by Val Roberts
That name. Her body convulsed in a sob she couldn't hold back because he'd said it with such caring, and yet she still felt so alone. Blade swore and pulled her around to face him, rolling to his back and cradling her against his shoulder.
"I'm sorry,” she gasped out in between gulps of air as she tried to breathe through it all. “I just thought ... I thought I would have more time."
He tensed a little, but he held her and stroked her hair as if he didn't know she knew. “It's all right,” he murmured in a gentle voice. “I know this has all happened a lot faster than any sane human being could cope with, but I promise, as soon as we get the coronation over with, we can disappear for a while and let it catch up."
"Who will you be sleeping with when you disappear?” She wanted to bite her tongue as soon as the words were out, because her voice had been angry. Yes, that was it. She was angry. In fact, she was furious. How dare he force her to love him, tie her to him irrevocably, and then just ... just roll over and go to sleep?
"What?” He let go of her and pulled away, probably trying to look at her face in the dark. “What do you mean, who will I be sleeping with?"
"You've made it clear that it won't be with me."
He started to laugh. “That's what this is about? Am I going to get in trouble every time I need to go to sleep without ravishing you first? Taryn, I'm not eighteen anymore. The spirit is willing but the flesh is thinking seriously about going into a coma for a week or two."
She paused in her mental tirade, because he had a point. “That's all?"
It was his turn to pause. “Mostly,” he finally allowed. She heard him turn over again and she could feel that strange tension in him again. Determined, she followed him, sliding her hand up his back. His muscles were so tense they were practically quivering.
"Tell me,” she purred into his ear.
He sighed, hard and short. “I just keep wondering if I'm really the monster your mother has been painting me as for the last several days. I did force you to cross the border. Hells, I dragged you over it. You left me when you found out who I am and only agreed to the bonding after Galen was injured trying to keep them from killing you again. And you were sedated. It's going to be damned hard to sustain a meaningful relationship with someone who's going to start resenting me in a couple of months."
"Why would I do that?” She laid her cheek on his back, closing her eyes to listen to his voice in the dark.
"Because you don't love me,” he mumbled into his pillow. At least she thought that was what the garbled words translated to. “Duty and honor don't cancel hate. Or resentment. I'm well aware you only went through the bonding for Zona. I'm also painfully well aware that Zonans find men interchangable.” Her eyes popped open.
He'd been uncertain? Mr.-I-have-everything-under-control hadn't assumed she would swoon with delight at the prospect of bearing his children?
"That's not why I agreed to the bonding.” His back went rigid and she fought panic, because it was obvious he didn't believe her. “I thought you knew that."
"Voice command, lights low.” A dim, romantic glow filled the room as he turned over, his eyes glowing so brightly they might have been lit from within themselves. “Then say it."
She took a deep breath and licked her lips, because she wanted to get this exactly right.
"Blade, I want you to listen very closely, because I'm too tired to fix this if I say it wrong. I love you, you big Bariani imbecile. I let Llamass put a chain on me that says I have to be returned to you if I get lost. I'm not going anywhere. Ever."
"Well, all right then.” Finally he relaxed, though the glow intensified. “Now can we go to sleep?"
"Are you sure that's all you want to do?” she countered, cuddling close. His arm draped around her.
"No, but it's all I'm capable of right now.” He nuzzled her hair. “Besides, we have all the time we need now."
"Then turn out the lights and go to sleep,” she said as she made herself more comfortable. He chuckled, but he did as he was told.
Oddly enough, they were allowed to sleep in, the wakeup chime not sounding until almost mid-morning. And then he was given the privacy to discuss his plans for Zona with his bride in private, because breakfast was brought on trays and discreetly left, along with several sets of clothing for her, while they were in the shower. Of course, they were in the shower quite a while.
From there, the morning got frantic, with some functionary or other coming in every fifteen seconds to ask him to make some kind of trivial decision. After a couple of hours, he growled, “Why don't you ask the queen? This is her area of expertise, not mine. Ask me about troop movements or something."
The clerk bowed deeply and flushed. “Her Majesty said to consult you or the Heir Consort, Your Royal Highness."
Amusement bubbled up, because Taryn would have considerably less patience with this nonsense than he did. “And did you consult the Heir Consort? After all, it's her coronation, not mine."
The clerk colored even more, almost going purple. “After she threw Damond out of her fitting—bodily, Your Royal Highness—no one has been willing to consult her."
"Cowards,” Blade commented as he stepped out of the fitting tank. “Take a couple of hours, make a list and I'll go through it with her. It's this six-times-a-minute stuff that's getting old."
He was on his way to the Heir Consort's quarters with the list that had appeared as promised, guided by the sounds of carpentry as much as knowing the route, when a familiar outline caught his eye through the open door of a receiving room. He turned and went in, and there was Sharif Mustafan Tanaka, two meters and blue hair, in the middle of the Dozen Worlds diplomatic delegation being greeted by the Prime Minister. Tanaka seemed to feel eyes on him and looked toward the door, then broke into a grin and sauntered over.
"What luck. I wasn't counting on running into you until the reception. Congratulations, Blade.” He offered a hand, Garnford-style, and Blade touched palms.
"What brings you to the backwaters of Timarron, Tanakasan? More collecting?” Since Sharif, scion of the Hauptmann Cartel, had almost single-handedly started the craze for Zonan art, it was a fair question.
But he laughed. “You don't think I would miss the reunification of Grant Barian and Timarron's entry into polite society, do you? Especially when it comes with the long-awaited marriage of my old friend, Blademir von Stassos.” He leaned a little closer to murmur, “And to a Zonan, no less. Well done, old man."
Blade pulled his hand back. Sharif's fascination with all things Zonan was indirectly his fault, since it had started with the hand-carved wooden goblet he'd taken to Muscva University on Gorky Three. Sharif had been assigned as his first-year roommate and hadn't been able to get over the fact that a human being had taken the time and effort to hollow out a piece of living wood to create a drinking vessel, let alone had the tools or know-how to do it. He'd tried to buy the cup, had even tried to steal it at the end of the term. Finally, Blade had made him a gift of the damned thing and it seemed to have marked him as forever one of the good guys in Sharif's mind. Truthfully, he didn't much like the Hauptmann, but couldn't actually bring himself to dislike him, either.
"Thanks,” Blade said out loud, suppressing his irritation at being called old. They were almost the same age, by all the gods. “How did you get here so fast? The news only went out day before yesterday."
Sharif looked uncomfortable. “Ah, I was already here,” he admitted, refusing to meet Blade's gaze. He looked up, the yellow contact lenses giving him a demonic aura. “Collecting.” And Sharif was lying through his teeth, because he had that guileless expression he only wore when he was holding the truth very close to his chest.
"What is it this time, travelers’ rugs?” Blade forced himself to sound nonchalant, but he heard a low click in the back of his mind. Sharif had been the brains behind the conspiracy, and had probably been planning it for years. He was more than capable of talking Tabethe Schmythen out of her clothes and into
a strange skimmer. He was probably capable of nudging hungry people into looking across a poorly patrolled border at their fit and healthy neighbors. He was definitely the kind of person who would drop a hint that sending the crown heir into Zona would keep him out of the media for another month or so.
Sharif, on the other hand, had a very weak stomach when it came to blood. He would never have planned an assassination, which meant that Blade really had met the wrong sister first, and the clumsy daylight attempt had probably been Talyn's lover's attempt to keep his place in her bed. He allowed his triumphant grin to show on his face, because there was no more mystery. The Illuminati pulling the strings was standing in front of him.
"Travelers’ rugs?” Sharif's eyes lit up with an aficionado's greed, even through the stupid cat-eye mimetic lenses.
"Yeah, they're these fur blankets made from trapped skins considered too low-quality for clothing. Warmest damned things I've ever slept in, and they drive women wild.” He shrugged and amended, “Well, Zonan women. I've never tried one on a Bariani, and I don't want the chance to.” Sharif blushed, the odd orange tinge to his tawny skin making a strange contrast with the blue hair. “I see I'm not the only one to have discovered a fascination for Zonan women,” Blade observed. “Best of luck, Sharif. They're not what I'd call biddable.” He clapped his sort-of friend on the shoulder and started to leave before something occurred to him that would clinch it. “One more thing, I'd lose the lenses if I were you. I know they're the height of fashion in Garnford, but on Timarron they just look creepy. You'll never get laid here looking like a tanned vampire."
Sharif's face sort of froze, almost as if he was remembering something. “I think you're right,” he said slowly. “I don't really need them here, anyway. No crèche-mates to get confused with me.” He smiled beatifically, as if the idea was novel. Blade had to repress a shudder. “Thank you, my friend."
"Anytime.” Blade shrugged again. “If you'll excuse me, I have a thousand details to see to, and a not-biddable Zonan to see to them with. Nobody else will ask her to make a decision since she threw a herald out of her coronation robe fitting."
"They're frightened of her because she dismissed a servant?” Sharif looked confused.
"No, they're frightened of her because she picked up a 60-kilo man and threw him through a doorway. Thankfully, the door was open at the time.” He couldn't quite suppress his smile, because every time he'd heard the story throughout the day, it got bigger and more outrageous. She'd probably shoved him a little, although with Vixen, it was hard to tell.
Sharif shared the grin with him for a second or two, then waved and went back to the delegation.
* * * *
"Your Highness, it's time.” Alainor favored her with a brief smile before disappearing again, probably to check on someone else. Taryn took a deep breath to settle the insects that had taken up residence in her midsection, wiped her sweaty palms on a scrap of cloth, and smoothed down the over-robe one last time.
A quick check in the mirror told her that her appearance hadn't done anything bizarre in the last ten minutes, if she didn't count the fact that her scar was almost gone. She fingered it gently, feeling for the hard tissue that had softened back to the consistency of her skin. All that remained of her old life, it was faint now, after only five days. It was fitting, because that life was already beginning to feel like an adventure story she'd read, not events she had participated in and had direct memories of. Then it was time to leave the relative safety of the ready room and face a ceremony where she couldn't melt into the wallpaper.
Mentally rehearsing her lines for what felt like the millionth time, she opened the door without looking and took a step into the hallway, where something hit the back of her head, hard. The world exploded into white-hot pain. Reality began to spin, then faded rapidly to black.
Pain brought her back, the stinging in her cheek overlaying the throbbing in her head intensely enough that she must have been slapped. She heard a grunt and realized it must have come from her. Everything was still black, still spinning ever so slightly. She tried to ask what had happened, but only a moan came out.
"How hard did you hit her, you imbecile?” That was Talyn's voice. She would recognize her sister's distinctive sneer anywhere. “I want her alive, at least until the ceremony is over.” Taryn struggled a bit and got her eyes open. Everything was blurry, as if she was seeing double. She probably was. She blinked hard, trying to bring reality into focus, but reality was that her sister was in Krystale, in the palace, and still trying to kill her. She just wouldn't give up. Talyn wasn't going to stop until Taryn was dead or she was completely neutralized—which meant Taryn would have to kill her, even though she'd never been able to harm her sister even when she wasn't reeling from what was probably a concussion with Talyn giving a deadline for the rest of her life. Reality was that this time, Talyn would probably succeed in her lifelong quest. Bile rose in her throat and she gave into it.
"Oh fece, not on the dress!” She felt herself smile faintly, even though her teeth felt soft and her mouth was full of the most disgusting taste. “I'll have to wear her clothes. Get them off her—and don't rip anything.” Hands pulled her to her feet and began disrobing her.
"You'll never pull it off, Talyn.” The words were barely recognizable, but she'd managed enough control of her mouth to get them out. “Blade will know.” He wouldn't, but she had to try. Someone pulled the jewel-encrusted over-robe over her head, while other hands began unlacing the heeled shoes. The bracelet. Somehow she had to hide it or Talyn would cut off her hand to get it. One of her holders closed a hand over her right wrist, and she relaxed a little.
"Oh, yes I will.” Talyn grabbed her chin and forced Taryn to meet her gaze. “We still look alike, in case you forgot. I have worked too hard for too long to let you trip into my deal at the last minute like a winning lottery chit.” Talyn shook Taryn's chin for emphasis. “You're not stealing this from me too, you little bitch. I hope you're coherent enough to understand that.” She let go as Taryn wondered this too? What could she be talking about?
"Work hard? You? You don't even bathe yourself,” she managed, but it took all of her concentration to think of it.
"She's wearing some kind of suit under it. You want that too?"
"No, there's no time. Just give me the thing on top.” Clothing rustled, but it was dark again. Had her eyes closed?
"You'll have to take off the veil to get it on. Here, let me help you."
"I've been working with the Dozen Worlds ambassador for almost—” Talyn's muffled voice paused briefly for a grunt, as if the over robe was a tight fit. Apparently she'd put on some weight from her lazy lifestyle. “Two years,” she continued. “Setting up the export pricing structure. Engineering the accidents that will take out everyone between me and the Grant Barian throne. Setting up the scenario to force a treaty marriage, at least until that idiot Mychell stumbled in to try to save his position and nearly ruined everything.” One of the shoes fell to the floor with a thunk. “Ugh. No, I refuse to believe that my feet are bigger than yours. I am going to get ... these ... on. Ow!” Taryn heard another slap. “I need that ankle."
"Sorry, Your Highness."
"That's Your Royal Highness. Give me the veil.” Taryn opened her eyes again and saw her sister fitting a filmy construction over her hair, which was pulled back into a high bun much as her own was. The hairdresser had said the Heir Consort coronet would fit better that way.
"The Dozen Worlds?” Taryn asked as something her sister had said filtered back into her brain. “That explains it. You're not smart enough to have come up with this on your own.” She focused down hard, memorizing everything, mapping every possible move, then let her body go slack in the grasp of whoever held her and dropped her head as if she'd lost consciousness again.
"Crap of the cosmos, I think I did hit her too hard.” From behind and to the right. Taryn exploded into action, kicking left and punching for a solar plexus in the direction of the
voice, then charging at Talyn's last position when the hands on her loosened enough to let her break free as she snapped her eyes open again.
Talyn had opened her mouth to scream but hadn't even had the chance to inhale before Taryn got her hands around the throat so very much like her own. “I'm—not dying ... for your ego,” Talyn grunted out as she started to squeeze, trying to find the fragile hyoid that would snap and suffocate the Zonan Crown Prince even if she were pulled away.
"Get ... her...” Talyn managed to grate, sounding like two stones grinding at each other as she clawed at the hands around her throat. Other hands were pulling at her, trying to haul her away from her quarry, but she was too focused to notice.
"Do it!” was the last thing she heard before pain exploded again, although she could feel herself crumple to the floor and her eyes were still open. She lay there for a moment and twitched uncontrollably with an excellent view of the wall, listening to Talyn wheezing air back into her lungs from her bruised, though not broken, throat.
She had lost. They had used some outland paralyzing weapon on her and she was now helpless, unable to do anything to save herself.
"Tie her up and put her in front of the viewer,” Talyn ordered, her voice hoarse and deep.
Taryn closed her eyes against the gathering tears, because there was no way in all the hells she would give her sister the satisfaction of watching her cry.
They pressed the nozzle of a Bariani injector against her throat after they tied her up. Her eyes popped open as it fired. “This should give you an excellent view of the Crown Prince's coronation,” the older woman said with a smile that didn't extend to her eyes. “And then, in about three hours, it will kill you so that there's no embarrassing extra consort.” They carried her like a bag of grain down the hall to an unobtrusive door. Then they sat her in a chair with a viewscreen in her field of vision and shut the door of the tiny room.
The screen showed the Royal audience chamber, all of the Bariani nobility sitting in throne-like chairs or on padded, exquisitely carved benches. Ramondar was on his throne, everyone was wearing coronets, and even her mother was there, sitting to the king's right where the Crown Heir would be for a normal court; it was so beautiful and she would never see it for real. Some kind of music started and she was treated to the dim echo of it slightly out of sync with the video relay from the screen.
