King's Sacrifice (45 page)

"Besides,
as queen, she'd set fashion, she wouldn't follow it." He had a
sudden mental image of the foremost women in the galaxy wearing
leather trousers and deer-hide vests and he almost began to laugh.
His laughter changed to a sigh. Clasping his arms in misery,
shivering with cold and the ache in his heart, he leaned against the
stone wall and shut his eyes.

"Here you
are!"

Soft candlelight
glimmered beneath his half-closed eyelids.

Dion opened his
eyes. "Kamil ..."

She was dressed
in a long white gown, the fur-covered skin of some animal thrown
around her shoulders for warmth. Her hair glistened spun silver in
the light of her candle. Her eyes were dark and liquid and flashing
fire. She held, in one strong arm, her youngest brother. His head
lolled on her shoulder, secure in the warmth and closeness of his
sister's body.

"You went
out to take a piss and got lost, didn't you?" she said to Dion
gravely. "No wonder. Wandering around without a light. And
without a coat. Your room's down this hall. Wait until I put Galen to
bed, then I'll show you."

Dion stared at
her, had a sudden image of his queen saying to news commentator James
M. Warden, "You went out to take a piss . . ."He began to
laugh uncontrollably.

"Hush!"
Kamil admonished, glancing down at the baby, who started and began to
whimper. "I just got him to sleep!"

"Sorry!"
Dion stifled his laughter.

She rocked the
baby until his whimpering ceased. He sighed, stuck a fat thumb in his
mouth, and cuddled against her. "I'll just put Galen in his
crib—"

"I—I
can find my way," Dion stammered, feeling his knees go weak,
thankful he was leaning against the wall. "You don't need to
bother—"

"It's no
bother," said Kamil, shrugging. "I was up with the baby. He
had a bad dream, howling like a wolf had him. I couldn't sleep, so I
told Mother I'd get up with him."

She started
walking down the hallway, back the way Dion'd come. He hesitated,
then turned and followed her. After all, she had the candle and it
was
extremely dark in the castle, now that he thought of it.

He opened the
door to the baby's room for her, held the candle while she laid the
child in the crib and covered him with a blanket. At her direction,
Dion stirred up the dying fire. They discussed adding another log,
decided against it. The room was warm enough, she said. After a last
peep at the baby, Kamil took the candle from Dion and led him out and
into the hallway.

"I couldn't
sleep either," Dion said.

Kamil nodded,
solemn, serious. "You have important business to do tomorrow. I
heard Father and Mother discussing it, before they went to bed. My
father says that DiLuna and Rykilth won't be eager to risk their
ships and men in the Corasian galaxy. You will have a difficult time
convincing them."

"Your
father's right," Dion said, "but that wasn't why I couldn't
sleep. That wasn't what I was thinking about."

Any other woman
Dion had known would have understood the implied compliment, smiled
knowingly, or perhaps have teased him until he confessed. Kamil
looked at him with her wide, frank, curious eyes.

"Oh? What
were you thinking about?"

You can make
her love you, Dion.

They reached his
room, stood outside the door. She turned to face him, the candle held
steady in her hand. This was the time to thank her politely for the
light, for showing him the way. This was the time to open the door,
walk into that chill and empty room alone, bid her good night, send
away the light, shut the door behind him, lock himself in the
darkness, and never open the door again.

A strong man
would do it. Lord Sagan would do it. Or would he? For seventeen
years, he'd searched the galaxy for what? For a lost king? Or for
love lost, cast away by the hand that had reached, instead, for the
crown. No, that will not happen to me. I won't make the same mistake.

"You,"
he said, reaching out to her, grasping hold of her gently. "I
was thinking of you."

She smiled at
him, a smile warmer than the candlelight, whose flame suddenly
wavered, trembled in her hand. "I was thinking of you, too,"
she said.

He drew her
close. They were of equal height, their lips met, touched, burned
together an instant, parted.

"I want to
marry you, Kamil," he said, holding fast to her, his hands
stroking, caressing the animal fur that covered her shoulders and was
warm from her body's heat. "I want to fight for you in the
betrothal ceremony."

"You don't
fight
for
me. You fight
with
me. I will be at your
side, holding my mother's shield, as she held it for my father."

"Then you
will marry me? You'll be my queen?" Dion couldn't believe it,
was afraid she'd misunderstood.

"Queen!"
Kamil laughed, seemed amused at the thought. "I will be your
wife. And, of course, I will marry you. I'd made up my mind to it
this night. If you hadn't asked me, I was going to ask you."

The candle flame
wavered, a blast of chill air hit it, nearly blew it out. Dion felt
the cold breath blow across his rapturous happiness. He didn't
understand it, or refused to understand it.

The draft died
away, the candle flame burned steadily.

"I will ask
your father for permission tomorrow," Dion began.

Kamil bristled
at the thought. "I don't need my father's permission to marry!"

"I mean
..." Dion stammered, "I thought that was customary—"

"We go
together to talk with my father and my mother and ask for their
blessing.
That
is the custom of my people. We would talk to
your father and your mother," she said, more softly, "but
my father tells me that they are dead."

Her eyes were
warm with sympathy, pity for his loss. It was the first time he could
remember that anyone had shown him sympathy, the first time that
anyone had cared about him and what he felt. And suddenly, the
mystical power that was the birthright—and some might have said
the curse—of the Blood Royal lifted the future's opaque curtain
for him.

He was given a
glimpse ahead, saw the long and convoluted path that would be his
life, saw the people crowding alongside that path, for good and for
ill, and saw that, of all of them, this one person alone, this one
woman, would love and care and think only of him, of Dion. To all
others he would be king, to be obeyed, manipulated, wheedled, bribed,
worshiped, despised. To her, he would be a man. A man to be loved.
She, she alone, would love him. That would be her blessing, and her
curse.

The curtain
dropped down with a rapidity that left Dion mentally blinking. He
could not be certain what he had seen, wondered, after a moment, if
he had really seen anything. All he knew, deep inside, was that he
could not give this woman up. He needed her.

"It's cold
in this hallway," Kamil said suddenly. "You're shivering,
your arms are all covered with gooseflesh again. And you have much to
do tomorrow. You should sleep, now."

Moving shyly
around him, she opened the door to his room, looked inside.

"They
didn't lay a fire for you. We never have one at night, except in the
baby's room. But I'll build one for you," she said, and started
to slip past him.

Dion caught hold
of her, held her back. "No, you shouldn't be in my room, not
with me, alone."

He was afraid
she would argue, perhaps laugh at him. And he wondered how he would
make her understand, when he wasn't certain he understood himself.
But he didn't have to explain. She paused a moment, then looked back
at him, her cheeks faintly flushed.

"You take
the light," she said, offering him the candle.

"But you'll
need it—"

"No."
She shook her head. "I know the way."

He took the
candle from her. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the forehead.
Their first true kiss had been too special, too sweet, to repeat
again quite so soon. He could still tasted, like the honey coating of
mead, on his lips. He wanted to keep it through the night, taste it
again and again.

"Sleep
well," he said to her.

"May your
dreams be blessed." She kissed him shyly, on the cheek, then
turned and left him, running lightly down the hallway.

Dion watched
until the flutter of her white gown and the silver sheen of her
cropped hair could no longer be seen. He entered his room, shut the
door, forgot to lock it. He lay down in his bed, wrapped himself in
the comforter, left the candle burning on the nightstand. Its golden
light filled his thoughts, was sometimes flame, sometimes the golden
light of her eyes. He fell asleep.

And again he
dreamed of the warrior woman, standing at his side during the battle,
holding her shield protectively in front of him. But in the dream,
when she protected him, she could not protect herself. And he had no
shield to hold over her. He was helpless to defend her, was forced to
watch her take blow after blow that had been meant for him, until she
sank, battered and bleeding, at his feet.

Dion woke with a
start, his body bathed in cold sweat.

The candle had
guttered out, leaving his room in darkness.

The very pulse
of the machine . . .

William
Wordsworth,
She Was a Phantom of Delight

The luxury
liner,
Galaxy Belle,
appeared as a bright-colored, glittering
bauble, set against a backdrop of black, empty space and coldly
burning stars. Maigrey watched the ship intently as they drew nearer,
waiting with inheld breath for it to alter course, come to a halt, or
make any other move that might indicate the
Belle
was
suspicious of the small white craft approaching her.

Belle
continued sailing through space, however, traveling at a leisurely
pace that would disturb neither the expensive wines nor the guests.

"Hailing
Galaxy Belle.
Galactic Federation Agent Gibbons, requesting
permission to come aboard. Over." Xris's tone was crisp,
official-sounding.

"They're
not responding," said Maigrey.

Xris smiled,
took a twist from his pocket, examined it, then stuck it in his
mouth. "I'll tell you exactly what's going on in there, sister.
The captain of that ship has just contacted the big boss, wanting to
know why the hell he didn't pay off the government agents in this
sector. The boss will come back, inform the captain that he did pay
the agents off, same as usual. The captain will want to know who the
hell are we, then. The boss will decide that we're probably a hotshot
agent, new in the sector, wanting our share. The captain—if
he's smart—will tell the boss that maybe this is a trick and
they should get the hell out of there, make the Jump, find another
sector."

Seeing Maigrey
grow uneasy, Xris lit his twist, took a deep drag on it, and smiled
at her. "Don't worry, sister. Do you know what it takes to make
a Jump in a cruise ship like that? First, you have to get the guests
to leave the blackjack tables and slot machines—and you've
always got one who has a lucky streak going and refuses to budge—and
go to their cabins. That's just the beginning.

"And when
you come out of the Jump, three fourths of the high rollers are
sicker than dogs and threatening to sue. No, it's much cheaper to
invite us on board, show us a good time, fork over a few thousand,
and we'll all part the best of friends."

"But—"
Maigrey began.

"Agent
Gibbons, permission to come aboard granted, sir. Hanger bay nine. Oh,
uh, and how do you like your steak, sir?"

Xris glanced at
Maigrey. "The way I like my women," he answered. "Lean,
hot on the outside, and pink in the middle. Hanger bay nine. Copy.
ETA thirty minutes, so don't put that steak on the coals yet. Over
and out."

He ended the
transmission, laid in the course, then leaned back and blew smoke in
the air.

"Very
good," said Maigrey, relaxing in the co-pilot's chair. "I'd
say you've done this kind of work before."

"Yeah,"
Xris answered, not looking at her, keeping his gaze fixed on the
Belle.
"Like I told you back on the breed's plane, I used to
be a government agent. But that was before—" He raised his
cybernetic arm, his lips twisted in a bitter smile.

"How did
you get hold of this official spaceplane?"

"Simple.
The government sells them at auction. Of course, the agency modifies
them first, removes the armaments, gives the planes a new paint job.
But it's easy to restore them again ... if you know what you're
doing. I was an agent for ten years. I knew what I was doing."

He sat silently
smoking, staring, unseeing, at the garishly lit cruise ship that was
growing larger in the vidscreen.

"I was a
damn good agent, too," he added. "One of the honest ones.
Look what it got me." He flexed the fingers of his metal hand.
Lights blinked on his upper arm, a series of small beeps indicated
that it was functioning properly. "I'd have been better off
dead."

Taking the twist
out of his mouth, he tossed it on the deck, ground it out beneath his
foot.

"Like I
tried to tell her—my wife," he added, glancing at Maigrey,
then looking back out the vidscreen.

There were only
the two of them aboard the small space-plane. Federal agents normally
traveled in pairs. Anyone else aboard the plane would have looked
suspicious, Xris said, in case the cruise ship might actually bother
to scan them. Brother Daniel had remained behind with Agis on board
Maigrey's plane. Sparafucile carried Raoul and the Little One as his
passengers. Neither those two planes nor any of Xris's men could be
seen, though all were—Maigrey trusted—on their way,
moving into position.