Ghost Legion (62 page)

Dion replied coldly, "I will most assuredly come."

Pantha led him into a large, high-ceiling hall, with flagstone
floors, tapestry-covered stone walls. A huge fireplace stood at one
end; a roaring blaze gave light and warmth. The room seemed filled
with people.

Confused and slightly disoriented by his bizarre surroundings, Dion
could not, for a moment, place any of them. He saw disembodied heads
and faces; eyes, familiar eyes, stranger's eyes. No one spoke.

And then suddenly he was aware of Astarte's eyes, of Kamil's shining
hair, of Sagan's face emerging from darkness, of Tusk turned
sideways, not looking at him.

Walking toward Dion, moving with die same gait, the same grace, was
his own shadow.

"Dion Starfire," said Flaim, gazing at him intently. "I
am your cousin. We meet, at long last."

Ties of blood. A reminder of a father and a mother, of grandparents;
an extension into the past, bringing forth the future. Not alone, not
free-floating, but bound to past generations by an umbilical cord
that might be cut, could never be severed.

A hunger that had been born with Dion, that he lived with all his
life, was suddenly, strangely satisfied.

"My cousin," Flaim said in soft, tremulous tone.

He reached out his hands, grasped hold of Dion. It was obvious that
Flaim was moved by similar emotions, obvious as well that such
emotions were unexpected.

Leaning near, Flaim kissed Dion's cheek.

Dion accepted his cousin's kiss, not moving, not returning it, only
staring.

"You are as I pictured you," continued Flaim, studying Dion
with eager eyes. "Except taller. Yes, I had always thought of
myself as being the taller of the two of us. Perhaps because I am the
elder." He smiled, charming, ingratiating. The smile was his
alone, had no part in the family bloodline. "But let me hear you
speak, cousin. We even talk alike. I know, I've heard you on the
vids. Don't you think so?"

"Yes," said Dion, dazzled and deeply troubled. "Yes,
we talk ... alike."

"Why, we might be brothers instead of cousins. I suppose that
comes from the fact that my mother is also my aunt. But I am being
selfish. I have other guests to consider, and I must share you with
them. We will have more time, cousin, much more time, I hope, to get
to know each other better. Her Gracious Majesty, the queen, has been
much concerned about your safety."

Pale and composed, Astarte rose to meet Dion, made him a formal
curtsy. Standing behind the queen, keeping to the background, was
Kamil. She didn't look at him. By her flushed face and deprecating
demeanor, she was wishing she could vanish and be forgotten, like the
sparks of the fire going up the chimney.

Any meeting of these three was bound to be embarrassing, awkward.
Dion was aware of everyone's eyes watching him. He guessed that they
must be laughing, mocking.

I deserve this, he thought, and it was this knowledge that impelled
him to walk steadily forward. This is my punishment.

He went up to his wife, held out his hand to her, clasped her
hand—small, white hand—in his.

"I trust you are well, madam. They haven't harmed you?"

"No, sire," she answered him coolly, and it hurt him to
know that they met in this crisis as strangers.

The room was suddenly unbearably hot, the walls trembled and leaned
in over him, the floor shivered beneath him. He turned to Kamil,
barely aware of what he was doing or saying.

"Princess Olefsky"—it was the mirror image that
spoke—"I hope you are well? You have not been harmed?"

Her close-cropped hair shone silver in the firelight, the golden eyes
shimmered with tears. Dion was reminded of the first time he'd met
her, of the first evening they'd spent together in her father's
castle, the first night they'd known they loved each other. How long
ago it seemed, and innocent—an innocence forever lost.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Kamil murmured. "I am quite
well."

Her face was flushed crimson. Dion could think of nothing else to say
that wasn't saying too much. He turned back to his wife.

Astarte had not been watching. She had distanced herself, was staring
off into another part of the room, as might a stranger suddenly
thrust upon two close friends at a boring party. He took her hand
again to regain her attention, but the touch was cold.

"Madam," he said, acutely aware he sounded artificial,
reading again from a prepared script, "I am sorry about this,
about all of this."

"You have nothing with which to reproach yourself, sire,"
said Astarte quietly. "This was not your doing."

But it was, and he did, and he knew he was looking less and less a
king at the very moment he needed to be a king.

"I am your prisoner." Dion turned to Flaim. "Release
Her Majesty and the princess. You don't need them any longer. Return
them safely to their homes."

Flaim, smiling, stepped gracefully between the husband and wife. The
prince took Astarte's hand in one of his. Dion's hand in the other.
"I wouldn't think of it. Our family is all together now. We will
not soon be separated, I hope. Please, everyone be seated. Cousin
Dion."

Releasing their hands, Flaim drew up a chair for the king, close to
the fire. "No one can sit down until you do, you know, cousin.
Surely you won't keep us all standing?"

"What is it you want of me?" Dion demanded. He continued to
stand, and though he was keeping his anger sheathed, he permitted a
part of the sharp-honed blade to show. "End this ridiculous
farce. You have brought me here by force. You have kidnapped my wife.
You are a killer, a murderer. People died in the Temple of the
Goddess; people died on those outposts you attacked. What is it you
want?"

"Oh, excellent speech! Quite powerful." Flaim was enthused.
"I must learn to emulate your style. No, no, dear cousin, I
truly mean that. I have had so little contact with the public at
large. I am too informal. I must learn to act the part of a king
every waking minute. Well," he added, with a sly glance at
Kamil, "perhaps not
every
minute."

Kamil flushed, turned her face away. Dion opened his mouth, realized
that to speak would only make matters worse, kept silent.

"Come, come!" Flaim laughed disarmingly. "Don't be
angry, cousin. We are all adults. Kings before you have had their
mistresses. No one thought the worse of them for it. And if you
insist on standing, cousin, why, then, we will all stand, though it
is rather hard on the elder among us." He glanced at Pantha and
at Derek Sagan. "And uncomfortable for your wife. She has been
somewhat unwell."

"No, truly, I am fine," Astarte protested swiftly. She
pushed herself upright. She had been leaning on the arm of the chair.

Dion, his jaw set, assisted his wife to be seated, then sat down
himself, stiffly and rigidly. The rest of the company did likewise,
with the exception of Sagan, who drifted farther back among the
shadows, keeping watch over them, in Dion's mind, like his dark
angel.

The same thought, or something similar, might have entered Flaim's
head, for he suddenly rose to his feet again, looked directly into
the back of the room. "Excuse me, cousin, but there is someone
else I forgot to acknowledge. I am pleased you have joined us, my
Lady Maigrey."

Dion started, stared. She wasn't there, of course. No one was there.
That part of the room was empty. Dion was beginning to think his
cousin was mad, when he saw Sagan's face, dark and thoughtful and
brooding, saw the man's gaze stare with piercing intensity into the
shadows, as if they were a veil and he might part them.

"You must forgive my prince," said Garth Pantha with an
embarrassed laugh. "He fancies he is visited by a ghost."

"But I am. No fancy. Nor am I mad. Am I, cousin?" Flaim
turned to Dion. "You've seen her, haven't you? Lord Sagan told
me you had. You see, Pantha? I am not alone.

"I've heard her speak," Flaim continued. "Oh, not to
me. She talks to herself, I think. Pantha is skeptical, but then, he
is a scientist, which means he is skeptical by definition. I consider
her visit a great honor. I didn't recognize her at first, for which I
hope her ladyship forgives me," he added, bowing to the shadows.
"But then I recalled where I had heard that voice. So
distinctive, deep and low for a woman's.

"I am not certain why she has come, however. In whom does she
take an interest? I iike to think it is me, but perhaps I flatter
myself unduly. You will, I trust, be so good as to include the Lady
in your conversation."

Laughing, Flaim resumed his seat and whether he was laughing at them
or at himself, Dion couldn't tell.

"What were we discussing?" Flaim glanced at Dion. "Yes,
I recall. You were asking, I believe, cousin, what it was I wanted of
you. Why, I want to be king. It is as simple as that. As the only
heir of Amodius Starfire, who was anointed king when he died, the
crown belongs rightfully to me, not the son of a younger brother."

"You are wrong. You have no claim," Dion answered calmly.
"And you know it. You are illegitimate, born of an incestuous
relationship. No one in this galaxy would recognize such a claim."

"When you put it like that, no," Flaim conceded, smiling
ingenuously. "But, as I said, we are all adults. Adults are well
aware their children are not prepared to understand and deal with
certain harsh realties of life. Therefore we hide unpleasant truths
from them. We tell small lies to keep their innocent trust in us
intact. My mother was not the king's sister. My birth was
legitimized. And you, dear cousin, are not having an illicit love
affair with the daughter of an old friend."

Half-blinded by tears, Kamil rose, started to leave. Astarte caught
hold of her.

"Stay, Kamil," said the queen. "Don't let him frighten
you. He does not frighten me."

She kept fast hold of Kamil, who sank down in her chair. Wiping her
tears away, she tried to look calm and self-possessed.

Dion's heart ached for her pain, though he did not dare show it. He
was grateful to Astarte for maintaining not only her own dignity, but
her husband's as well. Little as he deserved it.

"So you intend to blackmail me, is that it?" Dion asked.

"Such a harsh word." Flaim grimaced, shook his head. "An
arrangement of mutual convenience to us both. Here is what will
happen. You will acknowledge my claims publicly, peacefully abdicate
the throne in my favor. And you will leave with your own reputation
and honor unsullied, to live in peace with this wife ... or another,
if you so choose."

Dion shook his head. "I will not make such an arrangement. You
will have no hold over me. I'll go public. I'll admit my disgrace—"

"And I will stand by him," said Astarte, clasping Kamil's
hand even tighter. "The people will understand, as I do. My
husband is guilty only of loving a woman most deserving of being
loved. They will understand. Dion Starfire is king; he was meant to
be king. He has heaven's mandate—"

"Does he?" Flaim interrupted, with a smile that was no
longer charming. "Does Dion Starfire have heaven's mandate? Will
you answer this for us, my Lord Sagan?"

Sagan stepped out of the shadows. He moved slowly, deliberately, his
dark-eyed gaze fixed steadfastly on the king.

Dion watched, guarded, wary.

Sagan came to stand before him, looked down at him. "Your
cousin, Flaim, took the same test you did. He did not blench, he did
not tremble. He didn't bleed or nearly die. He caught the silver ball
and crushed it. Who is the stronger? Which of you, do you suppose,
does God intend to be king?"

"Which does He, my lord?" Dion asked quietly.

"Look into your heart," Sagan advised. "And know the
truth."

"So much for heaven's mandate," said Flaim lightly. "God—it
seems—has turned His back on you, cousin."

"As have my friends, apparently," said Dion, his gaze
shifting from Sagan to Tusk.

Tusk was still not looking at him. Hunched forward, he stared moodily
into the fire.

"Then I am alone," said Dion simply. "But the lion is
alone, so you once told me, my lord. I will die alone, if need be,
but I will die a king. I will not give you what you ask, cousin. I
cannot believe God demands this sacrifice of me," he added, with
a defiant glance at Sagan.

"He has demanded others as dear, Your Majesty," Sagan
replied quietly.

Dion stared at him, suddenly thoughtful.

Flaim smiled expansively. "I must say I am quite impressed with
you, cousin. I applaud your courage, your resolve. It speaks well of
our family. However, since I don't believe in this God of yours, what
He demands or does not demand means little to me. The rite proved to
Lord Sagan that I have the strength and the ability to rule. I see I
must spend the next few days proving myself to you, cousin Dion.

"You shake your head. You look doubtful. You don't think I can.
I accept the challenge.

"But now"—Flaim slapped the arms of the chair, sprang
jauntily to his feet—"you are tired. Your journey has been
long and stressful, worried as you must have been about your wife.
Now that you find her safe and sound, I am sure you are looking
forward to getting some well-deserved sleep. We will continue our
discussion tomorrow, and perhaps engage in a little light exercise,
to keep us both in shape.

"You brought your bloodsword, I hope, cousin?"

Dion cast a swift glance at Sagan, saw the Warlord watching him
intently, a flicker of fire in the depths of the otherwise dark,
chill eyes.

"Yes," said Dion, his left hand going automatically to his
right palm. He caught himself, clenched his fist. "Yes, I
brought it. But—"

"Good." Flaim rubbed his hands together in expectation.
"Excellent. I am like a child with a new playmate. Now, at last,
I can quit sparring with my shadow.