Rebel Prince

by Justine Davis

  Trios had held off the Coalition for many years, thanks to the eternal vigilance of Dare and his council. But outside the group that knew at what cost even relative peace came, did anyone realize? Had the people, now that a new generation had come to adulthood, forgotten the price paid?

  He’d been surprised when Dare had ordered the cornerstone of the old Council Hall, all that remained of the old building, to remain as it was, battered and cracked, with the words “Not Beaten” carved into it by some unknown, bloodied hand after the city had fallen.

  His own instinct would have been to clear away and rebuild as soon as possible. But Dare had prevailed. The building had been rebuilt, defiantly bigger than before, but the cornerstone of the old one remained. More people passed that marker every day than anything else in Triotia, Dare had said, and he didn’t want them to ever be able to forget what their laxity had cost. And the more Dax thought about it, the more he saw the sense in it and agreed.

  And that, he thought now, not without wryness, was the difference between the skypirate and the flashbow warrior. Thinking.

  They were well clear of guided Triotian airspace now, and the crew who had been clattering around amidships, settling in, were headed to their stations. With an inward grin he stood up as Rox, his longtime first mate, entered the bridge. They grinned at each other; it felt much like days past. Yet there was the awareness of change, of time. He felt a qualm. Qantar was gone. And Roxton was not Triotian, and the years that had passed had aged him. Gray predominated at his temples, and he didn’t move quite as quickly as he had. But his mind was as sharp as ever, and Dax wouldn’t have anyone else in his place as first mate.

  “You look exactly as you always did, cap’n,” Rox said, as if he’d read his thoughts. There were darker aspects to being one of the longest-lived races around, Dax thought.

  “Bedamned Triotians, never do get old, do they?”

  Dax whirled, and his grin returned as Larcos, the Star’s resident engineer, scavenger, and brilliant inventor strode in. He, too, had aged a bit, but he’d been younger to start and so it wasn’t quite as stark. Nelcar, the medical officer and the youngest of his original crew save Rina, was close on his heels.

  “Larc,” he said as he shook his hand, then turned to the other man. “Nelcar, didn’t really expect you.” It was true—the man was a fixture in Triotian medical circles these days, and much in demand.

  “As if I’d miss the chance to fly with you again. Is it true, Rina is already there?” Nelcar asked. He’d always had a soft spot for their young navigator. But then, they all had.

  “Yes,” Dax said. “With Tark.”

  Nelcar’s grin returned. “I heard he was alive. Good for her.”

  “Couldn’t pick a better man,” Larc added.

  “Now all she needs is for you”—Rox thumped him on the chest—“to stay out of their way.”

  “She was little more than a child then,” he protested.

  “And she’s years a woman now,” Larc pointed out. “And we’ll need Tark’s knowledge of Arellia before this is over.”

  “Not to mention those crazy tactics of his.” Rox grinned. “No wonder you two got along, he was as crazy as you.”

  Dax didn’t—couldn’t—deny either. The combination had been a large part of why the Battle of Galatin had ended the way it had.

  “He is much changed,” he warned.

  “And who would not be, what he went through?” Hurcon had lumbered up to them, sparing a nod of greeting to his old crewmates. “I’d like to get my hands on the throat of the coward who refused to send aid.”

  “Wouldn’t we all,” Larc said.

  The muttered assent ran through them all; even Nelcar, whose instincts were to heal, looked suitably grim.

  “And yet he survived,” Dax said. “And walked out of those mountains with most of his men with him. Carrying one of them, in fact.”

  “A feat worthy of a certain skypirate we once knew,” Rox said.

  Dax looked at them, his throat tight. They’d been through much together. Some of the crew might be grayer, some off to new, different lives, but when he’d put out the call, they’d all come.

  He turned away for a moment, thinking he’d become soft himself, and not about to let his crew see the sheen of moisture in his eyes. He grabbed up the bottle of lingberry liquor he’d retrieved from the galley.

  “A toast,” he said, his voice tight, “to Qantar.”

  The one member of the bridge crew absent, the man who had been older than all of them when he’d flown on the Evening Star, had died last year, shortly after Dax had flown him home to Zenox. Qantar’s entire family had been murdered there by the heavy hand of the Coalition, and his last wish had been to rejoin them. Dax had known that while the man had been glad to live to see the Coalition ousted, he’d also been only half alive since that day Corling and Mordred had slaughtered every man, woman, and child in his small town.

  “To Qantar,” they echoed with every swig as they passed the bottle around just as they often had after a successful raid.

  Dax took the bottle back when Larc handed it to him. He set the cork back in place with a solid slap. Then he looked at them.

  “We just now received a report from Tark that there is a Coalition flagship on the way. I won’t insult you by saying this now will likely turn into something ugly, I know that you all suspected that. But as always, I will neither force nor expect any man to go along on a mission he does not feel right about. Now is your moment to withdraw, with no hard thoughts held against you. A shuttle will take you back.”

  Not a man spoke, they merely held his gaze levelly, except for Hurcon, who snorted with audible disdain at the very idea.

  “All right, then,” Dax said. “We fly.”

  They went to work as if they had never stopped. Rina’s navigation station was empty, but she’d join them once they reached Arellia. In the meantime Califa would handle it, when she finished overseeing the weapons and ammunition stowage. The chatter among the crew, raucous and usually insulting, started up as if the intervening years had never been. Dax smiled inwardly as he listened.

  The Evening Star would fly—and if necessary fight—again.

  IN THE END, IT was so simple it seemed impossible. They got a bit wet slipping behind the waterfall, but once in the cave it was dry. Strangely dry, Lyon thought. The spray from the falls should have kept it fairly damp.

  “There are tunnels,” Lyon said as he peered into the darkness.

  “Of course there are,” Shay retorted somewhat resignedly.

  He smothered a smile at her tone, and decided not to point out just now that they appeared to have slipped right back into the old, teasing ways. For all they had gained—and the memory of those golden hours in the sun would never leave him—they had not lost this, not as she had feared.

  “Shall we go about this in an orderly manner, or just take a wild guess?” he asked.

  “We’ve already tossed reason to the wind, why stop now?”

  He laughed.

  She glared at him.

  Yes, things were back to normal. She’d made her decision in that meadow, and she wouldn’t backtrack. No fluttery, embarrassed afterthoughts for his Shay.

  And he knew he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “All right, then.” He looked at the back of the cave, at the three openings that appeared to be tunnels. He had no idea how far they might go. For all he knew, they came out on the far side of the mountain. Or didn’t come out at all. Or both.

  On impulse he gestured to the opening on the right. “Let’s try that one.”

  “You’re the Graymist,” she said, and started that way.

  He spared a moment to grin inwardly, thinking of all the things he loved about her. Why had they fought this for so long? Simply in rebelli
on against the idea that their destiny had been chosen for them? If so, this day had shown them it was a small price to pay for what they’d discovered, for the joy their union had brought them.

  “Coming, Your Highness?”

  He must have been standing there longer than he’d thought, if she’d dragged out the title to prod him with. With a laugh he let escape this time, he followed her. They walked into the tunnel.

  And less than a minute later, they had found it.

  Shaina stared at the large niche halfway up the wall of the dead end of the tunnel, then slowly turned to look at him.

  The gold gleamed, seeming to capture every bit of what little light there was. A chalice here, a stack of plates, and a large, ancient-looking leather pouch from which spilled coins too many to even estimate a total.

  And in the center of the display of riches sat a rather plain-looking object, a roughly hewn wooden stand in which sat a small sphere. Barely the size of his fist, it looked like glass, except that it did not seem to reflect its surroundings. The gold should have gleamed in the polished surface, but instead the orb swirled with the colors of oil upon still water.

  Lyon felt drawn to it, pulled in a way much stronger than that urge to pick this of all the tunnels. He took a step forward, ignoring the gold piled before him, and focusing on the ball, the Graymist Orb. Odd, he would have expected something more ornate, something other than the simple wooden holder that looked as if it had been made out of wood scraps found on the forest floor. Perhaps it had been, for all he knew.

  He reached out, touched the sphere. It flashed sun-bright, and he instinctively jerked his hand back. The brilliant light gradually subsided, until the orb emitted a barely perceptible but steady glow.

  “I think you woke it up,” Shaina said, her tone a mix of wariness and jest.

  He studied it for a moment, watched for any changes, but the odd glow stayed steady. Slowly he reached out again. At his touch the light flared again, although not as blinding as that first flash. He pulled his hand back again, slowly this time, and just as slowly the orb subsided to that steady, faint glow.

  Again he studied it. Shay stayed quiet, letting him think. She might not have his need to understand how everything worked—she settled for it working as it was supposed to—but she accepted it, even admitted it was sometimes useful, and a good balance for her more impulsive nature.

  “You try it,” he finally said.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Touch it. I’m curious to know if it reacts to any touch.”

  Her mouth quirked. “Feeling special, Graymist?”

  He smiled outwardly this time at this return to their normalcy. He would never be in danger of losing his humility, he thought. And could there be any more necessary quality in a king?

  “If I were, it’s ever your job to disabuse me of that notion,” he said.

  She colored slightly, she who was rarely embarrassed, and he wondered if she had had, as he just had, a vision of the future unrolling before them, of the partnership that would someday lead a world.

  But she reached out and touched the orb. It flared, but not as brightly, and the light faded more quickly when she removed her hand.

  “So . . . what does that mean?” she asked. “It responds to anyone, but a Graymist most of all?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, in a tone of great concentration, “it simply likes me better.”

  Her head turned; he could feel her gaze, and couldn’t stop himself from grinning. He knew her so well, he saw a teasing retort coming. But then her face changed, softened somehow, and when she smiled every memory of those fiery, sweet moments in the sunlit meadow slammed into him, so powerful he wanted to take her to the ground right here and now and begin it all over again.

  “It might,” she said softly. “I certainly do.”

  He realized suddenly there was something he had forgotten. Something he had never said, since their world—and apparently the physical world around them—had been changed by that passionate encounter.

  They rarely put their feelings for each other into words. It was a given, and they both knew it. But that had been when they had been lifetime friends and companions. Now they were mated, and the words took on a whole new meaning.

  “I love you, Shay,” he said quietly, putting every bit of emotion and need and gratitude and certainty in that unrolling future into the simple words.

  She gave him no quick response. Instead, her expression became very solemn. And he knew she had heard everything he had tried to say. Of course she did, she understood him better than anyone.

  “And I—”

  Her words broke off as a low, somehow disturbing hum filled the air. They both turned to stare at the apparent source in time to see the orb change color, shifting to a dark, almost purplish blue, the color of a nasty bruise.

  . . . the Orb has the power to warn that rightful possessor of the presence of enemies.

  “Warning?” Shay whispered, clearly remembering the old man’s words as he had.

  “I don’t know. Do you sense anything?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Perhaps the screen blocks that, as well.”

  The color grew brighter. For an instant he hesitated, then reached out for the sphere. The moment his fingers touched the surface he could feel the pulses as if they were more than just light. And just as quickly he knew.

  “Yes. Warning.”

  Gaze fastened on the cave entrance, she pulled the disrupter from her belt while he slipped the orb into an inside pocket of his jacket.

  “The screen,” she said. “Perhaps it will stop them.”

  “I don’t think we can count on that. There may be a way through we haven’t discovered yet.”

  She looked around. He could see her mind racing. “You have the orb?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Interesting that that was her first thought, that she had apparently accepted the old man’s words, that it was the orb that was the true treasure.

  “Do you know if it is more than one? Our four friends returning?”

  He reached into his pocket and touched the orb again. Wrapped his fingers around it, wondering if that would make whatever signal the thing was sending clearer. Instinctively he closed his eyes.

  “No. Just one,” he said. “Still beyond the screen. Approaching the meadow.”

  Something flared in her eyes. He realized she was angry at the thought of that meadow, where they had first come together in that way that connected them for life, being invaded by whoever their pursuer was.

  “It must be the other one,” he said. “The man in the cloak.”

  “Are you guessing, or did that fancy rock tell you?”

  “Guessing. Unless it is yet another, a new one.”

  “Too crowded on this mountain if it is.”

  She bent, grabbed a handful of the golden coins. She scattered them across the cave floor, in a path pointing toward the cave entrance.

  “We can hide in the far tunnel, the gold will draw him,” she said. “He’ll see the treasure and be distracted by all that shine.”

  He looked, calculating the distance, the angles. “That outcropping,” he said, pointing. “The way it sticks out, we won’t be able to get a clear shot until he’s clear of it.”

  “We? You mean you. He’ll only be in view a couple of seconds, if he dives for that treasure. You’re a better shot with a disrupter.”

  He flashed her a grin. “I am, though I never thought to hear you admit it.”

  “There are lots of things I never thought to admit.”

  Memories kicked through him again, heated images, and he doubted at this moment if he could hit a target if it stopped a foot in front of him. “And we will speak of those things,” he said, his voice rough.


  “Yes, Lyon, we will. But later,” she said.

  He was startled by her use of his name even now. Those golden moments in the meadow had transformed more than he’d realized, if he was no longer Cub to her at all. About time, he thought.

  They moved then, quickly, and found a spot in the tunnel that was almost across from the one that held the gold. They wouldn’t be able to see the newcomer until he was practically at the niche, so his first, probably only shot was going to have to count. He noticed the faint gleam reflected from the first few coins she’d scattered. They would be visible easily from the entrance, once the intruder looked that way. He also realized that light from outside would make their quarry cast a shadow; they might not be able to see him, but they would know at least some of his movements by that.

  “He’s past the screen,” Lyon said suddenly.

  “Yes. I can sense him now.” Her hand tightened around her disrupter. “And definitely a threat.”

  They waited in silence for several minutes, and Lyon guessed she was also picturing how long a slow, wary traverse of the distance from the screen to the cave would take. This man took even longer, so he was either uncertain, or very cautious.

  The silhouette that eventually appeared in the light from outside the entrance made it clear it was the man in the cloak. He looked around, then moved quietly toward the far edge of the cave wall, quickly slipping into shadow. Had they not known he was coming, he could have gotten alarmingly close. The simple fact that this man had had the strength of mind to ignore the evidence of his eyes and go through the screen, risking a serious burn, or was clever enough to find a different way, warned Lyon he was not to be taken lightly.

  He heard the faintest of sounds, as if the cloth of the cloak had caught on rough stone. Then nothing. A long moment passed, and then the shadow was back in the middle of the cave, elongated, then suddenly shorter, as if he’d crouched down. Lyon knew he had spotted the first of the coins Shay had scattered. Brilliant, his woman was. A warrior worthy of the flashbow. He tried not to think of the danger that position would put her in. They were the greatest fighters in existence, but they were not invincible. More than one flashbow warrior had died protecting Trios or her royal family. How did his father do it, send the man who was his brother in all ways but blood out to quite possibly die?