"Unless, of course, Amodius was more devious than we give him credit for," Sagan added quietly, almost to himself.
"What do you mean, my lord?" Dion came out of a troubled reverie.
"He could have deposited the child anonymously on someone's doorstep. Cast die baby adrift in a boat of rushes, so to speak. What are the odds that anyone who found the child would have discovered his true identity?"
"You found me," Dion pointed out.
"Ah, but you were meant to be found," Sagan said dryly. "By giving his son to Garth Pantha, who knew the child's heritage, knew his lineage, Amodius also meant his boy to be 'found.' Think about it Do you begin to understand what I mean about the danger?"
"Yes," Dion conceded. "And if our cousin is this dangerous, it seems to me that our wisest course would be to keep the space-rotation bomb safely hidden from him. Not send it to him."
"Judging by Dixter's reports, it may not remain hidden for long," Sagan remarked gravely.
"The so-called ghosts? Do you know what they are?"
"I have an idea, but I would prefer not to speculate. It is imperative, however, that we learn the truth."
"You must go to him," said Dion quietly.
"Yes, my liege, I must go to him."
"Are you certain? If you're right, you could be in danger—"
"Not me, my liege," stated Sagan, mouth twisting. "I am the one he wants."
Dion let out a held breath, slowly, softly. "Yes. I see. Of course, you're right. All of this: sending you to hear the doctor, the 'Ghost Legion,' the attack on Snaga Ohme's—"
"—done deliberately to draw me out."
"But he must believe you to be dead. . . ."
"I repeat—you knew I was alive. He does, too."
"But why? What does he want?" Dion demanded.
"He seeks me as you sought me. And for the same reason."
"And you think he'll trust you?"
"I can make him trust me, my liege."
And you can make me trust you, Dion added silently. But do I? Is your ambition truly dead ... or is it merely hidden beneath those shabby robes? Who are you? Lord Sagan or Brother Paenitens? Do you know for certain? What is it that you want?...
"What do I want?" Sagan asked, repeating aloud the words the king had spoken only in his thoughts.
The Warlord did not answer, but turned his back, walked over to the window, stared out at the stars. At length he said, "I chose penitence as my name when I left the world. I meant to repent, to seek God's forgiveness, my own redemption." He glanced around. "Do you know what the other brethren in the abbey call me? The Unforgiven. They know the truth, you see. There has been no answer to my prayers. No response. Only silence. Empty, terribly silence. Has the Lady Maigrey come to you, my liege?"
Startled at the strange and unexpected question, Dion grappled for an answer. "I ... I thought I saw her . .. her spirit, that is . . . the night of the dedication."
He thought back; the memory returned to him and he was surprised at how vivid it was. "She said nothing to me, but I felt comforted. She stayed with me until the end of my speech and, before she left, she raised her hand—as if in warning. Of course," he added, realizing suddenly how foolish he must sound, "I was under a great deal of stress. And I was thinking about her. Small wonder that I imagined I saw her—"
"She has not come to me," said Sagan in quiet, impassive tones.
Dion made no response, had no idea what to say.
The Warlord turned his gaze back to the night. "I want to hear one word from the Creator, an answer to my prayers." He clenched his fist. "Even if it is only to tell me that there is no hope. That I am damned!"
Dion caught a glimpse of the man's soul, saw it a vast, black scape of desperation and anger, bitter regret and despair. And he was doomed to walk the charred and desolate plains alone now, lacking, apparently, even the guiding hand of his own faith. For these last three years, he had tread the barren ground in abject humility and penitence, sacrificing his pride and ambition at every roadside shrine. And, in return, no balm, no comfort, no spring of sweet water. Nothing—Dion saw suddenly, clearly—but another temptation. A luring voice to draw him off the path and into a night from which the Warlord might never return.
Dion had been raised an atheist, but he had been forced to abandon his complacent atheistic view of the universe. An atheist assumes he has all the answers. At seventeen, Dion had assumed he had all the answers. Innumerable perplexing and inexplicable occurrences had taught him otherwise. And now he was left with only questions.
Did I truly heal Tusk? Or was his own will to live responsible for what had looked like a miracle? Did I truly see the spirit of Lady Maigrey? Or was the eerie vision nothing more than an electrical short circuit in my brain? Is this sudden appearance of a mysterious cousin some sort of cosmic test? Or is it a random event, brought about by the inability of a weak man to control a sordid obsession? Is it a judgment? Or just some stupid, shabby—albeit potentially dangerous—happening?
Whatever it is, Sagan is right. I have to have answers. I have to know the truth.
And so does he.
"Very well, my lord," Dion said. "You will go, discover if my cousin truly lives. If so, find out what he means by these seemingly threatening actions. What does he want of us? We may have misjudged him. I hope we have. Contact Sir John Dixter for anything you might need—"
"Is it necessary to inform Dixter, Your Majesty?" Sagan asked, expression darkening.
"Yes, it is," said Dion, firm, resolute.
The Warlord gave the king a measuring glance. "Very well, my liege. I suppose it is for the best. But no one else must know. No one! Not your best friend, not your secretary, not the captain of the guard, not your wife . .. not your mistress."
Dion wondered uneasily if Sagan knew the truth or if he was merely emphasizing a point. Too late, it occurred to the king— feeling his skin flushed and burning—that if Sagan didn't know the truth before, he probably knew now.
"If word of this were to leak out . . ." the Warlord continued ominously.
"I quite understand, my lord." Dion ended the matter.
Sagan did not pursue it. "At any rate, I doubt if Dixter could lay his hand on what I want as readily as I can myself—a spaceplane, unmarked, unarmed. An older model, the type used by interplanetary missionaries prior to the Revolution."
Dion smiled wanly. "I doubt if the navy has those currently in stock. But perhaps some sort of concealed weaponry—"
"Your Majesty forgets the vows that I have taken," the Warlord interrupted. "Or perhaps he imagines that I have forgotten?"
Dion made no reply. He stood silent, on his guard, carefully keeping—this time—his thoughts to himself.
Sagan smiled, chill and dark. "Still, there is information I will need that Dixter might be able to acquire for me. Tell him that I will be in contact."
The Warlord gazed at Dion searchingly, intently. "He will demand your sanction, my liege. To give it, you must place implicit trust in me. Do you, my liege? If not» then I cannot be of use to you. Brother Paenitens will leave and never return."
Dion hesitated. He recalled the glimpse of that abandoned soul. He's testing me again, Dion thought, suddenly resentful. And the question came to him, unbidden: He may be, but who is testing him?
"I will give Dixter instructions to provide you with whatever you need, my lord."
Drawing the hood of his cowl up over his head, the Warlord—now once more a humble churchman—inclined his hooded head in silent acquiescence. Dion placed his hand on the manual override that would operate the door, was startled to feel Sagan's own strong, gaunt hand close over his wrist.
"A word of caution, Dion. From now on, do not use the bloodsword."
Dion regarded the Warlord coldly. "You have no need to worry, my lord. I can protect myself from him."
Sagan glanced pointedly at the king's hand. "Your cousin has entered your mind, Your Majesty. Have you entered his?"
"Tha
nk you, my lord, for coming," said Dion. "You have leave to go."
Brother Paenitens pulled his hood lower over his head. "God bless and keep Your Majesty," he intoned, bowing low. His voice was muffled. Dion couldn't tell whether or not the blessing was meant in earnest or made in bitter mocking.
"Wait, my lord." Dion stopped Sagan as he was about to open the door. "What should I tell the archbishop? He'll be expecting your return. What should I say?"
Sagan raised his head; the dark eyes, with their flickering flame, met the king's.
"Ask him to pray for me, Your Majesty."
Bowing again, Brother Paenitens was gone.
Chapter Twenty-one
Thou hast not half the power to do me harm
As I have to be hurt.
William Shakespeare, Othello, Act V Scene ii
Dion advanced several paces down the corridor until, rounding a corner, he was out of sight of his guards. Then he came to a stop. The door to his stateroom stood before him, closed and sealed. Behind it, Kamil waited patiently for him. His dinner was cold by now, but that didn't matter. He had no appetite left.
He remained standing where he was, needing to be by himself, to assimilate his thoughts, try to recover from the shock of this news. It reminded Dion of the time he'd been wounded during the adrenaline-pumped excitement of battle on board the Defiant. He hadn't even known he'd been hit until someone pointed it out, until he saw the blood staining his sleeve.
While he'd been talking with Sagan, the tension of the constant mental struggle waged between the two strong, opposing wills had forced Dion to keep his thoughts focused on the combat. Sagan would have been quick to take advantage of any display of weakness on Dion's part, quick to rout, conquer, and bend the younger man to doing the elder's will.
Dion was exhausted after the encounter, emotionally and mentally drained. But at least he'd held his ground, stood firm, refused to retreat from his convictions.
"I wonder if he respects me for it?" Dion asked himself wearily. "I wonder if he will ever respect me? And why do I care what he thinks of me anyway? Why am I constantly seeking his approval? I have the power he had and more. I am what he wanted to be. And I attained my success through peaceful means, not the bloody war he urged me to fight. I hope to be a better ruler, a better man than he was. Yet, once, just once, I'd like to hear him say to me, 'Well done.'"
Dion sighed. "I wish I could talk to Kamil about it. Perhaps I will. She wouldn't tell anyone. She'd die before she'd betray me. But then, I'd have to tell her everything—about my uncle. ___" Dion grimaced, sickened, repulsed. "She wouldn't think any less of me. It wasn't my fault. I wonder if my father knew anything about what was going on? Still, it's a shameful, sordid, repugnant thing to have to reveal about one's own kin. No, Sagan's right . . ."
Do not tell your wife ... or your mistress.
The Warlord's remonstration came back to Dion; again it made his face burn.
He was guessing, Dion decided. He couldn't possibly know the truth.
Dion stood up straight, critically examined his reflection in a steel bulkhead. He decided his face would pass even Kamil's loving scrutiny, and started to place his hand upon the security plate that would scan his palm, permit him to enter.
What makes your crime different from your uncle's?
Dion drew his hand away abruptly. Who had spoken? Sagan? Or some part deep inside of him; some part the moralists would undoubtedly term his conscience?
"Of course it's different," he reassured himself. "Our love is not incestuous! Not a sick obsession. It's love. I love Kamil and she loves me. We were meant to be together. Only a trick of fate keeps us apart. We're not hurting anyone else. And how can I break vows that held no meaning for me to begin with? Our love is right. Everything else in the universe may be wrong, but our love is right. . . ."
Resolutely, he placed his hand on the scanning pad. His identification verified, the door slid open.
Kamil shut the book she had been reading. She advanced toward him with a smile that soon faded. Apparently he had not arranged his face as carefully as he had hoped.
"What is it, Dion? What's happened? You can't tell me," she said quickly, sparing him the need to respond. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. Do you want me to leave? I—"
"My dear!" Dion took her in his arms, held her close, absorbing her strength, her comfort. "No, don't go. Not now. Not ever. I can't tell you what's going on. But it doesn't matter. Just let me hold you."
They clung to each other in silence. Dion could imagine her shield, held over him, protecting him from the blows aimed at him, giving him time to recover his strength, pick up his weapons, and return to the battle.
I will take this time, he decided. I should return to the palace, I suppose. I should inform Dixter of what I've learned. I should place the admiral in touch with Sagan.
But that can wait until tomorrow. Until the morning. It's bad enough that I must cut short my time with Kamil. I will have this night with her. I need this night. ...
"Your Majesty." A voice, over the commlink.
Dion kissed Kamil's hair. Holding her, keeping her near, he answered. "Yes, D'argent?"
"Admiral Dixter needs to speak with you, Your Majesty. He is on the vidcom. It's .. . confidential."
Dion sighed. Kamil slid out from his embrace. "No, don't go!" he whispered. "Can't this wait until morning, D'argent?"
"The Admiral says the matter is one of extreme urgency, Your Majesty."
"I better talk to him. Hopefully I won't be long."
"I'll be here."
"I wish . .." he said, pausing, "I wish sometimes I was ... we were ... ordinary. Like Tusk and Nola. Together all the time. Our biggest worry whether or not the collection agency was going to repossess the vid machine."
She didn't answer, lowered her eyes.
Dion sighed again. "It's humanity's curse, I suppose—never to be happy with what we have. Always wanting something else. When I was nobody, I didn't want to be. Now that I'm king, I wish I was nobody again."
"Go deal with your latest crisis, Your Majesty," Kamil told him softly. Kissing him on the cheek, she picked up her book and disappeared into the bedroom.
Arranging his face again, Dion walked back out into the corridor. D'argent was waiting for him, as was the captain of the guard.
"Yes, Captain?" said Dion, moving toward the communications room.
"The electrical disruption of the systems in the audience chamber has been fixed."
"Very good, Captain."
"We didn't fix it, Your Majesty," said Cato dourly. "It ... seems to have fixed itself, so to speak."
"As long as it's working, Captain. I wouldn't be overly concerned with it. Instruct the technicians to examine it when we return to base." "Yes, Your Majesty." Cato paused, stared at his king, as if wanting to add something else.
Dion met the captains eyes, held them.
Cato's gaze wavered uncertainly.
"Was there something else on your mind, Captain?" Dion asked, pausing outside the door to the communications room.
"No ... no, Your Majesty."
"Then you have leave to return to your duties, Captain," said the king.
"The admiral has requested that this conversation be kept strictly confidential, sir," D'argent repeated. "You will need to access the transmission yourself, highest level security. I will be in room, if you desire anything."
"Thank you, D'argent," said Dion, keeping his voice even, level.
He entered the room, shut and sealed the door, and began to go through the complicated process of opening the secured channel. It took some time. He waited with enforced patience while all systems checked and double-checked that the channel was secure, waited still longer while the transmission was scrambled, coded at Admiral Dixter's end, then descrambled, decoded at Dion's end. The king hoped the transmission wasn't a long one; he could be here for hours.
As it turned out, it was short. All too short.
"Your Maj
esty." Dixter's face appeared on the vidscreen. He looked exhausted; his skin was gray, face haggard. "I have bad news, I am afraid."
"Of course," Dion muttered to himself. "Nobody ever comes to me with urgent, top-secret good news. Yes, sir, what is it?" he asked aloud, bracing himself.
"The queen has left, Your Majesty."
Dion stared, perplexed, not understanding. So what if Astarte had left the palace? She left all the time. Her schedule of public appearances was almost as demanding as the king's.
He frowned. "I am afraid, admiral, that I fail to see—"
Dixter shook his head, forgot, in his worry, that he was speaking to his king. "What I'm trying to say, son, is that your wife has left you."
Chapter Twenty-two
So farewell hope, and with hope, farewell fear,
Farewell remorse! All Good to me is lost ...
John Milton, Paradise Lost
Sagan walked rapidly across the tarmac, keeping to the shadows, leaving as he had come. He walked with his head covered, his arms crossed, hands clasping his wrists beneath the long, flowing sleeves of his habit, as was the custom among the brethren of the Order of Adamant.
He did not, however, walk toward the transport which had brought him to this planet, a transport owned by the Church, operated by a hired crew that ferried the priests of St. Francis to wherever in the galaxy their calling took them. Sagan had need of thought and he did not care to do his thinking under the curious stares of the night watch.
The hour was extremely late. An ancient clock in one of the towers chimed twice; the bell's echoes were almost immediately swallowed up by the darkness. The spaceport, though brightly lit, was quiet. No flights were expected in or out until morning. Sagan skirted the lights, kept out of sight of the night watchman, who was chatting companionably with one of the cleaning crew.
Numerous paths and walkways led from the spaceport to the Academy buildings. Some were old, others new, added during the phase of building and reconstruction that had been started under the auspices of die new king. Sagan chose one of the older paths, one he could walk without thinking about where it would take him, retracing the footsteps of the brash and arrogant youth who had walked that path some thirty years before.
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