Rebel Prince

by Justine Davis

  He trudged on, fighting for the icy calm he’d always held as his greatest strength. He had watched entire planets destroyed, watched thousands executed, with no more feeling than a stone. He would soon be liberated from this existence, now that he had taken things into his own hands.

  “ARELLIA? YOU think they’re coming here?” Rina repeated it, looking for some way to refute the conclusion Tark had led her to.

  “Or are already here,” he said. “It is the perfect base from which to take on Trios.”

  “But they are not able to do this, their forces were decimated.”

  “And they’ve had years to rebuild. Look at what Trios has done in that time.”

  “Exactly!” she said. “Trios now has everything in reality that Dare only bluffed them with before.”

  “Yes. Which is why they need Arellia. A full base here will give them more power to strike, more focus, better supply lines. And if they retake Trios, it will take the heart out of the rest of the system. Without Trios to lead, the others will simply give in.”

  She stared at him. It was impossible. It could not happen. Surely.

  “But there’s been no sign of movement, of a buildup,” she said.

  “I know.”

  He said it wearily, as if it were a question he’d answered often.

  “Then why do you think this? Why has no alarm been raised?”

  “There is nothing the powers here believe is proof.”

  She frowned. This was Tark. Tactically, he was never wrong. Yet they did not believe him?

  Her breath caught as a possibility struck her. “This? Is this why you are . . . treated so?”

  “They do not want to hear this,” he said.

  “And so they transfer their resistance to the messenger?”

  “Something of that sort. My appearance only makes it easier.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “Tell me. All of it.”

  “I will, if you wish. But let me show you what I learned that brought me to the city.”

  “What?”

  He turned, reaching for a handheld cine-unit. It was old, a little worse for wear, but apparently functional. The screen flickered, and then an image came into focus. It was of a cloaked man—tall, thin, dark. Tark pushed the button to play the clip forward. It was short, merely seconds, but at one point the hood of the cloak slipped back, and the man’s face was revealed for a split second. Tark froze it, hit a couple of other keys on the device. The image enlarged, sharpened. He held it for her to see.

  Her eyes widened. “Is that . . . ?”

  “We think so. Mordred, in the flesh. Here, in Galatin. That was taken a week ago. And we have other clips, from other places across the system, all of men who look suspiciously like Coalition leaders, all out of uniform, and all in places of tactical value.”

  She looked away from the image, from the face so familiar even today to all of Trios’s people, the image so often seen in the histories, the man who had ever stood at the madman General Corling’s right hand. She turned her gaze back to Tark.

  “Who,” she asked, “is this ‘we’ you speak of?”

  He let out a tight breath. “There are . . . some few who see. We have suspected for some time.”

  “Who? And why? What roused your suspicions?”

  He was on his feet now, pacing. She remembered this, that he had always done his best thinking while in motion.

  “We have . . . a network of sorts. Watchers. Several of us who fought the Coalition, who have kept in touch.” He let out a harsh laugh. It grated, so different was it from the genuine laugh she’d heard before. “I used to laugh at the foolish old men who would do nothing but talk of the days past, nothing but days of glory and meaning long behind them. And now I’m one of them.”

  “You are many, many things Bright Tarkson, but foolish and old are not among them.”

  She’d used his full name intentionally, and it worked. He stopped midpace and turned his good eye on her. She gave him her sunniest smile.

  “Thinking whether to thank me or clout me?”

  “You do not want to know what I’m thinking,” he muttered.

  Then he shook his head sharply and continued his pacing and his explanation. “We are in different places. A sizeable group here on Arellia. Similar on Clarion. Smaller groups in Carelia, and on Darvis II. And a few scattered elsewhere throughout the system.”

  She waited. He was committed now; she knew he would tell her all if only she kept quiet and let him do it in his own way, in his own time. Finally he came to a halt before her.

  “In the last few months we have all seen . . . men we recognize. Coalition leaders. Living among us. Each in a place they know well.”

  Rina drew back. “In all those places? You’re sure?”

  He nodded. “And they have two things in common. They have no apparent means of support—they do not work—yet they have coinage to spend, often to excess.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “They have all been busy acquiring acquaintances with connections to the defenses of each place.”

  “Spies?”

  “Or scouts.”

  The very idea nearly took her breath away. She had been so young when the Evening Star had come home to Trios. She remembered vividly the battles that had followed, what it had taken to finally rid Trios of the Coalition for good. And no sooner had they done it than word had come that Arellia had risen up, inspired by the example of their closest neighbor. . . .

  “Rina?”

  “I was remembering the speech the king gave, when we learned Arellia had declared open rebellion. Trios was war weary, there were so many dead to yet be found and mourned. We had little left in the way of weapons even to defend ourselves should they come back.”

  “And yet he sent us help.”

  “Trios sent you help,” she corrected gently. “The king does not make that kind of decision by himself. Dare has always said a king of Trios must have the people’s trust. And they must have his. Our people are not blind followers. The king must present them with the facts and let them decide.” She shrugged. “He merely made the case, and the people decided.”

  “I’ve heard a recording of that speech,” Tark said. “He did a bit more than make the case.”

  “Dare is very persuasive,” she agreed. “He speaks from his heart, and his people know that what he says is what he truly believes.”

  “And so he sent us his vaunted flashbow warrior.”

  “Dax volunteered. He said Dare could not leave, he was needed at home.”

  “And Dax’s mate?”

  “She would never let him go without her. Even in battle, she is ever at his side, as Shaylah is by the king’s.”

  “It helps that they are both warriors in their own right.”

  “Yes. They are. And would be again, if necessary. Perhaps even fiercer now that they have children to protect.”

  “I am glad to hear it. And that they protect you, as well.”

  “But I left childhood behind long ago,” she said pointedly.

  “I’m not sure you ever had a real childhood.”

  The gentleness in his tone startled her. “I didn’t think you ever thought of such things.”

  “I have had too much time for thinking, since Arellia’s victory.” He grimaced. “At least, until recently.”

  And they were back to his incredible story patched together from grainy images, old memories, speculation, and a pattern no one else had seen. Did she believe it? That the Coalition was actually readying a return, preparing to start another war? How could she not take it seriously, when Tark obviously did?

  “You believe this threat is real?” she asked.

  “I do. As do the others.”

  “Are they b
elieved, on their worlds?”

  His mouth twisted. “About as I am here.”

  “But surely they cannot ignore the possibility.”

  “They seem to be doing a stellar job of just that,” he said.

  “Then they are fools.”

  His gaze came back to her face. “So quick to defend,” he said softly.

  “It shouldn’t be necessary.” Anger had crept into her voice, but she didn’t try to temper it. He should know that someone, at least, had not forgotten that he was the truest kind of hero, that he had nearly died to save his people. “What else?” she demanded, sensing there was more.

  For a moment he hesitated, looking at her, but finally he said, “I think . . . they may be planning to mark this anniversary in their own way.”

  Rina’s eyes widened. “What are you saying?”

  “Symbolism is important to them. I think they may have chosen this anniversary as the date for their invasion.”

  “That soon?”

  “Yes. And Arellia is paying no attention.”

  “Dax and the king do not have their heads buried in snailstones.”

  “Then I will tell what I know. And hope they believe.”

  Rina’s sense of urgency was doubled now. Much more than the relationship between an equally hotheaded father and daughter was at stake. The fate of their two worlds could be in the balance if Tark was right.

  And when it came to war and battles and tactics, she had never known him to be wrong.

  Chapter 15

  LYON AWOKE ABRUPTLY. He had no idea what time it was, since he lacked Rina’s internal clock that was as unerring as her navigation. For a moment the miasma of the dream clung to him. It had been a long time since he’d dreamed of that time, of living in a constant state of tension, his parents and godparents talking grimly of holding off a force so powerful it had swept through the galaxy virtually unopposed.

  He raised up on one elbow, listening in the dawn quiet for any sign they had been found again. Shaina’s bedroll lay tumbled and empty, and he guessed she was out on one of her countless scouting checks. He had never seen her more restless.

  The thought brought back the other part of his dream. Shaina.

  His memories of her from those days were so clear. She wasn’t just woven into the fabric of his life, she was a thread without which it all fell apart. Even then, as a child, when fear seized so many, she had been fearless. Unwaveringly fearless, and confident Trios would triumph. They had his father to lead, and her father to fight, did they not?

  But he’d seen how it consumed his father, how his every waking moment had been spent on the affairs of Trios, first holding off the expelled Coalition, then rebuilding and defending their world from recurrent attempts to retake her. He would, Lyon knew, do it unto death if necessary. And it was not long before the people of Trios realized that the infamous flashbow warrior turned skypirate they had once thought lost to them would do the same. In a much more reckless, breath-stealing way, but do it he would.

  Shaina had, then and now, the same fearlessness, the same reckless daring as her father.

  As the sun lifted that last fraction, and the golden light of dawn poured down over the mountain, he saw her. She was making her way back from the direction of the stream, her hair unbound, dark strands lifted by the slight breeze. She moved with the same easy stride as always, but it seemed different to him now. More graceful. With more sway.

  She walked like a woman, he thought, and he had been a blind, utter fool not to have realized he could no more ignore that fact than he could stop breathing.

  She paused, and turned to look up the mountain toward the rising sun. The golden light seemed to flow over her, and his breath caught. He knew he would always remember this image of her, bathed in the dawn’s light, looking upward, onward. And he had little doubt this image would join the parade in his dreams, as so many others had last night.

  He fought the stirrings inside him. Just because he’d awakened to her feminine appeal didn’t change the fact that he’d always known her strength, and that she had that boundless courage.

  Of course, until now, she hadn’t known she was the new flashbow warrior.

  The flashbow warrior. Another image flashed through his mind. A rare day of pleasure for their parents, when they had traveled to one of the few places on Trios left untouched by Coalition guns and explosives. Lake Geron, named for the ancient warrior, was nestled in a hidden valley—clear, blue, ringed by tall trees and edged by famous Triotian grass, soft and vivid green.

  He’d marveled at it, and found it hard to believe when his parents explained that all of Trios had once been much like this, a place of pristine beauty. But then his father and godfather had begun to talk of the things they had done as children, the places they’d seen, when Trios had yet been unscarred by war.

  And then they’d seen the kingbird, that majestic bird long feared destroyed, first soaring overhead, then diving in what Dax had said was a salute to his father.

  “What is it, Cub?”

  He’d let himself get lost in that memory. And on some level he realized that the fact that he had felt safe enough to do so was a sign of how much he trusted her; if there was someone around, she would know it. She had regained her focus—certainly better than he had—and that extra sense she had would not fail again.

  “I was thinking of the time we went to Lake Geron,” he said.

  A softness came over her face as she lowered herself to sit cross-legged before embers of the fire they had, out of caution, let die down in the darkness when it might betray them. For a moment she said nothing as she stirred the coals and added a couple of pieces of wood that caught and flared quickly.

  “That was a wonderful time,” she said finally. “Over and above what we discovered there, I think it was the only time until the end of the war that I remember our parents actually relaxing. They actually laughed, and played games with us. And each other.”

  “They carried a heavy load.”

  “Yes. I’ve often wondered how they managed to set it down even for that long.”

  “They did it for us,” Lyon said.

  Shaina stopped stirring up the fire and looked at him. “Us?”

  “I remember overhearing my mother tell my father she did not want us to grow up knowing only fear and fighting. That we needed to know there could be happiness and the love of family, too.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “I’ve only just remembered it now, thinking about that day.”

  He stopped, unwilling to speak of what had triggered the memory. She was still, he knew, very angry with her father, and he didn’t want to poke at that particular zipbug nest. But the image that had come back to him, of Dax and his father swimming in a mock race, haunted him now in an entirely new way. For he had seen his godfather’s bare torso, had seen the scars he carried, for the first time. Burns, disrupter marks, scars of the war. But most telling, the marks of a lash that crisscrossed his back. A whipping taken for Rina. They all knew the story of how he had allowed himself to be captured, and publicly flogged, just to find out what had happened to Rina’s mother.

  It was the kind of thing the flashbow warrior did.

  And Shaina was the next in that unbroken line of protectors.

  The possibilities that created practically exploded in his mind. What had already been a challenging future to face now seemed impossibly complex.

  MORDRED ADJUSTED the viewing scope for the growing light. He’d finally caught up to them, but he didn’t wish to get any closer and be seen. They had, he grudgingly admitted, picked a good spot for their camp. There was no way to approach without being seen, and the cliff behind them was far too high and steep to risk.

  He scanned the area once more, but he was certain now they were alone. He shifted the
scope back to his prey. He paused momentarily on the woman. She was attractive, much more than he would have expected from some paid companion picked up from Akasen Court. Not that she would appeal to him at all. No, she was a fully adult female, curved and shaped as such, far too adult for his tastes. He preferred them young and unformed.

  And frightened. As this woman clearly was not.

  In fact, she reminded him of someone, although he could not figure out who. But with her pale skin and dark hair she was clearly Arellian, so obviously the prince had just picked up a willing female for this journey.

  If she was gambling on establishing some sort of connection to the Triotian prince, she had a big surprise coming, he thought. And then he discarded her as not worth any more of his time or speculation. He had simply spent too much time on this planet, and they had all begun to look alike to him.

  He shifted his focus, zooming in now on the man. Bile rose in his throat. He looked just like his father, with the golden skin and hair of the Triotian, but there was something else about him that spoke clearly of the royal lineage. The tilt of the head, the strong body, the handsome face . . . oh, yes, he was his father’s son. Even that air of royalty he so hated was there. It had seemed to him all Triotians had it, not simply the royal family. As if they thought—no, as if they knew—they were better, that their world and way of life were better.

  Not that anyone truly believed the stories—that any Triotian would die to save another they didn’t even know. No one individual was that important. Everyone knew that, yet the people of Trios clung to their old ideas, too stupid to realize the benefits the Coalition brought them.

  He had been there when the then-prince Darian had been enslaved, had had the great pleasure of watching the implantation of the collar, and the even greater pleasure of watching the recalcitrant Triotian realize his days of independence were over, that never again would he be allowed to do anything not commanded by his owners, the Coalition that had destroyed his world.