And somehow, hope. Above all, hope. Even when everything seemed blackest, love would see them through.
Kass leaned back in her chair and watched with considerable appreciation as Tal stripped down to the buff. Oh yes, every couple should do this occasionally—get out from under the covers and reveal themselves to each other.
She raised both hands, letting Tal pull her to her feet. And then, never taking her eyes from his, she began her own sinuous striptease. Astarte, the rebellion, the Empire, the whole Nebulon Sector fell away. Just Tal and Kass, living in the moment.
Five days later
“Captain to the bridge.”
Tal, who was enjoying a glass of vintage lunelle with Kass, groaned. Tapping his comm unit, he barked, “Report!”
“Something you need to see, Captain.”
Dimmit, what now? In less than sixty seconds, Tal strode onto the bridge, his gaze following a wave of Dorn Jorkan’s hand toward the panoramic bow viewport. “Ever see anything like that?”
An amorphous shape hovered just far enough off the port bow that Nav had no fear of Astarte running into it. But whatever it was, it wasn’t supposed to be there. As they watched, fascinated, the blob grew larger, began to take on shape, though nothing identifiable.
“Send for Daman Amund,” Tal ordered. “And Ensign Rigel.”
After a short pause, Comm reported, “No response from Amund, sir. Ensign Rigel is on the way.”
“Send an escort to find Amund and bring him here.”
As they waited, the blob took on more definition—a vague head, body, and tail. No color, no details, but clearly a ferocious beast of some kind, possibly a dragon. And then it was gone, leaving behind the blackness of space dotted by an infinity of stars. So Kass was right. Idly, Tal rubbed his forehead while standing behind Dorn, who occupied the captain’s chair. It had taken Jagan and his entire contingent of helpers to create a beast that large at the Battle of Choya Gate. Apparently, K’kadi was attempting to form the giant creature on his own.
Kass joined him, eyes alight with questions, and Tal filled her in. Five minutes later K’kadi paused just inside the door to the bridge, J’rett Zelaya standing staunchly behind him. The chip on K’kadi’s shoulder was almost visible. Sorry. Practice, he said.
Tal never reprimanded K’kadi in front of anyone else, but this seemed the moment to break that rule. “You can practice anywhere you please, K’kadi, but you should have warned us. It’s a bit disconcerting to look out the viewport and see something that isn’t supposed to be there. Particularly something bigger than Astarte, and with teeth.”
Wrong. Sorry.
Omni, the boy looked almost as defeated as he had the night he’d dropped the invisibility screen in the royal park on Psyclid. Definitely not the K’kadi they needed on this trip.
Zelaya interrupted Tal’s search for more conciliatory words. “I beg your pardon, Captain. He was just sitting there, lost in thought as he so often is. I had no idea—”
“Of course you didn’t.” Tal dismissed the bodyguard’s apology with a wave of his hand. “K’kadi, would you consider talking to B’aela about this, maybe letting her help? After all, she was there when Mondragon created that beast. And she is family. It’s seems possible you could work with her.”
When K’kadi remained silent, frowning, Kass spoke up. “K’kadi, the beast at Choya was the scariest thing any of us have ever seen. And what you just did was amazing. But wouldn’t it be easier if you didn’t have to go it alone?”
Silence.
“Will you please consider talking to B’aela? She is as much your sister as I am. You should get to know her better.”
K’kadi shrugged. Go now? he asked. Tal waved him on his way.
A soft whoosh of combined breaths being let out drifted across the bridge. “Captain,” Dorn said softly, “you do realize that boy is growing stronger every day. He’s on his way to making Mondragon’s magic seem like festival fare.”
“An interesting family, the Orlondamis.” Tal’s blue eyes sparkled as he looked down at his wife. “Just imagine what he’ll be able to do by the time we reach Hercula. Come, dushenka, let’s finish our drinks.”
Blue Moon
Alek Rybolt didn’t bother to look up when his aide rapped on the door. Since he’d taken over Tal’s office, the sound of knuckles on wood had become a constant fact of life. How Tal ever got anything done, he couldn’t imagine. He kept his eyes on the reports he was attempting to read, determined to finish a full page before having to deal with the next interruption.
“Captain, Commander Gregor Merkanov would like to speak with you.”
Alek’s fingers clutched the report, coming within a millisecond of crumbling the pristine pages into a wad fit only for the trash. Was that an all-too-knowing look on his aide’s face? Speculation? Well, fyddit, who could blame him? “Send him in.”
Gregor Merkanov, Scorpio’s First Officer stepped through the door, saluted smartly, and stood at rigid attention, his eyes fixed on some point over Alek’s right shoulder. Merkanov was the epitome of a competent, disciplined Fleet officer turned solid, dependable cog in the rebellion. Though no one would ever call him handsome, his square face had an appealing ruggedness, marked by lively eyes that revealed an ever-ready sense of humor. Something his captain sorely lacked. Well-muscled to the verge of being stocky, Merkanov was a few millimeters short of his captain’s height, but Alek suspected he had never let that bother him. Frankly, it took guts to be Jordana Tegge’s long-time lover. Hadn’t he himself run as far, as fast, and as long as he could?
“Sit, Commander,” Alek said, waving his hand to the chair in front of his desk.
Merkanov hesitated a moment, as if considering the retort that he preferred to stand. Alek waited him out, and finally Merkanov lowered himself to the chair, sitting upright on the very edge.
“What can I do for you?” Alek asked, as if this were any officer popping in to bring a matter to his attention.
“I have come to tell you what I told Captain Tegge last night. I am moving out of Veranelle into one of the new apartment buildings. I will be sharing with a young woman who works in Ridó Command. We met at Revel’s some weeks ago, and . . .” Merkanov shrugged. “I’m not blind, Captain. It seemed time to move on. I’m sure you understand.”
And how had Jordana taken the news? Relief? Or hurt? Her attachment to Gregor Merkanov was long-standing. His outgoing personality was everything hers was not. They had complemented each other. And she’d been dragging her feet on cutting the cord for far too long. He shouldn’t ask, but . . .
“Do you really care for the girl, or are you falling on your sword?”
A loud guffaw filled the room, as Gregor’s sense of humor came crashing back. “It is you who will need the sword, Captain. I guarantee it. If only to fight off the ravening beast. When she is in a temper . . .” Scorpio’s First Officer rolled his eyes. “So, no, I am not sorry to be with my Aisha. She is peaceful and has a sense of humor. But I will not lie. I will miss a friend who has been very dear to me.”
“Naturally.” Inwardly, Alek applauded his own calm response, even as he stifled a wince. He was going to maintain the neutral façade of Merkanov’s commanding officer if it killed him. “Thank you for telling me. It confirms my opinion of you as an outstanding officer.” He paused, his brow furrowing as he realized that, with Tal away, he had more power than he had thought to use. “Would you like to have your own command? As you know, we kept one of the Reg frigates when we took back Psyclid. Not much after a huntership, but she’s yours if you want it. And on merit, Commander, nothing else.”
The two men exchanged long, searching looks, and finally Merkanov’s scowl faded. He jerked his head in assent. “Thank you, Captain, I would like that.”
Both stood, shook hands. As Gregor Merkanov exited the room, Alek’s thoughts snapped to Jordana. Now that she had no more excuses, what would she do?
Chapter 24
Astarte en route to
Hercula
With a casual slouch that contrasted sharply with the thump of his heart, K’kadi made his way past tables where members of Astarte’s crew were enjoying lunch. Each evening he’d cast surreptitious glances in Talora’s direction as she dined with her family at the table just below the captain’s dais, but otherwise their paths had not crossed. More than a time or two, she’d caught him watching her, flashing him an impish grin or a saucy flip of her fingers. Clearly Tal’s attempts to present him as the son of a king had not intimidated her in the slightest.
The looks he’d caught from her brother Romy had not been so benign.
Lunch, however, was far less formal, with crew members sitting when and where they pleased during a two-hour window. K’kadi had been lingering in a corner, waiting. And now she’d come. Deftly, he made his way through the streams of people juggling trays, looking for seats—totally without haste, however, as if he couldn’t care less. No more the eager boy who’d run to his sister as if his life depended on it—
Except it had. Where would he be if Kass hadn’t reached out to him? If Tal had not realized he could be an asset . . . ?
He’d arrived at Talora’s table. And miracle of miracles, she was not yet surrounded by her usual bevy of admirers. The many crewmen who liked her for herself, as well as the ones who were looking for a conduit to Dagg Lassan, a linchpin in the rebellion. And after the recent incident on Regula Prime, the stuff of legends.
Talora was smiling at him, waving a hand to the seat across from her. K’kadi put down his tray of food and slid into the chair, managing to return her smile with no more than a hint of the storm of nerves that suddenly attacked him. Fizzet! They were friends. Just because he hadn’t been private with her since the scouting expedition to Reg Prime . . .
“You’re looking very fine,” she said.
It was true. He’d dressed with care this morning. Narrow pants in teal blue, topped by a hip-length azure tunic that matched his eyes. Both were made of a shiny fabric that reflected the light from the room’s overhead fixtures. And yes, he’d wanted to make a good impression. You too, he returned before ducking his head, focusing on his food and not wincing as his now stone-cold soup slid down his throat.
“Are we still friends?”
K’kadi came close to spitting out the soup. His spoon clanked against the bowl. Suffering from full brain freeze, he could only absorb the vision before him. The incredible, intelligent violet eyes, the strong face framed by straight blonde hair. Y-Yes, friends!
Talora continued to examine him with great care before finally nodding acceptance. “Friends speak more often,” she chided.
No speak.
“You certainly don’t! We haven’t talked in weeks.”
She was twisting his words to suit herself, but K’kadi was finally learning that women did that. In fact, they excelled at it. Need help, K’kadi said, doing his best to look forlorn and helpless.
Talora offered a slow, enticing grin. “And just what kind of help would that be, Your Highness?”
After lunch. Show.
It was surprising how fast a meal could disappear.
Kraslenka, Regula Prime
While attempting to keep a low profile near the center of a banquet table that seated fifty, Rand Kamal stoically made his way through seven courses of the finest foods to be found in twelve star systems. In what had once been an unlucky thirteen, he corrected with grim satisfaction. Somehow Psyclid and its three moons still existed, and—Omni be praised!—Darroch had now turned his sights on the Herculon system. Which was the purpose of this interminable meal, crammed with every general and admiral who could boast two stars or more, their gold and silver braid and buttons glittering under the light of three crystal chandeliers, outshone only by the sparkle of their wives’ gowns and jewelry.
Montiene was among them, seated across the table, and three seats closer to the emperor than he was. Rand ducked his head to hide the ice that undoubtedly glinted from his narrowed eyes. Trust Montiene to land on her feet, no matter what her husband did. Did she hope he would redeem himself on the Herc expedition? Or did she hope he wouldn’t come back? If it weren’t for the children . . . and the unfortunate fact that she was a favorite at court, even though he was the one directly related to Darroch . . .
Divorce was common among the masses, but among Regula’s upper echelons, not so much. With dynastic marriages, there was always much more at stake than love, affection, respect, companionship, or any of the qualities so prized in songs, stories, and young people’s dreams. Dimmit! When had he become such a sentimentalist? He was about to go off and score another one for the Empire. Become a hero again, instead of the man who surrendered a mediocre little planet that was more trouble than it was worth. If he wished to survive, there was no place for sentiment. He had to be the hard-headed spearhead of the invasion fleet’s right wing, never giving anyone cause to suspect he’d been the one to warn the rebels about the Empire’s plan to invade Hercula. And when he had the once-mighty planet in his sights, he would have to give the attack everything he had or end up an exile like Alek Rybolt and his crew.
It wasn’t as if he’d be ordering his ship to fire on Astarte, Scorpio, or Tycho. Just the Hercs.
Just Hercs.
Or not. He wouldn’t put it past Tal Rigel to organize some kind of defense . . . Isn’t that why he’d warned him?
Rand was swallowing a spoonful of fluffy white pudding laced with lunelle—some of Dagg Lassan’s cargo?—when a thought crashed through him. A nagging, absurd thought he’d been denying. Until now.
Rand choked, hastily bringing up his napkin to cover his fit of coughing. Montiene shot him a lethal look. A burst of anger helped Rand control the shock of finally realizing—in the midst of a royal banquet—that he had become a traitor. It wasn’t just a case of sympathy for Psyclid or being able to understand why Tal Rigel had started the rebellion. When he’d warned the rebels of the Herc invasion, he’d stepped completely over the line. He’d turned on his Emperor, his people. His family heritage. His wife and children.
Every instinct urged him to flee the room, yet that would be the stupidest move of all. He was only useful exactly where he was. And then there was that little matter of self-preservation. This wasn’t his day to die.
Rand lowered his napkin, assured his dinner partners than he was fine, and proceeded to take a bite of his pudding. He smiled, he nodded, he mouthed polite nothings, steadfastly ignoring the icy chills spiking up his spine.
Astarte en route to Hercula
K’kadi didn’t have to ask the way. Gossip had been all too happy to pass along the information that the Psyclid witch, B’aela Flammia, was sharing a room with his mother. The mother he’d sworn he wouldn’t go near the entire trip lest his grown-up façade crumble and he revert to the vague, self-centered, heedless child he once had been. Before coming here, however, he’d enlisted Kass’s help. Anneli was currently delivering a lecture on the language of diplomacy to the senior officers. Which left him free to seek out his eldest sister. A task that held little appeal.
Would B’aela talk to him, or give one of her scornful sniffs and wave him away. Had she always been that way, or had she learned arrogance and sharp words from Jagan? The Sorcerer Prime certainly had plenty to spare.
Or maybe she was forever trying to make up for being the gifted girl from a humble background who caught Jagan Mondragon’s attention and spiraled to the highest realms of sorcery at her lover’s side. Whatever the reason, Kass was right. B’aela could add the power his dragon-like monster so desperately needed. It was, after all, B’aela who had stood at Jagan’s side when he conjured the sky-sized beast at Choya.
K’kadi stopped outside B’aela’s door, making his presence known in his usual manner of floating an image of his face in the air of the room beyond.
K’kadi, come in. The door slid open. He stepped inside. His eldest sister was seated on a built-in plush-upholstered sofa in a small sitting area. A wave of h
er hand invited him to join her. “You are very welcome,” B’aela said. “We have been in the same place only during occasional moments of crisis. Basically, we’re strangers.”
When he continued to stare, saying nothing, she added with more than a hint of her infamous tart tongue, “K’kadi, compared to you, my gifts are nothing. Yes, I have a good decade on you—I can claim infinitely more experience, but that’s no reason for you to sit there and look at me as if I’d just sprouted an extra head.”
He favored her with one of his beatific smiles. Need help. Monster.
Did he see a flash of disappointment? Had she hoped this was a social call? Well, fizzet! He never seemed to get anything right. Particularly with women. All right, he could do this. He wasn’t a callow boy any more. A plea in his azure eyes, he held out his hand.
Slowly, carefully, as if feeling her way—making certain he understood her gesture was more than a mere social formality, B’aela slipped her hand in his. Shock hit him as he felt the power of a soul so much darker than the rest of the family. Dear goddess, what had she seen, what she had heard and done to produce so much turmoil?
K’kadi looked his eldest sister in the eye, nodded his understanding. No matter how great his power, she was the teacher.
“You wish to create Jagan’s beast?”
Only hope.
“Are you that good, little brother?”
Yes.
“Then let us begin.” She squeezed his hand.
Almost . . . almost he forgot his promise. But he wasn’t heedless K’kadi any more. At least he hoped not. Tell bridge . . . practice.
K’kadi got the full brunt of a smile far more rare than his own before B’aela spoke into her comm unit, informing the bridge there might be anomalies appearing in the black vastness around them.
And then they set to work creating a beast that could terrify warships, perhaps an entire planet.
The Bastard Prince (Blue Moon Rising Book 3) Page 19