Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2)

by Blair Bancroft

  Her head came up, her body stilling as the truth struck. She was now Queen of Blue Moon, though she would never style herself so. Her father had given her a choice—remain true to Psyclid, prepared to become its queen in due time, or marry Tal Rigel, following him wherever his destiny would lead.

  No choice, really. She was now L’ira Faelle Maedan Orlondami Rigel—all the pomp and ceremony neatly tucked away under a simple Dama Rigel, or Ensign Rigel when aboard the huntership Astarte. Her consolation prize for abdicating her title, the gift of Blue Moon—from the palace of Veranelle to the space port, villages, farms, fields, and forest.

  Blue Moon. All hers.

  Married. In days gone by, the joining of a Psyclid princess to the son of one of Regula’s most powerful families might have been enough to stop a war. Enough to unite their countries as friends instead of enemies. Perhaps it would someday, Kass mused, but not under the present militant Regulon regime.

  A face popped into her line of sight. Heart-shaped, lovely, surrounded by a cascade of auburn hair, the green eyes as clear as if M’lani were standing before her. Except the vision showed only a head, hovering in place some six feet from where Kass was sitting. A dark gray cloud materialized, shadowing her sister’s bright curls.

  K’kadi, playing games.

  Was he just outside the door, Kass wondered, or in his room far down the corridor? Hard to tell, as his abilities seemed to increase daily. A constant worry, since his control did not always keep up with his astonishing gifts.

  “Come here, K’kadi. I’d rather talk to you in person.”

  The illusion of M’lani scowled and shook her head. Goosebumps sprinkled Kass’s arms. Clearly, K’kadi was creating their sister’s face from a distance. And how he could hear her she would not attempt to guess. Her own telepathic skills were minimal, so it couldn’t be that. K’kadi was simply a phenomenon that had to be accepted, though never truly understood.

  “Very well,” she said with no more than a hint of long-suffering, “tell me what’s wrong with M’lani.”

  Red and yellow sparks erupted from the cloud over M’lani’s head.

  “She’s angry,” Kass interpreted

  M’lani’s head nodded. A second head appeared beneath the hovering dark cloud. Male, handsome, with striking, deep-set eyes as black as the straight hair that fell past his shoulders.

  “She’s angry with Jagan.” Oh, pok! Of course she was. What did M’lani know of military strategy, of war and death, blood, terror, and tears? She was the princess who stayed at home, encountering nothing worse than an army of occupation, with the royal family still carefully sheltered behind the walls of Crystalia. As far as M’lani was concerned, Jagan had run off again, perhaps never to return. Never to fulfill his vow to free Psyclid. Or his vow to marry the newly designated Princess Royal.

  Kass looked up at the two disembodied images which still hovered well above her head, each face as morose as the other. “He’s going back, K’kadi. Really. You need to tell—”

  Impossible. K’kadi couldn’t communicate all the way to Psyclid. Yet how had he known M’lani was upset?

  “K’kadi, can you tell M’lani Jagan is coming back?” A large question mark, all black, replaced the faces. “You don’t know if you can communicate that far, or you don’t believe Jagan’s going to go back?” Oh, fizzet! She knew better than to ask K’kadi a double question. After taking a moment to control her temper, Kass chose the question she thought most likely to be true. “You think Jagan is going to wiggle out of his promise?”

  Her brother deigned to replace the question mark with his own image, the pale aristocratic face of a fairy prince, framed in shoulder-length strands of white-blond hair, his uptilted eyes great pools of azure that seemed to shine with the wisdom of the ages. Hands appeared, palms together, in front of his face. Face and hands bowed.

  “Is that a Yes?”

  K’kadi smiled. Kass wasn’t sure which one she’d prefer to strangle, Jagan or K’kadi. Jagan for being such an enigma, K’kadi for turning her few quiet moments topsy turvy. “Very well, I’ll discuss this with Tal. But, believe me, Jagan is going back to Psyclid.”

  Elaborately raised eyebrows, and K’kadi was gone. Kass slumped back into a corner of the elegant but comfortable sofa, fingers to her forehead, frustration rising. Just when she thought she was finally free of Jagan and his entourage of witches and warlocks . . .

  “Kass! Is something wrong?”

  Tears misted her eyes as her husband charged across the room, concern adding to the lines of his chiseled features. How could she ever have doubts? He was her golden warrior, the love of her life since she’d first seen him at age twelve. Forged of the stuff of heroes, Tal Rigel was the epitome of a dynamic, charismatic leader. The child of privilege turned crusader. And for some ridiculous reason he had chosen to defend a fragile-looking Psyclid female who had wanted to learn to fight, to travel through space, explore distant planets . . . And ended up imprisoned for four years on a planet far from home. And somehow, without knowing it, become the inspiration for rebellion.

  “It’s all right,” Kass murmured as Tal scooped her into his arms. “Nothing that won’t wait ’til later.”

  “Then what are we doing on this batani couch when there’s a bed but a few steps away?”

  Their eyes met, exchanging the wonder of being truly married. The door to what was once King Ryal’s bedchamber slammed behind them.

  “You what?” B’aela Flammia gaped at her lover, her brown eyes widening as shock turned to fury. The masses of long brown curls framing her narrow face, strong nose, and high cheekbones suddenly rose, fanning into a semi-circle around her head.

  Magnificent, Jagan thought. If he didn’t feel so fydding guilty, he’d be proud of her. A naturally gifted witch, B’aela had added to her knowledge considerably over the many years he’d been her mentor and had been honed by fire on that long trip back from Hell Nine to Blue Moon. He needed her at his side on Psyclid, though clearly that might be a problem.

  B’aela knew—had always known—he would marry elsewhere. She had remained stoically calm when his betrothal to L’ira was announced. But the sudden switch to M’lani was not going down well. Last night—coward that he was—instead of returning to the spacious quarters assigned to the Psyclid wizards after their return from exile, Jagan had let himself into L’ira’s former rooms in Veranelle’s Round Tower, where he had fought the good fight with his demons for most of the night, throwing himself onto the white and silver silk brocade sofa only in the gloomy light of predawn. No matter, he’d never needed much sleep. But now, facing the reality of his faithful followers—B’aela, D’nim, T’mar, and Tor—he could only wish himself back in the isolation of the tower.

  Oddly enough, Tor, the giant native of Bender’s Folly, known to most as Hell Nine, was the first to speak after B’aela’s stunned reaction to Jagan’s news. “Your king wants you to lead a rebellion on that planet down there?” he asked, hooking his thumb in the direction of Psyclid.

  “Using enlasé?” D’nim spit out. “It is forbidden. Ryal must have gone mad.”

  Jagan crossed his arms, turning the full force of his arrogance on his assistant. “There is an old saying—desperate times call for desperate measures. I assure you, Ryal approved this plan, and I have vowed to carry it out. It will be much easier if the four of you agree to help, but the danger is great and I will not demand your assistance. But whether you agree or not, I must go.”

  “It is right you should do this,” Tor’s bass voice rumbled. “You are Sorcerer Prime, they are your people. As for me, you could have left me on Folly. You did not. I gladly go with you to fight.”

  “Of course we will go,” T’mar, the younger but no longer inexperienced warlock declared. “How could we not? We swore to follow you when we escaped the invasion—it is only right we come full circle.”

  Jagan nodded his acceptance before turning the full power of his dark eyes on D’nim and B’aela. Raising an en
quiring black brow, he waited.

  “How long have we been together?” D’nim asked.

  “Since I stumbled on you entertaining peasants at a village carnival when you were . . . what, fifteen, sixteen?”

  “Thirteen years ago next Goddess Day,” D’nim confirmed. “How can you even imagine I might leave you now?”

  A curt nod to hide the surge of emotion he felt at D’nim’s loyalty, before Jagan assumed his most bland face and focused on B’aela. If she had been shocked by his becoming a leader in the rebellion, by his plan to link Psyclid’s many paranormal talents into an enlasé, what was she going to do when she learned about his betrothal to M’lani?

  Clearly, this wasn’t the time to tell her.

  Coward!

  Well, dimi, he wouldn’t be the first powerful man to quail before the wrath of a woman. And it wasn’t as if the wedding were tomorrow. Or even next month or next year.

  At least he hoped not. After what Ryal did to L’ira and Tal, he couldn’t count on keeping his freedom from one day to the next.

  “B’aela?”

  His long-time mistress’s gaze traveled over him, beginning at his highly polished black boots, lingering over his tight-fitting black pants in something close to a leer, pausing at the glowing cut crystal hanging on a golden chain, starkly displayed against the chest of his full-sleeved black shirt of ancient design. And finally her liquid brown eyes rose to stare straight into the depths of his eyes—hers still angry but tinged with resignation and a hint of self-mockery. “If I followed you to Hell Nine, how could I not follow you home?”

  Ah, goddess! What would happen when she found out about M’lani? “Good,” Jagan snapped. “So gather round, we have plans to make.”

  “Which Rigel and the batani Hierarchy will replace with plans of their own,” Tor growled.

  “Our planet, our plans,” Jagan shot back.

  As the four Psyclids and the giant from Bender’s Folly settled around a conference table and went to work, a perfect replica of Psyclid formed in the air above them, the glowing ball almost a meter wide and intricately detailed. “Ah, well done,” D’nim approved.

  “I didn’t do it,” Jagan said, his narrow lips showing signs of twitching into a smile. “Nor, I suspect, did any of us. B’aela, T’mar?” They shook their heads.

  Jagan raised his voice, even as he knew it wasn’t necessary. “K’kadi, come join us.”

  The door opened immediately, revealing a young man, recently turned twenty, making a valiant effort to replace his customarily smiling face with a look solemn enough for the occasion. K’kadi Amund, son of Blue Moon, son of a king, joined the plot to free Psyclid from the Empire.

  Chapter 3

  Jagan—assuming his most nonchalant pose simply because it was the antithesis of the way everyone else approached S’sorrokan, leader of the rebellion—ignored the guards on either side of the door to Tal Rigel’s office, twisted the handle, and stepped inside. Knocking was for underlings, which the Sorcerer Prime was not. And besides, he’d been summoned. Rigel was expecting him.

  The tall blond warrior behind the desk stood, revealing no sign of resenting his visitor’s arrogance. Fizzet, but he was good. Rigel had thrown up a wall around his emotions even Jagan couldn’t penetrate. Was it possible the Regulons hadn’t completely wiped out mental talents in their determination to produce a race of strong and daring militarists? Or were Rigel’s days and nights with L’ira producing unexpected results?

  No. Tal Rigel simply was what he was, an aberration, the officer who didn’t toe the line. A man who not only had a vision of a different world but acted on it.

  A worthy opponent. Except they were on the same side. They might look as different as night and day, the dark and light of the rebellion, but they shared a love for the same woman, and their cause was the same—the Empire shattered into its component parts.

  Not quite. Jagan would settle for Psyclids ruling Psyclid. Tal Rigel’s vision was much more far-reaching—Regulons reduced to ruling Regula Prime instead of half the Nebulon Sector. Clearly, the man was mad, but it was impossible to fault him for it.

  Jagan accepted the seat Rigel offered, a fine burgundy leather armchair done up with brass nailheads in imitation of a long-ago era on Old Earth. He had to give Ryal credit—the King of Psyclid had an eye for the finer things in life.

  “Are you having second thoughts?” Rigel asked, leaning back in his chair, his sky blue eyes narrowed to the point their color almost didn’t show.

  “Third, fourth, and fifth,” Jagan returned easily, “but never fear, I don’t plan on slipping off into the countryside, never to be seen again.”

  “I’m sorry about K’kadi. You were, however, wise to refuse to take him with you. He’d likely have you all in Regulon hands within a week.”

  Jagan nodded, recalling the incident that could have turned deadly when K’kadi’s sympathies were so aroused by a girl who accidently ran into the side of their shuttle that he dropped the invisibility cloak. The result? Everyone in the royal park next to the palace of Crystalia got a good look at the shuttle that had brought the most powerful leaders of the rebellion to a meeting with King Ryal and Queen Jalaine.

  “He was helpful in the planning, however,” Jagan countered. “Creative ideas no one else thought of. Detailed maps too, though how he managed those I have no idea, when he’s Blue Moon born and bred.”

  “Kass says she thinks he simply taps into the computer’s mapping system and reproduces what he sees in three dimensions. We could call up the same images on a hologlobe, but K’kadi does it faster, larger, and in greater detail.”

  A scowl creased Jagan’s forehead. He would never become accustomed to Princess L’ira of Psyclid being referred to as Kass. Regulons had no soul. “I suppose K’kadi’s sulking,” he offered as the most neutral response he could manage.

  “Clouds of gloom over all our heads for a week now, occasional thunder and lightning.” Rigel allowed his gaze to drift toward the ceiling, where at the moment nothing but naked cherubs danced on the painted plaster. He shook his head. “Possibly he’s grown bored of the nonsense or transferred his attention elsewhere. Volatility numbers high on his list of talents.”

  Even though he agreed, Jagan found himself defending his countryman. “It should be said that without K’kadi’s lapse we would not have met T’kal Killiri.”

  “The linchpin of the rebel movement on Psyclid.” Rigel actually smiled, running a hand through the short waves of golden blond that topped his aristocratic features. “Touché, Mondragon. Once again our fey loose cannon ends up doing us a favor. I often wonder what the king will think when he sees what his son has become.”

  “Just as well to keep them apart for a while. Jalaine has enough to deal with at the moment without adding K’kadi to the mix.”

  “Kass’s opinion as well.” The leader of the rebellion studied his desktop for moment, his hesitation rare. “Which brings up the sticky topic of what happens when M’lani meets B’aela Flammia.”

  Fyd! Was that the reason for this meeting? He’d thought it simply a private hail and farewell before the operation was set in motion, but perhaps not. Jagan sat still and silent, his mind refusing, as it always did, to deal with the issue that could destroy everything they were attempting to do on Psyclid. M’lani had to see that he needed B’aela’s skills . . .

  “Short of turning one of them into a toad . . .” Jagan shrugged. “Not even Sorcerers have all the answers, Captain. Do you?”

  “ I can keep K’kadi on Blue Moon or on Astarte, but arbitrate between your women I cannot. Kass tells me that Jalaine, as Paraprime, might be able to help. But since M’lani is her daughter, that might not bode well for your little witch.”

  No one would ever know the depth of Jagan’s shock when L’ira ran away to become a cadet at the Regulon Space Academy. Nor how he felt when he thought her dead. Or when he was forced to admit she loved another. He had long since begun to understand why sorcerers were tr
aditionally celibate. As for B’aela . . .

  “This enlasé you plan,” Rigel continued, “sounds dangerous enough. Adding female quarrels could be the spark that blows you all into eternity and stops the rebellion cold.” He leaned forward, hands clasped on the highly polished desktop. “You need to fix this, Mondragon. And fix it quickly.”

  This from the man who had left L’ira rotting for four years in the stacks of the Regulon Interplanetary Archives.

  Jagan stood at attention. “Yes, sir, Captain, sir.”

  Fortunately for the fate of occupied Psyclid, Tal Rigel chose to ignore the mockery.

  Out! She had to get out of the palace before the tension inside her burst, blowing her head off and taking Crystalia with it. Elbows on her exquisitely inlaid desk, a relic from Old Earth, her auburn head buried in her hands, M’lani groaned. Her visions were purely metaphorical—she couldn’t even form one of K’kadi’s surly dark clouds, let alone light a fire with the flick of her fingers, or even transport a pen across a desk. When she was nine, she had asked her mother if she were adopted. With a fond smile tinged by sadness, Queen Jalaine had explained that royal families did not do that, bloodlines were all-important. She had assured M’lani that it was likely she was merely a slow-starter, her gifts would develop later in life.

  But she was twenty-one now, and other than being able to go invisible for a minute or two, she had shown no aptitude for any of the psychic talents displayed by the residents of Psyclid, let alone the powerful multi-talents of the rest of the royal family. There were times . . .

  M’lani stood so abruptly her chair nearly fell over. She would go out. Even if such an expedition required her to take her maid, two Reg guards, and use the services of an oversize hovercar, with a menacing armored groundcar bringing up the rear.

  M’lani fisted her hands, closed her eyes, willed her gritted teeth to unclench. Both Papa and Mama assured her she had a vital role to play in freeing Psyclid. She wanted to believe it, but so far the challenge was nonexistent. Twenty-five Psyclid days since L’ira’s wedding, and not a word except that one strange vision projected by her little brother. Jagan could be on Psyclid right now, gathering talents to his cause, totally ignoring the royal dictate that M’lani was to keep an eye on him, acting as a calming influence to prevent his magic—particularly his black magic—from going awry and plunging them into darkness instead of the light. Or he could have run back to Hell Nine, dismissing his responsibilities to Psyclid, along with his engagement to M’lani, the untalented Princess Royal.