Ghost Legion Read online

  Behind them, the army wavered, the bright banner they had followed dimmed by darkness. Kamil fell, but the shield lay over Dion, over them both. They looked at each other and in that moment knew that they could lie together in the darkness, safe, hidden, and their enemies would ride over them. Ride to victory, destroying those who came behind. Already they could hear them, crying out in despair, shouting for their king.

  He looked at her and saw she understood. Rising, he threw aside the shield and cried a challenge to his foe. His army surged around him and he led them forward, and the last she saw of him was the flowing bright hair, shining on them like a new-made sun. And he vanished. And she lay in the darkness, alone.

  Kamil began to cry, softly, against her will. She gulped, held her grief inside, though the tears burned her throat. Hoping he wouldn't notice—for how could she explain?—she tried to ease herself out of his grasp, to wipe the tears away, but he felt the wetness on his skin and turned immediately to her.

  "Hush, don't. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you," he said, misunderstanding. He was serious, remorseful. "I was the first lover you've had, wasn't I?"

  She pressed her face against his arm, unable to stop the tears now, unable to speak to correct his mistake, then thinking that perhaps he wasn't far from wrong.

  He was silent, stroking her hair, then said, his face flushing, "Somehow, I hadn't expected ... I mean, I thought .. . here, on this campus ..."

  "Oh, Dion." Kamil raised her head, looked at him, managed a tremulous smile. "How could you imagine there would be anyone else? I love you ... only you."

  He held her close, crushing her to him. She clasped him tightly, fiercely, their bodies crowding together, as if they could overcome the flesh that was a physical barrier to their souls' joining. But flesh compensated by giving them pleasure.

  Passion stirred. They teased it a moment, then relaxed and lay back, content to enjoy the simmer before the burning.

  "We've talked about me too much," he said. "Tell me what you do every day, what courses you're taking; tell me about the people you talk to, who see you every day; tell me where you go, what you think ..."

  "I don't go anywhere, except to class," Kamil said, laughing slightly, warm with pleasure at his interest. She snuggled near. "It was hard for me at first. I was far behind all the others. Our people don't believe in formal schooling, you know. And so I've had to work hard to catch up. But I love it ... now."

  "Now?" He looked at her.

  "I was homesick in the beginning. That . . . that was a hard time. You were just married . . . and I couldn't help but be jealous. Not of her, exactly. I wasn't afraid that you would love her more than you love me." She put her hand on his lips, stopping him when he would have spoken. "I never doubted you. I was jealous of her time with you, of knowing you two were loving, touching. . . ."

  "Touching, maybe," said Dion grimly. "Not loving."

  They were both silent. The moonlight disappeared. The wind rose, the storm returned. Bits of ice pelted the window-panes.

  "Don't stop talking," he said abruptly. "Keep on. I want to know. I want to be able to picture you in my mind. What do you eat for breakfast? Do you fix it yourself or go to the cafeteria?"

  "Oh, Dion!" She laughed.

  "I'm serious." He made it evident with a kiss. "Tell me."

  She told him. She told him every part of her daily routine, told him about her classes, what she was studying, told him about the professors, about the people she knew, about the books she was reading, her dislike of philosophy, her love of mathematics. She told him what she ate for breakfast.

  He lay very quiet, very still, his breathing soft and regular. She might have thought he'd fallen asleep, except she could see his eyes, wide open, staring into the darkness and seeing not darkness but seeing her, walking through her day.

  She thought of his day in comparison—the crushing responsibilities, the life-and-death decisions, the person he had to become, the king she'd seen tonight, so different from the man holding her. She was remorseful. She didn't often give in to self-pity, but sometimes, in the evening, when the air was soft and fragrant with the scent of the roses and she saw young couples walking together, she felt sorry for herself.

  After this, no more. There was no self-pity in his expression, no regret. Only an inexpressible sadness that brought the dream-image of the warrior back to her. She banished it hurriedly, afraid she'd start to cry again.

  "And what," Dion asked, the first words he'd spoken in a long time, "is the point of all these studies in astrophysics and quantum mechanics? What do you plan to do?"

  "Can't you guess?" she asked, flushing.

  He propped himself up on one elbow, intrigued by the sudden air of mystery. "You don't plan to give your life to the church, do you? Become a nun?"

  "Of course. That's it!" Kamil said, pulling playfully on his hair. That started a scuffle which ended with her breathless and laughing, pinned up against the headboard.

  "Tell me the truth," he mock-threatened, pretending to be stern. "Tell all, lady. I command you."

  "You'll laugh at me," she protested.

  "You didn't laugh at me when I said I wanted to be king."

  "No," Kamil returned softly. "I didn't laugh."

  He kissed her and this time the passion was too strong. It was some time before they returned to what they had been discussing Kamil was achingly, sweetly, drowsy in his arms.

  "No more trying to change the subject," he said, his voice warm and husky with the pleasant tiredness. He yawned, kissed her gently. "Tell me about your plans. And don't fall asleep. I won't waste this night in sleep."

  "It's almost dawn. I should go soon, before anyone sees me."

  But she made no move to go. The thought of leaving this rumpled warmth, of hurrying, cold and shivering, through the halls to her own empty room, darkened her heart. "I made the decision last holiday. I'd gone home and there was a visitor. Tomi Corbett. You remember her?"

  "The captain of that cruise liner Lady Maigrey pirated and flew into Corasia. Yes, I remember Corbett. What was she doing on your planet?"

  "My father met her during the battle, when the fleet was forced to fight its way out of the Corasian galaxy."

  "That's right. I'd forgotten. He took some of his troops over to her ship, in case it was boarded. Funny, I hadn't thought of her in ages."

  "They became good friends. He invites her to visit every year, when she can get leave. She's a colonel in the Royal Space Corps now. She says you and General Dixter helped her."

  "She deserved it," Dion commented quietly. "So you met her . . ."

  "Yes." Kamil plaited the sheet beneath her fingers. "She was telling me about the Space Corps Academy. And, well, that's what I want to do. I want to train to be a spacepilot. Like Tomi. And Lady Maigrey."

  Dion said nothing.

  "I know what you're thinking," Kamil went on, truly believing she did. "You're thinking I don't have a chance. And I know how hard it is . .. what an honor to be chosen. I know that millions apply and only a handful make it. But my professors say my grades are high enough—I've got a straight 4.0. And I took the practice entrance exam already and my score was one of the highest. A candidate has to have influence to get a commission, but," she added with a breathless little laugh, "I'm friends with His Majesty the king and I thought he might—"

  "Well, he won't," said Dion.

  He pulled his arm out from beneath her, sat up in bed. Throwing back the sheets, he stood up, his back to her, and reached for his robe. "I might as well sign your death warrant. "

  Kamil stared at him, startled, unable to speak. She felt as if he had thrown the snow in her face.

  He tied the robe around his waist, turned back to face her. "I can imagine how exciting Colonel Corbett made it all sound. Glamorous, heroic. I've seen how glamorous and exciting it is. I've seen men die out there. I've heard their screams. ... I still hear them sometimes. I won't lose you, Kamil! I won't!"

  You don't ha
ve me, Dion. The words came to her mind, but they never passed beyond. It was the duty of the shieldmaid to guard her warrior from hurt, not inflict it. But her plans and hopes were hard to give up. They filled the emptiness of her nights.

  She climbed out of bed and went to him, holding out her arms. She was shivering. He took hold of her, enveloped her in the robe, wrapped it around them both.

  "Stay here at the Academy," he said. "Stay here where it's safe. Where I can come and be with you."

  "Can you?" She looked up at him, eager, yearning. "Can you truly come?"

  "Yes, I promise. I've been thinking. I've endowed this Academy. I hold an honorary degree. I could be a guest lecturer, offer to present a series of lectures on—"

  "Love," she suggested, teasing.

  "No." He smiled. "That lecture is for one alone."

  "I do love you!" she cried suddenly, clinging.

  "And I you!"

  They held each other fast in the darkness that was rapidly brightening to a sullen, stormy dawn.

  "I have to go," said Kamil. Gathering up her clothes, she hurried into the bathroom.

  Dion walked over to the windows, pressed his right hand against the chill glass. The scars ached dully; the coolness against them was welcome. He stood staring out into the snow-laden garden. He wouldn't have been surprised to see Maigrey walking the paths. He found himself hoping to see her again.

  "Do you understand?" he said to her. "Perhaps not. You and Sagan loved, but love wasn't enough for either of you. Your ambition, your pride were too important. You couldn't reach for the crown without dropping the rose. I have the crown. I have what you sought. I want the rose now, too. I don't ask for it all. I know my duty and I will do it." His fist clenched. "But surely I've earned this much happiness!"

  A hand touched his arm, a cheek leaned against his shoulder.

  "Is she out there?" Kamil asked quietly.

  Dion shook his head, flushed, somewhat abashed. "No. No one is out there."

  "But they soon will be." Kamil was dressed. She lifted the hood of her fur cloak, raised it up over her head.

  "You can't go out in the snow," Dion said, suddenly understanding her purpose.

  "Why ever not?" She looked amazed, waved a deprecating hand at the drifts. "This is nothing compared to what we have back home."

  "I know. I was there," said Dion dryly. "But for one thing you'd leave tracks in the garden. Someone would see them. We should behave with dignity, at least."

  Kamil blushed, lowered her head.

  "Princess Olefsky." Dion took hold of her hand, led her formally to the bedroom door, through it, and out into the headmaster's main living area, with its massive bookcases and strange curios. Reaching an outer door, Dion started to open it.

  "My guard will escort you to your room."

  Kamil hung back. "Oh, Dion, are you certain?"

  "I trust these men with my life, Kamil," he said quietly. "On a daily basis. I can trust them with my honor."

  She looked at him, looked at the closed door, and shook her head.

  "We'll be careful, discreet," he said to her. "But I will not sneak around. I am, after all, the king."

  He kissed her lips, her forehead. Lifting her gloved hand, he kissed the palm, closed her fingers over it. Then he opened the door. The King's Guard snapped to attention, bodies and faces rigid.

  "Centurion," Dion said to one of the men on duty, "escort the princess back to her room."

  "Yes, my liege."

  Kamil's complexion was the color of the roses as they bloomed in the summer. She kept her head lowered, the hood falling forward to hide her face. She cast one swift and loving glance back at Dion, then hurried down the hallway toward her room, the guard following a pace behind.

  Dion watched her leave. She was flustered, embarrassed. She moved awkwardly, stumbling over her long dress, and would have taken a turn down the wrong hallway had not the guard respectfully corrected her.

  Dion thought of her walking through the grass of her home-land with her long, manlike strides, her arms swinging free, her head held high. Not like this. Not ashamed, not embarrassed.

  He gave in to a moment's rebellious anger. Why couldn't she be his? Why couldn't he say to the universe: She's mine. I love her!

  He shut the door, shut it carefully, to keep from slamming it. Gritting his teeth, he leaned against the door until the fire-tinged dimness cleared from his eyes, his mind.

  Duty, responsibility. He was, after all, the king. Today he would return home to the palace.

  Return home to his wife.

  "This will be enough," he said to himself with a long, indrawn sigh. "This will be enough..."

  Chapter Eleven

  I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more.

  Robert Browning, "Two in the Campagna"

  Astarte Starfire, wife of the king, queen of the galaxy, High Priestess of both her own people and of a growing following throughout the galaxy, lay in her bed alone and stared into the darkness. The sheets were rumpled in the place beside her, still warm from his presence. She could put out her hand and feel the warmth, feel it rapidly cooling.

  Dion's fragrance was there, too. She wondered about that; she had often wondered, from the first time she'd met him—on their wedding day. He used no perfume, yet there was a sweetness about him, a ... softening of the air around him, for lack of a better way to describe it. Like a spring morning. She came to think she was the only one who smelled it. When she had questioned her women about the mysterious fragrance, her retinue looked blank.

  He was gone.

  It was the middle of the night and she was alone.

  His excuse was that he was troubled with bad dreams, he didn't want to disturb her. That was true. Often, after they were first married, she'd heard him muttering to himself in his sleep, moving restlessly, waking with a gasp and a start. She had tried to comfort him, but he would rebuff her, sometimes coldly, sometimes gently, but always letting her know her interference was unwelcome. She was an intruder. She'd been relieved when he had moved into a separate room, though his absence from her bed had meant scene after scene with her mother.

  Astarte stared into the darkness. Her hand left the rumpled sheet that no longer held his warmth, pressed over her belly. He had made love to her.

  Made love to her? She laughed, but it turned to a sob.

  She lay there, her hand flat over her flat belly, fingers kneading the smooth, bare flesh. "No, you didn't make love to me. You made love to her! My body. But she is in your mind!"

  Dion had made love to his wife, dutifully, every night for a week after his return from the Academy. The first night, Astarte had been thrilled with joy. There had been a feverishness about him, desire. His lovemaking had been fierce, passionate. It was only after he'd left, with a chill kiss, to return to his own bedroom, that she'd realized he'd been loving someone else.

  His ardor had quickly cooled. Their lovemaking now was brief, perfunctory. She had no pleasure from it, guessed that what pleasure he received was from the fantasy he conjured up to enable him to perform. He kept his eyes closed the entire time. Astarte imagined herself ripping out his eyes, to see what other woman's image was on the inside of the lids. Her imaginings grew quite violent, and they scared her.

  She thought of confronting him, but she kept silent because she knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to give her the baby she longed for.

  Perhaps this time ...

  She closed her eyes, dozed.

  He was with her again, as he had been just a few moments ago. He was "performing his duty" and she was lying beneath him, enduring it, hating it, wishing it would soon end. And it did and she felt the rushing warmth inside her. She opened her eyes and looked into his face . ..

  And it wasn't his face.

  Astarte caught her breath in a horrified gasp. She struggled under the weight of a heavy body, trying frantically to push him away. He was laughing at her.

  "My child! M
ine!" he said . . . and she found herself sitting up in her bed, flailing with her arms at the air.

  She shuddered, curled up in a ball, her hand clutching her tight, flat belly. She guessed, then, that she was pregnant. "But what does this vision mean? Whose face did I see? It was his. And it wasn't his. Blessed Goddess, what are you trying to tell me?"

  Astarte rolled over on her back. Her tears dried on her cheeks unheeded. She was devout The vision came from the Goddess. It was not the first she'd experienced. The visions did not come often, nor did they come when sought, but when they did come to her, what they revealed to her always came to pass. But what did it mean?

  Hastily, with trembling fingers, she lit her lamp and sat up, fumbling for her robe. Catching hold of it, she wrapped it around her body. Hurrying from her sumptuously furnished room, oblivious to the luxuries that surrounded her, she entered a door hidden behind a rich tapestry, a small door that led to a small room off the main one.

  Her chapel, private and secret, all things in it placed here by her own hands. If she had been forced to name a favorite room in a palace of many magnificent rooms, this small, windowless alcove would have been it.

  She lit a candle, a white beeswax that stood in a plain wooden candle holder. The Goddess liked simple things, things "of the land, of the hand," as the saying went. The candle's light fell upon the altar's centerpiece—a statue of the Goddess herself. It was old, far older than Astarte, having been given to her by her mother's mother, a High Priestess like herself.

  The statue portrayed two women. One woman was clad in long white robes. In her right hand she held a sheaf of grain; her left hand rested upon a child who stood before her. Back to back with this woman was a woman clad in armor and helm, who held a sword in her right hand, a shield in the other. The dual image of the Goddess—on one side the nurturing mother; on the other, the warrior who would defend her children.

  The statue of the Goddess stood on every altar in every home of Astarte's people. The Goddess had been worshiped there for centuries, ever since the sickness had taken most of the men, left those who survived weak and precious, nurtured like hothouse plants for their seed. In most homes, the Goddess's statue had only one face—the face the woman chose as her own. For Astarte's mother, the Goddess wore the face of the Warrior. For Astarte herself, the Goddess was the gentle, loving Nurturer. But now Astarte reached out, turned the Goddess slowly around.