Ghost Legion (14 page)

He held her fast, the pain in his heart both wonderful and terrible.
Wonderful in that they had time yet to come, terrible in that the
time must be short and then they would be forced to part. And she
would be here, walking in the garden, alone. And he would be here,
walking in the garden, only in his tortured memory.

"Do you know," Kamil continued softly, "I often think
of Maigrey and Sagan meeting here. They must have, when they were
students in the Academy. I don't know why, but I sense them together,
in the rose garden, when I don't sense their presence anywhere else.
Perhaps that's because I saw her here, only a few months ago."

She spoke in such a calm and matter-of-fact tone that it took Dion a
moment to assimilate her meaning. Even then he thought perhaps she'd
mixed up her pronouns, was talking about someone else. He drew back,
looked at her, looked into the golden eyes that were like sunlight,
even in the snowy darkness.

"Who?" he asked.

"Lady Maigrey," said Kamil. "Oh, now, don't look like
that!" She laughed, though a little self-consciously. "I
haven't been taking any mind-altering drugs. It was last summer. I
was working here in the afternoon. It was hot; no one else was
around. I don't know what made me look up, because there was no
sound. I saw a woman dressed in a blue gown standing in the path. She
was looking at the roses. She had her hand out, as if she might touch
one, but she didn't. I stared at her, trying to think who would be
walking in the garden at this time of day. I put down my spade and
stood up and started to go to speak to her. But when I looked again,
she was gone."

"A visitor," said Dion.

"You're shivering," said Kamil. "We should go inside
..."

"... where it's warm," he murmured, kissing her again.

But they made no move, not yet. It was too wonderful to build the
flame, then bank it, let it burn as long as possible.

"I thought it was just a visitor," said Kamil softly, her
heart beating against his. "But when I saw her portrait, I knew
that it was her. I'd never seen her before that, you know."

"You must have," Dion remonstrated, with a halfhearted
laugh to cover his own disquiet. "On the vids, at your father's
house."

"You know how my father feels about technological
monstrosities." Kamil laughed, shook the snow from her hair.
"No, I'd never seen a picture of her before. Truly."

Dion smiled.

Kamil grasped hold of the lapels of his coat, half teasing, half
earnest. "Don't look smug. Tell me
you've
never seen her
spirit. Tell me she doesn't come to you. The king she gave her life
to protect."

Kamil's manner changed; she was serious, thoughtful. She looked, once
again, into the garden. "The only thing I wonder is, why wasn't
he with her? They loved each other so much. They were parted in life.
I can't imagine that they would remain apart after death. ..."

Dion shut his eyes against the sting of sudden tears.

"Don't!" he said.

Kamil shifted her gaze to him, saw him pale and shaken. "I'm
sorry," she whispered remorsefully. "I'm so sorry ... I
didn't mean . . . Oh, my darling! I love you so much. I want only to
make you happy."

"You do! You will!" he said fiercely, harshly, his passion
overpowering him.

It was growing darker in the garden. Storm clouds covered the moon;
snow began to fall again, hard and thick, sticking in their
eyelashes, melting on their skin. Laughing, they turned and, arms
around each other, clinging together, they slid and stumbled on the
slick stones of the path, returning to Dion's bedroom, to warmth and
darkness and exquisite happiness.

Outside, in the night, the snow fell, soft and cold.

Afterward, they lay in the dark, her head resting on his chest
talking.

"Astarte wants a child," said Dion. "That's all she
wants from me. If I gave her that, she'd be happy. Her mother would
be happy. The whole damn galaxy would be happy. As if it's any of
their business."

"You can't blame them, Dion," said Kamil. "Think of
the up-heaval and confusion and near disaster they've gone through.
The people are grateful for this respite. They want it to go on. Your
child is a future for them, a future they can look forward to with
hope. It would give them a sense of continuity."

"I know," said Dion. "I understand. I truly do.
Believe me, I'd like nothing better than to give them what they want.
We've tried, God knows. But I don't want to think about that. Neither
do you. Not here, not now."

But he did think about it and he continued to talk about it. It was
so comforting to talk about it' She listened, though it was
uncomfortable for her, because she knew he needed her to listen.

"We've been to every doctor imaginable. We're both healthy.
Absolutely no reason we can't have a hundred royal heirs. They say
it's stress. Or maybe space travel. Or maybe space travel's good for
us. She won't be artificially inseminated; it's against her religion.
Something about the Goddess blessing only true unions of mind and
body."

Dion sat up, his back to Kamil. He ran his hand through his
sweat-damp hair, dark and blood-colored in the moonlight. "There
can be no thought of divorce. It would mean war. And I won't let the
deaths of millions pay the price of my happiness."

"I know, Dion. I understand. I don't expect it." Kamil sat
up with him, leaned against him, her arms around him, her cheek
resting on his bare back. "We talked about this before.
Remember?"

He smiled ruefully. "Yes—the night I told you I couldn't
keep my promise to marry you. I thought you'd despise me. Maybe I
hoped you would. It would have been easier. . . ."

"Despise you?" Kamil smiled. "For doing your duty? I
am the daughter of a ruler. I know that duty to the people comes
first. That was the earliest lesson my parents taught me. What was
our love, what was our commitment, compared to the commitment you had
made the people?"

"I could have wriggled out, Kamil. There were ways."

"Then
I would have despised you."

He put his arm around her, kissed the silver hair.

"This is all I want," she told him. "This will be
enough."

Dion sighed and lay back down, drawing her down with him. His
expression grave, troubled, he stared into the darkness, into the
moonlight reflected off the snow, shining on the ceil-ing. The silver
light came and went as the clouds raced past. Shadows slid over Dion,
hiding him from her sight. Kamil lay listening to his quiet
breathing, the beating of his heart.

The shadows slipped past. His face, pale and strong, like carven
marble, emerged from the darkness. Kamil was reminded suddenly and
chillingly of a dream, the first night she'd met him.

They strode into battle together, as had been the custom in her land
in ancient times. He the warrior, she his shieldmaid, guarding his
unarmed side. Together they fought and fought well, vanquished foe
after foe. He was the leader of his army, his flowing red-golden hair
a bright banner that was always in the vanguard.

And then they met an enemy beyond belief, a dreadful wave of evil and
darkness that crashed into them, beat on the shield. Dion fought,
held his enemies at bay, sword and body covered with blood, his own
and that of his foes. But wounds and exhaustion overcame him. He
slipped and fell. His enemies towered over him, moved in for the
kill. Kamil stood before him, held the shield as best she could,
offered him a chance, a brief respite. The enemies struck blow after
blow, shattered her shield arm, drove her to her knees.

Behind them, the army wavered, the bright banner they had followed
dimmed by darkness. Kamil fell, but the shield lay over Dion, over
them both. They looked at each other and in that moment knew that
they could lie together in the darkness, safe, hidden, and their
enemies would ride over them. Ride to victory, destroying those who
came behind. Already they could hear them, crying out in despair,
shouting for their king.

He looked at her and saw she understood. Rising, he threw aside the
shield and cried a challenge to his foe. His army surged around him
and he led them forward, and the last she saw of him was the flowing
bright hair, shining on them like a new-made sun. And he vanished.
And she lay in the darkness, alone.

Kamil began to cry, softly, against her will. She gulped, held her
grief inside, though the tears burned her throat. Hoping he wouldn't
notice—for how could she explain?—she tried to ease
herself out of his grasp, to wipe the tears away, but he felt the
wetness on his skin and turned immediately to her.

"Hush, don't. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you," he
said, misunderstanding. He was serious, remorseful. "I was the
first lover you've had, wasn't I?"

She pressed her face against his arm, unable to stop the tears now,
unable to speak to correct his mistake, then thinking that perhaps he
wasn't far from wrong.

He was silent, stroking her hair, then said, his face flushing,
"Somehow, I hadn't expected ... I mean, I thought .. . here, on
this campus ..."

"Oh, Dion." Kamil raised her head, looked at him, managed a
tremulous smile. "How could you imagine there would be anyone
else? I love you ... only you."

He held her close, crushing her to him. She clasped him tightly,
fiercely, their bodies crowding together, as if they could overcome
the flesh that was a physical barrier to their souls' joining. But
flesh compensated by giving them pleasure.

Passion stirred. They teased it a moment, then relaxed and lay back,
content to enjoy the simmer before the burning.

"We've talked about me too much," he said. "Tell me
what you do every day, what courses you're taking; tell me about the
people you talk to, who see you every day; tell me where you go, what
you think ..."

"I don't
go
anywhere, except to class," Kamil said,
laughing slightly, warm with pleasure at his interest. She snuggled
near. "It was hard for me at first. I was far behind all the
others. Our people don't believe in formal schooling, you know. And
so I've had to work hard to catch up. But I love it ... now."

"Now?" He looked at her.

"I was homesick in the beginning. That . . . that was a hard
time. You were just married . . . and I couldn't help but be jealous.
Not of her, exactly. I wasn't afraid that you would love her more
than you love me." She put her hand on his lips, stopping him
when he would have spoken. "I never doubted you. I was jealous
of her time with you, of knowing you two were loving, touching. . .
."

"Touching, maybe," said Dion grimly. "Not loving."

They were both silent. The moonlight disappeared. The wind rose, the
storm returned. Bits of ice pelted the window-panes.

"Don't stop talking," he said abruptly. "Keep on. I
want to know. I want to be able to picture you in my mind. What do
you eat for breakfast? Do you fix it yourself or go to the
cafeteria?"

"Oh, Dion!" She laughed.

"I'm serious." He made it evident with a kiss. "Tell
me."

She told him. She told him every part of her daily routine, told him
about her classes, what she was studying, told him about the
professors, about the people she knew, about the books she was
reading, her dislike of philosophy, her love of mathematics. She told
him what she ate for breakfast.

He lay very quiet, very still, his breathing soft and regular. She
might have thought he'd fallen asleep, except she could see his eyes,
wide open, staring into the darkness and seeing not darkness but
seeing her, walking through her day.

She thought of his day in comparison—the crushing
responsibilities, the life-and-death decisions, the person he had to
become, the king she'd seen tonight, so different from the man
holding her. She was remorseful. She didn't often give in to
self-pity, but sometimes, in the evening, when the air was soft and
fragrant with the scent of the roses and she saw young couples
walking together, she felt sorry for herself.

After this, no more. There was no self-pity in his expression, no
regret. Only an inexpressible sadness that brought the dream-image of
the warrior back to her. She banished it hurriedly, afraid she'd
start to cry again.

"And what," Dion asked, the first words he'd spoken in a
long time, "is the point of all these studies in astrophysics
and quantum mechanics? What do you plan to do?"

"Can't you guess?" she asked, flushing.

He propped himself up on one elbow, intrigued by the sudden air of
mystery. "You don't plan to give your life to the church, do
you? Become a nun?"

"Of course. That's it!" Kamil said, pulling playfully on
his hair. That started a scuffle which ended with her breathless and
laughing, pinned up against the headboard.

"Tell me the truth," he mock-threatened, pretending to be
stern. "Tell all, lady. I command you."

"You'll laugh at me," she protested.

"You didn't laugh at me when I said I wanted to be king."

"No," Kamil returned softly. "I didn't laugh."

He kissed her and this time the passion was too strong. It was some
time before they returned to what they had been discussing Kamil was
achingly, sweetly, drowsy in his arms.

"No more trying to change the subject," he said, his voice
warm and husky with the pleasant tiredness. He yawned, kissed her
gently. "Tell me about your plans. And don't fall asleep. I
won't waste this night in sleep."

"It's almost dawn. I should go soon, before anyone sees me."

But she made no move to go. The thought of leaving this rumpled
warmth, of hurrying, cold and shivering, through the halls to her own
empty room, darkened her heart. "I made the decision last
holiday. I'd gone home and there was a visitor. Tomi Corbett. You
remember her?"