Ghost Legion (9 page)

"There are ways, madam." Dion was carefully maintaining
patience, control. "We've discussed this before. Artificial
insemination—"

"That is against my religion!" Astarte shouted at him. "You
know that!"

"It's not against mine," Dion returned. "And keep your
voice down."

"Let them hear!" Astarte waved her hand toward the door.
"Let the whole palace hear! A child must be born of the union
between husband and wife. Not between wife and test tube! And that is
another thing. You promised you would advocate the worship of the
Goddess. You promised you would help encourage her worship throughout
the galaxy. Another promise broken! Like your promise to be faithful
to your wife."

Dion's face paled in anger; his eyes shone bright and hard and they
had gone ice blue, like a frozen lake beneath winter clouds. He drew
in a deep breath, let it out slowly.

"I have been faithful to you, madam," he said, his voice
shaking with tension, the need to remain in control. "You know I
have."

"With your body, maybe, sir." Astarte released her hold on
him suddenly, pushed him, as if she were flinging him away. "Not
with your soul."

Dion stared at her. His lips compressed tightly, holding back words
he might have been tempted to speak. She gazed at him, head tilted
upward, her chin thrust slightly forward. Slowly she straightened,
stiffened. Her arms crossed over her chest. Her gaze did not falter.
It was Dion who lowered his eyes. Giving a stiff, cool nod, he turned
and opened the door, stepped out into the hallway. —

Two sets of the Royal Guard came to attention—the King's Guard,
who stood outside His Majesty's door and accompanied him wherever he
went, and the Queen's Guard, who did the same for Her Majesty.

Returning their salute, Dion placed himself in the center of their
ranks. The guards closed in around him and proceeded down the
corridor, heading for His Majesty's private suite of offices.

Astarte remained in the dressing room, staring after him. The women
who formed the Queen's Guard (warriors from Astarte's own planet)
kept their faces immobile, impassive, as had the men who formed the
King's Guard. All pretending they had not heard.

When the rhythmic tread of booted feet had faded, when the king had
entered his own private lift, to be whisked away to the public part
of the Glitter Palace, Astarte finally left the room. The Queen's
Guard closed around Her Majesty, the tall forms of the female
warriors towering over their diminutive ruler.

Disciplined gazes facing forward, keeping close and careful watch,
none of them noticed the single tear that slid down Astarte's cheek,
a tear that dried on her skin, for she did not deign to lift her hand
to brush it away.

Dion entered his office through a door accessible only from the
king's quarters. The king's quarters were cordoned off under tight
security, not so much for protection as for privacy. Only friends of
the royal family—such as John Dixter, and relatives such as the
queen's mother, were permitted to enter the king's quarters.

Their Majesties' private offices were located in what was known as
the public part of the Glitter Palace. Actually, the general public
stood about as much chance of getting into this part of the palace as
they would have of breaking into the vault where the crown jewels
were kept. It was here that Their Majesties conducted their daily
business, here where they did their entertaining. People could even
be housed in this wing of the palace, in spacious and luxurious
apartments. Dixter had an apartment here. So did DiLuna, which she
used whenever she came to visit her daughter. The closest the public
came was a look at the exterior of the palace and a vid that they
could view at the end of the excursion.

Entering his office, leaving the King's Guard to take up their posts
outside the door, Dion was finally able to relax. He pulled off the
sweat-damp gloves, tossed them on the desk, ran a hand through his
hair. He was startled to notice he was shaking, his hand trembling.
He would have liked to have flung himself into his chair, rested his
aching head in his hands, devoted time to being alone, to being
unhappy, to being frustrated and angry.

But such simple luxuries were denied him. He thought of what he'd
said to his wife. Queen of the Galaxy. She could have anything she
wanted. And so could he. Anything—except what he wanted most.

He pressed a button. A vidscreen flickered to life.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," came the cool tones of his
private secretary.

"Good morning, D'argent." Dion smiled slightly.

D'argent's calm voice and expression spread like a soothing balm over
the king's fresh wounds. Nothing ever disturbed D'argent, nothing
rattled him, panicked him. No matter what the crisis, the secretary
remained calm, detached, removed.

The palace still talked of the time, shortly after the
coronation—when the strict security measures that surrounded
the king had yet to be established—that a fusion bomb had been
discovered, planted under D'argent's desk. If it had exploded, it
would have taken out half the palace. His Majesty and the Royal
Family were whisked to safety. The entire staff was evacuated, with
the exception of D'argent. The secretary-refused to leave. His
Majesty had important files that had to be saved if this computer
system was destroyed.

The bomb squad dismantled the bomb while D'argent remained seated
nearby, transferring material into a computer system far removed from
the palace. He had been forced to do the work manually: The material
was classified, and he could not use voice entry, due to the presence
of the bomb squad. He had not made a single error.

The outer door to Dion's office opened: D'argent glided inside. He
was of medium height, blond, slender, always dressed in a white linen
suit, white shirt, and white shoes. Only his necktie changed color
daily, on some sort of scheme known only to himself. Dion often
wondered if the variation in color had some sort of relevant meaning
to the man's life, for the king occasionally detected a pattern in
the shifting colors. Dion could have asked, but D'argent had a way of
surrounding himself with an impenetrable shield, generated by his own
calm demeanor and vast efficiency.

D'argent's personal life was open to complete inspection, as were all
those who served the king. D'argent resided, with a male companion,
in a private suite in the palace. He was rarely seen out of either
his office or his rooms, except for daily exercise that he took in
the gym. He was known to be in exceptional physical condition, was a
keen and deadly shot with a lasgun, and a reputed expert in the
martial arts.

Today, D'argent's necktie was green. He had worn green for three days
now. Prior to that, the necktie had been alternately yellow one day
and red the next, for a full week.

D'argent performed the morning ritual. He brought Dion a cup of hot
oolong tea. He placed a sprig of fresh flowers in a vase on His
Majesty's desk. This day, it was a tropical violet. Yesterday had
been lavender. (The flowers, too, went by a pattern, but it was even
more complex than the ties.) Ordinarily he would have switched on the
computer at Dion's desk, brought in the day's important mail which
required the king's personal attention. Today, knowing Dion was
preparing to leave, D'argent left the computer off. They would deal
with the mail on board ship.

"Sir John Dixter is waiting, sir. Shall I send him in?"

"Do I have an appointment with him?"

"No, sire. He requested a meeting yesterday, after you'd gone. I
took the liberty of saying you would see him first thing this
morning."

No apologies. D'argent would not have taken up the king's time unless
the matter was vital. Although how the secretary determined what was
vital and what wasn't was, once again, a mystery. He had never
failed, however.

He poured the fragrant tea.

"Bring him in. I don't suppose he gave you any indication of
what this was about?"

"No, sir."

D'argent glided away, soft-footed, and returned steering John Dixter
around the formal furniture groupings, across the wide expanse of
carpet, to a massive, ornately carved desk.

"Sir John Dixter," announced the secretary formally.

Dion rose to his feet. Dixter bowed awkwardly.

The king extended his hand, shook the older man's hand warmly. Dion
was conscious of Dixter's scrutiny, the affectionate gaze of a
father. The king was comforted, felt less alone. And it was not often
he felt less alone.

Once Dixter was seated, D'argent remained an instant, to make certain
that the Lord of the Admiralty was comfortable, then departed. The
secretary was back again with coffee—in a sturdy, substantial
mug—for the admiral. D'argent poured, stirred in cream and
sugar; then, having ascertained by a glance at His Majesty that his
services were not required, D'argent glided from the room, shut the
door behind him.

Dixter sipped at the coffee cautiously, smiled.

"This is exactly how I take it. How does he remember?"

Dion shook his head. The tension was starting to drain from him. "I
have no idea. But he does it with everyone. How have you been, my
lord?"

"Fine, Your Majesty. Fine. Thank you for asking." Dixter
cleared his throat, flushed, shifted uncomfortably.

Gone was the unrestraint of earlier times, though Dion was far less
formal, with his long-time friend than he was with others, using the
singular pronoun "I" during their private talks, not the
all-inclusive royal "we." But barriers existed between them
now; both knew it and acknowledged the change as necessary. One was
obvious—a barrier of light shining from a golden crown. The
other was less tangible, but perhaps thicker, more impenetrable—the
boy that Dixter had once called son was now a man. Now his king.

"How are you, Your Majesty?" Dixter wasn't asking the
question out of politeness. He sipped at his coffee, regarded the
king over the mug's rim, his expression grave, concerned.

"In excellent health, I'm happy to say," Dion answered
coolly, faintly irritated with himself that he hadn't masked his
inner turmoil. "I'm traveling to the Academy today. Tonight's
the dedication ceremony. The renovation is complete. We've expanded
the library. The new wing is being called the Platus Morianna Wing.
And I'm dedicating a memorial to Lord Sagan and Lady Maigrey. I think
they'd be pleased."

"Yes, sire," said Dixter guardedly, setting his coffee mug
down on the stand at his elbow. "I'm sure they would be very
pleased."

"I wish they could see the Academy, those who attended it so
long ago. I'd like them to see how it's comeback to life. But they're
all dead—all the Blood Royal. Either dead or they've hidden
themselves so well that they've managed to avoid all our searching."

"They're dead, Your Majesty," said John Dixter. He stared
at the coffee. "Those who managed to survive the purge—and
there weren't many—died later at Sagan's hands. He had his
revenge on them for betraying him. May God have mercy on his soul."

Dion looked at his old friend sharply, thinking he detected an odd
note in the man's voice. But the admiral's face was expressionless.
He picked up his coffee again, swallowed it, smiled faintly, savoring
the flavor.

Dion reprimanded himself. I'm starting to suspect everyone of playing
devious games, of having ulterior motives. Dixter obviously meant
nothing more by that remark than what he said.

"Is Her Majesty going with you, sire?" Dixter asked.

Dion wasn't paying attention. The admiral was forced to repeat the
question.

"No," Dion said shortly.

He rose to his feet, walked over to the window. The curtains were
drawn; the king preferred to work in an environment that was shaded,
cool, restful. He parted the curtains slightly. A shaft of sunlight,
bright and glaring, illuminated him, made his red hair bum like
vibrant flame.

"What did you need to see me about, my lord?" Dion asked,
glancing around. "Please be seated."

No one sat when the king stood. Dion returned to his desk, sat down.
Dixter settled back in his chair.

"You recall the intelligence reports we received—reports
stating that a group was seriously interested in attempting to
acquire the space-rotation bomb?"

"Yes, I remember." Dion frowned, clasped his hands on top
of his desk. His right thumb began to massage the knuckle of his left
forefinger, a trick he'd acquired to conceal any nervousness. "You
followed through on our plan to draw them out?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. I hired Xris and his squad of commandos to
make the phony transfer to Snaga Ohme's. They made it look good, kept
it strictly classified, top security. The word leaked out. We now
know the person involved, know where the breach occurred.
Unfortunately, we were a little late. He disappeared before we could
get our hands on him.

"The group made contact with Xris's man—the Loti, Raoul,
the supposed weak link. Three ex-starpilots paid a large sum of money
for plans of Snaga Ohme's house, the garden, security layout—all
what you might expect. Raoul provided it—again, enough to make
it look good. His partner, the empath, went along, raided these
pilot's minds. Apparently, Your Majesty; the group behind this is
known as the—"

"Ghost Legion," said Dion.

Dixter's jaw went slack. "You knew about this?"

Dion shook his head. "No, I didn't know about it I've never
heard of it. And yet, I have heard of it. Or maybe it would be more
correct to say I've
heard
it." Unclasping his hands, he
stared down at the scars—five of them—that marred his
right palm.

Dixter noticed the gesture, guessed at the implication. "When
you use the bloodsword."

"Yes. Thoughts, strange thoughts, come into my mind. Odd images,
weird occurrences. Not a voice, not like Abdiel's." Dion frowned
at the memory that was still painful and would likely always be.
"It's as if some other consciousness were brushing against mine.
I see shadows of whatever it's thinking. That name came into my mind
the instant before you said it. Yet, I swear, I'd never heard it
before. I don't know what it means or what it is."