Ghost Legion (29 page)

"You were drawn to me like a comet is drawn to its sun. You
didn't know why you came, what you sought . . . until you set foot on
my ship. Then you felt it. Then you knew. You wanted what I had,
Dion. That is why you came. And that is why your cousin has come."

" 'The taint in our blood,' as Lady Maigrey said to me once."
Dion smiled faintly, sadly, at the memory. He shook his head, drew
back from the past, returned to the present. "But if that is
true, my lord, why has this cousin—if that's really who and
what he is—waited? It seems to me that he would have chosen—
My lord?"

Sagan did not respond. He had abruptly walked away. His back was
turned; he was staring out the window. Dion saw, by the lambent light
of the stars, that the Warlord's right fist was clenched tight, so
tight it trembled with the force. The knuckles-of the clenched hand
were white, as if the bones were laid bare. His face, reflected in
the steelglass, was cold, hard, and bleak.

Bleak as the moon on which Maigrey had died, cold as the bier of
stones he had made for her.

Dion's heart ached. He hadn't thought, when he'd spoken her name, of
the pain this must bring to the man who had loved her, who had been
doomed to watch her die in his arms.

What can I say? Dion wondered. What comfort can I offer? What words
exist that can possibly assuage such bitter grief? I should not even
be seeing this, he realized. Sagan wouldn't thank me for intruding.
He doesn't want my sympathy; certainly not my pity.

Dion crossed to the opposite side of the chamber, poured himself a
glass of water. He drank it slowly. The thought came to him of what
it would be like to lose Kamil. More terrible than that, to know that
he was responsible for her death. The memory of a dream came to him,
of his shieldmaid falling at his side, of blows raining down on her,
of himself helpless, unable to protect her....

"The question is, my liege, what do you do now?" Sagan's
voice was harsh, unexpectedly close.

Dion's hand jerked; he nearly spilled the water. Hastily, he set the
glass down, banished the dream, turned to face the Warlord, who had
come up behind him silently, unobserved.

"What do you mean, what do I do?" Dion asked, irritated at
having been caught off guard. "What
can
I do? If this
cousin even exists—and we have no proof that he does, only
conjecture—we don't know where he is—"

"He exists, Your Majesty. Have no doubt of that. And he's told
us where: Vallombrosa."

"Nonsense. It's a dead planet. There's nothing there—"

"On the contrary, my liege. We have been made to
think
there
is nothing there."

"Very well, my lord, what would
you
do?" Dion
demanded, losing patience. "What is your advice and counsel?"

Sagan fell silent, studied him, measured him. "Do you truly want
it?"

"Yes, my lord." Dion sighed. "I presume that this is
the reason you chose to come to me in the first place."

"I did not choose to come. I was commanded to come," Sagan
returned bitterly. "But now that I am here, I will give you my
advice, though I don't expect you to take it."

The Warlord drew forth a leather thong that he wore around his neck,
well hidden by the thick folds of the cowl that lay on his shoulders.
He gave the thong a swift, sharp tug. It broke, came off in his hand.
He held out the thong—and the unlovely jewel that dangled from
it—to Dion.

"This is my counsel, my liege. Take the starjewel and place it
in the space-rotation bomb. The jewel is the triggering device; it
will activate the bomb. Travel to Vallombrosa and launch the bomb
into the planet's heart. Detonate it, destroy everything for a radius
of a million miles. And when you have done that, Sovereign, send in
your army and your navy and command them to destroy everything for a
million miles more."

Dion stared at the Warlord, aghast. "You can't be serious! If
Vallombrosa
is
populated, then I would be committing genocide,
slaughtering untold members of innocent people! You know I couldn't
possibly do such a thing. And neither would you, my lord."

Sagan held the starjewel in his hand. Once, long ago, the beautiful
rare jewel, carved in the shape of an eight-pointed star, had shone
as brightly as the true stars in the night sky above. Now it was
blacker than the wry night itself.

"Do not be so quick to judge me, Dion." the Warlord said
gravely, his gaze on the jewel. He suddenly clenched his fist over
it. "The danger is real. If it were me, I would be very tempted
to end it...."

Dion shook his head. "We know nothing for certain. We don't know
if this cousin is even alive, much less that he intends me harm—"

"If he did not, my liege, would he be doing this?" The
Warlord held up his scarred palm.

"He wants to get our attention," Dion admitted. "That
much is obvious. If only my uncle .. . Damn it, how could he do such
a thing? He was deeply religious—"

"Oh, yes, he was religious. He leaned on his religion, used it
as a crutch to prop up his own weakness. I've no doubt that every
morning after spending the night coupling with his sister, Amodius
prayed for God's forgiveness. And he blamed God when he lacked the
strength to give up his obsession. Witness what he does when the
illicit relationship bears fruit. Instead of taking responsibility,
he hands it back to God. A judgment for his sins.' A judgment, all
right. But it will not fall on his head. It will fall on yours."

Sagan thrust the star jewel into a pocket of his robes. "At
least
my
father admitted, accepted, and paid for his sin."

Dion recalled, then, that Derek Sagan himself was the product of an
illicit relationship, a brutal crime, a father who could not control
his passions....

"Unless, of course, Amodius was more devious than we give him
credit for," Sagan added quietly, almost to himself.

"What do you mean, my lord?" Dion came out of a troubled
reverie.

"He could have deposited the child anonymously on someone's
doorstep. Cast die baby adrift in a boat of rushes, so to speak. What
are the odds that anyone who found the child would have discovered
his true identity?"

"You found me," Dion pointed out.

"Ah, but you were
meant
to be found," Sagan said
dryly. "By giving his son to Garth Pantha, who knew the child's
heritage, knew his lineage, Amodius also meant his boy to be 'found.'
Think about it Do you begin to understand what I mean about the
danger?"

"Yes," Dion conceded. "And if our cousin is this
dangerous, it seems to me that our wisest course would be to keep the
space-rotation bomb safely hidden from him. Not send it to him."

"Judging by Dixter's reports, it may not remain hidden for
long," Sagan remarked gravely.

"The so-called ghosts? Do you know what they are?"

"I have an idea, but I would prefer not to speculate. It is
imperative, however, that we learn the truth."

"You must go to him," said Dion quietly.

"Yes, my liege, I must go to him."

"Are you certain? If you're right, you could be in danger—"

"Not me, my liege," stated Sagan, mouth twisting. "I
am the one he wants."

Dion let out a held breath, slowly, softly. "Yes. I see. Of
course, you're right. All of this: sending you to hear the doctor,
the 'Ghost Legion,' the attack on Snaga Ohme's—"

"—done deliberately to draw me out."

"But he must believe you to be dead. . . ."

"I repeat—you knew I was alive. He does, too."

"But why? What does he want?" Dion demanded.

"He seeks me as you sought me. And for the same reason."

"And you think he'll trust you?"

"I can make him trust me, my liege."

And you can make
me
trust you, Dion added silently. But do I?
Is your ambition truly dead ... or is it merely hidden beneath those
shabby robes? Who are you? Lord Sagan or Brother Paenitens? Do
you
know for certain? What is it that
you
want?...

"What do I want?" Sagan asked, repeating aloud the words
the king had spoken only in his thoughts.

The Warlord did not answer, but turned his back, walked over to the
window, stared out at the stars. At length he said, "I chose
penitence as my name when I left the world. I meant to repent, to
seek God's forgiveness, my own redemption." He glanced around.
"Do you know what the other brethren in the abbey call me? The
Unforgiven. They know the truth, you see. There has been no answer to
my prayers. No response. Only silence. Empty, terribly silence. Has
the Lady Maigrey come to you, my liege?"

Startled at the strange and unexpected question, Dion grappled for an
answer. "I ... I thought I saw her . .. her spirit, that is . .
. the night of the dedication."

He thought back; the memory returned to him and he was surprised at
how vivid it was. "She said nothing to me, but I felt comforted.
She stayed with me until the end of my speech and, before she left,
she raised her hand—as if in warning. Of course," he
added, realizing suddenly how foolish he must sound, "I was
under a great deal of stress. And I was thinking about her. Small
wonder that I imagined I saw her—"

"She has not come to me," said Sagan in quiet, impassive
tones.

Dion made no response, had no idea what to say.

The Warlord turned his gaze back to the night. "I want to hear
one word from the Creator, an answer to my prayers." He clenched
his fist. "Even if it is only to tell me that there is no hope.
That I am damned!"

Dion caught a glimpse of the man's soul, saw it a vast, black scape
of desperation and anger, bitter regret and despair. And he was
doomed to walk the charred and desolate plains alone now, lacking,
apparently, even the guiding hand of his own faith. For these last
three years, he had tread the barren ground in abject humility and
penitence, sacrificing his pride and ambition at every roadside
shrine. And, in return, no balm, no comfort, no spring of sweet
water. Nothing—Dion saw suddenly, clearly—but another
temptation. A luring voice to draw him off the path and into a night
from which the Warlord might never return.

Dion had been raised an atheist, but he had been forced to abandon
his complacent atheistic view of the universe. An atheist assumes he
has all the answers. At seventeen, Dion had assumed
he
had all
the answers. Innumerable perplexing and inexplicable occurrences had
taught him otherwise. And now he was left with only questions.

Did I truly heal Tusk? Or was his own will to live responsible for
what had looked like a miracle? Did I truly see the spirit of Lady
Maigrey? Or was the eerie vision nothing more than an electrical
short circuit in my brain? Is this sudden appearance of a mysterious
cousin some sort of cosmic test? Or is it a random event, brought
about by the inability of a weak man to control a sordid obsession?
Is it a judgment? Or just some stupid, shabby—albeit
potentially dangerous—happening?

Whatever it is, Sagan is right. I have to have answers. I have to
know the truth.

And so does he.

"Very well, my lord," Dion said. "You will go,
discover if my cousin truly lives. If so, find out what he means by
these seemingly threatening actions. What does he want of us? We may
have misjudged him. I hope we have. Contact Sir John Dixter for
anything you might need—"

"Is it necessary to inform Dixter, Your Majesty?" Sagan
asked, expression darkening.

"Yes, it is," said Dion, firm, resolute.

The Warlord gave the king a measuring glance. "Very well, my
liege. I suppose it is for the best. But no one else must know. No
one! Not your best friend, not your secretary, not the captain of the
guard, not your wife . .. not your mistress."

Dion wondered uneasily if Sagan knew the truth or if he was merely
emphasizing a point. Too late, it occurred to the king— feeling
his skin flushed and burning—that if Sagan didn't know the
truth before, he probably knew now.

"If word of this were to leak out . . ." the Warlord
continued ominously.

"I quite understand, my lord." Dion ended the matter.

Sagan did not pursue it. "At any rate, I doubt if Dixter could
lay his hand on what I want as readily as I can myself—a
spaceplane, unmarked, unarmed. An older model, the type used by
interplanetary missionaries prior to the Revolution."

Dion smiled wanly. "I doubt if the navy has those currently in
stock. But perhaps some sort of concealed weaponry—"

"Your Majesty forgets the vows that I have taken," the
Warlord interrupted. "Or perhaps he imagines that I have
forgotten?"

Dion made no reply. He stood silent, on his guard, carefully
keeping—this time—his thoughts to himself.

Sagan smiled, chill and dark. "Still, there is information I
will need that Dixter might be able to acquire for me. Tell him that
I will be in contact."

The Warlord gazed at Dion searchingly, intently. "He will demand
your sanction, my liege. To give it, you must place implicit trust in
me. Do you, my liege? If not» then I cannot be of use to you.
Brother Paenitens will leave and never return."

Dion hesitated. He recalled the glimpse of that abandoned soul. He's
testing me again, Dion thought, suddenly resentful. And the question
came to him, unbidden: He may be, but who is testing him?

"I will give Dixter instructions to provide you with whatever
you need, my lord."

Drawing the hood of his cowl up over his head, the Warlord—now
once more a humble churchman—inclined his hooded head in silent
acquiescence. Dion placed his hand on the manual override that would
operate the door, was startled to feel Sagan's own strong, gaunt hand
close over his wrist.

"A word of caution, Dion. From now on, do not use the
bloodsword."