Blue Moon
Alek hadn’t wanted to take over Tal’s desk—that imposing mass of shining wood, bordered in ornate inlay, that had served four generations of Psyclid kings until the rebels made Blue Moon their headquarters. But Tal had told him the desk was a symbol of power, reinforcing his right to rule in Tal’s absence. But the batani desk was insidious, as was the magnificence of the room itself—the inner sanctum of royalty, the seat of power. It was enough to turn a man’s head . . . or simply fool him into thinking he was omnipotent. A major mistake.
Particularly when it appeared the enemy still lurked on Blue Moon. That was the gist of the message he’d just received from Jagan. Interrogation of the prisoners taken to Psyclid revealed there were still Reg spies on Blue Moon. Over the years the Empire had carefully planted them among the rebel defectors—more exactly, at the orders of Alric Kamal, head of Regulon National Security. Rand Kamal’s father. Alek shook his head. The irony of the myriad shades of family interactions on both sides of the conflict did not escape him.
“Good morning.”
Alek looked up and smiled. Lately, Jordana’s tart tone had been replaced by such bright cheer that he couldn’t help but feel a little smug. If this was the power of love, he was all for it. And he’d swear she’d dropped at least five years from her face. Or maybe that was how the eyes of love saw her. His Jordana wasn’t exactly small, sweet, and cuddly. Nor did he want her to be. A warrior captain was just fine with Alek Rybolt.
He motioned her to a seat in front of the desk and told her about the Sorcerer Prime’s report. “So how do we find them?” she asked. “We’re dead in space if the Regs know our every move.”
Alek ran his hands through his hair. “Spies are tough to find. They’re likely the ones who seem the most devoted to our cause, the ones stepping forward to volunteer for the toughest missions.”
“Then why don’t we start there—prepare a list of those who’ve volunteered for special assignments, cross reference to see who’s been on the most special missions, worked the hardest, seemed most capable?”
“Suspect the best? That hurts,” Alek declared flatly.
“It was your idea, and we have to start somewhere.”
Alek groaned. Putting the report from Psyclid aside, they spent forty minutes on the less dramatic aspects of governing Blue Moon. Not the most scintillating way to pass the time—they both were relieved when Jor Sagan rapped on the door—an expected interruption as this was the day they made their weekly inspection of Tycho and Scorpio, a necessity for keeping both ships and crews on their toes and battle ready.
Sagan surprised them, however. “Your car is waiting, Captain, but the manager of the lunelle winery is here. He says his problem is urgent.”
“Can’t mess with the production of lunelle,” Alek quipped. “Captain Tegge, you go ahead. “I’ll catch up.” Jordana saluted smartly and left for the waiting groundcar.
Jor Sagan introduced the manager, a man of middle years with the fit body of someone much younger. Though his face was grim, sharp intelligence shown from eyes. “I am sorry to trouble you, Captain,” he said, “but one of my men brought me a rumor. Said he’d overheard a few whispered words in a tavern. He swears he heard the word ‘bomb’. And your name. And after the incident with Captain Rigel in the square . . .”
“When did this happen?”
“Last night. He told me this morning, I came straight here.”
Alek’s fingers drummed on the desk. “Bomb” could mean anything, be anywhere. “I would like to speak with your informant. Please ask him to report to me as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Captain. I wish I could have been of more help.”
Just as the manager stood, the door burst open. Jor Sagan, visibly shaking, said, “Captain, there’s been an explosion . . . your car . . . Captain Tegge . . .” He gulped a breath. “I’m sorry, sir. So sorry.”
Tal had to admit that once the Hercs committed to fighting the Regs, their organizational skills had been impressive. They were, however, nothing compared to the ability of their females to organize a grand wedding in a matter of days instead of months. But even as he admired the spectacle of the procession forming outside the palace, a ripple of unease rolled up his spine. He had not seen the elaborate celebration staged for the wedding of Jagan and M’lani, but he’d viewed a vid of it, and this one was shaping up to rival it in size, color, and fervor of the crowd. And now another Orlondami was being married in grand style while he and Kass had made their vows on the spur of the moment—some would say, under duress—wearing nothing more elaborate than rumpled rebel jumpsuits.
Tal glanced at Kass, who was seated beside him in a shining black groundcar with an open top. Her court smile was fixed in place—gracious, unflappable . . . royal to the core. He could be an insensitive idiot, Tal knew. A quality built into most men. But he knew Kass was hurting. She was losing K’kadi. Brother and sister could never again be as close as they had been. And she was watching yet another of Ryal’s children marry in pomp and splendor, while she . . .
And to top her grievances, he had refused to bring a child into the world while they were fighting the Regs.
Great going, Rigel. If your wife weren’t more stoic than the Hercs, she’d break into sobs at any moment.
The drums rolled a brisk tattoo, the trumpets blared a fanfare, and the soldiers at the front set off at a brisk pace, skirts flapping about their knees. The band followed, directly in front of a sleek open limo in which King Nekator rode with Hypatia Kalliste at his side. A troop of male dancers followed, stomping and clapping yet somehow moving forward in rhythm with the parade. Directly behind them was the open car containing Alala’s parents, who deviated from their customary formality, nodding and waving to the crowds lining the street. Next came a group of lissome young woman, garbed in white chitons elaborately banded in brightly colored designs and making ethereal music on lyres, pipes, psaltery, and high-pitched horns.
The groundcar with Tal, Kass, Anneli, and B’aela came next—to a surprising roar of approval from a crowd who clearly recognized the part the rebels played in the battle against the Regs. Another military contingent followed, then a second band trailed by yet another open groundcar containing Hercula’s four highest-ranking military officers, including Admiral Andreadis. (General Drakos, however, was conspicuous by his absence.)
At last, two by two, a group of six young men marched ahead of the open car containing the bride and groom. Each of the three duos carried an arch of flowers nearly two meters tall—one purple, one pink, and one white. Since they effectively obscured any view of K’kadi and Alala, riding together in sharp contrast to Reg and Psyclid custom, after one swift glance behind, Tal kept his eyes front, clasping Kass’s hand and waving to the crowd as seemed to be expected.
The noise surrounding the slow journey to the temple on a hillside above the city of Sparta was so raucous Kass had to fight the urge to put her hands over her ears. Tal holding her hand helped. She suspected he sensed her mixed emotions—sometimes, though not often enough, he could do that. This was all so . . . strange. She’d seen the vid of M’lani’s wedding, of course, but being plunged into the midst of a similar grand celebration for as mismatched a pair as anyone could imagine, when she and Tal . . . No! To even think of regretting the circumstances of her wedding was shallow, foolish. Unworthy of an Orlondami. Unworthy of a Rigel. She was a better person than that.
Really.
Kass did not, however, envy those who had to walk the snake-like road to the top of the plateau that must have been a thousand meters above the city. But the view was spectacular—jutting mountains and deep valleys contrasted with the white-capped blue-green of the ocean, the red tile roofs of the houses clinging to the precipitous slopes. And the temple was everything the most imaginative minds could conjure from pictures of ancient Greek civilization—a huge rectangular structure marked by towering Doric columns topped by a line of elaborately carved friezes. Not ruins see
n in history vids but a reincarnation of the civilization that influenced all that came after. Even the civilizations that left Earth to find new homes among the stars.
Awesome. It truly was, although Kass was loath to admit the temple was grander than its counterparts on Psyclid. But in keeping with the Herculon character, its beauty was stark—a statue here and there, also in marble, but no gilding, no banners, no bells. On all four sides a series of shallow steps provided approaches to the building. The soldiers, bands, and dancers took up positions at the bottom of the steps on three sides. The female musicians in colorful chitons arranged themselves on either side of the front entrance, leaving a corridor for the honored guests to walk through.
Trumpets sounded. Drums beat. Not a call to arms but a call to celebration. King Nekator and Hypatia Kalliste stepped out of their vehicle. He offered his arm to the First Concubine, and accompanied by the exquisite sounds of lyre, pipes, psaltery, and horns, they ascended the steps and disappeared inside. Kass’s heart thudded as she and Tal were next. Oh blessed goddess, there were no seats. No candles, no incense, no altar cloth, just a great many wedding guests standing in place, their eyes fixed on those arriving with the king’s party, but primarily waiting for the arrival of the bride and groom. A high-ranking Herculon female marrying a prince from a far distant land? An alliance with some insignificant planet called Psyclid? If all of them were as weird as the groom was said to be . . . Definitely food for gossip for months to come.
At Anneli’s insistence, B’aela escorted the mother of the groom down the long aisle, a bit unorthodox, all cultures agreed, but if that’s what she wanted . . . The two women took their place in the front row next to Tal and Kass, then turned to watch the approach of General Thanos and his wife. Perhaps, Kass conceded, the idea of the sexes marching together, side by side, was not such an odd custom. She might even consider it if—
No! She’d had her wedding. Such as it was. This was K’kadi’s day.
Baby brother was getting married. Too young, too young. And perhaps not wisely.
Happy. She would be happy for him. She had to be.
Another fanfare, another drum roll. Kass stood on tiptoes to see over the crowd as K’kadi and Alala started down the aisle. But once again Kass’s view was obscured by the tall flower arches. The six young men carrying them preceded the bride and groom, purple arch first, followed by pink then white. It wasn’t until K’kadi and Alala ascended the steps to the altar, leaving the arch-bearers behind, that Kass got a good look at the bride and groom. Oh blessed goddess, she might not think K’kadi ready for marriage, but the fey and heedless boy was gone. In his place was a man, head high, pride of an Orlondami prince in every step.
In keeping with Herculon tradition, K’kadi was simply, though richly, garbed in a shiny purple tunic that appeared to be silk, with a stark white himation draped over one shoulder. His only ornament was a single gold chain. Alala, however . . . Kass heaved a sigh. M’lani had looked magnificent in the vid she’d seen, but there was nothing like a real live bride, wearing a wedding-day glow that surprised more than a few of the attendees, who had assumed the marriage arranged solely for political purposes.
Alala wore a floor-length chiton of saffron, banded at elbow level and hem in purple, heavily embroidered in gold. Gold bangles dangled from her ears, and she wore a gold chain that matched K’kadi’s.
The ceremony, of which Kass understood perhaps one word in ten, was blessedly short, the celebration that followed ridiculously long. When the Hercs unbent, it seemed they did it with a vengeance. When K’kadi and Alala took their leave, accompanied by the ribald jokes that seemed to cross all culture barriers, Kass tried not to think of what came next. Somehow none of this was right. Marriage at twenty-one when K’kadi had seemed destined for the celibate life of a sorcerer?
Like Jagan? her inner voice mocked.
Tal whirled her away into a dance. Kass laughed, and left her brother to his fate.
Only a very few noticed that the merchant captain from Turus and his family were not among those celebrating the wedding of Colonel Alala Thanos and the Psyclid prince.
Chapter 31
K’kadi, son of a king, had been granted a corner suite in the palace, with a view overlooking extensive gardens, currently blooming in a riot of colors in striking contrast to the pale marble of the building itself. As he and his bride of a few hours entered the sitting area, K’kadi abruptly abandoned her, striding across the room to pause in the shadows just short of the open double doors to a balcony. His body set in a surprisingly military parade rest, he took in the beauty below and the jagged mountain peaks beyond, jutting into a brilliant blue sky. Married. He was married. To Alala. He should be happy. Ecstatically happy. Isn’t that what all the stories, songs, and poems promised?
If not bliss, he could at least take satisfaction in doing his duty. The alliance was safe. And yet he felt . . . nothing. The longer the festive celebration continued, the more he’d shut down, cutting himself off from the noise, the boisterous satisfaction of the Hercs, the forced cheerfulness of family and friends. From his mother’s failure to appear anything but concerned.
To protect himself, he’d buried every hint of emotion. So now . . . nothing.
No, not nothing. As he gazed at the distant peaks, a flood of emotions slammed back, filling the void. Among them, stunned, angry. Manipulated. Which was not the way it was supposed to be. K’kadi Amund was no one’s pawn. Not Nekator’s. Not Tal’s. Not his father’s or even Kass’s, though where would he be if she had not worked so hard to bring his mind back from chaos?
Alala had helped, that he had to admit. Her rejection had played a significant role in teaching him to distinguish fantasy from reality. And now, when he’d hoped to find some spark of affection in their marriage, all he’d seen was a grand, empty show staged to reassure the populace of Hercula’s might and raise patriotic fervor for the greater war to come. Feed them pomp and circumstance so they don’t think of blood and destruct—
“You don’t want me.” Alala spoke from just behind his right shoulder. “I don’t have to be psychic to feel it, K’kadi. Ever since your grand announcement in court, you have ignored me. We’ve not spent five minutes alone together.”
Silence.
“You stalked me for months on end, threw yourself at my feet, declared I was yours, yet now . . .?”
Stupid boy. Blind.
“K’kadi!” Shocked, Alala backed away.
Hercs kill. Made me kill.
That was the problem? She’d thought Talora . . . “K’kadi, you always knew I was a warrior. That’s—”
Two ships. Helpless! Gone.
“You know that was a mistake. The captains involved have been punished.” Hands crossed defensively over her breasts, Alala took another step back, studying K’kadi’s face as if it were a battle map. “That’s an excuse, isn’t it? That foolish girl wormed her way into your heart, and now I’m nothing more than a way to seal the alliance!” Choked by a mix of fury and anguish, Alala was forced to silence.
K’kadi returned to staring at the view outside. Not excuse. Not want kill. Save mother. Sister. Good.
What? Slowly, Alala replayed his words in her head. He truly was angry about the destruction of the two disabled Reg ships. About being turned into a killer against his will. But . . . he was also saying he’d offered to marry her to save his mother and sister from King Nekator? Oh great Ares, that was the ultimate stab to the heart. She’d thought . . . After all those months following her around, panting at her heels . . . why should she not think he loved her? Adored her?
Gods laugh. Marriage is our fate.
“You knew that?” Alala whispered “From the beginning?
Not clearly. K’kadi shrugged. I wrong. Feel Fate . . . not love.
Alala, struck by weakness that went all the way to her soul, managed to make it to a chair before she collapsed. To think, she’d actually begun to like him, even going so far as to admire his remarkable
gifts. When he’d turned away from her, she’d actually missed his constant attention . . . And when he’d taken her hand that day at court, looked into her eyes, she’d thought . . .
Foolish warrior, her inner voice taunted. What do you know about love? Well, too bad—two could play the game of cold fury. Head high, Alala declared, “I am a Herculon warrior. I do my duty, even when it means leaving my people and plunging into the heart of a war—”
History.
History? Miserable man, he was looking almost . . . amused. But it was true. Eons of history had shaped their fate. Loveless marital alliances were likely being made not long after the first creatures crawled out of the primordial ooze.
And of course she would do what was expected of her. Yet she had allowed herself to hope . . .
This was payback. Psyclid’s prince was not above revenge. And Talora was one of his weapons.
How foolish she’d been to focus on the young men who’d shown an interest in her as sparring partners rather than for learning the nuances of love. Sex, she amended. Love, it seemed, played no part in her marriage. But . . . nimbat! She needed to remind her husband this was their wedding night. But how? She was as ignorant of the ways of seduction as she was hurt and angry.
Perhaps she should suggest he send for Talora, then stalk grandly into the bedroom assigned to her and lock the door.
The king would probably have all three of them beheaded in the central square. The alliance would be broken. Psyclid, Blue Moon, and the rebellion eradicated by the Regs . . .
Hercula next on their agenda
“Do you love her?” Alala demanded. “Talora?”
She likes me.
“Are you saying I do not?”
K’kadi cocked an eyebrow at her but offered no response.
“Well,” Alala hedged, “perhaps I feared you at the beginning, but I came to like you very well.”
Monster.
“Not any more!”
The Bastard Prince (Blue Moon Rising Book 3) Page 25
