Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  Kamil shook her head. What she did remember, she'd just as soon forget.

  Astarte sent the young woman out of the room, bid her shut the door. Advancing to the table, the queen removed the cover from the tray, fresh fruit, cheese, a loaf of warm bread.

  "I don't suppose it's the type of fare you're accustomed to eating," said Astarte, folding the covering cloth meticulously and placing it at the side of the tray. "Your people are carnivorous. I believe. We do not eat meat, particularly in the temple environs. I should not do so myself but I am often forced to—a concession I made when I became queen. It would not do to offend a host—such as your father—by refusing what is served. The Goddess understands. Come, eat."

  Kamil stared at the food, her mouth salivating, but she made no move to leave the bed.

  Astarte shook her head. "You will accomplish nothing by starving yourself."

  That made sense. Kamil stood up, went over to the small table, started to sit down. Then she realized she was in the presence of the queen, who was still standing. Kamil caught herself, stood deferentially.

  Astarte smiled again, but this time her smile was strained. "You think it perfectly all right to make love to my husband, yet you wait for my permission to be seated in my presence."

  Kamil flushed, embarrassed and guilty; angry that she was being made to feel embarrassed and guilty.

  Folding her hands, Astarte sat down gracefully, her back straight, head high. "Go ahead, Olefsky's Daughter," she said, her tone no longer bitter, but sounding only resigned. "Sit down. Eat your meal."

  Feeling foolish, but not knowing what else to do, impelled by her hunger, Kamil sat down in a chair opposite Astarte's. Lifting the bread, Kamil began to eat, then remembered her manners.

  "Will ... will you have some, Your ... Your Majesty?" she offered awkwardly.

  "No, thank you. I have dined. And don't call me that. It sounds . .. ludicrous." Astarte waved her hand. "I don't suppose you call my husband 'Your Majesty.'"

  Kamil was chewing bread. She swallowed the piece, then laid her hand down on the table, the remainder of the bread uneaten. Her gaze fixed on her plate; her body grew cold, stiffening.

  "I'm sorry," said Astarte suddenly.

  She reached out her hand, rested it on Kamil's hand, which was still clutching the piece of bread. Astarte's long fingernails brushed Kamil's skin, their touch cold, a contrast to the warmth of her fingers.

  "I'm being a bitter, vindictive wife." Astarte sighed. "That won't accomplish anything either. I don't want to alienate you, Olefsky's Daughter. Of course, we can't be friends. That would be ludicrous." She smiled briefly, wanly. "But we do have one thing in common. Dion. We both want what is best for him."

  Kamil said nothing. Removing her hand slowly but gently from Astarte's touch, she resumed eating.

  The queen drew in a deep breath, placed her hands once again in her lap. Whoever was playing the flute outside her door had started over. Kamil knew the melody well enough by now to flinch whenever she heard a wrong note.

  "Your name is Maigrey Kamil," said Astarte. "But they don't call you Maigrey, do they?"

  Kamil, her mouth filled with bread, shook her head.

  "I never knew her," Astarte continued, sitting bolt upright, hands clasped in her lap. "My mother did. They were old enemies, fought during the Vapor-breather Wars. My mother despised her. She said Lady Maigrey was a coward who betrayed her commander, then ran away to hide from the consequences of her action. Of course, what my mother couldn't understand was how Lady Maigrey could have betrayed Derek Sagan. I think my mother was jealous. She wanted Sagan for herself. But that was not possible.

  "Sagan admired and respected my mother, I think, but there was only one woman he could ever truly love—Lady Maigrey. Their love for each other was born when they were born. The Goddess meant them for each other. But the Evil One worked to thwart Her plans. Pride, jealousy, fear, mistrust—the weaknesses of our mortal flesh tore them apart. But love conquered, in the end. They are together now. In death, they have told each other what they could not say in life.

  "I will call you Kamil," said the queen abruptly. "And you must call me Astarte."

  "You don't love him," said Kamil softly, nervously tearing her bread into bits, her hunger assuaged. "You don't love him like . . . what you said, 'a love that was born when they were born.'"

  "No, Kamil," said Astarte, the wine-colored eyes meeting hers steadfastly. "No, you are right. I don't love him like that. I never can. I never will."

  "But I do!" Kamil threw the bread to her plate. "From the first moment I saw him—no, even before I saw him. When my father first told me about meeting him, I felt something for Dion then, though I didn't understand it. I'm afraid my father didn't think much of Dion at first. They met that night at Snaga Ohme's, the night Ohme was murdered, the night Dion declared himself king. My father was talking to Lady Maigrey. Dion came up and accused her of betraying him because of her love for Sagan. Maigrey hit him."

  Momentarily forgetting where she was, who was her audience, Kamil smiled, recalling the Bear's lively, boisterous account of the incident. "Lady Maigrey didn't just slap Dion. She socked him, according to my father. Knocked him back about five paces, cut his lip open. My father thought better of Dion after that, though. He defied that horrid old man, Abdiel, at the risk of his own life, and claimed the throne. When my father told the story, I could see Dion, though I'd never met him. I could see him so clearly...."

  "Yes," said Astarte quietly, "I can imagine."

  Kamil recalled where she was. She sat hunched over her plate, toying with the uneaten fruit. She didn't look up. "You understand, then, that this isn't our fault. We didn't mean to hurt you. We don't want to hurt anyone. We have to be together. We were meant to be together."

  "Yes, you were," said Astarte. "But you cannot."

  Frustrated by the woman's calmness, thinking she'd prefer rage—at least she could understand rage—Kamil demanded, "Haven't you ever loved someone like this?"

  "I have not met my soul's partner. I doubt if I ever will now. The Goddess obviously does not intend it. I was meant to do my duty, to be queen, to bear the heir to the throne."

  Kamil stared at her. "Your Goddess intends you to be trapped in a loveless marriage? How can—"

  "Not loveless," corrected Astarte. "I love Dion, in my own way. Oh, not the same way you love him, Kamil. I wish I could," she added wistfully.

  The queen shook her head. "But I am giving way to self-pity, a weakness the Goddess abhors. I respect my husband. I respect him for the goodness inside him. I respect him for his high ideals and noble principles, for doing what he truly believes is right, for his self-sacrifice and dedication to the people. I admire him for his honor."

  Kamil flushed again, bit her lip.

  Astarte understood. "You think it's strange of me to talk of admiring him for his honor, when he's behaved most dishonorably to me. But I do. For I have seen how he suffers because of his betrayal of me. If he was not honorable, he would not care. And Dion does care, doesn't he, Kamil?"

  Kamil pressed her lips together tightly, not to be lured into this trap.

  "He cares. And so do you. I find myself liking you, Kamil."

  Kamil found herself unable to return the compliment. She couldn't imagine "liking" Astarte. The woman was too remote, too distant. One might as well say one "liked" the moon.

  "Where am I?" Kamil asked, when the silence between the two had grown uncomfortable. "Where have you brought me?"

  "The Temple of the Goddess on the planet Ceres. Don't worry," Astarte added as Kamil stared in alarm and astonishment. "This is the one place where you will be safe. My mother dares not harm you here, on sacred grounds. You arrived in a coffin. I trust that is not an ill omen, but it was the only way I could smuggle you inside without mother's knowledge. Now, of course,, she knows you are here. Her spies are everywhere. But I have spoken to her. No one dares shed blood in the Goddess's temple. She would curse the person for al
l eternity."

  "So I'm only safe as long as I stay here?" Kamil looked around her.

  "Oh, you need not keep to your room. The temple grounds are large and extensive. You may walk them freely. In fact, I will show you around now. Xris says you should take exercise, after your long confinement. Our Sacred Grove is quite beautiful. Would you like to see it?"

  Kamil supposed she would. She felt the need to stretch her legs, the need to tire herself out, wear away the unhappy confusion roiling inside her.

  They left her room, walked through corridors that were lined with latticed windows, permitting air and sunlight to enter freely. Wind chimes filled the air with their musical vibrations. They walked outdoors, into a garden whose beauty brought tears to Kamil's eyes. Snowcapped mountains soared above them. Far below, in a valley, the spires and towers of the main city of Ceres, also named Ceres, spread over the land.

  The city was removed from the temple, kept at a distance. It was not a distance of disdain, but one of love and respect—the mother who permits her child to stand on his own, yet watches over him. A broad highway led from the city to the temple, a lifeline that was never cut.

  The walled garden was vast and open to the skies. No tall trees grew, for the Goddess was said to look down upon the garden and bless those who walked it and it would never do to impede Her sight. A feeling of peace and serenity always touched those who walked in it. Kamil felt it in spite of herself and she wrestled against it.

  The two walked side by side, alone. The few people they met bowed in respect to Astarte, then left her presence with respectful consideration for her privacy. Astarte did not mention the last garden the two had walked together, for which Kamil was grateful, but she couldn't help thinking about it.

  Astarte was explaining the benefit of some particular herb that grew along the pathways, when Kamil came to a sudden halt.

  "This is all very pretty, Your Majesty"—she refused to call her by her given name—"but let's face it, I'm a prisoner. Is this how you plan to win Dion back? To use me as hostage?"

  Astarte regarded her intently, then said softly, "What I have to say will not be easy for me to say or for you to hear. I want the Goddess to witness our conversation. Will you agree to that?"

  "I ... I suppose." Kamil faltered. "You know I don't believe in your Goddess," she added defensively.

  "That is all right" Astarte returned, smiling. "She believes in you. Will you come?"

  Kamil had no choice, apparently, not if she was going to find out what this woman had in mind.

  They came to an arbor, covered with grape leaves. And here, it seemed, they had reached the end of the garden. The ground sloped upward steeply from this point, was covered with thick brush and trees.

  Astarte led the way through the arbor. Parting a curtain of morning glory vines, she revealed a small path, hidden from sight from anyone loitering in the garden.

  "This is the Walk of the High Priestess," she said. "It leads up there." She pointed. "To the Cavern of the Holy Goddess. Only I may go there, or those I bring with me. The climb is steep, but not treacherous, and you will be able to rest once we reach our destination. I will help you over the rough parts, Give my your hand."

  Kamil protested that she could walk on her own and she did, up the first several meters. Then she found she needed help, needed two good arms to pull herself up over the rocks. Reluctantly, she gave Astarte her hand, allowed the queen to assist her.

  Kamil was out of breath, hot and sweaty when they reached the top. The queen looked as cool as if she had been strolling the shaded corridors of the temple. But then, Kamil told herself irritably, Astarte probably makes this climb every day.

  The cavern was dark, shadowed, smelled of moist rock and soil and water and smoke. It was large; a stone statue of the Goddess stood in the very back. Kamil could not see much, for very little light entered the cavern. A small flame flickered on an altar before the statue.

  "Stay here, please," Astarte commanded.

  Leaving Kamil at the front of the cavern, the queen moved to the back. She knelt before the Goddess, prayed quietly for several moments, placed an offering of flowers that she had gathered from the garden on the altar.

  Returning, she brought a pitcher, which she filled at a running stream that bubbled near the cavern. She handed Kamil a cup, poured the water. It was sweet and cool. Kamil drank thirstily. The view from the cavern was breathtaking— encompassing the temple grounds and, far, far below, the city itself, all spread under the cloudless blue sky.

  Kamil ignored it. "Very well," she said. "We're here. I'm your prisoner. You can hold me hostage. But I tell you right now it won't work."

  "I know," said Astarte. "I am aware, as you are, that such a plan would not work. Dion would do anything, of course, to save your life. He would even, I think, give up the throne. And that must not happen. He is all that is holding the galaxy together. The chaos into which it would fall would be destructive, unimaginable. The Corasians wait for just such a moment. Ask the cyborg, Xris. He has recently returned from there. He knows."

  Kamil was taken aback. "That's not true. Dion would never give up the throne."

  "You don't believe so? What would you give up to save him?"

  "I'm different," Kamil protested. "I'm nobody—"

  She stopped, remembering.

  When I was nobody, I didn't want to be. Now that I am king, I wish I was nobody again. Dion's words.

  Though Kamil hadn't spoken them aloud, she knew she might as well have. Astarte heard her thoughts plainly, or perhaps saw them on her face.

  "You see?" the queen said.

  "He didn't mean it." Kamil defended him. "Everyone gets frustrated with his life sometimes. Wishes for a change."

  "Would you love him if he were nobody?" Astarte asked softly.

  "Yes," Kamil replied. She smiled, thinking back to the time she'd first met Dion. He'd been nobody then. A little boy again, playing in a lake. "I'd love him no matter what he was. But you wouldn't," she added accusingly, turning on Astarte. "You wouldn't have anything to do with him if he weren't king."

  "What you say is true," Astarte agreed. "Though not precisely the way you mean it. Because he is king, I am queen—a role I do not seek for self-aggrandizement. I took it only after many hours of prayer. It was the Goddess's wish, that I could better serve her and also serve the people, work for their welfare, strive for peace. No matter what you think of me, you must admit I have at least done that much."

  "Yes," answered Kamil readily, "and I've said as much to Dion. He agrees. You've been a perfect consort. But not the perfect wife. He doesn't love you! You don't love him! And using me to blackmail him isn't going to change that."

  "You still do not understand, Kamil. I'm not going to use you to blackmail Dion. He doesn't know you are here. And he won't know. I'm not going to tell him."

  "You won't have to," Kamil retorted. "The baroness, your mother, will tell him."

  "As long as you are here, within the Goddess's hand, my mother has taken an oath to keep your whereabouts a secret. I chastised my mother severely for her attempt to murder you. It was an attempt I had not sanctioned, I had not approved. She undertook to act anyway, behind my back. She still thought of me as her daughter, you see. Now she knows better. Now she knows I am her queen."

  "But what do you want of me, then?" Kamil wondered, confused. "Why am I here? People will miss me," she hedged. "When I don't come back to my dorm. When I don't show up for classes. The authorities will contact my parents. My father and mother will be frantic—"

  "The Academy has been told you returned home for personal reasons, family business. As for your parents, I have spoken to your father and mother. I have explained to them exactly what I have done. I told them why and what I now intend to do."

  Kamil gaped. "My father? ..."

  "They approve," Astarte continued gravely. "They have given roe their blessing."

  "I don't believe it." Kamil leaned against the cavern wall. She
felt suddenly weak. "You're lying. This is a trick. My father would never permit—"

  "Your father is a good man, an honorable man," Astarte interrupted. "Have you ever asked him how he felt about your illicit love affair with Dion? What would his answer be? Would he do such a thing himself? Would he break the vows he took to honor your mother?"

  "No, he wouldn't. He loves my mother. And that's why he would understand," Kamil argued passionately. "I love Dion! He loves me! That's what's important."

  "More important than stability, than order, than peace? More important than the lives of countless billions of people?"

  "What do you want from me?" Kamil cried, turning away.

  She found herself staring into the stone eyes of the goddess, stern and unwavering.

  "I want you—of your own free will—to release Dion. I want you to tell him that this liaison is ended. You must be firm. You must mean it. Then, and only then, will he give you up and come back to me."

  "I won't," Kamil said thickly. She didn't look at either Astarte or the statue. "I can't. That's like asking me to stop breathing. It would be like .. . like . . . dying. Except dying would be easier!" She flung herself back against the wall, winced at the pain that shot through her arm.

  "Nevertheless, Kamil, it must be done. For his sake, you must make this sacrifice. I don't expect you to reach this conclusion immediately. It will require thought, prayer—to whatever deity you favor. Take your time. The peace and serenity of these surroundings will encourage you to look inward, come to know yourself. When you do, you will agree."

  "Never," said Kamil firmly. "Our love is sacred—more sacred than some vows that you spoke with your lips, not your heart. Besides, you read the letter. Dion intends to start divorce proceedings—"

  "He won't. His advisors will urge him against it. They will counsel time, patience, an attempt at reconciliation. I think he will listen to them. Especially now that I've muzzled Mother," Astarte added dryly.