The Bastard Prince (Blue Moon Rising Book 3)

by Blair Bancroft

  Suddenly, the room was bright again, and B’aela nothing more than a woman greeting her roommate. “I’d hoped to have a family one day,” King Ryal’s eldest daughter confided, “but it’s not looking very promising at the moment. I seem to have an affinity for married men.”

  “It is never easy to give up a man, even when you know he is destined for someone else.”

  “Particularly if you love him,” B’aela said, her shrewd gaze never leaving Anneli’s face.

  “Ryal?” Anneli shrugged. “I was young, totally impressed by the honor of being selected by the king. But love? I suppose I thought so, but perhaps I was merely dazzled. The results were so . . . complicated, that I’ve seldom had time to think about it. And how very odd this conversation is,” she added softly, “but as long as we are on such a delicate subject, what about you? Did you love either of them?”

  “Ah.” B’aela gestured toward the room’s small sitting area. (They had, after all, been granted one of Astarte’s most spacious cabins.) “Shall we sit and be comfortable?”

  Before taking a seat facing Anneli, B’aela retrieved a bottle and two plastiglasses from a drawer. “Yrak,” she explained as she deftly removed the cork. A Reg rose wine I grew fond of. Smooth taste, good memories.” She poured; both women drank.

  “As for love . . .” B’aela drew a deep breath. “I suppose, once long ago when I was young and foolish, I too thought I was in love. Passionately, foolishly, absurdly in love with someone I knew I couldn’t have. Which, believe me, never kept me from fantasies of Happily Ever After. Oh, what fools we are.” She huffed a breath that came close to a snort of derision. “Reality crashed in even before the Regs. And after that, I was caught up in war, running for my life, drafted into the rebellion, nearly dead at Choya Gate, again in Oban, yet always returning to Psyclid, doing what had to be done.”

  “Kamal was a job then?” Anneli asked gently.

  B’aela leaned back and closed her eyes. After a short pause, she lifted her glass to her nose and sniffed. “He gave me my taste for yrak,” she said. “And confirmation that it was possible to find joy more than once in my life. So, no, he was not just a job. I was very fond of him. I like to think I played some part in enlisting his sympathy for the Psyclid cause. He did, after all, warn us about the battlegroup intended to flatten Psyclid, and about the invasion fleet headed for Hercula.”

  “But love, family? Don’t you hope for . . . more?” Anneli asked. “You have certainly earned the right to happiness.”

  “You are kind,” B’aela murmured. “Am I blushing? Fizzet! I thought I was long past such a schoolgirl reaction.”

  “So there is someone?”

  A pause. “Yes, but he doesn’t know it,” B’aela confessed.

  “And Tal has snatched you away at the critical moment!”

  B’aela managed a small secretive smile. “You know the saying. ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’”

  Both women laughed and settled into a lengthy get-acquainted conversation. They finished the bottle. Which, B’aela assured Anneli, was quite all right, because K’kadi had managed to find storage for ten more.

  K’kadi felt the presence in his cabin before he opened the door. J’rett Zelaya. Policeman. Friend. If with the inevitable reserve of a man raised to the back-breaking work of a modest-sized farm compared to a prince raised in splendor by an overly indulgent mother.

  Interesting, K’kadi thought. Zelaya always exuded calm, even when scolding him for his latest escapade. But today . . . the man inside the cabin was not calm. Nervous about setting off on his first space voyage? Not pleased to be acting as a bodyguard? Or had he simply had enough of K’kadi Amund? Not that K’kadi could blame him—he’d been a trial through the years, no doubt about it. His tendency to wander off was legendary, as was Zelaya’s ability to find him. In fact, K’kadi had frequently wondered how he’d slipped the leash the night he made it all the way to Veranelle’s ballroom without being caught. Had Zelaya guessed where he was going and taken pity on him?

  K’kadi waved his hand and the door slid back. J’rett Zelaya had already unpacked and was lying on the top bunk of the small cabin on the lowest level in the aft section. (The result of Tal’s promise to house K’kadi as far from his mother as possible.) In one deft movement Zelaya’s feet hit the floor. He stood at parade rest, his brown eyes alive with challenge yet tinged with amusement. He was a big man for a Psyclid, tall and well built, with a shock of straight brown hair that had a tendency to droop over his forehead, partially obscuring the sharpness of his gaze. “Evidently, you just can’t get rid of me,” he pronounced with a notable lack of formality toward the son of a king and brother of his sovereign princess.

  Old friends, K’kadi offered.

  Zelaya made no effort to hide his surprise. “Fizzet, I’d heard you could talk, but I had a hard time believing it.”

  Believe. Talk good.

  “Very good.” J’rett held out his hand. “So it’s all right? My being here?”

  K’kadi not only accepted his hand, he found surprising comfort in the firm grip of someone he’d known since he was eight. J’rett Zelaya was, in fact, as close to a friend as K’kadi had ever had. Until Talora. He would have included Alala as a friend, but that appeared to be more fantasy than reality. Since he was learning that “real men” did not show sentiment, he confined himself to, Make mother happy.

  J’rett laughed, a great booming guffaw, and slapped K’kadi on the back. The only person besides Tal Rigel who had ever dared do such a thing.

  Sometimes, K’kadi thought, for all the scolds, Tal Rigel and J’rett Zelaya were the only males who seemed to understand him.

  That night, the buzz of conversation in the mess hall abruptly faded into silence as Astarte’s crew gaped at the grand entrance of their captain and his companions at the head table. Tal wore a uniform of dark blue trimmed in gold, an impressive design worthy of the leader of the rebellion, and created solely for the journey to Hercula. Kass shone at his side in a flowing asymmetrical Psyclid gown of fuschia trimmed in silver. Anneli, in azure and teal, took her place to Tal’s left. B’aela, a dramatic contrast in gold lamé and black, sat down beside her. K’kadi, clearly basking in wearing something besides his on-board jumpsuit, strutted into place beside Kass, his shining silver tunic piped in black and worn over tight-fitting black tights drawing every eye. Until he held out his hand to Alala, and she moved toward him with all the grace of a jungle predator, her gown of rich amber swishing around her ankles, her youth and unexpected beauty startling them all. (No need for the crew to know that Alala had been fussed over for hours by the other three ladies at the head table.)

  Tal, from whom Kass kept few secrets, glanced at the table just below the captain’s dais where the Lassan family sat. Talora’s face was a polite blank. Bless the girl. Either she was totally indifferent to the sight of K’kadi and Alala or she was as well trained as a royal princess. He suspected it was the latter. For Kass insisted Talora was at the head of the long line of females determined to be the first to teach the art of love to a prince too innocent for his own good.

  After signaling K’kadi to sit, Tal remained standing. Turning toward the members of Astarte’s crew and the extra techs assigned to this dining shift, he smiled. “No, we’re not going to be this fancy every night, but it’s important that we all remember this is a diplomatic mission, not a firefight.” He paused, cocking his head to one side, his lips curling into an incipient grin. “At least we hope it’s not a firefight.” A murmur of amused appreciation swept the room. “To the best of our knowledge,” Tal continued, “we have quite a jump on the Regs, but it’s going to be a challenge to convince King Nekator that danger is imminent. So we want to put our best foot forward. Appearance, language, knowledge of Herc customs. Respect. They need to know we’re not only here to ask for their help but to offer help in return. So put on your best attitude now. We are not off to enlist the aid of some backwater star system. If you think that,
just remember what Psyclid did to the Regs.” A ripple of laughter acknowledged Tal’s hit.

  “There was a time when the Hercs were the Regs of this sector. Never forget it. Believe me, they haven’t, or they’d have been Nyx slaves long ago.” Tal glanced toward Alala. “I have asked Colonel Thanos to conduct classes for us all. Culture, court customs, enough of the language to get by with those who don’t speak the inter-system dialect. I expect everyone to attend these sessions. And now . . .” Tal swept his gaze from one side of the room to the other, doing what Kass called his “S’sorrokan thing.” “Enjoy your meal, settle in for the long voyage, and ask whatever god you pray to, to bless this journey.”

  As Tal sat down, the cheers of his audience suddenly turned to gasps as an image of Emperor Darroch’s head took shape above the dais, closely followed by the image of a dragon almost two meters long, breathing fire. It opened its great maw, incinerating the emperor’s head even as it swallowed the remains whole. Gasps turned to shouts of triumph. Feet stomped until plates rattled and utensils clinked against each other. Kass grinned at her husband. “We asked for it.”

  Tal, suppressing a strong desire to laugh, shot a look at K’kadi. The illusion winked out. The cacophony faded. Suddenly everyone was staring down at their plates as if they’d never seen food before. Tal picked up his knife and fork, cut a slice of meat. Two hundred others imitated his moves exactly.

  Kass choked. “Off to a good start,” she managed to get out while attempting to control a chuckle that would not go away.

  “If only we can keep it up.”

  “With K’kadi’s help, we will.”

  Tal frowned. “Hercs hate sorcerers.”

  “Invisibility is bound to impress. And I suspect K’kadi’s working on reproducing the great beast of Choya Gate.”

  Tal laid down his fork and stared at his wife. “By himself?”

  “Perhaps he plans to consult B’aela. After all, she was part of the enlasé at Choya.”

  “K’kadi consulting anyone would be a miracle in itself,” Tal grumbled.

  “True.” Kass offered her husband a rueful smile before returning to her meal.

  Who knew? Tal thought. It was a long trip to Hercula. Anything could happen.

  Chapter 23

  “‘Nekator’ means conqueror,” Alala announced to a rapt audience of Astarte’s senior officers and honored guests. “Our king is a worthy successor to a long line of great warriors and has kept us safe through a reign of thirty-three years, as did his father and grandfather before him. He has not, however, been fortunate in his queens. The first contracted a wasting disease, the second was killed in a hunting accident. He has several children by his concubines but no legitimate male heir.”

  K’kadi felt Alala’s inner wince and knew she was regretting her last remark. Which was good, as that meant she had not intended to hurt him. But there was something more going on in her head, something he couldn’t quite grasp . . .

  “For many years now,” Alala continued, “the king’s First Concubine has acted as his hostess. She is called Hypatia Kalliste. You should address her as ‘Honored Lady.’ The king’s chief advisors are General Alexias Thanos, my father, and Admiral Timaios Andreadis, who is old and frail but has a mind as sharp as a stiletto. The young general, Nikomedes Drakos, is also a favorite. Alala paused, and there it was again—that fleeting something K’kadi could not identify. “These are all people you must impress. There is also the king’s chief aide, Kephas Petrou. He is, by nature, suspicious of anything not Herculon. He will do his best to undermine your efforts, I can almost guarantee it.”

  “Who among them,” Tal asked, “is most likely to believe that a Reg invasion fleet is forming?”

  “My father and Admiral Andreadis,” Alala replied without hesitation. “The admiral is old enough to remember our days of conquest, or at least to have heard the tales from the mouths of the men who lived them. And General Drakos. He will grasp that even though Hercula has withdrawn from the role of aggressor, we can still play an important role in the Nebulon Sector. Something more than maintaining a defense against raiders.”

  “You know the admiral and the general well?”

  “Very well, Captain,” Alala returned steadily. “The admiral has been like a grandfather to me for as long as I can remember. And I am expected to marry General Drakos.”

  Silence thudded through the room, punctuated by faint gasps of surprise, which even the most sophisticated of Astarte’s passengers and officers were unable to suppress.

  “You are engaged to General Drakos?” Kass managed to ask when she’d fought through the surge of turmoil cascading off her brother.

  “Not officially.” Alala shrugged. “He will likely be declared heir, and I am a loyal subject dedicated to doing my duty.”

  “Continue, please, Alala,” Tal ordered, pushing past the shock of Alala as destined queen of Hercula. “We accept that your knowledge of the Herculon hierarchy is extensive.”

  K’kadi heard none of Alala’s description of the planet Hercula, its customs, and language. Alala was betrothed to a general? A fizzeting general. Who could talk!

  No one was surprised, when K’kadi got up and walked out, J’rett Zelaya following close behind.

  That night in the mess hall, the diners were entertained by a re-creation of the Battle of Choya Gate, the rebellion’s great triumph, second only to the freeing of Psyclid. Even if the so-called triumph at Choya had been no more than Astarte and Scorpio escaping to fight another day. Everyone agreed that two things numbered among the most amazing feats in the night’s spectacular display—K’kadi managing to show Tycho’s harmless practice rounds exploding without damage to Astarte’s hull, and his terrifyingly realistic reproduction of the Sorcerer Prime’s giant beast, a dragon so huge its amorphous shape filled the sky, only its head, tail, and fiery breath coalescing into recognizable dragon. There were even those who swore they were singed by the fiery breath. The cheers when Scorpio disappeared into Choya Gate, closely followed by Astarte being hurtled through space by the sheer power of Kass’s will, were deafening. Raucous. Inspiring.

  The illusion ended with a view of the two ships encased in the shimmer of the wormhole. In the far distance, a tiny Blue Moon beckoned. And then there was nothing but air above the head table. K’kadi sat motionless, head down, no sign that he had created the entire display.

  The crowd continued to roar.

  Well done, K’kadi, Kass told him.

  Tal stood, walked to his brother-in-law and literally hauled him to his feet. Speaking for K’kadi’s ear alone, he said, “If you do nothing else on this journey, you have just fulfilled your mission. That was just what we needed. Bow, K’kadi, or they’re never going to shut up.”

  K’kadi managed a wave, a tentative grin. Finally, a bow. Tal, taking pity on him, waved the crowd to silence so he could deliver a formal thank-you, adding, “Good to know Mondragon’s not the only one who can summon a dragon.” Which, of course, just added more bedlam to the mess hall. It was fortunate K’kadi had saved his display for dessert because all thought of eating had been eclipsed by a fervor not seen since the celebration of Psyclid’s freedom.

  And suddenly, in the midst of this resounding wave of enthusiasm, optimism, and loyalty, Tal’s spirits plunged, forcing him to drop his gaze to his uneaten rippleberry pudding. He’d had such high hopes . . . but lately, in spite of the Psyclid victory, life had turned grim. Darroch’s threat to destroy Psyclid, assassination attempts, betrayal. The slim hope of enlisting the Herculons’ aid growing dim as the Empire turned its greedy eyes on the distant star system.

  And yet . . . somehow they had survived. Like K’kadi discovering Alala was destined for another and coming back the same night with a dramatic re-creation of one of the rebellion’s most stirring moments. The right illusion at the right moment. No doubt about it, the boy was growing up. But now . . . ? Now they needed a full pantheon of their gods smiling on their efforts. Because at the moment
, their plans, let alone their hopes, seemed no more than a grain of sand waiting to be swept away by the tsunami of the Empire.

  Fyddit! He hadn’t started all this to fail when the going got rough. They would go to Hercula. They would help the Hercs defend themselves, then turn their renewed might on the Empire.

  Darroch, beware, we’re coming for you.

  Tal grimaced as his inner voice taunted, So said the idiot starship captain with delusions of grandeur.

  And then he remembered that Blue Moon and Psyclid weren’t really alone. Regula Prime had a surprising number of rebels right under the Emperor’s nose. A growing array of powerful men, led by Vander Rigel. Quite possibly—certainly incredibly—including Rand Kamal . . .

  Tal clasped Kass’s hand. “Shall we make it an early night? K’kadi has inspired me with an urge to celebrate.” He leaned in, whispering in her ear. “And my favorite celebration is not an illusion.”

  While maintaining her smiling façade for the still-jubilant diners, Kass squeezed his hand. She stood, Tal rising with her. Together, they swept out of the dining hall, saying all the right things to the many who greeted them on their way out, heaving sighs of relief as the door to their cabin closed behind them, shutting out well-wishers, bodyguards, family, and friends.

  Kass sank into a chair, her fingers propping up her forehead. “Clearly, K’kadi has a gift for morale-building.”

  “Not another word,” Tal ordered. “The kid’s gone, his girlfriend’s gone. The whole fydding rebellion’s gone. Tonight’s just you, me, and a bed.”

  Kass’s head came up. She smiled as the years since they met kaleidoscoped through her head. Kass Kiolani, the cadet who created malfunctioning trajectories. The long years of solitary confinement. Heart-break when Orion and its captain were supposedly destroyed by the Nyx. Rescue. The agony of separating the fantasy Tal Rigel from the real. Love. Compromise. Marriage dictated by a king. Psyclid’s triumph. Near tragedy. Betrayal . . .