Ghost Legion (15 page)

"The captain of that cruise liner Lady Maigrey pirated and flew
into Corasia. Yes, I remember Corbett. What was she doing on your
planet?"

"My father met her during the battle, when the fleet was forced
to fight its way out of the Corasian galaxy."

"That's right. I'd forgotten. He took some of his troops over to
her ship, in case it was boarded. Funny, I hadn't thought of her in
ages."

"They became good friends. He invites her to visit every year,
when she can get leave. She's a colonel in the Royal Space Corps now.
She says you and General Dixter helped her."

"She deserved it," Dion commented quietly. "So you met
her . . ."

"Yes." Kamil plaited the sheet beneath her fingers. "She
was telling me about the Space Corps Academy. And, well, that's what
I want to do. I want to train to be a spacepilot. Like Tomi. And Lady
Maigrey."

Dion said nothing.

"I know what you're thinking," Kamil went on, truly
believing she did. "You're thinking I don't have a chance. And I
know how hard it is . .. what an honor to be chosen. I know that
millions apply and only a handful make it. But my professors say my
grades are high enough—I've got a straight 4.0. And I took the
practice entrance exam already and my score was one of the highest. A
candidate has to have influence to get a commission, but," she
added with a breathless little laugh, "I'm friends with His
Majesty the king and I thought he might—"

"Well, he won't," said Dion.

He pulled his arm out from beneath her, sat up in bed. Throwing back
the sheets, he stood up, his back to her, and reached for his robe.
"I might as well sign your death warrant. "

Kamil stared at him, startled, unable to speak. She felt as if he had
thrown the snow in her face.

He tied the robe around his waist, turned back to face her. "I
can imagine how exciting Colonel Corbett made it all sound.
Glamorous, heroic. I've seen how glamorous and exciting it is. I've
seen men die out there. I've heard their screams. ... I still hear
them sometimes. I won't lose you, Kamil! I won't!"

You
don't have me, Dion.
The words came to her mind, but they
never passed beyond. It was the duty of the shieldmaid to guard her
warrior from hurt, not inflict it. But her plans and hopes were hard
to give up. They filled the emptiness of her nights.

She climbed out of bed and went to him, holding out her arms. She was
shivering. He took hold of her, enveloped her in the robe, wrapped it
around them both.

"Stay here at the Academy," he said. "Stay here where
it's safe. Where I can come and be with you."

"Can you?" She looked up at him, eager, yearning. "Can
you truly come?"

"Yes, I promise. I've been thinking. I've endowed this Academy.
I hold an honorary degree. I could be a guest lecturer, offer to
present a series of lectures on—"

"Love," she suggested, teasing.

"No." He smiled. "That lecture is for one alone."

"I do love you!" she cried suddenly, clinging.

"And I you!"

They held each other fast in the darkness that was rapidly
brightening to a sullen, stormy dawn.

"I have to go," said Kamil. Gathering up her clothes, she
hurried into the bathroom.

Dion walked over to the windows, pressed his right hand against the
chill glass. The scars ached dully; the coolness against them was
welcome. He stood staring out into the snow-laden garden. He wouldn't
have been surprised to see Maigrey walking the paths. He found
himself hoping to see her again.

"Do you understand?" he said to her. "Perhaps not. You
and Sagan loved, but love wasn't enough for either of you. Your
ambition, your pride were too important. You couldn't reach for the
crown without dropping the rose. I have the crown. I have what you
sought. I want the rose now, too. I don't ask for it all. I know my
duty and I will do it." His fist clenched. "But surely I've
earned this much happiness!"

A hand touched his arm, a cheek leaned against his shoulder.

"Is she out there?" Kamil asked quietly.

Dion shook his head, flushed, somewhat abashed. "No. No one is
out there."

"But they soon will be." Kamil was dressed. She lifted the
hood of her fur cloak, raised it up over her head.

"You can't go out in the snow," Dion said, suddenly
understanding her purpose.

"Why ever not?" She looked amazed, waved a deprecating hand
at the drifts. "This is nothing compared to what we have back
home."

"I know. I was there," said Dion dryly. "But for one
thing you'd leave tracks in the garden. Someone would see them. We
should behave with dignity, at least."

Kamil blushed, lowered her head.

"Princess Olefsky." Dion took hold of her hand, led her
formally to the bedroom door, through it, and out into the
headmaster's main living area, with its massive bookcases and strange
curios. Reaching an outer door, Dion started to open it.

"My guard will escort you to your room."

Kamil hung back. "Oh, Dion, are you certain?"

"I trust these men with my life, Kamil," he said quietly.
"On a daily basis. I can trust them with my honor."

She looked at him, looked at the closed door, and shook her head.

"We'll be careful, discreet," he said to her. "But I
will
not
sneak around. I am, after all, the king."

He kissed her lips, her forehead. Lifting her gloved hand, he kissed
the palm, closed her fingers over it. Then he opened the door. The
King's Guard snapped to attention, bodies and faces rigid.

"Centurion," Dion said to one of the men on duty, "escort
the princess back to her room."

"Yes, my liege."

Kamil's complexion was the color of the roses as they bloomed in the
summer. She kept her head lowered, the hood falling forward to hide
her face. She cast one swift and loving glance back at Dion, then
hurried down the hallway toward her room, the guard following a pace
behind.

Dion watched her leave. She was flustered, embarrassed. She moved
awkwardly, stumbling over her long dress, and would have taken a turn
down the wrong hallway had not the guard respectfully corrected her.

Dion thought of her walking through the grass of her home-land with
her long, manlike strides, her arms swinging free, her head held
high. Not like this. Not ashamed, not embarrassed.

He gave in to a moment's rebellious anger. Why couldn't she be his?
Why couldn't he say to the universe:
She's mine. I love her!

He shut the door, shut it carefully, to keep from slamming it.
Gritting his teeth, he leaned against the door until the fire-tinged
dimness cleared from his eyes, his mind.

Duty, responsibility. He was, after all, the king. Today he would
return home to the palace.

Return home to his wife.

"This will be enough," he said to himself with a long,
indrawn sigh. "This will be enough..."

I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more.

Robert Browning, "Two in the Campagna"

Astarte Starfire, wife of the king, queen of the galaxy, High
Priestess of both her own people and of a growing following
throughout the galaxy, lay in her bed alone and stared into the
darkness. The sheets were rumpled in the place beside her, still warm
from his presence. She could put out her hand and feel the warmth,
feel it rapidly cooling.

Dion's fragrance was there, too. She wondered about that; she had
often wondered, from the first time she'd met him—on their
wedding day. He used no perfume, yet there was a sweetness about him,
a ... softening of the air around him, for lack of a better way to
describe it. Like a spring morning. She came to think she was the
only one who smelled it. When she had questioned her women about the
mysterious fragrance, her retinue looked blank.

He was gone.

It was the middle of the night and she was alone.

His excuse was that he was troubled with bad dreams, he didn't want
to disturb her. That was true. Often, after they were first married,
she'd heard him muttering to himself in his sleep, moving restlessly,
waking with a gasp and a start. She had tried to comfort him, but he
would rebuff her, sometimes coldly, sometimes gently, but always
letting her know her interference was unwelcome. She was an intruder.
She'd been relieved when he had moved into a separate room, though
his absence from her bed had meant scene after scene with her mother.

Astarte stared into the darkness. Her hand left the rumpled sheet
that no longer held his warmth, pressed over her belly. He had made
love to her.

Made love to her? She laughed, but it turned to a sob.

She lay there, her hand flat over her flat belly, fingers kneading
the smooth, bare flesh. "No, you didn't make love to
me.
You
made love to her! My body. But she is in your mind!"

Dion had made love to his wife, dutifully, every night for a week
after his return from the Academy. The first night, Astarte had been
thrilled with joy. There had been a feverishness about him, desire.
His lovemaking had been fierce, passionate. It was only after he'd
left, with a chill kiss, to return to his own bedroom, that she'd
realized he'd been loving someone else.

His ardor had quickly cooled. Their lovemaking now was brief,
perfunctory. She had no pleasure from it, guessed that what pleasure
he received was from the fantasy he conjured up to enable him to
perform. He kept his eyes closed the entire time. Astarte imagined
herself ripping out his eyes, to see what other woman's image was on
the inside of the lids. Her imaginings grew quite violent, and they
scared her.

She thought of confronting him, but she kept silent because she knew
what he was trying to do. He was trying to give her the baby she
longed for.

Perhaps this time ...

She closed her eyes, dozed.

He was with her again, as he had been just a few moments ago. He was
"performing his duty" and she was lying beneath him,
enduring it, hating it, wishing it would soon end. And it did and she
felt the rushing warmth inside her. She opened her eyes and looked
into his face . ..

And it wasn't his face.

Astarte caught her breath in a horrified gasp. She struggled under
the weight of a heavy body, trying frantically to push him away. He
was laughing at her.

"My child! Mine!" he said . . . and she found herself
sitting up in her bed, flailing with her arms at the air.

She shuddered, curled up in a ball, her hand clutching her tight,
flat belly. She guessed, then, that she was pregnant. "But what
does this vision mean? Whose face did I see? It was his. And it
wasn't his. Blessed Goddess, what are you trying to tell me?"

Astarte rolled over on her back. Her tears dried on her cheeks
unheeded. She was devout The vision came from the Goddess. It was not
the first she'd experienced. The visions did not come often, nor did
they come when sought, but when they did come to her, what they
revealed to her always came to pass. But what did it mean?

Hastily, with trembling fingers, she lit her lamp and sat up,
fumbling for her robe. Catching hold of it, she wrapped it around her
body. Hurrying from her sumptuously furnished room, oblivious to the
luxuries that surrounded her, she entered a door hidden behind a rich
tapestry, a small door that led to a small room off the main one.

Her chapel, private and secret, all things in it placed here by her
own hands. If she had been forced to name a favorite room in a palace
of many magnificent rooms, this small, windowless alcove would have
been it.

She lit a candle, a white beeswax that stood in a plain wooden candle
holder. The Goddess liked simple things, things "of the land, of
the hand," as the saying went. The candle's light fell upon the
altar's centerpiece—a statue of the Goddess herself. It was
old, far older than Astarte, having been given to her by her mother's
mother, a High Priestess like herself.

The statue portrayed two women. One woman was clad in long white
robes. In her right hand she held a sheaf of grain; her left hand
rested upon a child who stood before her. Back to back with this
woman was a woman clad in armor and helm, who held a sword in her
right hand, a shield in the other. The dual image of the Goddess—on
one side the nurturing mother; on the other, the warrior who would
defend her children.

The statue of the Goddess stood on every altar in every home of
Astarte's people. The Goddess had been worshiped there for centuries,
ever since the sickness had taken most of the men, left those who
survived weak and precious, nurtured like hothouse plants for their
seed. In most homes, the Goddess's statue had only one face—the
face the woman chose as her own. For Astarte's mother, the Goddess
wore the face of the Warrior. For Astarte herself, the Goddess was
the gentle, loving Nurturer. But now Astarte reached out, turned the
Goddess slowly around.

There was a time when a woman had to fight to save what was valuable
not only to her, but to those who trusted in her.

The alabaster statue regarded Astarte with clear, empty eyes. Astarte
had hardly ever looked at this side of it; she knew every line and
carved fold in the garment on the other side. She had often thought
this side cold and hard; it reminded her too much of her own mother.
Now she saw that if the Goddess was cold, it was because She had to
freeze her heart against sympathy for those who would do Her people
harm. If She was hard, it was armor against the wounds that She must
both give and take.

Astarte stared at the Warrior a long time, then, sighing, turned the
statue back around. She felt warmed, comforted by the familiar sight
of the Mother. Lifting a sprig of dried sage, she crushed the leaves
in her palm, scattered them in a small brass dish, and set them on
fire. She breathed in the sweet incense, wafted some of the smoke
over to the Goddess with her hand.