“I would have gone to Oban for anyone who needed rescuing.”
“I know . . . but it wasn’t like that, was it?”
T’kal drew a deep breath. “No.”
“You were so angry when I went to Kamal. Every time I reported to you, you positively seethed.”
“Yes.”
“I know you loved your wife. A good woman. Pure." The words tumbled out. "It is the talk of Psyclid that you have never looked at another—”
I looked. I did not act.”
“Oh.”
He knew what she was trying to say. An acknowledgment of something they’d each known for a long time, and for myriad reasons refused to examine more closely.
“B’aela,” he burst out, “you know what I am!”
“As you know what I am.” A whore. Unworthy of the Hero of Psyclid. Most particularly, the role of mother to your children.
“Feelings aside,” T’kal said, ignoring the scarlet letter B’aela was certain must be flashing on her forehead, “I fear the pairing of witch and wolf.”
Dear Goddess! She’d thought of all the other reasons he might object, but not that. Under the light of a full Blue Moon, B’aela studied the man she had admired for so long—the dark eyes, the square jaw, the sturdy body with shoulders broad enough to carry the whole of Psyclid on his back. “When I was very young,” she told the Alpha of his pack, “I thought I knew what love was. I wanted the Sorcerer Prime as a plant longs for the sun. But the sun burns, and in the wisdom of a more advanced age, another man caught my eye and my admiration. A man who flew half way round the world to save me from the most terrible degradation of my life. A man who single-handedly took down the Reg Governor-General—”
“‘Handedly’ is perhaps not the most accurate word,” T’kal drawled.
Distracted for a moment by his grim humor, B’aela pictured a shaggy silver gray wolf tearing out the throat of Governor-General Anton Grigorev. She had not been there, but she had savored the reality of it many times over.
B’aela drew a shuddering breath and continued with the most difficult words she would ever have to say—the truly important ones she had to get out because it appeared T’kal never would. She was unworthy, she knew that, but she had crafted every second of these snatched minutes on the balcony, and she would not throw the opportunity away.
“I wish to continue my list,” she said, meeting him eye to eye and emphasizing each word. “A man I have come to love, and whose children I would like to make my own.” Her chin jutted up. “Even though I know I have fallen too far and have no right to ask for any man’s love—”
“Hush!” At long last, T’kal did not hesitate. He folded her tight against his chest. “I would say madness has attacked us both, but since it’s been this way with us for some years now . . .” B’aela felt a chuckle ripple through his chest. “Whichever way I look at it, it’s wrong. Except you are the only woman who has ever tempted me into a second love. So I fear we may be stuck with each other.” His lips touching her temple, T’kal added, “As part of your carefully laid plans, you wouldn’t by any chance have a limm standing by?”
“But of course. How else would I take home the man of the hour?”
K’kadi, who had been released from the dais and was dancing with Talora Lassan, the woman some called his second wife, smiled and nodded his satisfaction. It was about time B’aela took his mother’s advice. Which, he realized, would likely make him related to four of the most powerful men in the Nebulon Sector: Tal Rigel, Jagan Mondragon, T’kal Killiri, and in the not-too-distant future, the Emperor's nephew, Rand Kamal.
The end of the Empire was coming. It would take a while, but it would happen. That much he knew. Though who would sit on which throne—which thrones would even exist when all was said and done—was beyond even his powers of prognostication.
Chapter 1
By the calendar of Regula Prime, three years, four months after the second Battle of Psyclid
Brring-chirp. Brring-chirp. Eyes still closed, Kelan Rigel slapped his hand onto the small table beside his bed. Missed. Brring-chirp. Brring-chirp. Whatever possessed him to choose such a cheerful ringtone? He’d change it—as soon as the sun came up.
Brring-chir— Got it!
“Kelan,” he mumbled into his handheld, his thoughts not getting beyond wondering which drunken buddy wanted to talk war and peace—or maybe the more difficult topic of women—in the wee hours of the morning.
“Kelan?” A whisper, but enough to shock him awake, the hairs on his arms standing on end. No way to identify the voice, yet with the instinct that ran true in the Rigels he knew something bad had happened.
“Yes,” he returned, suddenly cautious, as a Rigel on Regula Prime had to be these days. A Rigel rebel not safely tucked away behind a ridó on Blue Moon but smack in the middle of the enemy.
His own people, the enemy.
“It’s Yuliya.”
Kelan jerked upright. The room’s temperature dropped ten degrees. At least it felt that way. He’d known Yuliya Kamal since they were children. They had danced and flirted their way through dozens of grand affairs over the years. And met in more informal moments when the Rigels and the Kamals, two of Regula Prime’s great families, were still friends. Back before Yuliya’s father became a prisoner of war or perhaps a traitor—the Reg admiral who had urged his own Space Fleet to go home at the second Battle of Psyclid.
Which was about the same time the name of the supposedly long dead Talryn Rigel crept to the forefront of the speculations about the identity of S’sorrokan, leader of the rebellion. The awkwardness—the danger—of being related to two such questionable characters had brought Kelan and Yuliya closer together.
Admiral Kamal’s wife Montiene, evidently considering the continuing comfort of her life at court more important than the now vague possibility of becoming Empress, had divorced her absent husband, and married yet another of Emperor Darroch’s close relations, one not in such imminent danger of losing all his possessions, including his head. Yuliya and her younger brother, Erik, had therefore continued to live in luxury in the palace, although the strain of fearing their father a traitor hovered ominously over both. Hardly surprising they turned to old friends with a similar cloud of suspicion over their heads—Kelan and Dayna Rigel, who had long maintained apartments in Titan, the capital city, so they could enjoy what the metropolis had to offer, free from parental oversight.
“Men took us, put us on a plane,” Yuliya continued in a voice still little above a whisper. “A flight of more than an hour. I’m sure I saw Ropa Velicha just before we came down. After that, a short helo ride. I’m almost certain we’re at the Royal Retreat.”
Yuliya could be right. Ropa Velicha was Regula Prime’s tallest peak, an easily recognizable landmark in the northern mountains. Kelan frowned, hearing something rare in Yuliya’s voice. Fear. And yet none of it made sense. Her mother was one of the Emperor’s favorites, and for three long years Darroch had persisted in referring to his absent nephew as a prisoner of war. So why turn on his children now?
Unless . . . deep down, Darroch had finally acknowledged that Rand Kamal was a defector, not a prisoner of war. And had turned his bitter disappointment in the designated heir to the throne into vengeance against targets closer to hand. Or . . .
Was it possible Yuliya and Erik were hostages?
Kelan, who had been running the Rigel armaments business since he turned twenty-one, was no more a fool than the other members of his family. “Yuliya,” he said after an almost inaudible huff of breath, “if you’re saying you’ve been kidnapped, how is it you still have your handheld?”
“Search me? They would not dare!” Her voice rose to a near shriek before she realized her error and dropped back to a hoarse whisper. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Erik’s asleep and there’s a guard outside our door. But truly, Kelan,” Yuliya continued, her voice hardening to the arrogant aristocrat he knew so well, “you cannot think they would lay their hands on me!�
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Omnovah, but the girl was so naive . . . or else this was a plot to twitch a Rigel’s tail and see what happened. Would Kelan Rigel rush to the rescue of the traitor’s daughter . . . ?
“Did they take your mother as well?”
“Mother?” Yuliya’s tone turned incredulous. “Mama is uncle’s darling. He quite dotes on her. And,” she added more deliberately, “her loyalty is unquestioned.”
“As is yours, surely.”
Kelan waited through a long pause, wondering at her hesitation. Had no one given her a prompt for that one? “It would appear,” Yuliya said carefully, “that the only thing that matters is that we are the children of Rand Kamal.”
Kelan could see where this was going but not the why of it. Nor the timing. “Yuliya, Darroch’s had more than three years to act against your father. Why now?”
“I think,” she replied, choosing his words with care, “that uncle believed what he chose to believe—that my father was a prisoner of war and would one day return to his rightful place on Regula Prime. But now Papa has married, or so we hear. Married the mother of King Ryal’s son, the one everyone says is crazy. There is no hope . . .” She gulped, her voice fading to the point where Kelan had to strain to hear her. “So uncle is going to make him come home.”
An exchange. His children’s safety in return for Kamal’s head on a platter. Well, fyddit! “Yuliya,” Kelan said with more patience than he felt, “since everyone knows Darroch would never harm you, it’s not much of a threat.”
“Actually . . .” Yuliya paused, lowering her voice still further. “I think the men who took us are Grampa’s men.”
Grampa. Rogan Kamal, head of Regulon National Security—whose loyalty to the emperor was unquestioned—so strong, in fact, that he had survived his son’s alleged defection to the rebels. A threat from Rogan Kamal outweighed any threat from Emperor Darroch. Kelan could almost hear the uncompromising loyalist growling, “Better dead than reb.”
So . . . it might be time to take Yuliya’s call seriously. Even if she’d been put up it . . . even if both she and Erik were currently living in luxury in Darroch’s mountain resort, Rand Kamal would never allow his children to suffer even the possibility of whims or deadly intent from either uncle or grandfather. He would return to Regula Prime. And execution.
Or be welcomed with open arms.
Either way, Tal would never let him do it.
Kelan jerked his attention back to his caller. “All right, let’s get this straight. You and Erik—at Darroch’s orders or your grandfather’s—are being held hostage—probably at the Royal Retreat—in exchange for your father’s return to Regular Prime.”
“That’s what I think,” Yuliya returned cautiously. “If it’s true, I’m sure there will be some official communication with the rebels.”
“And you called me why?” Kelan asked, the words coming out more coldly than he’d intended. Why wouldn’t she call him? But as Tal Rigel’s brother, he had to have doubts. Had to suspect an ulterior motive.
Fyddit, he’d hurt her. Or was he being played?
Yuliya broke the awkward silence. “You and I have been friends a long time, Kelan, and . . .”
“And . . .?”
“And perhaps I hoped some of the rumors were true, that you know people who could get us out of here.”
Pok, dimi, and fyd! That was exactly what he didn’t want to hear. And he still had no idea where her sympathies lay. Enjoying a few intimate moments together didn’t mean he could trust her. She was, after all, Montiene Kamal’s daughter.
Killirin, Psyclid
T’kal Killiri poured two glasses of ullali, passed one to his wife, who nodded her thanks without looking up from the book she was reading. He sank into the blissfully comfortable chair which was considered “his,” settled his feet on an equally comfortable stool before the crackling fire, and sipped Psyclid’s very own brandy. The sheer contentment of the moment suddenly bounced his thoughts back to the years of danger, violence, death, and sorrow. It was now twelve Tri-moon cycles since Regula Prime’s occupation of Psyclid. And three years since that fateful night on the balcony at Crystalia, the one he still had trouble believing, even though he was sitting in the cozy family area of the sprawling near-palace that had been King Ryal’s wedding gift to his eldest child. Once the estate of the Psyclid traitors, the Conde and Condessa Staral, it now housed T’kal, B’aela, four lively children, and all the necessary staff and guards it took to run a household so closely related to Psyclid’s royal family.
Four children. When he’d never thought to have more than the two N’tali gave him. He’d even feared the results of mating with B’aela, but what would the lives of two retired resistance fighters be like if they didn’t have the twins to keep them on their toes? He and B’aela didn’t talk about the old days—she had settled into motherhood with an eagerness that astounded him, so he wasn’t about to bring up anything awkward. But wasn’t she the one who said she missed the danger-filled days of the resistance? The planning, the action, the satisfaction of seeing the Regs squirm?
Yet here they were, as settled as any family could be. Father and mother enjoying the warmth of a cozy fire, H’san and Aisha battling each other in the latest comp game, and the twins . . .
Warily, T’kal glanced around. No sign of the twins. It was, of course, easy for toddlers to hide, but in the cases of K’rim and Kiera, disappearance could mean anything from they were playing their own version of hide and seek to Watch out, you’re about to be dive-bombed by a dragon.
It had been more than disconcerting the day T’kal was scolding his younger son for hitting his twin and suddenly found himself confronting a miniature dragon, complete in every detail except—thank the Goddess—spitting fire. The baby dragon’s swirling eyes made up for that deficiency rather nicely. T’kal had roared for B’aela, and they both stood there, staring, their eyes almost as wide as the defiant young dragon.
Fortunately, K’rim was as startled as his parents. His dragon jaws parted in a roar that showed every one of his dagger-sharp teeth and promptly dissolved into a two-year-old throwing an epic tantrum. Loudly matched by his sister, who was either as startled as her parents, frightened out of her wits, or seethingly jealous of her brother’s transformation. At the time they’d all been too shocked to analyze what had happened. Each parent had snatched up a child, offering comfort, but when the twins were finally tucked up for a nap, T’kal and B’aela had retreated to their bedchamber and simply stared at each other.
“I thought,” B’aela managed at last, “that gifts did not come until puberty.”
“I am avoiding the obvious,” T’kal muttered.
“I told you so.” B’aela said the words for him.
“I am also heroically refraining from commenting on the fact that my son is a dragon.”
B’aela gasped. “You cannot think—”
“Never that. But the irony stabs me to the quick. Mondragon will never stop taunting me.”
“He does not have a monopoly on dragons,” B’aela asserted. “K’kadi and I created rather remarkable beasts, did we not?”
T’kal raised a shaggy brow. “No argument, but I can’t help but wonder what Kiera will become.”
This question was solved within the week when K’rim was found petting a small, dark kitten. A kitten? T’kal the were might tolerate a son who shapeshifted into a dragon, but a daughter who became a kitten? A definite insult to a long line of warrior Killiris, Alpha wolves all.
Except two days later, the little dragon was facing off with a panta kit half a meter long, and while their astonished parents were trying to make sense of this new wrinkle, the dragon had become Kiera and the panta K’rim. At which point T’kal and B’aela had been forced to the conclusion that both twins could shapeshift into multiple forms. Haphazardly at the moment, but the thought of what the future could bring positively curled their toes. Teenage was going to be a nightmare.
“Daman Killiri? Beg par
don, Daman Killiri?”
T’kal scowled at the majordomo, even as a shadow flitted over his soul. No one would disturb the Killiri family’s evening at home without good cause. And “good cause” usually came in the form of bad news. “Yes?”
“A messenger from the palace, sir.”
T’kal nodded, and an elaborately garbed courtier stepped into the room. After a deferential bow, he announced, “The king regrets disturbing you at this hour, Daman Killiri, but your presence is needed at the palace.”
“And mine?” B’aela asked.
The courtier bowed again. “No, Highness. The king requested Daman Killiri only.”
K’rim and Kiera popped into view, each sucking a thumb. H’san and Aisha scrambled to grab them, hiding their nakedness in their laps.
T’kal’s lips twitched. As a send-off to whatever crisis had cropped up, there was nothing like two naked baby shapeshifters and two older children who seemed resigned to not coming into their powers for some years yet. And then there was B’aela, who could not be happy about being excluded.
T’kal brushed a kiss over her lips, managed a group hug of all four children, and followed the king’s messenger from the room.
Peace had been nice while it lasted.
Chapter 2
There were three men in King Ryal’s private study, but T’kal saw only one. Tal Rigel, the rebel leader known throughout the Empire as S’sorrokan. As he stepped forward, hand out, alarm bells went off. Only something catastrophic would have brought Rigel on a sudden and apparently secret visit to Psyclid.
T’kal, suppressing his emotions as always, shook Tal’s hand, saying only, “A pleasant surprise. A long time since you set foot on Psyclid.”
“Not since the night of my wedding,” Tal acknowledged, carefully refraining from glancing at his father-in-law, who had so firmly orchestrated his marriage to the then Princess Royal of Psyclid. A marriage they had both wanted, though not the scrambled affair they got, with the bride and groom garbed in rebel jumpsuits and the bride’s sister manipulated into agreeing to marry the bride’s ex-fiancé, Jagan Mondragon. Jagan Mondragon, the Sorcerer Prime—who, along with his father-in-law King Ryal, completed the group at tonight’s meeting at the palace.
Royal Rebellion Page 2
