“Father?” Yuliya cried. “We haven’t seen him in years.”
“He married again. He’s forgotten us,” Erik declared.
“I told you I have four children,” T’kal returned easily, “and, believe me, nothing could make me forget any of them. Your father is the same. In fact, I understand he had to be put under guard to keep him from coming to get you himself. I was sent in his place. Also the son-in-law of King Ryal. And two people you know—Kelan and Dayna Rigel.”
“Kelan’s here?” Yuliya cried. “Where?”
“Not far, but first”—T’kal took a deep breath—“first, I have to know if you want to go to your father. I am supposed to take you to Psyclid, but you are both old enough to have a say in what happens next.”
“At first we weren’t worried,” Erik said, “because we knew the guards were Grampa’s men, but . . .” He hung his head, his hand waving toward the bloody bodies in the clearing.
“This wasn’t the first trouble,” Yuliya explained. “It began as much as a week ago—the rudeness, the sly looks, the touches. And got steadily worse. It was . . . unreal. We couldn’t believe it. Even four years ago when Father didn’t come home from Psyclid, we received nothing worse than a few odd looks.”
Looking glum, the two teens stared at the rippling waters of the stream.
“Do you come with me willingly?” T’kal persisted. Tal would never forgive him if he dropped the Kamals at the palace, but he refused to take them against their will.
Yuliya looked at Erik, who returned an infinitesimal nod. “I asked Kelan for help. He has not failed us. We will do whatever he thinks is right.”
“A good answer,” T’kal approved. “Rely on those you know you can trust.”
“We also trust you,” Erik declared with burgeoning hero-worship. “Where would be without the wolf?”
“Then let’s go. If you’re willing to follow the wolf, we can go cross-country and avoid those sent to discover why your guards have not reported in.”
“The wolf?” Erik cried, his Reg blue eyes sparkling.
“The wolf,” T’kal confirmed, his lips tilting into one of his rare smiles. Impossible to be immune to the teen’s enthusiasm.
Ten minutes later, a visibly limping gray wolf in the lead, they began the long trek back. T’kal was now almost certain their mission was neither a set-up nor a trap. Yet these were “court kids.” Montiene Kamal’s children as well as Rand’s. What would they do when they realized their father was working with the leader of the rebellion toward the fast-approaching overthrow of their great-uncle’s government? The government so ably defended by their grandfather?
The grandfather who had just used—and abused—them for his own ends.
So maybe not a problem.
The wolf sniffed the air for hostile Regs. Satisfied none were near, he continued breaking trail, with the young royal relatives following close on his tail.
The royal palace, Hercula
“King Nekator will see you now.”
With a curt nod of his head, General Nikomedes Drakos marched past Kephas Petrou, the king’s dour aide, and into the modest-sized room set aside for King Nekator’s most private business. Military cap under his arm, black curly hair gleaming in the bright morning sun shining through floor-to-ceiling windows, Nik stood at stiff attention, his gaze fixed well over the king’s head. He bowed, his lips barely moving as he snapped, “Majesty!”
In the years since the rebels helped Hercula repel a Reg invasion, Drakos’s star had risen to the very top of the Herculon military. But, uncomfortable as it was to admit, he had no idea why he had been summoned to the palace today. Nor could he find so much as a hint on the king’s stern face.
“Sit, sit.” King Nekator waved his hand to the armchair in front of his desk. Placing his cap in his lap, Nik sat, his body still very much at attention. “You may relax, General,” Nekator informed him. “I am not about to ask you to fall on your sword.”
“I beg your pardon, Sire.” Nik’s shoulders relaxed by perhaps as much as a millimeter.
“I understand the preparations are going well,” King Nekator said.
“Yes, Sire. We will be ready when the rebels call. As planned.”
“Admiral Andreadis has praised your efforts. He calls you the reincarnation of Odysseus . . . or was it Hektor?”
“Neither, I hope, Sire. I wish to return in more timely fashion. And alive.”
Nekator smiled. “Ah yes, we are counting on that.” He steepled his fingers, allowed a sly look to pass over his face. “Andreadis tells me readying our fleet for war is his last battle. He will not go with you when the time comes.”
“He has earned his retirement, Sire. A thousand times over.”
The king, ever a dramatist, allowed several moments of silence to pass before he offered, almost casually, “Admiral Golias is an outstanding officer, but Andreadis has recommended you to take his place as Commander of our forces.”
Nik’s head shot up, dark eyes flashing. “Sire?”
“Surely this does not come as a surprise?”
“I am a general, Sire. A land soldier. The admirals will not like it.”
“You are a superb tactician. You will adjust.” Nekator did not add what they both knew: when the rebels attacked Regula Prime, Captain Talryn Rigel would be Commander-in-Chief. Hercula would be providing nothing more than firepower. And fierce ground troops, when it came to hand-to-hand combat.
“And,” King Nekator added so calmly it took a moment for the significance to sink in, “a win against the Empire will be the perfect accolade when I announce you as my successor.”
Nik’s fingers went numb; his cap hit the floor. “Sire?”
Nekator leaned back in his chair, enjoying his little surprise to the fullest. “As you know, neither my beloved wife—may the gods give her rest—nor my concubines have produced a child. After long hours of consultation with Admiral Andreadis, Alexias Thanos, and other close advisors, we have agreed that you are most competent to take over the kingdom. To ensure the succession, you should, however, marry as soon as possible, preferably before the expedition to Regula Prime.
Marriage on top of the shock of being named heir? Nik balked. “Sire, there is only one woman I ever wanted to marry, and she is wed to another.” Because you forced her to it.
Nekator’s eyes sharpened. “You should have objected when the alliance was agreed upon.”
I did! Nik’s jaws clenched; he stifled a flare of anger. “I made a sacrifice for the good of the country, Sire.” But only after three rebel females turned pale at the thought of marrying you. “We could not stand against the Empire without the rebels’ help.”
“Nor could they defeat the Empire without ours,” the king pointed out.
Was his assignment as Expedition Commander payback for letting Alala go? The role of Heir Apparent as well? Nik began to suspect the king was playing a long game, scheming for . . . what?
“I hear Colonel Thanos is bearing the odd one’s child.”
This news had sent Nik into a night of drunkenness he hadn’t experienced since he was a raw recruit. “No matter,” he returned lightly. “Alala is the only wife I want.”
“Then it is fortunate war is so chaotic,” the king returned smoothly. “Who knows what may happen.”
King and general exchanged a look. Battle-hardened soldier that he was, Nik still felt a shiver up his spine. This was what it meant to be king. Anything to achieve a goal. If the kingdom’s designated successor wanted the wife of another man, then Nekator was giving him permission to do what was necessary to achieve his goal. Including kill the only son of the Psyclid king.
The wizarding weird one. K’kadi Amund.
But not until the fey Psyclid had been useful. Nik was far too wise to kill the goose until after it had laid the golden egg.
Chapter 6
The mountains, Regula Prime
The pale light of a sun still hidden behind the mountain tops illuminated t
he group sitting dejectedly around the campsite. T’kal had not seen so many anxious faces since the day he woke in the hospital after being strafed by a Tau-15 on Psyclid Freedom Day. Not a bad moment, as that was when he’d been certain B’aela cared. Though, stubborn to the core, he hadn’t acted on it. If the daughter of his king cared for a lowly engineer afflicted by a darkness more ancient than Psyclid civilization, then she was the one who was going to initiate the affair.
The current anxious faces belonged to Jagan, Kelan, and Dayna, who were sitting, cross-legged and slump-shouldered, in the clearing, tents struck, firepit covered by dirt. When they saw the wolf and the young Kamals walk out of the woods, their heads jerked up. For a long silent moment, they stared before jumping up and breaking into a run, their words becoming an unintelligible babble as they all spoke at once.
T’kal, focused on getting away from the Emperor’s mountain retreat as rapidly as possible, loped toward the path that would take them back to the van. Except there was Yuliya throwing herself into Kelan’s arms and bursting into tears. A tender reunion which confirmed his suspicions about the sweater left in Kelan’s apartment but was a complication the rebellion didn’t need. Adding to the hubbub, young Erik was describing the massacre by wolf with ghoulish enthusiasm, while Mondragon stood there, looking on with infinite boredom, as if they had all day for childish histrionics when the Regs were likely hot on their heels.
A sharp—some would call it imperious—bark from the wolf, legs braced in a belligerent stance at the entrance to the path, brought the chaos to halt. A softer but still urgent bark, and the wolf started down the path, clearly expecting everyone to follow. Which they did, chagrined they had forgotten they were a long way from being out of danger. Keeping up with the wolf’s slightly unsteady trot, they did not stop until they crawled into the waiting van and dropped onto the blankets scattered over the unyielding metal.
“We’re cloaked,” Jagan called to the driver. “Let’s go.”
“The wolf’s been shot,” Yuliya announced into the profound silence of relief. “I don’t know how he made the leap into the van, but he needs help.”
Jagan turned to the silver gray heap, flopped into a far corner of the van. “You just have to be the hero, Killiri. Miles through the woods with a bullet in you. Well, we can’t do much with all that fur on you, so . . .” He bent down, grabbed one of the blankets. “Who’s got the pack with his clothes?”
Jagan and Kelan held up the blanket as a shield while the wolf became T’kal, naked and shivering.
“What can I do?” Erik asked.
“Help him into his pants,” Jagan said, peering behind the blanket. “Looks like it’s his shoulder that’s hit.”
T’kal nodded his thanks to Erik, but inwardly he groaned. And not with pain. The boy should have been terrified of him. T’kal Killiri was a Psyclid nightmare in the flesh. The kid had seen his wolf kill four men, yet instead of terror, hero-worship shown from his sparkling blue eyes. Fizzet, but Regs were a blood-thirsty lot. No wonder it had taken a Reg to start the rebellion.
T’kal eyed Jagan warily, as the sorcerer dropped the blanket over T’kal’s legs and accepted the med kit Dayna handed him. “I know you can hardly wait to torture me, but it’s been a fizzeting long day—”
“Running out of brave, Wolf?”
“Something like that.” T’kal heaved a sigh. B’aela was not going to be happy. But there was one more thing he had to do before he could rest. When what he called the “butchery” was over and he was allowing Dayna to pull a blanket up to his chin, he whispered, “You need to talk to Yuliya. Find out what happened over the last ten days. She says it only got bad recently, but . . .” T’kal grimaced. “It needs the female touch.”
“You’re a good father, aren’t you?” Dayna murmured.
T’kal managed a disparaging grimace before he dropped into sleep, waking only when the van doors opened inside an ancient barn and they slipped into an abandoned farmhouse on a flat plain several hours’ drive from mountain country.
After they’d eaten their first decent meal in days, produced by Dayna and their driver, Cort Baran (a long-time convert to the rebel cause), Kelan and Yuliya washed up while Dayna sat down beside T’kal on the living area’s faded couch. “Do you think she ever washed a dish in her life?” Dayna whispered, her mobile smile threatening to burst into laughter at any moment.
“Doubt it.” T’kal managed, amusement lighting his dark eyes. “With Erik drying, I expect to hear plates crashing at any moment.”
Dayna chuckled appreciatively before her face sobered as she recalled her mission. “I think Yuliya’s all right,” she told T’kal. “At least as all right as two terrorized kids can be. The guards went easy on them at first. The bad things started only recently—maybe when Rogan Kamal, or possibly Darroch, finally faced the fact that Admiral Kamal wasn’t coming back. Not even for his kids. They had to force his hand—”
“Fizzet! The photos!” T’kal exclaimed. “I forgot the photos. Where’s the jacket I was wearing?”
“Here.” Dayna fished it off the arm of the couch and handed it to him.
T’kal breathed more easily as he found the guard’s handheld in an inside pocket. He’d retrieved it before they started the trek back, but somehow—guess he was getting old—he’d forgotten about it. He turned on the device, opened the photos, his face growing darker as he moved from one to the other. Shots of Yuliya, flat on her back and only partially clothed, the guard fully ready to enter her. Shots of Yuliya’s clothes being ripped off. Of Erik teetering on the edge of a cliff, arms splayed out for balance, his face a rictus of terror. Of a snake being dangled in front of Yuliya’s terrified face. Erik with a dagger point to his throat.
“The wolf is not bothered by violence,” T’kal murmured, “but sometimes I am. This time, however . . . this time I am sorry the guards are no longer with us so I can do it all over again. Along with whoever ordered them to do it.”
“Perhaps they weren’t supposed to go so far,” Dayna suggested. “Maybe they were just supposed to get threatening pics to send to their father.”
“Such sickness is why there is a rebellion.”
Dayna hung her head. “I am sorry, so sorry. It’s a difficult time to be Regulon.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Dayna. I did not intend—”
Careful to avoid his wounded shoulder, Dayna cut T’kal off with a hug. “Come on, Wolfman, time to mount up. We’re only five hours from home. Mine, that is. Sorry, but it’s going to take a bit longer to get you and the sorcerer home.” She eyed him with sudden concern. “I bet your wife’s going to be really mad.”
“I’m hoping she’ll be so glad I made it back that she’ll forget the rest.”
T’kal turned red as Dayna brushed a kiss over his cheek. “Big strong wolfman, afraid of his princess witch.” She winked. “Come on, Wolfie, your soft bed on the steel floor awaits.” She offered him a hand up.
Gratefully, T’kal accepted.
They entered the elegant grounds of the Rigel country estate under cover of darkness, where they were welcomed with open arms by retired Fleet Admiral Vander Rigel and his wife Reyla—the parents of Talryn, Kelan, and Dayna, and inadvertent converts to the rebel cause.
Or perhaps not. T’kal recalled the years when Vander Rigel was Regula Prime’s Ambassador to Psyclid. A man not wholly military in his outlook on the world. It was possible the seeds of rebellion had been laid years earlier than anyone suspected. Whenever Admiral Rigel’s sympathies had turned from the Empire to the obscure pacifist planet called Psyclid, there could be no doubt about which side he supported now, including transferring massive amounts of money from Rigel Industries to the rebels on Blue Moon.
For a few short hours the weary travelers basked in the luxury of the Rigels’ home, the comfort of excellent food and friendly faces, their rest disturbed only by Dayna declaring it unfair her parents had seen her niece and she had not. Kelan strongly seconded the sentiment. Addin
g to these arguments were pleas from Yuliya and Erik: they would feel so much better if Kelan and Dayna accompanied them into the unknown.
Vander Rigel exchanged a look with his wife, accepted her infinitesimal nod of approval. Rigel Industries could survive a few weeks without the younger Rigels. And if their presence helped two “court kids” adapt to a new and very different environment . . .
The course that was set by Admiral Rigel’s private pinnace, however, was not to Psyclid as the young Kamals supposed, but to Blue Moon. Physically, the difference wasn’t that much, T’kal explained to the young Kamals. The terraformed Blue Moon was one of Psyclid’s three moons. But Psyclid was a planet ruled by a strongly pacifist king, while Blue was the stronghold of the rebellion, chockful of militant types figuring out how to bring down the Empire, preferably within the next Tri-Moon cycle.
And now came the hard part—the rest of the story.
They took it well, T’kal thought not long after his revelations. Particularly for overprivileged kids raised in the rarified atmosphere of Emperor Darroch’s court. Truth was, from the moment of their rescue they had surprised him, demonstrating their father had influenced their lives more strongly than anyone could have anticipated. Clearly, Rand Kamal had told his children a good many tales of life on Psyclid. Yet confirmation that their father was not a paroled prisoner on Psyclid but willingly living among a hot bed of rebels on Blue Moon could not have been easy for them to accept.
When talking to Yuliya and Erik, T’kal had been as gentle as he could. “I know you’ve been taught there is no such thing as skills of the mind, but you now know that is not true. That an unusual gift does not make a person evil. That being ‘different’ is simply another talent, like being an artist, a musician . . . or, like me”—T’kal’s lips quirked—“a man able to turn a complex two-dimensional design into a towering building. Psyclids are just people, as Regulons are people.”
As intended, Yuliya and Erik responded to his joke with answering smiles. “That’s what Father said,” Erik added.
Royal Rebellion Page 5
