In the brilliant light still dancing before her eyes, M’lani could see her parents’ horrified expressions. Thou shalt not kill.
“M’lani!” Once again Jagan hissed into her ear, even as he kept them tight against the tran’s roof.
Goddess forgive me! Never, ever, would she be able to reconcile the teachings of a lifetime with what she had just done.
Yet why was she given the Gift of Destruction if she was not expected to use—
M’lani’s thoughts cut off abruptly as the tran turned into an ally and stopped. Jagan hustled her off the roof and back inside, shouting. “Go, go, go!” as he slammed home the bar on the double rear doors. Carefully avoiding all the loudly inebriated crowds filling the main streets of Crystal City, they arrived at the Royal Park only ten minutes late. During the short trip, Jagan gave the hostages the news. Standing with his back against the rear door, he once again created a ball of green light and told them, “I think most of you realize you can’t go home, at least not right now. We’ve arranged for you to go to Blue Moon where you will be well taken care of. And I’m happy to assure you that close family members are already on board the shuttles.
“Those of you who wish to join the rebellion—and I hope that’s at least all the magicians—will be trained. When the time comes to take back our planet, you will be here with us.”
“How long?” someone called out.
Jagan shook his head. “Our hope? Not more than a Tri-Moon cycle, but there are no guarantees. Except,” he added slowly, distinctly, “that it will happen. We will be free.”
“And who are you?” one of the younger men asked, followed by horrified gasps from most of the hostages, particularly the magicians.
M’lani spoke for him, declaring proudly, “He is Jason Mondragon, Sorcerer Prime, and I am M’lani Orlondami Mondragon, Princess Royal. His wife.”
The young man groaned, bowed his head. “Forgive me, Highness.”
“For this I forgive you, but I’m not so sure about forgiving any of you for interfering with our wedding night.”
A wave of chuckles and giggles rolled through the van. “A memorable wedding night,” one of the magicians drawled.
“It’s not over yet,” Jagan returned, straight-faced. A sally met by hastily stifled guffaws and the priestesses covering their faces with their hands. Hiding laughter, no doubt. Psyclid priestesses tended to be worldly and unshockable.
The two shuttles were exactly where they were supposed to be, K’kadi holding them invisible, although their captains were growing anxious at the delay. “Not quite as smooth as we had hoped,” was all Jagan told them as the transfer was made. “Safe sailing. The goddess be with you.”
And then they were gone, K’kadi’s cloak holding true as the shuttles rose above the treetops, above the palace, and headed toward the hazy Blue Moon glowing in the distance.
“Dear goddess,” M’lani murmured as they walked toward the battered old groundcar Tor had brought to take them back to the residence of the Archeron Ambassador. Incredible as it seemed, they were about to change back into their wedding garments and make a late-night appearance at the post-wedding festivities at the palace. “How can we do this?” she wailed. “I can’t, Jagan. I can’t!”
“There’s no way around it, wife. We’ll hold each other up.”
“We were just married. No one is going to suspect the Princess Royal and the Archeron Ambassador were involved in the great escape.” Something M’lani recognized as wishful thinking, even as she said it.
They looked at each other and groaned. “Fizzet!” Jagan heaved a sigh. “We have to do it, don’t we? And you can stop giving me the eye, Major,” he tossed at Anton Stagg, who was sharing the back seat with the newlyweds.
“Which, of course, is why we planned it this way,” M’lani said after huffing a heartfelt sigh. “I hope Papa can’t sense my pain.”
“You did what had to be done.”
“He’s right,” the marines echoed in unison. “You saved us all, Highness,” Anton Stagg added, “hostages and rebels.”
Jagan took her hand and held on tight. “Smile and think beautiful thoughts, M’lani Mondragon. Dawn’s a long way off, and it’s still your wedding night.”
Three hours later, as they bid the Reg marines’ goodnight and were finally able to shut the door on the outside world, Jagan took one look at M’lani’s face and confirmed what he feared—all thoughts of a traditional wedding night had disappeared just as thoroughly as the armored cars and the helos at the Hall of Judgment. Fizzeting fyd! And fydding fizzit! Not that he was that hot for his wife, but it was tradition. Whoever heard of a bride in mourning on her wedding night?
Truthfully, there were probably quite a few who mourned the virginity that was ripped from them. Or their dreams of freedom. A deep dark secret kept hidden beneath a veil of pomp and ceremony and fairy tales.
Not that M’lani hadn’t been willing. And thanks to the unexpected magic that engulfed them in intimate moments, marriage to M’lani was less of a chore than he’d expected. He had, in fact, even gone so far as to anticipate a second wedding night more erotic than their first. Kisses over every inch of her body, coaxing M’lani to return the favor. Long hours of teaching his bride the enchantment of sexual pleasure . . .
But his bride was pale to the point of bloodless, weak to the point of trembling. She looked as if she would never be free of guilt. He would sit up with her, hold her, if that’s what she wanted, but how could he mourn? They had triumphed. They had been married with all the glitter and glamor a royal wedding could command. They had rescued twenty-eight hostages and safely sent them, with their families, to Blue Moon. They had appeared at the ball in their honor and danced half the night away, smiling, laughing, shaking hands, giving every appearance of not having a care in the world.
In the morning they would leave on their honeymoon, and he would do his best to talk sense into M’lani, to make her understand that revolutions did not happen without violence. But tonight? Tonight there was nothing he could say or do that would help. He would let her maid prepare her for bed and then he would go to her, let her know he understood her grief, even if he could not share it.
Dimi! Was he actually looking at a problem from a point of view other than his own?
Was the sorcerer growing up at last?
Clearly, marriage was an insidious state, not to be entered into lightly.
Chapter 23
In the morning, the Archeron Ambassador and his wife departed on a wedding journey that took them to Psyclid’s southern seas, far, far away from Regs, hostages, armored vehicles, helos, and supposedly all the cares of the rebellion. For both, a classic exercise in futility. Jagan tried, but unaccustomed to dealing with other people’s emotional problems, he was unable to alleviate his wife’s recurring nightmares. And to his surprise, he actually found himself worrying about those left behind. What reprisals might come next? Were they already happening while the ambassador and his wife enjoyed the sinful pleasures of sea bathing, eating, drinking, and sex. Or at least they seemed sinful if others were suffering for what they had done.
Uncomfortable moments of self-revelation he could have done without.
There were good moments, of course. Honeymoons were as old as time, and when the sky was filled with three moons—blue, red, and white in staggered phases of their cycles—well, the magic wasn’t to be ignored. At night when he and M’lani touched, they were still swept away on waves of passion, however suspect it might be. But dark thoughts, like the eight bodyguards who surrounded them, lurked, never wholly forgotten.
They returned to a city gone silent. Few people were visible. The faces on those who dared venture out were carefully blank. Armored vehicles patrolled the streets, larger war machines surrounded the palace, their heavy cannon aimed directly at Crystalia’s sparkling walls, towers, and spires.
“Pok!” Jagan breathed as they arrived at the palace to pay their respects to Ryal and Jalaine.
&nb
sp; Because of us, M’lani said silently.
Yes.
But we couldn’t just leave the hostages there!
No. This is the price of war. If we are to win, we must pay it.
More and more I understand Papa’s point of view. There can be no winners.
War is here. War is now. You can’t wish it away. Whatever has happened, we will deal with it.
As Joss Quint opened their hovercar’s door, ready to give M’lani a hand out, Jagan added on something close to a growl, My dragon is hungry.
No!
Not that he’d find Grigorev tasty, but it might be worth the indigestion.
Jagan, don’t you dare! The Regs would incinerate the whole planet.
His shoulders slumped. She was right. The rebels were going to have to walk a very thin tightrope from now on.
Ryal and Jalaine concurred, the sorrow in the king’s eyes when he looked at his younger daughter more hurtful than any words he might have said. When they returned home, M’lani sobbed for an hour before she finally turned her face into her husband’s chest and allowed him to comfort her. The irony of it was, Jagan thought, if he kept this up, he might actually learn how to empathize with other people’s problems.
Six days and she hadn’t left the embassy. M’lani was ready to scream or throw something, signs of a volatile temper she thought she had managed to control by the time she was twelve. Not so at the moment. If she didn’t get out of the house, she was even going to turn on Jagan who had been so teeth-grindingly nice to her she decided some of the diplomat Royan del Cid must be rubbing off on him.
At the moment he was the-goddess-only-knew-where. At court as the Archeron Ambassador, consulting with T’kal Killiri as Jagan Mondragon? Or was he at some distant location, indulging in a tryst with B’aela, who did not suffer from nightmares, bouts of tears, and had no qualms about killing people?
M’lani closed her eyes, fisted her hands, and fought back a scream. Out! She had to go out! Shopping, perhaps a walk in the park. The park where she had practiced the gift that had brought her such grief. If she had been more accurate . . She’d never intended the carnage that totaled the helo, three armored cars, and the men inside. Twelve souls in all.
Well-surpassing her sister’s body count when she escaped Regula Prime.
Staring bleakly out the broad window at the embassy gardens, M’lani fought the most difficult battle of her life. Harder than her inner battle before using her Gift of Destruction on the Regs. Harder than keeping hidden her wary but growing love for Jagan Mondragon. She was no use to the rebellion, no use as a wife, no use as a princess of Psyclid until she could accept herself for what she was. There had to be some reason the goddess had given her this terrible talent. There had to be a way through this tangle of right, wrong, and all the shades of gray in between.
The soothing beauty of trees and grass, flowers, fountains, children playing, that’s what she needed. M’lani summoned her guards, including the Psyclid policia sergeant, Kaya Samadi, and within fifteen minutes they were off in the fine hovercar provided for the ambassador’s wife, heading for the park.
But the Royal Park had never been so silent—even the birds had ceased to sing. Two old men sat on a bench in the sun, a woman pushed a baby pram. In the distance some teenage boys tossed a ball through a hoop suspended high over their heads. Hardly a challenge, she thought idly, if they had telekinetic skills.
M’lani walked on, listlessly disintegrating a rock here, a pile of leaves there. Yes, her pinpoint accuracy was still with her, so why had it failed when she aimed at the helo’s guns?
The heat of battle, the tran’s zig-zag. No one is perfect, M’lani. Jagan’s words had little effect. All well and good for him to be sensible. Jagan, of all people! Surely the last person in the world to lecture anyone on common sense and moderation.
M’lani’s thoughts came to a crashing shutdown as she emerged from the trees into the open space set up as a children’s playground—scaled-down veriball court, swings, slides, tunnels, playhouses, a sand pit. She loved this place, always full of life and joy, happy shouts and childish challenges echoing in the air. Today, however, only a few children were playing—all unnaturally silent, their parents or nannies never taking their eyes off them. Lined up on the far side of the playground were three armored vehicles, exactly the same models as those guarding the Hall of Judgment, their laser cannons pointed straight at the playground. Soldiers—rifles on their backs, pistols and knives in their belts—stood beside each vehicle, watching the children with gimlet eyes.
Great goddess, what was this? Not even Grigorev could stoop so low.
Ignoring cries of “Highness, no!” “Highness, don’t!” M’lani surged forward,
“Who is in charge here?” she demanded of the first soldier she encountered.
“Lieutenant Rasman, ma’am,” he told her, pointing toward the armored vehicle in the middle.
“Don’t you dare touch me!” M’lani hissed as her bodyguards tried to stop her. Stopping at the center of the three imposing military machines, she demanded to speak with the lieutenant. After a brief exchange on a comm unit, an officer poked his head out the hatch in the top of the vehicle. “You wished to speak with me, ma’am?”
“I am M’lani, Princess Royal,” she informed him in a voice that carried the full length and width of the playground, “and I demand to know why the Regulon Empire has seen fit to turn its guns on children.”
The lieutenant was seen to blink before he managed to return rather hoarsely, “General Grigorev’s orders, ma—uh—Your Highness.”
“The Governor General makes war on children?” M’lani’s eyebrows rose to touch the wisps of auburn curls framing her face.
“No, Highness, of course not. It’s just that after the hostage incident—”
“He decided to hold our children hostage instead.”
The lieutenant, swallowing hard, wisely remained silent.
“Are you the only person in that vehicle, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, ma’am. It gets rather warm in here when we’re not moving.”
“And the other two—are they empty?”
“Sergeant?” the lieutenant called.
“Yes, sir, we’re all outside.”
“Good.” M’lani smiled. “Gentlemen,” she said, turning to each group of soldiers surrounding their armored cars, “I suggest you step away from your vehicles. My aim has occasional mishaps.” When they goggled at her, thinking her mad, M’lani turned back to the lieutenant. “Please humor me, Lieutenant. Ask your men to move onto the playground. Otherwise I cannot guarantee their safety.”
The lieutenant, torn between doing his duty and the possibility of being demoted for disrespecting Psyclid royalty, decided in favor of moderation. A nod of his head, and the sergeant ordered the men onto the play area, where all activity had ceased, children and parents alike gaping at the drama unfolding before them.
“You too,” M’lani added sweetly. The lieutenant, more and more certain he was going to be on the next ship back to Regula Prime, stripped of his rank, hauled himself out of the armored car, clambered down the side, and joined his men. “Thank you,” M’lani murmured.
A moment later, there was empty space where the three armored groundcars had been, nothing but infinitesimal pieces remaining.
The soldiers gaped.
The Psyclids gaped.
“You and your men may walk back to the Hall of Judgment,” she informed Lieutenant Rasman. “Inform General Grigorev that I will not tolerate the targeting of children. And, as you see, I have the ability to enforce my dictate. Let me assure you,” she added, “I could have disintegrated the lot of you along with your vehicles, if I so chose. “Go, Lieutenant, before I change my mind.”
The lieutenant managed a nod to his sergeant. The Reg soldiers slowly backed up, never taking their eyes off the royal witch. Only a shout from their sergeant formed them into a ragged double file behind the lieutenant, who led them on the lo
ng march back to the center of the city.
“Highness,” Kaya Samadi whispered as the soldiers disappeared into the trees, “what have you done? The Regs aren’t stupid. They’ll know you’re responsible for the destruction at headquarters. And figure the only way to stop you is to kill you.”
“They can try.” At long last M’lani wasn’t horrified or sickened by what she could do. She could see a true purpose for her talent.
Bring it on, Empire. Bring it on.
Chapter 24
Regula Prime
Stiff-backed and grim, Admiral Vander Rigel, an aide, and two officers from Security Command followed an equerry through the broad marble halls of Kraslenka, the emperor’s primary residence, which also served as the seat of government of the Regulon Empire. Although the admiral was a member of the High Council, he had no idea why he had been summoned . . . unless over the last few weeks he had expressed his concerns about the present regime to the wrong person. In that case he was walking to his death.
Guards saluted as the equerry led them past the great double doors leading to the Emperor’s audience chamber, past a host of antechambers and meeting rooms, continuing on into the labyrinthine suite of rooms that were the von Baalen family’s private apartments. Not a meeting of the High Council then, the Admiral noted. Good or bad? The answer remained murky.
When they entered the outer office of the emperor’s private study and the equerry graciously informed the admiral’s attendants that they would wait for the him here, Vander Rigel’s curiosity spiked. What was so secret, or so important, he was being granted a private audience with Emperor Darroch?
The defection of Tycho?
The admiral’s bland court face tightened, his eyes narrowed. Dimi, but, he was prepared for that. If Tycho and her crew had survived, they were far out of the Empire’s reach. Omnovah be praised.
As for himself . . . it was possible the emperor had seen through all the layers of protection he had so carefully constructed. Would he find Darroch backed by a phalanx of angry officers, all thirsting for his blood? Somehow he doubted it. He’d been in the emperor’s study before, and it wasn’t big enough to house all the officers who’d want his head on a platter if they ever found out what he was doing.
Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Page 18