Ghost Legion (13 page)

His stomach wrenched; his knees went weak. He clutched at the podium
to keep from falling. How long had he been standing here? Hours,
days? His face burned with shame. The mirror image was cracking,
glass falling . . .

And then he saw her.

Dion blinked, stared.

Lady Maigrey, clad in silver armor, her pale hair shining, stood in
the center aisle directly opposite Dion. She smiled at him, and he
began to speak.

He spoke to her and to her alone.

He told her how much he valued her advice, her wisdom, what it had
meant to him. He told her about her brother, about Platus, his
influence, his living example of a true gentle man. He talked to her
about Derek Sagan, about lessons learned, about failing, repentance,
redemption. He forgot the audience, spoke to Maigrey, as if the two
of them were by themselves. And when he concluded, when his heart and
soul were empty, he waited for her to answer, was amazed and
disappointed when she did not.

She was gone.

The spotlight flowed over the crowd. The aisle where she'd been
standing was empty. He stared into darkness, into a hushed silence.
He was like one who awakens in a strange place. He had no idea where
he was. He looked around, lost and confused.

He turned to step from the podium, staggered. Sweating beneath the
heavy uniform, he began to shake with chills in the cool air. He was
limp, wrenched, wrung out. The headmaster came to him swiftly, gave
him his hand, assisted His Majesty's faltering steps.

"Wonderful, sire!" the headmaster said in broken tones.
"I've been sobbing like a child."

"Thank you," Dion murmured, still not certain what was
going on.

He heard a strange rustling sound, couldn't imagine what it was. Then
he saw. In solemn and reverent silence, a silence more eloquent than
the loudest applause, the audience was rising to its feet, rising to
pay homage to the fallen . . . and to their king.

Dion was backstage. He had no idea how he had arrived here. He
assumed—hoped—he had made a dignified exit.

Captain Cato was here to meet him. Dion clasped the soldier's arm,
thankful to feel warmth, flesh, solid bone, strong muscle.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Cato said to him softly. Tears
shone on the soldier's ordinarily stern and implacable face. "Thank
you for what you said about my lord."

Dion wondered what that had been. For the life of him, he couldn't
remember a word.

"You were standing in the wings, Cato. Did you see her?"
Dion asked in a low voice.

"Who, Your Majesty?"

"Lady Maigrey."

The captain looked puzzled and suddenly concerned. "No, Your
Majesty."

Dion was angry. The man must have seen her. Why was he lying?.

D'argent came gliding up. "Your Majesty, are you feeling well?"

Dion put his shaking hand to his forehead. He must sound like an
idiot. Her appearance had been a trick of the spotlight or a trick of
his mind, reacting to save him from stage fright. But even as he said
this, he saw her again in his memory, and he knew he could not banish
that vision with logic, disbelief.

Dion roused himself with an effort. From the wings, he'd been staring
once again down the center aisle, searching for the ephemeral figure
in silver armor.

"Your Majesty," D'argent persisted tactfully.

"No. I'm not well." Dion smiled wanly, shook his head. "I
hadn't realized this would be so difficult for me. Talking about them
... the memories ..

He turned to D'argent, who was holding the king's overcoat, top hat,
and white silk scarf. "I won't be attending the reception,
D'argent. Make my excuses."

He attempted to put on the coat; his arm missed the sleeve. He was
shivering uncontrollably.

"I'm certain they will understand, sir."

They had no choice but to understand. He was king.

D'argent assisted him with the coat, holding it patiently while Dion
fumbled his way into it. Made of finest cashmere, the coat was thick
and warm, but it did nothing to alleviate the chilling sensation that
numbed his fingers and limbs. He pulled on a pair of gloves, winced
in pain as he tugged one over his right hand.

"Will you be keeping your dinner engagement tonight, sir?"
D'argent asked.

"Yes!" Dion grasped at Kamil as at a lifeline. He realized
then how desperate he sounded, softened his tone. "I just need
to rest a little while. Get away from the crowds."

"Certainly, sir."

The Royal Guard escorted him outside, to the waiting limo-jet. Cato
and his men effectively kept the crowds, the reporters, the vidcams,
the robocams at a distance. Fortunately, due to Academy policy that
restricted visitors from outside, the number of the press in
attendance had been cut considerably from what His Majesty would have
faced on other worlds. Those who were here were going about their
jobs halfheartedly, mainly in the hope of something to spice up what
they considered leftover news.

The death of Derek Sagan had caused a brief stir three years ago,
when it happened. The death of Maigrey Morianna had received minor
mention. A week later, they were forgotten. This was due primarily to
the efforts of Dion, who understood that these two would not have
wanted their story sensationalized, their sacrifices made trivial,
their faults and their virtues mouthed over by those who could never
hope to understand.

The true memorial was in the hearts of those who had known them, who
remembered them.

Who remembered them....

Dion settled back into the comfortable leather seat of the limo-jet,
tried to relax, but he continued to shiver, despite the fact that the
limo had been warmed, awaiting his arrival. He was alone, D'argent
having remained behind to soothe any ruffled feelings occasioned by
His Majesty's absence from the reception line. Cato and four members
of the Royal Guard rode in a separate compartment up front, behind
the driver. Other guards followed in their own specially designed
armed hovercraft.

Dion stared out the window, watched the snow—illuminated by the
lights on the side panels—fly at him out of the darkness. The
sight of the white flakes spiraling through the air was mesmerizing,
almost dizzying. He lay back wearily in the seat.

And he saw Maigrey again, her silver image burned into his mind, like
the afterimage seen when looking directly into the sun.

She had come at first to reassure him, to steady him. She'd remained
with him throughout that entire ordeal. She'd left him when he no
longer needed her. But before she had gone, her expression had
altered. No longer reassuring, she was solemn, urgent, dire. She had
raised her right hand in token of. . . what? Warning?

Dion tore his fascinated gaze from the whipping snow. He yanked off
his glove, looked at his own right hand.

The five scars were swollen, red, burned with pain, as they had the
first time he'd grasped the bloodsword under Sagan's instruction,
plunged the needles of the bloodsword into his hand.

Dion rubbed the wounds. He hadn't used the bloodsword in a month.
Ever since that disturbing interruption, that strange intrusion into
his thoughts. Ever since the words
Ghost Legion
had come
unbidden into his mind.

He closed his fist tight over the wounds, and thought only of tonight
and golden eyes.

Let us roll our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Through the iron gates of life ...

Andrew Marvell, "To His Coy Mistress"

The chosen few fortunate enough to enjoy a private dinner with His
Majesty, Dion Starfire, told the press the day afterward that the
king had seemed quiet, preoccupied. He was charming—His Majesty
couldn't be anything
but
charming, according to the young
women in attendance. He made them feel at ease, after the first
terrible few moments of shyness and abashment. He talked easily and
readily on subjects that interested them, knew as much or more about
their various home planets as they did, and generally won the hearts
of the five young women present.

But they each noticed that he would occasionally lapse into silence
which he would break only when the lack of conversation was beginning
to intimidate his guests. Had any of these young women been extremely
astute observers, they would have seen that Princess Kamil Olefsky
often introduced the topic herself and her voice seemed to jolt the
king out of his solemn reverie. But the friends of the princess's,
and not particularly close friends at that, were too absorbed with
their own inner flutterings and confusion about which of the myriad
spoons to use to notice much beyond how handsome His Majesty was up
close and what remarkable eyes he had.

The evening ended with champagne and chocolates, and then His
Majesty's private secretary appeared, with an invitation to show them
all to their guest suites. The girls shared two large rooms, with the
exception of the princess, who was given a suite of her own in
another wing. None of them missed her. They spent the time doing
their hair, removing their makeup, and discussing the highlights of
the evening.

D'argent, bringing in an additional supply of fresh towels, was
arranging them in the bathroom when he heard one girl say to another,
"You know, even though they're supposed to be such old friends,
the king didn't pay much attention to Kamil tonight, did he? He
hardly ever spoke to her and I don't believe he looked at her once."

"It's all political," stated her friend, speaking as an
expert. "The king needs to keep on good terms with her father,
who's backing him on this alliance they're trying to forge with the
vapor-breathers. His Majesty probably felt like he had to do this."

"I never heard that they were close friends," said another.
"The king met her once when he was staying on her planet. It's
not like they were brought up together or anything."

"His wife is so beautiful! Why would he even look at another
woman?" This said with a sigh.

D'argent smiled to himself. Having informed the young women that, due
to security reasons, it would be inadvisable for them to wander the
halls during the night, he moved on to the princess's bedroom.

He was not surprised to find she was not in it. Smiling again to
himself, but this time shaking his head, the secretary retired to his
own bed. He did not, as was customary with him when traveling with
the king, stop in His Majesty's rooms to see if Dion needed anything
before retiring.

They met in the rose garden.

The meeting had not been prearranged. No covert glances or whispered
words, no nods of the head, no folded notes passed between them
during dinner. After dessert, she left with the others. She was alone
in her room. The king was alone in his. Both rooms had long French
doors opening out into the rose garden. Both people in those rooms
seemed suddenly in need of fresh air, in need of escaping the
confines of walls. Never mind that it had been snowing.

He did not admit to himself that he went out in search of her; that
he knew, hoped, guessed that she, who came from a snowy climate,
would seek solace in a midnight walk in a quiet, snow-filled garden.
When he rounded the trunk of the giant oak tree and saw her sitting
on a marble bench, he wasn't surprised to find her. And she, when she
heard his softly indrawn breath, was not surprised to look up and see
him.

They said nothing at first. Whatever had drawn them to meet here drew
them together here. He held out his arms and she came to him. For
long moments they stood in silence, clasped in close embrace, her
body warm beneath the enveloping fur cloak, her silver hair, wet with
snow, shining in the moonlight.

"I knew you'd be here," he said.

"I knew you'd come," she said.

They kissed and the aching desire that each had known and felt and
dreamed about for so many days and nights burned through them,
strengthened their hold on each other . . . frightened them.

Kamil did not pull away from him; his hold was too longed-for, too
wonderful to break. But she averted her face, lowered her head to his
shoulder.

"This is wrong," she whispered.

"No!" Dion ran his hand over her cropped silver hair,
pressed her closer still. "No. We love. And love can't be wrong.
Love makes all things right."

She could have argued, but she didn't want to. She believed him. How
could there be harm in this? In two people finding comfort, renewal,
joy in each other? She lifted her head and raised her hands, took
hold of him and kissed him fiercely, passionately.

His unspoken question was answered in that moment. It was all too
perfect. The Creator himself seemed to bless their union. It was
meant to be.

And now that they knew the longed-for moment of their love was close
at hand, theirs for the taking, they paused to savor the
anticipation, to enjoy the delicious ache of wanting, knowing that it
would soon be satisfied.

She laid her head against his breast, listened to the rapid beating
of his heart, his quick breathing. Her gaze went to the snow-shrouded
paths of the slumbering garden, to the marble statues, frozen forever
in one moment of their lives, unable to take the next breath, unable
to blink or stir and move beyond. Beneath the statues, around them,
stood the roses, pruned, bound, their summer's growth and glory
ruthlessly cut back, only to flourish stronger in the spring.
Towering above the statues and the roses were the trees, masquerading
for dead, their branches black lace against the moonlit sky, whose
black clouds were gilded in silver.

"I love this garden," she told him. "I work here, you
know.

We all have to give so many hours of volunteer work to the Academy.
I've loved this garden ever since the first time I walked in it. The
headmaster opens it to the students, but not many come here. It's too
far away from the rest of campus. And now," she added with a
sigh, crowding closer, "it will be even more blessed to me."