Ghost Legion (64 page)

"I didn't know who the man was. Now I do. This vision was the
reason I left Dion," Astarte continued. "I had to get away.
I had to open myself to the Goddess, rid myself of any distracting
thoughts or feelings. I hoped she would make the vision clear. At
least now I can put a name to the stranger's face." She
shivered.

Kamil almost said something, stammered, fell silent.

She couldn't believe she was thinking what she was thinking-

If I'd been listening to this tale of visions and faces in dreams in
broad daylight, I would have laughed at myself for taking what
Astarte says seriously. It was a dream she had—nothing more.

But here, in this eerie, cold, dark room of stone, lit only by the
light of a dying fire and a candle, trapped, afraid for myself and
for Dion—for him more than myself, it is suddenly very easy to
believe.

And Kamil wanted most desperately to believe.

"What?" Astarte pressed her. "Do you have an idea?"

"Maybe the Goddess is trying to tell you that there is a way out
of this. All Dion has to do is give up the crown. Abdicate. You have
what you want from him. He's given you a baby. Flaim can have what he
wants—to be king."

"And would he be a good one, do you think?" Astarte asked,
frowning. "After what he did to us? To my people? A man who
resorts to murder, abduction—"

"He did that out of necessity," Kamil argued. "Rulers
have to do things that they don't like sometimes. Read Machiavelli.
Dion has. Rulers have to be ruthless sometimes."

"Do they? Is Dion ruthless?" Astarte asked softly.

"No, he isn't," said Kamil, triumphant, "and that's
why he suffers so. What Lord Sagan said tonight, about the test,
makes sense. Which of the cousins proved strongest? Flaim did. Dion
isn't really suited to being a king. He takes everyone's burdens on
himself. He worries about people. He tries to reason with them when
he should be firm, tell them right out what to do and what not to do.
And then make them do it."

"It seems to me you have described a very good ruler,
albeit"—Astarte sighed—"an unhappy man."

"There, you see." Kamil tried to convince herself.

"Dion has been a good king," Astarte pursued. "He has
tried to bring peace, order, stability to the galaxy and, for the
most part he has succeeded."

"He has succeeded," Kamil repeated bitterly. "And look
what it's done for him!"

She picked up the candle and stalked angrily back to her bed. Blowing
out the flame, she set the candle down on the bedstand with a sharp
clatter, then crawled into the covers and crouched beneath them like
a cornered animal, wanting to leap and rend and tear.

"Why don't you hate me, Astarte?" Kamil demanded suddenly.
"It would be easier... ."

"So you could hate me back? I don't hate you, but I do envy you,
if that's any comfort." Astarte slid down among her sheets.

"
You
envy me," Kamil repeated, scoffing.

"Yes, envy. Tell me"—Astarte's voice was altered,
tight, sad— "tell me how you love Dion."

Kamil was at first startled, then offended, then suspicious. But then
she thought angrily, Why not?

"All right. I'll tell you. When I hold him in my arms, I'm
jealous of the very flesh and bones of him that get in my way. I want
to gather him, all of him, inside me and keep him there forever. And
when he's inside me, I want to flow over him, seep inside him, become
the blood that nourishes him, the air that sustains him. This is how
I love him. I care about him. Only him. He's all that matters to me.
I don't care about any of the rest."

"Do you see now why I envy you?" Astarte asked.

Neither said anything more. Neither realized she had said too much.

Two men sat in a brightly lit room in the dead of night, listening.

"There you have it, my friend!" cried Flaim triumphantly.
Leaning back in his chair, he smiled at Garth Pantha. "Problem
solved. A royal heir. With my face. Prefabricated, so to speak. No
fuss, no bother. Her Majesty is pregnant. What truly remarkable luck.
I would be a fool not to take advantage of it."

"By doing what, my prince?"

"By altering my plans slightly. I must marry her, of course."

"Of course." Pantha shrugged. "Which presumes she does
not already have a husband."

"Of course."

"Which presumes that blood is
not
thicker than water."

"When my cousin's blood is spilled," Flaim, said, smiling,
"I will provide you with a sample for analysis."

Pantha grunted. "Tusca went to visit Sagan tonight."

"I am aware of that. He was drunk."

"Tusca's clever."

"Not clever enough to keep himself out of Sagan's clutches.
Perhaps Tusca has reconsidered, wants to toss in his hand. If he ever
wants to see
his
wife and child again, he knows he'd better
keep his money in the game."

"Has that electronic malfunction in the Warlord's room been
cleared up?"

"No, my friend, nor will it be." Flaim laid a soothing hand
on Pantha's thin shoulder. "It is Sagan's doing, of course."

"If he had nothing to hide, he would not bother!" Pantha
said testily.

"What do
you
have to hide, then, my friend?" Flaim
asked, teasing. "Is the equipment in
your
room
functional?"

"You are being flippant," Pantha rebuked, stern and
displeased. "The matter is serious—"

"I am aware of that," Flaim returned. A flash of cold steel
in the voice silenced the older man. "Tomorrow will be the test.
Sagan will prove his loyalty to me tomorrow. Once my cousin Dion lays
his hand upon the bloodsword, he is finished. Sagan knows this, and
if he tries in any way to dissuade him . . ." Flaim shrugged.

Pantha shook his head, unconvinced.

"You will see, my friend. You will see. Sagan is mine. And now
let us leave this darkness to our Lady-friend, if she is here, and
make our way to our beds."

Flaim made a graceful bow to the shadows and left the surveillance
room and the night to the dead.

Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere ...

William Shakespeare,
King Henry VI
, Part One, Act V, Scene iv

At midday, Vallombrosa's double sun hung directly over the alcazar.
The sky was cloudless, as if sucked dry by the heat. The suns—one
yellow and large, the other small and red— glared on
Vallombrosa with a perpetual, leering squint. Arms of flames, red and
yellow, swirled from one sun to the other, disembodied hands, holding
floating eyeballs.

The suns had reached their zenith, stared down upon a large courtyard
located in the center of the alcazar. Built roughly along the lines
of a quadrangle surrounded by tall, bleached-bone-colored stone
walls, the courtyard was open to the air and was the alcazar's
recreation area.

Black streaks on the walls marked where hard rubber balls had
bounced. Lines in the gravel drew the crude boundaries for some sort
of game. Rows of wooden benches, for the convenience of spectators,
sheltered beneath an overhang, huddled in the shadows.

But there were few shadows today. The suns, directly overhead, bathed
the arena in hot, harsh light that reflected with blinding brilliance
off the hard-packed playing field, the bleached white walls. The heat
was not oppressive, for the air was cold, the suns wanned the grounds
pleasantly. But Sagan blinked in the bright light when he emerged
with the prince from the building's dark interior, pulled his cowl
over his head.

Flaim was charming. He might have been leading his guests onto the
lawn of a manor house to play at croquet until tea time. He was
particularly attentive to Astarte. The prince led the queen by the
hand (with the utmost deference and respect) to a bench in a far
corner, one of the few shaded areas in the quad. He fussed over her
comfort, ordered cushions brought to ease the hardness of the bench's
wooden surface, and offered refreshments. All of his attentions were
politely and chillingly declined.

Baroness DiLuna had always openly despised this priestess daughter of
hers, considering her soft and weak. Sagan, watching Astarte maintain
her dignity and composure in this seemingly hopeless and dangerous
situation, would have advised the baroness to reconsider her
assessment.

Kamil sat down beside the queen. Sagan had not, until now, met
Olefsky's daughter, Maigrey's godchild. He eyed the slender, boyish
woman with a feeling of relief. He had steeled himself to see in her
a resemblance to Maigrey, if not in form (which would have been
unlikely) then in spirit. He looked for Maigrey's brash, reckless
courage, her fierce pride and love of honor, all tempered by the
glimmer of laughter in the sea-gray eyes.

This girl (Sagan thought of her as a girl, though Kamil must be near
twenty-one) might yet come by such qualities. But she didn't possess
them now. Or if she did, they had been consumed by love, whose fire,
out of control, often consumed what gave it life. Kamil appeared to
have little interest in what was going on. Her eyes and attention
were only for Dion, fixed on him alone. Sagan knew Maigrey was
present; he could hear the faint music of the sad, sweet chord
vibrating in the still air. He wondered what she thought of this
goddaughter.

Sagan turned his glance away from Kamil. He was glad to feel nothing.
It would make things easier, later on.

Pantha came into the courtyard, carrying with him a large wooden box.
He spoke a few quiet words to Flaim—who was continuing to make
various attempts to try to talk to the haughty queen. The old man
took his seat in the sunlight, basking in it like an elderly cat. He
placed the box on the bench beside him.

Dion entered last, accompanied by Tusk. The mercenary was sullen and
silent and had one hand wrapped up in a bandage.

"I bumped into a wall," he muttered in response to Flaim's
question.

The prince turned back to the queen, and so missed Tusk's glowering
gaze shift to Sagan.

The Warlord's jaw set. Tusk was going to be a problem. But he was a
problem that could be dealt with, when the time came.

Sagan, clad in the stiff folds of a black cassock, walked across the
courtyard and stood with his back to the wall, feet planted wide
apart, his hands clasped behind his back, his face hidden in the
shadows of his cowl. He closed his eyes against the sun's glare,
retreated deep into himself dragged into the depths of his soul all
inconvenient and dangerous thoughts and feelings, - locked them away
and shut heavy doors of discipline and resolve upon them. Though he
himself would not handle a bloodsword, the two using them would be
acutely sensitive to each other and, Sagan guessed, one of them, at
least, would try to probe his mind as well.

What he found there would be exactly what Sagan wanted him to find.

"Quite a merry party, eh, cousin?" Flaim was commenting to
Dion when the Warlord returned to the level of upper consciousness.

The prince had left the queen and was strolling forward to stand near
Dion. Flaim was wearing tight leather pants, tall black boots, and a
white shirt with long flowing sleeves and an open V-neck, of a style
popular with duelists in vids. "That will be all for now, Tusca,
thank you. Would you like to stay and watch? Perhaps you'd care to
join Pantha... ."

Sagan caught Tusk's eye, made a brief movement with his head. The
mercenary gave some mumbled excuse, lounged over to post himself
beside Sagan. Crossing his arms, Thsk leaned back against the wall.
The mercenary's eyes were red and puffy and he blinked them
constantly against the light.

One good thing about Tusca, Sagan remarked to himself with
satisfaction, he doesn't look in the least dangerous.

"And now, cousin," Flaim resumed, smiling at Dion, who
hadn't spoken a word, "we will take a little light exercise, for
the amusement of ourselves and our guests. You have no idea how long
I have been looking forward to this. Being forced to practice day in
and day out with one's shadow is incredibly dull. How I have longed
for a partner to test my skills I Pantha, my friend, if you would be
so kind ..."

Pantha rose to his feet. Opening the box, he drew out the two
bloodswords and brought them forward. Flaim, meanwhile, was scraping
out a circle on the hard pavement with the heel of his boot.

"Not precisely accurate, but good enough for our purposes. This
is not a formal duel, after all, but only a friendly practice
session. I believe that is close to the correct diameter, my lord?"
He turned deferentially to Sagan.

"Near enough, Your Highness," said Sagan, who had barely
glanced at it.

Flaim lifted his bloodsword—the sword that had once been
Pantha's—from the box. The two bloodswords were almost
identical in appearance, except that one—Dion's—was
decorated with the engraving of an eight-pointed star, signifying
that it had once belonged to a Guardian.

Dion reached out his hand and took hold of his sword, being careful
to keep the needles clear of his flesh. He held it a moment, studied
it carefully, as if making certain it was truly his. Then, moving
slowly and deliberately, he replaced the sword in the box.

Pantha looked questioningly at Flaim. The prince shrugged, gestured.
Pantha set the box down on the ground between the two men, went back
to his seat.

Flaim buckled his sword around his waist, cast the circle a critical
glance once again, walked about it experimentally, peered up at the
suns, as if to determine how the light would affect him, then looked
back at his cousin.

Dion stood calmly, relaxed, made no motion to retrieve his sword.

Flaim studied his cousin with interest. The prince had not expected
such a response, apparently, seemed not quite certain what to make of
it. Shrugging again, he smiled again, squinting in the sunlight, and
inserted the needles of the sword into his hand. He winced a bit,
caught his breath; the pain is intense, but quickly over—for
those who are meant by genetic design to use the swords.