He cut her off. “You have news?” Not that he meant to be rude, but . . .
S’bella sobered. “I do.” But as storytellers are inclined to do, she paused, heightening the tension. “Not all my news is good, Sorcerer, and I beg you not to blame the messenger.”
“Out with it! What has happened to my wife?”
S’bella closed her eyes a moment, pulled in a long shuddering breath. “I fear she suffered some injury at the hands of the Regs. “No, no, Sorcerer,” she cried, clutching at the pillow which slipped as she waved away his swell of rage. “The princess is not badly hurt, and the matter is already settled.”
Jagan crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her, oblivious to her remarkable display of bare flesh.
“I assure you,” S’bella said, “no one anticipated this. No one thought it possible Grigorev would allow such a thing. But,” she added hastily, “she will recover and should be home within hours.”
“He’s a dead man,” Jagan growled.
“He is indeed. If you will allow me to continue . . .?”
Eyes blazing, Jagan jerked a hand in her direction, urging her to get on with it.
“After interrogation, the princess was placed in one of the cells where the hostages were kept.” Jagan’s insides writhed at the picture conjured by S’bella’s words. “The GG, evidently stimulated by his interrogation of the Princess Royal,” she continued with biting innuendo, “decided to visit his mistress, Dama D’lila Lyrae, where he recounted the story of his interrogation with the ‘Psyclid Witch’ in great detail.”
Jagan, fascinated in spite of his concern for M’lani, sank down into a chair and gave T’kal’s messenger his full attention. How had the Resistance acquired this information? And so quickly?
“After making sure the general was well satisfied in all ways, including a surfeit of karst, Dama Lyrae left him sleeping and contacted T’kal.”
D’lila Lyrae had rebel sympathies? Jagan’s black eyes sparked; he clenched his jaws to keep his mouth from sagging open in surprise.
“She is one of T’kal’s spies,” S’bella explained a trifle smugly. “One he has protected well.”
Jagan quenched a hiss of flame from his inner dragon. “Continue,” he snapped.
“The rest?” S’bella shrugged. “It was almost too easy. Dama Lyrae let the pack in the kitchen door while I sat in a tree outside. In my raven form, of course. L’rissa, in oryx form, was deemed too likely to attract attention flying to the embassy, so I was chosen.”
“Dama Lyrae let in T’kal and his men?” He still found it hard to believe.
“In wolf form. The kill, I’m told, was T’kal’s.”
“Grigorev’s dead?”
“His throat ripped out.”
“But what about the guards?” Even as he said it, the supreme irony of the Sorcerer Prime questioning the power of the paranormal struck him.
“Invisibility cloaks work as well for wolves as humans, Sorcerer. They were in and out with the guards none the wiser. I doubt they’ve even discovered the body yet. The general always demanded privacy for his amours. Or so Dama Lyrae told us.”
“What about M’lani?”
“All will be well,” S’bella assured him. “Kamal will be in charge now. I predict the princess will be delivered to your door the moment he hears all that has happened. Allow things to progress at Reg speed, Sorcerer. It is infinitely safer.”
“I am newly wed, S’bella, husband of the Princess Royal. I have waited long enough. Believe me, del Cid would be as anxious for his bride as I am.”
She nodded. “You are Sorcerer Prime, I but a messenger. You must do as you see fit. Good-night.”
Discovering he was developing a romantic interest in his wife did not keep Jagan from enjoying the view as S’bella Cyr crossed the room and opened the balcony door. He might be married but he wasn’t dead! In a few seconds nothing more tantalizing than a blue-black raven was briefly silhouetted against the red and gold of sunrise.
When the Archeron Ambassador arrived at the Hall of Judgment, the mood was somber. A pale and shaken Colonel Strang provided the shocking news. Dama Lyrae’s screams had roused the house, her tales of seeing a wolf considered a nightmare until the guards entered her bedroom and found their commanding officer with a wound no human could duplicate. Admiral Kamal had just come from the scene and would receive Ambassador del Cid immediately. “Never, never,” the colonel emphasized as he led Jagan to the admiral’s office, “did we think Grigorev would go so far. One presumes . . .” Strang paused, allowing a wince to show. “His death was not coincidence, I think, but I will allow the admiral to speak on that matter.”
Admiral Rand Kamal, after profuse apologies, added, “We are not barbarians, Ambassador. Nor am I a fool. There are forces on Psyclid that I do not pretend to understand. I am willing to accept that Grigorev committed suicide as surely as if he had put a bullet to his brain, but the matter has already been brought to the attention of the emperor, and when he hears of the general’s death, I am uncertain what may happen.
“As far as I am concerned, however,” the admiral continued, “I intend to let the matter rest. I can only hope that we might consider the princess’s injuries avenged and declare a truce.” He regarded Jagan with nothing more than weary hope in his eyes.
Jagan, far more upset over M’lani’s injuries than he had thought possible, forced himself to concentrate on the admiral. Survival demanded that he understand the enemy, that he find the right words, make the right moves. Rand Kamal had the look so prized by Regulons—the blond conqueror-of-the-universe face and the stalwart figure that had caught L’ira’s eye when she first saw Tal Rigel. The admiral’s strong face was topped by sandy-blond hair cut military short, and marked by shrewd eyes the color of a summer sky. Add tall, broad-shouldered, and arrogant, and you had the epitome of a high-ranking Reg officer. With the possible exception that this one seemed more reasonable than most, and was known to have a sense of humor.
Grimly, Jagan once again reminded himself he was the Ambassador from Archeron, not the Sorcerer Prime, and said as evenly as he could manage, “I am not Psyclid, of course, but I will do my best to smooth troubled waters. I am certain the princess will agree that neither of us wishes to relive another night like this.”
“Might I suggest,” the admiral returned smoothly, “that the princess consider recuperating some place far from Crystal City, a second honeymoon perhaps? Just until the hot winds of savagery have cooled . . . on both sides.”
Jagan nodded. “A wise suggestion, Admiral. Thank you.”
Kamal nodded. “Come, I will take you to your wife. I have doctors attending her injuries and have been assured she is ready to return home.”
An hour later, as M’lani lay in her bed in the embassy, snuggled into Jagan’s side, she told him, “It was all my fault. I was well served for my foolishness. I was impossibly arrogant, jeopardizing us all.”
“Grigorev went mad.”
“With great provocation.”
“We must be very quiet now, I think.”
“Settle for stripping drunks?” she offered with a wan smile. “Is that wise or merely cowardly?”
Cautiously, Jagan touched his lips to her swollen mouth. “We have sounded the call to arms. Now, I agree, it’s time to be quiet and grow strong. Interestingly, Admiral Kamal agrees.”
“Back to the southern seas?” M’lani asked.
“Perhaps something better,” Jagan murmured. “I’ll think on it.”
“I’m glad Grigorev’s gone,” M’lani whispered as Jagan winked out the lights.
“My only regret,” he returned, “is that I did not do it myself.”
“Our turn will come. “The Dragon and the Disintegrator, how can we fail?”
“I believe I just felt your father quiver.”
“I am sorry for it,” M’lani said into the darkness, “but all has changed. The girl who returned to your bed is not the girl who woke in it yesterday m
orning.”
“I know,” said the Sorcerer Prime. A shiver pricked up his spine. When the end came, it was not going to be as peaceful as the king decreed.
Chapter 26
Late that night, Jagan, accompanied by his ever-watchful marines, pressed the comm buzzer at T’kal Killiri’s home on a tree-lined street on the outskirts of the city. It was an attractive home, spacious without being pretentious. Better than he’d expected. Sometimes he forgot Killiri was a certified engineer who ran his own construction company.
A light came on, illuminating nothing but blank space on the raised faustone stoop in front of the door. Jagan’s lips twitched as he anticipated the look on the were’s face when he opened the door to nothing. Killiri, however, merely muttered a brief profanity, inviting his invisible guests in with a jerk of his head. After the door closed and Jagan dropped the shield, the two rebel leaders exchanged a long look, before T’kal led his three visitors into the living area.
Jagan opened his mouth to greet L’rissa, but her attention was focused behind him, her delighted smile directed at Anton Stagg.
Although unaccustomed to being ignored, Jagan managed to find the humor in it, something he might not have done in the past. Could he be mellowing, becoming less self-centered? Possibly, though he had an uneasy feeling any kind of normal might not be a proper description for the Sorcerer Prime. “L’rissa,” he purred, his ambassadorial skills firmly in place, “I didn’t realize you lived with your brother.”
Her cheeks flushed but she quickly recovered her manners. “Our mother and I moved in after N’tali died. To help look after the children.”
Jagan turned to T’kal. “You have children?”
“Boy seven, girl four,” he returned with his customary brevity. “Their mother was ripped apart by Reg soldiers the week after the invasion.”
“Gang rape,” L’rissa murmured.
While all three visitors expressed their shocked condolences, Jagan’s mind flashed to M’lani. Insulated by the arrogance of the elite, he had not considered that her experience might have been worse, but of course he was wrong. Way wrong.
L’rissa invited them to sit.
“Thank you, no. This is a short visit.” Jagan turned to T’kal. “I have come to express my personal thanks, as well as the thanks of the king and queen. You did what needed to be done. My only regret is that I was unable to do it myself. I hope,” he added, “that we may understand each other a bit better now.” Goddess, forgive me! He wanted to howl at Psyclid’s moons with Killiri’s pack, tear Regs limb from limb. Better yet, summon his dragon to burn the Hall of Judgment to the ground. Yet here he was playing diplomat and fydding grateful spouse. With difficulty Jagan shut down his inner fire and held out his hand. T’kal took it.
“One moment,” L’rissa said, and swiftly poured five small glasses of ulalli, the potent Psyclid brandy. “To the rebellion,” she offered. They clinked glasses and drank. A swift round of farewells and the visitors vanished. The door opened and closed, leaving T’kal and L’rissa staring at each other. The millennium had come. The Sorcerer Prime had come close to being human.
A short time later Jagan slid into bed next to his sleeping wife, aware that the last two days had added some jagged gashes to the chinks she had already carved in his emotional armor For so many years M’lani had been nothing more than L’ira’s less adventurous sister. The ungifted, frivolous one. Yet now—somehow—she had his head and heart so muddled it was a wonder he’d been able to cast a simple invisibility spell.
Jagan’s lips curled into a mocking smile. The sorcerer was becoming ensorceled. Not a comfortable feeling.
“Colonel Strang.” Admiral Rand Kamal waved a hand toward the chair in front of his desk. “Thank you for staying on. Your presence will make the transition much easier.”
“I am glad to be of help, Admiral.” Strang offered the conventional words as he took the seat indicated.
An enigma, Colonel Alric Strang, the admiral noted. It was likely the young man had suffered from the stigma of skin several shades darker than most Regulons—even his eyes and hair were dark. And though lithe and graceful, Strang was not as tall and well-muscled as the military norm. Which indicated he must be unusually skilled at his job. Oddities seldom became aides to Governor Generals. Yet Yarian had praised him highly. Grigorev, not so much, criticizing the colonel for “too much humor” and being “too friendly with the Psys.” The admiral suspected he was going to like his new aide.
“I understand you are acquainted with the Princess M’lani, Colonel. I would appreciate hearing your opinion of her.”
Strang took his time, finally admitting, “My opinion has changed, sir. She was just a sheltered princess—polite but cool, heedless of politics, occasionally a bit petulant. I got the impression she was unhappy because she showed no sign of developing any of Psyclid’s many paranormal gifts. And they do exist, sir,” he added with a touch of belligerence, “even if we choose to ignore them.” The colonel paused, shaking his head. “And then everything changed. She seemed to develop . . . purpose, I suppose, is the best word. As if her eyes were newly opened to the reality of the Occupation.”
“As if she had developed powers at last and no longer felt helpless?”
Strang eyed the admiral with respect. “Yes, sir. Exactly like that.”
“And when did this happen, Colonel?”
Alric Strang frowned. “I first noticed it at the ball given by the Conde and Condessa Staral several moon cycles ago.”
“The night the sorcerer vowed to drive us all back to Regula Prime?”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
“Which was shortly after the arrival of the Archeron Ambassador?”
Strang stared, absorbing the implications. “Yes, sir, I believe it was.”
“Has it not occurred to you, Colonel, that the Princess married in haste? That Psyclid casting its sole remaining princess into the arms of a man from some previously unknown planet is rather odd?” When Strang remained silent, the admiral added, “Had you ever heard of Archeron before? Had anyone?”
“No, sir, I don’t believe so, sir.”
“Have you heard the stories of our last battle with S’sorrokan, the one where the rebels, badly outgunned, still managed to escape?”
Colonel Strang, obviously uncomfortable, shifted in his chair. “Yes, sir, but I assumed they were mostly tales told to justify our loss.”
“Tales of a great ravenous beast and S’sorrokan’s ship vanishing at the height of the battle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I heard the tales from men who don’t exaggerate, and the beast was there. Half the Fleet pissed their pants. What does that tell us, Colonel?”
Strang offered a rueful grin. “That Psyclids have magic, sir . . . but we already know that.”
“Not that kind of magic. The size of that beast told us Psyclid’s greatest sorcerer—a man who vanished just as our invasion began—was on board that ship . And likely headed home. A fact confirmed by that extraordinary display at the Staral’s ball.”
“But how, sir? How could he walk among us, particularly at something as exclusive as the ball—”
“Consider the state of Grigorev’s body,” the admiral interrupted, looking grim. “A wound like that is not of this world.” The colonel winced but nodded agreement. “Look around you, Strang. What we once called ‘weird’ has grown from quiet, slight-of-hand magic to multiple displays of black sorcery, and all in the last few months.” Kamal held up a hand, palm out. “I’m not saying Psyclid didn’t reek of secrets from Day One, only that its antics are suddenly more organized, overt, even affecting the royal family. All coinciding with the arrival of the ambassador from Archeron.”
Strang took his time, clearly working his way through the admiral’s implications. “No,” he murmured, shaking his head, when Kamal’s Regulon blue eyes continued to hold his, demanding he think the problem through.“You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying.”
<
br /> “I would like you to investigate Archeron, Colonel. “Locate it, analyze its impact on Sector affairs and get back to me. Also . . . do we have Psyclid experts on staff? Reg consultants,” he qualified, “who are knowledgeable on the local culture?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I want to talk to them.”
Colonel Strang stood, took a deep breath. “You think the ambassador is . . .” He paused, obviously finding the concept difficult to accept. “You think we’ve been played for fools, sir? This whole time? But how?”
“I don’t intend to make the mistake of General Yarian, who could not believe, or of Grigorev, who refused to believe. But to you I admit it is possible that here in this quiet, peaceful country the Empire may have its Achilles’ heel.”
“Sir?”
“An ancient legend, Strang. I suppose only a few scholars read those old stories now. “Let us simply say, it is time we took Psyclid powers seriously, else we could be the domino that starts the fall. No, no, don’t ask—merely another ancient expression. There is much to be learned from Old Earth conflicts.” He waved the colonel away. “Go research Archeron.”
Colonel Strang saluted, leaving the admiral seated at his desk, frowning at the visions that played through his head. The emperor had just celebrated his one hundred tenth birthday without any of his numerous descendants showing any leadership talent beyond loud boasting and egregious spending. With or without events on Psyclid, the Empire was headed for a power vacuum. Which side did he want to be on when the moment came?
Blue Moon
The shuttle touched down on a small landing field not far from Veranelle, once the summer palace of Psyclid royalty, now home to the rebellion. A myriad memories chased through M’lani’s head as Jagan, holding her hand tight, helped her descend toward Blue Moon’s terraformed soil. With a cry of joy she broke free and ran the final few steps into her sister’s arms. Oh yes, this is what she needed. Here on Blue Moon with L’ira by her side, she would heal. Here, her nightmares would fade away.
Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Page 20