There were no other rooms in this part of the building, no windows. The walls were painted in soft, subdued colors; the lights gradually dimmed as the party proceeded down the corridor, giving an effect both soothing to the eye, calming to the soul. At the end of the corridor stood a large double door, carved of oak, bearing the emblem of the lions-head sun, the king's standard. The doors had no handles, no locks.
"As Your Majesty requested," said the headmaster. "It is open to all, day and night."
Dion gave the doors a gentle push, walked inside.
The chapel was a round room, cloistered, but light and airy. Its walls were of marble, whose stern aspect was softened by a row of slender columns forming a series of arches around the chapel's outer perimeter. Diffused light, from a glass dome in the ceiling, cast the columns' shadows against the marble walls behind them, forming a delicate pattern of light and darkness.
Beneath the skylight was a fountain, carved of limestone, unadorned, plain and simple in design. The name platus morianna was engraved in the stone.
Dion walked up to the fountain, stood a moment in silence, his head bowed, his thoughts with the gentle man who had raised him, who had given his life for him.
The headmaster held back a moment, out of respect. Then he came forward to stand by Dion's side.
"The chapel is quite popular with the students, Your Majesty. Several traditions have already sprung up concerning it. It is said, for example, that the sound of the falling water has a soothing effect upon troubled spirits. Those who are depressed or unhappy, sad or worried, have taken to coming here. They sit there, on the fountain's base, and many swear that they hear a soft voice in the water, offering counsel and sympathy.
Dion stood still, listened to the musical sound of the gently splashing water, imagined the water was washing over him, cooling the fever and soothing the turmoil in his soul. He had the impression that, if he sat here long enough, he, too, would hear Platus's voice, receive his wise council.
"I've experienced the feeling myself '' added the headmaster, noting Dion's softened expression.
"Platus would have liked this," said Dion quietly. He could almost hear words in the varying modulations and tones of the plashing drops. If only he were by himself if only he had time to truly listen, time to truly ask ...
He supposed he could order everyone to leave. He was king; they would obey. He had the feeling that the headmaster might even understand. Dion was tempted ... but he abandoned the idea.
He had not yet seen Kamil, nor had any word from her, received any message. Somehow, somewhere, they must meet. He needed to see her. And so he dared not deviate from his well-publicized schedule, lest she should be waiting for him, and he miss the opportunity of finding her.
The water spoke to him no more. He roused himself, was able to attend again to the headmaster's conversation.
Directly opposite the fountain, opposite the door through which they had entered, the circular line of columns ended, forming an alcove, with the marble wall behind. On this wall hung two portraits.
One was of Derek Sagan, Warlord of the fallen republic, a member of the Blood Royal and cousin to the king. The other was a portrait of Maigrey Morianna, outlawed royalist, member of the Blood Royal, cousin of the king. The portraits were uncannily lifelike, so lifelike that Dion's heart constricted painfully when he looked at them, and he heard, behind him, his captain of the guard Cato—an unemotional, stem, and disciplined soldier, who had served many years under Sagan's command—murmur in awe.
"Remarkable, aren't they ? Your Majesty hasn't seen them before ? inquired the Dean.
"I saw only the sketches and the preliminary watercolors. The artist what was his name?"
"Youll. Your Majesty. Stephen Youll."
"Youll offered to show the finished work to me, of course, but he said that he would prefer it if I saw them after they were properly hung. These . . . this is incredible." Dion for the moment forgot the voice of the king, spoke as himself.
"Quite a remarkable man, Youll," said the headmaster, gazing at the paintings with the pride of ownership, as well as appreciation for their beauty. "I had a chance to meet him when he supervised the hanging. A former spacepilot, he told me. He fought with the Warlord in the battle against the Corasians at Vangelis."
"That was one reason I chose him for this commission," said Dion. "He had served under Derek Sagan on board the old Phoenix. He knew both Sagan and the Lady Maigrey. To all the other artists, they were just . .. names. This man remembered them. He knew them as I knew them. That was what I wanted."
"It seems Your Majesty has succeeded," said the headmaster.
The Warlord had been painted in his golden Romanesque armor, fiery red cape, with the phoenix emblem—a controversial choice of costume. But then the placing of the Warlord's picture had been extremely controversial, since he was known to have murdered numerous innocent people, including the king's own guardian, Platus Morianna.
True, Sagan had redeemed himself by his heroic actions in the final battle against the Corasians. During this battle, having become separated from the rest of the fleet, he had fought alone and outnumbered. His spaceplane had been destroyed. He was declared missing in action and presumed dead. But there remained those who had little cause to either love or honor his memory.
"Was there any trouble on campus over this, Dean?" asked Dion, thinking of the debate that had raged in the media when he had announced that he was building a memorial to honor Derek Sagan.
"Some of the students protested, Your Majesty. Was he a fallen angel redeemed or a demon damned? That subject was debated at length," answered the dean. "As you might imagine, the argument became more muddled as some of the true details of the late President Peter Robes and his ghastly ties with the mind-seizer, Abdiel, were made public."
"On one point everyone was in agreement," inserted the headmaster. "Such an honor, granted after death to a man who had wronged you, is very much to Your Majesty's credit."
Dion bowed slightly, a lowering of the eyes and an inclination of the head, acknowledging the compliment and letting it pass He concentrated instead on the portrait. The face was exactly as he remembered: dark, stern, impassive. He recalled Platus's words, spoken before he died, spoken before Sagan had killed him—"... his face, deep scars of thunder had intrenched," from Milton's Paradise Lost. Fallen angel redeemed . . . demon damned. Or perhaps the question had not yet been resolved.
The dark eyes of the painting stared back at Dion and he was once again that awkward, dazzled, and confused boy of seventeen, standing before the two of them, standing before Sagan and Lady Maigrey. In Sagan's eyes, cool appraisal, doubt, scorn. In her eyes ...
Dion's gaze shifted to the other portrait. The artist had portrayed Maigrey in her silver armor, matching Sagan's. Her robes were blue and adorned with the eight-pointed star which had been the symbol of the Guardians. Around her neck she wore the starjewel, and in the painting it shimmered with an argent flame. The last time he had seen the jewel had been to place it reverently on her body; its fire had burned pale, cold as the fire of distant stars. He looked into her eyes and he saw now what he had seen the first time he'd met her: understanding, cool pity, sorrow.
"It's almost eerie, the way the two seem to be looking at each other, isn't it, Your Majesty?" commented the headmaster.
"Yes, it is," agreed Dion politely. He looked again, thinking that he might have been mistaken. No. He wasn't. They weren't looking at each other. They were both watching him.
"The story of their ill-fated love is well-known and, in fact, Your Majesty, this alcove has started to acquire a certain romantic history of its own."
"Indeed?" Dion glanced surreptitiously at his watch, though he knew well that the silent and observant D'argent would be keeping track of the time and would politely and graciously intervene when necessary to keep His Majesty on schedule.
"The chapel has become a trysting place for lovers," the headmaster was continuing. "Particula
rly those who have quarreled or separated. They meet here, or leave small bouquets of flowers beneath one painting or the other. ... Why, gracious me, there's one there now. I must apologize, Your Majesty. I wanted this kept neat. . ."
The embarrassed headmaster, robes flapping like sails, was bearing down upon the small flower lying on the floor beneath the portrait of Lady Maigrey.
D'argent, swift, graceful, unobtrusive, cut in front of the headmaster, retrieved the flower with a gracious, murmured "Allow me, sir."
The headmaster bobbed his thanks, was shaking his head over the incident.
"Please, think nothing of it," said Dion graciously.
D'argent turned to the king, offered the flower. "Perhaps Your Majesty would like to keep this as a souvenir," suggested the secretary.
Accepting the white, waxen blossom, Dion placed it in the buttonhole on the lapel of his uniform. The heady, spicy fragrance took his breath away.
"This is truly a beautiful place," he said, looking around once again. "Truly beautiful."
Dion suddenly wished for, longed for it to be night. It was with great effort that he forced himself to attend to his duties.
The headmaster and dean were extremely pleased to receive His Majesty's warm praise. They would have gone on discussing and exhibiting the chapel for the next hour had not D'argent, whose sharp eyes had noted the king's sudden lapse of interest, quickly intervened.
"His Majesty's schedule prohibits . . . His Majesty should rest . . . aware that the headmaster has other duties in connection with this evening's ceremonies . . ."
Dion heard very little, made the automatic, proper responses that he could have made if he had been drugged, drunk, or somnambulant. Fortunately, he'd had long experience in practicing the control of his emotions, was careful to conceal irritation, boredom. He could maintain a steady pulse rate; could regulate the beating of his heart, prevent the rush of blood to his face.
Passing the fountain, he glanced at himself in the pool of blue water. His reflection, though marred somewhat by the constant motion of the falling water, was the reflection of the mirror in his dressing room: cool, detached, unaffected. He wondered that he heard the fountain's voice no longer, for, in his mind, it should have been singing an aria in celebration of love.
Dion did not fully regain consciousness until he was alone, back in the headmaster's house, which had been turned over to the king and his retinue for his use during his stay. Pleading fatigue and the desire to rest and go over his speech for the dedication ceremony that night, the king retired to his bedroom. The door had barely closed behind him before he removed the camellia from his lapel, pressed it to his lips.
He touched the commlink worn on his wrist, allowing him to speak either to his secretary or to the captain of the Royal Guard.
"D'argent."
The secretary responded immediately, entered, shut the door behind him.
"Yes, sir."
"All is arranged? She'll dine with me this evening?"
"Yes, sir. The dedication ceremony ends at midnight. Princess Kamil Olefsky and her party will arrive at 0100 hours for a late dinner. I gave the Royal Correspondent that information, as you requested."
"How was it received?"
"Since the princess is known to be a longtime friend of Your Majesty's and her father is one of your most valued and trusted allies, nothing untoward was said. They requested the usual: the names of those she would be bringing with her, what they would be wearing, the menu, the wines. The Royal Correspondent gave them all the details."
"And you have arranged for the princess and her friends to spend the night here."
"Yes, sir. This house has numerous guest rooms, which are being made ready."
"Very good, D'argent," said Dion, trying to sound nonchalant, though at the moment not even he could control his swift racing pulse.
"Is there anything further I can do for you, sir?"
"No, thank you, D'argent. I'm going to read over the speech now."
The private secretary bowed again, left.
Dion lifted the copy of his dedicatory speech from the table, sat down in a comfortable chair, and started to read. He made it through one sentence, then the hand holding the speech sank to the chair's arm, all thoughts of the ceremony faded away.
In Dion's mind, it was already night. He was alone, at last, with the woman he had loved in secrecy and in silence for almost three years. And in all that time he had been faithful to his wife, as he had told Astarte. Faithful in body, if not in soul.
But the hunger was strong. Duty and honor had not sated his appetite, filled him as he had hoped they would.
The gleaming crown was losing some of its luster; the scepter was growing heavy for him to bear alone.
Chapter Nine
Before God, I might not this believe
Without the sensible and true avouch
Of mine own eyes.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene i
Dion sat on the stage in the crowded auditorium, sat with the outward assurance and regal presence of a member of the Blood Royal—the image in the mirror. Inwardly, anticipation teased him with its delightful pain, tempted him into rash and completely stupid, juvenile acts. What if he leapt from the stage and went dashing down the center aisle, singing that lewd song Link had once taught him, a song he'd forgotten until this very moment? He almost giggled at the thought, actually caught himself grinning. Appalled, he corrected himself, corrected the image.
The speakers droned on. Half-blinded by the glare of stage lights, he could not find Kamil in the audience, though he had been searching ever since he'd entered—to a thunderous ovation—almost an hour ago. It was foolish of him to hope to find her, he supposed, since there must be several thousand people in the auditorium. How could he discover out of that number, in the darkness, one head of cropped silver hair, one pair of golden eyes? Still, he searched. It gave him something to do, something to think about besides the coming night...
And now it was time for his presentation. The headmaster was introducing him. The audience was on its feet, cheering. The orchestra played the Royal Anthem—adapted from the Fate motive of Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony—as Dion ascended the podium and began to give his speech. He spoke the beginning words by rote, spoke them without really thinking about them until he came to the name of Lady Maigrey.
Her name fell from his lips and, at that moment, he saw Kamil. A spotlight had been playing over the crowd for the benefit of the vidcams recording the historic occasion. The light illuminated her, shone on her silver hair, her white gown.
The effect was startling, magical. Dion felt like an inept sorcerer who accidentally stumbles on the correct incantation or the wanderer who falls into the ring of mushrooms, finds himself standing before the fairy queen.
Kamil knew he saw her. She smiled at him, a secret smile for just the two of them, but it sent an arc of blue flame flaring from one to the other. The flame jolted through Dion's body, left him dazed, shaking. Someone behind him coughed. He realized he'd been standing silent, staring dumbly, his speech cut off in the middle of a sentence.
He looked down at his notes. They made no sense. He couldn't read them. He was drying up, literally. Not a drop of saliva was in his mouth; his throat was closing. The spotlight moved on, Kamil vanished, swallowed up by darkness. Dion was suddenly conscious of the audience, conscious of thousands of eyes on him, and they seemed malevolent, vicious, the eyes of the pack waiting for him to fall.
His stomach wrenched; his knees went weak. He clutched at the podium to keep from falling. How long had he been standing here? Hours, days? His face burned with shame. The mirror image was cracking, glass falling . . .
And then he saw her.
Dion blinked, stared.
Lady Maigrey, clad in silver armor, her pale hair shining, stood in the center aisle directly opposite Dion. She smiled at him, and he began to speak.
He spoke to her and to her alone.
H
e told her how much he valued her advice, her wisdom, what it had meant to him. He told her about her brother, about Platus, his influence, his living example of a true gentle man. He talked to her about Derek Sagan, about lessons learned, about failing, repentance, redemption. He forgot the audience, spoke to Maigrey, as if the two of them were by themselves. And when he concluded, when his heart and soul were empty, he waited for her to answer, was amazed and disappointed when she did not.
She was gone.
The spotlight flowed over the crowd. The aisle where she'd been standing was empty. He stared into darkness, into a hushed silence. He was like one who awakens in a strange place. He had no idea where he was. He looked around, lost and confused.
He turned to step from the podium, staggered. Sweating beneath the heavy uniform, he began to shake with chills in the cool air. He was limp, wrenched, wrung out. The headmaster came to him swiftly, gave him his hand, assisted His Majesty's faltering steps.
"Wonderful, sire!" the headmaster said in broken tones. "I've been sobbing like a child."
"Thank you," Dion murmured, still not certain what was going on.
He heard a strange rustling sound, couldn't imagine what it was. Then he saw. In solemn and reverent silence, a silence more eloquent than the loudest applause, the audience was rising to its feet, rising to pay homage to the fallen . . . and to their king.
Dion was backstage. He had no idea how he had arrived here. He assumed—hoped—he had made a dignified exit.
Captain Cato was here to meet him. Dion clasped the soldier's arm, thankful to feel warmth, flesh, solid bone, strong muscle.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Cato said to him softly. Tears shone on the soldier's ordinarily stern and implacable face. "Thank you for what you said about my lord."
Dion wondered what that had been. For the life of him, he couldn't remember a word.
"You were standing in the wings, Cato. Did you see her?" Dion asked in a low voice.
"Who, Your Majesty?"
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