The Bastard Prince (Blue Moon Rising Book 3)

by Blair Bancroft

  And suddenly Colonel Alala Thanos was down on both knees, no longer the warrior but a girl raising pleading brown eyes to the woman who had the power to put her back on the front line. “Yes, please, Highness. I would like that above all else.” Alala paused, frowning. “K’kadi goes, does he not?”

  “Oh yes, K’kadi goes. And I may have just made a disastrous mistake. The thought of what Tal was going to say sent a shiver through her. “Come.” Kass reached out a hand, lifting Alala to her feet with all the formality of a court presentation. “Let us return to Veranelle happier than we came.”

  This time, as they walked back toward the palace, Kass felt the soft leaf covering beneath her feet, heard the birds singing in the trees, noticed the dancing pattern of sunshine as leaves swayed in breeze. Clearly, she had been in paradise too long, had it too easy. It was time to go back to war.

  Chapter 6

  Jagan Mondragon enjoyed no more than a scant two weeks of relative peace and quiet on Psyclid before being called back to Blue Moon. As he walked down the corridor leading to the king’s suite—the rooms Tal Rigel had made his own—Jagan once again contemplated the irony of the situation. He was about to have a private meeting with the man who was married to the woman who was supposed to have been Jagan’s bride. While Jagan, Sorcerer Prime, was now married to M’lani, sister to Rigel’s wife.

  When he was here last, he’d been too busy with the Psyclid crisis to think of the oddity of it, but, fizzet, war made strange bedfellows. And not just the royal sisters and their husbands, come to think of it. B’aela and Rand Kamal had been an even stranger couple.

  B’aela. Yet another woman who was supposed to be his, lost to the demands of Psyclid freedom. And the demands of his wife.

  Jagan paused outside the door to Tal Rigel’s office. The guards snapped a salute. The door opened.

  Monogamy, that was the order of the day. And all his days to come. One woman was quite enough. And besides, the Psyclid Princess Royal—his wife—could incinerate him with one glance. Not that he ever thought of straying, of course. In spite of his early reluctance, since Psyclid Freedom Day Jagan had realized he’d married the right sister. He paused outside Rigel’s door, disguising thoughts that had gone incandescent behind the cool and arrogant façade everyone expected from the Sorcerer Prime.

  Tal waved Jagan to the chair in front of his desk. The light and the dark of the rebellion, the two men presented a striking contrast. “M’lani continues to recover?” Tal asked. “She looked remarkably well last time I saw her, considering the seriousness of her injuries.”

  A shadow flitted across Jagan’s rough-sculptured face. A moment of hesitation before his reply, enough to reveal that even a sorcerer could be shaken by recollections of the day three Tau-15s had strafed a jubilant crowd of Psyclids celebrating their freedom. “Jalaine and Morgana continue to treat her, but wounds of the mind are not as easily healed as those of the flesh. She suffers from how close we came to losing the entire Psyclid command structure. And she is tortured by the conflict between what the king wants—a return to Psyclid’s peaceful, neutral ways—and what she knows must be done now that Psyclids have become a weapon in the fight against the Empire.” Jagan scowled. “And after this latest scare—when we all know Darroch can change his mind on the whim of the moment—well, it’s been hard on all of us, but on M’lani in particular, since she knows she must go against her father’s wishes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tal murmured, “but that’s basically why I sent for you. The next step in the rebellion is to scout those old gates into Reg space. I need you. Badly. But not enough to take you away from Psyclid when Darroch could have a bad night, explode over the antics of one of his grandchildren—Omnovah only knows what might set him off—and in an instant the battlegroup to flatten Psyclid is back on the mission list.”

  “But you need me to cloak the ship.” Jagan huffed a breath. “You don’t ask for much, do you?” he added, not bothering to soften his sarcasm.

  “Even I haven’t the nerve to ask you to leave M’lani. Or Psyclid, for that matter.”

  “Then what am I doing here?”

  “Because I didn’t want to make such a drastic switch in plans without consulting you.”

  Jagan sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, assuming the mocking, superior face they’d all come to know so well. “And just how do you think you’re going to venture into Reg space without an invisibility cloak?”

  Tal stared straight back. “You know how.”

  “My dear captain,” Jagan drawled, “you did not become S’sorrokan by living in a fantasy world. And that’s the only place where you can rely on K’kadi for anything.”

  “K’kadi says otherwise.”

  Jagan snorted. “K’kadi couldn’t even keep a shuttle cloaked for ninety minutes!”

  “His first try. He’s served us well since.”

  Jagan snorted. “Cloaking shuttles to Blue Moon scarcely qualifies him for taking Astarte on a mission to Reg Prime.”

  “You forget. He sneaked Tycho right up to Kepler’s bow. And besides, we’re not taking Astarte. We’ll be broaching Reg space in something much smaller.”

  “The princeling’s big moment,” Jagan growled. “But can you count on him to stay steady on a mission that may take a cycle or more?”

  “He’s older and wiser and considerably sobered by the Tau-15 attacks. Nearly losing M’lani hit him hard. And he’s undergone some rigid physical training, more than I thought he’d put up with.”

  “What about that Herc he was mooning over? The way I heard it, he’s been useless for anything but fireworks.”

  Tal, looking thoughtful, drummed his fingers on his desk. “That’s cooled. At least I’ve been spared Alala bursting through my door every five minutes threatening to lop off K’kadi’s manhood. Kass seems to think he’ll do.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  Tal offered a wry grin. “We’ll improvise. Don’t we always? After all, K’kadi’s failure led to our encounter with Killiri and discovering there was an active underground already in place on Psyclid.”

  Jagan shut his eyes, looking pained and not at all like the most powerful sorcerer in the Nebulon Sector, perhaps the whole quadrant. “You and Kass are going off in some barely armed merchant ship on a possible wild goose chase into Reg space, and you’re trusting your lives to a kid who can get distracted by a beam of light, a bug crawling over a leaf, wind whistling through the trees. A boy who thinks he’s in love with a woman twice as strong as he is. That alone should disqualify him. Come on, Rigel, face reality!”

  “His illusions are striking,” Tal countered. “And successful. His gifts grow by leaps and bounds. He’s even added telekinesis to his repertoire.”

  “But you can’t rely on him!”

  Tal heaved a sigh. “We’ve all done stupid things. What about the time you turned Kass’s hair to snakes? K’kadi deserves a second chance, and circumstances say the time is now.”

  “Meshug, totally meshug,” Jagan muttered.

  “Now tell me what progress you’ve made on shielding Psyclid. Then go home to M’lani and keep things together. Hopefully Darroch will have his eyes elsewhere over the next few weeks.” The two men—with more in common than either would care to admit, particularly their marriages to the Orlondami princesses—settled down to discussing the details of keeping Psyclid safe.

  “I had a long talk with Alala a few days ago,” Kass ventured, hoping she’d chosen the best moment for what was likely to be a difficult conversation.

  “Umm?” Tal, whose mind was fixed on a female closer to hand, slid beneath the bedcovers.

  “I think she should go with us.”

  “Go with us where?” Tal rolled on his side, his fingers tugging down the sheet, so he could feast his eyes on his wife’s scantily clad breasts, and to hell with the rebellion.

  “To explore the wormholes, of course,” Kass returned in something less than a lover-like tone.

  Tal st
illed, only his eyes moving upward to fix on his wife’s all-too-innocent face. When he finally found his voice, he dropped each word like a small bomb. “We’re going into the heart of enemy space with a shield we’re not sure we can count on, and you want to take along the one person guaranteed to distract K’kadi and get us all killed.”

  “He’s past that. He’s more likely—”

  “No!” Tal roared, sitting up abruptly, his erection wilting to a droop.

  Kass glared at him. “He wants to impress her. I promise you he’ll perform better if she’s there.”

  “Dimi, Kass, how can you be so blind? Even Jagan thinks we’re mad to trust him. And that’s without Alala along to blow K’kadi’s concentration all the way to Hell Nine!”

  “Jagan! Since when do you accept the opinion of the Sorcerer Prime?”

  “Since he developed some balls and took back Psyclid. Give credit where credit is due.”

  Kass slid up in bed, crossed her arms over her breasts. Undoubtedly a deliberate move to cut off his view. Tal stifled the grumble rising from his chest and took a different tack. “Alala has significant connections on Hercula. It’s foolish to risk her on the mission to Regula.”

  “If we’re lost, the rebellion is lost, so the question is moot. Alala’s a warrior. She signed on for the risks, just as we did.”

  “It’s guaranteed she’ll get us all killed.”

  “Who knows K’kadi best,” Kass challenged. You or I?”

  “You’re too close. You see through the eyes of love. I can’t—I won’t—do it.”

  Kass uncrossed her arms, put on her most pleading face, the one that had been successful so many times in the past. “Please, Tal . . .”

  “No!” Knowing how effective her tactics could be, Tal backed off the luxuriously wide bed, grabbed his robe, and stalked out. Even the prospect of a night alone would not change his mind. Take the Herc with them when their lives depended on K’kadi keeping his concentration. Pok, dimi, and fyd, no. Never!

  Two days later.

  Jordana Tegge walked shoulder to shoulder with Alek Rybolt down the corridor outside Tal Rigel’s suite of rooms, where the three former Reg Fleet captains had just held a private meeting. “So how does it feel to be left in charge?”

  “Like Torvik Vaden will be breathing down my neck the entire time.”

  After a hasty glance around to make sure they were alone, Jordana said, “I suspect his ambitions go beyond being chairman of the Hierarchy.”

  “No argument. The old man has delusions of grandeur. Tal needs to watch his back.”

  Enough said. Jordana heartily agreed. And now . . . While gathering her courage—a rare necessity for a huntership captain frequently described as “cold and calculating—Jordana walked another ten paces down the corridor. Personal matters were a totally different challenge. Fyddit! Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Care to celebrate your ascension to command with a drink?”

  Without so much as a hitch in his steady pace, Alek returned, “The nearest taverna might be a bit public for two captains having a drink in the middle of the afternoon, but I’ve got a bottle of karst in my room, which boasts a most convenient secret passage behind the walls. I’ve been hoping for a good excuse to use it for more than a shortcut.” He flashed a grin. “My apologies if I’ve shocked you, Captain. But from what I’ve heard, nighttime wanderings through the woodwork are an old Psyclid tradition.”

  Steady, steady. He was inviting her to a secret rendezvous in his room. Jordana might be a huntership captain, cool and competent under any and all circumstances, but she had to suck in a gulp of air before she managed, “Karst is good, and I’ve always wanted to see a secret passage.”

  Tycho’s captain flashed what she’d swear was a lecherous grin. (Well, possibly only conspiratorial.) It was also possible her imagination had broken out of the restrictive cage where it was usually confined and soared into forbidden fantasy.

  On second thought, no. At least not like this. She wasn’t going to be the great Captain Rybolt’s latest toy.

  Jordana planted her feet, coming to a jarring halt. Too late. Alek had also stopped. Flashing a grin, he said, “This is it.” He opened the door to what appeared to be a supply closet, motioned her inside, and shut the door. Moving with sure steps to the back of the small room, Alek pressed some mechanism and four shelves swung outward just enough to reveal a dark space beyond. After producing a small glowlight in one hand, Alek seized Jordana’s wrist with his other. “Come.” He pulled her inside, reaching behind her to shut the door.

  A shiver rippled through Jordana as she followed him into the darkness, and it wasn’t fear. She’d sat by his bedside, day in and day out, for weeks after the crash. And when he was well enough to leave the med bay, all he’d offered her was a thank-you and a smile before ignoring her for the many months since. Yet she was letting the fydding son of a Sorian slimeworm lead her through a secret passage to his bedroom!

  Well, it wasn’t as if she could find her way back in the dark. Judging by the number of branches off the tunnel they were following, every wall in Veranelle must be hollow! Because Psyclids enjoyed bedroom games? she wondered. Or did they simply prefer to keep their servants out of sight? Did it matter? It was what was in Alek Rybolt’s mind that was all-important. And as to that, she didn’t have a clue. Was this going to be a captain-to-captain drink, celebrating his promotion to acting head of both military and civilian command? Or was he intent on playing the Psyclid game, a brief time-out for a bit of fun?

  Foolish thought! Until Tycho crashed on Blue Moon, they hadn’t seen each other in more than a decade. He’d given no sign he even remembered meeting her one night at a massive party Fleet had thrown to celebrate the acquisition of the Altair system.

  “Stairs,” Alek hissed, his grip tightening on her hand. The climb up narrow wooden steps seemed to last forever but was likely no more than two stories. Jordana was also discovering she had an unsuspected tendency toward claustrophobia, as well as an aversion to the dust and musty smell lurking in the space between the walls. “Abracadabra.” Alek intoned the ancient incantation as he slid back a panel, flooding the passage with sunlight.

  Omni be praised. Jordana paused in the doorway, breathing in the clean air wafting through open windows and struggling to regain the cool poise and sharp tongue for which she was famous. “Who did they toss out to give you a room like this?”

  “Probably Vaden’s chief assistant—it would explain the dirty looks he keeps throwing my way.”

  Jordana glanced at the large canopy bed that dominated the room and quickly looked away. Fyd! Thirty-four years old and she was skittish as a virgin! Which must have shown on her face, because Alek dropped her hand and nodded toward a door on the far side of the room. “Don’t panic. The booze is in the sitting room.”

  Furious with herself for allowing her emotions to show, Jordana squared her shoulders and walked with military precision into the other room, where she seated herself on the black leather sofa, head high, back straight, feet on the floor. While Alek poured their drinks, she took a look around. This guest suite was clearly intended for a man. Done up in black and crimson with touches of white, it suited him.

  “So . . .,” Alek said as he sat down beside her, “you and I are expected to run this place while Tal and Kass are gone.” He offered a meaningful look that sent a shiver up her spine. He couldn’t possibly be implying a more intimate association . . .

  No, of course not. He might want to use sex to establish dominance over her, but as for anything more, a brusque and statuesque huntership captain who could meet his gaze almost eye to eye was definitely not the stuff of Captain Alek Rybolt’s romantic fantasies. If he had any. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t done more than smile at the constant barrage of women who’d cast themselves in his way since he’d left med bay. Maybe . . . ? No, he hadn’t been wounded there, that she knew. Perhaps he’d just been too busy putting Tycho back together, helping free Psyclid, getting r
eady to defend against the emperor’s battlegroup . . .

  Jordana accepted the squat glass of karst, an aged Regulon contender for best whiskey in the Nebulon Sector. A relief to take a sip, momentarily avoiding the burden of thinking what to say next.

  “You’re hoping I don’t remember.”

  Jordana choked, spinning into a fit of coughing, her normally pale face flushed scarlet. Alek obligingly pounded her on the back until she sputtered, “Enough! Dimmit! You’re going to snap my spine!”

  Clearly suppressing his amusement, Alek settled onto the sofa beside her. “Sorry. I didn’t intend to shock you that much. It’s just . . .” He shrugged. “You were there for me when I couldn’t lift a finger. Every day without fail. Yet never a word about knowing me, never a word to indicate we’d ever met.”

  “I could say the same.”

  “Guilty.” Alek stared past her, fixing his gaze on the far wall. “I’d like to say my head was so messed up I didn’t recognize you at first, but that’s not true. I knew the moment I opened my eyes. But it was easier to let it go, concentrate on getting back on my feet. Yet the minute I was better, poof, you disappeared. After that came putting Tycho back together, adjusting to a totally different life. The moment for revelations passed, the time was never right.”

  “Until now.”

  “Until now when it needs to be said. I don’t want any awkwardness between us.”

  “No, Captain, of course not.” Jordana raised her karst. “To a smooth reign as commander of Blue Moon.”

  “Jor–dana . . .”Alek matched his pained expression with a lowered baritone growl. “If you ‘captain’ me one more when we’re private, I’m going to . . .”

  “Yes, Captain?” she returned in dulcet tones as his voice trailed into silence.