The Bastard Prince (Blue Moon Rising Book 3)

by Blair Bancroft

Not afraid?

  “Afraid of a man who cannot kill even in the heat of battle?” Hands on her hips, she spat out the taunt.

  Abruptly, he turned back to the view through the open doors. To flowers fading to gray as the sun disappeared behind a range of mountains turned deep purple in the dimming light. To the cool breeze of evening wafting in, inviting tempers to cool, reason to prevail.

  Oh mighty Ares, what had she done? Alala, horrified by her too-ready tongue, watched as K’kadi, fists clenched, shoulders stiff, seemed to be fighting a battle with himself. Most likely, the urge to kill her.

  Which he wouldn’t because of the alliance . . . but as the most weird of all weird Psyclids, who really knew what he might do?

  Colonel Alala Kynthia Thanos, mighty warrior, screamed as her feet left the floor, her body went horizontal. Too shocked to grab K’kadi’s shoulder as she floated past, she soon found herself, face down, on the far side of the balcony, hovering three stories above the shadowed garden where only the burbling water at the very top of the three-tiered fountain still caught the last fading rays of the sun.

  Time stopped.

  Afraid?

  “Yes!” The word hissed through clenched teeth.

  Am I more powerful than Herc men?

  “Yes.” Spreadeagled, forcing herself not to fight the power that kept her airborne, Alala added, “More powerful than all of them put together.”

  And you will never forgive me for what I have just done.

  “Actually . . . I’m enjoying the birds-eye view.” Was that a chuckle, an actual sound from K’kadi, not just something heard in her head?

  Her feet hit the balcony floor with a gentle thump; strong arms closed around her. There was something very wrong about what had just happened, but there was no time to puzzle it out because K’kadi was looking down at her with the fierce possessiveness she’d first seen the night Tycho crashed on Blue Moon, the night K’kadi first “talked.”

  He still wanted her? In spite of the way she’d treated him. In spite of Talora. In spite of the Hercs firing on Reg ships that could not defend themselves . . .

  He turned her to face the view, the mountains now faded to charcoal against an indigo sky, where stars were brightening into life. Take a good look. Tomorrow we will be gone. Do you go willingly?

  “Yes.”

  Still afraid?

  “I would be a fool not to be.”

  Another chuckle. Again, not all in her head. Wise.

  Oh yes, she was going to have to be very wise. Walking a tightrope between the rebels and her own people. Between K’kadi and the rest of the world. Or was that her role? Buffer? Protector of the astonishing Psyclid prince?

  Alala was a female of solid build, as a warrior should be, yet K’kadi lifted her with ease—was he cheating by using his gift? It certainly didn’t feel like it, but when the bedroom door opened so conveniently just as they reached it, she had to accept that he was always going to be a step—or a hundred—ahead of her. She’d married a nimbatting freak!

  But he was her freak.

  She had been brought up to admire power above all else. And here was power beyond imagination. More than anyone knew . . . probably including K’kadi himself. And now he was hers. For a few moments at least, all hers.

  Cool air caressed her as her chiton shimmied to the floor, pooling around her ankles, revealing that she wore nothing more than her sandals and a minuscule triangle of lace beneath. After a leisurely examination which turned her cheeks scarlet, K’kadi knelt and removed her sandals. He stood. His face far too grim for the occasion, he said, Your turn.

  Easy enough to kneel—presenting him with nothing more than her bare back—but then what? She had no idea how to remove a man’s clothes, even something as loosely draped as an himation. Did she pull it off his shoulder, or did she start from the hem? The elaborately banded hem that was right there in front of her face. Gulping for air—she’d swear her lungs had ceased to function—Alala took the hem in both hands and slowly rose to her feet. Ares be thanked! She hadn’t realized what a fine screen the yards of fabric would make. Unfortunately, the moment was over all too soon. The himation suddenly floated out of her hands, ending in a heap several meters away. Evidently, K’kadi’s patience was wearing thin.

  Tunic. She had to do the same thing with the tunic, except it barely came below his hips, and when she lifted that, she was going to be face to face with . . . what? Was K’kadi Amund actually built like other men, whose bodies she’d seen only in statues? She suddenly regretted refusing to look at the vids other females seemed to enjoy.

  A quick glance at K’kadi, who appeared to be gritting his teeth. Good? Bad? Normal? She should have paid closer attention to the twittering female talk she’d tried so hard to shut out over the years. Here she was, stupid, inept, fumbling. Appalled by her ignorance. Not that she didn’t know what went where, but . . .

  You don’t want me. Alala winced as he threw her own words back at her.

  She gripped the purple tunic, pulled it over his head.

  And looked down.

  He was perfect, of course. The beautiful boy had become a classically sculptured male, and even innocence recognized he was in full erection. He smiled, and her lace triangle simply disappeared, never to be seen again. He pulled her close, skin to skin, his penis solid as a rock between them. She’d only ever allowed Nik to kiss her. This was different. Very different. K’kadi’s lips were hard, but she sensed something more. Questioning? Not in words, but she heard him soul to soul. Is it all right? We both know we have to do this, but are you truly willing?

  The answer, incredibly, was yes. Alala responded by breaking off their kiss, taking his hand, and leading him toward the bed. Where she quickly confirmed what she’d suspected—K’kadi was no longer an innocent. As much as she hated to admit it, practice made perfect.

  Much later, as she gazed down at a face that in sleep looked as boyish as the K’kadi she had first known, Alala understood what she should have realized all along. Although he had wiped away her alleged indifference to sex, erased her fears of inadequacy, given of himself to please her in ways she had never imagined, in the wee hours of the night it was all too easy for doubts to creep in. K’kadi Amund was unique. He lived by his own rules. Which, she suspected, included his willingness to embrace the Herc concept of a First Concubine. K’kadi had no intention of giving up Talora Lassan. It seemed likely she had married them both.

  Only as predawn lightened the room did another revelation occur. As Alala played over every aspect of her interaction with K’kadi over the last few hours, she finally recognized the anomaly that had been lurking beneath all the other strong emotions. K’kadi had spoken in full sentences. Silent, but fluent, like a normal human being. Perhaps . . . was it possible that was part of the reason they were destined to be together? K’kadi had spoken for the first time the night he had felt her presence on Tycho. And now that they were married , he was . . . well, almost . . .

  Mistake! “Normal” would never be the right word for K’kadi Amund.

  Chapter 32

  With Dagg Lassan and his family in charge of Gaia, the well-armed merchant ship taking Andromeda’s crew to Psyclid, the voyage home was remarkably without incident, although Kass was quick to sense that K’kadi and Alala seemed to lack the euphoria expected of newlyweds. A deft juggling of room assignments had resulted in the young couple sharing a larger cabin than the one K’kadi occupied on the voyage to Hercula. J’rett Zelaya was now in a room next door, and two reluctantly generous members of Astarte’s crew were squeezed into the cabin near the engine room, which K’kadi had requested in order to hide from his mother.

  The mother he had saved from King Nekator, as well as his sister and his lover, by offering to marry Alala. A gesture he once would have made with all the heedless enthusiasm of a boy scoring his first veriball goal. But the magic of first love had dissolved to dust, never to be resurrected. As had K’kadi the boy. K’kadi, the man, accepted
his fate. He had known, after all, since the night Tycho loomed in the sky on a crash course for Blue Moon that his destiny was tied to Alala. So why analyze his actions? What was meant to be had been set in motion.

  Tal had told him the alliance with Hercula meant the difference between winning and losing the rebellion. K’kadi liked to think that was true. He liked being a hero.

  Alala said nothing of her suspicions about a triangular marriage. The morning after her marriage, she discovered that daylight was a great rectifier, a harbinger of optimism and common sense. She was married and on her way to a land far, far away. There was no going back. She must deal with it. For Hercula. And for herself.

  As for K’kadi . . . he was more of a man than she had expected. But what did a virgin know of bed sport? Even a virgin who had spent her life among soldiers? And with Talora safely tucked away on board Gaia . . . well, perhaps she had overreacted. What king or prince did not have a mistress? A bevy of mistresses? It was the ancient privilege of royalty, she knew that. There was no reason for her to feel . . . was it rage? Absurd! She did not care enough to feel rage. Yet . . . what was hers she kept. Talora Lassan could space herself.

  Fool! It was Alala Thanos—Alala Thanos Amund—who was once again a stranger in a strange land. A Herculon colonel married to a Psyclid sorcerer in a rebellion dominated by Regs, a rebellion fought against Regs. Put that way, none of it made sense.

  She had to believe they both served a greater cause, but at the moment . . .

  On this, the twentieth day since their departure from Hercula, Alala had waked to find K’kadi gone, leaving her far too much opportunity for unwanted thoughts to flit across her mind. Up! Out! She had to find a deck with a viewport. She had to see the sun. Except . . . outside there was nothing but the black of space, great suns reduced to mere pinpricks of light. Which, come to think of it, was exactly how she felt. A supposedly glowing bride, a Herculon hero, reduced to a flickering candle in a vast and uncertain world of darkness.

  How could the gods be so blind, twisting things round until she, who had been raised to hate and fear sorcerers, was married to someone who seemed well on his way to being the greatest wizard of all time?

  A sigh escaped her rigid body. If K’kadi was truly the sorcerer he seemed to be, then he should be able to sweep away her uncertainty, her doubts—her fear that the gods had played some diabolical prank on them. Should not marriage to a prince guarantee a life of ease and luxury, free of danger, free of pain? Instead, her future was obscure. No, worse. Dangerous and dark. Uncertain. Kass and M’lani, the legitimate princesses of the House of Orlondami had married powerful men. B’aela had been mistress to two powerful men, Jagan Mondragon and Rand Kamal. Who was Alala Thanos that she could compete with such greatness? She was not royal, she had no magic. In the grand scheme of things, she was nothing. Almost as low on the power scale as Talora Lassan, whose only claim to fame was a powerful father and a winsome smile.

  Alala threw back the bedcovers, dressed in her Herculon uniform, complete with short sword, and headed for the bridge. They were due to exit the last of three wormholes any time now, which should put them in comm range of Blue Moon. Although she was reluctant to admit it, Alala actually cared about what had happened on Blue Moon while they’d been gone. Had there been more incidents? Was everyone all right? Kass would know . . . and while she was at it, she just might run into K’kadi.

  Alala had just stepped onto the bridge when Astarte’s alarms signaled “wormhole exit.” She quickly found an empty seat, strapped in, and faced the forward viewport. After nearly three full ship’s days in the shimmering nothing of the wormhole, the ever-increasing circle of black in front of them seemed like the proverbial light at the end of a tunnel. Stars were becoming visible, an infinite pattern of distant lights promising life and hope in the midst of darkness.

  Odd. She was a soldier, not gifted in poetic thought. But somehow she recognized the significance of the moment. She was leaving her country, her family, her culture behind, and yet her thoughts faced forward, fixed on the future. Unafraid, if a bit defiant.

  This was the Alala she should be.

  Wife. Alala’s gaze snapped to K’kadi, who was in his usual seat beside Kass. Their eyes met, and ridiculous as it was, the sun came out, bathing the bridge in a light Alala knew was not there, and yet . . . it was. A brilliant beam stretched between the two of them, binding them together, as if their odd alliance was blessed—

  A shudder, a series of shakes—Astarte ridding herself of any clinging vestiges of the wormhole—and then they were out, the officer at Comm suddenly springing to life, establishing contact . . .

  Icy cold struck her. Horror. Sorrow. But how? Why? Not a word had been spoken.

  K’kadi. Something terrible had happened, and K’kadi knew before the words were spoken, and somehow she felt his anguish. No, no, not possible. His gifts could not be infecting her. Surely sorcery didn’t work that way.

  Alala watched in numb silence as the Comm officer left her post, choosing to deliver the message to Captain Rigel in person, rather than using the comm system. As Tal listened to the report from Blue Moon, his face turned grim. Alala never took her eyes off him. Astarte might be returning home in triumph, the Herculons pledged to aid the rebellion, but whatever had happened on Blue Moon, it was bad. If she was to live with K’kadi for the rest of their lives, she was going to have to learn how to cope with his moments of anguish because— fizzeting nimbat!—even when she’d lost comrades on the battlefield, she’d never felt such anguish. She was a soldier, daughter of a soldier. She had been conditioned to be strong, stoic. But now . . . for the first time in her life she was experiencing raw grief, an outpouring of compassion. So this was why K’kadi had not destroyed the Reg ships. A new world opened before her—one she could not like. A Psyclid world filled with pacifists.

  But she had known that when she agreed to marry K’kadi Amund—son of that ultimate pacifist, King Ryal.

  Alala. Ready room.

  She looked up to see K’kadi waiting for her as the captain left the bridge, followed by Kass and his First Officer, Dorn Jorkan. She hastened to join them.

  “As you’ve guessed,” Tal said, “the news isn’t good. In fact, it’s worse than bad.” He paused, looking pained. “I am sorry to inform you that Captain Jordana Tegge was killed by a bomb planted along the road to the space port.”

  Battle-hardened though they all were, it took some time for the exclamations, the expressions of sorrow to fade into silence. Finally, everyone refocused on Tal.

  “Unfortunately,” he said, “there’s more. Our informants on Regula Prime tell us that Darroch, incensed by the loss to the Hercs, has given orders for the fleet to be refurbished, resupplied, and head directly for Psyclid. ‘To end this nonsense once and for all,’ as he put it.”

  “Now will you see?” Alala cried, turning on K’kadi. “All those ships you spared will destroy your king, your country. Your people!”

  K’kadi winced, dropped his head.

  “Enough!” Tal roared. “What’s done is done.” Addressing them all, he said, “I’m told the ridó for Psyclid is still not finished, but they hope to fill the gap by using enlasé. Not as effective, but it will have to do. Thanks to our gunners and K’kadi, Fleet has a lot of repairs to make, so we should be back in time. Astarte and Tycho will defend the capital. Mr. Jorkan, you will take Scorpio and coordinate our frigates and armed merchants over the gap.”

  “But Tal—Captain—Merkanov should have Scorpio,” Dorn protested.

  “Captain Rybolt assigned him to a frigate, and besides, you’re senior. And who was acting captain when we took Psyclid? Turco will move up to First Officer.”

  Which is why Tal Rigel leads the rebellion, Alala thought. The optimism that surrounded them on the voyage back from Hercula had crashed into Stand and Defend in a matter of moments, yet here he was barking out orders as if he’d had months to plan.

  “K’kadi,” Tal asked, “how’s your
strength? Can you handle another battle?” Unspoken, Alala knew, was the question of just how much energy had the newlywed prince dissipated in bed.

  Ready. Very sorry. This time kill Regs.

  Tal exchanged a long look with his brother-in-law. “And I’m sorry to ask you to do something so contrary to your beliefs. But this time we may have no choice.”

  Understood. But not Regs’ fault. Emperor orders them to their deaths.

  For a moment Tal bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Mr. Jorkan, take us home, best speed. Make sure Captain Lassan knows what’s happening. Kass, Alala, inform Anneli, B’aela, and Captain Kamal of what has happened. “K’kadi, stay with me. We have a lot of details to work out.”

  Slowly, Kass and Alala rose to their feet. Although they knew Astarte was steady as a rock beneath their feet, it seemed as if the deck tilted with each step. Their world had turned topsy-turvy, the euphoria of gaining the Hercs as allies dissipating into despair, their stunning victory turned to ashes.

  A glorious wedding, and now the happy couple seemed unlikely to live out the honeymoon.

  They found their quarry, all three of them, happily sipping kafi in the officer’s lounge, telltale crumbs of pastry on the empty plates in front of them. B’aela, Alala knew, would not be surprised by the news. She had reason to expect the worst of the world. Admiral Kamal also had ample reason to be aware that life did not always work out as planned. But Anneli—poor Anneli—her life had been so sheltered . . .

  Afterward, Alala realized she shouldn’t have been surprised when it was Rand Kamal who reached for Anneli’s hand, holding it tight as she realized that her son was going back to war without any respite from their adventures in Hercula. Or any consideration for his newlywed state. Kamal was a high-ranking noble, of course, trained in manners, but there was something about the way he looked at Anneli. With B’aela sitting right there . . . and a wife on Regular Prime.

  Nimbat! It wasn’t just Psyclids who were strange.