Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  His rooms were large and chill and sparsely furnished. His door locked on the outside. Guards stood in front of it.

  Dion was gazing bleakly at his uncomfortable surroundings when the guard thrust open the door.

  An elderly black man entered. He bowed politely, introduced himself as Garth Pantha, the prince's aide and mentor. Pantha was respectful, deferential, and asked Dion if he would be so kind as to favor them with his presence before dinner.

  "Your wife," Pantha added gravely, "is most anxious to see for herself that you have arrived safely."

  Dion replied coldly, "I will most assuredly come."

  Pantha led him into a large, high-ceiling hall, with flagstone floors, tapestry-covered stone walls. A huge fireplace stood at one end; a roaring blaze gave light and warmth. The room seemed filled with people.

  Confused and slightly disoriented by his bizarre surroundings, Dion could not, for a moment, place any of them. He saw disembodied heads and faces; eyes, familiar eyes, stranger's eyes. No one spoke.

  And then suddenly he was aware of Astarte's eyes, of Kamil's shining hair, of Sagan's face emerging from darkness, of Tusk turned sideways, not looking at him.

  Walking toward Dion, moving with die same gait, the same grace, was his own shadow.

  "Dion Starfire," said Flaim, gazing at him intently. "I am your cousin. We meet, at long last."

  Ties of blood. A reminder of a father and a mother, of grandparents; an extension into the past, bringing forth the future. Not alone, not free-floating, but bound to past generations by an umbilical cord that might be cut, could never be severed.

  A hunger that had been born with Dion, that he lived with all his life, was suddenly, strangely satisfied.

  "My cousin," Flaim said in soft, tremulous tone.

  He reached out his hands, grasped hold of Dion. It was obvious that Flaim was moved by similar emotions, obvious as well that such emotions were unexpected.

  Leaning near, Flaim kissed Dion's cheek.

  Dion accepted his cousin's kiss, not moving, not returning it, only staring.

  "You are as I pictured you," continued Flaim, studying Dion with eager eyes. "Except taller. Yes, I had always thought of myself as being the taller of the two of us. Perhaps because I am the elder." He smiled, charming, ingratiating. The smile was his alone, had no part in the family bloodline. "But let me hear you speak, cousin. We even talk alike. I know, I've heard you on the vids. Don't you think so?"

  "Yes," said Dion, dazzled and deeply troubled. "Yes, we talk ... alike."

  "Why, we might be brothers instead of cousins. I suppose that comes from the fact that my mother is also my aunt. But I am being selfish. I have other guests to consider, and I must share you with them. We will have more time, cousin, much more time, I hope, to get to know each other better. Her Gracious Majesty, the queen, has been much concerned about your safety."

  Pale and composed, Astarte rose to meet Dion, made him a formal curtsy. Standing behind the queen, keeping to the background, was Kamil. She didn't look at him. By her flushed face and deprecating demeanor, she was wishing she could vanish and be forgotten, like the sparks of the fire going up the chimney.

  Any meeting of these three was bound to be embarrassing, awkward. Dion was aware of everyone's eyes watching him. He guessed that they must be laughing, mocking.

  I deserve this, he thought, and it was this knowledge that impelled him to walk steadily forward. This is my punishment.

  He went up to his wife, held out his hand to her, clasped her hand—small, white hand—in his.

  "I trust you are well, madam. They haven't harmed you?"

  "No, sire," she answered him coolly, and it hurt him to know that they met in this crisis as strangers.

  The room was suddenly unbearably hot, the walls trembled and leaned in over him, the floor shivered beneath him. He turned to Kamil, barely aware of what he was doing or saying.

  "Princess Olefsky"—it was the mirror image that spoke—"I hope you are well? You have not been harmed?"

  Her close-cropped hair shone silver in the firelight, the golden eyes shimmered with tears. Dion was reminded of the first time he'd met her, of the first evening they'd spent together in her father's castle, the first night they'd known they loved each other. How long ago it seemed, and innocent—an innocence forever lost.

  "Thank you, Your Majesty," Kamil murmured. "I am quite well."

  Her face was flushed crimson. Dion could think of nothing else to say that wasn't saying too much. He turned back to his wife.

  Astarte had not been watching. She had distanced herself, was staring off into another part of the room, as might a stranger suddenly thrust upon two close friends at a boring party. He took her hand again to regain her attention, but the touch was cold.

  "Madam," he said, acutely aware he sounded artificial, reading again from a prepared script, "I am sorry about this, about all of this."

  "You have nothing with which to reproach yourself, sire," said Astarte quietly. "This was not your doing."

  But it was, and he did, and he knew he was looking less and less a king at the very moment he needed to be a king.

  "I am your prisoner." Dion turned to Flaim. "Release Her Majesty and the princess. You don't need them any longer. Return them safely to their homes."

  Flaim, smiling, stepped gracefully between the husband and wife. The prince took Astarte's hand in one of his. Dion's hand in the other. "I wouldn't think of it. Our family is all together now. We will not soon be separated, I hope. Please, everyone be seated. Cousin Dion."

  Releasing their hands, Flaim drew up a chair for the king, close to the fire. "No one can sit down until you do, you know, cousin. Surely you won't keep us all standing?"

  "What is it you want of me?" Dion demanded. He continued to stand, and though he was keeping his anger sheathed, he permitted a part of the sharp-honed blade to show. "End this ridiculous farce. You have brought me here by force. You have kidnapped my wife. You are a killer, a murderer. People died in the Temple of the Goddess; people died on those outposts you attacked. What is it you want?"

  "Oh, excellent speech! Quite powerful." Flaim was enthused. "I must learn to emulate your style. No, no, dear cousin, I truly mean that. I have had so little contact with the public at large. I am too informal. I must learn to act the part of a king every waking minute. Well," he added, with a sly glance at Kamil, "perhaps not every minute."

  Kamil flushed, turned her face away. Dion opened his mouth, realized that to speak would only make matters worse, kept silent.

  "Come, come!" Flaim laughed disarmingly. "Don't be angry, cousin. We are all adults. Kings before you have had their mistresses. No one thought the worse of them for it. And if you insist on standing, cousin, why, then, we will all stand, though it is rather hard on the elder among us." He glanced at Pantha and at Derek Sagan. "And uncomfortable for your wife. She has been somewhat unwell."

  "No, truly, I am fine," Astarte protested swiftly. She pushed herself upright. She had been leaning on the arm of the chair.

  Dion, his jaw set, assisted his wife to be seated, then sat down himself, stiffly and rigidly. The rest of the company did likewise, with the exception of Sagan, who drifted farther back among the shadows, keeping watch over them, in Dion's mind, like his dark angel.

  The same thought, or something similar, might have entered Flaim's head, for he suddenly rose to his feet again, looked directly into the back of the room. "Excuse me, cousin, but there is someone else I forgot to acknowledge. I am pleased you have joined us, my Lady Maigrey."

  Dion started, stared. She wasn't there, of course. No one was there. That part of the room was empty. Dion was beginning to think his cousin was mad, when he saw Sagan's face, dark and thoughtful and brooding, saw the man's gaze stare with piercing intensity into the shadows, as if they were a veil and he might part them.

  "You must forgive my prince," said Garth Pantha with an embarrassed laugh. "He fancies he is visited by a ghost."

/>   "But I am. No fancy. Nor am I mad. Am I, cousin?" Flaim turned to Dion. "You've seen her, haven't you? Lord Sagan told me you had. You see, Pantha? I am not alone.

  "I've heard her speak," Flaim continued. "Oh, not to me. She talks to herself, I think. Pantha is skeptical, but then, he is a scientist, which means he is skeptical by definition. I consider her visit a great honor. I didn't recognize her at first, for which I hope her ladyship forgives me," he added, bowing to the shadows. "But then I recalled where I had heard that voice. So distinctive, deep and low for a woman's.

  "I am not certain why she has come, however. In whom does she take an interest? I iike to think it is me, but perhaps I flatter myself unduly. You will, I trust, be so good as to include the Lady in your conversation."

  Laughing, Flaim resumed his seat and whether he was laughing at them or at himself, Dion couldn't tell.

  "What were we discussing?" Flaim glanced at Dion. "Yes, I recall. You were asking, I believe, cousin, what it was I wanted of you. Why, I want to be king. It is as simple as that. As the only heir of Amodius Starfire, who was anointed king when he died, the crown belongs rightfully to me, not the son of a younger brother."

  "You are wrong. You have no claim," Dion answered calmly. "And you know it. You are illegitimate, born of an incestuous relationship. No one in this galaxy would recognize such a claim."

  "When you put it like that, no," Flaim conceded, smiling ingenuously. "But, as I said, we are all adults. Adults are well aware their children are not prepared to understand and deal with certain harsh realties of life. Therefore we hide unpleasant truths from them. We tell small lies to keep their innocent trust in us intact. My mother was not the king's sister. My birth was legitimized. And you, dear cousin, are not having an illicit love affair with the daughter of an old friend."

  Half-blinded by tears, Kamil rose, started to leave. Astarte caught hold of her.

  "Stay, Kamil," said the queen. "Don't let him frighten you. He does not frighten me."

  She kept fast hold of Kamil, who sank down in her chair. Wiping her tears away, she tried to look calm and self-possessed.

  Dion's heart ached for her pain, though he did not dare show it. He was grateful to Astarte for maintaining not only her own dignity, but her husband's as well. Little as he deserved it.

  "So you intend to blackmail me, is that it?" Dion asked.

  "Such a harsh word." Flaim grimaced, shook his head. "An arrangement of mutual convenience to us both. Here is what will happen. You will acknowledge my claims publicly, peacefully abdicate the throne in my favor. And you will leave with your own reputation and honor unsullied, to live in peace with this wife ... or another, if you so choose."

  Dion shook his head. "I will not make such an arrangement. You will have no hold over me. I'll go public. I'll admit my disgrace—"

  "And I will stand by him," said Astarte, clasping Kamil's hand even tighter. "The people will understand, as I do. My husband is guilty only of loving a woman most deserving of being loved. They will understand. Dion Starfire is king; he was meant to be king. He has heaven's mandate—"

  "Does he?" Flaim interrupted, with a smile that was no longer charming. "Does Dion Starfire have heaven's mandate? Will you answer this for us, my Lord Sagan?"

  Sagan stepped out of the shadows. He moved slowly, deliberately, his dark-eyed gaze fixed steadfastly on the king.

  Dion watched, guarded, wary.

  Sagan came to stand before him, looked down at him. "Your cousin, Flaim, took the same test you did. He did not blench, he did not tremble. He didn't bleed or nearly die. He caught the silver ball and crushed it. Who is the stronger? Which of you, do you suppose, does God intend to be king?"

  "Which does He, my lord?" Dion asked quietly.

  "Look into your heart," Sagan advised. "And know the truth."

  "So much for heaven's mandate," said Flaim lightly. "God—it seems—has turned His back on you, cousin."

  "As have my friends, apparently," said Dion, his gaze shifting from Sagan to Tusk.

  Tusk was still not looking at him. Hunched forward, he stared moodily into the fire.

  "Then I am alone," said Dion simply. "But the lion is alone, so you once told me, my lord. I will die alone, if need be, but I will die a king. I will not give you what you ask, cousin. I cannot believe God demands this sacrifice of me," he added, with a defiant glance at Sagan.

  "He has demanded others as dear, Your Majesty," Sagan replied quietly.

  Dion stared at him, suddenly thoughtful.

  Flaim smiled expansively. "I must say I am quite impressed with you, cousin. I applaud your courage, your resolve. It speaks well of our family. However, since I don't believe in this God of yours, what He demands or does not demand means little to me. The rite proved to Lord Sagan that I have the strength and the ability to rule. I see I must spend the next few days proving myself to you, cousin Dion.

  "You shake your head. You look doubtful. You don't think I can. I accept the challenge.

  "But now"—Flaim slapped the arms of the chair, sprang jauntily to his feet—"you are tired. Your journey has been long and stressful, worried as you must have been about your wife. Now that you find her safe and sound, I am sure you are looking forward to getting some well-deserved sleep. We will continue our discussion tomorrow, and perhaps engage in a little light exercise, to keep us both in shape.

  "You brought your bloodsword, I hope, cousin?"

  Dion cast a swift glance at Sagan, saw the Warlord watching him intently, a flicker of fire in the depths of the otherwise dark, chill eyes.

  "Yes," said Dion, his left hand going automatically to his right palm. He caught himself, clenched his fist. "Yes, I brought it. But—"

  "Good." Flaim rubbed his hands together in expectation. "Excellent. I am like a child with a new playmate. Now, at last, I can quit sparring with my shadow.

  "Your Majesty." Flaim bowed to Astarte, who had risen with cold dignity. "I trust you will spend a pleasant night. I am sorry that you and your husband must be quartered in separate bedrooms, but I find that the hours spent in solitary thought are the most productive. And I want you all to think a great deal. Pantha, would you escort our cousin back to his room?"

  Dion had been hoping for some chance to talk privately with Astarte, but that was not to be allowed, apparently. There was nothing to do but make the best of it, go along. To do anything else would impair his dignity, do him more harm than good. He walked over to Astarte. Taking her hand in his, he brought her hand to his lips, kissed it gently.

  "Don't worry, madam," he said to her softly. "Everything's going to be all right."

  "Yes, sire," she said to him, smiling, if only to keep her lips from trembling, "I know it will be."

  He smiled back, reassuring, released her hand. He would have said something to Kamil, but she was already hurrying out the door.

  A part of him died then. A part that was young and hopeful and filled with golden dreams. A part that had once played, naked and free, in a blue lake on a distant world. No matter what happened now, he had lost her.

  He was truly alone.

  Chapter Nine

  Night, the shadow of light,

  And Life, the shadow of death.

  Algernon Charles Swinburne, Atlanta in Calydon

  "Dead of night," Tusk said to himself nervously, peering intently into the darkness. "What a stupid expression. I wonder who the bright person was who thought that one up."

  He was standing irresolutely out in the hallway, his hand on the door handle, urging himself to shut it and get moving. But the hall was so intensely dark and so intensely silent, so intensely dead, that he lingered by the door, hanging on to the handle as something solid and real.

  "It's all this talk about ghosts. I don't believe in ghosts. Any type of ghosts. Not even some weird dark-matter type of ghost," he said, but he said it quietly, and continued to peer nervously down the hall, continued to hang on to the door handle.

  Staring down the empty h
all, Tusk imagined the creatures roaming it. Maybe one was passing through him right now. Or maybe he might walk into one. He'd been told, by Garth Pantha, that the creatures could kill. Not that they would mean to, he'd assured Tusk. Your death would be accidental.

  "But it'd be a little late to accept their apologies." He wiped away a trickle of cold sweat that was running down his neck, soaking his T-shirt. "Still, if they are spooking up die place, they could be in my bedroom, for all I know. My chances are as good out here as anywhere, I suppose."

  Tusk made his decision, shut the door, and set out. He staggered as he walked. He had his story ready, in case the guards stopped him. Two swigs of jump-juice taken before the expedition had not only bolstered his courage but provided an authentic smell to his breath.

  He was thankful he didn't have far to go and that he'd made this trip once before by daylight; otherwise he would have been hopelessly lost Tusk didn't think much of the ghosts' no-tion of architectural design. The alcazar could more aptly be described as a warren than a fortress. The hallways were like runs in burrows—winding, bending, slanting up, sloping down.

  Tusk located his destination by counting doors and even then he wasn't certain he'd found the right one—all the doors in this place looked alike. He hesitated a moment before knocking, wishing he'd swallowed two bottles of jump-juice instead of two swigs. But he couldn't stand here long; his hesitation would look strange to anyone who was watching. Tusk banged on the door.

  "Cynthia!" he bawled in a loud and drunken voice. "Lemme in! Itsh Tusk."

  He heard footsteps, slow and heavy, cross the stone floor inside the room. Tusk's heart beat faster; his T-shirt was wringing wet. He gulped in a huge breath, was just about to bang on the door again, when it opened.

  Lord Sagan stood framed in the doorway.

  "Cynthia!" Tusk bawled again, then focused in on the tall, stern, glowering figure of the Warlord. "Cynthia?" He peered around Sagan. "You there?"

  "You have die wrong room, Tusca," said the Warlord. "And what are you doing roaming the halls in this inebriated condition? I've told you before—"