Ghost Legion (34 page)

"That is not possible, my liege lord. My daughter prays to the
Goddess for the salvation of her marriage and the destruction of her
rival."

Her words entered Dion like sharp steel, drew life's blood this time.
He could not breathe, for the pain and the fear that suddenly
engulfed him.
Destruction of her rival!
His one thought, which
he clung to as a stable point in the reeling room, was that he could
not, he must not let this woman know she had mortally wounded him.

"I want to speak to Astarte," he said coldly, thickly. "My
wife."

"That is not possible. You have no wife. You broke the sacred
vows of marriage and by that act you insulted not only my daughter,
but her people, her nation, her Goddess. We consider this an act of
war. We therefore declare ourselves independent of your rule and
authority and will establish our own monarchy."

"War!" Dion repeated, unable to believe what he was
hearing. "You would send your people to war!"

"In a minute, my liege. But"—DiLuna smiled, in smug
triumph—"I doubt if that will be necessary. The scandal
alone would topple you, Dion Starfire. But it can all be smoothed
over. I believe I could persuade my daughter to forgive and forget,
if
you will accede to our demands. First, you will make my
daughter queen, not queen-consort. She will share equally in the rule
of the galaxy and, upon your death, will succeed to the throne.
Second, you will make the worship of the Goddess the official
religion of the galaxy and require all your subjects to follow it.
Third, you will pay us a large sum of money—the exact amount to
be agreed upon later—as reparation for the harm you have done
our world. There are certain other conditions, but we will discuss
those when the main terms have been met."

Dion had relaxed somewhat. He was able to smile himself, the smile of
the mirror. "These demands are impossible, Baroness. Make them
public and the rest of the galaxy will think that you have gone
insane. Your own people will not tolerate this. You will do them
incalculable harm."

He was calmer now, able to think, react rationally. "Baroness, I
will not deny that Her Majesty and I are having problems. What
marriage doesn't? But they are
our
problems. It is up to us to
work them out. I want to speak to—"

"These wretched flares. Your transmission is breaking apart,"
called DiLuna loudly. "I could hear nothing of what you just
said, my liege lord. We will speak on this matter again."

"I want—" Dion began, but the image of the baroness
dissolved. "Damn!" He struck the console with his hand.
Turning, he walked away, came back. He depressed a button on the
commlink. "Reopen that channel," he commanded D'argent.
"Belay that," he said in the next breath.

Straightening, he ran his hand through his hair, glared in anger and
frustration at the vidscreen. What a stupid, ugly, sordid little
mess. And it was Astarte's fault! Why the devil had she run off? Why
hadn't she confronted him directly?

Her letter had touched him, had made him see his error. He had been
prepared to admit his guilt and make a very real at-tempt to start to
build a relationship. But now . . . she had lied to him, she had
promised to keep this secret, but she had obviously told her mother.
Astarte might have known how DiLuna would have reacted....

Of course she knew! This was part of a plot. She was in league with
her mother to gain more power for herself, untold wealth for her
planet. Dion had never supposed his wife had wanted more power; she
had always seemed content with her own duties, which were
considerable.

"But then I never really knew her," he said to himself.
Thirty minutes previous, he would have made that statement in a
remorseful tone. Now he said it in anger.

He tried to decide what to do. He had no doubt DiLuna meant what she
said. She would make the scandal public, she would ...

A spark fell on the withered hopes and dreams in his heart. The flame
burst into life, rushed throughout his body, blood crackling with
excitement.

Divorce. This was his chance, God-sent. He could divorce Astarte,
marry Kamil.

He kept very still and let the fire spread, fanned the flames, warmed
himself at the blaze, tried not to be blinded by the smoke.

"Say that I refuse my wife's demands. If she truly expects me to
give in, she will have no recourse but to go public. The parliament
will react in shock. Astarte has no claim to the throne; she's not
Blood Royal. The people don't want a religion—any
religion—
imposed
on them. And they certainly won't want
to hand over large sums of money to an aggressive and warlike race.

"As for her accusations against me—Astarte has no proof."
Dion tamped down the flames, deliberately poured cold water on the
fire to permit himself to think clearly. "No," he
determined at last. "She has no proof. She couldn't possibly. As
Dixter said, no one who knows of the affair would betray me. I will
simply deny the allegations.

"Astarte is popular with the people, but their favor will wane
when she shows herself willing to risk our marriage in an attempt to
grab more power."

Dion reached into his pocket, took out the letter. 'And to think I
almost fell for this, madam."

He tore the letter in half tore it in half again, dropped it into the
disposer canister, where it was reduced, in a fraction of a second,
to ash.

With the dead, there is no rivalry.

Lord Macaulay, "Lord Bacon"

"You have done what, Mother?" Astarte rose from her throne,
faced DiLuna in shocked outrage. Footsteps emphasizing each word, the
queen walked slowly and deliberately down the stone stairs of the
dais, advancing on her mother. "How could you? How
could
you! You have ruined everything!"

DiLuna stood over six feet tall, hard and strong as steel, arm
muscles firm and well delineated, chest muscles smooth and
pronounced, thigh and leg muscles hard as any youth's. Her daughter
was not quite five-foot-four, soft-skinned and soft-muscled, fragile.
Yet it was DiLuna who fell back a pace before this white-faced,
flaring-eyed fury, whom she barely recognized. Or perhaps she did
recognize her. Perhaps, for the first time since the frail child had
been born to her, DiLuna saw something of her own steel in her
daughter.

"How dare you?" Astarte demanded again, taking advantage of
her mother's momentary shocked dumbness. "You knew my wishes!
How dare you countermand them?"

DiLuna recovered herself, smiled indulgently. "You silly little
chick! I did it for your own good, of course." Her voice
hardened. "If you have no pride, I do. Did you think I would let
this man disgrace you? Disgrace me? Disgrace our family? Our people?
No, by the Goddess! He will pay for his betrayal!"

"What betrayal?" Astarte asked. She was suddenly cool,
wary. "What are you talking about, Mother?"

Turning away, clasping her hands, Astarte walked across the gray
marble floor of the temple to stand by the wide-open doorway. She
pretended to be absorbed in the view from the columned portico,
pretended to gaze at the beautiful parorama of trees and flowers,
sweeping downward into a lovely valley, then upward to majestic
mountains. In reality, her eyes, hidden by the long lashes, were
darting sideways, keeping anxious watch on her mother.

"I said nothing of any betrayal," Astarte continued. "We
have grown apart, that is all. The pressures of his schedule and
mine. This separation was meant to give us both time to think. Now,
thanks to you, Mother," she added bitterly, "that is
ruined. His Majesty is probably furious with me now. And I don't
blame him!"

"Bah!" DiLuna snorted. "You know perfectly well he has
been sleeping with another woman."

"I know no such thing," Astarte returned.

"Then you are a blind mole! Your women know."

So that's it, Astarte realized. That's how she found out. I should
have known. Damn! Damn! Damn!

Her small fist curled, clenched tight against her stomach. She took
care to keep her unhappiness and disquiet concealed.

I have to be strong, she reminded herself. I have to be strong or I
will lose everything ... if I have not already lost him. . . .

"But don't worry, Daughter," DiLuna was continuing. "Your
rival is one problem that can be easily managed."

Astarte stiffened; her stomach muscles clenched. A foul taste, as if
she'd been chewing on the bitter leaves of rue, coated her tongue,
dried it, made it difficult to speak. She moistened her lips, waited
until she was certain her voice would sound natural.

"What are you talking about now, Mother?" she asked, with
affected irritation.

"Ridding you of your rival, of course."

Astarte swallowed, drew in a breath. "I have no rival. This is
all in your mind."

"You have, and I will give you her name. Maigrey Kamil Olefsky.
She and the king have been meeting at the Academy. He was with her,
in fact, the night you left him."

Astarte was thankful she was standing next to a column. Without its
support, she might have fallen.

"You need take no part in this, Daughter," DiLuna advised
her. "I will make all the arrangements. It is lawful."

"A law that has not been used in centuries, a law that dates
back to a time of barbarism." Astarte said in a low voice.

"Yet it is written," said DiLuna, shrugging. "His
Majesty himself decreed that local custom shall take precedence over
galactic law."

"Not when it comes to murder." Clasping her hands together
hard to keep them from trembling, Astarte turned around.

Head held high, she faced her mother. "In any case, I am the one
wronged. I am the one who has the right to claim the blood price."

"That is true," DiLuna was forced to concede.

She eyed her daughter dubiously; then, suddenly smiling, the baroness
patted her daughter's smooth pale cheek in what she probably
considered a caress. But DiLuna's touch was rough and callused; her
long, sharp nails were cold as real nails made of iron. Astarte held
herself rigid beneath the touch that had never in her life been
loving, gentle.

"Little Dove," said DiLuna softly, "what do you know
of such things? Let Mother arrange it, take care of it for you."

Astarte reflected. She could use her power as High Priestess to order
her mother to keep out of her affairs, take no action whatsoever.

DiLuna would counter that this was a political matter, not a
religious one, and she would be right. Their society had always been
extremely careful to keep the two separate. Astarte might reply that
the Goddess had everything to do with the marriage covenant, the
bearing of children, the continuation of the race. But in her case,
where the marriage had been made for strictly political reasons, the
point was debatable. And DiLuna was not one who would be interested
in debating.

"Give me until tomorrow at this time, Mother," Astarte
begged, suddenly meek and contrite. "I want to pray for
guidance. This . . . this is so unexpected." She allowed the
tremor to show in her voice. "You can't ask me to make a
decision on this now."

"Poor Little Dove." DiLuna's iron nails pressed into
Astarte's flesh. "Pray to the Goddess. She will comfort you and
reassure you. What I do is right. The Goddess will agree with me that
this man who deceived you, who sows his seed in another and keeps
your womb barren, must be humbled, chastised, brought low. Who knows
but that he has not already fathered a child with this bitch? No,
this threat must be averted."

"Mother, please leave me now." Astarte could scarcely
breathe, barely forced the words out. Her mother's touch, her words,
the images they conjured twisted inside her; jealousy's poison worked
on her.

What if he had? What if this . . . this woman is pregnant? Her mind
blurred, her thoughts swirled and eddied among dark places. Perhaps
Mother is right. Better this woman should die....

Astarte seemed to hear the voice of the Goddess; the Holy Mother was
stern, sad and disappointed.

Don't you remember the vision? The warning?

Realizing what she'd been thinking, Astarte was appalled at the
depths to which she had sunk. She struggled upward, until she once
again found herself in calm water.

DiLuna was gone. She had seen the fierce jealous anger in her
daughter's face, had obviously assumed this was a propitious time to
depart.

Astarte, recovering her strength, left the outer temple, and retired
to the inner sanctuary, kept sacred to the priests, priestesses, and
their acolytes. No one else was permitted to enter this holy
chamber—not DiLuna, not Astarte's "bodyguards"—in
reality her mother's spies. Here the queen was certain of being
alone, here she could meditate undisturbed, for when the High
Priestess was in the Holy Sanctuary, no one else was permitted to
enter.

The Temple of the Goddess was a vast complex, the center of worship
for millions of followers. It was built on the steppes of the sacred
mountain. The Goddess had descended these steppes, so it was
believed, from heaven, to deliver her children safely into this
blessed land.

Astarte knew the truth, as did all her people. It was on these
steppes the early space travelers had landed. But her race had always
found it easy to blend the harsh, gray colors of fact with the
softer, more beautiful shades of mythology.

No one knew quite when the worship of the Goddess began. Various
sociologists had written innumerable learned treatises on the
subject, but no two ever agreed, and few paid attention to them
anyway. The religion's seeds may have been brought from old Earth,
and were related to the ancient religions that revered the
All-Mother. But it did not take root and flourish in this culture
until the strange illness decimated the male population, left the
females to struggle in the new world on their own. With their men
weakened, debilitated, dying, it was not surprising that the women
came to view their deity in a strong female form.