last bit of help from Blue Moon.”
“What do you think Kamal will do?” M’lani asked as she and Jagan seated themselves in the old groundcar they used when they wanted to remain anonymous, the marines piling in after them.
“Hopefully, B’aela has a bit of magic left after tonight. She tells me he’s visited her twice.”
B’aela! If she had to be grateful to that witch for one more thing . . .
Calm. Reason. Common sense. Jagan was forever bound to M’lani Orlondami.
Whether he liked it or not.
B’aela sat at her window overlooking a courtyard with a fountain. With the season for growing flowers past, color in the garden was provided by hothouse plants in earth-tone urns, a warm and lovely sight. Comforting after their adventures of the night before. It wasn’t that long since she’d worked with Jagan, but it had felt like forever. Certainly, they’d done nothing so dramatic since making statues at the Empire’s Ascension Day parade.
But Jagan had moved on. She accepted it. Most of the time. And now there was Rand Kamal, yet another man she could not keep, even if he were not Emperor Darroch’s nephew. But under that military correctness breathed a heart she was quite sure was warmer than Jagan’s by some exponential number. Though far from being ready to share the admiral’s bed, she welcomed his visits. While challenging her every conviction, Kamal somehow managed to exude enough warmth and admiration to soothe her wounded soul. Thank the goddess she still seemed to have the power to attract . . .
No. More likely the Reg admiral was using her as she was attempting to use him. In his case, as a conduit to Jagan. Why else would the admiral risk a reprimand from the Reg High Command, who had to be suspicious of any fraternization after what happened to Grigorev?
A rap at her door. Lost in thought, B’aela almost missed it. Odd. Too early for a visit from Kamal . . .
The door opened half-way and a hooded figure slipped through. The silver robe, the elaborate blue embroidery on the wide sleeves and hem, indicated a high priestess of considerable rank. B’aela scrambled to her feet, her balance still not at its best.
“Sister.” She bowed her head in greeting, while thoughts of banishment whipped through her head. Perhaps the priestesses had not approved of her role in last night’s exercise in psychological warfare.
Her visitor shoved back her hood, revealing curly brown hair, streaked with white, ruthlessly pulled back and confined in braids twisted into a coronet on top of her head. The woman’s eyes were large, brown . . . and very familiar. B’aela saw them in the mirror each morning. “Mother?” she whispered. “They told me you were dead.”
A flash of amusement. “When one’s daughter is near the top of the emperor’s fugitive list, it is best to disappear. And so I did.” For a moment the priestess’s dignity wavered. “I should have contacted you as soon as you returned to Psyclid . . . at least as soon as you came to the convent. But it had been so long and you seemed so absorbed in what you were doing—teaching the forbidden.”
At that, B’aela stood tall and defiant. No one, not even a long-lost mother could tell her she had done wrong.
“Then there was the business with Mondragon,” Morgana Flammia added. “A wrenching, if inevitable, blow. I am sorry, truly I am, for not speaking sooner. But after last night, I realized I must. There is something you need to know. It can be put off no longer.”
B’aela, thoroughly confused, fell back on good manners. “Won’t you please be seated?” She waved a hand toward a nearby chair. “What is so urgent you have finally decided to acknowledge you have a daughter?”
The admiral did not visit the Convent of the Golden Crystal that day. He sent a car instead. B’aela glanced neither right nor left as her heels clicked down the long stone-floored corridors. The priestesses feared the worst, but it would do no good to look at their disapproving faces as she passed by, her bruises and bandages gone, only a slight limp still marring her step.
This change in routine could mean anything. A romantic rendezvous. Interrogation. Death. She had chosen to follow this path and must do so to the very end. At the moment it was impossible to separate self-preservation from self-destruction. She teetered on the brink, alone and unsure . . .
And then there was her mother’s stunning revelation. The tipping point in the conflicting raw emotions that surged through her.
B’aela looked out the car window and shivered. The rainbow lights of Crystal city glittered around her, as if she were traveling through a fairyland too beautiful to ever admit the existence of violence. This was Psyclid, land of peace, purity, and shimmering light. Her land. She would do what she must to protect it.
And yet . . . she could not shut out fear of the unknown. Where was she going? And why. What move was Kamal making? Ah, goddess, she had thought herself healed, ready to face whatever the goddess demanded of her.
Clearly, she had a long way to go.
Fortunately for her rapidly disintegrating nerves, the groundcar came to a halt only minutes later. Towering above them was a highrise building of blue crystos, its myriad windows glowing lavender from the lights withi
n. Not Reg HQ, that was certain. B’aela’s breath hitched. A ray of hope surged through her.
At the end of a smooth ride in a gleaming lift, the doors opened onto what appeared to be a penthouse apartment, the view from its wall of windows so spectacular B’aela did not even notice her host. By the time she did, her escorts were gone, and she was alone with Rand Kamal, who was holding out a glass of yrak, the Reg’s finest rose wine. “A toast to success,” he said, raising his glass. “I presume you had something to do with that remarkable display last night.”
Should she look him straight in the eye and drink up? Or play the wide-eyed innocent?
He noticed her hesitation, of course. He was far too intelligent not to. “A harmless exercise,” she offered, taking a sip of the effervescent pink liquid. “I thought it quite fascinating.”
“Not to poor young Regs far from home,” he returned, slowly shaking his head.
“Surely a few illusions can pose no terror to troops who are the scourge of the Sector?”
Kamal’s lips twitched. “Sit down, sit down,” he told her, waving her toward a black leather couch. “Let us be civilized, by all means.”
He remained standing, however, silently studying her, head tilted to one side. She had never seen him without his uniform before, but tonight he was wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt in a knit fabric that clung to a well-muscled chest over black pants almost as revealing. Not a look most men his age could wear. Though very likely a ploy to make her forget what a powerful position he held, she could not help a frisson of awareness. Yes, this man was definitely worth the risk. Personally, as well as to the rebellion.
He finally sat down in an oversize black leather armchair across from her. Leaning back, he regarded her with those bright blue eyes that seemed to see everything. “I am told only you and the Sorcerer Prime, working together, could have managed last night’s display.”
“If you have read about what we did in the past,” she returned steadily, “then you know we have never portrayed a wolf. They are legends from the past, not relevant to this day and age. Why the rebels—and I agree that the illusions were likely rebel-born—would choose a wolf, I have no idea.”
“Oh, well done,” he murmured, “but I doubt a legend savaged Grigorev’s throat. Nor did a legend leave gray hair from a beast as yet unidentified.”
“I am surprised your science is so limited,” B’aela purred, “but surely your people recognized the oryx. The view from the convent courtyard was remarkably clear,” she added before the admiral could pounce on her knowledge of the previous night’s illusions.
“It was brilliantly executed,” Rand admitted. “I cannot deny it. And I’m told the creature at the end was remarkably similar to the monster that defended the rebel ships when they were attacked by Fleet.”
“I have no idea,” B’aela responded easily, “but it was quite terrifying. I nearly ran inside and pulled the covers up over my head.”
Kamal knuckled his mouth, hiding what might have been a smile, before refilling their glasses. “For all I admire the style of the evening’s entertainment, I cannot ignore it, you know. I would soon find myself on display at court, yet another Governor General who failed to keep a backwater planet full of pacifists in line. Not the best career move, I assure you.”
B’aela straightened, staring at him over her rose-colored wine. Admiral Rand Kamal was addressing her as if he recognized her as an enemy leader, one with power enough to command his respect. She supposed she was, but how could he be so certain?
Fool! She’d been Jagan’s shadow for more than a decade. What else could he think?
Which led to Kamal being aware the spoiled little princess—M’lani, she corrected carefully—had been destined to marry the Sorcerer Prime. And the admiral was clever enough to wonder why, if the Sorcerer Prime was on Psyclid, the king and queen allowed her to marry an ambassador from an obscure planet . . .
Fizzit! She didn’t want to consider that possibility. But she had no choice.
“Admiral,” she said, catching and holding his gaze, “I trust you will not be too hard on us. Illusions are ephemeral, reminding us only that we are a nation of the mind. That attempting to fight is quite beyond our capabilities.”
He made a leisurely inspection, ranging from her soft silky slippers, up over the folds of the shimmering straw-colored robe that was standard garb for priestesses and long-term guests. His gaze lingered on her face, which was nearly back to normal, framed in hair almost as severely restricted as her mother’s. Not the look she would have worn if given a choice. But the young Reg lieutenant sent to fetch her had no tolerance for feminine vanity or delays of any kind.
“You are looking much better,” he told her, his eyes saying a good deal more than his words. “Do you plan to continue your stay at the convent?”
B’aela set her wine glass down on a low table, clasped her hands demurely in her lap. Looking up at him from beneath her long dark lashes, she murmured, “I have nowhere else to go.”
Rand Kamal leaned back in his chair, the man of power coolly assessing his latest prize. “Perhaps we can do something about that,” he offered.
Chapter 32
“Fyd!” The profanity escaped Jagan’s mouth as the faintest whisper of sound, but M’lani heard him, looking up from the lunch they were sharing to find his eyes fixed on his hand-held.
“What?” she cried.
After another moment or two, he clicked the device off and turned his attention to his wife. “My apologies. It’s not that bad. He might have done worse.”
“Who might have done worse?”
“Kamal. He’s closed every sports arena in town.”
“But why . . .?” M’lani paused, before slowly nodding. “He hopes to make our people angry at the rebels for causing trouble.”
“Told you he was clever.” No one gets hurt, no Psyclid martyrs to the cause. Just a lot of frustrated athletic teams, both amateur and professional. Plus fans.”
M’lani shook her head. “So what do we do now?”
“Exactly as we planned. Well before Tri-Moon, we need to make sure enlasé can circle the globe. Come the next full White Moon, we do a communications blackout of Crystal City. After that, the whole planet.”
“I know that,” M’lani ground out, “but how will Kamal retaliate?”
Jagan shrugged. “Does it matter? We have to test the system, find the weak points, fix them before Tri-Moon. The longer we have, the better, so we need to do the test now.”
M’lani stood, making no effort to hide her skepticism. Not that Jagan wasn’t right, but they’d learned the hard way that taunting the Regs was risky. She supposed it was a man thing. T’kal would have been at it every night if Jagan hadn’t reminded him that the rebels’ basic strategy was “lay low, practice, plan, wait for the final coup.” It was like a tri-D chess match, he’d told T’kal. Plan ahead, maneuver, get all your pieces in place. And then hit the Regs with everything we have.
And now she had to deal with one more tiny piece of the puzzle, a request from a very odd source. “I’m going shopping,” she announced. “L’rissa tells me her boutique has acquired a new shipment of gowns.”
Jagan, eyes once again focused on his hand-held, waved a negligent hand in her direction.
M’lani puffed a small sigh and ordered the hovercar.
There were customers in the shop when she arrived, L’rissa’s very proper greeting that of the owner of an upscale boutique to the Princess Royal. And just as she had so many moon cycles ago, she suggested, “Highness, I have arranged a private showing of our latest designs. Please allow me to escort you to our showroom.” Leaving the outer room to an assistant, L’rissa ushered M’lani through the doorway into the back room then quickly bowed herself out, though not before M’lani caught the apprehension on her face. She turned toward the woman who had been sitting in a chair facing the runway and had now risen, proud and defiant as ever, looking straight at her.
“Highn
ess,” B’aela Flammia murmured, adding an infinitesimal bow of her head.
M’lani strode forward, taking a chair across the narrow aisle and waving the witch back to her seat. “Well?” she challenged. “You asked for this meeting. What do you wish to say?”
With no attempt to soften the blow, B’aela returned, “I believe Admiral Kamal has penetrated Jagan’s disguise.”
Her words were so far from anything M’lani anticipated, for a moment she could only stare.
“I am almost certain he suspects the Archeron Ambassador is the Sorcerer Prime.”
As much as M’lani wished it otherwise, there was nothing but truth in the witch’s eyes. She believed her. “But why tell me and not Jagan?” she asked, more than a little bewildered.
For the first time B’aela’s proud stance wavered, her gaze dropping to her toes, her fingers fidgeting with her priestess robe. “There is another matter I must disclose, one for your ears alone.” A ghost of a smile flared and was gone. “I thought it efficient to combine the two errands.”
Deciding silence was her best choice at this point, M’lani waited, watching Jagan’s witch from beneath lowered lashes, sensing the significance of the moment.
“I thought my mother dead,” B’aela said at last, “lost during the Reg invasion. But to my great surprise, she has revealed herself to me as a high priestess of the Golden Crystal. She came to me not long ago with a tale I could scarcely believe—and yet I have never known her to lie.”
In that instant M’lani saw it all—K’kadi’s interest in B’aela, her ability to interact with him. Ah, great goddess, B’aela was—
“My mother claims I am one of the king’s bastards—from before he was married. “She never told him,” B’aela added hastily. “He has no idea.”
“So we are sisters,” M’lani whispered, green eyes fixed on brown. How remarkably ironic.
“I am older than I look,” B’aela admitted with a slight grimace. “Older than Jagan by a year or two. And I know I look nothing like any of you,” she continued, her usual cool demeanor suddenly shattering. “I am the image of my mother. If not for being able to hear K’kadi, I think I would not believe it myself.”
Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Page 25
