The meal lasted several hours. The Bear refused to be rushed over one of the day's most important events. Afterward, much to Dion's relief, they finally settled down to talk business.
He explained his plan for the fleet. The Bear listened attentively, and though he sighed occasionally and frowned almost constantly, in the end he admitted that the plan was good.
"We must contact DiLuna and Rykilth. You have not done so?"
"No. We figured that the Galactic Navy might be monitoring our transmissions. I had hoped we could contact them from here, but ..." Dion glanced around at the stone walls, the bright-colored tapestries, the fire burning on the hearth, the dogs lying on the floor. "I guess that's not possible."
Bear, grunting, rose to his feet. "Follow me."
They climbed a spiral staircase, almost too narrow to accommodate Olefsky's massive bulk, that led them to a tower room high atop the castle walls. Bear shoved open the door, stood glowering at the objects inside as if he would be happy to send them all hurtling out the window.
"Jeez!" Tusk breathed, entering. "Would you get a load of this! You could raise President Robes with communications equipment this powerful. Hell, you could probably raise the dead!"
The tower room was covered ceiling to floor with instruments, control panels, and sophisticated communication devices. One of the sons—of course—sat grinning at them from out of the depths of a shaggy beard. It was a strange sight, to see the young man, clad in leather, fur, and homespun cloth, cohabitating with devices that could send his image halfway across a galaxy in the blink of an eye.
"What do you expect?" said the Bear ruefully, in response to their questions. "I am a leader of several star systems. And it is difficult to talk to them like we talked to each other in the old days, using smoke and drums. Tomorrow, we will contact DiLuna and Rykilth. Now, it is the time for sleep."
Dion hadn't felt particularly tired, until the Bear mentioned sleep. Suddenly, weariness overwhelmed him. It took an effort to stay awake long enough to bid his host and hostess a safe night's rest. The Bear and his wife lit the young man to his room. Sonja warmed the sheets by sliding an iron pan filled with hot coals over them. Standing together, arms around each other, they bid him good night.
The room was unheated. Shivering, Dion undressed swiftly, crawled hurriedly into bed. Huddling beneath a heavy goose-down comforter, he was soon warm and slid gently into sleep, where he dreamed of battle and bright armor and shining blades and a tall warrior woman, with golden eyes, who held her shield before him and fought at his side.
Chapter Seven
Twice or thrice had I loved thee, Before I knew thy face or name; So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be.
John Donne, Air and Angels
Dion woke in the morning after the most restful night's sleep he could remember having since the death of his old way of life, the death of Platus. Lying in the warm bed, the comforter pulled up around his neck, he watched his breath turn to frost in the icy-cold room, and avoided, as long as possible, leaving behind the blissful warmth of dreams only half remembered, setting his bare feet on the cold stone floor.
Hunger and a need to relieve himself eventually drove him out of the bed. He dressed in record time and, after losing his way in the castle's corridors, eventually found what Tusk called "the facilities" located in a sheltered courtyard. Joining several of the shaggy sons, who grinned at him and ducked their heads, Dion performed his morning ablutions, washed his face and hands in a bucket of cold water—first breaking the ice—and thought longingly of a hot shower.
After breakfast, they spent the morning endeavoring to make contact with DiLuna and Rykilth. Neither was available to talk, aides of both offered to arrange conferences to take place on the morrow, separately and together.
Dion was relieved. He'd been dreading these meetings. He hated the diplomatic groping, stroking, and fumbling, hated the promises that wouldn't turn out to be promises, hated the lies that might or might not turn out to be truths, hated the truths that would probably end up being lies. He was thankful, at least, to put it all off until tomorrow.
With business over for the day, Tusk and Nola went with the Bear to learn a charming game known as "spear-chucking."
Dion excused himself from joining them, pleading a headache, which was true. All the time he'd been cooped up in the communications room, he'd been aware that the day outside was beautiful—clear blue sky, light breeze, and a warm snow-melting sun. He felt the need to escape into that world and took advantage of the first opportunity to do so.
The afternoon was warm, almost hot. The sun in the cloudless sky beat down on the land below, making it seem as if yesterday's chill had been all in the mind. Water ran in rivulets from beneath the melting snow and ice, rushing down the gentle slope on which the castle was built. Dion followed the water, letting it lead him where it would, content to simply enjoy the warmth of the sun on his aching neck and shoulders, content to admire the beauty of the wild landscape.
The runoff led him to a clear lake, whose blue water mirrored the blue sky with such perfection it made Dion almost giddy to stare into it—gave him the eerie impression that he might, if he fell, tumble up into the sky, instead of down into the water.
No breeze stirred the lake's surface; the wind had died in the heat of the afternoon. Dion sat on a large flat rock and stared across the glasslike lake until the heat of the sun on the rock, baking through his clothes, led him to think longingly of a swim. Gingerly, he put his hand into the water. It was cold, but not icy. He felt grimy, bug-ridden. (He'd observed the dog and a couple of the Olefsky brothers scratching themselves. The unwelcome thought of fleas—which had spread through the galaxy faster than humans—entered his mind.)
Dion looked around. He was alone, all Bear's sons having been eager to exhibit their skill in "spear-chucking." Stripping off his clothes, Dion dove into the sparkling water.
The cold made him catch his breath. He gasped, came up for air, and immediately began swimming toward the opposite side of the lake, knowing that he had to warm the blood, keep moving. He wasn't a bad swimmer, but not particularly good at it, either, having been raised on a planet where the largest body of water he'd ever seen was his bathtub. He'd learned to swim while on board Phoenix. His form was clumsy, but it kept him afloat and took him where he wanted to go and that, as his instructor had said, was most important.
Reaching the opposite shore, Dion found a large boulder, worn smooth on top, and guessed it had been used by generations of young Olefskys as a diving platform. Invigorated by the cold water and the exercise, certain he was alone and away from critical eyes, he relaxed and let the child in him come out to play. He clambered up on the rock, dove off, doing cannonballs, shouting, laughing, landing more than once flat on his naked belly. Finally, chilled, exhausted, he climbed onto the boulder to let the hot sun dry and warm him.
He stretched out full length, folded his arms beneath his head, and started to lie down comfortably.
A pair of eyes, fixed boldly on him from across the water on the bank, brought him sitting bolt upright. At first, Dion thought he was being observed by a youth, for the figure had short hair, close-cropped to the head, and was dressed in fur trousers and fur vest. Dion, feeling ebullient, was about to wave to the young man in friendly fashion when he took a closer look at the slender, delicate neck and realized it wasn't a young man. It was a young woman.
"What are you doing?" she asked in a voice as cool and clear as the lake. "Besides ruining my fishing."
Dion moved faster than he'd ever moved in his life. He slid off the rock, tumbled into the water. Clinging to the edge, he put the boulder between himself and the young woman.
"How long have you been here?" he demanded, remembering just in time to speak the woman's own language.
In answer, she reached down into the water and pulled up a stringer of glistening fish—more than twenty.
"That was before you came a
nd starting making all the noise and splashing," she said accusingly.
Dion sputtered. "You've been spying on me this whole time! Why didn't you say something?"
"Spying!" The young woman bristled. "This is my father's lake. I have every right to be here. More than you, I'm certain. And you'd better come out of the water and get dressed. You're starting to turn blue."
"If you've been here that long," said Dion, teeth chattering with cold and embarrassment, "then you know that my clothes are on the opposite bank. I'll—"
"Oh, no, they're not." The young woman exhibited Dion's trousers. "I fetched them for you. I knew you'd be chilled to the bone. You'd better come out now," she repeated, glancing up at the sky, to the sun that was rapidly disappearing behind the mountain peaks. Long shadows were starting to stretch across the lake. "When the sun goes down, the air will turn cold rapidly."
Dion stared at his trousers and the rest of his clothes that he could now see piled neatly behind the young woman. He knew what she said was right. Evening's chill breeze on his wet skin raised the flesh on his arms. As for modesty, he told himself, it was useless now. She'd seen everything there was to see and, he had to admit, she didn't appear to be all that impressed. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to walk out of the water under the gaze of those calm, clear eyes.
"I'll come," he said, starting to splash slowly toward her, the water about waist deep. "But . . . turn around."
"Why? What for?" The young woman was obviously perplexed. Then her brows came together. "You're not planning to steal my fish, are you?"
"I'm not going to steal your fish!" shouted Dion, losing patience, the cold seeping into his bones, his skin burning as if he had a fever. "It's just . . . Damn it, girl, I don't have any clothes on!"
"I can see that! You're shivering. You'll catch your death. Be careful. The pebbles there are slippery. Here"—she leaned out over the water, reached out a hand—"let me help you. ..."
"No!" Dion exclaimed hastily, drawing back. "I can manage on my own, thank you. Look, it's like this. Where I come from, it's not considered"—he searched for but couldn't find an equivalent of the word "proper" in the young woman's language. He was beginning to understand why—"well . . . right . . . for a woman to see a man without his clothes on. Or the other way around," he added, blushing furiously.
The young woman regarded him gravely. "That is true in our realm with betrothed couples or with those who have some reason to be ashamed of their bodies. But we are not betrothed and you have no need to be ashamed of your body. You are well proportioned and muscular. It is a pity no one ever taught you to swim properly."
Dion opened his mouth, closed it again. She wasn't being cute or coy or flirting with him. Her appraisal was spoken with frank, open honesty.
"Look," he said helplessly, "if you'd just turn your back . . ."
The young woman, shrugging, placed his clothes at the edge of the shoreline, then did as she was told, walking over near a stand of fir trees. Her lithe form moved gracefully, yet awkwardly, as if she had only recently acquired a new body and was still getting used to it. Sitting comfortably on the ground, she stared intently straight ahead of her.
Dion climbed out of the water, reached for his underwear.
"You'd better dry off," the young woman advised. "Your clothes will be wet and it is a long walk back to my home. Use my jacket, if you want. The skin beneath the fur is coated with oil. It won't hold the water like yours will."
Dion grabbed hold of a shapeless mass of fur lying near his clothes, toweled off hurriedly, and pulled on his trousers.
"Thank you for the invitation to your home," he said, wringing water out of his long hair and trying unsuccessfully to stop shaking. "And I'd really like to visit you sometime . . ."
He paused, not realizing, until he said the words, how true that statement was. "But," he added with real regret, his gaze lingering on the shining hair, the beautifully formed head, the long and slender neck supporting it, "I'm a guest at the castle—"
"Which is my home," said the young woman, turning around, facing him.
"No, no," said Dion, feeling extremely confused, noticing suddenly that her eyes were golden and her hair, in the slanting sunlight, was glistening silver, "I mean Olefsky's castle. Bear Olefsky. I'm his guest."
"And I'm his daughter," said the young woman. Smiling at him, she stood up, walked over, extended her hand to him. "My name is Maigrey."
"Maigrey!" Dion stared, frozen in place, unable to move for amazement.
"And what's wrong with that?" the young woman flashed, snatching back her hand. She glared at him defiantly. "I am the name-child of a valiant warrior-woman, who is a friend of my father's and who was a guest at the castle the day I was born."
"N-nothing's wrong with it," Dion stammered. "I know the Lady Maigrey and it . . . startled me to hear you say the name—" ,
"You know her?"
The young woman's eyes opened full and wide, drawing Dion inside.
"Yes," he said, dazzled, his blood pounding hot and fast through his body. "I am Dion. Dion Starfire. Perhaps," he said modestly, "your father has mentioned me—"
"The boy-king," said the young woman. She stretched out her hand again. "My father said you were strange, but that you had some good qualities."
"Thank you, I think," Dion said confusedly, accepting the handshake, which was strong and firm and friendly.
Her fingers were slender and rounded, fingernails cut short as a man's. She was as tall as he was, with well-formed, muscular arms and shoulders, slender waist and hips and long legs. Her skin was tanned, from being outdoors, and made his look white and sickly by contrast. The golden eyes (where had he seen those eyes before?) were large and serious. Her nose was long, too long for classic beauty, her smile wide and ingenuous and . . . friendly.
Friendly! God, friendly! Dion groaned inwardly. He had always laughed at the notion of Eros shooting man with love's arrows, but now Dion understood. He wouldn't have been at all surprised to look down at his chest and see the rascal's shaft sticking out of his heart.
"Have I offended you?" asked the young woman, mistaking his long silence.
"No, no," Dion answered, then shook his head, gazed at her through his wet, tangled mass of red hair. "'Boy-king' doesn't sound very flattering, does it?"
"I'm not certain my father is right," stated the young woman, eyeing Dion with cool appraisal. "You seem a man to me."
Dion wanted to howl and leap about the forest and start a fire by rubbing sticks together and wrestle some great beast and lay it at her feet. But he judged, by looking at her, that she might get the better of him in beast wrestling and she could almost certainly start fires. . . .
He said nothing, couldn't find the words, and that golden-eyed stare of hers was shredding him up inside. Turning, he leaned down, picked up the fur jacket that smelled strongly of fish, and handed it to her. "Here," he said, looking at her tan, bare arms, "you'd better wear this."
The sun had disappeared behind the mountain peaks. Its glow lit the sky; a soft, shimmering purple streaked with bands of red and orange.
"I have offended you," said the young woman. "I'm sorry. My mother says I have the charm of a gron." Taking the jacket, she drew near him and wrapped the fur around his shoulders, drawing it close together in the front, smoothing it with her long-fingered hands. "There. You will be warm soon."
Dion caught hold of the hands in his own, held them tightly, drew her nearer to him. His eyes looked into hers, saying those things that can never be spoken aloud, but only heart to heart.
It seemed she understood. Her eyes lowered, long lashes brushed against flushed cheeks. Her head bowed. He could see that the hair, which he had thought was silver, was really a mixture of iridescent white and ash-blond and brown. It was clipped short, probably not to get in her way when hunting. He imagined pressing her head to his chest, running his hand through her hair, ruffling it with his fingers. The burning ache in his throat nearly choked him.
Suddenly, she pulled away from him, ducked around him, behind him. "I have to get the fish."
Dion wasn't sorry to let her go. He felt the need to catch his breath and realign the ground beneath his feet.
She retrieved the fish, flopping about wetly on the stringer. "Hold this a minute," she said, handing it to Dion. Vanishing into the woods, she returned, carrying a leather pack and several long, slender poles tipped with iron points. She slung the pack over her shoulder, hefted the poles, and reached out a hand for the fish.
"No,no," Dion protested. "I'll carry these."
"Are you sure?"
He noticed then that he was holding the wriggling, gasping, slimy creatures at arm's length, his nose wrinkling at the smell.
"I'm sure. I should do something to make amends for ruining your fishing. But don't you think you should take your jacket back?" he added, looking again at her bare arms, the loose-fitting fur vest. She had turned sideways to him and he could see, through the V-necked opening, the swelling roundness of her small, firm breasts.
"Nonsense!" she said crisply. "You're the one who's cold. I'm not. You've gone all gooseflesh."
Dion could have said that it wasn't the cold that made him shiver, but he thought it best to keep quiet. They left the shoreline, moved into the woods, and struck a path that ran around the lake, a trail worn and trodden by the feet of innumerable Olefskys. The young woman walked like a man— straight-hipped, taking long strides.
Encumbered by the fish, not knowing the path, Dion had trouble keeping up with her. He fell into a hole. She reached out a hand to catch hold of him, steady him, and he noticed, suddenly, that she was walking on his left-hand side, his shield side, and he knew then where he'd seen those golden eyes.
"Are you all right?" she asked him, pausing, alarmed. "You didn't twist your ankle? I should have carried the fish—"
King's Sacrifice Page 27
