Ghost Legion (12 page)

"I've experienced the feeling myself '' added the headmaster,
noting Dion's softened expression.

"Platus would have liked this," said Dion quietly. He could
almost hear words in the varying modulations and tones of the
plashing drops. If only he were by himself if only he had time to
truly listen, time to truly ask ...

He supposed he could order everyone to leave. He was king; they would
obey. He had the feeling that the headmaster might even understand.
Dion was tempted ... but he abandoned the idea.

He had not yet seen Kamil, nor had any word from her, received any
message. Somehow, somewhere, they must meet. He needed to see her.
And so he dared not deviate from his well-publicized schedule, lest
she should be waiting for him, and he miss the opportunity of finding
her.

The water spoke to him no more. He roused himself, was able to attend
again to the headmaster's conversation.

Directly opposite the fountain, opposite the door through which they
had entered, the circular line of columns ended, forming an alcove,
with the marble wall behind. On this wall hung two portraits.

One was of Derek Sagan, Warlord of the fallen republic, a member of
the Blood Royal and cousin to the king. The other was a portrait of
Maigrey Morianna, outlawed royalist, member of the Blood Royal,
cousin of the king. The portraits were uncannily lifelike, so
lifelike that Dion's heart constricted painfully when he looked at
them, and he heard, behind him, his captain of the guard Cato—an
unemotional, stem, and disciplined soldier, who had served many years
under Sagan's command—murmur in awe.

"Remarkable, aren't they ? Your Majesty hasn't seen them before
? inquired the Dean.

"I saw only the sketches and the preliminary watercolors. The
artist what was his name?"

"Youll. Your Majesty. Stephen Youll."

"Youll offered to show the finished work to me, of course, but
he said that he would prefer it if I saw them after they were
properly hung. These . . . this is incredible." Dion for the
moment forgot the voice of the king, spoke as himself.

"Quite a remarkable man, Youll," said the headmaster,
gazing at the paintings with the pride of ownership, as well as
appreciation for their beauty. "I had a chance to meet him when
he supervised the hanging. A former spacepilot, he told me. He fought
with the Warlord in the battle against the Corasians at Vangelis."

"That was one reason I chose him for this commission," said
Dion. "He had served under Derek Sagan on board the old
Phoenix.
He knew both Sagan and the Lady Maigrey. To all the other artists,
they were just . .. names. This man remembered them. He knew them as
I knew them. That was what I wanted."

"It seems Your Majesty has succeeded," said the headmaster.

The Warlord had been painted in his golden Romanesque armor, fiery
red cape, with the phoenix emblem—a controversial choice of
costume. But then the placing of the Warlord's picture had been
extremely controversial, since he was known to have murdered numerous
innocent people, including the king's own guardian, Platus Morianna.

True, Sagan had redeemed himself by his heroic actions in the final
battle against the Corasians. During this battle, having become
separated from the rest of the fleet, he had fought alone and
outnumbered. His spaceplane had been destroyed. He was declared
missing in action and presumed dead. But there remained those who had
little cause to either love or honor his memory.

"Was there any trouble on campus over this, Dean?" asked
Dion, thinking of the debate that had raged in the media when he had
announced that he was building a memorial to honor Derek Sagan.

"Some of the students protested, Your Majesty. Was he a fallen
angel redeemed or a demon damned? That subject was debated at
length," answered the dean. "As you might imagine, the
argument became more muddled as some of the true details of the late
President Peter Robes and his ghastly ties with the mind-seizer,
Abdiel, were made public."

"On one point everyone was in agreement," inserted the
headmaster. "Such an honor, granted after death to a man who had
wronged you, is very much to Your Majesty's credit."

Dion bowed slightly, a lowering of the eyes and an inclination of the
head, acknowledging the compliment and letting it pass He
concentrated instead on the portrait. The face was exactly as he
remembered: dark, stern, impassive. He recalled Platus's words,
spoken before he died, spoken before Sagan had killed him—"...
his face, deep scars of thunder had intrenched," from Milton's
Paradise Lost.
Fallen angel redeemed . . . demon damned. Or
perhaps the question had not yet been resolved.

The dark eyes of the painting stared back at Dion and he was once
again that awkward, dazzled, and confused boy of seventeen, standing
before the two of them, standing before Sagan and Lady Maigrey. In
Sagan's eyes, cool appraisal, doubt, scorn. In her eyes ...

Dion's gaze shifted to the other portrait. The artist had portrayed
Maigrey in her silver armor, matching Sagan's. Her robes were blue
and adorned with the eight-pointed star which had been the symbol of
the Guardians. Around her neck she wore the starjewel, and in the
painting it shimmered with an argent flame. The last time he had seen
the jewel had been to place it reverently on her body; its fire had
burned pale, cold as the fire of distant stars. He looked into her
eyes and he saw now what he had seen the first time he'd met her:
understanding, cool pity, sorrow.

"It's almost eerie, the way the two seem to be looking at each
other, isn't it, Your Majesty?" commented the headmaster.

"Yes, it is," agreed Dion politely. He looked again,
thinking that he might have been mistaken. No. He wasn't. They
weren't looking at each other. They were both watching him.

"The story of their ill-fated love is well-known and, in fact,
Your Majesty, this alcove has started to acquire a certain romantic
history of its own."

"Indeed?" Dion glanced surreptitiously at his watch, though
he knew well that the silent and observant D'argent would be keeping
track of the time and would politely and graciously intervene when
necessary to keep His Majesty on schedule.

"The chapel has become a trysting place for lovers," the
headmaster was continuing. "Particularly those who have
quarreled or separated. They meet here, or leave small bouquets of
flowers beneath one painting or the other. ... Why, gracious me,
there's one there now. I must apologize, Your Majesty. I wanted this
kept neat. . ."

The embarrassed headmaster, robes flapping like sails, was bearing
down upon the small flower lying on the floor beneath the portrait of
Lady Maigrey.

D'argent, swift, graceful, unobtrusive, cut in front of the
headmaster, retrieved the flower with a gracious, murmured "Allow
me, sir."

The headmaster bobbed his thanks, was shaking his head over the
incident.

"Please, think nothing of it," said Dion graciously.

D'argent turned to the king, offered the flower. "Perhaps Your
Majesty would like to keep this as a souvenir," suggested the
secretary.

Accepting the white, waxen blossom, Dion placed it in the buttonhole
on the lapel of his uniform. The heady, spicy fragrance took his
breath away.

"This is truly a beautiful place," he said, looking around
once again. "Truly beautiful."

Dion suddenly wished for, longed for it to be night. It was with
great effort that he forced himself to attend to his duties.

The headmaster and dean were extremely pleased to receive His
Majesty's warm praise. They would have gone on discussing and
exhibiting the chapel for the next hour had not D'argent, whose sharp
eyes had noted the king's sudden lapse of interest, quickly
intervened.

"His Majesty's schedule prohibits . . . His Majesty should rest
. . . aware that the headmaster has other duties in connection with
this evening's ceremonies . . ."

Dion heard very little, made the automatic, proper responses that he
could have made if he had been drugged, drunk, or somnambulant.
Fortunately, he'd had long experience in practicing the control of
his emotions, was careful to conceal irritation, boredom. He could
maintain a steady pulse rate; could regulate the beating of his
heart, prevent the rush of blood to his face.

Passing the fountain, he glanced at himself in the pool of blue
water. His reflection, though marred somewhat by the constant motion
of the falling water, was the reflection of the mirror in his
dressing room: cool, detached, unaffected. He wondered that he heard
the fountain's voice no longer, for, in his mind, it should have been
singing an aria in celebration of love.

Dion did not fully regain consciousness until he was alone, back in
the headmaster's house, which had been turned over to the king and
his retinue for his use during his stay. Pleading fatigue and the
desire to rest and go over his speech for the dedication ceremony
that night, the king retired to his bedroom. The door had barely
closed behind him before he removed the camellia from his lapel,
pressed it to his lips.

He touched the commlink worn on his wrist, allowing him to speak
either to his secretary or to the captain of the Royal Guard.

"D'argent."

The secretary responded immediately, entered, shut the door behind
him.

"Yes, sir."

"All is arranged? She'll dine with me this evening?"

"Yes, sir. The dedication ceremony ends at midnight. Princess
Kamil Olefsky and her party will arrive at 0100 hours for a late
dinner. I gave the Royal Correspondent that information, as you
requested."

"How was it received?"

"Since the princess is known to be a longtime friend of Your
Majesty's and her father is one of your most valued and trusted
allies, nothing untoward was said. They requested the usual: the
names of those she would be bringing with her, what they would be
wearing, the menu, the wines. The Royal Correspondent gave them all
the details."

"And you have arranged for the princess and her friends to spend
the night here."

"Yes, sir. This house has numerous guest rooms, which are being
made ready."

"Very good, D'argent," said Dion, trying to sound
nonchalant, though at the moment not even he could control his swift
racing pulse.

"Is there anything further I can do for you, sir?"

"No, thank you, D'argent. I'm going to read over the speech
now."

The private secretary bowed again, left.

Dion lifted the copy of his dedicatory speech from the table, sat
down in a comfortable chair, and started to read. He made it through
one sentence, then the hand holding the speech sank to the chair's
arm, all thoughts of the ceremony faded away.

In Dion's mind, it was already night. He was alone, at last, with the
woman he had loved in secrecy and in silence for almost three years.
And in all that time he had been faithful to his wife, as he had told
Astarte. Faithful in body, if not in soul.

But the hunger was strong. Duty and honor had not sated his appetite,
filled him as he had hoped they would.

The gleaming crown was losing some of its luster; the scepter was
growing heavy for him to bear alone.

Before God, I might not this believe

Without the sensible and true avouch

Of mine own eyes.

William Shakespeare,
Hamlet,
Act I, Scene i

Dion sat on the stage in the crowded auditorium, sat with the outward
assurance and regal presence of a member of the Blood Royal—the
image in the mirror. Inwardly, anticipation teased him with its
delightful pain, tempted him into rash and completely stupid,
juvenile acts. What if he leapt from the stage and went dashing down
the center aisle, singing that lewd song Link had once taught him, a
song he'd forgotten until this very moment? He almost giggled at the
thought, actually caught himself grinning. Appalled, he corrected
himself, corrected the image.

The speakers droned on. Half-blinded by the glare of stage lights, he
could not find Kamil in the audience, though he had been searching
ever since he'd entered—to a thunderous ovation—almost an
hour ago. It was foolish of him to hope to find her, he supposed,
since there must be several thousand people in the auditorium. How
could he discover out of that number, in the darkness, one head of
cropped silver hair, one pair of golden eyes? Still, he searched. It
gave him something to do, something to think about besides the coming
night...

And now it was time for his presentation. The headmaster was
introducing him. The audience was on its feet, cheering. The
orchestra played the Royal Anthem—adapted from the Fate motive
of Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony—as Dion ascended the podium and
began to give his speech. He spoke the beginning words by rote, spoke
them without really thinking about them until he came to the name of
Lady Maigrey.

Her name fell from his lips and, at that moment, he saw Kamil. A
spotlight had been playing over the crowd for the benefit of the
vidcams recording the historic occasion. The light illuminated her,
shone on her silver hair, her white gown.

The effect was startling, magical. Dion felt like an inept sorcerer
who accidentally stumbles on the correct incantation or the wanderer
who falls into the ring of mushrooms, finds himself standing before
the fairy queen.

Kamil knew he saw her. She smiled at him, a secret smile for just the
two of them, but it sent an arc of blue flame flaring from one to the
other. The flame jolted through Dion's body, left him dazed, shaking.
Someone behind him coughed. He realized he'd been standing silent,
staring dumbly, his speech cut off in the middle of a sentence.

He looked down at his notes. They made no sense. He couldn't read
them. He was drying up, literally. Not a drop of saliva was in his
mouth; his throat was closing. The spotlight moved on, Kamil
vanished, swallowed up by darkness. Dion was suddenly conscious of
the audience, conscious of thousands of eyes on him, and they seemed
malevolent, vicious, the eyes of the pack waiting for him to fall.