Dion stood unblinking in the harsh light, stood unmoving during the harsher surveillance.
Brother Penitent left the window, walked to the king. He blotted out the light. His shadow passed over Dion, like the wings of a dark angel.
He knelt, sank to one knee. "God keep Your Majesty," he said, his tone cool, impassive.
"Thank you ... Lord Sagan," Dion answered "Please rise, my lord."
"I am Brother Paenitens," Sagan corrected, humbly standing. He lifted his hands, removed the cowl from his head. "Derek Sagan is dead."
Dion stared, astounded at the change only a few years had wrought. The thick black hair was completely silver gray at the temples; the lines in the face were deeply, severely etched; the eyes bitter, shadowed.
"My appearance shocks you," said Sagan dryly. "I thought I looked rather well ... for a corpse."
Too late, Dion realized he'd allowed his feelings to show. He adjusted his face, carefully concealing the pity and compassion that would be met with scorn. He changed the subject; a king's prerogative.
"Yet I know Lord Sagan is alive and he is here, for only he would be familiar enough with his own shuttlecraft to disable the monitors and manipulate the electronics."
Sagan stood in the darkness, well out of the single shaft of white light, but Dion could still see, on the man's thin lips, the twisted smile.
"Cato is an excellent officer," commented the Warlord. "Intelligent, astute. He recognized me, although he doesn't realize it. His mind rebels against what his heart is trying to tell him. If I had remained longer under his surveillance, he would have figured out the truth."
"He would die before he betrayed your secret."
"I am aware of that, my liege," said Sagan quietly. "But Brother Paenitens entered this shuttlecraft and Brother Paenitens will leave it."
Dion caught himself about to sigh, checked it. The mark of the man's suffering was plain upon his face. Dion could not hope to understand it, could only pray to God that he would be spared such anguish. But wasn't repentance supposed to bring peace to a trouble soul? What terrible battle still raged in this one?
"As you wish, my lord. I may call you that? So long as you are here? It seems . .. more natural."
Sagan shrugged, did not reply. He had turned away and was once more staring out the window.
How many times have I seen him thus? Dion asked himself silently, his heart aching with memories, some of them disturbing and painful. But that was long ago, when he and I traveled among the stars. Here, the stars shine down upon us and we stand in darkness.
"It is good to see you again, my lord." Dion spoke awkwardly, uncertain how to proceed. "What have you been—"
"Pardon, my liege," said Sagan, turning around. "But His Holiness did not send me all this distance to make polite conversation."
"Very well, my lord," Dion replied coolly, "what news have you brought? It must be important for you to come yourself."
"My news is vital. You are in danger, my liege. The crown itself is in peril."
Dion shrugged, smiled. "Danger is part of a ruler's life, my lord, as you well know. I receive threats against my life daily. I've survived four assassination attempts. Nevertheless, I thank the archbishop for his concern. What is the source of this present danger, my lord?"
"You know the source," Sagan answered unexpectedly. Reaching out his right hand, he took hold of Dion's, held it— palm up—to the light. "You've seen him."
Dion's smile vanished, lips compressing to a thin line. He looked down at his hand, at the five marks on the inside of the palm that were swollen and red. Swiftly he snatched it from Sagan's grasp. The fingers curled in, hiding the scars.
"Who is he?" Dion asked in a low voice.
"Your cousin, my liege," said Sagan. "Your first cousin. The only son of your late uncle, the king."
"Son?" Dion stared, incredulous. "My uncle was never married. He died childless."
"He died unmarried. Not childless. He fathered a son."
"Are you saying ... Is my cousin the rightful heir to the throne?"
"No, Your Majesty," answered the Warlord grimly. "He has no legitimate claim to it. But I fear, sire, that this will not stop him...."
Chapter Twenty
And like a devilish engine recoils
Upon himself; horror and doubt distract
His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir The Hell within him . . .
John Milton, Paradise Lost
"And that is the story, my liege." Sagan concluded his report.
"My God!" Dion raised his head. He was pale, shaken. "Is this possible? Can this doctor be believed?"
"A deathbed confession, my liege?" Sagan asked wryly. "Made to the archbishop himself? Yes, I believe it. More importantly"—he raised his right hand, palm out—"I believe this."
Dion made no reply. Sickened in body and in soul, he tried to wade through the chaotic thoughts that swirled in his mind like oil on the surface of turgid water. He was nauseated; there was a foul taste in his mouth. He glanced up vaguely as Sagan rose to his feet, began to pace the room.
"How could no one have known?" Dion demanded. "You, my lord! Didn't you suspect?"
Sagan stopped pacing, regarded the king with amazement. "My liege, I was not even born yet when Princess Jezreel disappeared from the palace. I believe I heard mention of her, on occasion, but I honestly can't recall in what regard.
"Forgive me for saying this, Your Majesty," he added dryly, "but I despised the entire Starfire family. I cared little what happened in their personal lives."
Dion stirred in resentful anger. "My father—" he began.
"Your father was the best of a bad lot," Sagan interrupted im patiently, "who had sense enough to do one worthwhile thing in his entire life. He married your mother."
Dion considered it politic to revert back to the original subject, unpleasant though it might be.
"But how could such crimes be hidden? If as the doctor said, my .. . my"—Dion licked his dry lips—"aunt had committed murder—"
"Covering it up would not have been difficult," said Sagan. "You must understand something, my liege. Nothing could ever be permitted to taint the Blood Royal. How could the genetic scientists admit they'd made a mistake? What scandal, what panic would this have caused among the populace? How could they be told that there was a possibility such powerful beings as ourselves were subject to the weaknesses of ordinary mortals? What faults we had were held to be on the side of the angels, not demons.
"Of course the terrible incident had to be concealed. I am certain it was handled with aplomb, dispatch. The murdered victim's body disposed of quietly, quickly. Your aunt hustled off, with some excuse made for her disappearance—anything from a publicly announced decision to join a nunnery to the staging of her own funeral would have been easy for the king's handlers to manage. After that, they take care that the princess is rarely mentioned, her name not avoided, but never brought up. She fades from sight, fades from memory. From all memories except one."
Dion shuddered. He slumped in his chair. He was suffocating, unbuttoned the collar of the heavy jacket. Sweat trickled down his scalp; his body chilled.
Sagan stared out the window, out into the stars. "The one thing in all of this I don't understand, the one factor that does not compute, is Pantha."
Dion looked up. "Who is this Pantha? I mean, I know who he is or was, but why is he so important? He's been dead for years."
"Because—dead or not—he is the link between two seemingly disparate, unconnected occurrences: the birth of the king's illegitimate son twenty-eight years ago, and the rise of a force calling itself the Ghost Legion twenty-eight years later. What planet does this Legion give as its home base? Vallombrosa—Vale of Shades. And who discovered Vallombrosa? Garth Pantha."
"And he took the baby," said Dion, his interest caught.
"And that's what doesn't make sense. Consider this. Your Majesty." Sagan left the window, came to stand before the king. "Pantha wa
s an intergalactic hero. From what I've read, he deserved his reputation. He was Blood Royal. He had fame, wealth. He was a skilled pilot, a brilliant scientist. He was a man of insatiable curiosity, who lived for exploration, discovery. He had no family, no settled home, but was constantly on the move, constantly seeking adventure."
"I see your point," murmured Dion. "Why would such a man saddle himself with a child?"
"And shortly afterward disappear."
"According to Dixter, Pantha was marooned in deep space. Evidence indicated he blew up his spaceplane rather than die a slow death—"
"Not Pantha." Sagan shook his head. "I remember that I was skeptical at the time. He was the type who would have fought to survive to the last breath. Such a 'death' would have been easy to fake. No body. Only remnants of his plane, drifting in space."
"Was his death investigated?"
"Of course, my liege. It created an enormous sensation, the mystery of the century. The evidence that he'd blown himself up was circumstantial, at best. One simple fact finally made everyone believe he truly was dead."
"And that was?"
Sagan shrugged. "No one ever saw or heard from him again."
Dion considered this, pondering.
"If he'd been a recluse during his life," Sagan continued, "if he had detested notoriety, avoided it, people would have accepted the notion that he staged his own death in order to disappear from view. But Pantha was a celebrity. He adored attention, courted it. He was a vid star. His name was a household word for billions throughout the galaxy. For such a man to vanish from the public eye, there could be only one explanation—he was dead."
"Either that," said Dion slowly, "or he had discovered something so valuable that it would make up for everything he would lose, something he had no intention of sharing with anyone else."
"A king's son," said Sagan quietly.
"An illegitimate king's son," Dion countered. "A product of an incestuous relationship that would never be countenanced by any society in the galaxy!"
"Yet the boy is a child of the Blood Royal. True, your cousin might be a feebleminded genetic mess. But he might also be a genetic wonder."
Dion stared down at his hand, at the swollen scars. He began to rub the palm.
"Burns, doesn't it, my liege?" said Sagan.
"Yes," Dion replied, frustrated. "It burns and aches. Every time I use the bloodsword the pain grows worse. And the dreams are more frequent. But how did you know?"
Sagan held out his arm, pulled back the long sleeve of his robe to reveal his own hand. He turned it palm up.
"You, too, then," Dion said. "But how? How is he doing this?"
"Through the bloodsword. As I once told you, those who use it can—if they are strong—gain ascendancy over the minds of others. Your cousin hasn't managed that. Yet he has touched us."
"The bloodsword? But how would he get hold of one?. . ." Dion paused, answered his own question. "Pantha's."
"Precisely. Perhaps the most valid evidence we have that Garth Pantha did not perish in space twenty-eight years ago."
"But you haven't used the bloodsword! Yours was destroyed, unless . .." Dion hesitated.
"Unless I have reverted back to my old ways? No, my liege." Sagan let the long, loose flowing sleeve fall, smoothed the coarse fabric over his arm, hiding his hand. "I took a vow, when I took my new name, that I would never in this life set my hand to a tool of death. It is a vow I have not broken, nor will I. But I used the bloodsword for many years. Our cousin—he is my relation, too, by the way, though distantly—would have little difficulty establishing an affinity with me, a crude sort of mind-link. After all, you knew I was not truly dead."
"But why is he doing this, my lord? What does he want?"
"Think back, Dion," said Sagan slowly. "Think back to a seventeen-year-old boy who stole a spaceplane and flew to meet a Warlord who had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds, including a man this boy loved. Do you remember that boy, Dion? When he came to me, he placed in jeopardy not only his own life, but those of his friends. Why did that boy risk it? Why did he come to me? Why seek me out?"
"I wanted to know the truth," said Dion defensively, feeling vaguely as if he'd been accused of a crime. "Who I was. What I was."
"Your only reason, my liege?"
Dion remained silent, not answering.
Sagan reached out, took hold of the king's hand. He touched the sore palm, probed the scars. The Warlord's touch was gen-de, yet Dion flinched.
"You were drawn to me like a comet is drawn to its sun. You didn't know why you came, what you sought . . . until you set foot on my ship. Then you felt it. Then you knew. You wanted what I had, Dion. That is why you came. And that is why your cousin has come."
" 'The taint in our blood,' as Lady Maigrey said to me once." Dion smiled faintly, sadly, at the memory. He shook his head, drew back from the past, returned to the present. "But if that is true, my lord, why has this cousin—if that's really who and what he is—waited? It seems to me that he would have chosen— My lord?"
Sagan did not respond. He had abruptly walked away. His back was turned; he was staring out the window. Dion saw, by the lambent light of the stars, that the Warlord's right fist was clenched tight, so tight it trembled with the force. The knuckles-of the clenched hand were white, as if the bones were laid bare. His face, reflected in the steelglass, was cold, hard, and bleak.
Bleak as the moon on which Maigrey had died, cold as the bier of stones he had made for her.
Dion's heart ached. He hadn't thought, when he'd spoken her name, of the pain this must bring to the man who had loved her, who had been doomed to watch her die in his arms.
What can I say? Dion wondered. What comfort can I offer? What words exist that can possibly assuage such bitter grief? I should not even be seeing this, he realized. Sagan wouldn't thank me for intruding. He doesn't want my sympathy; certainly not my pity.
Dion crossed to the opposite side of the chamber, poured himself a glass of water. He drank it slowly. The thought came to him of what it would be like to lose Kamil. More terrible than that, to know that he was responsible for her death. The memory of a dream came to him, of his shieldmaid falling at his side, of blows raining down on her, of himself helpless, unable to protect her....
"The question is, my liege, what do you do now?" Sagan's voice was harsh, unexpectedly close.
Dion's hand jerked; he nearly spilled the water. Hastily, he set the glass down, banished the dream, turned to face the Warlord, who had come up behind him silently, unobserved.
"What do you mean, what do I do?" Dion asked, irritated at having been caught off guard. "What can I do? If this cousin even exists—and we have no proof that he does, only conjecture—we don't know where he is—"
"He exists, Your Majesty. Have no doubt of that. And he's told us where: Vallombrosa."
"Nonsense. It's a dead planet. There's nothing there—"
"On the contrary, my liege. We have been made to think there is nothing there."
"Very well, my lord, what would you do?" Dion demanded, losing patience. "What is your advice and counsel?"
Sagan fell silent, studied him, measured him. "Do you truly want it?"
"Yes, my lord." Dion sighed. "I presume that this is the reason you chose to come to me in the first place."
"I did not choose to come. I was commanded to come," Sagan returned bitterly. "But now that I am here, I will give you my advice, though I don't expect you to take it."
The Warlord drew forth a leather thong that he wore around his neck, well hidden by the thick folds of the cowl that lay on his shoulders. He gave the thong a swift, sharp tug. It broke, came off in his hand. He held out the thong—and the unlovely jewel that dangled from it—to Dion.
"This is my counsel, my liege. Take the starjewel and place it in the space-rotation bomb. The jewel is the triggering device; it will activate the bomb. Travel to Vallombrosa and launch the bomb into the planet's heart. Detonate it, destroy ever
ything for a radius of a million miles. And when you have done that, Sovereign, send in your army and your navy and command them to destroy everything for a million miles more."
Dion stared at the Warlord, aghast. "You can't be serious! If Vallombrosa is populated, then I would be committing genocide, slaughtering untold members of innocent people! You know I couldn't possibly do such a thing. And neither would you, my lord."
Sagan held the starjewel in his hand. Once, long ago, the beautiful rare jewel, carved in the shape of an eight-pointed star, had shone as brightly as the true stars in the night sky above. Now it was blacker than the wry night itself.
"Do not be so quick to judge me, Dion." the Warlord said gravely, his gaze on the jewel. He suddenly clenched his fist over it. "The danger is real. If it were me, I would be very tempted to end it...."
Dion shook his head. "We know nothing for certain. We don't know if this cousin is even alive, much less that he intends me harm—"
"If he did not, my liege, would he be doing this?" The Warlord held up his scarred palm.
"He wants to get our attention," Dion admitted. "That much is obvious. If only my uncle .. . Damn it, how could he do such a thing? He was deeply religious—"
"Oh, yes, he was religious. He leaned on his religion, used it as a crutch to prop up his own weakness. I've no doubt that every morning after spending the night coupling with his sister, Amodius prayed for God's forgiveness. And he blamed God when he lacked the strength to give up his obsession. Witness what he does when the illicit relationship bears fruit. Instead of taking responsibility, he hands it back to God. A judgment for his sins.' A judgment, all right. But it will not fall on his head. It will fall on yours."
Sagan thrust the star jewel into a pocket of his robes. "At least my father admitted, accepted, and paid for his sin."
Dion recalled, then, that Derek Sagan himself was the product of an illicit relationship, a brutal crime, a father who could not control his passions....
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