"Yes, and ..."
D'argent's lips tightened. It was the first time Dion could recall having seen his secretary angry. "The Baroness DiLuna wishes to speak to you, sir."
"So much for keeping this between ourselves," Dion muttered, speaking before he thought. "Her Majesty ran home to her mother!"
"Not precisely, sir," D'argent replied, his expression softening somewhat. He had always liked the queen. "According to my contacts on Ceres, Her Majesty has returned to the Temple of the Goddess, which, although it is located in the central city-state of Ceres, is high in the mountains. It is isolated, at some distance from the palace. Her Majesty was raised in the temple, sir. She is High Priestess. It would be natural for her to go there, rather than to the palace of her mother. The two of them have never been particularly close. As you might guess. Her Majesty is not the type of daughter the baroness would be proud to have 'sired,' so to speak."
Dion knew the relationship between mother and daughter was tense. The baroness visited infrequently, and when she did, Astarte was quiet and reserved, seemed to retreat into herself. Dion—who had always been on friendly terms with the baroness, as long as he didn't have to be around her a great deal of the time—recalled that he had noticed his wife's unhappiness during one of her mother's visits, but had never bothered to discuss it with her, never cared enough to find out the reason.
"I assume you attempted to reach Her Majesty at the temple. If that's possible ... It's not closed to outside communication, is it?"
"Oh, no, sir. It is quite large, as large as a city itself, and they have an extremely sophisticated communications network. They are the central authority for a religion that has a vast number of followers, not only on their home planet, but throughout their system, as well as several systems nearby. Mostly due to the efforts of Her Majesty, the religion is spreading. Her Majesty is quite popular with the people, sir."
Is that meant as a subtle rebuke? Dion wondered, eyeing his secretary with a momentary flicker of displeasure. Well, what if it is? he asked himself. I have earned it.
"You can't get through to her there, I take it."
"No, sir. All channels to the temple and vicinity are closed. The excuse is some sort of solar disturbance, but I am convinced that they are being jammed."
"The baroness."
"Undoubtedly, sir. Her Majesty may have no idea that this is happening."
"How would DiLuna find out, then?" Dion asked, still suspicious.
"Her Majesty's guards, sir, are far more loyal to the baroness than they are to Her Majesty."
"I see." Dion pondered.
Something else he hadn't known. He had always assumed that his wife and the warrior women who dogged her every step were all part of the same sisterhood. Now he was being forced to take a different view of the matter.
She's lonely, Dixter had said. Dion had wondered at the time how that could be possible. He was beginning to understand.
"I'll talk to the baroness," he said, heading for the room ad-joining his office, his own personal and private communications center.
"It won't be pleasant, sir," predicted D'argent ominously, leaving to make the necessary arrangements.
No, thought Dion, but then I've asked for this, too. He was not extremely apprehensive, however. He had earned the warrior woman's respect by piloting a spaceplane during the Battle of the Void, as their flight from Corasia had come to be called. As commander he could have remained in relative safety on the bridge of Phoenix, but he had chosen to lead his troops into battle. DiLuna gloried in combat and figured that, because he had chosen to fight, he felt the same.
Dion had never disillusioned her, never told her—or anyone—that he'd been testing himself. The first time he'd flown combat against the Corasians, he'd panicked, been captured, taken prisoner. Maigrey and Sagan had been forced to risk their lives to rescue him. A hot rush of shame suffused his body whenever he recalled that incident. He was determined, the first chance he had, to prove himself to them.
But by then Maigrey was dead, had given her life to save his. Sagan had vanished. Dion had been left to prove himself to himself. He'd done it. He had overcome his fear, fought well—as both Sagan and Tusk had taught him.
If he hadn't, he would not have been king. He'd made up his mind to that. It was the least he owed them.
Ever since that time, DiLuna had thought quite highly of her son-in-law; more highly of him than of her daughter, apparently.
"Baroness DiLuna," he said, and added the formal greeting in her own language, when her image came on the vidscreen. "It is a pleasure to see you again."
She was an imposing woman. Oyer sixty years old, she had borne daughters who had themselves borne daughters, who were nearly of an age to bear daughters themselves. Her scalplock was pure white, no longer jet-black, but her black eyes were as fierce and proud as they had been in her youth. Tall, strong, well-muscled, she still trained her warriors—men as well as women—in hand-to-hand combat herself, offering a purse of golden eagles to anyone who could best her. Few had been known to win and those few were immediately promoted to either her own personal guard (the women) or her bed (the men).
"My liege lord." She acknowledged Dion with an abrupt jerk of her head that set her gunmetal earrings to jangling discordantly.
No bow, no formal greeting in return. The expression on her leathery, heavily lined, and battle-scarred face was unreadable. Dion could make nothing of it except for, perhaps, a faint hint of elation, triumph.
That boded ill, and he was on his guard.
"It is a pleasure, as always, to speak with you, Baroness," he said, using her formal title in her own language, of which the common Standard Military term of "baroness" was, in reality, only a crude translation, "but I am endeavoring to reach Her Majesty. She is, I believe, residing in the Temple of the Goddess. How long do you anticipate these solar interferences to last?"
"A long time," said DiLuna, black eyes glinting. "Perhaps indefinitely. Who can say? Our sun is unstable. Such manifestations often occur when the Goddess is displeased."
Dion stirred in silent anger. Ceres' sun was as placid as was possible for a burning mass of gases and molten rock to be. But he maintained his calm, refusing to let DiLuna provoke him to anger—one method she often used to defeat an unwary opponent.
"This is most inconvenient. Naturally, I am concerned about my queen's safety and well-being—"
"Since when?" DiLuna's lip curled.
Dion was hit. She'd drawn first blood, while he'd been standing flat-footed. So this was how Astarte kept her promise to keep this quarrel between themselves. Dion could do nothing, however, but pretend he had not been wounded, hope the bloodstain wouldn't show.
"Truly, this interference is most annoying," Dion said coolly. "I was unable to hear your last remarks, Baroness DiLuna. I have enjoyed speaking with you, but I am hoping to speak to Her Majesty. Perhaps she could come to the palace, since it appears that your communications channels are not affected—"
"That is not possible, my liege lord. My daughter prays to the Goddess for the salvation of her marriage and the destruction of her rival."
Her words entered Dion like sharp steel, drew life's blood this time. He could not breathe, for the pain and the fear that suddenly engulfed him. Destruction of her rival! His one thought, which he clung to as a stable point in the reeling room, was that he could not, he must not let this woman know she had mortally wounded him.
"I want to speak to Astarte," he said coldly, thickly. "My wife."
"That is not possible. You have no wife. You broke the sacred vows of marriage and by that act you insulted not only my daughter, but her people, her nation, her Goddess. We consider this an act of war. We therefore declare ourselves independent of your rule and authority and will establish our own monarchy."
"War!" Dion repeated, unable to believe what he was hearing. "You would send your people to war!"
"In a minute, my liege. But"—DiLuna smiled, in smug triu
mph—"I doubt if that will be necessary. The scandal alone would topple you, Dion Starfire. But it can all be smoothed over. I believe I could persuade my daughter to forgive and forget, if you will accede to our demands. First, you will make my daughter queen, not queen-consort. She will share equally in the rule of the galaxy and, upon your death, will succeed to the throne. Second, you will make the worship of the Goddess the official religion of the galaxy and require all your subjects to follow it. Third, you will pay us a large sum of money—the exact amount to be agreed upon later—as reparation for the harm you have done our world. There are certain other conditions, but we will discuss those when the main terms have been met."
Dion had relaxed somewhat. He was able to smile himself, the smile of the mirror. "These demands are impossible, Baroness. Make them public and the rest of the galaxy will think that you have gone insane. Your own people will not tolerate this. You will do them incalculable harm."
He was calmer now, able to think, react rationally. "Baroness, I will not deny that Her Majesty and I are having problems. What marriage doesn't? But they are our problems. It is up to us to work them out. I want to speak to—"
"These wretched flares. Your transmission is breaking apart," called DiLuna loudly. "I could hear nothing of what you just said, my liege lord. We will speak on this matter again."
"I want—" Dion began, but the image of the baroness dissolved. "Damn!" He struck the console with his hand. Turning, he walked away, came back. He depressed a button on the commlink. "Reopen that channel," he commanded D'argent. "Belay that," he said in the next breath.
Straightening, he ran his hand through his hair, glared in anger and frustration at the vidscreen. What a stupid, ugly, sordid little mess. And it was Astarte's fault! Why the devil had she run off? Why hadn't she confronted him directly?
Her letter had touched him, had made him see his error. He had been prepared to admit his guilt and make a very real at-tempt to start to build a relationship. But now . . . she had lied to him, she had promised to keep this secret, but she had obviously told her mother. Astarte might have known how DiLuna would have reacted....
Of course she knew! This was part of a plot. She was in league with her mother to gain more power for herself, untold wealth for her planet. Dion had never supposed his wife had wanted more power; she had always seemed content with her own duties, which were considerable.
"But then I never really knew her," he said to himself. Thirty minutes previous, he would have made that statement in a remorseful tone. Now he said it in anger.
He tried to decide what to do. He had no doubt DiLuna meant what she said. She would make the scandal public, she would ...
A spark fell on the withered hopes and dreams in his heart. The flame burst into life, rushed throughout his body, blood crackling with excitement.
Divorce. This was his chance, God-sent. He could divorce Astarte, marry Kamil.
He kept very still and let the fire spread, fanned the flames, warmed himself at the blaze, tried not to be blinded by the smoke.
"Say that I refuse my wife's demands. If she truly expects me to give in, she will have no recourse but to go public. The parliament will react in shock. Astarte has no claim to the throne; she's not Blood Royal. The people don't want a religion—any religion—imposed on them. And they certainly won't want to hand over large sums of money to an aggressive and warlike race.
"As for her accusations against me—Astarte has no proof." Dion tamped down the flames, deliberately poured cold water on the fire to permit himself to think clearly. "No," he determined at last. "She has no proof. She couldn't possibly. As Dixter said, no one who knows of the affair would betray me. I will simply deny the allegations.
"Astarte is popular with the people, but their favor will wane when she shows herself willing to risk our marriage in an attempt to grab more power."
Dion reached into his pocket, took out the letter. 'And to think I almost fell for this, madam."
He tore the letter in half tore it in half again, dropped it into the disposer canister, where it was reduced, in a fraction of a second, to ash.
Chapter Four
With the dead, there is no rivalry.
Lord Macaulay, "Lord Bacon"
"You have done what, Mother?" Astarte rose from her throne, faced DiLuna in shocked outrage. Footsteps emphasizing each word, the queen walked slowly and deliberately down the stone stairs of the dais, advancing on her mother. "How could you? How could you! You have ruined everything!"
DiLuna stood over six feet tall, hard and strong as steel, arm muscles firm and well delineated, chest muscles smooth and pronounced, thigh and leg muscles hard as any youth's. Her daughter was not quite five-foot-four, soft-skinned and soft-muscled, fragile. Yet it was DiLuna who fell back a pace before this white-faced, flaring-eyed fury, whom she barely recognized. Or perhaps she did recognize her. Perhaps, for the first time since the frail child had been born to her, DiLuna saw something of her own steel in her daughter.
"How dare you?" Astarte demanded again, taking advantage of her mother's momentary shocked dumbness. "You knew my wishes! How dare you countermand them?"
DiLuna recovered herself, smiled indulgently. "You silly little chick! I did it for your own good, of course." Her voice hardened. "If you have no pride, I do. Did you think I would let this man disgrace you? Disgrace me? Disgrace our family? Our people? No, by the Goddess! He will pay for his betrayal!"
"What betrayal?" Astarte asked. She was suddenly cool, wary. "What are you talking about, Mother?"
Turning away, clasping her hands, Astarte walked across the gray marble floor of the temple to stand by the wide-open doorway. She pretended to be absorbed in the view from the columned portico, pretended to gaze at the beautiful parorama of trees and flowers, sweeping downward into a lovely valley, then upward to majestic mountains. In reality, her eyes, hidden by the long lashes, were darting sideways, keeping anxious watch on her mother.
"I said nothing of any betrayal," Astarte continued. "We have grown apart, that is all. The pressures of his schedule and mine. This separation was meant to give us both time to think. Now, thanks to you, Mother," she added bitterly, "that is ruined. His Majesty is probably furious with me now. And I don't blame him!"
"Bah!" DiLuna snorted. "You know perfectly well he has been sleeping with another woman."
"I know no such thing," Astarte returned.
"Then you are a blind mole! Your women know."
So that's it, Astarte realized. That's how she found out. I should have known. Damn! Damn! Damn!
Her small fist curled, clenched tight against her stomach. She took care to keep her unhappiness and disquiet concealed.
I have to be strong, she reminded herself. I have to be strong or I will lose everything ... if I have not already lost him. . . .
"But don't worry, Daughter," DiLuna was continuing. "Your rival is one problem that can be easily managed."
Astarte stiffened; her stomach muscles clenched. A foul taste, as if she'd been chewing on the bitter leaves of rue, coated her tongue, dried it, made it difficult to speak. She moistened her lips, waited until she was certain her voice would sound natural.
"What are you talking about now, Mother?" she asked, with affected irritation.
"Ridding you of your rival, of course."
Astarte swallowed, drew in a breath. "I have no rival. This is all in your mind."
"You have, and I will give you her name. Maigrey Kamil Olefsky. She and the king have been meeting at the Academy. He was with her, in fact, the night you left him."
Astarte was thankful she was standing next to a column. Without its support, she might have fallen.
"You need take no part in this, Daughter," DiLuna advised her. "I will make all the arrangements. It is lawful."
"A law that has not been used in centuries, a law that dates back to a time of barbarism." Astarte said in a low voice.
"Yet it is written," said DiLuna, shrugging. "His Majesty hi
mself decreed that local custom shall take precedence over galactic law."
"Not when it comes to murder." Clasping her hands together hard to keep them from trembling, Astarte turned around.
Head held high, she faced her mother. "In any case, I am the one wronged. I am the one who has the right to claim the blood price."
"That is true," DiLuna was forced to concede.
She eyed her daughter dubiously; then, suddenly smiling, the baroness patted her daughter's smooth pale cheek in what she probably considered a caress. But DiLuna's touch was rough and callused; her long, sharp nails were cold as real nails made of iron. Astarte held herself rigid beneath the touch that had never in her life been loving, gentle.
"Little Dove," said DiLuna softly, "what do you know of such things? Let Mother arrange it, take care of it for you."
Astarte reflected. She could use her power as High Priestess to order her mother to keep out of her affairs, take no action whatsoever.
DiLuna would counter that this was a political matter, not a religious one, and she would be right. Their society had always been extremely careful to keep the two separate. Astarte might reply that the Goddess had everything to do with the marriage covenant, the bearing of children, the continuation of the race. But in her case, where the marriage had been made for strictly political reasons, the point was debatable. And DiLuna was not one who would be interested in debating.
"Give me until tomorrow at this time, Mother," Astarte begged, suddenly meek and contrite. "I want to pray for guidance. This . . . this is so unexpected." She allowed the tremor to show in her voice. "You can't ask me to make a decision on this now."
"Poor Little Dove." DiLuna's iron nails pressed into Astarte's flesh. "Pray to the Goddess. She will comfort you and reassure you. What I do is right. The Goddess will agree with me that this man who deceived you, who sows his seed in another and keeps your womb barren, must be humbled, chastised, brought low. Who knows but that he has not already fathered a child with this bitch? No, this threat must be averted."
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