Great goddess, he could lose her!
Jagan struggled to keep his eyes on M’lani, while he too was moved inside and treated for a head wound and a laser-drilled hole through his leg. The occasional glimpses he got were not reassuring.
Finally it came to him—Tor wasn’t among the wounded in the shuttle. “Tor?” he said to the med tech working on his leg. “Where’s the giant? Why aren’t you helping him?”
The tech paused what he was doing long enough to turn his head and say, “I’m sorry, Sorcerer, the giant didn’t make it. But if not for him, none of you would have survived. I’ve never seen a body so riddled with holes.”
Jagan closed his eyes, his head flopping back onto the med bed. Tor from Hell Nine, who’d given up the life he knew to follow Jagan and his entourage on the long journey back to the heart of the rebellion. Tor, who had no magic tricks or paranormal skills, just his stoic determination to stay with his friends. His willingness to serve, his willingness to die.
Goddess, grant him peace.
“Sir? Excellency, sir?” Jagan scowled up at the young crewman who was trying to get his attention. “ I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but there are two women who insist they know you. One of them says we have to take her brother back to Tycho with us.”
Jagan blinked, forced himself to look away from M’lani’s seemingly lifeless body. “What?”
“Someone named Killiri,” I think they said. “He’s in bad shape.”
Fyd! T’kal too. But of course. He’d been standing right up front, welcoming them home.
“Bring them in,” Jagan ordered. “Do everything you can for him.” Too much, too fydding much. Just when they thought they’d won . . ..
The med techs were already stretched thin, focusing on M’lani, Joss, and Anton. And now T’kal, who, with his dynamic personality shut off, appeared woefully diminished in size. All those times they’d argued, fought, been jealous of each other’s power. Petty stuff. Beneath the dignity of rebel leaders. Never again, Jagan vowed. Then winced, knowing that even if Killiri survived, that was a vow he’d never be able to keep.
The long minutes as T’kal, L’rissa, and B’aela were brought aboard had been a welcome distraction. But now, as the shuttle door closed and the engines roared to life, Jagan turned back to M’lani, only to find the wall of backs totally closed, completely cutting off his view.
M’lani! Nowhere in his panoply of his sorcery did he have the gift of healing. Not even for himself. He could only beg the goddess that the doctors on Tycho knew how to work miracles.
Chapter 35
Tycho
Jagan had been separated from the others. And not a single fydding person would answer his questions. His leg was cleaned and bandaged, his head as well. A couple of millimeters to the right, they’d told him, and he’d be numbered among the dead. Finally, as one of the walking wounded (aided by a crutch), he’d been ushered into a room which seemed to be bursting with people. B’aela, L’rissa, Tal, Kass, even K’kadi. All offered sympathy which quickly shifted to the same questions he’d been tossing at the med techs since he’d come on board. Even K’kadi seemed unable to peer into the future. And if no one would tell Tal Rigel the truth . . .
Through his agony Jagan heard Kass ask, “How many were injured? Do we know yet?”
“Preliminary reports say eleven dead, fifty injured, ten critical. It could have been much worse, but Tycho’s cannon got one of the Taus and their fighters got the other two. It seems the Reg pilots went rogue,” Tal added. “Two of Kepler’s five fighters returned to the frigate, as ordered. The other three. . .” He shrugged. “Who knows what went through their heads. There are always firebrands who refuse to understand reason. Kamal turned purple when he heard.”
Rogue pilots, who refused to surrender. The rebels had a bloodless takeover in the palms of their hands, and then men with some extremist dream of glory had turned the Psyclid victory into a Pyrrhic act of death and destruction. Jagan didn’t bother to stifle a groan. Among those critically injured were M’lani, Anton, Joss, and T’kal. The heart of the rebellion. His heart.
Dear goddess, he’d never told M’lani . . .
Told her what, you fool?
That I really don’t mind being married to her?
She should have disintegrated you long ago!
That I don’t think of her as a baby sister any more?
His only response, a disgusted groan.
That she’s beautiful, charming, loving, and much too good for me?
A step in the right direction.
I never knew what love was until I met her.
Better.
I didn’t know how much I cared until I realized how lost I’d be without her.
Almost there.
Okay, so I love her. Not sure when, not sure how, but the blind idiot Sorcerer Prime is in love with his wife, and no fydding way am I letting her d—
All thought ceased as a doctor in surgical garb filled the doorway. Solemnly, he greeted Tal and Kass first. “Captain, Highness.” His gaze took in the rest of them, one by one. “We’ve managed to stabilize all four long enough to go ahead with surgery, and I assure you we have a full team of experts at the ready. Sergeant Quint, I believe, will survive, but Major Stagg’s wounds are critical.”
Jagan winced as an icy wind blew through him. He knew where this was going. Downhill. Fast.
“The Psyclid male . . .” The doctor paused, clearly searching for words more encouraging than the situation warranted.
“T’kal Killiri,” Tal offered. “Leader of the Crystal City rebels.”
“And the Psyclid female . . .” the doctor continued.
“Princess M’lani,” Jagan interjected. “My wife.”
The doctor focused his attention on Jagan. “I am sorry to inform you that both have suffered serious injuries. We have the best facilities available here. We will do everything we can, but I cannot guarantee success. Whatever god you pray to, I suggest you do so now.” With that, he disappeared down the corridor, presumably heading toward the ship’s surgery.
Into the ringing silence the doctor left behind came a primal scream inside Jagan’s head. Don’t just sit there! There has to be something in your bag of tricks.
Something, something . . .
He was losing M’lani, and his fydding brain wouldn’t work!
“Mother!” Kass cried. “Healing isn’t her primary talent, but she has some skill, and in any event she should be here.”
“And my mother,” B’aela declared over the general murmur of agreement with Kass’s suggestion. “She is a high priestess of the Golden Crystal and known for her healing power.”
“Her name,” Tal snapped. “I’ll send for her immediately.
“Morgana. Morgana Flammia.”
Jagan wasn’t the only person suffering here, he had to remember that. His entire life he’d wallowed in a sea of being an arrogant, self-centered son-of-a-bitch, his talent an excuse to do anything he wanted. He’d lived in a protected bubble, blind and uncaring. Until L’ira—Kass—dragged him into the rebellion. Until M’lani was thrust down his throat.
Until she taught him to look outside himself, to see the worth of others. To see their pain. And finally—today—feel their pain. Tor had given his life. A sacrifice Anton and Joss had also been willing to make. Only by their actions had his life been saved. Only by their actions did M’lani have any chance at all.
And how very lowering, Jagan realized, to find he had been no help at all, even now as powerless as the rest to save M’lani, T’kal, and their ever-faithful marines. They must depend on Reg doctors and two Psyclid priestesses to keep them alive, while the great Sorcerer Prime simply sat there, twiddling his thumbs.
The arrival of Queen Jalaine and the high priestess Morgana briefly interrupted his bitter thoughts, but the women were quickly whisked down the corridor and out of sight, leaving nothing more than a whiff of the glacier atmosphere between them to drift about the room in their wake
.
Great goddess! In the urgency of the moment, they had all forgotten that the queen and B’aela Flammia’s mother were destined never to be friends. The recent revelation of another royal bastard could not have been a pleasant surprise for the queen. Nonetheless . . . the two women had to put their enmity aside, because, if this ploy failed, there was nothing else.
A half hour dragged by. An hour. Jagan made so many seemingly useless bargains with the goddess, he could only see himself for the cowardly, unfeeling lout he was. Appalling husband. Far more of a bastard than B’aela or K’kadi would ever be.
Jagan was bent nearly double, head in his hands, when he heard a gasp from L’rissa. Four faces swam in the air of the small waiting room. M’lani, T’kal, Anton, and Joss. A glowing halo of light surrounded each. “K’kadi!” Jagan snapped. “Are they alive or dead?”
Alive. Four alive.
“Goddess be praised!” L’rissa murmured, her words punctuated by whooshes of relief from everyone in the room.
“But will they remain that way?” Kass demanded.
Yes. M’lani, long time.
“She will have a long life?” Kass asked. One look at K’kadi’s scowl, and she amended her hopeful words. “She will have a long recovery?”
Yes. T’kal tough. Mend soon.
“Anton?” L’rissa asked. “What about Anton?”
Strong. Joss too. Live.
With relief snapping his brain back to clarity, Jagan noted the joy on L’rissa’s face at K’kadi’s unspoken words. B’aela and L’rissa both heard him? B’aela was a powerful witch, but L’rissa? Was K’kadi reaching out, learning to extend his thought-speak to those outside the immediate family. Fizzet, but the boy bore watching!
The doctor suddenly appeared in the doorway. For a long moment, he simply stared at them, shaking his head before directing his words to Tal. “I have never seen anything like it, Captain. Two hours ago I would have said the princess and the Psyclid male had less than a fifty-fifty chance of making it through the day. And now . . . now I’d say they’ll be up to having visitors within the hour.”
Tal grinned. “It’s as we were taught, Doctor. Psyclids are very strange.”
Somehow, as impossible as it seemed, the Psyclid rebel command and the Sorcerer’s entourage—all but Tor—had survived. As well as the many who had suffered from less tangible injuries—B’aela, in particular. And Kass, who had fought her own battles with loneliness and fear. Tal Rigel, who had given up family and country, committing treason for all the right reasons. K’kadi, who had surely suffered from being mute for so long. Would anyone ever be able to understand the agonies that went on in the royal bastard’s head?
Yet none of them could rest. The rebellion had only begun—though exactly how the reign of Emperor Darroch was to be ended remained a mystery. All Jagan knew was that Psyclid, a stray planet in an obscure star system, would have play a vital role.
And in spite of K’kadi’s glowing vision of Tal and L’ira wearing crowns, Jagan had his doubts about who would replace Darroch. If, that is, the improbable happened and the rebellion succeeded. Jagan had come to suspect that K’kadi’s illusions were sometimes as much fantasy as prognostication, nudging people in the direction he envisioned. Therefore, the choice of a new emperor—if it ever came to that—was not set in stone. Possibly Tal Rigel, the rebel leader. Or perhaps his father, the diplomat, would be a better choice. And then there was the emperor’s nephew, Rand Kamal. Or . . . Jagan scowled. The choice might come down to some compromise candidate no one really wanted. Torik Vaden, for example—professional diplomat and chairman of the rebel’s governing council, Vaden was exactly the type to develop illusions of grandeur.
“Mondragon . . . Mondragon, you may see your wife now.”
Jagan’s legs wobbled as he scrambled to his feet, vaguely aware that L’rissa and B’aela were following a second tech in a different direction. B’aela rushing to Killiri’s side? For a moment the thought took his breath away, and then all was forgotten as he saw M’lani, her auburn hair falling over a face gone from pale to milky white. But her green eyes were open, staring straight at him. A wiggle of her fingers motioned him to her side.
Jagan dropped into the chair next to her bed and buried his face on her breast, both heart and head struggling with—could it possibly be?—the awakening of love.
Psyclid - the night of the Tri-Moon Festival
“My ears are ringing with too much praise, too many cheers, and I never want to see fireworks again as long as I live,” M’lani declared with the petulance of a still-recovering invalid. She lowered herself with some care into a comfortable chair in the private sitting area of their suite at Crystalia, where King Ryal insisted they reside.
Jagan rushed to her side, kneeling at her feet. “It’s all my fault. I should have insisted you stay home. I am a fool!”
“You would have deprived me of the sight of the Sorcerer Prime standing before all Psyclid, acknowledging the aid of T’kal, B’aela, D’nim and T’mar. Not to mention two Reg marines and a stray from Hell Nine.”
“Don’t forget M’lani, Princess Royal,” he added, cupping her cheek before suddenly going very still, as the significance of her words struck him. “Is it possible I have become less selfish? Perhaps more tolerable as a husband?”
M’lani offered an encouraging smile but remained silent, evidently waiting for him to answer this question for himself.
“As a sorcerer, I excel,” Jagan said, almost as if talking to himself. “As a man, not so much. As a husband, a miserable failure.” He hushed her protests. “Your sister was right to run from me. You should have too.”
“You wish you had remained with B’aela?” M’lani hissed, knocking away his hand as her head jerked up.
“No-o.” Jagan groaned. “You deserve something better than a sorcerer with his mind constantly filled with schemes and plans, lotions, potions, and spells. You need someone who can see a woman for what she’s worth rather than resent the fact he had no choice but to marry her.”
“Oh,” she said in a very small voice. “I had hoped . . .”
“Great goddess, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded!” Though still on his knees, Jagan was tall enough to meet her questioning gaze straight on. “Believe me, M’lani, it wasn’t you I resented, just the fact we had no choice. I mean . . .Fizzet, I was a stupid idiot! So full of myself I couldn’t see what a treasure I’d been given.”
When she continued to stare at him, clearly searching his face for some hint he was telling the truth, Jagan gently scooped her up and settled her on his lap. “We might not have had a choice,” he murmured in her ear, “but you must believe I know how fortunate I am. You, however?” Jagan sighed. “Not so fortunate. But I swear I’ll do better.”
M’lani leaned into him, tucking her head beneath his chin. He hadn’t said he loved her, that was too much to expect, but he did seem to have mellowed a bit, becoming aware of her as more than a partner in bed or in the rebellion. Since her close call, he actually showed signs of thinking of someone besides himself. So perhaps, at long last, it was time for her long overdue confession.
“When we were children,” M’lani said, “even though you were quite impossible, by the time I was thirteen thoughts of you filled my days and nights. You cannot begin to imagine how much I envied L’ira. She was beautiful, daring, gifted, and destined to have you. It just didn’t seem fair. But when she went to the Space Academy I allowed myself a crumb of hope—perhaps her destiny lay elsewhere. Which meant . . .”
M’lani’s voice trailed away as Jagan tilted up her chin, wonder dawning in his deep-set dark eyes, his question unspoken.
“I knew you didn’t care for me,” she rushed on. “It was always L’ira or B’aela. I was sick with jealousy. And ashamed for being such a fool. But when the moment came, never did a virgin sacrifice herself more willingly. Though I told myself I’d die before I’d ever let you find out,” she burbled. “It was so humiliating. Third-best
behind two of the most beautiful and intelligent women in the Sector.” She hiccuped on a sob, once again burying her face in his chest.
Jagan held her tight, kissing the top of her head, her forehead, the tip of her ear. “I must admit,” he said at last, “I’ve come to suspect that sorcerers remain celibate from pure cowardice. We are innately selfish, concentrating on esoteric goals, while ignoring the treasure right under our noses. We lust, but we fear passion, devotion, responsibility, commitment. And, most of all, love. Looking back on the past year, I can finally see you more than fulfilled your father’s orders. You scolded, you drove me nearly insane, yet you brought warmth and caring into my life. You taught me how to open my heart and be able to understand love. To love not only you but understand the people around me a great deal better than I ever had before.”
A tremulous smile tilted M’lani’s lips as she looked up, a dawning spark of hope lighting her eyes.
“It’s true,” Jagan continued, “that I did not love you when we married. I liked you well enough, but I loved no one. Oh, I suppose I once lusted after L’ira, but we all have a time of being young and foolish. I suspect it was only my pride that hurt when she ran from me. B’aela? She was friend, companion, comfort. I did not love her, nor did she love me. We were simply right for each other at that stage of our life.”
At this crucial moment, M’lani turned her head away, certain Jagan had done his best and could offer no more.
“But if there is one thing that clarifies reason, it’s a brush with death. I had plenty of time to contemplate the past year while you lay in bed, and I know now that I’ve been in love with you for some time, though it’s taken me a while to put it all together and admit the depth of what I feel.”
Gently, Jagan turned his wife to face him, leaning in to brush her lips with his. “I love you, M’lani Sayelle Zarana Orlondami Mondragon. And I vow I will love you, and you alone, for the rest of our lives.” He kissed her again, this time finding a more enthusiastic response. After a thoroughly satisfying few minutes, he asked, rather wistfully, “Do you think we might continue this where we have more room? Contortion is not one of my skills.”
Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Page 28
