He waved a hand and the sparks winked out, as if they’d never been. “I am prepared to do my duty, M’lani,” he intoned, “but being swept into a whirlwind was not part of the bargain.” Invisibility swallowed him. The sorcerer was gone, leaving only tumult behind.
Ascension Day—the fateful moment, two hundred and sixty years ago, when the Van Baalen family became rulers of Regula Prime—was celebrated with pomp and circumstance not only on the home planet but on each planet with sentient life in the Empire’s twelve star systems. This year the parade down the broad expanse of Crystal City’s central street seemed to stretch forever—featuring Regula Prime’s overwhelming military might in a blatant display of power. The pounding tread of rank upon rank of heavily armed, gray-uniformed soldiers. A wave of armored groundcars. The rumble of rolling laser cannon was overwhelmed by the grumbling thuds of T-bots a full two-stories high. And last, a display of long-range missiles capable of destroying a small city.
The order of the parade was well known. Admiral Hagan Yarian and his aide, Colonel Alric Strang, would lead in an open vehicle with a hastily contrived bullet-proof shield, a protection not used in previous parades. The first overt result of their raid on the Heavy Weapons Depot? Jagan wondered. Interspersed between the ranks of soldiers and military mechanicals were open cars carrying the other highest-ranking Regulon officers on Psyclid. Without protective shielding. If any had qualms about their exposure, they did not show it. They were, after all, members of a master race that ruled a major portion of the Nebulon Sector.
Jagan watched from his unobtrusive position within the crowd as the parade approached. He smiled. Just wait . . .
He and his minions, dressed to blend in, were near the viewing platform that had been set up for the royal family, who were expected to show their acceptance of Regulon dominance by watching this display of power with apparent benign approval. Beneath M’lani’s bland exterior, however, she was broadcasting waves of excitement. For this was it, the first public test of Psyclid’s ability to manipulate their captors.
Steady, steady. Not the time to look like the cat that ate the cream, Jagan cautioned.
I’m not!
Just remember to look suitably horrified when it all goes to hell.
Yes, sir, Mr. Wizard, sir.
Jagan’s lips twitched, but he pulled his thoughts away as the sound of stirring music grew louder. A band. Of course the Regs had a band. Tradition was all.
A moment of guilt as he realized his people had been putting up with this nonsense for nearly five years now. If he had stayed, been part of the rebellion from the beginning . . .
But he hadn’t, and the rebellion had settled for small acts of violence, like stealing guns and rifles, blowing up occasional military vehicles. Or small but significant moves like defending Psyclid females from attacks by Reg soldiers, to the point that naked drunken Regs left exposed to the humiliation of the rising sun had become a common sight on certain streets. The Regs had even established a “drunk patrol” to scoop them up each morning.
Today, the rebels would better these small nuisances by a thousand percent. He hoped. No problems were expected here at the reviewing stand. The question was, how would T’kal Killiri and his rebels do with their new-found skills? A major triumph, or ignominious bust?
Jagan? This time the voice in his head was B’aela. She’d caught his mind wandering instead of focusing on the attack at hand. But there were a good sixty seconds yet. The Governor General’s vehicle was just passing, the band with all its shining brass glitter and beating drums directly behind.
Wait for it . . .
Tension rose around him—B’aela, D’nim, T’mar, scarcely breathing. He’d swear he could feel Tor’s tension as well, even though the giant from Hell Nine had no power beyond brute strength.
Wait . . .
Jagan checked the chrono he had synchronized with Killiri an hour earlier. Five, four, three, two, one.
Now!
Everything stopped—the band in mid-note, Yarian’s car without so much as a squeal of brakes. Ranks of soldiers stood perfectly still. War machines froze in place, as if the entire might of Regula Prime was suspended in time.
Great goddess, you did it! M’lani shouting in his head.
The crowd had gone as still as the Reg parade. Staring, eyes wide, struggling to accept what they were seeing as reality. “Killiri?” Jagan spoke into a minuscule hand-held.
“We did it,” came an awed whisper through the airwaves. “The fydding thing’s working. Man and machine, like statues in a museum.”
“Can you manage another minute—long enough for them to know they didn’t dream it?”
“I’ll have nightmares tonight, Sorcerer, but yeah, we can handle it.”
Killiri could not only handle it, he could talk while doing it. Jagan almost smiled, but who knew what traitors lurked among the crowd?
Release now. Jagan followed his silent command to his own people with a verbal command to Killiri. A great shout from the crowd as precious musical instruments hit the pavement, several female band members burst into tears. A drummer’s legs crumpled—he hit the ground clutching his instrument in front of him, using his own body to protect the huge bass drum. Jagan turned his attention to the Governor General who was sitting staring straight ahead, as if still frozen in place, while Colonel Strang bent over him. General Grigorev, commander of all ground forces, leaped from his vehicle, striding forward to take charge. Jagan recognized him from social events he had attended in his role as Archeron Ambassador. After a few words with Colonel Strang, the general nodded and Yarian’s groundcar took off at great speed. General Grigorev turned to the band, shouting commands. They scattered to the edge of the crowd, dragging their incapacitated members with them. Behind the empty place where the band had been, sergeants had already rallied their troops, barking them back into some semblance of military order. Those too shocked to move were dragged to the side of the road. At the general’s signal the gray-uniformed phalanx resumed their march, looking only slightly ragged as they passed the reviewing stand. The war machines rolled after them.
Jagan had to give the Regs credit. They hadn’t conquered twelve star systems by guess and by gosh. They were as tough as the ancient Roman armies they tried to emulate.
But when the parade was over, drinks and speculation would flow, with only one possible answer. Magic.
The Regs hated magic. Feared it. Today’s incident was going to send shivers down every Reg spine on Psyclid. And shivers in Central Command on Regula as well.
As for the crowd? With the exception of a few Reg dependents and Psyclid collaborators, the attendees at today’s parade would go wild—in the privacy of their homes. Word would spread, Psyclids would hold their heads higher. New recruits to the rebel cause seemed likely. But above all else, today’s demonstration would offer hope. The Regs could be stopped. Two minutes today, two hours next month . . . Today, Crystal City—tomorrow, the entire planet.
It would take a while, but when the Regs analyzed what had happened, they’d get the message. What good were military weapons if they didn’t work? What damage could soldiers do if they couldn’t move?
T’kal Killiri might think he was going to have nightmares, but the Regs’ dreams were going to be much worse.
Chapter 14
“They’re doing it again,” M’lani declared, disgust in every word. “Acting as if nothing happened.”
“They can pretend all they want,” L’rissa countered, “every Psyclid on the planet knows what happened. We’re getting inquiries from everywhere. In less than a quarter of a tri-moon cycle we’ll likely increase our forces tenfold.”
“Not effective forces,” B’aela Flammia pointed out as she joined them, her mass of dark brown curls framing her narrow face, marked by high cheekbones and forcefully intelligent brown eyes. “They have yet to be taught enlasé.”
“Which I am sure you and your friends will do very effectively,” M’lani said, tryi
ng not to look as if B’aela’s imminent departure for the far side of the planet was not the best news she’d had in weeks.
“A challenging job,” L’rissa said. “When do you leave?”
“As soon as the logistics are worked out. Jagan insists Tor come with me,” she added on a note M’lani found altogether too smug. “It is expected the people we teach will fan out into the countryside and continue our work.”
“Some will abuse the power,” M’lani said, annoyed as always by B’aela’s superior attitude, her calm assumption that she was closer to the seat of power than anyone else.
All the more aggravating because it was true.
“My father worries,” M’lani added, reminding B’aela where true power lay.
“Something we will deal with as it happens,” L’rissa said, interrupting the verbal sparring. “The end result is worth the risk.”
Glumly, M’lani nodded. They had thought the parade event such a grand idea, an in-your-face blow to the Regs in full view of the public. But flash-freezing Regs had not been without unexpected side-effects—no one anticipated a parade route littered with Regs who had to be taken to hospital. In nearly all cases they were diagnosed as suffering from shock, the same malady that afflicted Admiral Yarian. The soldiers and band members recovered, the admiral did not. The royal family sent flowers and their best wishes for his recovery. The Archeron Ambassador, after a conversation with Colonel Strang, reported that the admiral could eat, if spoon-fed, but remained in an essentially catatonic state, the shock of Psyclid magic on a man who did not believe in such things too much for his system. General Anatol Grigorev now acted as Governor General.
The truth was, King Ryal was furious, threatening to rescind his approval of enlasé, his queen struggling to make him understand there was no way they were going to win without some casualties. Jagan, M’lani, and T’kal, who considered the parade proof of the power of enlasé to frighten the Regs out of Psyclid, ignored the king’s rants and forged ahead. Time for more demonstrations. Time to expand.
Tonight they were meeting in an old warehouse on the edge of the city. Stepped-up patrols—the Regs’ only acknowledgment of the parade incident—had forced them to become more cautious, dividing the larger rebel group into cells, each with its own agenda, and continually moving the time and place of their meetings. With a telepath assigned to each group, coordination was not a problem.
“I know!” L’rissa exclaimed as the three young women continued their conversation while waiting for the formal meeting to begin. “Let’s take out one of their shuttles. That ought to get their attention.”
“Shuttles have people on board,” M’lani said after a sharp intake of breath.
“Great goddess, Highness, war isn’t a tea party!”
The king has decreed—”
“They’ll just replace the shuttle and act like it never happened,” B’aela pointed out.
Fizzit, she was right. Out of the mouth of her betrothed’s mistress . . . who had Jagan all to herself during the many days M’lani had spent confined to the palace. Fizzeting fizz! “What we need,” M’lani said, her voice as brisk and no-nonsense as she could manage under the circumstances, “is to continue to incite our own people to revolt. Offer demonstrations of the power of enlasé—”
“And the magic of the Sorcerer Prime,” B’aela interrupted with ill-disguised belligerence.
M’lani gave her the royal look, a head-to-toe assessment ending in a scathing flick of dismissal. “Our people need no demonstration of Jagan Mondragon’s powers. They already know and respect him for what he is.” Turning her attention back to L’rissa, she added,. “We need our people to understand that they too can help, that by adding to the active ranks of the rebellion they are building toward action that cannot be ignored. A dramatic move that will have the Regs scurrying for home.”
L’rissa, who like her brother preferred more dramatic action, heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose you’re right, but we need to keep the cells active. If they sit idle—”
“I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean that. The cells should keep harassing the Regs every way they can. I’m talking about major demonstrations like the parade.”
“Any ideas?” B’aela inquired in a tone that sounded very much like a taunt.
“Something spectacular at the next Tri-Moon Festival,” M’lani replied promptly. “Perhaps one of Jagan’s beasts, or maybe multiple dragons. A sight to make us all quake in our boots.”
L’rissa frowned. “Not good timing. Many of our group will be unable to help.”
M’lani and B’aela stared, animosities forgotten. “What do you mean, you can’t help?” M’lani demanded.
“Even one full moon can be incapacitating for the less experienced,” L’rissa said quietly. “Three moons at once is madness.”
B’aela, a practitioner of magic almost since birth, was first to understand. “How is it possible we had no idea? I’m sure Jagan doesn’t know, he would have said something.”
“What?” M’lani exclaimed, her temper rising. “What are you saying?”
“They’re shape-shifters,” B’aela said. “T’kal, L’rissa, possibly their whole group.”
“Only about half,” L’rissa admitted as M’lani found herself speechless. “And no one sensed us because our people have spent eons perfecting our shields. Compared to us, Psyclid magic is still in its infancy.”
M’lani, as fascinated by B’aela’s switch from bitch to professional witch as she was by L’rissa’s revelation, stood quite still, soaking up their exchange.
“Can you change spontaneously or must you wait for a full moon?” B’aela asked.
“We have complete control. Except at full moon when only the strongest can resist the urge to shift. ”
“A-ah. And sentience?”
“Of course,” L’rissa returned with scorn, adding on a more reasonable note. “Except speech, naturally.”
B’aela’s dark eyes lit up. M’lani would swear her tight brown curls quivered with excitement. “Jagan must know of this immediately. Surely there is some use for such special talent.”
L’rissa bowed her head, accepting the inevitable. “Even on Psyclid our gift is feared. But now that our secret is out, naturally we place our talent at the disposal of the Sorcerer Prime.”
Shape-shifters. M’lani struggled with the concept. Never had her mother indicated that shape-shifters were anything more than legend. Was it possible the ParaPrime knew no more of such creatures than Jagan did? “Could I ask—if you don’t mind,” she said, “what shape do you assume?”
L’rissa knuckled her lips, stared at the floor, clearly considering how much she should reveal. “I am an oryx,” she said at last. “We also have a hawk and a raven.”
Great goddess! L’rissa was a giant bird of prey with a wing-span of six feet?
“The rest,” L’rissa continued, “are as you would expect. Wolves.”
“Do they tear out throats?” B’aela asked with what M’lani considered ghoulish enthusiasm.
“No!” L’rissa cried. “Never that. At least not in my lifetime.” She squared her shoulders, looked B’aela straight in the eye. “I ask your silence, Dama Flammia. It is better to have my brother speak of this directly to the Sorcerer Prime.”
M’lani didn’t bother to hide her satisfaction as B’aela ground her teeth before snapping out, “Agreed. But do it tonight. The matter cannot wait.”
“B’aela, you forget yourself,” M’lani warned. “You do not give orders here.”
The witch’s huge brown eyes sparked fire. “You can hardly wait to get rid of me, can you? Because, Princess, that’s the only way you’ll ever get his attention. Jagan likes hot blood, not some precious watered-down woman who lives in a crystal palace.”
He hadn’t told her. Jagan had not told B’aela about her gift. The witch still thought M’lani a useless ornament . . .
Startled into silence, M’lani could only gape as B’aela offered
a disdainful sniff and turned away, heading back toward the group that constantly hovered at Jagan’s back—D’nim, T’mar, Tor, and the ever-present Reg marines, whose presence put a sour look on T’kal Killiri’s face every time he saw them.
L’rissa chuckled, the chuckle becoming a giggle. The two girls exchanged looks of burgeoning triumph. The witch didn’t know. Which meant Jagan did not tell his mistress everything, particularly when it came to the M’lani Sayelle Zarana Orlondami, Princess Royal.
Future wife. And someday, queen.
Perhaps there was hope after all.
Seated at a table in the palatial dining hall belonging to D’lila Lyrae, a pillar of Psyclid society, M’lani did a quick survey of the other guests—a much smaller and more elite group than her parents had anticipated when receiving an invitation from General Grigorev. Clearly, this was not an elaborate entertainment to cement his position as commander-in-chief on Psyclid. This evening’s affair was more subtle—a face-to-face meeting of the most powerful on the planet, thinly disguised as a dinner party.
Although they were dining at the home of a widow with a firm grip at the top of Psyclid society, the Regs seemed to favor her, perhaps because she was blond, blue-eyed and statuesque, all traits highly prized by the Empire. There was little doubt who had instigated the evening—the new Governor General had been playing the expansive host from the moment the Orlondami family was announced. The other guests? Rand Kamal, the admiral in command of all ships in Psyclid space. The Conde and Condessa Staral, wearing their most sparkling social masks, their collaboration with the Regs becoming ever more apparent. And lastly, Colonel Alric Strang, whose only claim to the elite was his position as Admiral Yarian’s aide. Was his presence a sop to the prestige of the poor old man? Or had the colonel been invited as a dinner partner for the Princess Royal, his interest in that direction far from secret? M’lani stared at the clear soup that had just been served and felt the strain beneath the polite smiles, the carefully crafted words about nothing—everyone waiting for the proverbial “other shoe” to drop.
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