Ghost Legion (63 page)

"Your Majesty." Flaim bowed to Astarte, who had risen with
cold dignity. "I trust you will spend a pleasant night. I am
sorry that you and your husband must be quartered in separate
bedrooms, but I find that the hours spent in solitary thought are the
most productive. And I want you all to think a great deal. Pantha,
would you escort our cousin back to his room?"

Dion had been hoping for some chance to talk privately with Astarte,
but that was not to be allowed, apparently. There was nothing to do
but make the best of it, go along. To do anything else would impair
his dignity, do him more harm than good. He walked over to Astarte.
Taking her hand in his, he brought her hand to his lips, kissed it
gently.

"Don't worry, madam," he said to her softly. "Everything's
going to be all right."

"Yes, sire," she said to him, smiling, if only to keep her
lips from trembling, "I know it will be."

He smiled back, reassuring, released her hand. He would have said
something to Kamil, but she was already hurrying out the door.

A part of him died then. A part that was young and hopeful and filled
with golden dreams. A part that had once played, naked and free, in a
blue lake on a distant world. No matter what happened now, he had
lost her.

He was truly alone.

Night, the shadow of light,

And Life, the shadow of death.

Algernon Charles Swinburne,
Atlanta in Calydon

"Dead of night," Tusk said to himself nervously, peering
intently into the darkness. "What a stupid expression. I wonder
who the bright person was who thought that one up."

He was standing irresolutely out in the hallway, his hand on the door
handle, urging himself to shut it and get moving. But the hall was so
intensely dark and so intensely silent, so intensely dead, that he
lingered by the door, hanging on to the handle as something solid and
real.

"It's all this talk about ghosts. I don't believe in ghosts. Any
type of ghosts. Not even some weird dark-matter type of ghost,"
he said, but he said it quietly, and continued to peer nervously down
the hall, continued to hang on to the door handle.

Staring down the empty hall, Tusk imagined the creatures roaming it.
Maybe one was passing through him right now. Or maybe he might walk
into one. He'd been told, by Garth Pantha, that the creatures could
kill.
Not that they would mean to, he
'
d assured
Tusk. Your death would be accidental
.

"But it'd be a little late to accept their apologies." He
wiped away a trickle of cold sweat that was running down his neck,
soaking his T-shirt. "Still, if they are spooking up die place,
they could be in my bedroom, for all I know. My chances are as good
out here as anywhere, I suppose."

Tusk made his decision, shut the door, and set out. He staggered as
he walked. He had his story ready, in case the guards stopped him.
Two swigs of jump-juice taken before the expedition had not only
bolstered his courage but provided an authentic smell to his breath.

He was thankful he didn't have far to go and that he'd made this trip
once before by daylight; otherwise he would have been hopelessly lost
Tusk didn't think much of the ghosts' no-tion of architectural
design. The alcazar could more aptly be described as a warren than a
fortress. The hallways were like runs in burrows—winding,
bending, slanting up, sloping down.

Tusk located his destination by counting doors and even then he
wasn't certain he'd found the right one—all the doors in this
place looked alike. He hesitated a moment before knocking, wishing
he'd swallowed two bottles of jump-juice instead of two swigs. But he
couldn't stand here long; his hesitation would look strange to anyone
who was watching. Tusk banged on the door.

"Cynthia!" he bawled in a loud and drunken voice. "Lemme
in! Itsh Tusk."

He heard footsteps, slow and heavy, cross the stone floor inside the
room. Tusk's heart beat faster; his T-shirt was wringing wet. He
gulped in a huge breath, was just about to bang on the door again,
when it opened.

Lord Sagan stood framed in the doorway.

"Cynthia!" Tusk bawled again, then focused in on the tall,
stern, glowering figure of the Warlord. "Cynthia?" He
peered around Sagan. "You there?"

"You have die wrong room, Tusca," said the Warlord. "And
what are you doing roaming the halls in this inebriated condition?
I've told you before—"

Grabbing hold of Tusk's shirt, Sagan dragged the mercenary inside,
slammed the door shut behind him.

"Yes, what is it?" Sagan demanded coldly.

"Can we talk?" Tusk glanced nervously around. "Is it
safe?"

"The electronic surveillance devices in this room have,
unfortunately, developed a malfunction, some type of distortion whose
source cannot be located. Yes, it is safe to talk here. But make it
fast and keep your voice down. The night watch saw you in the cameras
located in the halls. They will be here any minute."

Tusk jammed his hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched, he faced the
Warlord. "I don't like this. We've got to do something."

"Unless I am mistaken, we
are
doing something,"
Sagan responded dryly. "And 'liking it' was never part of the
deal."

Turning away, he walked to a desk, where he had set up a portable
computer. He sat down, turned his attention to information that
appeared on the screen. "If that's all, you may leave."

Tusk, growing a little angry, followed.

"It's not all. Not by a long shot. I got an idea," he said
to Sagan's back. "Let's bust everyone outta here. Now. Tonight.
You know where Dion's being held, and the queen—"

"They are in separate wings, as far apart as is physically
possible," commented the Warlord. "Guards are posted at
each door. The halls are under surveillance. The rooms are bugged.
And then there are always the strange dark-matter creatures. Now, how
do you propose we 'bust' everyone out?"

"There's a way," Tusk turned sullenly, pacing about the
small, misshapen room. "There's always a way. Hell, you and the
Lady got the kid off a Corasian mothership!"

Sagan was obviously not interested in reminiscing about the past.
"You know the plan," he said coldly. "We stay with
it."

"No, I don't know the goddam plan!" Tusk stated, coming
around to face the Warlord's back again. "You won't tell me!"

"You know your part of it. That's all that is essential. I can
always"—Sagan's voice hardened—"arrange for
you
to leave."

"You know I won't. Not while the kid's here. Not after I was the
one who brought him here."

"Then we have nothing further to discuss. It is time you
returned to your room. Your coming here was foolish to begin with."

"My getting involved in this whole fuckin' scheme was foolish to
begin with! Look, my lord," he continued, more subdued, "let
me at least tell Dion we're on his side—"

"No!" Sagan stood up, rounded on Tusk. The Warlord's
expression was fey, chilling. "You will say nothing to him.
Nothing."

Tusk fell back a pace, then halted, determined to hold his ground.
"You saw Dion tonight! He thinks he's in this alone—"

"Precisely what I want him to think."

"What are you after? This isn't another goddam test, is it?"
Tusk demanded. Anger was bolstering the jump-juice, which was
bolstering his courage.

Sagan smiled, thin-lipped, dark and bitter. "You might say it
is. Though not necessarily Dion's."

Tusk didn't understand. Shaking his head in disgust, he started for
the door, "I'm gonna tell him—"

"How like your father you are," Lord Sagan said, sneering.
The remark was obviously not meant as a compliment.

Hot blood rushed to Tusk's head. He whipped back around, hands
clenched. "You bastard! How dare—"

He made a jab with his fist.

A hand like steel-toothed jaws snapped over his, crushing, sobering.

"Keep your voice down. And listen to me. By telling Dion we are
here to help him, you tell Flaim. It is that simple. Tomorrow, Flaim
will convince Dion to use the bloodsword—"

"He won't," Tusk mumbled, wincing, "The kid knows
better—"

"He may have no choice," Sagan interrupted grimly. "And
when Dion inserts the needles of the bloodsword into his hand, Flaim
will insert his mind into Dion's. The two will be irrevocably linked.
Dion would reveal us. He couldn't help himself. Our lives—yours
and mine—would be forfeit. And then the king would be very
truly alone. Now, do you still want to tell him?"

Tusk stood speechless. The hot blood of fury was draining rapidly
from his head, leaving him sick and chill.

Seeing he had calmed down, Sagan released his hold on him.

"Are you gonna try to help Dion tomorrow, then?" Tusk
demanded. "Keep him from using the sword?"

"I will do what I have to do," Sagan answered. "And I
will expect you to do the same."

Tusk eyed him bitterly, nursed his bruised and aching hand. "You
calculating son of a bitch. I don't have any choice, do I? You got me
good. At least you think you do. But I'll be watching you. Remember
that. I'll be watching!"

Yanking open the door, Tusk came face-to-face with a guard.

"Is everything all right, my lord Sagan?" asked the guard.
"We received a report that a man was wandering the halls,
creating a disturbance—"

"He's drunk, that's all." Sagan gave Tusk a shove that sent
him staggering into the guard's arms. "He came here in a jealous
rage. See to it that he gets back to his room safely."

"Yes, my lord," said the guard.

Sagan slammed shut the door.

The guard assisted Tusk to his feet, accompanied him back to his
room.

Yeah, thought Tusk, lying on his bed, staring bleakly into the
darkness, I'm sure keeping my eyes on you. . . .

Kamil lay in her bed in the dark in the dead of the night. She was
wrapped in her blanket. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her
arms wrapped around the hard and lumpy pillow. Her thoughts were
fixed on one idea.

If only I could talk to Dion alone for just a few moments. It would
all be so easy....

"I've been looking at this all wrong. Tusk did Dion a favor,
bringing him here. Why couldn't I see that before? I'll find a way to
talk with him tomorrow. There has to be a way—"

"Are you awake?" asked Astarte softly.

Kamil flinched, frowned. She'd been keeping as still as possible,
pretending she was asleep. But she must have spoken her thoughts
aloud, or at least whispered them. Should she keep silent? Or answer?

Her muscles were stiff and cramped from lying in one position. She
turned over on her back.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," Astarte replied. "I've been lying here
awake a long time."

"You should try to sleep," Kamil said tersely. "You'll
end up making yourself sick."

"I've been praying for Dion."

"Well, you should be sleeping," Kamil snapped. "Both
for your sake and the baby's."

"Don't coddle me, Kamil. Pregnancy doesn't make a woman weak and
fragile. My people believe pregnancy makes a woman strong. After all,
you lock a precious jewel in a strongbox, not a delicate glass case.
My mother had armor specially designed for her to wear to battle when
she was pregnant.

"Back in the early days, the women of Ceres had to go on with
their lives, you see," Astarte explained. "We had no
choice. Grain had to be harvested, shelters built, towns defended.
The men were too valuable to risk losing. New life is a great gift,
but the universe does not come to a halt because one woman is going
to have a child."

"Not even a royal child," Kamil muttered. She knew she
sounded bittei; vindictive, but she couldn't help herself.

"Not even then," said Astarte softly.

Kamil sat up in bed. Fumbling for the matches, she lit the candle by
her bedside. The room the women shared was like every other room in
the alcazar, stone walls and floor and ceiling, no windows, a heavy
oaken door. Woven mats spread over the floors and walls did little to
either cheer the room or alleviate the chill. Climbing out of bed,
shivering, Kamil padded over to poke at the glowering coals in the
fireplace.

"You're being awfully casual about this pregnancy." She
spoke almost accusingly. "You want this baby. More than anything
in your life, you want this child. And you're lying there praying!"

"What would you have me do?" Astarte asked, sitting up.
"When there is a need and a time for action, one takes action.
When there is not a need or when one is incapable of taking action,
one has patience . . . and faith."

Her words were confident, but she sighed as she said them. Taking up
the candle, Kamil walked over to stand at the foot of Astarte's bed.

"You're not as cool about this as you'd like me to believe. Or
you'd like yourself to believe."

"The failing is mine, then," said Astarte. "I'm
afraid, Kamil. Afraid for Dion . . . afraid for my child. The Goddess
sent me a vision the night the baby was conceived. In my vision, Dion
and I were making love. I saw Dion's face ... at the moment of
conception. And then he disappeared. All was dark, and then I saw
another face. It hung over me and leered at me."

Kamil perched gingerly on the edge of the bed, placed the candle on
the floor.

"What does that mean?" she asked harshly. The thought of
the two of them . . . together . . . twisted her up inside. "That
Dion isn't the father?"

"Oh, he's the father," Astarte replied in a calm,
passionless voice.

"Then I don't understand," Kamil said irritably.

"I don't either." Astarte lifted her lovely eyes. "The
face of the other man was the face of Dion's cousin—Flaim."

Kamil stared at her in perplexity. "How could it? You'd never
seen him—"