“But if he is back with the Coalition, then . . .” Rina’s words trailed off as his meaning registered. “You think he did not know, that he is still in disgrace?”
“And he hopes to use the coming battle to somehow regain his place?” Kateri asked. “It would fit what I know of him.”
“And I,” Tark agreed. “He always had a very high opinion of himself.”
Unlike you, whose isn’t high enough.
Rina shook it off, now was not the time. “This man from the inn who reported, he’s reliable?”
“Yes. We have used the Mountaintop Inn for our meetings, when we needed to be far away from prying eyes in town,” Kateri said.
Rina went still. “Mountaintop?”
“It’s not really at the top,” Kateri explained. “Only halfway, but it’s the highest place there is.”
“Mordred is on the mountain?” Her voice was low, tight. Tark, who had begun pacing again, stopped at the sound of it. She saw him get there.
“Dax’s daughter,” he said, in a tone that echoed her own. “And the prince.”
“What better way to buy his way back to power?” She leapt up, began to gather her things.
“Are you saying,” Kateri asked, “that the Prince of Trios is already here? And that he is on the mountain? With the flashbow warrior’s daughter?”
“Yes,” Tark said, sparing her the need to answer.
Rina asked, her tone clipped now, “Can someone show me the path to this inn?”
“I will take you,” Tark said.
“You will be needed here,” Kateri said.
“I need only the location,” Rina said, not wanting him to be torn between his duty and her job here, which she had obviously not taken seriously enough.
“I will go with you,” Tark insisted, then turned to face Kateri. “If those two are taken, this could end before it begins, and not in our favor. Do we really want the son of our closest, best, and right now only ally taken on our soil, when we could have stopped it?”
“It might make them fight all the harder,” Kateri observed. Anger flared in Rina, and all her newfound liking for the woman nearly vanished in that moment.
“If Triotians fight, they fight to the fullest measure, whether it be for themselves or a friend. That you would even consider letting the rightful Prince of Trios be captured, because you think it will spur them on, is—”
“—Coalition thinking,” Tark said, putting a gentle hand on her arm, restraining her. She bit back the considerably more severe words that had been on her lips.
“My apologies,” Kateri said, with a nod to Rina. “I am too long used to being alone in this battle. I cannot make my own people see the truth, the danger, the need to prepare. I forgot Triotians are a different breed.”
“Indeed they are,” Tark said, so softly she knew it was intended for her ears only.
Kateri reached into the folds of her cloak. “Take this,” she said, holding a small comm unit out to him. Rina knew they, along with weapons, were scarce. “At the inn you will be at the very edge of its range, but we should be able to get something through if the situation here changes.”
He nodded, and took the device.
“Want my blaster?” old Crim asked Tark, holding out the oversized pistol.
“Tempting though it is,” Tark said, eyeing the battered weapon that appeared held together with a few twists of wire, “you may need it more here. My own weapons will do.”
He turned then, vanishing into the sleeping alcove. Rina allowed herself a moment of sweet memory of last night, of dreams fulfilled, of long-denied passion, and the glory of life where she had once thought there was only death. And then he came back, wearing the shirt she’d taken off, which gave her a hot sort of thrill again, deep inside, in the places only he had ever touched. He wore the familiar, battle-scarred leather coat and boots. The lethally sharp dagger was sheathed at his waist, and a disrupter was tucked into his belt. He had a small pack slung over one shoulder, the long gun she remembered over the other.
He was once more the fierce fighter of her memories, the man who had saved more lives than anyone could count with the willingness to lay down his own.
And now he was going to risk it again, for her. For all his talk of hostages, which was, she had to admit, based in truth, she knew deep down he was going as much for her as for Lyon, or the daughter of the man he called friend.
Without a word he took a place by her side. With nothing more than a nod, which got him one in turn from Kateri, he led the way to the disguised door.
To save her family, Bright Tarkson was doing what he had never wanted to do again. He was going to war.
And for all she knew, he could be walking into another ambush.
Chapter 35
DAX SAT AT THE command station, allowing himself a last moment to remember the times spent in this chair on the original Evening Star. Those days had been wild, reckless, and no doubt insane. But they had also been invigorating—exhilarating, and he’d felt utterly alive.
But then, war was also all of those things. Perhaps anything that teetered on the sharp edge of death on a regular basis was.
Trios had held off the Coalition for many years, thanks to the eternal vigilance of Dare and his council. But outside the group that knew at what cost even relative peace came, did anyone realize? Had the people, now that a new generation had come to adulthood, forgotten the price paid?
He’d been surprised when Dare had ordered the cornerstone of the old Council Hall, all that remained of the old building, to remain as it was, battered and cracked, with the words “Not Beaten” carved into it by some unknown, bloodied hand after the city had fallen.
His own instinct would have been to clear away and rebuild as soon as possible. But Dare had prevailed. The building had been rebuilt, defiantly bigger than before, but the cornerstone of the old one remained. More people passed that marker every day than anything else in Triotia, Dare had said, and he didn’t want them to ever be able to forget what their laxity had cost. And the more Dax thought about it, the more he saw the sense in it and agreed.
And that, he thought now, not without wryness, was the difference between the skypirate and the flashbow warrior. Thinking.
They were well clear of guided Triotian airspace now, and the crew who had been clattering around amidships, settling in, were headed to their stations. With an inward grin he stood up as Rox, his longtime first mate, entered the bridge. They grinned at each other; it felt much like days past. Yet there was the awareness of change, of time. He felt a qualm. Qantar was gone. And Roxton was not Triotian, and the years that had passed had aged him. Gray predominated at his temples, and he didn’t move quite as quickly as he had. But his mind was as sharp as ever, and Dax wouldn’t have anyone else in his place as first mate.
“You look exactly as you always did, cap’n,” Rox said, as if he’d read his thoughts. There were darker aspects to being one of the longest-lived races around, Dax thought.
“Bedamned Triotians, never do get old, do they?”
Dax whirled, and his grin returned as Larcos, the Star’s resident engineer, scavenger, and brilliant inventor strode in. He, too, had aged a bit, but he’d been younger to start and so it wasn’t quite as stark. Nelcar, the medical officer and the youngest of his original crew save Rina, was close on his heels.
“Larc,” he said as he shook his hand, then turned to the other man. “Nelcar, didn’t really expect you.” It was true—the man was a fixture in Triotian medical circles these days, and much in demand.
“As if I’d miss the chance to fly with you again. Is it true, Rina is already there?” Nelcar asked. He’d always had a soft spot for their young navigator. But then, they all had.
“Yes,” Dax said. “With Tark.”
Nelcar’s g
rin returned. “I heard he was alive. Good for her.”
“Couldn’t pick a better man,” Larc added.
“Now all she needs is for you”—Rox thumped him on the chest—“to stay out of their way.”
“She was little more than a child then,” he protested.
“And she’s years a woman now,” Larc pointed out. “And we’ll need Tark’s knowledge of Arellia before this is over.”
“Not to mention those crazy tactics of his.” Rox grinned. “No wonder you two got along, he was as crazy as you.”
Dax didn’t—couldn’t—deny either. The combination had been a large part of why the Battle of Galatin had ended the way it had.
“He is much changed,” he warned.
“And who would not be, what he went through?” Hurcon had lumbered up to them, sparing a nod of greeting to his old crewmates. “I’d like to get my hands on the throat of the coward who refused to send aid.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” Larc said.
The muttered assent ran through them all; even Nelcar, whose instincts were to heal, looked suitably grim.
“And yet he survived,” Dax said. “And walked out of those mountains with most of his men with him. Carrying one of them, in fact.”
“A feat worthy of a certain skypirate we once knew,” Rox said.
Dax looked at them, his throat tight. They’d been through much together. Some of the crew might be grayer, some off to new, different lives, but when he’d put out the call, they’d all come.
He turned away for a moment, thinking he’d become soft himself, and not about to let his crew see the sheen of moisture in his eyes. He grabbed up the bottle of lingberry liquor he’d retrieved from the galley.
“A toast,” he said, his voice tight, “to Qantar.”
The one member of the bridge crew absent, the man who had been older than all of them when he’d flown on the Evening Star, had died last year, shortly after Dax had flown him home to Zenox. Qantar’s entire family had been murdered there by the heavy hand of the Coalition, and his last wish had been to rejoin them. Dax had known that while the man had been glad to live to see the Coalition ousted, he’d also been only half alive since that day Corling and Mordred had slaughtered every man, woman, and child in his small town.
“To Qantar,” they echoed with every swig as they passed the bottle around just as they often had after a successful raid.
Dax took the bottle back when Larc handed it to him. He set the cork back in place with a solid slap. Then he looked at them.
“We just now received a report from Tark that there is a Coalition flagship on the way. I won’t insult you by saying this now will likely turn into something ugly, I know that you all suspected that. But as always, I will neither force nor expect any man to go along on a mission he does not feel right about. Now is your moment to withdraw, with no hard thoughts held against you. A shuttle will take you back.”
Not a man spoke, they merely held his gaze levelly, except for Hurcon, who snorted with audible disdain at the very idea.
“All right, then,” Dax said. “We fly.”
They went to work as if they had never stopped. Rina’s navigation station was empty, but she’d join them once they reached Arellia. In the meantime Califa would handle it, when she finished overseeing the weapons and ammunition stowage. The chatter among the crew, raucous and usually insulting, started up as if the intervening years had never been. Dax smiled inwardly as he listened.
The Evening Star would fly—and if necessary fight—again.
IN THE END, IT was so simple it seemed impossible. They got a bit wet slipping behind the waterfall, but once in the cave it was dry. Strangely dry, Lyon thought. The spray from the falls should have kept it fairly damp.
“There are tunnels,” Lyon said as he peered into the darkness.
“Of course there are,” Shay retorted somewhat resignedly.
He smothered a smile at her tone, and decided not to point out just now that they appeared to have slipped right back into the old, teasing ways. For all they had gained—and the memory of those golden hours in the sun would never leave him—they had not lost this, not as she had feared.
“Shall we go about this in an orderly manner, or just take a wild guess?” he asked.
“We’ve already tossed reason to the wind, why stop now?”
He laughed.
She glared at him.
Yes, things were back to normal. She’d made her decision in that meadow, and she wouldn’t backtrack. No fluttery, embarrassed afterthoughts for his Shay.
And he knew he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“All right, then.” He looked at the back of the cave, at the three openings that appeared to be tunnels. He had no idea how far they might go. For all he knew, they came out on the far side of the mountain. Or didn’t come out at all. Or both.
On impulse he gestured to the opening on the right. “Let’s try that one.”
“You’re the Graymist,” she said, and started that way.
He spared a moment to grin inwardly, thinking of all the things he loved about her. Why had they fought this for so long? Simply in rebellion against the idea that their destiny had been chosen for them? If so, this day had shown them it was a small price to pay for what they’d discovered, for the joy their union had brought them.
“Coming, Your Highness?”
He must have been standing there longer than he’d thought, if she’d dragged out the title to prod him with. With a laugh he let escape this time, he followed her. They walked into the tunnel.
And less than a minute later, they had found it.
Shaina stared at the large niche halfway up the wall of the dead end of the tunnel, then slowly turned to look at him.
The gold gleamed, seeming to capture every bit of what little light there was. A chalice here, a stack of plates, and a large, ancient-looking leather pouch from which spilled coins too many to even estimate a total.
And in the center of the display of riches sat a rather plain-looking object, a roughly hewn wooden stand in which sat a small sphere. Barely the size of his fist, it looked like glass, except that it did not seem to reflect its surroundings. The gold should have gleamed in the polished surface, but instead the orb swirled with the colors of oil upon still water.
Lyon felt drawn to it, pulled in a way much stronger than that urge to pick this of all the tunnels. He took a step forward, ignoring the gold piled before him, and focusing on the ball, the Graymist Orb. Odd, he would have expected something more ornate, something other than the simple wooden holder that looked as if it had been made out of wood scraps found on the forest floor. Perhaps it had been, for all he knew.
He reached out, touched the sphere. It flashed sun-bright, and he instinctively jerked his hand back. The brilliant light gradually subsided, until the orb emitted a barely perceptible but steady glow.
“I think you woke it up,” Shaina said, her tone a mix of wariness and jest.
He studied it for a moment, watched for any changes, but the odd glow stayed steady. Slowly he reached out again. At his touch the light flared again, although not as blinding as that first flash. He pulled his hand back again, slowly this time, and just as slowly the orb subsided to that steady, faint glow.
Again he studied it. Shay stayed quiet, letting him think. She might not have his need to understand how everything worked—she settled for it working as it was supposed to—but she accepted it, even admitted it was sometimes useful, and a good balance for her more impulsive nature.
“You try it,” he finally said.
She blinked. “What?”
“Touch it. I’m curious to know if it reacts to any touch.”
Her mouth quirked. “Feeling special, Graymist?”
He smiled outwardly th
is time at this return to their normalcy. He would never be in danger of losing his humility, he thought. And could there be any more necessary quality in a king?
“If I were, it’s ever your job to disabuse me of that notion,” he said.
She colored slightly, she who was rarely embarrassed, and he wondered if she had had, as he just had, a vision of the future unrolling before them, of the partnership that would someday lead a world.
But she reached out and touched the orb. It flared, but not as brightly, and the light faded more quickly when she removed her hand.
“So . . . what does that mean?” she asked. “It responds to anyone, but a Graymist most of all?”
“Perhaps,” he said, in a tone of great concentration, “it simply likes me better.”
Her head turned; he could feel her gaze, and couldn’t stop himself from grinning. He knew her so well, he saw a teasing retort coming. But then her face changed, softened somehow, and when she smiled every memory of those fiery, sweet moments in the sunlit meadow slammed into him, so powerful he wanted to take her to the ground right here and now and begin it all over again.
“It might,” she said softly. “I certainly do.”
He realized suddenly there was something he had forgotten. Something he had never said, since their world—and apparently the physical world around them—had been changed by that passionate encounter.
They rarely put their feelings for each other into words. It was a given, and they both knew it. But that had been when they had been lifetime friends and companions. Now they were mated, and the words took on a whole new meaning.
“I love you, Shay,” he said quietly, putting every bit of emotion and need and gratitude and certainty in that unrolling future into the simple words.
She gave him no quick response. Instead, her expression became very solemn. And he knew she had heard everything he had tried to say. Of course she did, she understood him better than anyone.
Rebel Prince (The Coalition Rebellion Novels Book 3) Page 25
