The Consort (Tellaran Series)

Ariel MacArran

The Consort

By Ariel MacArran

©2014 Ariel MacArran

The Consort
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be produced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Kindle Edition License Notes

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Cover Design: Steven James Catizone

Published by Here Be Dragons

Also available in paperback publication

“
Please
. . .”

Alari slid her hands across the chill marble toward the goddess, the aged stone rough beneath her palms as she pressed her forehead to the floor.

The warm, golden light of morning streaming in from the high arching crystal windows set the colors and jewels of the sanctuary ablaze but the floor where she lay prostrate was as cold as the knot in her stomach. For three days now Alari had secluded herself here in Lashima’s innermost sanctuary of the Imperial Palace, praying from the time the sun rose over the Empress’ city until long after it set.  Her words had long since crumbled from elaborate invocations in the ancient tongue to simple pleas. Only the priestesses who served the goddess were permitted this most sacred space—priestesses and the Imperial family.

As First Imperial Daughter of the Az-kye Empire, Alari could enter this sanctuary.

And her betrothed, Jazan of the Az’rayah, could not.

Alari raised a tear-stained face to meet Lashima’s gentle gaze. The goddess’ dark hair was loose around her lush figure, one hand holding her cloak of stars and the other reaching outward, her long graceful fingers slightly spread to alter lives through her touch.

“Help me
. . .
”

Alari had never been particularly devout. She celebrated the festivals of the gods and goddesses for the fun to be had, attended religious ceremonies as required of a princess of the Imperial House, but she had not prayed since childhood—and certainly never like this.

Today she would be mated to Jazan.

Pleading had not swayed her mother, the empress, from this course. Jazan was of excellent lineage, a powerful warrior and a handsome one as well. This marriage would strengthen the Imperial House in a time when it very much needed strengthening. No intervention from the god of Fate these many months had interrupted the myriad forms and rituals of the formal courtship required for a royal marriage.

Certainly the mere fact she did not love him and did not wish to be bound to him had not dissuaded Jazan. He would be mate to—and someday father of—an empress; Jazan, ambitious son of an ambitious clan, would not let something as inconsequential as his betrothed’s happiness stand in his way.

The courtship rituals were completed, every tradition observed, and the High Priestess of Lashima, goddess of Love, had given her benediction. The ceremony would take place at midday and by this time tomorrow she and Jazan would be bound to one another.

There was no escape.

Unless Lashima herself intervened.

Alari had little hope that the goddess would. But there was nothing left to do now save pray. She pressed her cheek to the floor, wetting the marble with her tears.

“
Please . . .”

“How long are we supposed to wait here?” Kyndan asked Nisara, barely moving his mouth. He shifted his weight slightly, still facing the elaborately carved double doors to the reception room. The minutes had ticked by as they stood in the polished hallway of the Az’anti clanhouse and still the doors hadn’t opened to admit them. For this mission Kyndan had undergone neuro-accelerant linguistic training to supplement the Az-kye he’d learned during his captivity here. He was fluent in that language but he spoke now in Tellaran.

“Until the Az’anti clan leader formally welcomes us,” Nisara murmured. 

Kyndan allowed himself a very quiet—very annoyed— sigh.

He was a Commander in the Tellaran Fleet, not a diplomat. Certainly he should not be the one attending the opening ceremony of the peace talks on the Az-kye homeworld. He’d spent almost a year enslaved on this fucking planet and gods knew he had no desire to ever set foot on it again.

Except that his father, Admiral Maere, had requested he represent the Realm at the opening ceremony.

As had his sister, Kinara, who through her marriage to an Az-kye was now leader—
Ti’antah—
of the Az’anti clan, as well as the architect of the peace talks between the Tellaran Realm and the Az-kye Empire.

Kyndan had some choice words for both of them.

Not the least of which involved being kept waiting here at attention, stifling in his dark blue and white dress uniform, to see his own sister. That same little sister whom, after their mother died when she was eight and he eleven, he’d coached to throw a darshball, comforted when she awoke from nightmares all that first year, taught how to fire a blaster.

Hell, whose
nose
he used to wipe.

At his side, Lieutenant Nisara de’Cator adjusted the set of her shoulders, her own blue and white dress uniform spotless and her pale blond hair worn in a restrained up-knot. Nisara, of course, couldn’t
wait
to return to Az-kye.

Despite once having been her bed companion, Kyndan bore her no ill will for falling in love with another; their relationship had years ago transformed to a warm friendship. Nisara had cared enough for him, so treasured their friendship she’d joined his sister months ago in breaching Az-kye space on the most poorly thought out act of revenge ever attempted by a Tellaran crew. Nisara hadn’t learned he still lived until long after she’d been enslaved herself and fallen very much in love with an Az-kye warrior, Dael.

Personally, Kyndan didn’t get the attraction.

Usually the Az-kye were dark-haired with eyes so black the pupil was nearly impossible to see. The women had pale to warm golden skin and tended toward the delicate with some genuinely distracting curves. But the men of the warrior class could only be described as savage, animal skin–wearing clods.

Two such brutes flanked either side of the double doors where Kyndan and Nisara stood at attention. Both men had sword hilts visible over their right shoulders and the beading marking them as warriors of his sister’s clan over their left.

Tall for a Tellaran, Kyndan himself was a scant inch shorter than one and a bit taller than the other warrior but he had no desire to tangle with either. Especially since it had been impressed upon him by the Fleet brass that his task was to play nice on this mission. He could still see Admiral Henlon, his bushy mustache silver against his dark-skinned face as he delivered the lecture.

“This is the first time they’re treating Tellarans as equals, Commander. You’re going to their homeworld to represent all of us. I expect you to comport yourself with the utmost dignity.”

Kyndan extended his neck a millimeter against the pinch of the dress jacket’s collar.

Why does “dignity” always mean such godsdamned uncomfortable clothes?

“You know,” Kyndan murmured, his eyes never leaving the shut doors in front of them, “when Kinara was nine, she decided to give herself a haircut. I have holos.”

Nisara gave a choked laugh. She barely had time to stifle her smile as the doors finally opened and an Az-kye woman, her hair streaked with gray, emerged.

Kyndan recognized Laric, one of his sister’s attendants, from his time as a slave in that household. Unlike then, Laric now met his eye respectfully.

Maybe there is an upside to this mission after all.

Nisara straightened smartly. “Commander Kyndan Maere of the Tellaran Fleet to see the honored clan leader of the Az’anti.”

Laric inclined her head. “You are welcome to this house. Know that the empress’ peace is upon you and you shall draw no sword within.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.” Kyndan smirked. “Since we don’t have swords.”

Laric blinked, her mouth working for a moment. Az-kye honored tradition above all else and she was completely thrown when he deviated from the ritual greeting.

“Oh, for gods’ sake, Kyndan,” came his sister’s impatient call from inside the room. “Leave poor Laric alone and get in here!”

Huffing a sigh the maid stepped aside to allow them entrance. Kyndan gave her a grin as he passed and her nostrils flared in disapproval. Az-kye warriors may need to be stoic in public but Kyndan was happy to remind her—and anyone else—that those rules didn’t apply to Tellaran men.

Now nearly seven months pregnant and cutely cumbersome, Kinara was helped to her feet by Aidar, her Az-kye mate. While they shared their father’s height, his sister had their mother’s straight red hair while he favored his father’s warm brown waves. Kinara’s hair had grown longer since he’d seen her, her face chubbier, but her blue eyes, so like his own, were bright with welcome.

“How’s my little sister?” Kyndan asked.

“Not so little anymore.” Kinara laid her hand on the curve of her abdomen, a little out of breath from crossing the room.

“Wow, Kinna,” Kyndan said with a mock frown at her rounded belly. “You’re
huge
.”

She punched his arm. “I’m happy to see you too,” she grumbled.

“Ow,” he complained, rubbing his bicep. “I hope that kid inherits your right cross.”

“Don’t beat him up, Kinna,” Nisara said, with a sidelong look at Kyndan as Kinara hugged her in welcome. “You’d be the second mommy-to-be to do it this week and it’s getting embarrassing for the crew.”

Aidar frowned and Kyndan held up a hand toward the warrior in protest. “Hey, that first one got me with a sucker punch.”

Aidar blew his breath out, his blond hair, so unusual for his people, gold in this light. “You are joking.”

Kyndan snorted. “You don’t understand humor, Az-kye.”

“I do not understand
Tellaran
humor.” Aidar gave a solemn nod. “It is agreeable to see you, Kyndan Maere.”

Kyndan blinked. His and his brother-in-law’s first meeting involved trying to blast each other’s ships to hell at the Az-kye–Tellaran border. His capture and enslavement by Aidar hadn’t done much in the way of forging a friendship either but regaining his freedom and seeing how much his sister loved this warrior had at least mitigated the worst of his aversion.

And it was hard to hate someone who loved Kinara so much.

“It’s agreeable to see you as well,” Kyndan said, not missing how his sister’s face lit up. “I’m being polite,” he muttered at Kinara.

“And with the peace accords,” Nisara said, “that makes
two
historic events this week.”

Aidar gave a short, deep laugh.

“See?” Kinara threw a smile at Aidar. “He gets
good
Tellaran jokes.”

“Maybe my humor will improve now that I’m not standing at attention in the hall,” he said with a pointed look at his sister.

Kinara winced. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t intend to keep you waiting out there so long. I was having a last-minute consult with a Servant of the Empress. To kick off the Festival of Ren’thar Her Imperial Majesty will be giving her official sanction to allow peace talks to begin.” Kinara shifted her weight. “There was a question about—uh, protocol.”

Kyndan’s brow creased. “What kind of question?”

Kinara’s face flushed. “About whether you would be permitted to stand with me when Empress Azara gives her benediction for the talks.”

“I’m here as the Tellaran representative. Where am I supposed to stand? At the back door?” Kyndan’s nostrils flared. “Is that ‘Tellarans have no honor’ thing still an issue?” he asked sharply. “They don’t think we’re good enough even to
speak
to?”

“No, it’s just they’re having a little trouble—”