"That's the reason you're doing this for him?" Kamil spoke hesitantly.
Sagan flicked her a brief glance, then looked away. "My lady sacrificed her life for him. Left him as a sacred charge in my care. If I had no other reason, I would guard him because of that alone. But Maigrey was right. Dion will be our redemption. Because of him, the Blood Royal will no longer be remembered with a curse. I have pride enough left in me to appreciate that.
"Not that I wasn't tempted," he added after a moment's thoughtful silence, talking again to his unseen companion.
"Flaim would have given me everything he promised. I would have been Warlord of a vast and powerful armada. But I saw how it would end. I would not be satisfied unless I had it all. Unless my power was absolute. I would challenge him . . . and he, being younger, stronger, would have defeated me. I would have fallen in ignominy and shame. I would rather die."
His expression was suddenly chill and cruel. Kamil caught a glimpse of the man he might become, of the man he had once been. She wasn't certain now that she trusted him. Which man was the truth? Did he know?
Kamil kept still after that, deciding she preferred the unquiet silence to any more disturbing revelations.
Sagan was also apparently no longer inclined to talk. He had come to a halt. Kamil, looking around, now recognized where she was—the great hall, where Flaim had brought them on that first terrible night.
The Warlord appeared displeased now, and impatient, and once Kamil thought she heard him mutter. "I should have heard by now. Something's gone wrong."
She was frightened then; afraid for Tusk and for Dion. She ventured a question, but he ignored her. He shoved open the doors, entered the room.
The strong beams of the nuke lamps reflected brightly off the huge fireplace, the furniture, the near walls. She sent the light stabbing into the vastness of the hall, was sorry she'd done so. The darkness seemed to suck the light into its maw and swallow it. Kamil lowered the light swiftly, kept the beam on the floor directly ahead of her.
Sagan entered the room, his light flashing here and there along the wall. He walked across the stone floor, came to a tapestry. He pulled the embroidered and moth-eaten cloth aside, revealing a small door.
He looked back behind, flashed the lamp around the room briefly, then returned it to the door. He focused his light on the door handle. Reaching out, he plucked a small piece of black cloth from between the door and the frame. He nodded, satisfied. "Undisturbed. Flaim never thought to check. I'm going in here. Keep watch," he ordered.
Kamil stared inside when he opened the door, caught only a swift glimpse of the room's interior. It appeared to be a storage room. He shut the door.
Shivering, trying to tell herself that she didn't mind being alone in this terrible place, Kamil drew her lasgun and took up a position near the door. She even remembered to check the gun's setting, make certain it was on kill, not stun.
She stood in the empty hall, listening to the perturbed stirrings of the dark-matter creatures, stirrings that seemed suddenly to become angry, dangerous.
Kamil licked dry lips, held tightly to the gun, tried to keep her hand from shaking. With every breath she drew, a sharp pang of fear jabbed beneath her rib cage.
She recalled an old saying of her father's—something to the effect that the enemy climbing over the wall was always less frightening than the enemy hiding in the hills, and she suddenly realized its truth. She would have given a great deal for a real, live, solid, substantial person right now—be it friend or foe.
And then she heard Sagan's voice coming from within the room, heard him swear a brief, bitter oath. Footsteps crossed the room. He yanked the door open.
"What—" Kamil began, but the question died on her lips. Despair and fear squeezed her heart.
"Flaim has discovered the fake. He and Pantha are on their way here . . . may be here already."
"Dion?" She asked it without a voice, only her lips moving. "Tusk?"
"They are bringing Dion here. Tusca has failed. I've lost contact with him. He may already be dead."
Sagan walked back into the storage room.
Kamil, not knowing what to do, stood staring into the whispering darkness until she felt it start to close in around her. It was trying to steal her breath, to suffocate her. She crept into the storage room, nearer the light, nearer Sagan.
His nuke lamp rested on top of a table, its harsh beam shining on a crystal cube with a golden pyramid in its center. A row of tiny buttons, each with a strange character on it, were positioned on the top of the cube.
He held in his hand a dark and ugly jewel, carved into the shape of an eight-pointed star. The jewel was revulsive to look upon, conjured horrible images in her mind. She saw a hideous, distorted twin of herself, evil, perverted, dancing on her own grave. Now she understood the expression on his face; fey, dire, doomed. He was seeing himself.
Kamil shuddered. She didn't want to look at the jewel, didn't want to look at him. Yet, she discovered, she couldn't look anywhere else. Her gaze was held by the jewel, by his face, both terrible and awful. She shut her eyes, but that didn't work, for she could still see the jewel's dark light and, worse, she felt as if she were slowly falling into its dark heart.
Opening her eyes, she asked him softly, "What . . . what are you doing?"
His large, strong fingers moving with incongruous delicacy, Sagan carefully embedded the jewel in the bomb, fitting it into a star-shaped depression obviously intended to receive it.
"Arming the bomb." He did not look at her. "You should return to the spaceplane."
"I couldn't. I don't know the way. I'd get lost."
"Your godmother will assist you," he said dryly. "She will see to it that you escape Vallombrosa safely."
Kamil only shook her head. "No, my lord. I'll stay."
He said nothing more. He began to punch in the code, repeating the words as he depressed each button. " 'The center cannot—'"
Kamil heard movement behind her—real movement, solid movement.
Sagan lifted his head. Kamil turned, her lasgun drawn and aimed.
Dion and Flaim stood in the doorway. Kamil had a clear shot. But which was which? The white light of the nuke lamp reduced all complexities to simple shapes formed of brilliance and shadow, reduced the two cousins to one. The Starfire flared white-hot—all-consuming in one, blazing with a clear, pure light in the other. But it burned in the blood of both. And, for an instant, both looked uncannily alike.
Startled, uncertain, Kamil hesitated. In that instant, Flaim drew the bloodsword, held it in front of him, its shield activated.
"Take your hands away from the bomb, my lord. Keep them still. Make no move. Not so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Or His Majesty dies. You"—Flaim's eyes flicked to her, returned immediately to the Warlord—"throw down the gun."
Bitterly reproaching herself for her failure, Kamil held on to the gun more out of frustration than because she hoped to be able to do anything with it.
"Throw it down!" Flaim commanded.
"Do as he says," Sagan told her.
Half-blinded by tears, Kamil hurled the gun away from her. It slid across the floor, banged up against Flaim's foot.
A third person emerged from the darkness. Garth Pantha bent down, picked up the gun, thrust it into the belt of his robes.
"Move away from the bomb. Come out in the open, my lord," Flaim ordered. "Keep your hands where I can see them. Both of you—move!"
The prince began backing up, motioning with the bloodsword for the two inside the storage room to follow. He kept fast hold of Dion, pulled him along with him.
Dion was pale, dazed and groggy. He stumbled when he walked. He didn't even seem startled to see Kamil. He only looked bewildered, almost stupefied. And then his eyes rolled back, his head lolled on his shoulders. He fell to the floor, on his hands and knees. Flaim loosened his grip.
"Watch him, Pantha!"
Drawing Kamil's lasgun, Pantha held it to the king's head.<
br />
"Keep walking, my lord!" Flaim ordered.
The Warlord emerged from the storage room. Kamil followed at his left, a pace or two behind and to one side. The part of the hall in which they stood was lit by the eerie blue glow of the bloodsword, the bright white glow of the nuke lamp. But most of the rest of the vast hall was in darkness, as though a gigantic hand was cupped over them, sheltering the light from a whispering wind.
Flaim made a gesture. "Pantha, go inside the room. Get the bomb. It's sitting on the table. And while he is doing that, you, my lord, will die."
Pantha left to obey the prince's commands. Flaim advanced on Sagan.
Dion lifted his head slowly. His eyes were alert, flaring blue. His fainting spell had all been an act, Kamil realized confusedly, but what could he do?
Attack Flaim with his bare hands, if nothing else. Dion gathered his energy and strength within himself. Coiled like a wild beast, he prepared for a desperate lunge.
Sagan looked at Dion, smiled slightly, shook his head. The dark, shadowed eyes shifted to Pantha, who was hurrying toward the storage room.
There lies your duty, Dion, his look said plainly. Kamil could almost hear the unspoken words. You cannot save me.
Dion understood. So did Kamil. Fear, anguish, and helpless frustration choked her throat. She longed to do something, but she had no idea what. She was afraid to interfere, afraid of destroying whatever slim hope they all had.
Face pale, jaw set, Dion altered his stance slightly, shifted his attention to Garth Pantha.
Flaim raised the bloodsword. The blade flared a brilliant blue. Sagan stood motionless, bathed in the blinding light, unarmed, unable, unwilling to defend himself.
"Now, child, spoke a cool, low voice in Kamil's ear, "be ready."
Chapter Eight
And so our scene must to the battle fly . . .
William Shakespeare, King Henry V, Act IV, Chorus
Bright white light blossomed around Tusk. He stared into it, awed, blind.
"I always heard," he said to himself, "that when you die, you move toward a white light. This is it. They're right. It is kinda pretty."
A heavy weight pressed down on his chest, but there was no pain. He waited to be absorbed into the light, to move off down the tunnel, to be welcomed by . . . oh, say, his father, maybe.
The heavy weight lifted from his chest. A shadow loomed before his dazzled eyes. A voice spoke. It wasn't his father, it was a woman.
Well, thought Tusk, this is almost as good. So long as she leaves before Nola gets here.
The woman leaned close to him and spoke again.
"Just what the hell were you trying to do?"
Tusk was confused. From all he'd heard, people weren't supposed to talk that way up here. The woman slapped him across the face.
Yep, he was definitely in the wrong place.
"Wake up. Snap out of it."
And now he noticed that the bright light had gone out. He had a brief and extremely unpleasant sensation of being rolled down a narrow black tube. He hit bottom and the impact jolted him awake. Alarms were buzzing raucously; the sound stabbed into his head. He looked up. Three people stood over him.
"I'm alive," he said, hoping for confirmation.
"No thanks to you," Cynthia snapped. "Of all the idiots— I had everything under control and then you—" Seething, unable to complete a sentence, she glared at him, then turned away "We better shut off those damn alarms. We'll have every guard in the place down on us. Don, explain what's going on to the bridge. ... I don't know. Make up something. You're good at that. Rick and I'll drag the bodies inside."
Tusk—still lying on the deck, still trying to figure out what had happened—watched dazedly. Perrin, on his way to the commlink, stepped over Tusk, grinned.
"Want a drink? You look like you could use one."
Dhure gave him a nod and half-salute as he walked past. He and Cynthia began dragging the smoking bodies of the guards into the prince's quarters.
"At least these weren't any of our guys," Cynthia said.
"We would have had to take them out anyway," Dhure commented. The last of the bodies was inside. He glanced down at the blood and bits of charred flesh left lying on the deck, shook his head. "There's a few more fanatics like them left on board, too. We don't have much time."
"Shut the doors," Cynthia ordered.
Perrin was on the commlink, talking to the ship's commander in soothing tones. Dhure walked over to Tusk, squatted down beside him.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I think so." Tusk felt gingerly all over his body, couldn't find any holes. With Dhure's assistance, the mercenary staggered to his feet.
Cynthia glared at him again. "What the devil did you go and jump me for anyway? I'm on your side!"
"And how the devil was I supposed to know that?" Tusk demanded irritably, remembering. His hands started to shake. No, he said to himself angrily. Not now! "You could have given me the high sign—"
"Not with .. ." Cynthia stopped. "Not with Flaim watching," she said quietly. She didn't look a whole lot better than he felt. "I intended to get you out of here, past the guards. Then we were going to meet up with Don and Rick and—"
Tusk patted her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I had visions of myself locked in some damn cell disrupter—"
"What's done is done." Cynthia cut him off, must have got her wires crossed, sir," Don's voice drifted over to them. "The damn thing went berserk. .. ."
Tusk grinned. "Good ol' Mrs. Mopup."
Cynthia smiled, but her smile didn't last long. She shook her head and sighed. Her gaze went involuntarily to the crystal cube with its golden pyramid, lying on the floor.
"It's not . . . not the real one?"
"So they say." Tusk wasn't about to go take a better look. "Anyone got an extra lasgun I can borrow?"
Cynthia popped open Mrs. Mopup's chest cavity, produced a lasgun and holster. "There's another beam rifle in here, as well. Disassembled. But it wouldn't take long—"
"No, thanks." Tusk shook his head. "I got a couple in the Scimitar."
"Damn, this is an ugly thing." Dhure, squatting down beside the crystal cube, was careful not to touch it. "You sure it's fake?"'
"I'm not sure of anything anymore," Tusk said grimly. "Pantha seemed to think it was a phony and my guess is he wouldn't have gone off and left it if it wasn't, but I wouldn't touch it. Especially the jewel."
The starjewel was lying on the floor, tangled in its chain. The glittering gem, carved of a rare gemstone by a process long kept secret by the High Priests of the Order of Adamant, was now dead and forgotten, as the priests themselves were dead and forgotten.
" A starjewel could never be accidentally lost or misplaced,' " Tusk said, hearing the echo of his father's voice, " 'but if it is willfully given up by its owner, it will start to die.' There's supposed to be a curse on anyone who takes a jewel that isn't rightfully his or her own."
"Who would want it?" Cynthia asked with a shudder.
The jewel's fiery heart was already beginning to flicker and diminish. Soon it would turn black and hideous to look upon. Tusk thought of his father's starjewel. It had shone clear and bright, its white light shining cold and pure amid the consuming flames of his funeral pyre. Even when the body had been reduced to ash, the jewel was unharmed, untouched. They had placed it in his tomb with the burial urn.
"Yeah," Tusk said, "who would want one?" Reaching down, he picked up the small metal disk, the bloodlink. He stuffed it in a pocket, buckled on the holster. "Can you get me flight clearance? Or do I have to shoot my way out?"
"You can get clearance." Don Perrin sauntered over, a glass of scotch in his hand. "The commander thinks Prince Flaim is still on board. His Highness is too busy to talk right now. So I'm relaying His Highness's commands. I'll tell the flight deck you're leaving the ship on His Highness's orders. Where did they all go anyway?"
"Vallombrosa," Tusk said, heading for the doors.
"And t
hat's where you're going, isn't it?" Cynthia said.
"It's my job to rescue the king," he said.
"You mean the Usur . . ." Her voice died. She swallowed. "You've been on his side all along. You and Lord Sagan."
"It was Sagan's plan," Tusk said, shrugging. "I just did what I was told."
"I'm glad," Cynthia said suddenly. "I know it sounds silly, but even when you were supposedly on our side, I didn't much like you—betraying your friend like that."
"I didn't much like myself. You three are taking over this ship, right? What's your next move?"
"Mrs. Mopup will pay a visit to the bridge." Perrin stared into his glass, sloshed ice around. "Things could get real ugly."
"I doubt if it'll come to that," Captain Dhure said. "Once we explain what we know, the rest of the crew will listen to reason."
"And when they do, if you'll take my advice, you'll get this ship outta here. The real space-rotation bomb's down there"— Tusk gestured out the viewscreen toward Vallombrosa—"and the devil himself only knows what could happen. And, would you do me a favor? See if you can locate the queen. Take care of her, will you? If anything goes wrong . . . say Flaim manages to come out of this. . . ."
Dhure nodded. "Don't worry. I think we understand our prince a little better now than we used to. And ourselves even more. We'll see to it that Her Majesty's safe. It's the least we can do, to make up for what we did on Ceres."
"Thanks." Tusk nodded, turned to go. Then he paused, looked back at Cynthia. "Why did you do this for me? What made you change your mind?"
"I'm not sure. The creatures attacking Bidaldi. The other ships leaving and this one staying behind. The bomb on board, like you said. All of it happening just like you said. That. And him."
"Dion." Tusk guessed.
"The more I was around him ... I can't explain it. But he is king. Do you understand?"
"No,' said Tusk, shaking his head. "I never did."
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