Ghost Legion (26 page)

Fideles sank back down into his chair. Oblivious to the water, the
broken glass, the blood, he clasped his hands on top of the wet desk.

"Blessed Father, have we lost him? Was he ever ours to lose? Yet
what else could I do?
Deus eum adjuvat.
God help him.
Deus
nos adjuvat!
God help us all!"

Her court was pure, her life serene;

God gave her peace; her land reposed;

A thousand claims to reverence closed

In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "To the Queen"

"Is the transport ready?" Dion asked his secretary, who had
entered the office with his accustomed air of tranquillity.

"Yes, sir," replied D'argent. He crossed the large room,
making no sound on the thick carpet, laid a file down in front of the
king, lifted another. "For your signature, sir. These few here
must be done by hand, not electronic. The Lord of the Admiralty is on
the commlink. He would like to talk to you before we depart, and Her
Majesty requests to see you, as well."

Dixter. Her Majesty. Dion frowned. He was—or had been—in
an excellent humor. The day he'd been, anticipating for weeks had
finally arrived. He'd watched the sunrise and felt its light flood
through his veins. Tonight he would be with Kamil. He wanted nothing
to ruin this day, nothing to dim the sunshine—not the Lord of
the Admiralty, certainly not Astarte. Dion picked up an old-fashioned
ink pen, began signing forms—mostly ceremonial in nature:
official proclamations of various planetary holidays and
celebrations, presentations of awards, gifts and grants, and so
forth.

"I will speak with Dixter first. Inform Her Majesty that I will
be at her disposal after that. How much time do we have?"

"An hour, if we are to arrive there on schedule, sir."

Dion handed back the folder. The secretary glided from the room. The
king flicked on the commlink.

"Good morning, Admiral. No, I haven't heard from the archbishop.
The courier left only a few days ago. Yes, I will let you know as
soon as I hear anything. I will be at the Academy if you need to
reach me."

Dion flicked on another line. "I am free to see Her Majesty now,
D'argent."

Rising to his feet, he buttoned his black jacket, shook back his mane
of red-gold hair, and had a smile prepared for his wife when she
entered the room.

"Good morning, madam. You look lovely today. The blue of that
gown brings out your eyes. You are dressed for traveling. What do you
have planned?"

Astarte crossed the room, came over to her husband. Taking his hand,
she inclined her face toward him. He leaned down, formally kissed her
on the cheek. Her skin was cool, her fingers chill in his grasp. She
was dressed in a suit of ice-blue lamb's wool, tailored to complement
her short stature and exquisite figure. Her black hair was done in
its elaborate coif. She used little makeup. Her complexion was
flawless. She added only some color on her eyelids, to bring out
their purplish hue, and a touch of coral on her lips.

Dion never failed to marvel at her beauty, as he never failed to
marvel at the beauty of the cold, glittering jewels on display for
the tourists in the Jewel Room on the lower, public levels of the
palace. He let go of her hand, though he continued to smile down at
her.

"Is there something I can do for you, madam? Before I leave?"

"You are going back to the Academy?" she asked him
abruptly.

Dion stiffened, though he was careful to keep his facial expression
impassive, blandly smiling. He knew his words sounded stilted, but he
held no conversation with his wife— even on the most innocent
of topics—that did not sound stilted.

"Yes, madam. Your husband is lecturing the students on the
duties of a king." His smile broadened, though he thought his
face might crack. He essayed a small joke. "I trust those who
fall asleep will be polite enough to keep their snoring to a
minimum."

Astarte had no answering smile; she seemed not to have heard him.
Looking up at him, eyes dark with an unusual intensity, she said to
him, "Don't go."

Dion was startled, uneasy. In all their years of marriage, she'd
never made such a request. Why now? Did she suspect? And during the
moment of silence that had passed while he was wondering, he realized
that he should have been saying something to allay those suspicions.

"Madam, that is—"

"Wait no, let me finish." Astarte reached out to him.
Almost shyly, she took hold of his hand, clasped it fast. Her voice
was shaking; she talked too fast.

"I'll cancel my appointments. You cancel yours. We'll go away,
just the two of us. That vid star, what's his name, Rusty Love, has
been begging us to accept the use of his villa on Adonis. The
surroundings are beautiful. It stands on a cliff overlooking the sea.
It is completely isolated, away from the press and the people. We
could swim and take long walks. You will teach me to play the harp,
as you once promised. We won't mention politics, wars, religion. For
two days or three, we will be two ordinary people. Please, my
husband. We need to get away from this. We need to ... to be alone.
We need to talk."

Dion stared at her, taken aback. He had never seen her so earnest, so
impassioned about anything. Her mention of the harp touched him. In
those first early, lonely days of their marriage, when they were
strangers to each other, trying to learn to be husband and wife, he
had played the harp for her. She loved music and those moments were
the first moments of pleasure they had ever truly shared.

As time went by, those moments had become the last.

The transport was waiting. He had only to give D'argent new
instructions, have the course changed, have the arrangements made.
The Academy would understand. More than that, they'd be well pleased.
The royal couple taking time out to be with each other. Romance
blooms on Adonis.

He should do this. It was his duty: his duty to his wife, to his
people. He felt Astarte's hand grow warmer in his grasp. The color
deepened in her cheeks, lightened her eyes. She had seen the mirror
image crack. She knew she had touched some vulnerable part of him.

She knows about Kamil, he realized. It is impossible, but she knows.
And she is offering me this way out. No accusations. No
recriminations. It will never be mentioned between us. But if I go
with her now, I will be promising to forsake Kamil. And Kamil will
know. She'll know when she sees the vids tonight. None of the three
of us will ever have to say a word. It will all be ended, as swiftly
and cleanly as a knife-thrust through the heart.

And he saw himself in their loveless bed, making love forever with
his eyes closed.

Kamil! Desire flamed through him, ached, burned. He had dreamed so
long of their meeting, tasted the delicious torment of anticipation.
He needed the soothing rest that came from their easy comradeship,
their conversation, her teasing, her laughter. He had made so many
sacrifices, given up so much.

No, this he would keep. This was his. He would see to it that Astarte
was placated. Damn it, if she'd only get pregnant! That was all she
wanted from him.

"Your offer is very tempting, my dear," he said,
withdrawing his hand from hers. "It all sounds wonderful. We
will certainly take such a trip. Six month's time, perhaps. When both
our schedules are free. I'll have D'argent make the arrange—"

"Don't do this, Dion!" Astarte pleaded. Her face was white,
the color drained. "I beg you!"

"It is impossible to alter my plans at this late date. I assure
you, madam." Dion turned away, walked over to his desk, placed
his hand on one of the folders. "My obligations preclude it ...
as do yours, I believe."

He waited, tense, for the tears, the recriminations.

Astarte said nothing. She stood unmoving, looking at him, her
expression one of such unutterable sadness that Dion was struck by
it. Without a word, with only that singular look, she left the room.

Dion stared after her. He felt vaguely uncomfortable; muffled voices
in his soul spoke of trust and honor, but he swiftly muzzled their
mouths. He listened only to love's voice, to its sweet song. Love
made all wrongs right.

He attempted to return to his work, but he couldn't concentrate. He
kept seeing, not Kamil's face, as he wanted to see, but that sad look
of Astarte's.

He shoved his work aside. "D'argent, we're leaving early."

He needed, suddenly, to be out in the sunshine.

His Majesty's shuttlecraft, one of those formerly attached to the old
Phoenix
, was safely and securely docked at the far end of the
Academy's small spaceport. Dion chose to use the shut-de as home base
during his stay this time, although the headmaster had kindly offered
his own house for His Majesty's use once again. Though regretting
walks in the rose garden—it was spring on the Academy's home
planet—Dion had politely refused.

He would be on the planet for at least a week while he gavehis series
of lectures. And during that time he could not abrogate his
responsibilities, but needed to remain in control of events
transpiring in his realm. He was planning to meet with emissaries
from numerous neighboring star systems during his visit, as well as
heads of several major corporations. The Academy needed money and the
king had promised to try to persuade these wealthy magnates to invest
in a commodity with a guaranteed return: education.

Consequently, Dion was busy from morning to night. The shuttlecraft's
beautifully-appointed antechamber was filled with people waiting to
be received by His Majesty. His lectures were well attended and well
received, for though this might be an excuse to be with Kamil, Dion
took the subject of kingship seriously. He had done a great deal of
research, and his thoughtful and insightful comments impressed
everyone, including those skeptics who has assumed this was a
publicity stunt.

But at night, when the last diplomat had been placated, the last news
briefing held, the last adoring students shooed from the tarmac, Dion
ordered the shuttlecraft doors shut and sealed. By day, he belonged
to his subjects. At night, he belonged to himself . . . and to Kamil.

No one noticed her amid the flood of people traipsing up and down the
shuttlecraft's steps. Once on board, she stayed on board, keeping
quietly to herself in the sealed-off private quarters belonging to
the king. Her days were long and lonely, passed in anticipation of
the nights.

Their love for each other deepened and strengthened during this time,
the first time they'd spent more than a few stolen hours together.

"I was a puzzle with pieces missing, until now," said
Kamil, embracing Dion. "I couldn't put any part of myself
together. My soul was filled with holes, with jagged edges. You came
and rearranged everything and filled up the empty places."

"You are the only person who cares about me—
me
,"
said Dion, stroking the short-cut silvery hair that was silky and
warm beneath his hand. "To all the others I am a something—a
king a commander, a ruler, an idol, a father figure (he did not
mention husband). But to you I'm a man. Just a man."

"Perhaps," she teased, "that's because when I first
saw you, you were naked as a newborn child. I'll never forget that
moment. I was sitting in the shadows of the trees on the shoreline
when I heard splashing and saw you pull yourself up out of the water,
your body white as marble against the deep blue, your hair flaring
like flame when you shook the water out. You laughed out loud for the
sheer joy of being alive and my heart laughed with you. You took my
breath away. I'd never seen any man like you—young and strong
and beautiful.

"I didn't know who you were, where you'd come from. I thought,
perhaps, you were a god. But then you began to play in the water like
a child, and I knew you were not a god, but a man, someone I could
love, not worship. I had to meet you; I couldn't let you go. I saw
your clothes lying on the other side of the lake and I hurried over
and picked them up and brought them back. And then you saw me. You
turned red as fire." Kamil laughed at the memory.

"You didn't seem all that impressed," Dion told her,
blushing all over again at the thought. "You accused me of
wanting to steal your fish."

"Instead you stole my heart," whispered Kamil.

But in their bliss was pain: the pain of knowing that their time
together was short.

"I can't help but be angry," Dion said one night, the two
of them sitting down to a late supper. "Why were we brought
together if we were not meant to
be
together? I need you,
Kamil. I need you by my side. You are the only person I can talk to,
the only one who understands. You are the shieldwife in my dream—the
one who guards my weak side. I would to God you
were
my wife!
Why, why did I let myself get entangled in this travesty of a
marriage?"

"You did what you had to do, what you needed to do at the time,"
Kamil said quietly. Moving around to stand behind his chair, she
rubbed his shoulders. "You're too tense. Relax."

He raised his head to kiss her. She kissed the back of his neck,
continued their earlier conversation. "And you know that if you
had it to do all over again, you would do the same thing. Without
DiLuna's fleet, you would have lost the battle to the Corasians. Lady
Maigrey's sacrifice would have been for nothing, Sagan's death
meaningless. They gave their lives to make you king. What is your
sacrifice, compared to theirs?"

He twisted around to face her. "You make me feel like that naked
kid stranded on that rock again. You're right" Taking hold of
her hand, he brought the palm to his lips, kissed it, pressed it
against his cheek. "Do you see
why
I need you? Someday—"