Rebel Prince (The Coalition Rebellion Novels Book 3)

by Justine Davis

  “I remember overhearing my mother tell my father she did not want us to grow up knowing only fear and fighting. That we needed to know there could be happiness and the love of family, too.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “I’ve only just remembered it now, thinking about that day.”

  He stopped, unwilling to speak of what had triggered the memory. She was still, he knew, very angry with her father, and he didn’t want to poke at that particular zipbug nest. But the image that had come back to him, of Dax and his father swimming in a mock race, haunted him now in an entirely new way. For he had seen his godfather’s bare torso, had seen the scars he carried, for the first time. Burns, disrupter marks, scars of the war. But most telling, the marks of a lash that crisscrossed his back. A whipping taken for Rina. They all knew the story of how he had allowed himself to be captured, and publicly flogged, just to find out what had happened to Rina’s mother.

  It was the kind of thing the flashbow warrior did.

  And Shaina was the next in that unbroken line of protectors.

  The possibilities that created practically exploded in his mind. What had already been a challenging future to face now seemed impossibly complex.

  MORDRED ADJUSTED the viewing scope for the growing light. He’d finally caught up to them, but he didn’t wish to get any closer and be seen. They had, he grudgingly admitted, picked a good spot for their camp. There was no way to approach without being seen, and the cliff behind them was far too high and steep to risk.

  He scanned the area once more, but he was certain now they were alone. He shifted the scope back to his prey. He paused momentarily on the woman. She was attractive, much more than he would have expected from some paid companion picked up from Akasen Court. Not that she would appeal to him at all. No, she was a fully adult female, curved and shaped as such, far too adult for his tastes. He preferred them young and unformed.

  And frightened. As this woman clearly was not.

  In fact, she reminded him of someone, although he could not figure out who. But with her pale skin and dark hair she was clearly Arellian, so obviously the prince had just picked up a willing female for this journey.

  If she was gambling on establishing some sort of connection to the Triotian prince, she had a big surprise coming, he thought. And then he discarded her as not worth any more of his time or speculation. He had simply spent too much time on this planet, and they had all begun to look alike to him.

  He shifted his focus, zooming in now on the man. Bile rose in his throat. He looked just like his father, with the golden skin and hair of the Triotian, but there was something else about him that spoke clearly of the royal lineage. The tilt of the head, the strong body, the handsome face . . . oh, yes, he was his father’s son. Even that air of royalty he so hated was there. It had seemed to him all Triotians had it, not simply the royal family. As if they thought—no, as if they knew—they were better, that their world and way of life were better.

  Not that anyone truly believed the stories—that any Triotian would die to save another they didn’t even know. No one individual was that important. Everyone knew that, yet the people of Trios clung to their old ideas, too stupid to realize the benefits the Coalition brought them.

  He had been there when the then-prince Darian had been enslaved, had had the great pleasure of watching the implantation of the collar, and the even greater pleasure of watching the recalcitrant Triotian realize his days of independence were over, that never again would he be allowed to do anything not commanded by his owners, the Coalition that had destroyed his world.

  Except they hadn’t.

  Yet another thing to lay at General Corling’s door. He had sworn before Legion Command that Trios was finished, would never rise again, nor rally any others to rebellion. He had been wrong on both counts, and the man who filled the visual field in his scope now was living proof of that.

  But that man could also give the Coalition incredible power, the power even to defeat the upstart Triotians without a shot. For if they truly believed in those outmoded ways, then would they not do anything to save the son of their king? Even surrender?

  Pathetic. That’s what they were. All this trumpeting of individuality. They were soft, in both mind and will. He doubted any of them would have the nerve to do what he had already done. The Coalition commander who had been sent here to Arellia in secret had been of high rank, an imposing and intimidating man.

  But with his blustering he had also lacked the ability to fade into the background, and was in fact a poor choice to send to this most crucial target. He could have told them that, at Legion Command. He had done them a favor, really, by eliminating him mere hours after his own arrival. He wouldn’t have gone unnoticed for long, not even among these drunken fools.

  And of course it was to Mordred’s own benefit. Once they realized their spy was dead, they would need someone else to rely on. And he would step in. Ready, and armed with priceless trophies.

  He nearly laughed aloud, picturing his personal triumph. He, Ulic Mordred—the forgotten and disgraced—presenting this coveted prize to Legion Command. By Eos, it would be an exquisite thing.

  But first, he must capture his prize. And he could not do it here, in the open. It would not do to assume the soft, royal offspring was helpless. He had escaped twice already, although not from the likes of Mordred himself. That rebel prince would learn that going against Ulic Mordred would be much different than fighting off some hapless street thuggers.

  And that would be only the first of the many things this son of his worst enemy would learn.

  Chapter 16

  “IT IS VERY GOOD to see you alive, Commander Tarkson.”

  The holo images were vivid, clear, and made it seem as if they were indeed all in the same room together. The ship had arrived as promised, having already been on patrol halfway between Trios and Arellia. The queen’s voice and expression were so full of warmth and sincerity that Rina smiled—and noted that Tark looked taken aback. It was a moment before he could speak.

  “No longer commander, your majesty, but I thank you nevertheless.”

  It was a gracious answer. He had discarded any bitterness. In the face of such genuine caring, it would have been boorish, and she was glad to see he realized it. He may have isolated himself—or had it forced upon him—for some time, but at least he knew this was a time for civility. She hoped it was because he realized he was among friends here.

  “And I thank you,” Califa said.

  Tark looked startled this time as he switched his gaze to Dax’s mate.

  “Two connections of mine, cousins of a sort, were in the Council Building during the Battle of Galatin. They are alive thanks to you.” She grimaced. “Although they could have told me you had survived the war. I wish they had.”

  “It was my wish that they not,” Tark said.

  Rina saw their puzzled looks. She supposed you would have to see how he was treated here to understand that wish.

  “Shall we get to business?” she suggested gently, wishing to spare him from any further explanation.

  Tark nodded sharply, and plunged into his account, including the dire state of Arellian readiness. What few troops they had were rusty or untried, and led by those with either no experience or enough age on them to make true action difficult. He laid it out as he had once laid out wartime intelligence or battle plans: no emotion, simply facts. And presented that way, it all seemed a little sparse. It was Dax who stepped in then, prodding Tark for his take on what evidence he had. Tark gave it, although he clearly didn’t expect his gut feeling to be taken seriously, just as it had not been on Arellia.

  “You are certain of this?” Dare asked when he had finished.

  Rina watched as Tark stared at the king. The protective walls were going back up swiftly.

  “If you
mean, sir, do I have proof I can show you, beyond these few blurry cinefilm captures, then no,” Tark said, his tone flat now.

  He and Dare had met only twice that she knew of. Once when Dare had flown in with Dax to assess the situation in the first days of the rebellion on Arellia, and offer what recommendations he could from what he had learned in the battle for Trios. Shaylah had accompanied him then, freely teaching the forces of her home planet all she knew of Coalition tactics—which was considerable; she had once been, after all, the most decorated pilot of Coalition Tactical Defense Wing 3.

  The second meeting had been at the turning point of the battle, when Tark had flown with her to Triotia to urge the king to send more help. It was help Trios could ill afford—they were still rebuilding and focused on their own security—but when Dare had realized this was the man who had fought off a Coalition battalion during the siege of Galatin, that he was the one who had saved hundreds of innocent people who had taken refuge inside the Council Building, he had reconsidered. To his credit then, Dare had dismissed Tark’s obvious youth and considered only the facts. She remembered how he had looked at her, not missing the fact that she stood at Tark’s side, tacitly lending her support, for whatever it might be worth.

  In the end, the king had sent his own protection detail, over the protests of his queen, Dax, and even Tark.

  “We ask only for help, your majesty, not that you sacrifice your own safety,” he had said. “You are crucial to sustaining the hopes of all of us.”

  “And if I cannot look out for myself for a while, then I truly have become just a figurehead, and otherwise useless,” Dare had said, startling Tark, but making Dax grin.

  “Contention valid,” Dax had said—that quickly acceding to the idea. The queen had been less quick, but in the end had withdrawn her protest.

  “But be aware,” she had warned her mate, “that I have not forgotten how to fight, and I hereby appoint myself your protection until this is over.”

  “You are the pilot who took out The Wanderer at seven to one odds against you,” Dare had said. “I would never think you had forgotten how to fight.”

  It had been on the flight back to Arellia that Tark had asked, with no small amount of awe in his voice, “Was that true? It was your queen who defeated Cryon—one Rigel Starfighter against a Diaxin class cruiser with six fighters aboard?”

  “It is,” Rina had said proudly.

  The young warrior had let out a low whistle. “Your king has found a mate to match him.”

  “Tark,” Dare said now, his voice surprisingly gentle as he used the informal address, “I did not ask if you had proof. I asked if you were certain.”

  Tark drew back slightly, and Rina saw him swallow. Yes, she thought fiercely, he should be on Trios, where he would get the respect and honor he had earned. Emotion welled up in her, and she moved to stand beside him, as she had before, years ago. Back then it had been more of a symbolic gesture, the king knew little of her, but listened as he did to all Triotians of blood or spirit. But now Dare knew her well, had taken her under his royal wing as part of his extended family, and she knew her support would mean something.

  “I . . .” He began, but faltered when she joined him. “Very few believe it,” he finally said. “Including the Council and our military leaders.” His mouth twisted. “They think I’m looking for remembered glory.”

  Dax snorted inelegantly. “I fought alongside you those many weeks. You know better than most the high price of glory.” He leaned forward, looking at Tark intently. “But is it what your gut tells you, Tark?”

  Rina felt him take in a deep breath, as if to steady himself. And finally he said it. “Yes. And it tells me this anniversary is not a date they will ignore.”

  As if he had been only waiting for that, Dare nodded. He looked at Dax.

  “I’ll ready the Evening Star,” Dax said. “It will take some time to recall her crew, but we will be there.” With a glance and a nod at Califa, he was gone that quickly. Dare might have to wait for approval to send Triotian forces, but the flashbow warrior was his to command.

  “Just like that?” Tark said, astonished. “What if I’m wrong, what if it is just some deranged unreality? My brain’s been rattled a bit, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  “And mine was not under my own control for a time,” Dare said quietly.

  Tark blinked. He seemed beyond words for the moment, so Rina spoke quickly. “Thank you, your majesty.”

  Dare’s mouth quirked. “Your majesty? Now I know we’re in trouble.”

  Shaylah was smothering a smile. “Be well, both of you,” she said.

  Both she and Dare looked at Califa. She gave a slight nod, which they returned. And then the king and queen were gone, their holograms vanished as quickly as they had arrived. As if the sudden cut in the power required to maintain the holograms had been a signal, a warning that departure was imminent came over the ship’s speakers.

  “Can you give us a moment?” Rina asked Tark, looking briefly at Califa’s remaining hologram. “There should be water and something edible there,” she added, gesturing toward the alcove off the projection room.

  “Of course.”

  Rina knew what was coming, and answered before Califa had to ask. “I would say she’s here, although I have little more proof than Tark has.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Shaylah is right, she would go to Lyon. What have you learned?”

  “Only that two people matching their description were seen heading up the old mountain. Noticed only because everyone else is on their way into town for the celebration. Which is,” Rina added dryly, “apparently going to last forever.”

  Califa smiled. “We Arellians know a bit about merrymaking.”

  “So I see.” She wasn’t surprised at Califa’s casual tone. While she was concerned about Shaina, she also knew her daughter could well take care of herself. She knew, because she had taught her.

  “It is as well Dax will have something to distract him,” Califa said. “He is brooding about Shaina.”

  “As well he should,” Rina said.

  “Indeed. I think he has realized the measure of his mistake. Although I bear some of the blame myself.”

  “You?”

  “I should have pushed him harder to tell her.”

  “Because he responds so well to being pushed,” Rina said dryly.

  Califa laughed. “Yes. And you were the first to teach me that, my girl.”

  The old appellation, adopted long ago by the woman she’d come to think of as the closest thing to a mother she would ever have, made her smile.

  “Will you come with him now?” she asked.

  “A chance to fly on the Evening Star again? Of course.” Califa paused, studying Rina rather intently. “And I want to meet your Tark.”

  . . . your Tark.

  She didn’t, Rina assured herself, mean it that way, in the way one spoke of lovers or mates. It only sounded—

  “You care for him.”

  It wasn’t really a question, but Rina doubted she would get away with not answering. “I . . . he is . . . he is a hero, and he is not being treated as he should be here.”

  “Because he is speaking things they do not wish to hear?”

  “Yes, in part,” she said. She almost went on about the apparently superficial tastes of too many Arellians before she caught herself. Califa, after all, was Arellian.

  “And in the other part?”

  “He is . . . difficult. Withdrawn. Has dark moods.”

  Califa chuckled. “Then you’re the perfect one to deal with him. You handled Dax at his worst, better than anyone.”

  That Califa saw what she had only recently realized herself somehow heartened her.

  “Is that why he is not held in the esteem he should be?” Calif
a asked.

  “It is more that some here,” she said carefully, “seem to hold his scars against him.”

  “Scars earned saving them from Coalition enslavement?”

  In for a withal, in for it all, Rina thought and said it. “Yes. They seem to prefer their wounded heroes out of sight.”

  “Ignoring reality is what made them fall to the Coalition boot heel in the first place,” Califa said. Sometimes, Rina thought, it was impossible to believe this woman had once been the pride of that same Coalition, so complete had been her repudiation of her past and all she had stood and fought for.

  “Have I told you recently how much I admire you?” Rina asked impulsively.

  Califa drew back for an instant. Then she smiled. “And I love you, my girl.”

  Rina matched her smile. Until Califa went on.

  “Which leads me to ask again . . . your Tark. Just how much do you care?”

  “He is . . . very important to me.”

  That, she thought, was nothing less than the truth. And was not cluttered by naming the emotions and feelings that tangled things up so. She heard a sound behind her, but Califa spoke again in that moment.

  “That will do. For now. I understand this situation is . . . bigger, but you will keep trying to find Shaina?”

  “Of course. Do you wish me to have her contact you?”

  “She may not wish to speak to me, either.” Califa had little talent for self-delusion—she often said she had spent it all in her time with the Coalition—and it made conversations like this easier. “Just make sure she is well. I leave anything else to your judgment.”

  With a nod, Califa’s image vanished. Rina let out a breath. She turned. And came up short, nearly gasping aloud as she almost bumped into Tark.

  That sound behind her, she thought.

  The thought that followed that one did make her gasp.

  He is very important to me. . . .

  She had heard that sound, the sound she now knew had been Tark returning, almost as she had said those words. Had he heard her? Would he think she meant something other than she had intended?