Ghost Legion (44 page)

Flaim did not move, did not make a sound, though the pain of his
injured hand must have been severe.

Sagan stirred, spoke aloud, but softly. "I helped put Dion
Starfire on the throne. I pledged my allegiance, my loyalty to him.
He knew—everyone knew—that I had misgivings about him,
about his ability to rule. But Fate conspired against me." He
looked at Flaim. "Chance, coincidence—call it what you
will. I fell from grace. Dion rose. I left the world ... to avoid
temptation."

Sagan raised his hands, removed the cowl that covered his head,
settled it back on his shoulders. Reaching out, he took hold of
Flaim's hand, his right hand, his burned hand. Sagan grasped it,
pressed it hard, tight.

Flaim tried to maintain his stoic demeanor, but the pressure of the
Warlord's grip was too much. A gasp of agony escaped his lips. He
flinched; a trickle of sweat trailed down his temple, glistened on
his cheek.

But then he smiled, fierce, exultant. He straightened his shoulders,
shook the black hair from his face. And he strengthened his grip on
the Warlord's hand, pressing burned flesh to callused flesh, fresh
scars left by the bloodsword matching long-unused scars.

"I came here searching for a king," said Derek Sagan. "I
have found him."

In love alone we hate to find

Companions of our woe.

William Walsh, "Song, Of All the Torments"

Kamil awoke in a peaceful, quiet room of green-tinged shadows weaving
back and forth against a far wall; of muted sunlight, bird song, and
the gentle melody of a flute playing softly near her. She lay in a
comfortable bed, with clean, sweet-smelling sheets, and stared around
her in a serene, calm, and uncaring state—the aftereffects of
the drug. She was drifting on the surface of a placid lake after a
terrifying struggle with horrible things beneath its surface.

The green-tinged shadows were leaves and branches, stirred by a
fragrant breeze. The flute music stopped. Kamil glanced in its
direction.

A young woman, seated at a table near the window, had been playing.
Seeing that Kamil was awake, the woman smiled at her and, taking the
flute with her, left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Shortly after her departure, the flute music began again, repeating
the same melody, as if the player were practicing it. The tune was
simple and sweet, with the faint undercurrent of melancholy peculiar
to the song of the flute, whose every breath seems a sigh. Kamil
hummed it, lying in her bed, looking drowsily about her, and then she
remembered everything.

Her broken arm lay across the coverlet, wrapped in a more
sophisticated type of inflatable sling than the cyborg had used. The
arm was numb, felt heavy and foreign; it didn't belong to her.
Fearfully she moved it, was relieved to see her fingers wiggle. There
was no pain; Kamil assumed this was due to whatever drugs they had
been giving her.

She sat up and looked more closely around her room. Her clothes were
neatly folded on a nearby chair. They'd been washed, apparently, for
all traces of blood and dirt were gone. She was wearing some sort of
sleeveless gown made of cotton.

It was comfortable, if not fancy. The room was a small bedroom, not
much bigger than her dorm room back at the Academy.

Sliding out of bed, pausing a moment to recover from a wave of
dizziness, Kamil padded softly to the door. Slowly, quietly, she
tested the handle. Not locked. She crept over to the chair, grabbed
her clothes, and dressed herself with considerable difficulty,
encumbered by the sling and lacking the use of her right arm. It was
especially frustrating attempting to button her shirt, but she
managed and, sliding on her shoes, was just about to glide out the
door when it opened and someone glided in.

Kamil sat down on the bed and tried to look as if she hadn't been
going anywhere.

Astarte smiled coolly, but said nothing. The queen was wearing some
type of loose-fitting white garment that fell in soft folds from her
shoulders. A golden belt, made to look like sheaves of wheat, circled
her slender waist. Her dress came to her ankles; golden sandals,
matching the belt, covered her small feet. Her shining black hair was
done up in an elaborate twist. Her eyes—with their vivid,
glittering wine hue—seemed the only bright color in the softly
colored room.

Another young woman, standing behind the queen, carried a tray draped
with a white cloth. Astarte gestured. The young woman placed the tray
down on the table. A delicious smell— fresh-baked bread—scented
the air. Kamil gazed at it longingly, all thoughts of escape put on
hold.

"Are you hungry, Daughter of Olefsky?" Astarte asked. "Yes,
I thought you would be when you awoke. Xris advised us not to give
you anything to eat until the drug wore off. He said you'd get along
without food fine for a few days. You were given water, of course.
You probably don't remember much about the trip, do you?"

Kamil shook her head. What she did remember, she'd just as soon
forget.

Astarte sent the young woman out of the room, bid her shut the door.
Advancing to the table, the queen removed the cover from the tray,
fresh fruit, cheese, a loaf of warm bread.

"I don't suppose it's the type of fare you're accustomed to
eating," said Astarte, folding the covering cloth meticulously
and placing it at the side of the tray. "Your people are
carnivorous. I believe. We do not eat meat, particularly in the
temple environs. I should not do so myself but I am often forced to—a
concession I made when I became queen. It would not do to offend a
host—such as your father—by refusing what is served. The
Goddess understands. Come, eat."

Kamil stared at the food, her mouth salivating, but she made no move
to leave the bed.

Astarte shook her head. "You will accomplish nothing by starving
yourself."

That made sense. Kamil stood up, went over to the small table,
started to sit down. Then she realized she was in the presence of the
queen, who was still standing. Kamil caught herself, stood
deferentially.

Astarte smiled again, but this time her smile was strained. "You
think it perfectly all right to make love to my husband, yet you wait
for my permission to be seated in my presence."

Kamil flushed, embarrassed and guilty; angry that she was being made
to feel embarrassed and guilty.

Folding her hands, Astarte sat down gracefully, her back straight,
head high. "Go ahead, Olefsky's Daughter," she said, her
tone no longer bitter, but sounding only resigned. "Sit down.
Eat your meal."

Feeling foolish, but not knowing what else to do, impelled by her
hunger, Kamil sat down in a chair opposite Astarte's. Lifting the
bread, Kamil began to eat, then remembered her manners.

"Will ... will you have some, Your ... Your Majesty?" she
offered awkwardly.

"No, thank you. I have dined. And don't call me that. It sounds
. .. ludicrous." Astarte waved her hand. "I don't suppose
you call my husband 'Your Majesty.'"

Kamil was chewing bread. She swallowed the piece, then laid her hand
down on the table, the remainder of the bread uneaten. Her gaze fixed
on her plate; her body grew cold, stiffening.

"I'm sorry," said Astarte suddenly.

She reached out her hand, rested it on Kamil's hand, which was still
clutching the piece of bread. Astarte's long fingernails brushed
Kamil's skin, their touch cold, a contrast to the warmth of her
fingers.

"I'm being a bitter, vindictive wife." Astarte sighed.
"That won't accomplish anything either. I don't want to alienate
you, Olefsky's Daughter. Of course, we can't be friends. That
would
be ludicrous." She smiled briefly, wanly. "But we do have
one thing in common. Dion. We both want what is best for him."

Kamil said nothing. Removing her hand slowly but gently from
Astarte's touch, she resumed eating.

The queen drew in a deep breath, placed her hands once again in her
lap. Whoever was playing the flute outside her door had started over.
Kamil knew the melody well enough by now to flinch whenever she heard
a wrong note.

"Your name is Maigrey Kamil," said Astarte. "But they
don't call you Maigrey, do they?"

Kamil, her mouth filled with bread, shook her head.

"I never knew her," Astarte continued, sitting bolt
upright, hands clasped in her lap. "My mother did. They were old
enemies, fought during the Vapor-breather Wars. My mother despised
her. She said Lady Maigrey was a coward who betrayed her commander,
then ran away to hide from the consequences of her action. Of course,
what my mother couldn't understand was how Lady Maigrey could have
betrayed Derek Sagan. I think my mother was jealous. She wanted Sagan
for herself. But that was not possible.

"Sagan admired and respected my mother, I think, but there was
only one woman he could ever truly love—Lady Maigrey. Their
love for each other was born when they were born. The Goddess meant
them for each other. But the Evil One worked to thwart Her plans.
Pride, jealousy, fear, mistrust—the weaknesses of our mortal
flesh tore them apart. But love conquered, in the end. They are
together now. In death, they have told each other what they could not
say in life.

"I will call you Kamil," said the queen abruptly. "And
you must call me Astarte."

"You don't love him," said Kamil softly, nervously tearing
her bread into bits, her hunger assuaged. "You don't love him
like . . . what you said, 'a love that was born when they were
born.'"

"No, Kamil," said Astarte, the wine-colored eyes meeting
hers steadfastly. "No, you are right. I don't love him like
that. I never can. I never will."

"But I do!" Kamil threw the bread to her plate. "From
the first moment I saw him—no, even before I saw him. When my
father first told me about meeting him, I felt something for Dion
then, though I didn't understand it. I'm afraid my father didn't
think much of Dion at first. They met that night at Snaga Ohme's, the
night Ohme was murdered, the night Dion declared himself king. My
father was talking to Lady Maigrey. Dion came up and accused her of
betraying him because of her love for Sagan. Maigrey hit him."

Momentarily forgetting where she was, who was her audience, Kamil
smiled, recalling the Bear's lively, boisterous account of the
incident. "Lady Maigrey didn't just slap Dion. She socked him,
according to my father. Knocked him back about five paces, cut his
lip open. My father thought better of Dion after that, though. He
defied that horrid old man, Abdiel, at the risk of his own life, and
claimed the throne. When my father told the story, I could see Dion,
though I'd never met him. I could see him so clearly...."

"Yes," said Astarte quietly, "I can imagine."

Kamil recalled where she was. She sat hunched over her plate, toying
with the uneaten fruit. She didn't look up. "You understand,
then, that this isn't our fault. We didn't mean to hurt you. We don't
want to hurt anyone. We have to be together. We were
meant
to
be together."

"Yes, you were," said Astarte. "But you cannot."

Frustrated by the woman's calmness, thinking she'd prefer rage—at
least she could understand rage—Kamil demanded, "Haven't
you ever loved someone like this?"

"I have not met my soul's partner. I doubt if I ever will now.
The Goddess obviously does not intend it. I was meant to do my duty,
to be queen, to bear the heir to the throne."

Kamil stared at her. "Your Goddess intends you to be trapped in
a loveless marriage? How can—"

"Not loveless," corrected Astarte. "I love Dion, in my
own way. Oh, not the same way you love him, Kamil. I wish I could,"
she added wistfully.

The queen shook her head. "But I am giving way to self-pity, a
weakness the Goddess abhors. I respect my husband. I respect him for
the goodness inside him. I respect him for his high ideals and noble
principles, for doing what he truly believes is right, for his
self-sacrifice and dedication to the people. I admire him for his
honor."

Kamil flushed again, bit her lip.

Astarte understood. "You think it's strange of me to talk of
admiring him for his honor, when he's behaved most dishonorably to
me. But I do. For I have seen how he suffers because
of
his
betrayal of me. If he was not honorable, he would not care. And Dion
does care, doesn't he, Kamil?"

Kamil pressed her lips together tightly, not to be lured into this
trap.

"He cares. And so do you. I find myself liking you, Kamil."

Kamil found herself unable to return the compliment. She couldn't
imagine "liking" Astarte. The woman was too remote, too
distant. One might as well say one "liked" the moon.

"Where am I?" Kamil asked, when the silence between the two
had grown uncomfortable. "Where have you brought me?"

"The Temple of the Goddess on the planet Ceres. Don't worry,"
Astarte added as Kamil stared in alarm and astonishment. "This
is the one place where you will be safe. My mother dares not harm you
here, on sacred grounds. You arrived in a coffin. I trust that is not
an ill omen, but it was the only way I could smuggle you inside
without mother's knowledge. Now, of course,, she knows you are here.
Her spies are everywhere. But I have spoken to her. No one dares shed
blood in the Goddess's temple. She would curse the person for all
eternity."

"So I'm only safe as long as I stay here?" Kamil looked
around her.

"Oh, you need not keep to your room. The temple grounds are
large and extensive. You may walk them freely. In fact, I will show
you around now. Xris says you should take exercise, after your long
confinement. Our Sacred Grove is quite beautiful. Would you like to
see it?"

Kamil supposed she would. She felt the need to stretch her legs, the
need to tire herself out, wear away the unhappy confusion roiling
inside her.