Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  "You will not smoke," she said.

  Xris eyed her, considering.

  "Royal command?"

  "If you want to think of it that way."

  "Huh-uh. And speaking of royal commands, just what or who's going to be in the coffin coming back, Your Majesty?"

  He couldn't see her face. The veil concealed her features, hid them behind an intricate pattern of lacy black net. But he could see the coral lips part in a cool smile.

  "That depends on you," she said. "And now we should go. Time is critical."

  She turned, faced the door, stood waiting expectantly for him to open it for her.

  Xris opened it.

  She walked out, head high, without a backward look. She assumed he would follow.

  "Damn," Xris muttered, half-exasperated, half-admiring.

  He looked at the twist in his hand. Shrugging, he took the rest of the pack out of his pocket, tossed it on the floor, and followed. He'd been meaning to quit anyway.

  Chapter Seven

  King: Where is the crown? Who took it from my pillow?

  Warwick: When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.

  King: The Prince hath taken it hence. Go, seek him out. Is he so hasty that he doth suppose My sleep my death?

  William Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part Two, Act IV Scene v

  Twelve hours had passed since the voice had welcomed Sagan to the Valley of Ghosts. Twelve hours and no further communication. He spent the time retrieving more data on the planet, its double suns, and its artificial moons—the orbiting space stations.

  The lid was off the box; one mystery was solved—only to find a nest of boxes inside. Thousands of people, concealed from the knowledge of the rest of the galaxy. Easy enough to spirit away one bastard child. But an entire civilization? It was not difficult figuring out what had happened to the probes. The "ghosts" that had moved the breviary had undoubtedly "moved" the probes as well. But how do you keep thousands of people silent? How do you keep them from saying to the rest of the galaxy, "We're here!"?

  A strong leader could do it. A leader to whom all were unswervingly loyal, faithful. One of the Blood Royal. . . .

  At least Sagan was no longer alone in space. Activity in the area had picked up. Sleek fighter planes, of a new design based on his old Scimitar, flashed past every hour or so, keeping an eye on him. At one point he caught a glimpse of a fleet of warships and support craft. Visual observation showed him very little: the flash of sunlight off a ship's prow, occasional streaks of tracer fire, the winking of running lights. His monitors gave him a detailed description, however. The numbers were impressive, consisting of battle cruisers, tankers, carriers, supply ships. Impressive, but not that impressive. It was not a force large enough to conquer a galaxy. Nor did it appear well trained or well organized.

  A particularly ragged formation flew past. Sagan caught himself on his feet, his face grim, his hand on the commlink controls, about to give the pilots a brief lesson in flying. Recalling where he was—what he was—he stopped himself. Sitting back in his chair, he smiled over old memories.

  But the smile was twisted by pain, a sweet honey drink laced with bitter poison—temptation, longing, sudden ardent desire. Once more he was on the old Phoenix, standing before the viewscreen on the bridge, watching the exercises, filming in impotent rage, shaking his head at some piece of stupidity, holding his breath over near disaster averted at the last minute, finally taking his spaceplane out himself and showing by example what he wanted, feeling that inner satisfaction when some terrified recruit overcame fear and confusion and actually did what he was supposed to do—that was life. That had been his life. And it could be again; Sagan recognized a shining red apple when he saw one. He didn't need to see the grinning serpent coiled around it.

  He stared at the wheeling, flashing planes, the huge mothering ships that would receive their children home. In that life there was noise. In that life he would no longer hear the roaring silence.

  And in that instant, it all vanished.

  Ships, planes, stars, sun, planet. Everything went black around him. He darted a swift look at his instrument panel, but whatever was happening to him was sending the instruments berserk.

  It happened too fast for fear. His first and most immediate reaction was: "What the—" A shattering crash cut that brief thought short.

  The impact sent him sprawling across the console, knocked the breath from his body. The sharp edges of various knobs and switches jabbed into him, bruising and cutting him. The volksrocket jolted and jounced, then lurched to a stop that was as sudden as the initial impact, slammed Sagan into the steelglass viewscreen.

  The plane wobbled, then settled to rest. The Warlord lay where he was for a moment, dazed and shaken. Gradually he recovered his breath. His head began to throb in pain. He shoved himself up off the console. Putting his hand to his scalp, he felt blood, warm and sticky.

  He sank into a chair, to give himself time to recover and try to assess what had happened. A glance out the viewscreen showed him it was night and he was on land ... or a reasonable facsimile thereof. The lights on his plane shone on the leaves and thick boles of several huge trees—probably what he'd crashed into. Instrument readings, now back to normal, indicated that he was definitely on land. Judging by the strange gravitational fluctuations being recorded, he was on Vallombrosa. But how he'd arrived here in such a short time from outer space made for extremely interesting speculation.

  Thinking back on the entire startling few moments, he had the distinct impression that his plane had been snagged, flung through time and space like a rock from a slingshot.

  Well, demanded a voice in his mind, are you coming?

  Someone was waiting for him, waiting impatiently.

  Sagan stood up. The pain in his head subsided to a dull throbbing that he relegated to the inner core of his being, ignored. He washed the blood from his face, stripped off the battle fatigues, stowed them in the trash compactor. He dressed himself once again in the plain and shabby cassock of the humble Brother Paenitens.

  The outside atmosphere was breathable. He opened the hatch, found a splintered tree limb lying across it, blocking his way. Heaving the tree to one side, he kicked his way through a tangle of broken branches, walked down the stairs to the ground.

  Dark night. And cold. No wind, but the air temperature was chill. There would be thick, heavy frost by morning. The sky was cloudless, spanned by a rift of stars. His plane had landed (been dropped might be a more appropriate term) on the fringes of a forest of deciduous trees. Last year's rotting leaves matted the ground. And there were evergreens, too; he could smell the sharp, clean scent of pine.

  Looking around, he saw that the spaceplane rested on the gently sloping side of a steep hill, extending upward. The tree line ended not far beyond. A vast expanse of smooth, cropped grass was clearly visible in the darkness, a lighter grayish color against the tree-covered hills surrounding it. At the top burned a fire.

  The fire was the only indication of life, of habitation any-where around. The blaze was enormous. Flames leapt high into the air. He could hear the crackling roar from where he stood, several hundred meters away. A man stood before the fire, silhouetted black against it. Calmly waiting. Calmly watching. Yet with that hint of impatience that drifted through the air like the smoke.

  Sagan drew his cowl up over his head, clasped his hands over his wrists beneath the sleeves of his cassock. He began to climb the hill, moving toward the fire.

  Suddenly he had the strange impression that he was not walking alone. He was being followed. The hair on the right side of the back of his neck prickled; the skin on his right shoulder and back twitched, as if any second he expected a touch—a hand ... a blade. He listened, heard nothing. The soft, thick grass underfoot would muffle all but the most careless sounds. Sagan cursed the hood that blocked his peripheral vision, continued walking at an even, measured pace.

  The man standing in front of the fire had not moved.

/>   Sagan left the forest behind and with it any cover for his pursuer, who was still keeping close behind him—or so he sensed. The follower must be counting on his own silent movements not to betray him; that and the fact that Warlord's vision was partially obscured by the cowl.

  But why track him at all? Why not watch from the cover of the trees? If the man waiting at the fire felt the need to guard the Warlord, why the stealth?

  Sagan moved his hands silently from out of the sleeves, loosened the starjewel he wore on the leather thong around his neck.

  The starjewel fell to the ground.

  Muttering to himself, the Warlord halted, bent to retrieve it. He jerked his head, flung back the cowl, looked around to see behind him.

  Nothing. No one. Yet in the instant of his turning, he'd caught, out of the corner of his eye, a flash of silver armor.

  He picked up the starjewel, hung it back around his neck, working slowly, deliberately, giving himself time to think. Had he truly seen that flash? Or was it his imagination? He looked to the fire.

  The figure standing by the blaze stirred impatiently, peered into the darkness to see what was causing the delay.

  Sagan shook his head. With a wry half-smile, he replaced the cowl over his head, straightened, walked on, quickening his pace.

  He stepped into the circle of light.

  The figure remained standing where he was, aware that he was under inspection. A man of about twenty-eight years, with saturnine features, square-jawed, hawk-nosed, arched brows. His glistening blue-black hair was pulled tight from his face, gathered in a blunt-cut tail at the back of his head, in the fashion of Earth's ancient Oriental warriors.

  He was clad in a richly embroidered tunic, worn over a long, flowing sleeved blouse. The tunic's stiff, extended shoulders enhanced muscular shoulders of his own, a wide chest, and strong arms. His stance was straight, upright, open. His posture was regal, self-confident.

  Not much like his father, was Sagan's first thought.

  Of course, when the Warlord had met the king, Amodius was in middle age, sickly, bowed down by the burdens of an empire that were rapidly burying him. But if Sagan had previously had any doubts as to this younger man's heritage, they were resolved when he saw the eyes; the Starfire blue eyes, brilliant, sharp, and many-faceted. And at his side he wore the bloodsword.

  Derek Sagan halted within the outer edge of the circle of light. He said nothing, made no move.

  The man left the fire, strode rapidly down the gentle slope of the hill, came to stand in front of the Warlord. Reaching out his hands—his movements graceful, respectful—he took hold of the hood covering Sagan's head and laid it back, revealing his face.

  The Starfire eyes regarded Sagan intently, taking in every line, every shadow.

  "It is you," the man said at last. "I knew you would come. Welcome, my lord. Welcome."

  He extended his hands. Sagan's hands opened. The young man grasped them in a firm, strong grip.

  "Welcome, my lord," he said again.

  "What are you called?" Sagan asked, studying the younger man's face, attempting to trace some feature he knew, find a family resemblance.

  This young man and Dion were first cousins. Coming from an incestuous liaison between brother and sister, they were linked genetically closer than most first cousins. And there was a resemblance. But beyond the eyes, which could have been exchanged two for two, the resemblance was subtle—a way of tilting the head, an echo in the voice, the lift of the hand.

  "I am Flaim," said the younger man, with a glance at the blazing fire and a smile that included Sagan in the jest. "The name was my poor mother's choice. She was something of a romantic, Pantha tells me. I have a poem she wrote shortly after my birth, explaining the name. It is a long, rambling piece, filled with images of purifying fires, exploding suns consuming the universe, that sort of thing. Probably all sexual in nature; a psychiatrist would find it most enlightening.

  "Yes," he added, in response to Sagan's frowning, questioning look, "I am aware of the truth about my past. Pantha has never made a secret of it. Why should he? I have no need to be ashamed. In this age, are we to allow ourselves to be governed by out-of-date taboos handed down from our forefathers? We might as well be wearing their animal skins and living in their caves.

  "But come, my lord." Flaim gestured toward a large pavilion set on a rise beyond the crackling blaze. "Come inside, rest yourself. Take food and drink. We have much to talk about, you and I." He took hold of the Warlord's hand. "I have heard so much about you. It is good to meet you at last."

  Sagan made no response, and his silence did not seem to disappoint Flaim. He smiled again, a warm smile, brilliant as the eyes, and, keeping hold of the Warlord's hand, led him with charming grace to a large striped tent that had been erected on a level plot of ground near the fire. The tent flap was raised, attached to two spearlike poles thrust into the ground. A glowing brazier inside kept the pavilion warm. Colorful rugs covered the ground, tasseled bolsters provided arm rests when seated.

  As they entered, a man emerged from the shadows at the back of the pavilion. Flaim motioned to him.

  "Garth Pantha. Lord Derek Sagan. I don't believe you two ever met," said Flaim, his gaze shifting from one to the other, curious to note the reaction of each.

  "No, I never had the pleasure," said Pantha, extending his hand. His voice was the deep, rich baritone that so enthralled his millions of fans, and though he must be nearing ninety, he stood erect, walked firmly, had obviously kept himself in superb physical condition.

  Sagan saw the accumulation of years in the wise scrutiny ofthe dark eyes, in the white hair that was a marked contrast to the black skin, in the tightening of the flesh across the finely sculpted bones of the face.

  "I never had the pleasure of meeting you, my lord," Pantha repeated, "but I do feel that I know you. I have followed your exploits with interest. I remember hearing about you and your Golden Squadron. I said to myself, 'There goes a dangerous young man, one who knows what he wants and will take it.' "

  Pantha smiled, shrugged. "Too bad I did not share my concerns about you with Amodius. Not that he would have listened. And I must admit that the Revolution caught even me by surprise. I discounted Abdiel, you see. As did others. .. ."

  His keen gaze probed, sought to penetrate.

  Sagan met the gaze, blocked it, turned it.

  "Needless to say I am quite familiar with your exploits, sir." the Warlord returned. He added, with a significant glance at the world around him, "Though obviously not all of them."

  Pantha chuckled. "Well put. I trust you studied your instrument readings on your way here. I would be interested to know what you deduced—"

  "Enough, my friend," Flaim interrupted, placing his hand on the Warlord's shoulder. "The two of you can discuss scientific anomalies at a later time." He drew Sagan away from Pantha, who—with a glance of fond indulgence—bowed and faded back into the shadows.

  But Sagan saw the old man's eyes gleaming in the firelight.

  "Seat yourself, my lord. Forgive the informality of our surroundings." Flaim watched over the Warlord anxiously, eager to promote his comfort. "I intended that our first meeting should take place in absolute privacy—as much for your sake as my own. The alcazar where I reside is a large building. There are those on my staff who would know you by sight. You want people to believe you dead. I respect that, you see. Whether and when you reveal the truth shall be your decision."

  Sagan stretched out on the rugs, reclined against the armrest. He refused an offer of food, but accepted water. Flaim himself poured the water into a silver tankard, placed it within the Warlord's reach. Assured that he could do nothing more to add to Sagan's comfort Flaim sat down cross-legged, with the ease and elasticity of a youth. His face was sideways to the firelight. Sagan's face was turned toward the light. Pantha sat in the shadows, near his prince.

  "By the way," Flaim said, placing his hands on his knees, "did you see something move out in the nigh
t as you were coming our direction? I saw it, and I thought you did as well, for you stopped and turned. What was it? Do you have any idea? Was someone out there?"

  If so, Sagan thought, sipping at his water, you don't appear to be much worried. No guards in sight. And just what did you see? Or think you saw? Her? It's possible, I suppose. You are Blood Royal. ...

  "I heard something rustle in the brush," he said aloud. "I assumed it was some animal."

  Flaim appeared dubious, regarded Sagan in thoughtful silence, as if wondering how to say politely that he knew the Warlord was a liar.

  "It could have been one of them, my prince," said Pantha from out of the shadows.

  Flaim's brow cleared. "Yes, you are right. I hadn't considered that. Of course they would be curious. And now, my lord," he continued, leaning forward eagerly, "tell me, why have you come?"

  Sagan carefully replaced the tankard upon the multi-colored rug on which he reclined. Lifting his gaze, he looked into the Starfire blue eyes, spoke quietly, calmly.

  "I come in search of a king."

  Flaim seemed in an instant the embodiment of his name. The heat was palpable.

  "You have found him, my lord," he said softly.

  Sagan's heart constricted with a strange pain. He saw a resemblance at last, a striking resemblance, but not to Dion. The Warlord saw himself.

  He hadn't expected this, wasn't prepared to face it.

  "That remains to be seen," he said coolly, looking down at the water, seeing his reflection again in the smooth surface. "I have questions, many questions. And there is the rite of initiation."

  "Yes, my lord. So Pantha told me. I am ready."

  "He did not tell you too much?" Sagan's eyes narrowed. He looked at the old man.

  "Only what is permitted, my lord," Pantha said. "Flaim needs nothing more, as you will see."

  Yes, Sagan concluded, I can well believe that. Still, we will see. . . .