Broken Vision (20 page)

A holovid suddenly appeared over the console and began to display images of food.
Fascinated, she moved closer. Tempting aromas wafted through the room. A light pulsed on the
console. She touched it. A panel in the console slid aside. A platter bearing the food frozen for an
instant in the holovid image appeared. The food was hot, the aroma stronger.

A craving greater than any she had experienced in a long, long time came out of nowhere.
She reached for the plate.

A stray thought prodded her. She was a prisoner. She should be concerned, cautious.
Terrified.

The Taragon priests had once been feared throughout the Crestar System. With the end of
the Great Conflict, they had been driven to their knees, their power stripped from them. Chased
back to their temples, they had become nothing more than consultants to the Taragon elders. She
frowned and rubbed at her forehead.

In the next instant, the tastebuds in her mouth erupted with the pleasure of a savory,
delicate spice flavor. She hadn't been conscious of taking a bite of food. She ate and ate until she
couldn't put another bite in her mouth.

The enormous sleeping platform beckoned, and suddenly it was imperative that she rest.
Yet again, an elusive thought, stronger than before, compelled her. She reached out to touch the
comm pad.

The door opened and a tall, handsome creature with beautiful, unfathomable eyes stepped
into the room.

Maegan smiled. "You're back. I was getting lonely."

* * * *

"Why won't they respond?"

At dock on Pallas Four, the Taragon vessel showed no sign of activity. In the skies far
above it, the starfighters of the Mariltar Seventh Fleet ostensibly performed practice maneuvers, an
unsubtle message that the departure route was blocked. The counselor of Pallas Four waited on the
dock for an audience that had not yet been granted.

Alerik paced the length of the port's control center, which had been commandeered by his
team. Morgon Trion stood, arms folded, a pillar of calm in the center of the activity. Alerik
detoured around him a third time. Maegan, they were certain, was on that vessel, at the mercy of a
sect that had been responsible for terrible atrocities in the Great Conflict. He couldn't bear to think
about it.

His impatience spiked. His control broke.

He swung around. "How could you let her get involved in all this?"

Morgon Trion didn't even glance at him. "She's a grown woman. She believes in a
cause."

"A treasonous one."

"So say the disciples of the Coalition Council."

"And hundreds of powerful, knowledgeable people, including my father and your brother,
are wrong, while you--one man--are so right?"

This time Morgon flicked a glance at him. "I'm less alone than you think I am. Why did
you favor the governorship of Grogon, Alerik Mariltar, over the Council seat?"

"That has nothing to do with this," Alerik snarled through gritted teeth.

"No? Why did you, an heir of the Mariltar Nation, choose a life partner with a rebel
reputation, who is known for daring to question the Vision?"

"The Match Key chose her." In his peripheral vision, Alerik saw Sharm move toward him.
A wicked brew boiled inside of him. Fear for Maegan. Rage toward this man whom he blamed as a
trigger for so much.

And doubt. The doubt tore at him, threatening to shred all the values and traditions around
which his entire life had revolved. Worst of all, he couldn't believe he had just betrayed his love for
Maegan.

"The Match Key has never failed to link true-bonded lifemates. That alone should tell you
something." Morgon stared out the plexiwall again. "Your selection of assignments should be
another clue. Surely, the Council seat would have been a more logical choice for an heir of the
Mariltar nation? When will you be true to yourself, Alerik Mariltar?"

"Alerik." Sharm's calm, quiet voice penetrated the fog of killing rage.

He sucked in an enormous gulp of air and forced himself to unclench his fists. "I know
myself. My path is clear. My loyalties are unshakeable. The Vision brought us out of chaos.
Without it, there is no coalition of nine nations."

A faint smile appeared on Morgon's lips. "Convincing yourself? You have your father's
stubbornness. The Vision has served a purpose. It was created by young warriors and old
politicians weary of war. I suggest we're in another phase of societal evolution. I suggest it's time
for change."

"Because the Taragon priests are building child armies?"

"Why is that so hard to believe? You have, or you had, evidence."

"What evidence?" Alerik flung a hand out. "Six Taragon children kidnapped from their
homes, their families? Because a crazy man thinks they're destined for an army?"

"Yet I have seen the army," Morgon said quietly. "Witnessed the warrior training. Seen
what and how they're taught. These children were sacrificed by their own parents. This isn't just an
army. The priests are rebuilding their power base. They're practicing the ancient, outlawed rituals.
They're building an army of Taragon priests."

"Blood of Cor!"

Alerik glared at Sharm. "You believe this nonsense?"

Sharm raised his brows and shook his head. "I don't know what to believe, but I do know
this. If it's true, we're in a zatfull of trouble."

"If it's true," Alerik snapped, "why haven't the Taragon elders done something, said
something? They can't possibly be so blind to the disappearances and they have the most to
lose."

"It's very simple. Because they all have children who are hostages in the army. Their
silence was assured from the beginning. And a few, of course, are hostage themselves to the lure of
great power. It's a human enough failing."

"Unbelievable," Alerik muttered. He strode forward to stare through the plexiwall at the
Taragon vessel. Maegan had to be there. Even Morgon was convinced of that. All signs of the
priests had vanished at the same time she had. He was desperate to get her back. If even a fraction
of what Morgon said was true, she was in mortal danger.

And deep in his heart, he did not believe Morgon was crazy. Gods help them all!

A chill tore down his spine. "Has Maegan seen this army of child priests?" If she had, and
her captors knew it, he was certain he would never see her alive again. And with that thought came
the shattering realization that he was actually beginning to accept Morgon's truth.

"No, she hasn't," Maegan's uncle said. "She hasn't been to The Divide."

"Are you certain they'll release her if we agree to return the children?"

The skin at his nape prickled at the silence behind him and he swung around, enraged once
more. "Blazing starpits, you don't intend to return them, do you? You're handing her a death
sentence!"

Morgon shook his head. "Think, Governor. Think of Maegan. Do you really believe she
would endorse such an exchange?"

"The children aren't facing a death sentence." But he didn't have to see the denial in
Morgon's expression, because he knew in Maegan's view, they were. The future that had been
decided for them as warriors in an unlawful army assured it. He also knew with a sense of cold,
hard despair that she would sacrifice herself to protect them and the cause in which she so deeply
believed.

"What are we doing then?" he asked. "They won't just hand her back. There has to be some
way to extract her safely. That vessel is going nowhere."

"We wait," Morgon said, his stance unchanged, his very calmness a tinder for Alerik's
impatience and growing dread. "They'll make contact eventually and tell us what they want. And
then we'll strategize."

But when a curiously shaken Counselor Gloriana entered the port's control center with the
demand of the Taragon priests, not one person had anticipated it. The priests, it seemed, weren't
interested in exchanging Alerik Mariltar's wife for six children.

They demanded a council with Alerik Mariltar himself. On their vessel. He was to go
unaccompanied.

"Sacred hearts of Crillac." Sharm Foster's face was pale with shock. "This isn't a simple
meeting request in exchange for a hostage. We cannot trust them. They get their hands on a
Mariltar heir and we're headed for war."

* * * *

The priest had to be the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Maegan lay relaxed on her
stomach on the sleeping platform, her face propped in her hands, and followed Nargune's
movements about the room. His body moved with a fluid grace that was a pleasure in itself to
watch.

He paused not far from where she lay. A panel slid open in the wall to reveal rows of
neatly hung garments. In complete fascination, she watched as he shrugged out of his robe. His
smooth head and sleek, bare back gleamed like sabronze silk in the room's low light. His lower
body was encased in a tight pair of breeches. A thrill of pure, hot lust speared through her
body.

He carefully hung the garment, and turned.

In some weirdly disconnected corner of her mind, Maegan knew she should be shocked,
even repelled. And yet she wasn't. Surprised? A little, yet now it was all so clear. The bald head
was true to the race, even if the gender was hard to reconcile with the occupation.

Nargune was a woman.

A woman who looked at Maegan and allowed a slow, sensual smile to cross her face.

And Maegan was compelled to roll over, arch her back and stretch her arms above her
head. A shameless invitation.

The gorgeous female creature strode to the sleeping platform and leaned over her.
Stretched out as she was, Maegan was vulnerable and exposed, but she had no inclination to move.
She lay quietly as Nargune studied her with black, fathomless eyes. Tiny prickles danced over her
skin. Heat infused her lower belly.

The priest's torso was lean and muscled, with small breasts crowned by ruby nipples. Her
warm breath puffed gently over Maegan's face, and she reached out a finger to brush a strand of
hair off Maegan's cheek. She used the same finger to trace an intricate pattern across Maegan's
lips.

Maegan parted her lips and flicked out her tongue to touch the woman's finger. The action
earned her another slow, sensual smile. The priest's finger left her lips and drew a line down
between her breasts. Her clothing separated and Nargune pushed the pieces aside. Maegan heard
that curious hiss of breath, and something struggled for a fleeting instant to surface in her
memory.

Nargune lowered her head.

Margaine Confluence:/Fourth Rising
Pallas Four

"You're out of your slieking mind!" Sharm swung savagely away from Alerik and fixed on
Morgon Trion. "This is no longer the jurisdiction of the governor. This has become a Coalition
Council matter. Tell him he's wrong. It's a violation of the Treaty. A Mariltar heir is not a
bargaining chip."

Without taking his own gaze off Alerik, Morgon said, "How quickly do you want Maegan
back? You involve the Council, and these negotiations will be mired in political posturing for a
rotation."

In a control room filled with anxious energy, Morgon didn't so much as twitch. Alerik felt
his own ugly brew of emotions begin to calm. Both men were right. The governor should invoke
the Council. The husband stood resolutely behind Morgon. There wasn't a doubt in his mind what
he should do.

It was taking Sharm longer to accept that decision. He was pacing now, clearly torn, his
body rigid, his movements jerky with disapproval. Predictably, he tried again. "The Treaty is clear.
The Council will move quickly enough to--"

"The Treaty is not in play here." Morgon hadn't raised his voice at all, yet his words
seemed to resonate throughout the room. Pallas Four port authorities and Mariltar security
personnel stopped any pretense of being busy. Small sounds died away. "The rules don't exist. It's
unwise to believe that the Taragon priests ever bowed to anyone's rules but their own."

"The priests were neutralized at the end of the Great Conflict," Sharm snarled. "Their
powers were stripped from them by their own clan elders."

Alerik had an instant, clear memory of a discussion with Maegan, which now seemed so
long ago, even though it was only cycles. He heard himself say, "A people who do not want to be
integrated, cannot be integrated."

Morgon inclined his head. A small movement. "Now you're beginning to understand."

"Understand? Understand what?" Sharm threw up his hands and paced between them.
"You can't believe this, Alerik. The Taragon elders were as committed as the other nations. There
was no other choice. The Vision and the Treaty depended on it. Why would you say that?"

"It was something Maegan said." But when had he actually begun to believe it? "And you
just said it yourself. "There was no other choice.""

"And so they went along with the Vision while they secretly rebuilt their power base? And
the Council of Nine Nations, which includes elders from Taragon, was completely unaware of
this?"

"Not unaware." In the room behind Morgon, every gaze was focused on this enigmatic
man.

Alerik had a fleeting thought to clear the area of all but his own team. Despite the
extraordinary things being revealed, it didn't seem important. Maegan. His desperation to have her
back escalated.

Morgon, himself, had no concerns about an audience. "Too cautious and slow to respond,
perhaps," he said. "But not unaware."

"Blood of Cor!" Sharm halted his pacing. "You're saying the Council knows and has done
nothing." His agitation was rising in direct opposition to Morgon's extraordinary calm.

"A few, very few, key members know. The Vision had to be preserved and given a
chance."

An uncomfortable awareness prickled across Alerik's nape. Who was this man? His uncle
by marriage. Founder of Janas Corporation. A commander in the Second Fleet whose Coalition
credentials held up to the toughest scrutiny. Rebel architect of a network which regularly kidnapped
children. A man who had committed treason and allowed--no, encouraged--his niece to do the
same?