The mechanics of sex she understood, but all that led up it was a vast blank space. Alala glowered. Women had probably been scrambling to teach the beautiful Prince Innocence the ways of love since he hit puberty. But had any of them succeeded? Somehow she doubted it. A great many people had been all too eager to tell her K’kadi Amund had been singularly oblivious to women until she had literally dropped into their midst. Which, Alala had to admit, was good to know.
Even when she hadn’t wanted to find out more about him.
Not like lunelle?
“Oh no. It is—ah—an excellent vintage.” She’d heard someone say that—she could only hope it was an acceptable comment. Was that a blush heating her cheeks? Certainly not! But K’kadi had caught her mind wandering. Was it possible he’d heard her thoughts?
Not pry. Hear only. What. You . . . tell me.
A comment which made even an unbelieving stoic flinch. Nimbat!
Hastily, Alala downed a mouthful of the smooth blue wine made only a hundred kilometers from the city. A-ah. Awkwardness aside, sitting at a private table with a man, surrounded by the soft murmurs of others enjoying a drink and companionship had an aura about it that was rather pleasing . . .
Truthfully, she’d been far calmer before every battle she’d ever fought. War she understood. K’kadi Amund, not at all. But for some reason, nothing short of a battle alarm could have dragged her from the table.
“The wine is good, this place is enjoyable. I am glad we came.” There. Was that so hard to admit— Alala blinked as K’kadi’s face was transformed—as if the sun had suddenly reappeared, turning his skin to shining gold.
Me too. His now sparkling azure eyes flicked toward the dance floor where several couples were swaying in time to music played by three live musicians. Dance?
Dance? She couldn’t possibly . . . “K’kadi . . . I don’t know your dances.” Truth was, she didn’t know any dances, but she wasn’t about to admit it.
No problem. He stood, held out his hand.
Alala was quite sure she shouldn’t touch him. Did psychic skills rub off? Would he seize her brain along with her hand?
Did she care? This was almost as exciting as her first battle. And was likely to be even more challenging.
K’kadi’s arms went around her, but evidently taking pity on her obvious distress, he did not hold her as close as some of the other couples on the dance floor. He waved a finger in the air, nodded to the band leader, and as the music started, Alala realized this was far from K’kadi’s first time on the dance floor. He knew what music he wanted and had no difficulty making his wishes clear. His movements were graceful and certain, the steps of a man who was not a novice. Was she the last person on Blue Moon to realize that K’kadi’s handicap wasn’t all that important? That perhaps she should light a candle to Ares in thanks for bringing this oddly gifted manchild into a life almost as circumscribed as his own?
The music was slow and sensuous, something with strings and flauta. K’kadi’s hands were warm. Burning. But when she stepped on his toes, faltered, and came close to running off the floor in acute embarrassment, he held her tight. Surprisingly tight. Stop fighting. I dance. You follow.
“I’m so sorry!”
I not. Like dance. You.
Oh.
And then they were dancing closer, so close the side of her head was resting on his shoulder. When the music ended, Alala almost moaned. She didn’t want the dance to end. Being touched. Held. Moving together . . . Not what she was raised for, but it was . . . well, something she wouldn’t mind doing again.
When they arrived back at their table, K’kadi carefully refilled their glasses before leaning forward, his brow furrowed in a surprising frown. He’d been doing so well, she wondered at his sudden unease. Know dance, he said. Not know sex. Prac-tice Talora?
Not a word was spoken as captains Rybolt and Tegge left Tal’s hospital room, took the lift to the ground floor, and exited into the parking area, where they were instantly surrounded by the extra security personnel Kass had ordered for their protection.
Yet another reminder all was not well on Blue Moon.
Once inside the limm, Alek made sure the panel between driver and passengers was closed before blowing out a long breath and saying, “Tal’s looking good, but that was close. Way too close.”
“Agreed.”
“We’ve been too safe here. We grew careless.”
“Clueless,” Jordana spat out. “Blue Moon, the ultimate refuge. We never even considered the possibility of traitors among us.”
“Aren’t we all?” Alek shot back.
“Stop that! Joining a revolution isn’t being a traitor. It’s not the same at all!”
“Female reasoning continually baffles me,” Alek returned, but his lips curved up in a wry smile.
“We are not traitors,” Jordana asserted, ignoring his attempt at humor. “We are working to improve Regula’s way of life by putting an end to Fleet’s aggression.”
“Darroch’s aggression.”
“‘Just following orders’ is not an acceptable defense. You know that!”
“And we didn’t, did we? We blew our orders to the Ninth Hell and followed Tal Rigel into insanity.”
“It’ not—”
“Sorry.” Alek wiped away his words with a wave of his hand. “You’re right, I didn’t mean it. It’s just that it took a bomb on Pegasus and a sniper right under our noses before I realized how vulnerable we are. We lose our effectiveness if we have to watch our backs every moment.”
“But Kass took down the ringleaders.”
“How many others are there?” Alek demanded. “We knew there were likely spies among the defectors, but things have been quiet for so long, we ignored the possibility we were harboring the faint-hearted and the greedy at the highest level. We let our guard down, . . . and now this.”
“And when Tal and Kass go to Hercula, it’s all ours again. Only this time . . .”
“This time we do better,” Alek concluded. “No more sweetness, light, and the Psyclid way.”
“It’s sad,” Jordana admitted. “I’ve been a fighter all my life, but there’s something about reverence for life, being kind to everyone, even sinners, that has a beauty all its own. Guess we all fell into the trap.”
“Or maybe that’s why we have to be tough now. So King Ryal’s visions can come true.”
Jordana considered the matter. “Never going to happen,” she said. “Perfect peace? Like some of K’kadi’s pretty pictures, I just don’t believe it.”
Silence descended. It had begun to rain, rivulets running down the windshield and disappearing into the darkness. The wet pavement gleamed; misty halos surrounded the lights at the top of tall poles. “Sleepy?” Alek asked.
“Hell, no.”
“I’ve got a new bottle of karst. Lunelle as well.”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
“What!” Fortunately, Alala’s response to K’kadi’s outrageous question came out as a strangled whisper instead of a shriek. “You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying!”
K’kadi pointed to himself. Know nothing. Not want be stupid. Not want hurt.
“You’re assuming rather lot for a bottle of wine. Is lunelle an aphrodisiac?” Alala’s tone smacked of the ultimate cold of outer space.
Sorry. Not good . . . people.
Alala pressed fingers to her forehead, forced back a groan. “Let me make sure I understand you. You want to have sex with me, but you’re asking if you should have sex with Talora first?”
Practice.
“She might shoot you for using her like that.”
Good girl. Likes me.
Just when she thought she might be learning to like him. Well, nimbat! What now? “Leave the poor girl alone,” she intoned. “If the time ever comes for us—and at the moment it seems unlikely—we’ll learn together.”
You too?
“That’s right, my prince. All those men around and I’ve never
ever. Not once.”
Like fighting better?
Alala stood. “How would I know when I’ve only done the one and not the other?” And with that she stalked out, every eye following her before turning speculative looks on K’kadi. He was, however, learning when it was better to give up and try another day. Grimly, he poured a glass of lunelle, held it up to the light.
Blue. Blue was Home. Family. He’d never thought it the color of sorrow. But tonight it was. Just when he thought he was on the verge of the final step to manhood, he’d done it again.
He should never have learned to talk. Bad enough when only his actions could make everyone angry, but now . . .
Talora would understand, even if Alala could not. And besides . . . he could hear Tal’s voice ringing in his head. What the fydding fyd are you doing, moaning over Alala again when the rebellion’s up to its neck in pok? Forget women. You’re a weapon. We need you!
K’kadi blinked. He’d had enough scowls and scolds from Tal without conjuring more out of nothing but thin air. Yet the imaginary Tal was right. There was something more serious happening than K’kadi Amund’s interest in women. Something dark and threatening. Traitors. Bombers. Assassins. Here on Blue Moon, the heart of the rebellion.
Memories flashed. The crack of a rifle. Blood flowing freely from Tal’s head.
Anger, cold and harsh, twisted K’kadi’s pale face. Jagan should space the traitors they’d caught. But knowing and doing were very different things. Killing was not the Psyclid way.
Kass had killed.
M’lani had killed.
B’aela? It seemed likely she had killed as well. Certainly, Regs had died for what they’d done to her.
But, fizzet, all K’kadi Amund did was save lives. His father, the king, was proud of him. Today, everyone said he was a hero. Yet somehow, as far as the rebellion was concerned, he felt like he was standing still. Occasionally useful but never a spearhead.
He would have to think on it.
Chapter 19
Kraslenka, Regula Prime
He hadn’t expected . . . this. Rand Kamal stood in the doorway of the Emperor’s conference chamber, taking in the extent of his problem in one sweeping glance: Emperor Darroch Rysor Karlmann von Baalen at the head of the table; along the sides, the chairman of the High Council, and every five-star admiral and general in the military command. (Except—a ripple of warning shot through him—retired Admiral of the Fleet Vander Rigel. Was he keeping well out of sight since the visit from his son? Or had he not been invited?)
The Chief of Regulon National Security was present. Rogan Kamal. His father. Whether that was good or bad, Rand was unsure. His father’s loyalty to the Empire was unquestioned, nor was he known for an interest in a broader, long-term vision of the world. His job was keeping the Emperor and the Regulon government secure, and he did it very well.
To the extent of condemning his only son to death? For this meeting was looking very much like a tribunal.
Rand stepped forward, standing at attention behind the empty seat at the opposite end of the table from the emperor, his sharp blue eyes taking them all in as he spoke. “Your Supreme Majesty, honored chairman, admirals, generals, how may I serve you today?” He supposed he should be quaking in his boots. He had, after all, refused to lead a retaliatory strike against Psyclid. He had disappeared into the countryside, but somehow stuck his fingers into the Pegasus business. Far enough to have made waves in high places. He was a known adulterer with a Psyclid witch. Any and all could bring him down.
“Sit,” his uncle commanded, nodding to the empty chair at the foot of the table. A chair with his father on his right. “You will explain Psyclid to us,” the emperor decreed. “You will make us understand how a country with no viable army sent our occupation troops running home in disgrace.”
So that’s why he was here? As relief rushed through him, Rand’s military façade never wavered. And how kind of Darroch not to mention that his favorite nephew signed the peace treaty that precipitated the evacuation of Psyclid.
Yet how did one explain the inexplicable? How could he convince men trained in military might that there were those who could do battle solely with the powers of the mind? How did he get through to men who refused to see?
“You all knew—know—Admiral Yarian,” Rand said, grasping at a name familiar to them all. “An excellent officer, which is why our emperor appointed him Governor-General of Psyclid. Yarian understood the methods Regulons have always practiced. We conquer a country without devastating it. We take over the government, businesses, industry, agriculture, keep them running so we may profit from the country’s wealth without leaving its people to starve and become unproductive. The system has proven itself through many generations. Which is why we have encountered so little resistance.
“Until Psyclid.” Rand paused, once again chagrined, and embarrassed, by how easily the Psyclids had brought their captors down. “What Admiral Yarian did not understand—refused to understand,” he continued, “is that psychic powers do exist and with proper training can be used as weapons. Yarian was so convinced this was not true that when he saw evidence of this power with his own eyes, his mind refused to accept it. From that day—the emperor’s birthday parade—he retreated into himself and is now a permanent invalid. Believe me,” Rand said over the general murmurs sweeping the table, “the Psyclids did not harm him on purpose. His own mind betrayed him when he refused to accept the evidence before his eyes.”
“Describe what happened,” Emperor Darroch ordered. “I have read the reports, seen the vids, yet I too have trouble believing it.”
“I was riding in the groundcar behind the admiral. I didn’t see what happened, I experienced it.” He had their attention. The most powerful men in twelve star systems and they were hanging on his every word. “One moment we were driving past the reviewing stand where King Ryal, his wife and daughter were sitting; the next, everything stopped. I was aware, but I was frozen to my seat, the car stopped dead. The band froze mid-step, instruments still in their hands. The marching men, the T-bots, everything frozen. It was as if time had stopped. I have to say I don’t blame Yarian for his reaction. It was the most terrifying thing I have ever encountered because it was inexplicable. There was no precedent, no way to explain, or understand, what was happening.
“And then it was over. Some were so shocked they collapsed in the street. Most managed to pick themselves up and continue the march. We rushed the admiral to the hospital but he never recovered.”
“But how?” Rogan Kamal demanded, voicing what the others were still too stunned to ask. “Tell us how!”
“The Psyclids have a remarkable variety of gifts of the mind,” Rand replied, “but it’s possible to combine their talents in something known as enlasé. This allows them to freeze people in place, shut down electricity, create illusions. They have at least one person who can turn tanks and T-bots to dust with a glance. When the Psys pointed out they could drop our frigates from the sky, annihilate our soldiers while frozen in place and unable to fight back, I believed them. I signed the treaty and brought our men home.”
“You were bewitched,” one of the generals accused. “You were not thinking clearly.”
“You are welcome to talk to any of the men and women who were there,” Rand returned equitably. “At least half our soldiers on Psyclid were frozen at one time or another or watched helplessly while our machines were disintegrated behind electrified fences. Call in Lieutenant Rasman. He watched three tanks disintegrate on a sunny afternoon in the royal park. Unfortunately, General Grigorev is not available to tell his story. His throat was torn out by some means we have not yet ascertained. But it was Psyclid in origin, of that I have no doubt.
“My advice, gentlemen, leave the Psyclids alone. They are devoted to peace and will not trouble you if you do not trouble them.” Which had to be the biggest lie he’d ever told. King Ryal would not trouble them, but Tal Rigel was never going to forego deploying a multitude of P
sys against the Regs. Rand stifled a wince at an image of residents of Regula Prime running in terror from a fire-breathing dragon large enough to fill the sky.
Darroch, oblivious, glared down the length of the shining brightwood table. “You actually expect us to believe this?”
Rand glared right back. “If you don’t, you’ll regret it. Please, I beg of you, forget Psyclid exists.”
Agitated voices rose from every direction. Beneath the noise, Rogan Kamal asked, “This is true? This is why you ordered the evacuation?”
“Did you think me a coward, Father? Unworthy of my name?”
“Of course not . . . but it was so hard to understand. We have never been defeated. Nev—”
The slap of the emperor’s hand on the table brought instant silence. “Admiral Kamal, stand!” Rand snapped to attention, fixing his gaze somewhere over Darroch’s head. “Do you swear to the truth of everything you have said here today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are certain the Psyclids pose no threat?”
“Yes, sir.” May Omnovah forgive him.
“You will rejoin Fleet immediately, where you will prepare for an invasion of Hercula. That will be all. Dismissed.”
Rand was outside before he dared think about what had just happened. Hercula? He was to be part of an invasion of Hercula? Where was Vander Rigel when he needed him? Maybe . . . had Pegasus left yet?
Think about yourself, idiot!
You lucked out. Once again. But you’re a Reg, not a rebel.
But shadows lurked, waiting to pounce. If high command knew he’d leaked word of the planned Psyclid reprisal . . . Instant—no, more likely prolonged and painful—death. Something he’d known when he did it. But the annihilation of Psyclid—the people, the sparkling cities and serene countryside he’d come to know so well? He couldn’t allow that to happen. Not to B’aela. Ryal and Jalaine, the lovely M’lani. Not even to those fydding scoundrels, Mondragon and Killiri, whose engineering of Psyclid’s freedom could only inspire admiration. If grudging.
And now that he knew about Tal Rigel . . . what was a man to do? A phone call confirmed that Vander Rigel was “unavailable.” Whatever that meant.
The Bastard Prince (Blue Moon Rising Book 3) Page 15
