The Star Princess (3 page)

The condescension in the man's tone stunned Ché.

He narrowed his eyes. His voice was low and deadly. "I am quite familiar with my obligations, Councilman." He might not have guessed how quelling his glare was if Toren hadn't blanched.

"Did you truly think otherwise, Councilman?" Ché continued. "Did you think me weak of will because I was the first of the princes to ally myself with Ian Hamilton?"

"No, my lord!" The older man's expression was one of sincere dismay. He knew that he'd stepped over a line.

Good. In time, Toren and the others must learn to think of him as a man of power rather than the boy he once was. To succeed at that goal, Ché would never let them forget the king he would someday become.

"Klark had nothing to do with this plan, did he?" he wondered aloud after a moment.

"No. Your brother knows nothing of this. He has been left out of all communication since the incident on Earth— as you ordered."

Ché could usually tell if someone was lying to him. The ability served him well in the often-treacherous arena of Vash politics, which he'd navigated since his late-teen years. His gut told him that Toren was telling the truth: Klark was not an instigator in this marriage race.

At least the Vedla family's core of idealistic traditionalists was adhering to the rules of Klark's house arrest. His brother was to stay at home and out of all politics until such time it was determined that he was suitably rehabilitated— a goal for which Ché held himself personally accountable. "Reparation, atonement— those are the words we Vedlas must live by. No more disruption, or we will find ourselves the pariahs of the Vash Nadah." He directed a hard and searching stare at each council member in turn. "I swear it— I will not allow my family to be left behind while the rest of the Federation moves toward a future that demands flexibility. If we cling to our old ways while everyone else moves forward, we will become artifacts. Instead of building influence, we will gather dust. Is that clear?"

A chorus of "Yes, my lord," met his question.

"I will do my part. I will marry, as you have asked, before the crown prince says his vows. I will not fail my people." Ché brought his fist to his chest and bowed his head in the traditional Vash show of steadfastness. "You have my word as a descendant of the Eight."

A ripple of hushed sounds of relief went between the councilmen. The loss of his bachelorhood was a small price to pay for continued galactic stability, Ché reasoned.

Heaven help him.

"How long do I have?" Ché asked the councilmen, as if he were inquiring about the date of his execution.

"A wife should be chosen and a promise officially announced within three standard months," Toren replied. "That will give us time to rush through an arrangement and draw up the paperwork before the B'kah wedding takes place in seven months."

"A four-month betrothal period." Ché folded his arms over his stomach. "Engagements, by law, are supposed to run for one full standard year."

"We have found a way around that. Princess Tee'ah breached her promise with you several weeks before you were to have signed the marriage contract— which is what would have set the one-year clock ticking." Toren's eyes glinted. "Since that year was never legally commenced, as soon as we find your wife we'll backdate the new marriage contract to allow for a year's time."

Many late nights had gone into dreaming up this scheme. On the surface it looked simple. But it was not. More rules had to be broken than just what related to timing. Taking into account the intricacies of tradition, Ché couldn't help admiring the creativity and thoroughness with which these council members had devised a plan. Obviously, while he had been indulging in courtesans, these men were masterminding his future.

Ché combed his fingers through his close-cropped hair and sighed. There was a problem: "Aside from the current pack of four-year-olds"— royal Vash offspring were matched up at five— "all the eligible women are already promised."

"We have ways around that, as well," Toren assured him.

Che's mouth twisted ruefully. "We Vedlas certainly have our ways of getting things done," he said. He shook his head. "I can see it now— young princesses across the galaxy dreading that they will be the chosen one, the unfortunate girl sobbing as she is brought to me, a virgin sacrifice to the spurned Vedla prince."

Toren didn't share his smile.

Ché ran his fingers through his hair again. "Is there anything else?" he asked Toren.

The councilmen all shook their heads.

Ché stood, muttering to his hovering, openly sym-pathetic advisor, "I cannot believe I have been sitting here arranging my own marriage over tock and pastries."

The whole business was rather depressing.

He walked to the edge of the balcony. There, he clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out to sea as the council members conferred in hushed voices behind him, working out the finer details of his future.

He tried to conjure recollections of the eligible women, princesses, and ladies— virgins all— that he'd met at court on his world and abroad over the years. None came to mind. All were lost in a blur of stilted conversations made while sipping expensive liqueurs and wearing stiff ceremonial uniforms. Not one woman had conjured in him more than a passing interest.

But, then, he'd been promised. He hadn't been looking at the women as marriage candidates, or perhaps he would have viewed them differently, considered each as the possible mate to whom he'd be faithful for the rest of his life, the woman who would share his bed, her body, their children. His heirs.

He wondered offhandedly if he'd come to love the woman Toren and his cronies chose for him. His parents, while not demonstrative of affection as some couples were outside their private chambers, appeared to have come to respect and love each other after many years together.

And what did they, his parents, think of this plan? Toren said he'd come here without the knowledge of Che's father, the Vedla king, but Ché suspected otherwise. The king was a Vedla in the truest sense of the word; he'd want the historical superiority of the family to remain intact. He would not disapprove of this meddling.

Meddling? Rather, it was planning. That was the better term, yes. Che's life had always been predetermined by others, mapped out from start to finish, even before his birth. He operated on the principle of duty over personal desires. The good of the people outweighs that of the individual. It said so in the Treatise of Trade. He followed that document to the letter, lived the prescribed life, pleased his elders, all with the amelioration of an opulent lifestyle.

An opulent lifestyle that had become curiously bland.

The sea glimmered in soft tones under a muted pale purple sky. Eireya was an endless, wide-open panorama, and yet he felt so very penned in.

Ché turned his attention back to the councilmen huddled together with his advisor. The scene typified his life's perpetual condition, the constant coddling and others' desire to please him, their relentless scrutiny. He wouldn't mind escaping it all for a time before he surrendered to it for the remainder of his very public life.

His pulse jumped. This was perfect timing for a getaway, actually. His father would soon be home and would take over responsibility for the household. Palace security would continue to monitor Klark. Che's presence at the palace would not be needed for weeks, likely months.

Yes, this wife-hunting would take the councilmen far longer than they thought, what with the intricate promises and alliances binding the eight families together, and the fact that all of their maneuvering would have to be done under the cloak of utmost secrecy. It would not do to have it appear to the entire Vash Nadah that the rejected Vedla prince had to beg for a bride. Their predicament would give Ché plenty of time to take one last swing around the galaxy before he found himself tied down for good with a woman he may not like but was required by law to worship and protect.

And yet, where could he go? A Vash resort didn't hold appeal. He sought a reprieve from this pampered lifestyle he'd come to find tedious. He also didn't want something too remote or primitive. He enjoyed an escape, yes, but appreciated a hot bath and a fine meal at the end of it.

He lifted his hand, tapping one finger against his lips. And then it came to him— a world that wasn't at the edge of civilization, but close enough to have a view of it:

Earth.

A quick triumphant laugh escaped him. Earth was the last place his staff would dream of finding him, living amongst its "barbarians." And plaguing him from the day he'd returned to Eireya was the sense he'd left Earth without exploring or experiencing all he might have wanted.

An image he held of Earth's blue sky coalesced into a pair of eyes of an equally unusual, arresting hue. Ilana Hamilton, the crown prince's sister, lived on Earth. The world rather fascinated him, its brashness, its novelty, its spirit.

Does Earth fascinate you, or does the woman?

Che's mouth compressed. They'd met but once! Or, more correctly, they'd seen each other once. They were strangers, connected by a highly irregular string of events. Oddly, the same events now led him back to her. Certainly, she'd remember him. She'd remember Klark.

A shadow passed briefly over Che's good cheer. Perhaps he should ask Ian to intercede on his behalf, to notify Ilana of his visit. Decorum demanded it, in fact. But surely the woman would be amenable to showing him to a suitable temporary habitat without her brother's intervention. Ché didn't want to tip his hand or cause a huge political situation.

He'd have to give the matter some thought. Either way, he knew where and how to find Ilana. She dwelled in the Earth city of Los Angeles, and Vedla intelligence would know the precise location of her abode. It would be in the controlled access database, and Ché would be able to find the information without arousing curiosity.

There, on the most godforsaken world he knew, he would lose the persona of prince without sacrificing too many comforts, and sort out his life in a blessedly anonymous fashion. Then, when he returned to Eireya, he'd be ready to good-naturedly beat Ian Hamilton-the-Earth-dweller-crown-prince to the altar in the name of Vash superiority.

Chapter Two

Ilana Hamilton sat in her car clutching a hand-delivered, surprisingly old-fashioned, gilt-edged wedding invitation. She'd finally gotten brave. Or was it desperate? Either way, she'd pulled the letter from her purse— the letter that had languished unopened on her kitchen counter all week, while a small, silly, irrationally optimistic part of her had hoped that denying its presence would cause the letter to vanish without a trace. Instead, it had loomed over her personal happiness like an executioner's axe.

She swallowed, her skin tingling. It wasn't the wedding that was the problem; she'd love to see her twin brother tie the knot. It was the getting-there part she couldn't deal with. Attending the wedding meant— she squeezed her eyes shut— flying to another planet. Yet another freaky moment in a life that read like front-page, tabloid news in the National Enquirer.

It hadn't always been this way.

When extraterrestrials made contact with Earth, life changed forever for everyone on the planet— but Ilana's life had to have changed more than anyone else's. Her divorced mother had married one of the aliens, Romlijhian B'kah, who'd turned out to be a king— the ruler of the entire galaxy. Even seven years after the fact, it still sounded bizarre. It probably always would. But Jas was happy, happier that Ilana had ever seen her, and Ilana loved her stepfather for that. Rom had no children, but treated Ilana and her twin brother Ian as his own, even going as far as choosing Ian as his heir. Which meant Ian would take Rom's place someday. Her dorky hunk of a brother ruler of the galaxy. Fact, not fiction.

Ilana's lips thinned. She stared at the sealed envelope in her hands. Now another extraterrestrial was joining the family.

Ian's fiancee was a head-to-toe rebel who'd knocked the stuffing out of his shirt— a lot of it, anyway— and had showed the guy how to live, something Ilana had never been able to do for her dear, way-too-serious, four-minutes-older big brother… though not for lack of trying.

Ilana's stomach clenched. Her brother's marriage would take place in the same palace on Sienna where her mother had exchanged vows with Rom. Ilana hadn't returned there in all the years since. When she'd landed back on Earth, she could have kissed the ground. That the "ground" was the greasy, sun-baked tarmac at LAX said it all. Barfing for a week each way while stoned on valium and seasickness patches had been a singularly horrific experience that she didn't care to repeat. Ever.

Fortunately, politics brought Jas and sometimes Rom to Earth and Los Angeles at least once a year. From those visits and conversations using the three-dimensional image-phone installed in her condo, Ilana kept in touch with the family she missed… the family who thought that her budding career didn't allow the time off that a trip to Sienna required. The family that thought she was a workaholic and didn't know the pitiful truth. The family that didn't know Ilana Hamilton was a fear-of-flying school dropout.

She tipped her head back, digging her fingers into her hair and holding it away from her face. She had to get over this; she had to. She wasn't a sissy about anything else in her life. She was in control, even daring. But not when it came to boarding a spaceship. She'd tried hypno-therapy, clinics, and classes— even "Fly Without Fear For Dummies." What fearful flyer could resist a sixteen-week class with a name like that?

It was with high hopes and a dry mouth that she'd gone to that first meeting. All was fine until the instructors began to describe the end-of-course field trip, a flight out of LAX, gushing on and on about how much fun the class would have celebrating their newfound guaranteed-in-writing ability to survive airplane flying. Ilana was close to hyperventilating.

Flying the friendly skies of United was a completely different ball game from launching her puny, candy-ass, five-foot-seven body into space in something that looked like a triangular, stainless-steel Frisbee. But she didn't see the point in hanging around to explain, so she left.