Consort Page 2

  Indric reached over and squeezed her hand. The casual touch sent heat spiraling up her arm and drew her gaze back to his handsome face. His hair flowed past his shoulders in silky waves. Golden strands threaded through the dark, creating a subtle shimmer whenever he turned his head. A closely trimmed beard accented his strong jawline and the bold slash of his high cheek bones, while providing a frame for his sculpted lips. His pupils were ringed in gold and tiny golden flecks speckled his brown irises. Most Bilarrian eyes were ringed in red. Gold was unique to San Adrin’s royal family.

  Over simple white pants he wore a sleeveless tunic heavily embroidered in gold. The style was perfectly suited to the harsh, arid climate. Still, it wasn’t the immaculate cut of his clothing but the regal bearing of the man himself that announced to the world he was a king.

  “Are you all right?” His voice was deep and unusually caressing. “You seem distracted.”

  “I’m fine.” She slipped her hand out from under his and put it in the pocket of her loose, gauzy k’fal. Irrigation and sun filtering had tamed the unforgiving landscape within Camp Rabadah, but the capital city was still surrounded by vast, sandy deserts. “Just worried about Betaul.”

  “He’s only seen the seasons cycle ten times, but we both know he’s unusually mature for his age. I’m sure he’ll rise to whatever challenge life decides to throw his way.”

  She nodded. “It’s my job to worry about him. You can’t fault me for doing my job.”

  He stroked her arm, his fingers lingering against her skin. “I could never find fault with you.”

  “Then you’re not trying very hard.” She ignored the tingles stirred by his slightest touch and motioned toward the yard. “Ask Betaul. He’ll be happy to list my faults.”

  “You look flushed.” He nodded toward the door leading into the house. “Let’s go inside.”

  Guards were discretely stationed at each corner of the yard, so there really wasn’t a need to stand there and watch the boys. They would likely bond faster with a smaller audience anyway. At least that was her hope.

  Indric opened the door and tension gathered in the pit of her stomach. Her house was small and unassuming, cozy even. She’d been a prisoner on Earth the majority of her life, so anything without containment fields and continual surveillance was sufficient for her needs. But Indric was King of San Adrin, the second largest region on Bilarri. He was used to magnificent palaces, lavishly furnished with every imaginable luxury.

  And yet he kept coming back to her tiny house.

  She took a step toward the doorway and the cometball whizzed past her face slamming into the back of the house. Her startled cry turned to a laugh as she reached down and retrieved the stray ball.

  “Sorry,” Dravon called, holding up his arms with obvious expectation.

  Hoping the adrenaline rush would increase her range, she took aim and threw as hard as she could. The ball flew toward Dravon’s waiting hands then muffled popping sounds drew her attention toward the high hedgerow on the left side of the yard. Greenish balls of light arced toward the boys and Cinarra screamed.

  “Get down!” one of the guards shouted as Cinarra bolted toward the stairs leading to the backyard.

  Guards scattered in every direction, some racing toward the boys, others sprinting toward the hedgerow. Betaul dove for Dravon, arm extended, palm out, as if he could ward off the projectile shower. One of the incandescent balls drilled through his hand and Cinarra screamed even louder than Betaul. Helpless despite her frantic pace, she watched in horror as another ball burned into his calf. The rest of the shower sputtered out harmlessly against the damp grass.

  Indric caught up to her as she reached the boys. One of the guards had already pulled Betaul off Dravon and was attempting to minimize Betaul’s movements as he writhed, mindless from the pain. Another guard quickly checked the prince for injuries.

  “He’s clear,” Dravon’s guard announced, so Cinarra focused entirely on Betaul.

  “You feel no pain.” Indric’s voice washed over her with intoxicating heat and she wasn’t surprised when Betaul stopped thrashing. He still cradled his injured hand against his chest, but pain’s haze gradually cleared from his bright green eyes.

  “How did he do that?” Betaul sounded dazed.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She smiled and brushed the hair back from his face. “Let me see your hand. The pain is blocked, but the wound is still there.” Her sister had warned her that Indric could influence people with his voice. Still, she’d had no idea how easily or completely he could wield the power. Would she have sensed the same strange tingling if he ever tried to compel her?

  Betaul unfolded his arm and held out his hand. Cinarra fought hard to remain calm and keep her expression gentle. A thumb-thick hole had been seared through the boy’s palm. Someone gasped and another muttered something she didn’t understand, but Betaul seemed oblivious to the seriousness of his injuries.

  Indric motioned to Dravon’s guard. “Take him in the house and do not let him out of your sight.”

  “Of course, Sire.”

  Cinarra guided Betaul’s hand into her lap and placed her palm over his, close to but not touching his charred flesh. It had been nine years since she used her abilities to do anything other than communicate. The risk of discovery was simply too great. Uncertainty twisted inside her, turning her belly cold.

  Indric wrapped his arm around her and gently squeezed. “I can flash him to a healer. I know it’s been a long time for you.”

  “No. I’ll do it.” She accepted the comfort of Indric’s embrace and carefully channeled energy into Betaul’s hand. Her skin tingled and warmed as a steady stream flowed from the center of her chest, down her arm and into the boy. She closed her eyes and allowed Mystic sight to reveal the progress taking place beneath her palm. His tissue began to knit and regenerate, drawing the outer edges of the wound closer and closer until the newly formed biological fibers spanned the opening. She continued the steady stream of energy until all that remained of the wound was a slightly pink circle.

  “I could have done that myself,” Betaul grumbled, “if you’d let me.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at Betaul. Three months ago, much to her surprise, he’d detected the barriers meticulously encasing his power source. She hadn’t constructed the barriers, but she maintained them, preventing him from accessing his abilities. Betaul was one of a kind, a volatile combination of ancient Mystic and genetic manipulation. There was no way of predicting which abilities he would manifest or how powerful he would become. Which was why so many in the NRS had feared him.

  “When you’re stronger, you’ll be taught how to control your power,” she reminded him, even though it was unlikely he’d forgotten because the last time she’d told him was yesterday.

  “I’m strong enough now.”

  “I think we should let him try.”

  She looked up and found Lord Drakkin standing a short distance back from the action. She wasn’t sure when he’d arrived or how he’d known about the crisis, but he’d obviously heard Betaul’s complaint. Drakkin was one of the most powerful Bilarrians alive. Indric might have signaled him telepathically, but it was just as likely that Drakkin had simply sensed the disruption. Drakkin’s abilities were legendary. He was the one who had constructed the barriers around Betaul’s power source.

  “Are the perimeter shields intact?” She motioned toward the hedgerow. “How did this happen?”

  Drakkin moved closer, his stride light, as if his feet didn’t quite touch the ground. His dark hair just brushed his shoulders and the rings separating his irises from his pupils were red rather than gold. Even so, there was a striking similarity between his appearance and Indric’s. They each had inherent nobility in their features, as well as a good deal of arrogance.

  “You’ll have to ask the guards how. I wasn’t here when the weapon was fired.” He paused as his intense gaze swept their surroundings. Unlike the men of San Adrin, Drakkin was clean-shave
n, and his intricately tooled leather pants and long-sleeved shirt indicated that he was used to a far cooler climate. “I sense a small tear in the shields over there.” He pointed to the back corner of the yard where the hedgerow ended. “But it should have set off an alarm.”

  “Then I think it’s unwise to indulge him.”

  “I disagree. Indric will scan while I repair the shield. Let the boy feel his power.” Drakkin was one of the few people who could give Indric orders without starting an argument. And Cinarra had learned a long time ago that it was a waste of time to argue with Drakkin.

  Someone had torn back Betaul’s pant leg, exposing the wound in his calf. The plasma ball had burned a deep furrow across his flesh rather than drilling straight through. She wasn’t sure which was worse. Both wounds seemed gruesome to her.

  “I’ll release my hold slowly,” she told Betaul. “As soon as you feel the energy start to flow, guide it into your leg.”

  He licked his lips then closed his eyes. “I’m ready.”

  He is not, Drakkin told her, but he needs to learn this for himself.

  I understand. I’ll just give him a taste. She created a tiny puncture in the barrier and let energy trickle out. Betaul gasped and his muscles twitched. She placed her hand on his leg, well above the injury. “Feel the warmth of my fingers. Use it to direct the flow.”

  “This is harder…” He gasped again and his thigh tensed beneath her hand. “It hurts.” He shuddered violently. “Does it always hurt like this?”

  “You will learn to minimize the pain, but there is always discomfort.” Drakkin spoke to the boy then continued telepathically with her. It must be his decision to return control to you. Expand the flow.

  The last thing she wanted was to cause Betaul more pain, but Drakkin’s strategy made sense. It was hard for a student to learn if he resented his teacher. Still, Betaul was so much more than a student to her. He was blood of her blood. Though most believed she was his mother, she was actually his grandmother. Betaul was all that remained of her precious daughter Belle.

  “Concentrate, Betaul.” She made sure her knees weren’t digging into his side and moved her hands to her thighs. The fewer distractions he had, the faster this lesson would progress. “The energy stream is still scattering before it reaches the wound. You must try harder.”

  The boy stilled in the grass and his breathing deepened. Fighting back her own misgivings, she stretched the opening and allowed a stronger stream to escape. Betaul moaned and then shuddered. She instinctively reached for the puncture, meaning to stem the flow, but the stream concentrated and coalesced. She felt Betaul’s determination, his untutored skill working to connect the center of his chest with the wound in his calf.

  Betaul’s control came and went, creating a clumsy ebb and flow, but the energy stream gradually reached the wound. The boy anchored the steam and proceeded with more confidence.

  He’s doing it. They’d expected him to fail, but Betaul was healing himself. It was extraordinary.

  Drakkin moved to the boy’s other side and knelt. “Your body knows what to do. Just keep feeding energy into the gash.”

  Betaul nodded without opening his eyes and Cinarra watched in amazement as the deep furrow in his flesh gradually disappeared.

  “Well done, young man.” Drakkin helped Betaul sit, and when he appeared steady, he asked, “Can you stand?”

  Betaul maneuvered his legs beneath him and stood. He flexed his repaired hand and gingerly put weight on his healed leg. “It doesn’t hurt or anything.”

  “I suspect Indric’s command still has you good and numb. Both areas will likely be tender for a couple of days. You should rest. Healing requires a great deal of energy.”

  “But I’m not even tired.”

  “You are tired,” Indric told him. “Now go lie down.”

  Cinarra only felt a hint of heat, so the compulsion must have been mild this time. Still, Betaul fell into step beside one of the guards and headed for the house.

  Indric helped her up and she brushed the grass off her knees, feeling a bit shaky. Now that the crisis was over, the cause of the danger came back into focus. She blew out a ragged breath, refusing to think about how much worse this situation could have been. “Did your men catch whoever shot at Betaul?”

  “We don’t know that Betaul was the target,” Indric pointed out. “It could just as easily have been Dravon or someone trying to upset me.”

  Motivation would be a whole lot easier to determine if they’d apprehended the assailant. “That didn’t answer my question.”

  “They found tracks, but no shooter.”

  That was the answer she’d expected, but it didn’t lessen her frustration. “A drone wouldn’t leave tracks, so we’re dealing with a person or persons.”

  He nodded, his expression tense, clearly as frustrated as she was. “I’ve sent for my best trackers. We’ll figure out who did this and why.”

  “The alarm should have gone off as soon as they tampered with the perimeter shield,” Drakkin mused. “For that matter, why did no one sense the intruder? Aren’t all of your guards Sensitive?”

  “You know they are. Any applicant must demonstrate Class Eight abilities to be accepted as a member of my personal guard.”

  Drakkin motioned toward the house. “Can we move inside? I don’t know how you tolerate this infernal heat.”

  “A lifetime of practice.”

  Indric took her hand as they started for the back door. His fingers were long and warm, his grasp firm without being hurtful. The simple gesture sent her heart racing and she averted her face, afraid he’d see her burning cheeks. He was just being kind, comforting a traumatized friend. It was the same role he’d filled for the last nine years. Why should today be any different?

  “I’ll make sure Betaul is resting.” She tried to pull away as soon as they entered the house.

  Indric tightened his grip on her hand and pulled her toward the living room. “Ametto is with him. Relax.”

  Ametto was the only one of Indric’s guards that Cinarra knew well. The others came and went depending on the situation, but Ametto’s exclusive assignment was to protect Betaul and her. “All right.” She sat on the sofa and Indric sat beside her.

  Apparently too anxious to sit, Drakkin paced in front of them, hands locked behind his back. “I only saw the aftermath. How did the attack occur?”

  “The boys were playing in the yard. Cinarra and I decided to go back inside the house when a volley of plasma blasts erupted from somewhere beyond the hedge. They were not random shots; they were directed at the boys.”

  “I don’t care if it was the NRS, Eagin, or an enemy of Hautell, anyone who would intentionally harm a child is beneath contempt,” Drakkin sneered then smoothed his expression. “Most plasma weapons have nonlethal settings. Was this a sloppy assassination attempt or some sort of warning?”

  Indric extended his arm along the back of the couch. It wasn’t really an embrace, but Cinarra was inescapably aware of his nearness.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Indric said. “There have been no recent threats, no indication that trouble was brewing.”

  “And the NRS hasn’t caused trouble in years, even on Ontariese,” Cinarra told them. “Most think they’ll eventually disband.”

  “I’m not taking chances with either of you,” Indric objected.

  “Security at your palace is far more sophisticated than what we’ve arranged here,” Drakkin pointed out. “It might be best to move Cinarra and Betaul there until we can figure out who was responsible for what just happened.”

  “I agree.”

  “And if I don’t?” She looked up at him, hoping her expression reflected how little she liked it when people made decisions for her.

  “Then I’ll camp out on this sofa.” The stubborn glint in his eyes assured her that he meant every word.

  “Did you receive your invitation to Charlotte’s celebration?” Drakkin finally sat in the chair facing them and cr
ossed his legs, looking remarkably at home despite the modest surroundings.

  The sudden subject change wrinkled her brow. What did her sister’s gala have to do with anything? “I did, but I hadn’t planned on going.”

  Drakkin’s expression nearly mirrored hers. “Why would you hesitate? Charlotte is your sister. Of course you should go.”

  “We understand the connection, but the rest of the sector doesn’t. To outsiders I’m a common Bilarrian widow, doing her best to raise her son alone. Why would the High Queen of Ontariese invite such a person?”

  “Because you’re King Indric’s favorite mistress. It is no longer taboo for pleasure givers to be invited to such celebrations.” One of Drakkin’s brows arched, daring her to challenge the conclusion.

  “Indric is discreet whenever he comes here. I doubt people even know—” Indric’s laughter preempted the rest of her thought and she shot him an annoyed look.

  “Everyone thinks we’re lovers, and you know it. What else would keep me coming back year after year?”

  “Honor and obligation.” She was well aware of the rumors, but this was the first time they’d spoken of the misconception. They knew the truth and that was all that mattered, so they simply ignored the idle chatter. “You promised Lord Drakkin that you’d protect me and Betaul, that you’d provide us a home and security.”

  Indric looked at Drakkin and shook his head. “Is she really this naïve?”

  “I am not naïve,” she snapped. “I know many believe you’re visiting your mistress every time you come here and some even whisper that Betaul is your son. I’m not completely ignorant of what goes on around me.”

  “Ignorance is different than naïveté,” Drakkin drew her attention. “You have moved from one cage to another throughout your entire life. It was not always by choice, but each of your environments has been extremely compartmentalized.”

  “What does any of this have to do with what happened to Betaul?” She was uncomfortable with their observations, even if they were mostly true. After she’d escaped her prison on Earth, each stage of her life had been strictly ordered and insulated from most outside influences. This house was the perfect example. She knew none of her neighbors and, except for an occasional family member, Indric was her only visitor.