Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Read online

  Well, fizzit! Jagan could just . . .

  Unfortunately, they needed him. Pok, dimi, and fyd!

  And, thank you, Regs, for your abundance of epithets.

  M’lani changed into a flowing gown that was closer to green than blue, its asymmetrical lines shimmering as she whirled before her mirror, making certain her rare appearance on the streets of Crystal City would live up to the Orlondami family’s reputation. Prowling through her jewelry box, she selected a modest tiara with gems that matched her gown and allowed her maid to fix it in place, where it winked among her auburn curls. Amazingly, none of the family’s jewelry had been confiscated by the Regs—evidently jewels were beneath the notice of an Empire that swallowed planets whole.

  After one last look in the mirror. M’lani straightened her shoulders, held her head high and made a last-minute check of her nails, glittering nicely with silver sparkles. She needed nothing more. Princesses, after all, did not carry money.

  Oh, dear goddess, she’d forgotten how magnificently beautiful Crystal City was. The moment the hovercar glided through the palace gates, there was the city before her, sparkling in the sun like a mountain of diamonds. A rainbow glow of opalescent white, blue, pink, yellow, green, and lavender. Three hundred years past, some enterprising Psyclid had created a translucent material strong enough for building, a material that could absorb any color desired. Add in the artistic talents of Psyclid architects and engineers, and Crystal City had been born, rising from the fields of a peaceful, agrarian planet that made a point of keeping its people’s psychic abilities to itself. The colors used for Crystalia, the royal palace, were opalescent white and silver, making it the living incarnation of the palaces found in ancient books of fairytales.

  And the people . . . Tears misted M’lani’s eyes. They too were beautiful. For the most part, Psyclids were slim and agile, with skin colors ranging from Jagan’s almost bloodless face to L’ira’s warm honey, and on to mellow yellow, leather tan, and bark brown. Psyclids dressed for elegance and style. Work clothes might be practical, but when out and about, Psyclids wore flowing garments in shimmering fabrics—women in long gowns, usually multi-layered, with slits to add a glimpse of a well-turned calf, or even a thigh. The men varied—from tight pants and oversize shirts to long robes not dissimilar to those the women wore.

  In stark contrast, the Regs, male and female, in their gray and black uniforms and polished black boots were like stolid dark rocks jutting up in a field of flowers. In the privacy of the hovercar M’lani allowed herself a secret smile of mockery. After all, the Regs couldn’t see her. One of the guards, riding up front beside the driver, had his back to her. The other rode outside, on a fold-out seat on the hovercar’s trunk, clutching his P-11 laser rifle. M’lani made a mental note to make her next excursion in a rain storm so the guard would be thoroughly soaked.

  After visiting an art gallery and a boutique with a spectacular array of shoes by Psyclid’s best designers, M’lani directed her entourage to one of her favorite places, a crystal shop. Her lips curled into a smile as she gazed at the hundreds of sparkling crystals, creatively displayed at different levels against contrasting backgrounds of black, white, blue, and burgundy velvet. She could feel their radiance, sense their essence. As if they were calling her.

  So why did she have no psychic talent?

  “Your highness?” A blond shop girl, garbed in pink with a trailing scarf of white, spoke softly, her eyes sending a message her words did not convey. “We have recently received a crystal that might be of particular interest. If I might show it to you?”

  “Of course,” M’lani murmured, following the girl to the back of room, aware of each crystal sparkling under the lights as she passed. When the girl reached under a counter, withdrawing sage green leather bag, M’lani positioned herself to block the guards’ view. “Are they looking this way?” she whispered.

  “Yes, but they’re staying put.” The girl withdrew a large azure crystal which seemed to have bits of silver embedded in it. Spikes of pale crystal rose from a solid base perhaps three inches across. “Very rare, your highness,” she said, raising her voice. “A fine addition to your collection. We thought of you the moment we saw it.”

  M’lani held the crystal up to the overhead lights, making sure her guards had no reason to think she was doing anything clandestine. Noting the fine lines of a circle cut into the base, she hastily put it back down, exclaiming, “Perfect! How fortunate I chose to go shopping before you sold it to someone else.”

  “Indeed, Your Highness, we only received it yesterday. It’s as if you knew it was here.” The girl’s tone was bland, but her eyes danced. Clearly, she assumed M’lani had talent.

  How very odd. M’lani was certain every Psyclid on the planet knew she had no gifts.

  The rest of her shopping excursion was a blur. She could not, after all, just grab the crystal and go home. She had to make a show of being the bored princess, passing her time buying fripperies she had no place to wear other than grand events staged by the fizzeting Regs, for which the royal family’s presence was required.

  Great goddess, how could she endure the suspense ’til she was home in the privacy of her bedchamber? She was back to thinking her head might explode, taking the hovercar with it. Maybe the armored car as well.

  You’re supposed to keep Jagan under control? And you can’t even control yourself.

  Can too.

  Ha!

  M’lani clasped her hands in her lap, stuck her chin in the air. “Enough,” she pronounced in her most petulant tone. “I am tired, I wish to go home.”

  With a great flourish, and no little arrogance, the royal hovercar made a U-turn in the midst of heavy traffic and headed back to Crystalia. A half hour later, M’lani dug a message out of the hollow bottom of the azure crystal. Coming soon. Be ready. Though we’ll probably kill each other in the first week. J.

  Sitting very still, M’lani read the message twice more before it disintegrated. She frowned as the small bits of ash scattered across the inlay of her desktop. She’d thought herself thoroughly familiar with Jagan’s talents. Had she and L’ira not played with him since they were old enough to walk? But paper that disintegrated only after it was read?

  How very odd.

  And then it hit her. A wave of relief so profound it was painful. Jagan was coming back.

  He had not abandoned her.

  Chapter 4

  “You will join us in the audience chamber at four o’clock,” King Ryal informed his daughter. “We are accepting the credentials of a new ambassador.”

  “Absurd!” M’lani snapped. “You are a puppet monarch in an occupied kingdom. How can you act as if nothing has changed?” The Orlondami temper, never known for its serenity, had been exacerbated when another full week had gone by with no sign of her errant betrothed. Not that she wasn’t more comfortable without him, of course.

  “We are live puppets,” Ryal pointed out. “And it is the ambassadors and merchants from our trading partners throughout the Sector who provide us with news of the outside world. Today’s ambassador is from Archeron, a planet new to us, but one I understand with agrarian and artistic inclinations not so different from our own. They are interested in providing technical skills in return for acquiring our more advanced architectural knowledge and certain art techniques.”

  “Technical skills!” M’lani scoffed. “If they have any tech skills the Regs don’t already have, you know quite well who will swallow them up.”

  “And again we balance on the thin edge between. And stay alive.”

  M’lani bent her stiff royal neck, eyes fixed on the brilliantly patterned carpet in her father’s study. “You are right, as always, Papa, but it is just so hard . . . ”

  “Four o’clock, child. Your best court garments.”

  A long sigh. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Arms waving in a graceful courtly flourish, M’lani backed out of the room, head down to hide the dancing mischief in her eyes. For all he was a man
of steel, King Ryal was a dear, his soft spot for his daughters known throughout the kingdom. How else had L’ira managed to escape to the Regulon Space Academy? And now it was her turn to face the dangerous world outside the palace.

  Which was never going to happen if Jagan kept dragging his feet, doing nothing, absolutely nothing. Where are you, miserable man? As M’lani allowed her maid to dress her for the grand court occasion, she silently repeated the full list of Regulon profanities she had picked up over five years of occupation. Fizzit, the sole Psyclid epithet, simply wasn’t adequate to express the strong emotions sweeping the populace since the Occupation. Grim-faced, she followed her parents toward the ornate throne room, where a plethora of Psyclid courtiers ignored the Regulons among them as if they were invisible.

  As trumpets sounded and the herald announced the presence of King Ryal, Queen Jalaine, and the Princess Royal, M’lani straightened her shoulders and made a final assessment of her appearance. Her gown of jade green silk—true silk not a chemically created substitute—sparkled with hundreds of brilliants, hand-sewn on the fabric. A diamond necklace glinted against her pale skin. Diamonds winked from her ears and were echoed by the intricate design of the tiara she wore tucked on top of auburn hair that fell in long gentle waves to well past her shoulders. The gown’s train brushed the floor behind her as she moved, reminding her of better, happier days when her sole concern had been to learn how to walk regally while managing all that extra fabric. No, not quite true, M’lani admitted with a wry smile that never reached the set features of her face. She had always struggled with the problem of how to be as beautiful, as gracious, as gifted as her older sister.

  Admiral Hagan Yarian, Governor General of Psyclid, greeted her parents, his silver gray head lowering by perhaps half an inch as he acknowledged the royal presence. M’lani struggled with her bland public face, discretion winning, even as her teeth ground together so hard she feared they might be heard. Colonel Alric Strang, the Admiral’s aide who made no secret of his admiration for the Psyclid princess, stepped forward to hand her to her seat. M’lani managed a nod in his direction as she swept her train full circle and took her place on a more modest replica of the thrones now occupied by her parents.

  From beneath lowered lashes, M’lani took her time examining the surprisingly large crowd in the audience chamber with care. In spite of the black and gray Reg uniforms scattered among the colorful Psyclid courtiers, it was good to be out of the royal apartments, good to have an excuse for a bit of pomp and ceremony. Events like this happened so seldom any more. If only . . .

  What was that Old Earth expression? If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

  Ha! Just wait, Regs. Jagan Mondragon is coming. Then you’ll see!

  If only she truly believed it.

  Trumpets sounded. Dear goddess, she’d missed everything the herald had just said. That must be the Archeron ambassador and his entourage coming down the center aisle. He was tall, well-built, younger than she had expected. Brown hair waved about his ears, neither Psyclid long nor Reg short. He walked with spring in his step and an arrogance foreign diplomats seldom displayed in front of Regulons. Interest piqued, this time M’lani listened as the herald introduced Ambassador Royan Vivar del Cid from the planet Archeron. Her gaze flicked over the people who followed in his wake—a woman of middle-age, encased in a baggy gray gown that had never had aspirations to style. Four men, two with the pleasant but bland look of career diplomats and two who had the stiff-backed stance of the military—the ambassador’s security team, no doubt.

  Suddenly, the ambassador’s name struck a chord of memory. Vivar del Cid? Archeron had remnants of an ancient culture from Old Earth? Perhaps she had heard wrong.

  The ambassador’s court manners were excellent, she noted, his expression benign, his bows the perfect height. A languid wave of his hand, and an assistant stepped forward to offer his credentials to the Court Chamberlain, who in turn handed them to the king. For a moment M’lani ducked her head to hide a smile. Did clinging to ceremonies as old as time in an age of space travel seem as strange to the ambassador as it sometimes did to her? Probably not, or he wouldn’t be a diplomat.

  Flowery speeches flew past as her mind wandered to Jagan and how they were ever going to get all these black Reg crows out of Psyclid if he didn’t make his presence known and do something about it. Not that the new ambassador wouldn’t provide a few intriguing moments of diversion . . .

  A rustle of fine fabric as King Ryal and Queen Jalaine stood, M’lani bobbing up rather ungracefully as she scrambled to follow suit. Fizzit! She knew better than to let her mind wander at court. The new ambassador from Archeron was bowing over the queen’s hand, offering yet another formal bow to the king, and coming her way. M’lani drew herself up to her full height, but he still towered over her. For some ridiculous reason her heart speeded up, her breathing hung suspended. Her hand seemed to stretch out of its own volition. He seized it. But instead of kissing the air just above her fingers, his lips brushed the back of her hand. And in that instant the illusion fell away. A man more lithe and lean than Ambassador del Cid stood before her. Pale skin, long black hair, black eyes.

  Jagan!

  The hand holding hers squeezed tight. Don’t panic, only you can see me. We’ll meet soon—the Princess Royal is about to acquire a suitor.

  And he was gone, exiting the room, his entourage dutifully trailing after.

  How was it possible? He hadn’t said a word aloud, yet she had heard him. Clearly.

  It could not possibly be dushani, the connection between soulmates.

  Could it?

  Of course not. Just Jagan being Jagan. He was, after all, the Sorcerer Prime.

  There were few places on Psyclid which did not shimmer, shine, or sparkle in every rainbow shade imaginable. Even the trees, grass, and flowers seemed to glow with a beauty not found elsewhere in the Nebulon Sector. At night, light twinkled from street lamps and shown through translucent one-way windows, the walls of the buildings themselves giving off a soft glow that mellowed darkness into twilight. On this particular night, three men stalked the streets, attempting to appear inconspicuous, hot words of a previous argument still ringing in their ears and echoing in the determined stomp of their boots along the faustone walkway.

  “I’m going alone,” the Sorcerer Prime had declared, wearing his inborn arrogance like a crown, as they prepared to leave the building now designated the Archeron Embassy.

  “In all respect, Mondragon, you are not.” Newly promoted Major Anton Stagg—former Imperial Marine Lieutenant, who topped Jagan by a good fifteen millimeters—stood his ground.

  “Del Cid, you military automaton, del Cid. Can’t you get that through your head?”

  “What I get, sir, is that the Captain told Joss and me to keep you safe—”

  “Dimi!” Jagan roared. “Why Rigel gave me Marines instead of men who understood the fine art of deception—”

  “Bellow all you want, sir, but you’re not leaving this house without us.”

  The fydding Reg dared interrupt the Sorcerer Prime! Jagan disappeared himself, moving swiftly to a far corner of the room to enjoy the bewilderment on his minders’ faces give way to seething anger.

  Anton Stagg recovered quickly, his eyes fixed straight ahead in prescribed military mode, though his words came out through gritted teeth. “Your Excellency, we know your talents—we were there when you entered Crystalia that night, if you will recall. And we know you are in charge of this mission—except where your safety is concerned. Joss and I are your bodyguards and under orders to go where you go. No exceptions.”

  Jagan popped back into view, drawling, “And if I’m with a woman?”

  Major Stagg didn’t so much as blink. “Our place will be directly outside the bedchamber door, Your Excellency, sir!”

  “The lady’s loss, I’m sure. Two such strapping fellows. Perhaps I should call in more girls and we could have an orgy.” Jagan allowed his lips to curl into a
rather nasty smile. “Or perhaps not. With two such strapping Reg specimens, our Psyclid girls might prefer to use their knives.”

  The major remained at attention, his lips barely moving as he said, “I believe you had an appointment, Your Excellency. It’s time to go.”

  So here he was, Jagan grumbled, the argument still resounding in his head, his temper slow to cool. The Sorcerer Prime in his guise of Archeron’s ambassador to Psyclid, marching along the back streets of Crystal City, being forced to maintain the magical disguises of the two towering shadows behind him, as well as his own. Unfortunately, he had to admit the Archeron Ambassador needed to establish an interest in his new city, an excuse to be seen in odd places at odd hours, because constantly moving about cloaked in invisibility was not a viable option. Too unnerving and too wearing. He needed to save his strength for something more important.

  Which meant: Ambassador Royan Vivar del Cid did not traipse about the city without his duly appointed security guards—even if they were Regs. Pok, dimi, and fyd!

  Must be his dread of M’lani that had his nerves on edge. That or expecting the local Regs to grab him up any minute. Fizzit, he supposed he didn’t really dread M’lani—she’d looked rather fine at the palace this morning. Her gown had intensified the color of her eyes . . . and that heart-shaped face . . . Too bad she was such a useless, ungifted brat.