Ghost Legion (32 page)

The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp

That beats upon the high shore of this world—

No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,

Not all these laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, . . .

And but for ceremony, such a wretch,

Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep,

Had the forehead and vantage of a king.

William Shakespeare,
Henry V,
Act IV, Scene i

In me is no delay; with thee to go,

Is to stay here; without thee here to stay,

Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me

Art all things under Heaven . . .

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

The radiant being thundered through heavens hallways, bright light
robed with vast darkness, mercy in one hand, law in the other.

Defiant, resolute, certain of the justness of her cause, Maigrey
stood alone to face the Immortal Wrath.

"Because the dead are permitted to know the mind of God, because
you are given knowledge of past, present, and future, you, who were
known in life as Lady Maigrey Morianna, made a covenant with Our Lord
that you would not reveal yourself to those still living who might
profit from your knowledge, to their own detriment and that of the
universe."

"Yes, yes," Maigrey snapped. "I know what I did and
why I did it. Which is something that perhaps you don't. I
may
have been given to know the mind of God—though now I doubt it,"
she added pointedly. "But I doubt if He knows mine!"

"Doubt," said the radiant being, voice soft and frightening
in its intensity. "Yes, you doubt. It is your doubt that blocks
your knowledge. Doubt casts a shadow over you, a shadow our light
cannot penetrate. Doubt and pride will be your downfall in eternity,
as they were in your life. You think, in your pride, that you know
better than the Creator how to handle the complexities of the
universe?"

Maigrey wavered, her righteous anger faltering a little under the
personage's argument.

"No, I don't think that," she admitted, chastened. "It's
just .. . well, I don't believe you're being fair. And I didn't break
lie covenant, not really. Sagan thought that I'd abandoned him—"

"As you did in life?"

Though she had no flesh, no blood, Maigrey felt the blood burn in her
face. She put her hand to the scar that existed only in her mind.

"I couldn't let him believe that of me again," she said in
a low voice. "But I kept my word. I didn't appear to him. As for
him finding that message, you know it was not written by me. I can't
help it if he thought otherwise.. .."

"A technicality," said the radiant being dryly. "You
are clever, Lady Maigrey—I use your name because you are closer
to what you were than what you should be. But your cleverness has
this time proved your undoing. As you surmised, he knew the message
came from you. But he did not take hope or comfort from it. He has
misconstrued it, has now lost all hope because of it. Now he is
reckless and fey. And you have yourself to blame. It was to avert
just this possibility that you were asked to make the covenant."

"I do admit I made a mistake," Maigrey said earnestly. "But
if you will only grant me leave to go to him, I can fix it—"

"No. You have done enough," said the personage in severe
tones. "Too much. It cannot be permitted."

"You permitted my brother to come to me!" Maigrey flared.
"You sent Platus to stop me when I was going to kill myself."

"We sent him? Are you certain of that? Have you never wondered
why your brother walks these hallways instead of seeking the peace
that we offer him?"

Maigrey stared, astonished. Her brother—rebelling against a
Divine Edict. She couldn't believe it, and yet, she could. By saving
her, Platus had, in reality, saved Dion. And Dion meant more to
Platus than his own soul.

"What is it you want me to do?" she asked, quieter,
thought-fill.

"You will not return to the physical dimension. You will remain
here, in our sight and mind. You will not interfere in the lives of
any of those you left behind. One exception only is made and that
because of a responsibility you accepted in life."

"My goddaughter, Kamil. There is little I can do for her now.
But the others, Dion, Sagan .. . how can you ask me to abandon them?
Especially now. ..

"You will see them—through the mind of God. Submit
yourself to His will, Lady Maigrey. Be ruled by His wisdom, not your
own misleading passions."

Maigrey shook her head slowly.

The radiant personage was stern. "Would you tamper with their
freedom of choice? With their free will?"

"Why not? You're doing it," she retorted.

"You defy us, then." The radiant being did not make the
statement in anger, but in sorrow.

"I will do what I think is best," Maigrey said, hedging,
somewhat daunted by the power of the forces aligned against her.
"That is
my
free choice."

"This is true. We may not stop you. But know this, Lady Maigrey.
If once you leave our presence, the Mind of God will be closed to
you. You will see only as a mortal. And if you cross over to the
physical dimension, if you attempt to physically alter or change that
which was meant to be, you will be damned. You will not be permitted
to return to this blessed realm, except by a path that is long and
difficult and filled with pain. Many are those who have perished on
it, to live in dreadful torment and agony, bereft of all hope of
comfort, peace, redemption. That is the fate you face. And you face
it alone."

The path opened up at her feet. Maigrey looked down it, and her soul
shrank back from the sight. But, as she had been trained, she did not
show her fear. Her Hps pressed together firmly; her grip on the hilt
of the bloodsword tightened.

"It is your choice," admonished the radiant being. "But
beware that if you tamper with what you do not understand, you may do
irreparable damage. And if you do, you will be punished."

She thought long moments. Then "So be it," she said, and
left.

I think the King is but a man ...

William Shakespeare,
Henry V,
Act IV, Scene i

"Send for John Dixter," ordered Dion.

"Yes, sir." D'argent started to leave the king's office,
paused. "Are you certain, sir? You've only just returned to the
palace. Your Majesty should rest—"

"Find him!" Dion said through clenched teeth.

D'argent bowed silently and left.

Dion bowed his head. Elbows on his desk, he massaged his forehead,
rubbed burning eyes, throbbing temples. Ordinarily he had no problems
with space travel, but he had been ill this trip. He hadn't been able
to eat; what food he swallowed made him sick. He couldn't sleep, but
lay awake hours, staring into the darkness. Stress, nerves, said his
doctor, and had prescribed rest, a vacation. Easy to say, but how did
one take a vacation from oneself? Where could he go that despair and
heartache would not follow in his baggage train?

The king had left the Academy almost immediately after receiving
Dixter's message. Dion had taken time only to explain matters to
Kamil.

At first he'd considered not telling her. The news hadn't leaked out;
there was a possibility he could contain the explosion, minimize the
damage, prevent anyone from finding out. He knew Kamil. He was almost
certain that she would blame herself.

But he decided to tell her the truth. One reason—he couldn't
lie to her. He couldn't keep anything from her. If he was wounded,
his shieldmaid had to know, in order to know how to protect both of
them. And, too, he feared that he might not be able to keep this news
from the press, that she would find out from the evening news, hear
it gossiped among her friends. She would not only blame herself,
then, but she would assume that Dion blamed her. . . .

No, far better to tell her everything. He remembered every word of
their last meeting. Repeated it to himself now, as he had repeated it
over and over again in the long and empty hours of the night.

Once again, he held her in his arms.

"Astarte has left me. I have to return to the palace."

"Oh, Dion, this is my fault!" Kamil responded, as he had
known she would.

"Don't jump to conclusions, dearest," he told her. "Don't
make this more difficult."

She said softly, "You must go, of course. I understand. And ...
and if you can't come back . .. I'll understand that, too. You won't
need to say anything...."

"Oh, God!" With a smothered groan, he gripped her tightly,
clasped her to him, his love for her a fire that warmed him and
seared him.
I won't give you up!
was what he longed to say,
but his broken words were only, "How can I give you up?"

She made no reply. They clung to each other. This was the end.

Or maybe not.

That had occasioned the restless, sleepless hours. There might still
be a way. Now, of all times in his life, he needed Kamil, needed her
love, support, understanding. There had to be a way. .. .

"Dion . . ."

He raised his head, looked up. "Hello, sir," he said. "I
didn't hear you come in."

Dixter settled himself in the comfortable chair opposite the king's
desk, eyed Dion intently. "I heard the reports of your illness.
Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked with characteristic
bluntness.

Dion smiled wanly. "Just a touch of space sickness. I'll be all
right. And, actually, it proved a convenient excuse for canceling my
appointments." He drew in a deep breath, sat up straight, back
rigid. His face was the face of the mirror. "Tell me everything.
How bad is it?"

"Not as bad as it could have been, Your Majesty," Dixter
said gravely. He rubbed his grizzled chin, appeared embarrassed.

"Look, sir," said Dion, "let's drop the formalities.
This isn't going to be easy on either of us. I'm sorry you had to be
involved—"

"Better me than someone else, Dion," said Dixter. "Astarte
came to me because she knew you and I were old friends. She doesn't
want scandal, any more than you do, than we all do. She's an
intelligent woman. She knows how critical this time is for you. She
knows the wolves are out there, waiting for you to stumble, waiting
to rip your throat out."

"Then why is she doing this?" Dion demanded irritably. "I
think you better read this, son." Dixter held out a letter. "She
left this for you, in my care."

Dion took it, stared at it. It would contain reproaches, accusations.
It would be bitter, vindictive. Very well. Then he could reply with
justified anger. Anger felt good to him at the moment. Far better
than guilt.

He opened the letter. Rising to his feet (motioning Dixter to remain
seated), Dion walked over to the window, held the letter to the
sunlight to see it better. Actually, his desk lamp was perfectly
adequate, provided excellent light, but he needed the excuse to keep
his face to himself.

The letter was written in ink, by hand—Astarte's hand, neat,
small, precise, beautiful—much like herself.

My husband,

They have wronged us. Politics brought together two who were not
meant to be together. We were both very young. We were given no
choice. We were given no help. Like those in a fairy tale, when the
story ended, they shut the book on our lives and assumed that we
would live happily ever after. Yes, they have wronged us.

I have wronged you. I knew, on our wedding night, that you loved
another. That was all right. I loved someone else, too. Or at least I
thought I did. The Goddess, in her divine wisdom, showed me I was
wrong. I should have told you. I think it would have made a
difference between us. But I was proud, too proud to admit I had a
rival. I thought, woman-like, that I could win you over. Yes, I have
wronged you.

You have wronged me. You have broken the vows you took—to
honor; respect. You did not respect me enough to make me your friend,
if you could not make me your lover. You have not respected me enough
to confide in me. You could have told me the truth, that you loved
someone else. Yes, it would have hurt me, but how much more have you
hurt me, hurt us berth, by your cold silence? Worst of all, you have
made no effort to give up this love. You have defended it with every
weapon you can lay your hand on, you use them to drive me away. What
do you fear? That you might, accidentally, love me ... just a little?
That you might be unfaithful to her? Yes, you have wronged me.

I do not intend to create a scene or a scandal. I am leaving to give
us both time to think calmly, now that the truth has been spoken. I
do this now, because I know our marriage has reached a crisis point.
I will tell the media that I am returning home to celebrate the
Spring Blooming Festival, which is a holiday of great significance to
my people, honoring, as it does, the redemptive power of the Goddess.
Our people would be pleased if their king would come to participate
in the festival.

Will you, my husband? Will you take this opportunity to say anew vows
that now lie dead beneath winter snows? Will you reach out to one who
feels affection for you? She is prepared to forgive you your wrongs,
if you can find it in your heart to forgive hers.

The letter was signed,
In honor and respect, your wife.
And
below, penned in a more agitated style, was the postscript,
This
will be between ourselves!

Slowly, Dion folded the letter up. Slowly, he slipped it back into
its envelope, slowly slid the envelope deep inside the breast pocket
of his uniform coat. He waited a moment before turning around, not
because he needed time to conceal his emotions—that was
impossible; they ran far too deep. He waited because he was looking,
for the first time, into that mirror image of himself.