The Star Princess

by Susan Grant

  Ché sat back to listen to the man’s morning report. One item seemed rather out of place: “Word has reached us that the invitations have gone out, my lord, announcing Ian Hamilton-B’kah’s wedding to Tee’ah Dar. This was done earlier than what etiquette normally dictates.”

  Ché swallowed more tock and set down his cup. “It is not that surprising. There will be thousands of guests in attendance, and much to prepare.” And he was glad he wasn’t part of it. He returned his attention to his news screen. “Now…where are the Bajha championship scores?” he muttered, scrolling downward.

  “It is said that the B’kahs have invited Earth royalty to the event, my lord, as well as high-ranking members of their government.”

  “Entertain my sisters with these social tidbits, Hoe,” Ché snapped. “And my mother, the queen, and her staff, as well. They will love nothing more than to chat with you about the B’kah arrangements. Not me.” He turned his attention back to the Bajha scores.

  “I thought you would find it of interest, my lord.”

  The man spoke as if he disapproved of Ché’s reaction. “By the heavens, Hoe. Can I not enjoy a few moments of peace at breakfast without mentions of the B’kah wedding intruding?”

  Hoe deflated. For unfathomable reasons, Ché’s reaction troubled him.

  Lifting his tock cup back to his lips, Ché contemplated his advisor through a cloud of fragrant steam. With the king away on government business, Ché was the ranking male of the household. His days were filled with details and duties related to that responsibility. The B’kah wedding was a subject bordering on frivolity—frivolity for which he did not have the time or the interest. Yet, his reluctance to discuss the matter seemed to leave Hoe in such despair that Ché felt compelled to say something to cheer the man.

  “So,” he amended pleasantly. “The invitations to the wedding of the year have gone out. Good, good. I am pleased for the happy couple. Truly. Now, shall we see which of last night’s teams were victorious?” He turned back to his screen.

  He heard Hoe’s comm beep. The man took the call and a moment later said, “Four councilmen are waiting to speak with you, my lord.”

  Ché took his personal computer out of his pocket and checked its agenda. “I know nothing of a visit from any councilmen.”

  “Nothing was scheduled, my lord. They arrived during the night. What they wish to discuss, they say, is a matter of utmost importance to the realm. But I had them wait until morning. I did not wish to wake you.”

  You might as well have, Ché thought. He certainly hadn’t left his bed this morning rested or satisfied.

  In the foyer off the balcony, four tall shadows milled about. Ché asked: “The Council is in full session. Don’t they have duties? In addition, my father is at the Wheel.” That five-thousand-year-old space station was the seat of the Federation government, and where the Great Council convened. It was many light-years away.

  “They say that there are no matters so important to the Vedlas as this one.”

  “What one?” Ché asked.

  Hoe cleared his throat. The man was transparent; his odd and irritating behavior revealed his discomfort with whatever issue the council members had come to discuss. “Well…ah,” the advisor stammered. “It seems it may be something to do with the…B’kah wedding ceremony.”

  Ché gave him a withering look. “I hope you’re joking.”

  Hoe replied with a weak laugh. “Shall I summon them?”

  Ché waved his hand. “Please.”

  Hoe gave a curt nod and strode across the balcony.

  Ché couldn’t fathom the reason behind this absurd turn of events, but he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that he wasn’t going to like it.

  Hoe returned with the four visitors. Each of the eight families sent forty representatives to the Great Council. Those representing Ché’s family were considered the most traditionalist and conservative of the group, and had been for eons. Of all those who had protested the appointment of an Earth-dweller as crown prince, the Vedlas had protested the loudest. Defeat had not gone down easy.

  They stopped a respectful distance away. With practiced grace, each went down on one knee. Heads bent, the four men brought their right fists to their chests, their eyes downcast.

  “Rise,” Ché told them.

  They did as he asked, shaking out their travel cloaks. Lavender morning sunlight fell across the black fabric.

  An austere gentleman stepped forward. It was said he’d been a handsome man when he was younger, the talk of the ladies at court, but age had thinned his bronzed skin, sharpened his features, and his golden brows grew long and curling. He reminded Ché of a goth-hawk.

  “Greetings, Lord Ché.”

  “Councilman Toren,” Ché replied. Everyone knew Toren. Many even liked him. He was a virulent traditionalist. Ché supposed he could find no fault with that. Someone had to uphold the old ways. “What business brings you here when the council is in session?”

  Ché detected the barest of stiffening in Toren’s shoulders. “It is not an official visit, my lord.”

  Ah. Ché glanced at Hoe, who stared pointedly at the toes of his boots. “Am I to take that to mean my father, the king, does not know that you’ve come?”

  “This is a matter of utmost importance to the Vedlas, and to the realm,” Toren countered.

  A non-answer. In other words, his father did not know the men had come.

  Toren’s fingers tugged at the cape falling over his shoulders. “Lord Ché, we come to you with the Federation’s best interests at heart.”

  “My brother Klark thought he had the Federation’s interests at heart when he sought to murder Ian Hamilton.”

  Toren glanced back uneasily at his associates.

  Calmly Ché brought his cup of tock to his lips and leaned back in his chair, blowing gently on the steaming beverage.

  “You are considered by many to be one of the most promising young princes of your generation, Lord Ché. It is important that you continue to build upon that reputation.”

  “I certainly am not trying to do otherwise, Toren,” he returned dryly.

  “You are single, an unmarried man.”

  “Yes, I am.” Ché thought of the courtesan…and her mouth. “And I enjoy my bachelorhood.”

  “As you know, the B’kah wedding will take place at the end of the year. The invitations have gone out. Two, perhaps three thousand guests are expected, from all over the galaxy.”

  Ché sat up straight, his hands flat on the table. “Great Mother, Toren,” he growled, though in the back of his mind he suspected that calling on a female deity wasn’t going to offer him much help. “What happened to the days when males of our species gathered to discuss political machinations, trade issues, and sporting events? All I’ve heard this morning is talk of a wedding. Will we chat about couture next? Or the presentation of cuisine?”

  He sagged back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. “Or perhaps I’m to be asked to help choose which morsels the cooks should add to tonight’s petit fours,” he muttered irritably.

  Toren puffed himself up. He was a formidable man. Thus, it followed that his puffing would be formidable, as well. Ché was not impressed.

  “My lord, the princess is marrying an Earthdweller!”

  “For the love of heaven, I wouldn’t care if she were marrying a morning fly, Toren. In fact, in all honesty I’m grateful she found someone other than me. At least I won’t be the one saddled with an undisciplined princess for a wife.”

  Toren’s feathery brows only half hid the disgust in his eyes. “Hamilton is a man who not long ago was considered a barbarian. He still is, in some circles.”

  “Which circles, Toren?” Ché brought his hand down hard on the table. The saucers there bounced. The tinkle of silverware echoed on the silent balcony, far above the hiss of the sea.

  Toren shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I exaggerated, my lord. My apologies.”

  “We are tryin
g to rebuild trust in our family, Councilman. It has not been an easy task. We can’t afford more Vedla interference in lawful politics.” He held Toren’s gaze. “Or marriages. The decision to allow Hamilton to marry the princess was made months ago. Rom B’kah himself approved it. The entire Federation supports it. It would not be wise for us, the Vedlas, to question it. Do not forget that my brother is under palace arrest for attempted assassination. We are lucky to have him still alive. You can thank ‘the barbarian’ for that, for interceding on our behalf, as Rom B’kah certainly might have been harder on Klark. We owe Hamilton our gratitude.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Prince Ian Hamilton will marry Princess Tee’ah Dar, and we, the Vedlas, will not interfere. That is our official family stand on the matter. If you hear opinions to the contrary from your circles,” Ché said with disdain, “you will inform me. Is that clear? And I will see that the subversives in question never hold political office again.”

  Toren swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

  Ché took his gaze from the council members’ only after a long moment. Then he laced his fingers over his stomach and let himself relax somewhat. “Now, what is it that you require of me?”

  “To marry, my lord.”

  Ché winced, rubbing his temples. The morning’s dissatisfying sexual encounter must have been an omen. “Of course I intend to marry.” Then he twisted one corner of his mouth into a conspiratorial, man-to-man grin. “Sooner or later. Later is far preferable to sooner.”

  Toren didn’t appear to share Ché’s enthusiasm for the single life. “We in the Great Council are actively searching out your queen.”

  “You and my mother both,” Ché agreed. He spoke in a pleasant tone to blunt the sarcasm that begged to boil forth.

  “Fear not that we will find you a mate suitable for your position and status.”

  “I have the fullest confidence that your hunt will prove fruitful,” Ché replied, lifting his cup of tock to his mouth. “But, please, take your time. No need to rush matters. I am quite content with my status as it is.”

  “But you see, Lord Ché, you must marry. And you must marry now.”

  Ché almost inhaled his swallow. He started coughing. Hoe ran over and started thumping him on the back. “Now?” Ché croaked.

  “As soon as possible,” Toren clarified. “Your nuptials must take place before that of the crown prince. Then it will look less as if you, a pure-blooded Vash Nadah, lost out to an outsider.”

  Hoe tried to dab at Ché’s mouth with a napkin. Ché ripped the cloth out of his advisor’s hand and tossed it onto the table. “You want me to race Ian Hamilton to the altar? The idea is ludicrous. How can it be seen as anything but a crude display of Vash Nadah one-upmanship?”

  Toren began pacing in a small circle, his hand curled under his square, cleft chin. Then he halted, lifting an inquisitive golden brow. “You like Ian Hamilton, yes?”

  Ché paused to consider his answer before verbalizing it. The council member’s gaze was calculating. Toren had served more than twice the number of years in the Great Council than Ché had been alive. Ché would have liked to answer in the unhesitating affirmative regarding his opinion of Ian Hamilton, but it wasn’t that simple. In preparation for the day that his father retired from hands-on rule of the Vedla kingdom and assumed Treatise-directed duties as an elder of the Great Council, Ché had to continue to build trust and support in the men who would ultimately serve him—Toren included. Above all, he must never appear to take Vedla family values lightly.

  “I’ve sworn allegiance to Hamilton,” Ché clarified. “Upon that vow I base my actions. It is he who will rule the Federation, along with the other princes and me. It is he we will work with when we ascend to our respective thrones with the intent to preserve peace and stability.” He warned, “Personal feelings one way or the other have nothing to do with it.”

  “Then marry quickly,” Hoe interjected, almost pleading. “That way you can arrive at the B’kah wedding with a lovely, pedigreed Vash Nadah bride on your arm, a princess, of course, perhaps even by then pregnant with your—”

  “Pregnant!”

  “Your marrying will allow the Vash Nadah to save face without appearing to counter the king’s decree,” Toren explained. “It will alleviate much of the resentment now focused on Ian Hamilton.”

  Ché’s outrage at his advisor’s brazen, ill-mannered presumption faded like a lit cigar in a sudden downpour. He fell back in his chair, his anger fizzling as he considered Councilman Toren’s observation: It will alleviate much of the resentment focused on Ian Hamilton.

  Truer words had never been spoken. Many oldschool, conservative Vash Nadah saw Princess Tee’ah’s breach of promise as an insult to the royal bloodlines that ran all the way back to the godlike warriors of their distant past. If Ché married first, as the council member had so audaciously suggested, it would send the signal that Vash superiority remained intact. After all, Ché had been slated to marry before the B’kah heir from the beginning, before there ever was a B’kah heir. By doing as the councilmen suggested, marrying before Ian, things would remain as they were supposed to be—would they not?

  The Vash Nadah liked things as they were supposed to be. Ché had to admit he did, too.

  Most of the time.

  “The blood of the Eight flows through your veins, my lord. This brings responsibilities, obligations, circumstances you might not have chosen on your own,” Toren said with sudden gravity, clearly misinterpreting Ché’s brooding for refusal. “The Treatise of Trade tells us: ‘The eight royal families lead through sacrifice and example.’”

  The condescension in the man’s tone stunned Ché.

  He narrowed his eyes. His voice was low and deadly. “I am quite familiar with my obligations, Councilman.” He might not have guessed how quelling his glare was if Toren hadn’t blanched.

  “Did you truly think otherwise, Councilman?” Ché continued. “Did you think me weak of will because I was the first of the princes to ally myself with Ian Hamilton?”

  “No, my lord!” The older man’s expression was one of sincere dismay. He knew that he’d stepped over a line.

  Good. In time, Toren and the others must learn to think of him as a man of power rather than the boy he once was. To succeed at that goal, Ché would never let them forget the king he would someday become.

  “Klark had nothing to do with this plan, did he?” he wondered aloud after a moment.

  “No. Your brother knows nothing of this. He has been left out of all communication since the incident on Earth—as you ordered.”

  Ché could usually tell if someone was lying to him. The ability served him well in the often-treacherous arena of Vash politics, which he’d navigated since his late-teen years. His gut told him that Toren was telling the truth: Klark was not an instigator in this marriage race.

  At least the Vedla family’s core of idealistic traditionalists was adhering to the rules of Klark’s house arrest. His brother was to stay at home and out of all politics until such time it was determined that he was suitably rehabilitated—a goal for which Ché held himself personally accountable. “Reparation, atonement—those are the words we Vedlas must live by. No more disruption, or we will find ourselves the pariahs of the Vash Nadah.” He directed a hard and searching stare at each council member in turn. “I swear it—I will not allow my family to be left behind while the rest of the Federation moves toward a future that demands flexibility. If we cling to our old ways while everyone else moves forward, we will become artifacts. Instead of building influence, we will gather dust. Is that clear?”

  A chorus of “Yes, my lord,” met his question.

  “I will do my part. I will marry, as you have asked, before the crown prince says his vows. I will not fail my people.” Ché brought his fist to his chest and bowed his head in the traditional Vash show of steadfastness. “You have my word as a descendant of the Eight.”

  A ripple of hushed sounds of relief went betw
een the councilmen. The loss of his bachelorhood was a small price to pay for continued galactic stability, Ché reasoned.

  Heaven help him.

  “How long do I have?” Ché asked the councilmen, as if he were inquiring about the date of his execution.

  “A wife should be chosen and a promise officially announced within three standard months,” Toren replied. “That will give us time to rush through an arrangement and draw up the paperwork before the B’kah wedding takes place in seven months.”

  “A four-month betrothal period.” Ché folded his arms over his stomach. “Engagements, by law, are supposed to run for one full standard year.”

  “We have found a way around that. Princess Tee’ah breached her promise with you several weeks before you were to have signed the marriage contract—which is what would have set the one-year clock ticking.” Toren’s eyes glinted. “Since that year was never legally commenced, as soon as we find your wife we’ll backdate the new marriage contract to allow for a year’s time.”

  Many late nights had gone into dreaming up this scheme. On the surface it looked simple. But it was not. More rules had to be broken than just what related to timing. Taking into account the intricacies of tradition, Ché couldn’t help admiring the creativity and thoroughness with which these council members had devised a plan. Obviously, while he had been indulging in courtesans, these men were masterminding his future.

  Ché combed his fingers through his close-cropped hair and sighed. There was a problem: “Aside from the current pack of four-year-olds”—royal Vash offspring were matched up at five—“all the eligible women are already promised.”

  “We have ways around that, as well,” Toren assured him.

  Ché’s mouth twisted ruefully. “We Vedlas certainly have our ways of getting things done,” he said. He shook his head. “I can see it now—young princesses across the galaxy dreading that they will be the chosen one, the unfortunate girl sobbing as she is brought to me, a virgin sacrifice to the spurned Vedla prince.”

  Toren didn’t share his smile.