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—"
"No, don't say that. Don't even think it," she said quickly, putting her hand over his mouth. "To wish for that wishes harm on someone else. And a wish like that is a cursed wish, so my father says, and, once wished aloud, it could turn on the one who spoke it."
Dion assured her he'd meant no harm to anyone. D'argent served their meal; no servants traveled with the king on this trip. The secretary lingered to make certain all was well, and was on his way out to leave the two in private when he was summoned to the bridge by Captain Cato.
Chapter Nineteen
Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou com'st in such a questionable shape
That I will speak to thee . . .
William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 1, Scene iv
The robed and hooded figure approached the shuttlecraft long after darkness had fallen. He came on foot, startling the guards by emerging out of the shadows around the brightly lit spaceport. He had, it appeared, taken care to avoid the flooding lights that illuminated the tarmac and turned night to white, artificial day. He seemed to wish to avoid, too, the ever-watchful eyes of the remote press cams, who kept eager watch on all those visiting His Majesty.
The hooded man kept his voice low, was careful to remain in the shadows as he spoke to His Majesty's guards. He was clad in the long black cassock that marked a brother of the Order of Adamant. He kept his cowl pulled over his head; his face was hidden in darkness. He walked hunched over, stooped, but the guards had the impression that he was a tall man, powerfully built.
He spoke only two words—"Archbishop Fideles"—and handed the guards his credentials.
Taking these, leaving the priest, standing within the perimeter of the circle of steel that surrounded the king, the guard hurried to the shuttlecraft, relayed the disk, which contained the archbishop's personal request that His Majesty receive this messenger immediately.
Cato ascertained that the credentials were bona fide, but he was reluctant to disturb His Majesty. Instead, the captain disturbed D'argent. The two met privately—at Cato's insistence— inside the secretary's small, yet elegantly appointed quarters aboard the shuttlecraft.
There's something strange about this monk or whatever he is, sir;" said Cato. "Everything checks out, but ... I don't know . . . I think we should tell him to come back in the morning."
D'argent regarded Cato with interest. "I've never heard you talk like this, Captain. Is the man dangerous, do you think?"
Cato answered without hesitation. "Yes, he's dangerous. But maybe not to His Majesty. Not directly, anyhow." The captain smiled ruefully, shook his head. "I know I'm not making a lot of sense, D'argent. But I'd like to see this monk in broad daylight. I'd like to see his face. We asked him to remove his hood, but he refused. Said he'd taken a vow. . . . It's odd." Cato paused, frowning.
"What's odd?"
"I swear there's something familiar about this man! My hand itched to yank off that hood. I didn't," Cato added hurriedly, noting D'argent's look of consternation. "But I thought about it."
"I'm glad you restrained yourself, Captain," the secretary said severely. "The archbishop would have considered such an act of violence against one of his own messengers an insult."
"I know." The captain's expression was grave. "But that wasn't the reason I didn't touch him."
"What was the reason, Captain?"
"I didn't dare," said Cato softly. "Look, sir, it's like this. Have you ever stood near a high-voltage electrical wire? You hear the hum of the power surging through it. You can feel the aura of that power. It makes the hair stand up on your arms."
D'argent nodded to show he understood.
"Well, sir," said Cato, "I would as soon think of touching a high-tension wire as touch that strange monk outside."
D'argent studied the captain intently. Cato had served the king ever since he had come to the throne, had been a centurion under Lord Sagan's command fifteen years before that. The captain was levelheaded, pragmatic, certainly not given to flights of fancy, premonitions, or dark forebodings. Cato had dealt with thousands, millions of people—humans and aliens— over the course of his service to the king. Some of them had been violent, some had presented a real and
cogent threat. Cato had handled all emergencies with efficiency and dispatch. No talk then of high-tension wires.
D'argent was uneasy. "You scanned him for weapons, I presume?"
"Of course, sir. Nothing. He's clean."
"You can't give me any other reason for your suspicions, Captain?"
"Logical reasons, you mean?" Cato's mouth tightened. "No, sir, I can't. It's just . . . when he spoke to me . . . when I heard his voice . . . something went right through me. A jolt, a kind of shiver. I've never felt the like."
D'argent sighed. "I'm sorry, Captain, but unless you can come up with some valid reason for keeping this monk away from His Majesty, I'll have to admit him, if that is what the king commands. His Majesty has been expecting a messenger from the archbishop. And the archbishop's messenger requests a private audience with His Majesty."
"That, in any case, we should not allow," said Cato grimly.
D'argent continued to ponder, then shook his head. "We may not have much choice. It will be up to His Majesty." Crossing over to a console, he flicked on the commlink.
Dion's voice. "Yes, D'argent? What is it?"
"Excuse me for disturbing you, sir, but the messenger from Archbishop Fideles is here and requests a private audience with you this evening."
"He's here now? Who is it?"
"A Brother Penitent, sir. His credentials check out. The archbishop has sent a personal message, requests you talk with his representative immediately upon arrival. The matter is, according to the archbishop, extremely urgent."
There was a moment's silence. Kamil's voice could be heard in the background, low and reassuring. D'argent couldn't make out her words, but he guessed from the tone that she was urging the king to see this visitor. Never mind that she had spent the day alone, looking forward to this time together, these few precious, stolen moments. D'argent smiled sadly, sighed briefly.
When Dion's voice returned, he sounded troubled. "Very well. Escort this Brother Penitent to the meeting room. Bring him food and drink and anything else he requires. I'll be there in a few moments."
"Very good, sir. And excuse me, sir, but Captain Cato recommends that you keep the Royal Guard with you during the interview. There's something about this Brother Penitent Cato doesn't trust."
"The archbishop requested a private audience with his representative?"
"Yes, sire."
"Then the audience will be private, D'argent. So inform the captain."
"Yes, Your Majesty." D'argent glanced over at Cato, shrugged.
The centurion shook his head.
D'argent himself accompanied Cato back outside the shuttlecraft. The secretary was curious not only to see this formidable personage who had given the veteran captain of the guard a "jolt," but to make certain that the roving cams of the media had not fastened onto this midnight visitor.
At first D'argent could see no sign of anything out of the routine. The guards walked their patrol, human eyes double-checking, backing up electronic surveillance. The centurions had hustled their visitor off to the mobile command unit, were keeping him well concealed.
Reasonably satisfied that none of the media had spotted the monk, yet thinking it might be just as well to be prepared with a press release tomorrow in case they had, D'argent entered the mobile command unit to get a look at the messenger.
Brother Penitent stood alone, patient, silent, his face hidden, his head lowered, his hands clasped within the sleeves of his cassock. D'argent noted the shabby material, well worn, almost threadbare in places. This man was not a monk, not a priest. He had not taken orders. He was a lay brother, one who might almost be classified as a servant. A strange emissary from the head of the Church to the king of the galaxy.
Yet, as Cato said, there was something about this man .. .
"If you will accompany me, please, Brother," D'argent said respectfully. "His Majesty will see you now."
The brother inclined his head, made no remark. Flanked by Captain Cato and two of his men, they left the command unit, walked across the tarmac to the shuttlecraft. The night was still, the air clear and soft with the smells of new life coming to the land. A myriad of stars were scattered across the black vault of the sky.
Their footsteps crunched on the gravel that was scattered— like the stars, except in a more lowly setting—on the concrete pavement. D'argent's footfalls were quiet, his tread delicate. Hie centurions' footfalls were measured, rhythmic, as if they walked a parade ground. And so, too, D'argent noticed, startled, were the footfalls of the lay brother.
The secretary glanced down, saw the brother, in his frayed robes and leather sandals, unconsciously matching his strides in military precision to those of the centurions.
D'argent wondered that Cato did not notice this odd occurrence, could not think of any subtle way of drawing the captain's attention to it. The secretary was not even certain that he should; there could be many plausible explanations for the fact that a monk marched like a soldier.
By this time they had reached the shuttlecraft. Most interior and exterior lights had been dimmed for the night. Hatches opened silently, absorbed D'argent and the strange visitor into the shadows, closed and sealed silently behind them.
"This way, please," said D'argent.
He led Brother Penitent into the shuttlecraft's interior, down a narrow corridor, to His Majesty's audience chamber. The brother followed silently, without hesitation. He did not raise his head, appeared to take no interest in his surroundings, hardly seemed to look where he was going.
D'argent, glancing continually and uneasily over his shoulder, had the sudden, uncanny impression that this was because the brother knew exactly where he was. That he could have walked the decks blindfolded.
"In here," said D'argent. The door slid open. The secretary stood to one side. "His Majesty will be with you shortly. Can I bring you anything Brother? Something to eat, perhaps? A glass of wine?"
A negative movement of the hooded head was the only response.
D'argent glanced significantly at Cato, who had come up behind him. The captain nodded and left. The door slid shut, sealed, locking the strange brother alone inside. The captain and his men would keep the monk under constant surveillance through the room's hidden cameras.
Dion emerged from his private quarters, walked down the corridor to the audience chamber. Though the hour was late, he was not casually dressed for this meeting. He had taken care to change his clothes, was wearing his black uniform, his purple sash and lion's-head pin. He was troubled. Fideles would not have sent a personal messenger, would not have claimed urgency unless the matter was serious.
He found D'argent waiting for him. The normally unflappable secretary was disturbed, shaken.
"What is it, D'argent?" Dion asked, pausing outside the door before entering. "Did the press get hold of this?"
"No, Your Majesty. I don't believe so. Might I suggest, sir, that you take a look at this Brother Penitent before you—"
"Stop, Your Majesty!" Captain Cato's shout echoed off the metal bulkheads. The captain and his men came running down the corridor, lasguns in hand. "Don't go in there, sire!"
Weapons drawn, the King's Guard surrounded him.
"Why? What's happened?" Dion demanded.
"Either something's gone wrong with the surveillance equipment or that man in there has somehow managed to shut it down."
Dion caught his breath, stared at the closed door. For an instant he couldn't move, couldn't think. A blackness came over him, blotted out all light. A roaring sound in his head deafened him. The captain, the shuttle, the door began drifting out of reach, receding into the distance, falling farther and farther away from him. ...
"Sire!" D'argent caught hold of the king.
The secretary's firm touch dispelled the faintness, brought Dion back.
Cato had his hand on the door's emergency manual release. "You men escort His Majesty back to his quarters—"
"Belay that, Captain," the king ordered sharply. He felt
chilled, numb, as if all the warmth of life had drained from his body. "The surveillance equipment has probably malfunctioned. One of the technicians can check it out in the morning. Stand aside."
"But, Your Majesty—"
Dion stared at the man.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Reluctantly Cato moved away from the door, though he did not lower his weapon. "If Your Majesty will permit me to enter first—"
"That will not be necessary, Captain. I will go alone, as the archbishop requested. Post the guard, as usual, then return to your duties."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Dion shifted his gaze to his secretary, who had been holding on to the king's arm.
D'argent flushed, removed his hand. "Sire, if you would allow me to accompany you—"
"Thank you, D'argent, but that will be all for this evening. You may return to your room."
The secretary had no choice but to bow and leave, first exchanging a worried glance with Cato, who had no choice but to bow and do as the king commanded.
Dion was alone. His face set rigid, limbs so cold he had lost all power of feeling, he placed his nerveless hand on the manual override, but at that moment the door slid open.
All other electronic systems in the room had gone dead. No lights shone, not even the emergency fights.
The robed and hooded man stood by the window. His back was turned; he did not look around. His tall figure was a black nothingness bounded by the cold white shimmer of the stars.
Dion shut his eyes, gathering his strength, his courage. Drawing in a deep breath, trying to ease the painful throbbing of his heart, he walked into the room.
The door shut and sealed behind him.
A single light flashed on overhead. The white beam, harsh and bright, illuminated the king. He was blinded, could no longer see the man by the window. But he heard the rustle of his robes, guessed that the man had turned, was studying him.
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