"And now it is my turn to ask a question: What is it that you want, Flaim Starfire?" Sagan asked.
"What do you think, my lord?" Flaim's answer was illuminated by his blazing smile. "The throne, the crown. I want to be king."
"Gaining that will be difficult."
"Of course." Flaim shrugged, nonchalant. "My cousin Dion knows about me, doesn't he? You told him what you discovered at the hospital. You told him the doctor's story."
"I told him. He was already aware of you, though." Sagan glanced pointedly at the bloodsword.
Flaim caressed the hilt with his hand. "We've seen each other, but not communicated. Not as you and I have, my lord. I decided it would be best if information about me came from you. He would believe you. But that wasn't the only reason I arranged the hospital scenario. I wanted to pique your curiosity, my lord."
"Scenario." Sagan frowned. "Was her story a lie?"
"Oh, no, my lord." Flaim was suddenly serious, earnest. "The doctor told the truth. She was with my mother. Pantha knew her. He was the one who later found her. He can tell you."
Sagan glanced back into the shadows, to the old man's gleaming eyes.
"I made certain, my lord," Pantha said, "that I found out the name of every person on the staff. I kept files, complete dossiers on each. I knew, you see, that someday my prince might need these people to come forward as witnesses."
Sagan stirred, but said nothing.
"But, as I told you, I was not expecting the Revolution. It upset our plans considerably—"
"Our plans?" Sagan interrupted.
"Mine ... Amodius's. Oh"—Pantha waved a hand, barely visible in the shadows—"Amodius didn't instruct me in so many words, but I knew him. He was ambitious, more than most would credit him. Why would he give me the child, if he was not certain that I would raise him to be a king, and that someday I would bring the boy back to claim his rightful inheritance?"
"Not rightful," Sagan corrected mildly.
"And why not?" Pantha demanded, with a flare of anger. "Taboos of the dark ages!"
"Taboos with a reason."
"Bah!" Pantha waved that away. "Such societal laws made sense to our benighted ancestors, but that was before genetic engineering. Are we saddled with any of the rest of their archaic ideas? They used to believe that man could not travel faster than the speed of light. They used to believe that they were the only creatures with intelligence living in the galaxy. We no longer subscribe to those outdated notions. Why should we be forced to follow their outmoded codes of morality?"
"Pantha, my friend," interposed Flaim, suddenly cool and imperious, with a hint of steel, "please desist. Now is not the time."
The older man said nothing further, subsided back into the shadows. Flaim turned to the Warlord.
"You must forgive my dear friend's ardor. He is right, of course, and, as I said, I am not ashamed of my parentage. But I understand that the taboo against incest is a gut-level feeling for many humans, not something that can be argued away rationally. It comes with the same cave-man instincts that pump adrenaline into our blood, enabling us to run away from the lion.
"Pantha would have me reveal my birth openly, but I can see where it would cause problems. I have therefore concocted documents which prove my father's secret marriage to a woman of whom he was enamored in his youth. What was her name, my friend?" Flaim turned to Pantha. "I can never recall it."
"Magdelena of Artemis 6," answered the old man. "You know the story, naturally, my lord."
"Yes," said Sagan. "I know Amodius loved this woman, openly courted her. I also know that she died of the plague which swept over that planet."
"Of course she did," said Flaim. "But who's to remember that now? We play with the truth, keep the elements of the truth alive. She goes insane. Her family locks her away, gives out to the media that she's died of the plague. But Amodius, faithful to the love of his life, visits her monthly, fathers a child. ..."
"Why didn't he introduce the baby into court as the legitimate heir, then?"
Flaim shrugged. "Who knows? Many reasons. Perhaps Amodius wanted to make certain I was strong and healthy. Perhaps he hoped my mother might recover her sanity and could herself be introduced as queen. Does it matter? Because then comes the Revolution. Amodius and my uncle are murdered. Pantha, fearing for my life, keeps me hidden away. Much as the Lady Maigrey and her friends kept my cousin Dion hidden. You see, my lord, the seeds of the romantic tale are already planted in the people's minds. They will accept my story without hesitation."
"Ingenious," Sagan admitted. "And quite convenient of the doctor to die and make a deathbed confession at this point in time. How did you manage to find her?"
"Pantha discovered her." Flaim glanced at his mentor.
"The Revolution was a devastating blow to me," Pantha conceded. "When I heard the reports—"
"You had a base established for yourself here on Vallombrosa prior to your 'death,' I take it?" Sagan interrupted.
"Of course. The planet's 'inhabitants' performed the work for me, built a place for me to live. But you will hear more of them later. As I was saying, I was here on Vallombrosa when I heard the reports. I feared the worst—that the hospital, all the records, all witnesses had been destroyed. I hastened to the planet, traveling in disguise, of course, for I was supposed to be dead.
"Investigation led me to believe that this doctor had escaped the pogrom. I traced her—a long and tedious task. Eventually I learned the name of the man with whom she fled. Fortunately, since he was not Blood Royal and therefore in no danger, he saw no need to change his name. She simply altered hers to his.
"A study of passenger ship records enabled me to discover the name of the planet on which they disembarked. I found them and kept them in sight, hoping that the day would come when the doctor would be of use. And it did."
Sagan shook his head. "The doctor could testify that Amodius had fathered a son. But she also knew that Flaim was not only illegitimate—which would in itself prevent him from ascending to the throne—but that Flaim was the product of an incestuous union. I don't see how this helps you."
"I must admit that at first I wasn't certain myself. I had various ideas. Perhaps we could 'persuade' the doctor to go along with our story. A risky procedure, but . . . who knows?" Pantha shrugged. "Everyone has a price. Fortunately, we did not have to resort to that. Three circumstances made our next move ob-vions: the fall of the corrupt government of Peter Robes; Flaim's young cousin coming to power; and you, my lord, disassociating yourself from him."
"I felt your disappointment, my lord," said Flaim earnestly. "I understood. Dion was not what you hoped he would be. But then, he didn't even know his own name until four years ago. I have always known who I am. I was raised to be a king."
He looked to Pantha and smiled. The younger man reached out and clasped the old man's hand. Pantha nodded; the firelight in the dark eyes shimmered a moment. Then, clearing his throat, Pantha continued speaking, in a low and husky voice.
"You see, my lord, at that point, it was no longer a question of having to prove my prince's claim to the universe. We had only to prove it to you."
Sagan was silent, thoughtful. He shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. There is an art to reclining on rugs and cushions, just as there is an art to kneeling all night in prayer on a cold stone floor.
"You find the doctor. The doctor has contracted a deadly disease." Sagan pursued the subject with interest. "What did you do then?"
"I discovered that she was a convert to the religion of the Order of Adamant. From there on, my course of action was plain. It was fortunate for us that she became infected with this particular disease. The progression of the illness is slow. It does not debilitate the mind, but leaves it—in its weakened condition—open to outside influences. It was a simple matter to induce the 'dreams,' drive her to make her confession."
"Fortunate?" Sagan asked.
Pantha smiled, shrugged. "Many of her patients were infected.
The odds were against her, and she knew it. She was not surprised to find she had accidentally contracted it. Nor did she ever suspect otherwise"
Sagan nodded. "The doctor's death was necessary," he conceded. "But now two other people beside myself know the truth. The reverend mother, who heard the confession, and the archbishop."
"The reverend mother has suffered a most unfortunate accident," Pantha said gently.
Sagan frowned, said pointedly, "The archbishop is a friend of mine. I trust he will not have an 'accident.' "
"Oh, no! Most assuredly," Flaim answered, looking surprised.
"We would never— That is, we know you will be able to deal with the situation."
Yes, I can deal with it, Sagan thought. I dealt with it in the past.
"Why did you bring me here?" he asked slowly. Holding up his hand, he halted the immediate response. "First, know this. If you're expecting me to use my influence to convince Dion to abdicate the throne, forget it. He will never do so. He is strong, stronger than you think, perhaps. His loyalty to his people is great. He will not be easily coerced or intimated. And so long as he has the space-rotation bomb in his possession, you are powerless to touch him."
"I understand, my lord," said Flaim. "Do not imagine that I underestimate my young-cousin. The same blood burns in our veins. But Dion's very strength is also his weakness. He has the space-rotation bomb, that is true. But he will not use it. Am I right in this, my lord?"
Sagan made no response.
Flaim, smiling to indicate that the secret was safely held between the two of them, went on.
"What do I want from you, my lord? Your support, of course. Your expertise, your knowledge. Your leadership. I will make you Lord Commander of my forces. My armies are immense, powerful. My people are fiercely loyal and committed to one thing—making me king. And then there is our secret weapon. You had a brief—but I would guess impressive—demonstration of it upon your arrival."
"You plan to go to war, then."
"No, my lord. I do not want to." Flaim shook his head emphatically. "Cousin Dion once made an extremely interesting point. It is not wise to declare war upon one's own people, he said. You start out with half your subjects hating you. I would avoid that, as he did."
Sagan was beginning to understand.
"My cousin must publicly abdicate," Flaim continued. "He must publicly acknowledge my right to rule. That will make it all so much simpler; don't you agree?"
"Yes, but as I said before, Dion will never do so."
"As circumstances stand now, no, he wouldn't. But circumstances have been known to change."
And he will tell me no more, Sagan said to himself. Not until I commit to him, and perhaps not even then. He will tell me only what I need to know. As I would do....
"You understand, of course, that I can make no decision until I give you the rite," Sagan said. "If you are not worthy—"
"I will be, my lord," Flaim said, rising to his feet. "You will see. I will prove myself."
"Very well, then." Sagan stood, somewhat slowly and stiffly. "Tomorrow, at the suns' zenith. We must use this tent, I presume?"
"Yes, my lord. Whatever you need. You have only to instruct Pantha and me—"
"You will come alone." Sagan glanced at Pantha, who bowed in silent acknowledgment.
"Certainly, my lord. And now, allow me to show you to your quarters." With grace and dignity, Flaim led the way outside the pavilion, pointed out several smaller tents placed around it.
"Thank you," said Sagan, grimacing and putting his hand to the small of his back, "but I would prefer sleeping in my own bed. And I must spend time alone, in private meditation."
"As you wish, my lord." Flaim smiled ingratiatingly. "I will escort you back. Who knows what strange beings may lurk about here at night?"
"Ghosts, perhaps," the Warlord suggested.
"Perhaps," responded Flaim with a quick, intense look.
Sagan's face remained impassive.
Flaim turned to Pantha. "I will see to it that our guest is made comfortable and has all he requires. Good night, my friend."
Taking the hint, Pantha bowed, wished Sagan a healthful sleep, and took his leave, heading for the tent closest to the fire. The blaze was beginning to die down, the massive logs starting to crumble in upon themselves. Gray ashes drifted upward, floated on the night wind. It must have been one of these that brushed softly against the Warlord's hand as he walked past the dying blaze.
He and Flaim continued down the hill. When they had reached the spaceplane safely, the prince expressed his wishes for a pleasant evening's repose.
The Warlord returned the compliment. He was about to enter the volksrocket when Flaim stopped him.
"Do not be surprised to find that you are unable to send any more transmissions, my lord. From this point on, I have taken the liberty of having them blocked. I want my cousin to know my strength. I want him to worry. But now he's learned enough from you. Let him wonder. A sensible precaution, I think."
"Yes," Sagan agreed. "One that I would have taken myself."
Flaim expression turned thoughtful. "Did you ever reach the point where you could afford to trust people, my lord?"
Yes, Sagan answered silently, but by that time, it was too late.
"No, Your Highness," he said aloud. "That is the price one pays."
Flaim nodded, the matter—for him—resolved. Smiling his good night, he walked up the hill. Sagan watched him go, his strides long and confident, his head thrown back, his hand resting upon the hilt of the bloodsword at his waist.
Sagan waited until the bastard prince had vanished into the' shadows. Then the Warlord entered the volksrocket, shut and sealed the hatch. All was quiet within. So very, very quiet.
But he sensed a difference about the silence now. It quivered, like a plucked string on the piano, whose note has faded away past hearing, yet which continues to resonate, sings softly for those who listen.
"Well, my lady," he said aloud, "what do you think of our 'cousin'?"
He received no reply, unless it was the sudden stillness, as if a gloved hand had muffled the singing string.
Chapter Eight
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst.
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.
William Walsh, "Song, Of All the Torments"
Kamil stopped by her dormitory room, ostensibly to drop off her books and change her clothes after morning classes. But her main reason for returning, though she tried hard to pretend to herself it wasn't, was to check to see if some message had come from Dion. She had not heard from him since the night he'd told her Astarte had left him, when he had to return at once, do what he could to contain the damage.
"I cannot permit the scandal," he had said to Kamil, holding her in his arms as if he would shield her from the blow he himself was forced to strike. "It could bring down the throne.
"Why can't they stay out of my personal life?" he'd demanded impatiently. "People who wouldn't give a damn if I ordered the destruction' of a million of their fellow citizens would rise up and howl for my blood on hearing that my wife has left me!"
Kamil had been confused, frightened—for him, he looked so dreadfully pale. Thinking back on it, she couldn't remember what she'd said, or if she'd said anything coherent. And the next moment, he'd kissed her, fiercely, despairingly, murmured something about this being their final good-bye.
Then, "I can't bear it!" he'd whispered, his cheek pressed against hers. "I can't bear to let you go!"
But he had let her go, and she had let him go.
Days had passed, and she hadn't heard a word. She'd monitored the news broadcasts, watched the gossip mags anxiously, but discovered nothing. And at length she had begun to breathe easier, though her heart was heavy enough to cut off her breathing altogether. For if no scandal broke, then Dion had managed to salvage his marriage. Her good-bye to him had been a final one, after all.
>
Kamil told herself she didn't want to hear from him, that it was better to end it clean, swift, like a laser beam through the heart. But she couldn't stop herself from hastening back to her room, looking first thing at her answering machine. She couldn't stop herself from feeling the aching pain, disappointment, when there was no message there.
This day, she had given herself a stern lecture.
"It's over. You're only hurting yourself by carrying on like this. You haven't eaten in three days. You damn near failed that last calc test. A fine spacepilot you'll make!" she scolded herself derisively. "You're being weak and silly, longing for something you can never have, letting it ruin your life.
"I won't. Today I won't look at that stupid machine. I'll sensibly put down my books and sensibly change my clothes and sensibly eat lunch and then, sensibly, I'll go work in the rose garden. And tonight, when I go to the library, I'll sensibly study. I won't hide in the stacks and cry."
Entering the small room, firm with resolve, strong with purpose, she tossed her books on her bed and started to change her clothes, looking everywhere except at the answering machine. Unfortunately, the denim jeans and work shirt she wore when working in the garden were hanging over the back of a chair that happened to be standing beside her desk, on which rested the machine.
Kamil was about to shut her eyes and try to snag her clothes without looking at the device when she told herself that this was stupid, irrational behavior for an adult. She walked over to the chair calmly, calmly and sensibly picked up the shirt and jeans, and promptly dropped them on the floor.
The light was flashing over "mail."
Kamil's heart jumped, actually ceased to beat for an instant, leaving her suddenly dizzy and light-headed.
"My mother," she said in a trembling voice. "Of course, that's all it is—a letter from mother. I'll be glad to hear from . . . mother."
Firmly she depressed the button, waited with impatience for the machine to process the electronic impulses, translate them into hard copy. The paper began to slide out. Kamil glanced at it. She had actually managed to convince herself that she would see her mother's gigantic, bold scrawl.
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