Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  Maigrey wavered, her righteous anger faltering a little under the personage's argument.

  "No, I don't think that," she admitted, chastened. "It's just .. . well, I don't believe you're being fair. And I didn't break lie covenant, not really. Sagan thought that I'd abandoned him—"

  "As you did in life?"

  Though she had no flesh, no blood, Maigrey felt the blood burn in her face. She put her hand to the scar that existed only in her mind.

  "I couldn't let him believe that of me again," she said in a low voice. "But I kept my word. I didn't appear to him. As for him finding that message, you know it was not written by me. I can't help it if he thought otherwise.. .."

  "A technicality," said the radiant being dryly. "You are clever, Lady Maigrey—I use your name because you are closer to what you were than what you should be. But your cleverness has this time proved your undoing. As you surmised, he knew the message came from you. But he did not take hope or comfort from it. He has misconstrued it, has now lost all hope because of it. Now he is reckless and fey. And you have yourself to blame. It was to avert just this possibility that you were asked to make the covenant."

  "I do admit I made a mistake," Maigrey said earnestly. "But if you will only grant me leave to go to him, I can fix it—"

  "No. You have done enough," said the personage in severe tones. "Too much. It cannot be permitted."

  "You permitted my brother to come to me!" Maigrey flared. "You sent Platus to stop me when I was going to kill myself."

  "We sent him? Are you certain of that? Have you never wondered why your brother walks these hallways instead of seeking the peace that we offer him?"

  Maigrey stared, astonished. Her brother—rebelling against a Divine Edict. She couldn't believe it, and yet, she could. By saving her, Platus had, in reality, saved Dion. And Dion meant more to Platus than his own soul.

  "What is it you want me to do?" she asked, quieter, thought-fill.

  "You will not return to the physical dimension. You will remain here, in our sight and mind. You will not interfere in the lives of any of those you left behind. One exception only is made and that because of a responsibility you accepted in life."

  "My goddaughter, Kamil. There is little I can do for her now. But the others, Dion, Sagan .. . how can you ask me to abandon them? Especially now. ..

  "You will see them—through the mind of God. Submit yourself to His will, Lady Maigrey. Be ruled by His wisdom, not your own misleading passions."

  Maigrey shook her head slowly.

  The radiant personage was stern. "Would you tamper with their freedom of choice? With their free will?"

  "Why not? You're doing it," she retorted.

  "You defy us, then." The radiant being did not make the statement in anger, but in sorrow.

  "I will do what I think is best," Maigrey said, hedging, somewhat daunted by the power of the forces aligned against her. "That is my free choice."

  "This is true. We may not stop you. But know this, Lady Maigrey. If once you leave our presence, the Mind of God will be closed to you. You will see only as a mortal. And if you cross over to the physical dimension, if you attempt to physically alter or change that which was meant to be, you will be damned. You will not be permitted to return to this blessed realm, except by a path that is long and difficult and filled with pain. Many are those who have perished on it, to live in dreadful torment and agony, bereft of all hope of comfort, peace, redemption. That is the fate you face. And you face it alone."

  The path opened up at her feet. Maigrey looked down it, and her soul shrank back from the sight. But, as she had been trained, she did not show her fear. Her Hps pressed together firmly; her grip on the hilt of the bloodsword tightened.

  "It is your choice," admonished the radiant being. "But beware that if you tamper with what you do not understand, you may do irreparable damage. And if you do, you will be punished."

  She thought long moments. Then "So be it," she said, and left.

  Chapter Two

  I think the King is but a man ...

  William Shakespeare, Henry V, Act IV, Scene i

  "Send for John Dixter," ordered Dion.

  "Yes, sir." D'argent started to leave the king's office, paused. "Are you certain, sir? You've only just returned to the palace. Your Majesty should rest—"

  "Find him!" Dion said through clenched teeth.

  D'argent bowed silently and left.

  Dion bowed his head. Elbows on his desk, he massaged his forehead, rubbed burning eyes, throbbing temples. Ordinarily he had no problems with space travel, but he had been ill this trip. He hadn't been able to eat; what food he swallowed made him sick. He couldn't sleep, but lay awake hours, staring into the darkness. Stress, nerves, said his doctor, and had prescribed rest, a vacation. Easy to say, but how did one take a vacation from oneself? Where could he go that despair and heartache would not follow in his baggage train?

  The king had left the Academy almost immediately after receiving Dixter's message. Dion had taken time only to explain matters to Kamil.

  At first he'd considered not telling her. The news hadn't leaked out; there was a possibility he could contain the explosion, minimize the damage, prevent anyone from finding out. He knew Kamil. He was almost certain that she would blame herself.

  But he decided to tell her the truth. One reason—he couldn't lie to her. He couldn't keep anything from her. If he was wounded, his shieldmaid had to know, in order to know how to protect both of them. And, too, he feared that he might not be able to keep this news from the press, that she would find out from the evening news, hear it gossiped among her friends. She would not only blame herself, then, but she would assume that Dion blamed her. . . .

  No, far better to tell her everything. He remembered every word of their last meeting. Repeated it to himself now, as he had repeated it over and over again in the long and empty hours of the night.

  Once again, he held her in his arms.

  "Astarte has left me. I have to return to the palace."

  "Oh, Dion, this is my fault!" Kamil responded, as he had known she would.

  "Don't jump to conclusions, dearest," he told her. "Don't make this more difficult."

  She said softly, "You must go, of course. I understand. And ... and if you can't come back . .. I'll understand that, too. You won't need to say anything...."

  "Oh, God!" With a smothered groan, he gripped her tightly, clasped her to him, his love for her a fire that warmed him and seared him. I won't give you up! was what he longed to say, but his broken words were only, "How can I give you up?"

  She made no reply. They clung to each other. This was the end.

  Or maybe not.

  That had occasioned the restless, sleepless hours. There might still be a way. Now, of all times in his life, he needed Kamil, needed her love, support, understanding. There had to be a way. .. .

  "Dion . . ."

  He raised his head, looked up. "Hello, sir," he said. "I didn't hear you come in."

  Dixter settled himself in the comfortable chair opposite the king's desk, eyed Dion intently. "I heard the reports of your illness. Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked with characteristic bluntness.

  Dion smiled wanly. "Just a touch of space sickness. I'll be all right. And, actually, it proved a convenient excuse for canceling my appointments." He drew in a deep breath, sat up straight, back rigid. His face was the face of the mirror. "Tell me everything. How bad is it?"

  "Not as bad as it could have been, Your Majesty," Dixter said gravely. He rubbed his grizzled chin, appeared embarrassed.

  "Look, sir," said Dion, "let's drop the formalities. This isn't going to be easy on either of us. I'm sorry you had to be involved—"

  "Better me than someone else, Dion," said Dixter. "Astarte came to me because she knew you and I were old friends. She doesn't want scandal, any more than you do, than we all do. She's an intelligent woman. She knows how critical this time is for you. She knows the wolves are out there, waiti
ng for you to stumble, waiting to rip your throat out."

  "Then why is she doing this?" Dion demanded irritably. "I think you better read this, son." Dixter held out a letter. "She left this for you, in my care."

  Dion took it, stared at it. It would contain reproaches, accusations. It would be bitter, vindictive. Very well. Then he could reply with justified anger. Anger felt good to him at the moment. Far better than guilt.

  He opened the letter. Rising to his feet (motioning Dixter to remain seated), Dion walked over to the window, held the letter to the sunlight to see it better. Actually, his desk lamp was perfectly adequate, provided excellent light, but he needed the excuse to keep his face to himself.

  The letter was written in ink, by hand—Astarte's hand, neat, small, precise, beautiful—much like herself.

  My husband,

  They have wronged us. Politics brought together two who were not meant to be together. We were both very young. We were given no choice. We were given no help. Like those in a fairy tale, when the story ended, they shut the book on our lives and assumed that we would live happily ever after. Yes, they have wronged us.

  I have wronged you. I knew, on our wedding night, that you loved another. That was all right. I loved someone else, too. Or at least I thought I did. The Goddess, in her divine wisdom, showed me I was wrong. I should have told you. I think it would have made a difference between us. But I was proud, too proud to admit I had a rival. I thought, woman-like, that I could win you over. Yes, I have wronged you.

  You have wronged me. You have broken the vows you took—to honor; respect. You did not respect me enough to make me your friend, if you could not make me your lover. You have not respected me enough to confide in me. You could have told me the truth, that you loved someone else. Yes, it would have hurt me, but how much more have you hurt me, hurt us berth, by your cold silence? Worst of all, you have made no effort to give up this love. You have defended it with every weapon you can lay your hand on, you use them to drive me away. What do you fear? That you might, accidentally, love me ... just a little? That you might be unfaithful to her? Yes, you have wronged me.

  I do not intend to create a scene or a scandal. I am leaving to give us both time to think calmly, now that the truth has been spoken. I do this now, because I know our marriage has reached a crisis point. I will tell the media that I am returning home to celebrate the Spring Blooming Festival, which is a holiday of great significance to my people, honoring, as it does, the redemptive power of the Goddess. Our people would be pleased if their king would come to participate in the festival.

  Will you, my husband? Will you take this opportunity to say anew vows that now lie dead beneath winter snows? Will you reach out to one who feels affection for you? She is prepared to forgive you your wrongs, if you can find it in your heart to forgive hers.

  The letter was signed, In honor and respect, your wife. And below, penned in a more agitated style, was the postscript, This will be between ourselves!

  Slowly, Dion folded the letter up. Slowly, he slipped it back into its envelope, slowly slid the envelope deep inside the breast pocket of his uniform coat. He waited a moment before turning around, not because he needed time to conceal his emotions—that was impossible; they ran far too deep. He waited because he was looking, for the first time, into that mirror image of himself.

  "Your Majesty .. ." Dixter said, concerned. "I'm all right," Dion replied. Drawing in a deep breath, he turned, walked back to his desk, resumed his seat. "Do you know what she wrote, sir? Did she show you the letter?"

  "No, son, of course not. But I have a pretty good idea. She told me everything. She seemed to need someone to talk to. She's very lonely, Dion."

  "I know. Damn it, I know! Everything she said was true. And more. A lot more. She had the grace to spare me the worst." He hesitated, then said, "I have been having an affair." "Olefsky's daughter," Dixter said quietly.

  Dion started up out of his chair, alarmed, amazed. "How could you know? Did she know, say anything—"

  Dixter flushed. "I'm sorry. 7 shouldn't have said anything. It was just a guess on my part, Dion. Nola told me all about your relationship, years ago, when she heard you were going to be married to someone else. She was worried about you, wanted me to keep an eye on you. Your secret's safe with me."

  "Safe with you. Safe with D'argent, safe with Cato, safe with his men, safe with Olefsky and his wife . . ."

  "Not one of these people would betray you, son."

  "No," said Dion, "but what must they think of me? I am their king. I'm supposed to be the example—"

  "You're also human, Dion," said Dixter with a gentle smile.

  "And how can one be both?" Dion walked away from his desk, returned to the window. "Strange, that this should come right on the heels of the other. An object lesson from God, Sagan would say."

  "Sagan." Hearing the name, Dixter leaned forward. "You heard from the archbishop?"

  "I heard from Sagan, spoke to him."

  "He is alive," Dixter murmured.

  "Very much," said Dion dryly. "More than he wants to be, I think. He had an interesting tale to tell. As if I don't have problems enough. Apparently I'm not the only reprobate in the family."

  Dion related the doctor's confession. John Dixter listened in attentive silence and if he was shocked or repulsed, he kept his feelings concealed. At the conclusion, he only shook his head.

  "It's hard to believe. And yet, it isn't. Many of the Blood Royal came to think that they were above the laws which governed ordinary men. Your uncle, the king, for one. Sagan, for another."

  "Me—for a third?" Dion said, glancing at Dixter. "And yet, if I were an ordinary man, I would not be in this situation. I would be married to Kamil. ..."

  "You made the choice. Your Majesty."

  "Yes. I made the choice. But now we have additional worries," he said briskly. He reported Sagan's speculations and deductions concerning Pantha, the child, Vallombrosa.

  Dixter frowned, shook his head again when Dion told him of the Warlord's advice to destroy the planet outright. The admiral nodded, appeared to agree with Dion's refusal to accept the starjewel, arm the space-rotation bomb. Yet nevertheless, at the end of the king's report, Dixter again rubbed his chin, sighed.

  "And now we can do nothing but wait."

  "And trust in Sagan," Dion said.

  John Dixter heard the ironic tone, shook his head. "That's the part I don't like. What did you think of him?"

  "Dangerous. Maybe more dangerous now than he ever was. Then he had a purpose, a mission, a divine calling. Now he has nothing, consequently nothing to lose. He thinks even God has abandoned him."

  "And yet you do trust him." It was a statement, calmly made.

  "Yes," said Dion, after a thoughtful pause. "I trust him. I can't tell you why. Maybe because ... what other choice do I have?"

  "Several." Dixter shrugged. "Not the least of which is the one he made you himself. Oh, maybe not explode the bomb on them, but we could send in warships, a show of force—"

  "Against an uninhabited planet? Send the fleet into a dead part of space? We'd look like fools."

  "Call it a training exercise, maneuvers—"

  "The media would jump on it like starving hounds. They'd be bound to uncover something—this Ghost Legion, if nothing else. We'll let Sagan confront my cousin, find out what he wants. Find out if he even exists. Then, when we know the facts, we can deal with the matter."

  "And then Sagan can make his choice," Dixter said softly.

  "What did you say?" Dion looked up. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid I was thinking about something else."

  "Nothing." Dixter waved a deprecating hand. "Just talking to myself. A bad habit. Comes with getting old. With Your Majesty's permission . . ."

  "Certainly, my lord." Dion stood up. The interview was at an end.

  Dixter rose to his feet. "I'll double the guard around the space-rotation bomb. And I'll post a few ships in the general vicinity of Vallombrosa. T
he worsening situation on Maluvura will give us a good excuse. It's near there."

  But John Dixter didn't leave. He stood gazing thoughtfully at the king. He was obviously wanting to add something, say something further.

  If I were an ordinary man, Dion said to himself, if I were Tusk, for example, Dixter would rest his hand on my shoulder; offer some bit of wise advice. He wouldn't expect me to take it, not really. He'd just be saying it to let me know he cares. That he understands.

  But he can't understand. He knows that; he is coming to realize it now. And so he won't say anything. What man dares offer sympathy to his king?

  What king dare accept it?

  "Good-bye, sir," said Dion. "Thank you for coming. As I said before, I am sorry you were involved."

  After Dixter had gone, Dion stood a moment in silent thought; then, sighing softly, he summoned his secretary.

  "Establish communication with the planet Ceres," he told D'argent. "I want to speak to . . . my wife."

  Chapter Three

  Giving honor unto the wife, as unto the weaker vessel.

  The Bible, 1 Peter 3:7

  Dion sat at his desk, studying—or trying to study—the latest proposals for a peaceful settlement on Muruva. He was wondering, in reality, what was taking D'argent so long to reach Astarte, had placed his hand on the commlink twice to find out and, twice, had withdrawn it. His secretary knew quite well what he was doing, how to manage it discreetly. Better than Dion, who—now that he thought about it—had very little idea where Astarte was, how she could be reached.

  Almost an hour passed.

  Something's wrong, Dion realized, giving up all pretense at working. He was on his way to find out what, when the door opened and D'argent entered.

  The secretary's cheeks were flushed, the quiet, calm demeanor disturbed.

  "Forgive the delay, sir. I am unable to reach Her Majesty."