by Lexi Ander
“What are you thinking, Mestor?” Azaes asked as he crossed to the bar, an exact duplicate of the one in Mestor’s cabin. But instead of pouring alcohol, Azaes drew an icy carafe of water.
Mestor grimaced. There were too many ways he could answer that question. He would rather not say, but Azaes would dig. He could lie, but with Sohm’lan present he could never lie convincingly, so he redirected.
“It will be hard getting used to the dot on Zeus’s forehead. I wanted to use my napkin to wipe it off.” As a part of an Alpha Trine, Zeus was not only mated to Dargon, but to Dargon’s symbiote, Alpha. The dot was a piece of Alpha that connected them telepathically.
Azaes growled his disgruntlement, taking a pop-up stool at the round table. He motioned for Sohm’lan to join them. The magnetic legs of the seat gently released, allowing Sohm’lan to reposition and adjust it to the height he needed. Mestor went to the bar, knowing Azaes usually had a stash of their favorite candied grasshoppers.
“It is a pity that Dargon is Zeus’s mate,” Azaes groused.
Mestor made a rough noise of agreement. “I had looked forward to teaching the Dar Massaga a lesson—”
“And calling Zeus human!”
“Insinuating Zeus was your sexual pet!” Mestor growled as he reached into the far cabinet corner.
“Then he had the audacity to believe he could take Zeus—”
“And not expect us to follow.”
“The way he grabbed himself—”
“As if he was shaking his sex at you!” Mestor said with a dignified huff.
“Prince Azaes—” Sohm’lan said.
“And you!” Azaes’ voice went high.
Mestor stood from where he had been pilfering Azaes’ cabinet to see his twin pointing a claw-tipped finger at Sohm’lan.
“Me?” Sohm’lan’s blue eyes sharpened before they narrowed in warning.
“Yes, you,” Azaes snapped. “You are my father’s best friend, and I know you do not use his title in private. Explain to me why you continue to insist on being formal with us?”
“It would be unseemly for me to be—”
Mestor stifled a laugh at Azaes’ rude noise. He remained next to the bar, tearing open the packaged candy. Azaes was angrier than Mestor had seen him in a long while. He would not interfere in this topic because he felt the same. Sohm’lan kept himself apart and Mestor was just as fed up.
Sohm’lan’s answer only inflamed Azaes. “Unseemly? What is unseemly is for someone in our family to keep us at arm’s distance with the excuse of false propriety.”
Mestor halted mid-chew when Sohm’lan glanced at him, his expression of longing causing Mestor’s stomach to twist.
“It is not false. I am not a member of a noble house,” Sohm’lan countered, finally taking his gaze off Mestor.
“For too long you have been hung up on status,” Azaes chastised. “To all Mar’Sani, you are the archetype for how to succeed. You have worked hard to gain the status of Chief Warlord, risen from a family of no name and no house to become one of the most powerful people on the planet. Yet you remain hung up your background, forgetting you have moved beyond your origin, blazing your own trail to greatness. It is time you dropped the wall you think should be between us. You are our waterfather, that alone invites familiarity. You are more to us than Father’s best friend, most trusted advisor, and warlord.”
Mestor crossed to the table. No matter where he sat, he would be in between Sohm’lan and his twin. “We are not in public—of course we will use titles then—but here in private, there is no reason for the distance.”
Sohm’lan crossed his arms as he stared at first Azaes, then Mestor. Popping more candied grasshoppers in his mouth, Mestor smirked. Sohm’lan would not win this argument against Azaes.
“I could make it an order if it would make you feel better.” Azaes’ stern expression broke, transforming into one of affection.
“I do not like it. All of you have worked hard for that respect. I am proud… It is my honor to call you Prince,” Sohm’lan said solemnly. “I will not have anyone think they can disrespect you, feel as if they can be familiar with you when they have not earned the right.”
“And your words reaffirm my assertion.” Azaes grinned wickedly. “You are well past the point of earning the right. Others we will handle on a case-by-case basis. But here, we are simply Azaes, Mestor, Zeus, and Shaneva to you. You are not just anyone to us.”
Sohm’lan sighed heavily. “All right, Pr—Azaes. What I was saying before you took me to task…” A toothy smile broke through Sohm’lan’s neutral expression. “Your anger toward Captain Dargon needs to be put away. Dargon and Alpha are Zeus’s chosen mates, and now that they are with young, I suspect they are here to stay. They are a part of the Vondorian family. You do not have to like them, but you need to find a balance and get along with them for Zeus’s sake. Zeus is a bull who cannot nest properly, and he will be stressed enough without having to worry about whether or not his brothers will pick a fight with his pregnant mate.”
Azaes used his claws to scratch the scales at his neck. “You speak wisdom. I…” Mestor grunted at the kick to his shins and scowled at Azaes’ meaningful look. “We both will do our best to see Dargon in a better light and to get to know him and Alpha.”
“What?” Mestor exclaimed in dismay.
Azaes glared at Mestor. “Stop looking for dirt on the Captain,” Azaes replied. “If Zeus finds out, he will knock the scales off you.”
So what if he had been looking into the Dar Massaga’s background, as much as he could while in hyperspace, and unable to access the hypernet as long as there was a psionic searching for the Fal’Amoric. He did find the Dar Massaga’s bio in the database since Dargon served the Crown Princes.
“There is nothing to be found,” he grumbled, disgruntled. “He is surprisingly clean. His military record lists several awards and accommodations. His service to Crown Prince Malek only had positive notations. It seems he is highly respected by the Galactic Imperial Patrol.” A pity, too. Mestor would have liked to have leverage if he needed it in the future.
Azaes’ expression turned pensive as he poured three glasses of cold water. “This business about the missing Bespoken has me concerned. With Zeus so closely related to him, the Galactic Imperials could press him into service until Princess Athena gives birth to the next Bespoken.”
Mestor suddenly had trouble sitting still. He rose and began to pace, the agitation and anger he had tamped down at first-meal bubbled back to the surface. When Zeus had been adopted into the Vondorian household everyone believed he was human. But this thrice-cursed trip proved he was Fal’Amoric, and not just any Fal’Amoric, but a member of their royal line.
“Those thrice-cursed, gutter-sucking Chtichlians are somehow at the heart of the issue,” Mestor hissed.
The conversation over first-meal had been enlightening. At least one of the Terren governing companies was allied with the V’Saar. Together, the Terrens and V’Saar had tracked down and captured as many Fal’Amoric they could locate. Since they had failed at finding the Bespoken, the humans experimented on the Fal’Amoric, especially Princess Athena, trying to create their own Bespoken. No one knew why the V’Saar were looking to control the grid, instead of bringing it down completely. Earlier, Alpha had speculated that the V’Saar were experiencing a civil war.
“Agreed, the Chtichlians are at the heart of this issue,” Sohm’lan said.
Mestor stopped pacing to consider his warlord. “Can we uncover which Chtichlian vessel took the Bespoken? With Zeus’s help, perhaps we can track them down and find the Bespoken ourselves.”
He trembled with rage. Those scaleless skinks had rendered Zeus blind at birth, fashioning him after the Bespoken, then placed him in the path of the humans who had allied with the V’Saar. Mestor did not know what happened to the Terren vessel Zeus was found on before it appeared in Atlaintician space. He hoped every single human died screaming.
“Mestor.”<
br />
He blinked and Sohm’lan was standing before him, concern reflected in his arresting blue gaze. Poseidon’s balls, he could spend eternity staring into those eyes. When had Sohm’lan moved? How long had he been lost plotting the demise of the Chtichlians?
“Tell us your thoughts. Do not keep them bottled up,” Sohm’lan coaxed.
He sensed his twin’s gaze, and felt concern thrumming through their bond. Usually, Azaes’ comfort was enough to calm him, but lately, Mestor desperately needed Sohm’lan’s touch. Something he doubted he would ever be given freely. He swallowed down his need.
“I find it hard to believe the Fal’Amoric took the Bespoken and fled Valespia because they had been hounded by a spy, and the Chtichlians so conveniently were there to not only make the Terrens believe Zeus was the Bespoken, but to end up with the real Bespoken in their care.” Thick sarcasm fell easily from his tongue. “I find it suspicious that they have not already returned the Bespoken to Valespia, especially since it is so close to the time the Triumphant changes hands.”
“You think the Bespoken is being held hostage by Chtichlians?” Sohm’lan grabbed the lapel of Mestor’s uniform jacket, holding him in place when Mestor would have resumed pacing.
“Do you not? The Bespoken should have been returned to Valespia already, if he was not being held against his will… or dead. It would be nice if the Chtichlians were only safeguarding the Bespoken, but the deception goes deeper and has been in place since Zeus’s birth, if not summers longer.” Mestor squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to restrain his fury. “What they did to my brother when he was born, and then they compounded their actions when Father took Zeus to them for help…” Mestor snarled, unable to verbalize his thoughts. Sohm’lan pulled him close, wrapping an arm around him, and unexpectedly, Mestor’s anger dimmed.
After first-meal, Zeus had explained what happened when their parents took him to the Chtichlians to rectify his blindness. Yes, Zeus left their vessel able to see, but he had returned home terribly ill. Their parents’ anger had cleared the palace of visitors. Father spent days raging through the halls like a feral bull. Mestor and Azaes stayed with Zeus, not leaving his side. No one explained what had happened, but at the time their only concern was for Zeus’s welfare, confident that their parents had punished those responsible. One of them always cuddled Zeus on the sleeping platform, holding him while he cried. Today, Zeus had told them the ugly truth of the fateful visit. The Chtichlians had performed an unauthorized surgery on Zeus, altering his body once again to mimic the Bespoken, and destroying his ability to carry young like some Fal’Amoric could.
Princess Athena revealed that more than half of the Fal’Amoric were neither completely male nor female but were a third sex with reproductive organs of both sexes. It was a closely-held secret of the Fal’Amoric. Whoever handed Zeus over to the Chtichlians had not shared that information or was unaware themselves. When Zeus saw the Chtichlians again at thirteen, his body was ready to enter the stage where his female reproductive organs would start maturing. The Chtichlians took it upon themselves to remove his uterus and the canal leading to it before either were fully developed. They left his ovaries, redirecting his eggs to discharge when he ejaculated, which was how Alpha had become pregnant. Mestor shied away from those thoughts. He had no desire to imagine any kind of intimacy Zeus shared with Dargon and Alpha.
“Do we know the name of the vessel?” Sohm’lan asked, the question bringing him out of his dark thoughts.
“I can get that information.” Azaes peered with narrowed eyes at his data screen. “I have been keeping a daily journal since I was ten.”
Mestor kept one as well, not only for his farseeing, but for the day-to-day events and his observations. It was something their father made sure they did until it became a habit.
“There are two Galactic Standard years left before the current Galactic Emperors are too old to operate the grid.” Mestor gripped Sohm’lan’s wrist where he still clutched Mestor’s uniform. “Can we find the Bespoken in time?”
“It is possible that no matter what we do they will take Zeus as a substitute,” Sohm’lan said and Mestor had to agree. “The timeframe is relatively long, normally, but not exactly enough to train a substitute. If the Bespoken was found, Zeus would be released, but if not, then Princess Athena would be responsible for birthing the next Bespoken. Then we would have to wait for them to mature, choose their Triumphant, and then train them before Zeus would be released.”
We, Mestor loved how Sohm’lan counted himself among the family, even if he was being a stubborn nob about titles.
“There is no way Zeus can be separated from his mates,” Azaes replied, his eyes taking in how Sohm’lan held Mestor before returning his gaze to his data pad. “You know we bulls will fight to the death to return to our nest. Besides, perhaps Princess Athena will be chosen to be the Bespoken substitute instead.”
“I am not sure that is possible,” Sohm’lan said scowling, his brow ridge furrowed in thought. “There have been no offspring from any ruling Triumphant. I have always suspected that something in the process of becoming a Galactic Imperial causes the trio to become sterile. I do not know why that is, but if Princess Athena is the one who needs to birth the next Bespoken, I suspect it will be unlikely she is chosen as a substitute.”
“What if Dargon and Alpha went with Zeus?” Mestor mused aloud, not surprised by Azaes’ hiss of displeasure.
“Until Ariafella and I have young, the kits Alpha carries are the heirs to the throne. There is no way we can allow them to be raised away from home. They need to be brought up among our people, but we cannot separate them from their parents.”
“Well,” Sohm’lan sighed. “We can use the trip to Valespia to gather what information we can about the Fal’Amoric, Bespoken, and Chtichlians. Once we regroup with Valdor and Ashari, perhaps someone will have already farseen the Bespoken.”
“If Canry’s farsight is as strong as I suspect it is, perhaps he will help,” Azaes added.
At the mention of Canry’s name, Sohm’lan made a rough noise that almost sounded like a whine. Sohm’lan had seen Azaes silently sign to their father that Canry had been found and that he, Mestor, and Zeus had spoken to their lost brother in the Dream. It was one of the reasons Azaes insisted on this meeting with Sohm’lan. Now that their father had been told and Canry had contacted Meme, they were free to tell Sohm’lan.
Seeming to realize he still held onto Mestor’s uniform, Sohm’lan stared at where Mestor’s black-scaled fingers wrapped around his wrist. Would he jerk away, Mestor wondered.
“I have questions.” Sohm’lan’s voice barely carried. Mestor heard wariness as well as hope in the tone, but he did not ask what Mestor expected. “Once we reach Qestaire in about six hours—”
Azaes put down his data pad, making a negative noise. “We will be delayed. First, we must rid ourselves of the cowards who are using the psi-tracker to follow us. Our scans show we are still being tailed. It is most unfortunate that not all the mercenaries tracking the Oethra 7 had boarded us. They would now be sitting in our holding cells with the others, but it seems we did not get that lucky. We need to lose them before we reach Qestaire.”
Sohm’lan released Mestor’s uniform, smoothing the wrinkled material over his chest. Mestor bit back a rumble of contentment over the petting motion.
“Yes,” Sohm’lan agreed absently. “Why is Zeus the one who must go surface-side to meet with the Qrxzl?”
During the conversation with their father, there was one spoken conversation and two silent conversations happening simultaneously. The verbal one was guarded. Dargon had warned them the communications to and from Valespia were being monitored by the enemy. What most did not know was that Mar’Sani had a second language comprised of gestures.
One in every thousand was born with the Longing. People of the Longing struggled with a deep need for the Waters of Poseidon. The older they became, the longer they spent in the ocean. Eventually, they were un
able to return to land. Shaneva, their younger sister, had been born with the Longing and by the age of fifteen she had permanently made the Waters her home. Unable to use vocal cords underwater, they spoke with their hands.
While their verbal conversation with their father followed Zeus’s announcement that he had mates, and the fact that warships under Meme’s command were on the way to Valespia, Mestor and Azaes used gestures to warn of the threat in Valespian space, and the danger the Terrens and V’Saar posed, as well as the warning Canry had given them. In return, Father had commanded Sohm’lan to speak to him and Azaes about House Cordyl.
Now Sohm’lan was asking about Canry without saying his name, Mestor stared into his eyes, seeing the longing he usually only saw on his parents’ faces. Azaes joined them, an unspoken agreement that they would tell Sohm’lan together.
“Do you not think your question should be: who said Zeus had to be the one to approach the Qrxzl?” Azaes asked softly.
Chapter Seven
Mestor
* * *
Sohm’lan’s expression closed, becoming a blank mask once more.
Azaes directed them to the table. “When we were in the Dream—”
“We saw Canry,” Mestor said, still holding Sohm’lan’s wrist, sliding his hand across Sohm’lan’s palm, threading their fingers together.
“He looks different.”
“But we knew it was him.”
“He has been shackled to a son of Poseidon.”
“Nethus,” Mestor growled.
“We were pulled into the Dream because Zeus was fighting with that sea slug.” Azaes banged his fist on the table.
“We would have taken Nethus apart—”
“If Poseidon himself had not stopped us.”
Mestor was still surprised the Ancient responsible for the Mar’Sani people yet lived. Most beings believed the Shia’Marr, like Dargon’s communications officer, Abechan of Glimmering Moor, were the oldest peoples in the galaxy. How very wrong they all were.
