Ghost Legion (67 page)

"I don't suppose she will refuse," said Dion, his eyes on
his wife.

"An ingenious plan, don't you dunk, cousin?"

"Most ingenious," Dion agreed.

"I wish I could take credit for it." Flaim shrugged. "But
I have Lord Sagan to thank."

"Indeed?" Dion—his expression troubled, thoughtful—
turned to the Warlord.

Sagan bowed in acknowledgment.

Dion gazed at him for long moments. Then, the shadow falling dark
over him, he lowered his head and stared down at the ground. "I
see."

"Guards, attend Her Majesty. Escort her back to her quarters,"
Flaim commanded. "But perhaps Princess Olefsky would like to
remain a moment, recover from the shock of her ordeal. For which I do
apologize. I think she should be allowed to have a few words alone
with the king. Tusca, remain with my cousin, take him back to his
room whenever he is ready."

Tusk, standing against the wall, nodded sullenly.

Orders issued, Flaim left the courtyard, accompanied by Pantha and
the box. Two female guards came to take charge of Astarte. The queen
crossed the courtyard with her accustomed dignity and cool aplomb.
But she hesitated when she neared Dion.

He remained standing in the center of the courtyard, inside the
circle, his head bowed, rubbing the palm of his right hand.

Astarte stopped beside him, seemed to want to speak, to offer
comfort. She reached out her hand.

He didn't see it, didn't look up.

But after all, what comfort can 1 give him? I'm a stranger. .. . Her
words were unspoken, but they were written on her face. Her hand fell
to her side. She sighed and started past.

Dion, hearing her sigh, became aware of her. He caught hold of her
hand, looked at her steadily, intently.

"Astarte, are you all right? The child—" He faltered
a moment, then said gently, "Our child—" He couldn't
go on.

Astarte's pale face flooded with color. She was radiant, beautiful,
life beating within the confines of death and despair. "Our
child is fine. I am fine," she said to him, clasping his hand
tightly. "Don't worry about us."

He couldn't speak, but brought her hand to his lips, then pressed it
against his cheek. Astarte's eyes filled with tears. He smiled at her
reassuringly. She returned the smile, blinked back the tears, and,
with regal bearing, walked out of the courtyard.

Kamil remained sitting on the bench, staring at Dion, her heart and
soul in her eyes. Dion glanced at her, shook his head, stared back
down at the bare ground beneath his feet, at the drops of blood in
the circle.

The courtyard emptied of people. Sagan, heading for one of the
buildings, walked past Tusca. The mercenary looked sick, sat
hunch-shouldered on the bench.

"I hope to hell you know what you're doing," Tusk said in a
low voice, through split and blood-caked lips.

Ignoring him, the Warlord continued on. Tusk didn't bother to repeat
himself. He sat unmoving on the bench.

Sagan entered one of the buildings adjacent to the courtyard. He
walked through the corridor, whose windows looked out upon the
courtyard, taking care that his footsteps were loud and heavy.
Pausing at the end of the hall, he turned and silently doubled back.
Keeping in the shadows, he took his place near a window, as near as
he could get to the circle in which the king remained. Kamil had
joined Dion now, was standing beside him.

. The air was calm, sound carried well, and the Warlord had excellent
hearing. Still, he might have had difficulty eavesdropping on their
conversation had not Kamil inadvertently assisted him. Glancing
mistrustfully at Tusk, she took hold of Dion's limp hand and, tugging
him into responsiveness, drew him away from the mercenary. Her
movement took them nearer Sagan, so near he was forced to retreat a
step or two back deeper into the shadows to avoid being seen.

Her words took the Warlord by surprise, apparently startled Dion,
too.

"Dion," she said to him firmly, her voice pitched low,
"you've got to find a way to escape."

He raised his head, roused from his despairing lethargy.

"Listen to me first, before you say no," she continued
swiftly. "I have an idea. A good one. When Tusk comes to take
you back, grab his weapon. Force him to fly us out of here in the
Scimitar. We'll rescue Astarte, take her with us. Tusk knows all the
passwords, all the codes. His spaceplane is parked near the alcazar.

"He'll do it. I know he will!" Kamil gulped for air,
nervous excitement stealing away her breath. "He doesn't like
this, any of this. You saw him. He tried to help me. It was only
Sagan, knocking him senseless, who made him back off. We'll escape
and ... and ..." She paused, uncertain.

"And what?" Dion asked, smiling sadly.

"Well," she said, faltering, "you'll have to go into
hiding. Flaim would be searching for you. But meanwhile we could
raise armies against him. My father would help, and the baroness—"

"Until the bomb exploded. Or the strange dark-matter creatures
attacked them. Or the Corasians invaded. No," said Dion quietly,
"your father might want to help. But he couldn't. He'd be too
busy fighting for his own survival."

Kamil was silent, faced with irrefutable logic. Her hands twisted
together. Then her expression hardened. "We just stay in hiding,
then. Don't bother about fighting Flaim. Or else wait a few years.
Wait until you are stronger and he is weaker. Wait until he makes a
mistake. Wait until Sagan turns on him and they're at each other's
throats. It's bound to happen," she pointed out with grim and
bitter certainty. "Sagan betrayed you. It's only a matter of
time before he betrays Flaim."

Dion shook his head, his face again thoughtful, dark, and troubled.
He glanced—oddly enough—at Tusk. The mercenary hadn't
moved. But he was watching them from beneath half-closed eyelids.

"What will I do during that time I'm 'hiding'?" Dion asked.

"Why, you'll... Well, I guess you could ... We ... we'd .. Kamil
looked foolish, then irritated. "What does it matter what you'd
do? We'd just go on living, waiting ..."

"Try to see the road ahead," Dion told her. "Go on.
Look into the future. What will I do? Wait on tables? Sell computer
chips door-to-door? Where will I go that I won't be recognized? You
are asking me to exile myself, live in constant fear, live again
without a name."

He shook his head. "You forget, Kamil, I was raised like that. I
lived seventeen years of my life in hiding. I won't go back. And I
won't raise a child of mine like that."

She was frustrated, unwilling to give up. "It would only be for
a little while—"

"Kamil." He spoke to her gently, reaching out and taking
hold of her arms. "You can't see down that road because that
road doesn't exist for me. I am king. When the archbishop placed the
crown on my head, the scepter in my hand, I accepted a
responsibility. I took it upon myself to be the people's protector. I
can't flee and leave them to their fate. What would I say to them?
That I ran away when there was danger, came back when it was safe?"

Kamil tried to say something, but he held her tightly, silenced her
with his earnestness.

"There would be no return for me, Kamil. If I throw away the
crown in fear, how could I ever reclaim it?"

"At least you'd be alive," she told him, not looking up at
him.

"Would I?" he asked tiredly. He dropped his hands from her
shoulders. The weariness was evident on his pallid face. "Would
it matter?"

"Yes, it would matter!" Kamil returned. "What
nonsense—to say you might as well die as not be king. You lived
seventeen years without knowing you were a king and you were happy.
You told me you were. You had your books and your music and . . . and
someone who loved you."

She faltered a moment at that, then, taking a breath, returned to the
fray, stronger for her momentary weakness. "Platus never wanted
you to be king. You told me that, too. He wanted you to be an
ordinary man, doing what you could for people in ordinary ways.
That's
what truly counts in this life. If every ordinary
person lived his life respecting others, their rights and their
feelings, then we wouldn't need kings.

"You were happy being ordinary until Derek Sagan came along. He
murdered Platus, but he did something worse to you that night. He
murdered the good, the quiet, the ordinary part of you!"

She choked back a sob. Dion put his arms around her again, drew her
close. She rested her head on his breast. But he stared out over her
head, his thoughts far away. His lips moved. Sagan, attuned to the
thought heard the silent words he himself had said to Dion years ago.

I came to rescue you...

But Kamil was also attuned to the thought though it was love's ear
that was quick to hear it not the telepathic ear produced by genetic
design.

She pushed herself away from him, looked up into his face. That's it
isn't it?" she said softly. "That's why you're ready to
throw your life away. What Sagan said."

"What do you mean?" Dion said, startled and troubled.

"About you fading the test. You believe him. You don't think
you're good enough. You've let Sagan convince you that you don't
deserve to be king. You think, like him, that your cousin's better
than you are and so you're just going to crawl away and die!"
Kamil was angry now, her anger driven by her fear.

Dion had grown pale and silent during her attack, but her words
seemed to give him pause, made him think. "Perhaps you're right.
Believe what Sagan says," he repeated, musing. "He never
lied to me, no matter what else he did. ..."

His gaze went to Tusk, who had either fallen asleep or passed out
again. Dion withdrew into himself, took himself far away from spying
ears, loving or otherwise. Sagan couldn't read the young man's
thoughts, but he could guess them, and the Warlord frowned in the
darkness.

"Oh, Dion, you can't think that!" Kamil cried, alarmed.
"Flaim will be a dreadful ruler, cruel and vicious. Like he was
today. Astarte told me so. I didn't want to believe her, but I see
now what she meant."

Dion, looking back to her, smiled in spite of himself. "A fine
counselor you are," he said, gently teasing. "One minute I
shouldn't be king and the next minute I should. Which is it to be?
You can't have it both ways, my dear."

"I know. I'm sorry. I don't understand any of this horrible
mess. I shouldn't have tried to lecture you. I've probably done more
harm than good."

Kamil sighed forlornly. Then, putting her arms around him, holding
him, she said quietly, "I understand only that I love you and
I'm afraid for you. We have a chance to escape. Take it. Once we're
away from here, then everything will work itself out. I know it
will."

Dion hesitated, tempted.

Sagan watched in silence. Knowing that he could intervene anytime he
chose to prevent such a rash and hasty act, he was curious to hear
the king's response.

"No, Kamil," said Dion. His hesitation had lasted only a
moment. He wasn't uncertain of his decision; he was reluctant to
destroy the hope shining in her loving eyes. "I have to stay and
see this through I have to catch that damn silver ball," he
added with a bitter smile. "If I am meant to die, then it will
be with dignity, as a king. I won't die shot in the back, caught
running away."

Sagan's eye caught movement in a distant doorway, saw two shadows
cross a window. Tusk, who had not been sleeping, saw them, too.
Rising to his feet, rubbing his aching jaw, he slouched over to Dion.

"C'mon, kid," he said in a low voice. "Someone's lookm
for you." His gaze flicked to his left, over his shoulder.

Dion turned to Kamil. "Will you—"

"No, go on," she said, and her tone was cool. She didn't
understand, was afraid and feeling helpless, and because she was
afraid and helpless, she was angry. "I'll stay here awhile. I
like it outdoors ... in the sunshine."

She turned her back on him. Dion looked at her, obviously wanting to
say something to do or make everything right. Realizing this was
impossible, he walked away with Tusk. The two crossed the courtyard,
stepped over the circle, and disappeared into the alcazar.

Kamil held herself stiff and rigid until she could no longer hear the
echoes of their footsteps. Then, thinking herself alone, she sagged
down on the bench, lay on it like a heartsick child, and began to
cry—hurting, despairing sobs that wrenched her body.

Sagan waited, still, silent in the darkness. He was not disappointed.
A flash of silver appeared very near the weeping girl, a silver
armored guardian, standing vigil over her grief.

He watched a moment longer, then left his post, taking care that his
footsteps were quiet and muffled, not to disturb either of them.

The game's afoot ...

William Shakespeare,
King Henry V
, Act III, Scene i

Sagan arrived early for his meeting with the prince. Flaim, in
excellent humor, welcomed the Warlord cordially and even Garth Pantha
seemed to unbend and greet Sagan with cordiality.

They met in the communications room of the alcazar, the one place in
the fortress where they could be sure of talking without
interruption, for no one—not even the guards—were
permitted to enter this room, on pain of death. It was the first time
Sagan himself had been accorded such an honor. He knew, of course,
that he had been tested and gathered that he had passed.

He looked around with curiosity; that would be only natural. But he
had to keep from appearing too curious, which would have aroused
suspicion. It was from this room Garth Pantha communicated with the
dark-matter creatures. The Warlord's gaze darted swiftly from one
complex machine to another, from vidscreen to commlink, from old
outdated equipment to new. He recognized everything, saw nothing
strange, no familiar equipment being put to unfamiliar use.