Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2)

by Blair Bancroft

  “Absolutely. Believe me, before the Occupation she was as famous as a vid star, every man’s wet dream. I even had a picture of her on my bedroom wall.”

  The Reg corporal hunched over his drink, the seconds ticked away. T’kal hid his anxiety behind a long pull of the region’s home-brewed ripka. Not a bad effort, but at the moment, tasteless.

  “Well, fyd,” the guard muttered, “the worst that c’n happen is the Captain says no. Right?” He slid off the barstool. “C’mon, we’ve got her at headquarters. It’s only a couple of blocks.”

  They set off down the street, T’kal carefully matching his companion’s shambling gait. In the shadows behind the two men, three of T’kal’s men followed.

  When he saw Oban’s Reg headquarters, T’kal almost snorted out loud. The Reg version of security in the boondocks. Pok! Not that the farmhouse wasn’t one of the better ones he’d seen, but it was just a fydding house. If they’d known B’aela was there, they could have taken her without the masquerade at the bar.

  Just before entering the house, T’kal gave the agreed-upon signal to his men. He stepped over the threshold, and in a move that still astonished him, everything went still. The corporal beside him, the sergeant at the front desk, the officer toasting his toes by a fire, the guards outside a door at the end of a corridor. And the battered and bruised young woman sprawled on a bed inside that room. If she had been conscious, she could have thrown off the binding enlasé, but she was not. Fury whipped through him. That the day had come when he cared what happened to Jagan Mondragon’s piece of tail . . .

  Fyd! He’d care about any woman so badly abused. Which was the problem with being female, he thought. No matter how strong-minded, how intelligent, how well-educated, women were always vulnerable to greater physical strength. Not even princesses were exempt. Or powerful witches.

  He wanted to snatch up the Sorcerer’s witch and run, but she’d never forgive him if left the giant from Hell Nine behind. Fortunately, T’kal found him, sprawling off a cot in the cell next door. A few mental gymnastics to lift the freeze, and both men rushed back to B’aela. A repeat of the trick taught by Mondragon—blast his soul!—and B’aela rewarded them with a soft moan. T’kal, shoving the badly beaten Tor aside, scooped up her now pliant body, and they strode out of the farmhouse, leaving the Regs to recover as the spell gradually wore off. A groundcar pulled up, exactly as planned. The last step—a short drive to the field where a private shuttle, on loan from D’lila Lyrae waited—went exactly as planned.

  As T’kal laid his burden down on the bed in the shuttle’s sleeping compartment and tucked a blanket up under her chin, rage consumed him, a mix of old and new. Rage for B’aela, for his wife’s suffering, for his own searing pan. The witch lived, but would she, he wondered, ever be the same again? B’aela Flammia had paid a high price for her part in the rebellion.

  Chapter 29

  As she followed L’rissa into the living area of T’kal Killiri’s home, M’lani kept repeating her silent vow to keep her personal emotions hidden. The moment their shuttle landed, they had been told that B’aela was safe and that they could find her at T’kal’s—scant information about events that must have been highly dramatic. A tense and silent race to the Killiri residence followed, but now they were here, Jagan seemed as frozen to the floor as a victim of enlasé. His eyes were fixed on B’aela, who was seated on a sofa, shoulders erect, head high, staring straight back at him.

  Dear Goddess! M’lani stifled a gasp as she looked at her husband’s former mistress. The strikingly attractive witch seemed more like an dark caricature of herself, her face swollen and discolored, one arm in a sling, two bandaged fingers on her other hand, a cane lying by her side. Only her huge brown eyes and the riot of dark brown curls framing her battered face seemed normal. Shame shot through M’lani. What B’aela had endured was far worse than her own experience at the hands of the Regs. Even the sight of Jagan dropping to his knees in front of her, murmuring words only B’aela could hear, failed to excite jealousy. Perhaps the time had finally come to put the past behind.

  After several minutes Jagan rose to his feet, motioning for all those who had stood back giving him a moment of privacy with his former mistress, to be seated. He turned toward T’kal—grudgingly, M’lani thought. There was little doubt he had expected to charge to B’aela’s rescue himself. Instead—for the second time in a single moon cycle—he must thank T’kal Killiri. Which he did. Rather smoothly, M’lani thought, considering the circumstances.

  The were shrugged. “You were not here. I handled it.”

  M’lani caught stifled chuckles from their ever-present marines, even as her own lips curled in wry amusement over the prickly pride that continued to create awkward moments between the two most powerful rebel leaders on Psyclid.

  “Does anyone know the why of it?” Jagan snapped, his temper clearly at the breaking point.

  Snorts of disgust from the Killiris and B’aela as well. “We certainly do,” L’rissa exclaimed. “The wicked little bitch!”

  M’lani blinked. Surely she couldn’t mean B’aela, but if the description fit . . . Peace! It was over. The rebellion couldn’t afford jealous temper tantrums.

  “Jealousy,” T’kal spat out, like some explosive echo of M’lani’s thoughts. “It seems one of B’aela’s students was a handsome young idiot who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He simply had to tell his girlfriend all about his instructor, the famous witch, B’aela Flammia—”

  “And,” L’rissa broke in, “all the little idiot heard was that her boyfriend was enamored with his instructor. And, would you believe, she charged into Reg HQ and told them.”

  M’lani ducked her head. Dear goddess, she herself was little better than this blindly jealous girl in the hinterlands. Seeing only her own selfish point of view. Allowing her emotions to overwhelm her sense of right and wrong, even their ultimate goal—freedom.

  “She told them everything,” T’kal was saying, “absolutely everything—although I doubt the Reg guards understood the implications of enlasé. But the glory of capturing the Sorcerer Prime’s chief assistant? That rang loud and clear.”

  M’lani shivered.

  “By the time we got there,” T’kal continued, “we were too late to save her from the worst of it. We could only bring her home and have her wounds treated.”

  “Keeping her in your own home, despite the danger,” Jagan murmured.

  Though brother and sister said nothing, M’lani could see them registering the compliment. Past frictions had improved since the night the weres killed General Grigorev—perhaps tonight might be the turning point. Jagan Mondragon and T’kal Killiri, shoulder to shoulder at last, their only goal, ousting the Regs.

  “B’aela,” Jagan said, pasting an encouraging smile on his face. “When we heard the news, we held the shuttle. “Blue Moon is the perfect place for you to rest and recover.”

  “No.”

  M’lani blinked, staring at the once-beautiful witch.

  “It is difficult to talk,” B’aela said through lips that barely moved, “but I will heal quickly. Between potions and spells, I will manage. And I will not be parked on Blue Moon,” she added, scorn tingeing every word, “a useless hulk like Tycho.”

  “Tycho is not a useless hulk,” M’lani cried. “It’s going to be good as new.”

  “In a Tri-Moon or so,” Jagan qualified.

  “I do not need that long,” B’aela declared. “I have plans.”

  Even the marines stared in astonishment. “What plans?” Jagan demanded.

  The witch’s dark eyes shifted away from his incredulous gaze. “I know how I look,” she muttered, “but truly I will be back to my old self in a week or so. And then . . .” She picked up her cane, played with it a moment, put it back down. “Last night K’kadi appeared to me,” she said. “We got to know each other on that long voyage back from Hell Nine. I like the boy. And there’s no doubt his powers are still increasing. He’s a true phenomenon.”
<
br />   “He’s cloaking the shuttle as we speak,” Jagan said, but he was frowning, no doubt wondering how B’aela had enough rapport with K’kadi that he could appear to her across space as he did with his sisters.

  “Evidently I have a mission,” B’aela continued. “One that involves Admiral Kamal.”

  “No!” Jagan and T’kal roared in unison. But M’lani recalled the vision K’kadi had displayed on Blue Moon. The vision that matched B’aela’s words.

  “Will you lock me in my room, T’kal? Keep me prisoner?” she taunted. “I have been part of the rebellion since we followed S’sorrokan onto Astarte and began that long journey home from Hell Nine. K’kadi has shown me what I must do, and I will do it.”

  “The vision he showed us was vague,” M’lani said. “Easily misinterpreted. We thought it meant Kamal might help us rescue you, as he did me.”

  B’aela’s dark curls moved as she carefully shook her head. “K’kadi was quite clear. Embarrassingly so. I did not realize he could talk.”

  “He talked to you?” M’lani cried. K’kadi had talked to someone outside the family? Another spurt of talent, or did B’aela’s long relationship with Jagan somehow make her family? M’lani fisted her hands at her sides and concentrated on the witch’s answer.

  “Simple words only. One of which was ‘mistress.’”

  “Never!” Jagan ground out. T’kal stared at B’aela as if she’d gone mad.

  “Jagan, my dear,” B’aela returned, “I have taken orders from you since I was sixteen. That is quite long enough.” She held up the hand with the bandaged fingers. “Nor, T’kal, am I a member of your group. I am a free Psyclid acting on the vision of someone whose prognostications have not yet been proved wrong. I will do this, if I must walk out into the streets tonight and find my own hole in which to spend my days until I recover.”

  “B’aela,” L’rissa said, her voice urgent, “I understand how badly you’ve been hurt—you want revenge—but this can’t be right. You must be mistaken about the prince’s message.”

  “No mistake. Nor do I feel vengeful toward the admiral. I believe K’kadi implies something more profound.”

  Jagan groaned. “The day you take your orders from a fey royal bastard without an ounce of common sense—”

  “She is right,” M’lani interrupted. “K’kadi’s powers are outstripping us all. He sees things we cannot. I think we must consider this seriously.” But inwardly, she winced. They would all think she was trying to rid herself of her rival by allowing B’aela to—borrowing a phrase from the ancients—jump out of the frying pan into the fire.

  A very long silence before Jagan said, “B’aela, will you at least go to Blue Moon until you recover?”

  “No-o,” she returned slowly. “I have an idea that may work even better.”

  “What?”

  She managed something close to a smile. “Not now. I must think on it a bit.”

  With a curt nod, Jagan stood. “I will return tomorrow night. We will discuss it then.” Adding an abrupt good-night, he strode from the room.

  M’lani took the time to murmur a heartfelt, “I’m so sorry,” to B’aela before following her husband out.

  As they drove back to the embassy, Jagan ordered the waiting shuttle back to Blue Moon. He reached out, took M’lani’s hand, and held it. Was he thinking what she was thinking? M’lani wondered. There but for the grace of the goddess, go I. Without Admiral Kamal she too could have suffered multiple rape.

  No, more likely he was thinking of his years with B’aela.

  Was he wishing those days were back again?

  The next afternoon

  With L’rissa’s admonitions still ringing in her ears, B’aela Flammia pried herself out of the hovercab set down in front of the Hall of Judgment and gratefully accepted the driver’s firm hand raising her to her feet. Fizzit! It was possible L’rissa had been right and this was a mad scheme born of being hit in the head one too many times.

  Surprisingly, one of the Reg guards showed compassion, running forward to help her ascend the broad steps. Inside, after thanking her escort, she offered the sergeant at the front desk a lopsided half-smile and said, “Would you please tell Admiral Kamal that B’aela Flammia, chief assistant to Psyclid’s Sorcerer Prime, wishes to speak with him?” After a most satisfying jaw-drop, he did as he was asked.

  Three minutes later B’aela was seated in front of the admiral’s desk, her cane propped up by her side. She wasted no time coming to the point. “I fear I am a fugitive, Admiral. You are undoubtedly aware that I was wrongfully taken up in Oban, though you may not have known until now how badly I was abused. And, I assure you,” she added with a significant glance from beneath her long dark lashes, “not all the abuse I suffered shows.”

  “Wrongfully?” Kamal inquired, his classically sculpted face remaining expressionless.

  “Surely it is not against the law to teach a class?” Innocence glowed from her limpid brown eyes.

  “Guilt by association?” the admiral offered.

  “With the Sorcerer Prime?” B’aela scoffed. “What has he done but boast and cast a dragon or two? Scarcely a worthy leader.”

  “I would be a fool if I thought either of you harmless.”

  B’aela sat up a little straighter, causing the layers of her flame red gown, provided by L’rissa’s shop, to shimmer, briefly outlining the well-endowed figure beneath. “I assure you my association with the Sorcerer Prime is long in the past. I come to you to plead for sanctuary, a place where I may rest and recover, unmolested by overzealous Regs. Perhaps a convent,” she suggested softly when the admiral remained silent, something close to bemused appreciation dissolving his military correctness.

  “I have been studying Psyclid history these past few weeks,” he finally told her. “Somehow the concept of B’aela Flammia in a convent is beyond my narrow Reg imagination.”

  She opened her eyes as wide as her battered facial muscles would allow. “I suspect our priestesses are somewhat different than those who follow Omnovah,” she said, her voice dropping to sultry.

  “Undoubtedly,” Kamal returned, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing her with what appeared to be fascinated disbelief.

  “Sanctuary, Admiral?” B’aela prodded.

  “Dama Flammia . . .” Rand Kamal drew a deep breath that might have been mistaken for a sigh. “Before I make any decision, let me be perfectly certain that I understand you. You allege you were wrongfully arrested for doing nothing more than teaching a class.” He raised an eyebrow. “On witchcraft, I presume?”

  “Merely one small aspect of it, Admiral. Surely practicing our Psyclid forms of worship has not been forbidden?”

  The admiral’s rather shapely lips firmed into a straight line. “After reading the report from Oban, my aide suggested that you might have been abused after your capture. Now that I’ve seen you . . .?” He raised his blond brows, clearly inviting the truth.

  “Beaten and raped by every last man in that miserable excuse for a local headquarters.”

  “Omnovah!” At long last she saw emotions chase across the admiral’s face. Revulsion, fury, guilt. Regret. “I will investigate,” he said grimly. “Until the matter is settled, consider yourself under house arrest at the priestess house here in Crystal City.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.” Air whooshed out of her lungs in a rush of relief far from feigned. “If there is anything I can ever do for you . . .” B’aela left the suggestive words hanging as the admiral ordered a car and driver before striding around his desk to help her to her feet.

  “Will you visit me, Admiral?” she asked as he walked her to the door. “I find I should like you to see me when I am not a walking disaster.”

  A pair of shrewd Reg blue eyes looked down at her. “Oddly enough, Dama Flammia, I have no taste for having my throat ripped open.”

  She peered up at him, allowing her dark eyes to convey a message she dared not say aloud. “You must have faith, Admiral. Just as, on oc
casion, we have been known to return violence with violence, I assure you Psyclids can be relied upon to return acts of mercy in kind.”

  Rand Kamal sucked in a deep breath. B’aela forced herself to return his penetrating gaze. Had she said too much, her destination a cell instead of the shelter of the convent?

  He suddenly stiffened to full military mode as a security guard appeared in the office doorway. Their few strangely intimate moments might never have happened. “Your car is here, Dama Flammia,” the Admiral intoned. But as she limped past him on her way out the office door, he added, “In the course of my investigation I will undoubtedly uncover more questions that need to be asked. Good day, Dama Flammia.”

  B’aela’s face remained carefully expressionless all the way to the convent, while, inside, she rejoiced. She had done it. The trap well baited, the quarry worth any sacrifice she might have to make.

  Sacrifice? She rather thought she might enjoy it.

  Chapter 30

  “Stop pacing!” M’lani cried. “It is done. She is safe with the priestesses of the Golden Crystal.”

  Jagan slammed a fist into his palm. “She could be rotting in a Reg cell or on her way to Regula Prime to be judged by Darroch himself!”

  “But she is not,” M’lani pointed out, “and you need to stop having a fit because she did not do exactly what you told her.”

  “That’s not why—” Jagan threw himself down on one of the elegant sofas in their private suite at the embassy and plunged his head into his hands.

  M’lani, seated on a matching sofa across from him, chose her words with care. “It’s all right to fear for her,” she said, “but she is a strong woman, and K’kadi truly seems to see things no one else can.”

  “Two faces dangling in the air tells us nothing!” Jagan growled.

  “Perhaps he showed B’aela more.”

  “Kamal’s married,” Jagan offered, “with teenage children.”

  M’lani blinked. “I thought we were waging a war, not running a match-making service.”