King's Sacrifice (37 page)

Twice or thrice
had I loved thee, Before I knew thy face or name; So in a voice, so
in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be.

John Donne,
Air
and Angels

Dion woke in the
morning after the most restful night's sleep he could remember having
since the death of his old way of life, the death of Platus. Lying in
the warm bed, the comforter pulled up around his neck, he watched his
breath turn to frost in the icy-cold room, and avoided, as long as
possible, leaving behind the blissful warmth of dreams only half
remembered, setting his bare feet on the cold stone floor.

Hunger and a
need to relieve himself eventually drove him out of the bed. He
dressed in record time and, after losing his way in the castle's
corridors, eventually found what Tusk called "the facilities"
located in a sheltered courtyard. Joining several of the shaggy sons,
who grinned at him and ducked their heads, Dion performed his morning
ablutions, washed his face and hands in a bucket of cold water—first
breaking the ice—and thought longingly of a hot shower.

After breakfast,
they spent the morning endeavoring to make contact with DiLuna and
Rykilth. Neither was available to talk, aides of both offered to
arrange conferences to take place on the morrow, separately and
together.

Dion was
relieved. He'd been dreading these meetings. He hated the diplomatic
groping, stroking, and fumbling, hated the promises that wouldn't
turn out to be promises, hated the lies that might or might not turn
out to be truths, hated the truths that would probably end up being
lies. He was thankful, at least, to put it all off until tomorrow.

With business
over for the day, Tusk and Nola went with the Bear to learn a
charming game known as "spear-chucking."

Dion excused
himself from joining them, pleading a headache, which was true. All
the time he'd been cooped up in the communications room, he'd been
aware that the day outside was beautiful—clear blue sky, light
breeze, and a warm snow-melting sun. He felt the need to escape into
that world and took advantage of the first opportunity to do so.

The afternoon
was warm, almost hot. The sun in the cloudless sky beat down on the
land below, making it seem as if yesterday's chill had been all in
the mind. Water ran in rivulets from beneath the melting snow and
ice, rushing down the gentle slope on which the castle was built.
Dion followed the water, letting it lead him where it would, content
to simply enjoy the warmth of the sun on his aching neck and
shoulders, content to admire the beauty of the wild landscape.

The runoff led
him to a clear lake, whose blue water mirrored the blue sky with such
perfection it made Dion almost giddy to stare into it—gave him
the eerie impression that he might, if he fell, tumble up into the
sky, instead of down into the water.

No breeze
stirred the lake's surface; the wind had died in the heat of the
afternoon. Dion sat on a large flat rock and stared across the
glasslike lake until the heat of the sun on the rock, baking through
his clothes, led him to think longingly of a swim. Gingerly, he put
his hand into the water. It was cold, but not icy. He felt grimy,
bug-ridden. (He'd observed the dog and a couple of the Olefsky
brothers scratching themselves. The unwelcome thought of fleas—which
had spread through the galaxy faster than humans—entered his
mind.)

Dion looked
around. He was alone, all Bear's sons having been eager to exhibit
their skill in "spear-chucking." Stripping off his clothes,
Dion dove into the sparkling water.

The cold made
him catch his breath. He gasped, came up for air, and immediately
began swimming toward the opposite side of the lake, knowing that he
had to warm the blood, keep moving. He wasn't a bad swimmer, but not
particularly good at it, either, having been raised on a planet where
the largest body of water he'd ever seen was his bathtub. He'd
learned to swim while on board
Phoenix.
His form was clumsy,
but it kept him afloat and took him where he wanted to go and that,
as his instructor had said, was most important.

Reaching the
opposite shore, Dion found a large boulder, worn smooth on top, and
guessed it had been used by generations of young Olefskys as a diving
platform. Invigorated by the cold water and the exercise, certain he
was alone and away from critical eyes, he relaxed and let the child
in him come out to play. He clambered up on the rock, dove off, doing
cannonballs, shouting, laughing, landing more than once flat on his
naked belly. Finally, chilled, exhausted, he climbed onto the boulder
to let the hot sun dry and warm him.

He stretched out
full length, folded his arms beneath his head, and started to lie
down comfortably.

A pair of eyes,
fixed boldly on him from across the water on the bank, brought him
sitting bolt upright. At first, Dion thought he was being observed by
a youth, for the figure had short hair, close-cropped to the head,
and was dressed in fur trousers and fur vest. Dion, feeling
ebullient, was about to wave to the young man in friendly fashion
when he took a closer look at the slender, delicate neck and realized
it wasn't a young man. It was a young woman.

"What are
you doing?" she asked in a voice as cool and clear as the lake.
"Besides ruining my fishing."

Dion moved
faster than he'd ever moved in his life. He slid off the rock,
tumbled into the water. Clinging to the edge, he put the boulder
between himself and the young woman.

"How long
have you been here?" he demanded, remembering just in time to
speak the woman's own language.

In answer, she
reached down into the water and pulled up a stringer of glistening
fish—more than twenty.

"That was
before you came and starting making all the noise and splashing,"
she said accusingly.

Dion sputtered.
"You've been spying on me this whole time! Why didn't you say
something?"

"Spying!"
The young woman bristled. "This is my father's lake. I have
every right to be here. More than you, I'm certain. And you'd better
come out of the water and get dressed. You're starting to turn blue."

"If you've
been here that long," said Dion, teeth chattering with cold and
embarrassment, "then you know that my clothes are on the
opposite bank. I'll—"

"Oh, no,
they're not." The young woman exhibited Dion's trousers. "I
fetched them for you. I knew you'd be chilled to the bone. You'd
better come out now," she repeated, glancing up at the sky, to
the sun that was rapidly disappearing behind the mountain peaks. Long
shadows were starting to stretch across the lake. "When the sun
goes down, the air will turn cold rapidly."

Dion stared at
his trousers and the rest of his clothes that he could now see piled
neatly behind the young woman. He knew what she said was right.
Evening's chill breeze on his wet skin raised the flesh on his arms.
As for modesty, he told himself, it was useless now. She'd seen
everything there was to see and, he had to admit, she didn't appear
to be all that impressed. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to walk out
of the water under the gaze of those calm, clear eyes.

"I'll
come," he said, starting to splash slowly toward her, the water
about waist deep. "But . . . turn around."

"Why? What
for?" The young woman was obviously perplexed. Then her brows
came together. "You're not planning to steal my fish, are you?"

"I'm not
going to steal your fish!" shouted Dion, losing patience, the
cold seeping into his bones, his skin burning as if he had a fever.
"It's just . . . Damn it, girl, I don't have any clothes on!"

"I can
see
that! You're shivering. You'll catch your death. Be careful.
The pebbles there are slippery. Here"—she leaned out over
the water, reached out a hand—"let me help you. ..."

"No!"
Dion exclaimed hastily, drawing back. "I can manage on my own,
thank you. Look, it's like this. Where I come from, it's not
considered"—he searched for but couldn't find an
equivalent of the word "proper" in the young woman's
language. He was beginning to understand why—"well . . .
right . . . for a woman to see a man without his clothes on. Or the
other way around," he added, blushing furiously.

The young woman
regarded him gravely. "That is true in our realm with betrothed
couples or with those who have some reason to be ashamed of their
bodies. But we are not betrothed and you have no need to be ashamed
of your body. You are well proportioned and muscular. It is a pity no
one ever taught you to swim properly."

Dion opened his
mouth, closed it again. She wasn't being cute or coy or flirting with
him. Her appraisal was spoken with frank, open honesty.

"Look,"
he said helplessly, "if you'd just turn your back . . ."

The young woman,
shrugging, placed his clothes at the edge of the shoreline, then did
as she was told, walking over near a stand of fir trees. Her lithe
form moved gracefully, yet awkwardly, as if she had only recently
acquired a new body and was still getting used to it. Sitting
comfortably on the ground, she stared intently straight ahead of her.

Dion climbed out
of the water, reached for his underwear.

"You'd
better dry off," the young woman advised. "Your clothes
will be wet and it is a long walk back to my home. Use my jacket, if
you want. The skin beneath the fur is coated with oil. It won't hold
the water like yours will."

Dion grabbed
hold of a shapeless mass of fur lying near his clothes, toweled off
hurriedly, and pulled on his trousers.

"Thank you
for the invitation to your home," he said, wringing water out of
his long hair and trying unsuccessfully to stop shaking. "And
I'd really like to visit you sometime . . ."

He paused, not
realizing, until he said the words, how true that statement was.
"But," he added with real regret, his gaze lingering on the
shining hair, the beautifully formed head, the long and slender neck
supporting it, "I'm a guest at the castle—"

"Which is
my home," said the young woman, turning around, facing him.

"No, no,"
said Dion, feeling extremely confused, noticing suddenly that her
eyes were golden and her hair, in the slanting sunlight, was
glistening silver, "I mean Olefsky's castle. Bear Olefsky. I'm
his guest."

"And I'm
his daughter," said the young woman. Smiling at him, she stood
up, walked over, extended her hand to him. "My name is Maigrey."

"Maigrey!"
Dion stared, frozen in place, unable to move for amazement.

"And what's
wrong with that?" the young woman flashed, snatching back her
hand. She glared at him defiantly. "I am the name-child of a
valiant warrior-woman, who is a friend of my father's and who was a
guest at the castle the day I was born."

"N-nothing's
wrong with it," Dion stammered. "I know the Lady Maigrey
and it . . . startled me to hear you say the name—" ,

"You know
her?"

The young
woman's eyes opened full and wide, drawing Dion inside.

"Yes,"
he said, dazzled, his blood pounding hot and fast through his body.
"I am Dion. Dion Starfire. Perhaps," he said modestly,
"your father has mentioned me—"

"The
boy-king," said the young woman. She stretched out her hand
again. "My father said you were strange, but that you had some
good qualities."

"Thank you,
I think," Dion said confusedly, accepting the handshake, which
was strong and firm and friendly.

Her fingers were
slender and rounded, fingernails cut short as a man's. She was as
tall as he was, with well-formed, muscular arms and shoulders,
slender waist and hips and long legs. Her skin was tanned, from being
outdoors, and made his look white and sickly by contrast. The golden
eyes (where had he seen those eyes before?) were large and serious.
Her nose was long, too long for classic beauty, her smile wide and
ingenuous and . . . friendly.

Friendly! God,
friendly! Dion groaned inwardly. He had always laughed at the notion
of Eros shooting man with love's arrows, but now Dion understood. He
wouldn't have been at all surprised to look down at his chest and see
the rascal's shaft sticking out of his heart.

"Have I
offended you?" asked the young woman, mistaking his long
silence.

"No, no,"
Dion answered, then shook his head, gazed at her through his wet,
tangled mass of red hair. "'Boy-king' doesn't sound very
flattering, does it?"

"I'm not
certain my father is right," stated the young woman, eyeing Dion
with cool appraisal. "You seem a man to me."

Dion wanted to
howl and leap about the forest and start a fire by rubbing sticks
together and wrestle some great beast and lay it at her feet. But he
judged, by looking at her, that she might get the better of him in
beast wrestling and she could almost certainly start fires. . . .

He said nothing,
couldn't find the words, and that golden-eyed stare of hers was
shredding him up inside. Turning, he leaned down, picked up the fur
jacket that smelled strongly of fish, and handed it to her. "Here,"
he said, looking at her tan, bare arms, "you'd better wear
this."

The sun had
disappeared behind the mountain peaks. Its glow lit the sky; a soft,
shimmering purple streaked with bands of red and orange.

"I
have
offended you," said the young woman. "I'm sorry. My mother
says I have the charm of a gron." Taking the jacket, she drew
near him and wrapped the fur around his shoulders, drawing it close
together in the front, smoothing it with her long-fingered hands.
"There. You will be warm soon."

Dion caught hold
of the hands in his own, held them tightly, drew her nearer to him.
His eyes looked into hers, saying those things that can never be
spoken aloud, but only heart to heart.