Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  Only one obstacle blocks Flaim's path to the throne. The young man currently sitting on it. Dion knows where the bomb is. And Flaim doesn't.

  They arrived in the clearing outside the large pavilion. The ground where the bonfire had burned was a large circle of charred blackened wood, soft gray ash. Heat continued to radiate from it. Some of the large logs—not yet completely consumed—gave off thin trails of pale smoke.

  Flaim was, as Pantha had predicted, waiting for them impatiently.

  Sagan paused to regard the younger man intently. "Pantha has told me about the dark-matter creatures. You possess enormous power. Why do you want this initiation? Why do you care?"

  "I do this for you, my lord," replied Flaim at once. The blue eyes narrowed, hardened, cooled. "And for him."

  "Dion."

  "Yes. He sees me now, but I am nothing but a shadow on his mind. I want him to see me clearly. I want him to understand me and my intentions. I want him to take me seriously."

  "And me. What do you want of me?"

  Flaim came to stand before him, laid both hands on Sagan's shoulders.

  "You will give me the throne, my lord. You will place the crown on my head."

  Sagan made no response.

  Flaim, thinking perhaps that none was needed, lowered his hands, gestured. "The rite would be held inside the tent, if that suits you, my lord? Pantha has everything prepared."

  As well that place as any other. Sagan entered the tent by himself, looked over preparations.

  All was as it should be. Pantha had a good memory, for a rite he himself had taken over seventy years ago. The pavilion had been emptied of all furnishings: pillows, bolsters, blankets. In the center stood a small table. Sagan placed his scrip on the floor. Removing a black velvet cloth, he spread it over the table, then opened the scrip and began laying out and arranging the other objects he'd brought with him. He should have been offering up ritual prayers, but the words drifted out of his mind, like the smoke and the soft gray ash upon the wind.

  Outside, he could hear Flaim pacing restlessly, impatiently.

  "The rite will not necessarily grant you power, Prince Flaim," Sagan remarked, raising his voice to be heard. "It was never intended to do so. Developed by those of my Order, the Order of Adamant, the test was given to those of the Blood Royal on or near their entry into puberty. The test not only marked the passage from childhood to adulthood, but was a means of finding out if the person tested was truly Blood Royal."

  "I know." Flaim came to stand beside the closed tent flap. "Pantha told me all about it. I am old to be taking it. But then so were you, so was my cousin. Perhaps it runs in our family," he added mockingly.

  Sagan made no reply.

  "The rite does not enhance one's power," Flaim continued, "but since it involves one's reactions under stress, it indicates how strong or weak one is in the power."

  "I have the feeling you know your own strength, Your Highness," Sagan commented dryly.

  "Yes, but I want to prove it to others," Flaim returned.

  "The early priests believed the rite provided an indication of God's will," Sagan added after a pause.

  "Yes, my lord. I am aware of that."

  Sagan had completed arranging the objects on the black cloth. He stepped back, regarded them.

  Is all correct, my lady? Is it as you remember? Words he'd spoken to Maigrey aboard Phoenix, before they'd given Dion his test.

  No response. He walked out from the tent.

  "Do you believe in God?" he asked Flaim.

  The prince stared at him, startled by the question. A smile tugged at his lips; he seemed about to laugh. Then he saw that the Warlord was serious.

  Flaim appeared uncomfortable. "How can I answer that, my lord?" He gestured at Sagan's black cassock. "Seeing you dressed as you are? A priest of the Order?"

  "You can answer it truthfully," Sagan replied. "I dress as I do for my own reasons. My habit may reflect my beliefs ... or it may disguise them."

  "I see," said Flaim, regarding the Warlord with new understanding and respect. "Yes, what a perfect hiding place! And all the while you—"

  "I asked you a question, Prince Starfire," Sagan interrupted.

  "Forgive me, my lord. Here is my answer. I believe in myself. No omnipotent, omniscient being controls my destiny. Life is chance, coincidence. Thus we must always be ready to seize the moment"—he grabbed the air, tainted with smoke, twisted it in his clenched fist—"and turn it to our own advantage." He opened his hand, which was empty. "I make my own luck. If there is a cosmic power, my lord, it is within me."

  Sagan inclined his head to acknowledge the answer. "We are ready for the rite of initiation."

  Flaim smiled, excited, exhilarated.

  "May Pantha come with me?"

  Sagan glanced at the old man, who stood—silent, keen-eyed—near the dying fire.

  "No. I am sorry. It is not permitted. Your will is too strong, sir," he said to Pantha. "You might inadvertently influence your prince."

  Garth Pantha bowed, nodded.

  "And I trust the strange dark-matter creatures will not interfere," Sagan added, casting his gaze around the pavilion, the hillside, the trees, the mists.

  "Pantha has spoken to them," Flaim replied. "They do not, of course, understand, but they have agreed to leave the vicinity in order that their energies do not unduly influence the proceedings."

  "How very gracious of them," Sagan remarked wryly.

  He realized, suddenly, what was wrong, why he was irritable and out of temper. Others were in control here. He was not—a new circumstance for the Warlord. Flaim might treat him as an honored guest, the prince might even look up to Sagan, admire him, accord him respect. But a turn of a key in the cell door makes the honored guest a prisoner. And even less effort makes the prisoner a corpse.

  Sagan held open the tent flap. Flaim walked confidently inside; the Warlord followed. Pulling the flap down, he secured it carefully, shutting out all traces of gray light that seeped inside. The interior of the pavilion was suddenly extremely dark. Flaim couldn't see and came to a standstill, not wanting to bump into anything.

  The Warlord took hold of the prince's arm, guided his steps to the table that stood in the center of the tent.

  "At your feet," said Sagan, "you will find a robe. Take off your clothes and put it on. Take off your weapon, as well," he added, aware that Flaim wore the bloodsword at his side.

  Flaim knelt down, felt for the robe. "Ah, the customary hair shirt," he said, grimacing at the feel of the rough cloth.

  "It is not permissible for you to speak unless I ask you a direct question," Sagan reprimanded.

  "Sorry," said Flaim in a low tone, a hint of a laugh in his voice By the rustling sounds, he was changing his clothes.

  Sagan made his way around the table, feeling the edges with his hand. Finding what he needed by touch, he lifted a white beeswax candle, lit it, placed it in a silver candleholder that stood at the end of the table. The other objects on the table remained hidden beneath a black cloth.

  Flaim's head emerged from the crude, slit neckline of the garment. His face was flushed; the candle flame burned in the Starfire-blue eyes. His shining raven hair was tousled. He shook it back out of his face, squared his shoulders, smiled.

  Looking into those eyes, Sagan saw another young man, saw Dion standing in precisely the same place. His face livid, his body shaking in uncontrollable fear, the boy had very nearly been sick.

  I'm going to die, Dion had said.

  Sagan lifted the cowl of his habit up over his head. He lit another candle, placed it at the opposite end of the table.

  A white circle on the floor glistened in the light.

  "Stand in the center of the circle," Sagan instructed. "Do not break the line."

  Flaim did as he was instructed, moving forward into the circle of salt confidently, still smiling. He was enjoying this.

  Dion had walked into the circle with trepidation, certain he was going to his d
eath.

  Sagan began to speak the ritual words. "Creator, one comes before you who is on the verge of manhood [No, that is ridiculous! leave it out]—who seeks to understand the mystery of his life [and that is not true, my lady. Look at his face. He understands all too well].... We of the Blood Royal have been granted talents beyond those of other men ... use our mental and physical prowess to protect and defend ... [I didn't, as you, my lady, reminded me. I used it to conquer. And so will this one]."

  The rite continued. The four elements: earth, air, fire, water. "Man seeks control over each," Sagan intoned.

  Flaim stood in the center of the circle, eager and expectant as a child about to receive a longed-for gift.

  "This night, Flaim Starfire, you come to me . . ." Sagan paused. "To us," he amended softly, grimly, acutely aware that he wasn't alone. "You come to us to be initiated into the mystery. You seek control of that which is beyond the control of most. If the Creator deems you worthy, you will be granted that control. [And if He doesn't, I'll take it, that's what you're thinking, Flaim, isn't it? Yes, I know. I remember thinking the same.]"

  Reaching out his hand, Sagan removed the black cloth that covered the objects on the table. Candlelight gleamed off a silver wand, a silver pitcher filled with water, a silver dish filled with oil, a silver ball.

  Flaim's hands flexed beneath the sleeves of the robe, his fingers twitched. He licked his lips, his breath came quick and hard.

  Sagan reached for the silver wand. Maigrey had performed this part of the rite. Her hand had been the last to touch it. He picked it up.

  "Air. The breath of life. The wind of destruction."

  He moved the wand in a slow circle. The air around them began to stir, a wafting breeze that caused the candle flames to flicker. The wind strengthened, the candles began to smoke, the flames whipped around the wick. And then they were blown out.

  Dion was suffocating. The boy, clutching his throat, was gasping for air and not finding any. There was terror in his eyes, which were bulging from, his head. His lips were turning blue, his chest jerked, the muscles fighting frantically to sustain life.... The boy dropped to his knees. . . .

  The prince laughed exultantly in the darkness and gulped in a deep breath.

  The wind died. The candles flared back to life. Sagan placed the silver wand down upon the table.

  "Earth," said Sagan. "Matter. You can control matter."

  Lifting the silver globe from the table, he tossed it into the air. He exerted his will upon it. The metal globe hung suspended in the air above his head. Its appearance began to change. Razor-sharp spikes protruded from its surface.

  "Place your hands beneath it," Sagan instructed.

  Flaim did as he was commanded, extending both hands beneath the ball, which was studded with flesh-piercing spikes.

  The globe began to drop.

  "Hold," ordered Flaim, and the globe halted, hung above his hands.

  "Fall," commanded Sagan, and the ball dropped.

  A look of anger marred Flaim's face; the blue eyes flared as the candle flames had flared. He cast a glance at Sagan, a fiance of enmity from one who does not like his will thwarted, bested. But Flaim did not move his hands. He held them steady, ready to catch the spiked ball.

  The globe fell; the knife-sharp spikes made an eerie whistling sound in the air and a dull, soggy, plopping sound as they drove through flesh and muscle, tendon and bone. Blood spurted. Dion screamed. His hands were impaled on the silver globe.

  The spikes withdrew an instant before they touched the prince's flesh. Flaim caught the ball with ease. He smiled at Sagan—a grim smile, a smile of triumph.

  Sagan reached out to take hold of the silver ball.

  Flaim clasped both hands around it, crushed it. He tossed the pieces, like bits of broken eggshell, on the black cloth.

  "Water." Sagan lifted the pitcher. "From which comes life. Cup your palms." He poured water into Flaim's hands. "Drink."

  The prince lifted his hands to his mouth, drank deeply.

  "What did you taste?" Sagan asked.

  "Blood," Flaim answered.

  Upending the pitcher, Maigrey poured the water on Dion's injured hands. The cool liquid flowed over the palms, bringing relief from the pain, seemingly, for he closed his eyes, tears sprang from beneath the lids. The water mingled with the blood, washed it away.

  "Fire. Sustainer. Destroyer."

  The oil lamp burst into flame. Before Sagan could say a word, Flaim placed his hand over the fire, brought his hand down on top of the flames. The fire licked his flesh. He covered the lamp with his palm, smothering the flame, then lifted his palm, his right palm. It was red, already starting to blister from the self-inflicted burn. The five scars made by the needles of the bloodsword oozed a darkish liquid.

  The expression on Flaim's face had not altered, not changed.

  Dion never made a sound, but stared with a calm, terrible fascination at the flame covering his hands. The fire blazed, finally died. When it was out, the flesh of his hands was left whole, untouched, unblemished, healed.

  "My lord," said Flaim, holding out his burned hand, "have I proven myself to you? Will you grant me your support?"

  Sagan smoothed the black velvet cloth with his fingertips. He stared into the candle flame, which glowed steadfast, unwavering in the still air. His fingers brushed over a cool spot of water, splashed on the cloth. He cut himself on a jagged piece of metal—all that was left of the silver ball. He remained standing, unmoving, silent.

  Flaim did not move, did not make a sound, though the pain of his injured hand must have been severe.

  Sagan stirred, spoke aloud, but softly. "I helped put Dion Starfire on the throne. I pledged my allegiance, my loyalty to him. He knew—everyone knew—that I had misgivings about him, about his ability to rule. But Fate conspired against me." He looked at Flaim. "Chance, coincidence—call it what you will. I fell from grace. Dion rose. I left the world ... to avoid temptation."

  Sagan raised his hands, removed the cowl that covered his head, settled it back on his shoulders. Reaching out, he took hold of Flaim's hand, his right hand, his burned hand. Sagan grasped it, pressed it hard, tight.

  Flaim tried to maintain his stoic demeanor, but the pressure of the Warlord's grip was too much. A gasp of agony escaped his lips. He flinched; a trickle of sweat trailed down his temple, glistened on his cheek.

  But then he smiled, fierce, exultant. He straightened his shoulders, shook the black hair from his face. And he strengthened his grip on the Warlord's hand, pressing burned flesh to callused flesh, fresh scars left by the bloodsword matching long-unused scars.

  "I came here searching for a king," said Derek Sagan. "I have found him."

  Chapter Ten

  In love alone we hate to find

  Companions of our woe.

  William Walsh, "Song, Of All the Torments"

  Kamil awoke in a peaceful, quiet room of green-tinged shadows weaving back and forth against a far wall; of muted sunlight, bird song, and the gentle melody of a flute playing softly near her. She lay in a comfortable bed, with clean, sweet-smelling sheets, and stared around her in a serene, calm, and uncaring state—the aftereffects of the drug. She was drifting on the surface of a placid lake after a terrifying struggle with horrible things beneath its surface.

  The green-tinged shadows were leaves and branches, stirred by a fragrant breeze. The flute music stopped. Kamil glanced in its direction.

  A young woman, seated at a table near the window, had been playing. Seeing that Kamil was awake, the woman smiled at her and, taking the flute with her, left the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Shortly after her departure, the flute music began again, repeating the same melody, as if the player were practicing it. The tune was simple and sweet, with the faint undercurrent of melancholy peculiar to the song of the flute, whose every breath seems a sigh. Kamil hummed it, lying in her bed, looking drowsily about her, and then she remembered everything.

&
nbsp; Her broken arm lay across the coverlet, wrapped in a more sophisticated type of inflatable sling than the cyborg had used. The arm was numb, felt heavy and foreign; it didn't belong to her. Fearfully she moved it, was relieved to see her fingers wiggle. There was no pain; Kamil assumed this was due to whatever drugs they had been giving her.

  She sat up and looked more closely around her room. Her clothes were neatly folded on a nearby chair. They'd been washed, apparently, for all traces of blood and dirt were gone. She was wearing some sort of sleeveless gown made of cotton.

  It was comfortable, if not fancy. The room was a small bedroom, not much bigger than her dorm room back at the Academy.

  Sliding out of bed, pausing a moment to recover from a wave of dizziness, Kamil padded softly to the door. Slowly, quietly, she tested the handle. Not locked. She crept over to the chair, grabbed her clothes, and dressed herself with considerable difficulty, encumbered by the sling and lacking the use of her right arm. It was especially frustrating attempting to button her shirt, but she managed and, sliding on her shoes, was just about to glide out the door when it opened and someone glided in.

  Kamil sat down on the bed and tried to look as if she hadn't been going anywhere.

  Astarte smiled coolly, but said nothing. The queen was wearing some type of loose-fitting white garment that fell in soft folds from her shoulders. A golden belt, made to look like sheaves of wheat, circled her slender waist. Her dress came to her ankles; golden sandals, matching the belt, covered her small feet. Her shining black hair was done up in an elaborate twist. Her eyes—with their vivid, glittering wine hue—seemed the only bright color in the softly colored room.

  Another young woman, standing behind the queen, carried a tray draped with a white cloth. Astarte gestured. The young woman placed the tray down on the table. A delicious smell— fresh-baked bread—scented the air. Kamil gazed at it longingly, all thoughts of escape put on hold.

  "Are you hungry, Daughter of Olefsky?" Astarte asked. "Yes, I thought you would be when you awoke. Xris advised us not to give you anything to eat until the drug wore off. He said you'd get along without food fine for a few days. You were given water, of course. You probably don't remember much about the trip, do you?"