But the letter was typewritten, like a form letter. Her hopes rose, though she did her best to trample them back down. For security reasons, Dion always sent his letters to her this way, to make them look like any other everyday piece of mail. And then Kamil saw, at the end, a handwritten note. It was only a few words, but she immediately recognized the writing. Shivering, she clasped her hands together tightly to keep herself from snatching up the paper before the message was complete. And then, even when it was finished, she waited a moment to pick it up.
"He's writing to tell me it's over. That's kind of him. Good for me. Closure, as my psychology professor would say. I need this for closure. Then I can put this behind me and go forward." Kamil drew a deep breath, let it out, and read the letter.
Beloved.
This marriage was a travesty from the beginning. I tried to save it. As God is my witness (if He does indeed care about the follies of mortals, which I must admit I doubt), then I have made every attempt, short of abandoning my dignity as a human being, to reconcile with my wife.
I know now that she does not want reconciliation. She wants only power and she is using this means to try to wrest it from me. I have no doubt her mother is behind this, but my wife goes along with it. She may even be the instigator. I will not submit to their threats, their coercion. It will mean war, something I have always tried to prevent, but they have brought it on themselves.
I will divorce her. Then you and I can be married— what was always meant to be.
We must be patient, however.
The letter was unsigned. But, at the bottom, in a postscript added hastily, was this note in his handwriting.
I am sorry, my dear, but a queen cannot be a starpilot.
"Oh, Dion!" Kamil cried, and burst into tears. "Now, really, this is nonsense!" she said after a few moments. "First you cry when he leaves you, now you cry when he says he wants to marry you."
Drying her eyes, she blew her nose, then read through the precious letter again and again.
" 'Threats' 'coercion.' Poor Dion. It must have been terrible for him. He is truly angry. 'Her mother is behind this.' . . . Well, I don't doubt that, from what Father has told me about the baroness.
"And we're to be married!" Kamil sighed.
She closed her eyes, letting the joy well up within her, wash over her. Opening her eyes, she started to read through the letter again, when her gaze fell upon the postscript.
I am sorry, my dear, but a queen cannot be a starpilot.
"A queen." The word came as a sharp jab. Kamil's joy began to seep out, a trickle of fear seeped in. "Queen," she repeated. Her hands, holding the letter, had suddenly grown cold. "I can't be a queen! I won't be any good at it. Gracious, charming, graceful. Always expected to say the proper thing at the proper moment. Everyone watching me."
Kamil looked down at herself, sitting on the chair in her underwear, which she only wore when she came to the Academy. Such female underpinnings as bra and panties were considered superfluous on her own planet. She looked at herself in the mirror, tried to picture herself in one of the dresses she'd seen Astarte wearing—complete with hat and gloves—and Kamil shut her eyes again. The image was too ludicrous. She could imagine every one of her fourteen brothers, lined up laughing at her.
And behind them, the rest of the galaxy.
"Now you are being silly!" She caught hold of herself, gave herself a mental shake. "Dion loves me. I love him. And now we're going to be together, our love out in the open, for everyone to see. No longer hiding. No longer ashamed or afraid. That's what matters. Not what clothes I'll wear.
"I'll be a queen. I'll go to concerts and dedicate art galleries and visit hospitals and wave and smile and smile and smile . . . in a hat."
Kamil sighed. She rested one elbow on the desk, her head in her hand, and started to read through the letter one more time.
A knock at her door and the simultaneous opening of that door caused her to sit upright, give her wet eyes a quick swipe. She slid the letter underneath the answering machine.
"Glad you're here," said her next-door neighbor, wandering in and making herself at home on the bed. "My head's splitting. If I have to look at another equation I'll jump out my window. You want some lunch? I hear the food in the cafeteria's almost edible today."
"No, thanks," said Kamil, devoutly wishing her next-door neighbor on the next-door planet. "Rose garden time." Hopping up, she grabbed hold of the denim shirt and put it on, buttoned it hurriedly. "I'm behind on my hours. The calc test, you know."
"You can go gardening after you eat."
"I'm not hungry. I don't know where you heard that rumor about the food, but I walked past the cafeteria today. One smell was enough to kill my appetite forever. Besides, I want to finish the weeding before the afternoon sun gets too hot."
"All right. Go kill aphids. Whatever turns you on. By the way, you've got the shirt buttoned up wrong."
"Damn!" Kamil swore, unbuttoned it, started over again. Her eyes stung with tears, for no reason at all. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons.
"You okay?" her neighbor asked. "You look kind of green."
"Fine. Really, I'm fine." Kamil bent down to pull on her jeans. "Uh, you better get going. The molded gelatin salad'll be all gone."
"Only if the gods are merciful!"
The next-door neighbor wandered out. Kamil shut and locked the door. Turning around, she thought at first she would lie down on her bed and cry until she had all tears out of her system.
"No," she said suddenly. "I won't! I never used to cry. I wonder what's come over me? No, I will go sensibly and calmly to work in,the roses, get all dirty and sweaty and tired. And then I'll come back here and take a hot shower and go sensibly and calmly to bed."
Before she left, she started to sensibly destroy the letter. Dion had admonished her to destroy all the mail he sent her. But she discovered she couldn't. This was too precious. She had the strange feeling that if she destroyed it, she might end up destroying her hope. Folding the missive, she kissed it and placed it over her heart, in the pocket of her denim shirt.
The headmaster's rose garden was deserted this time of day—one reason Kamil chose to work in it. In the mornings, classes of art students roamed its picturesque paths, making drawings of the famous statues—Michaelangelo's Pieta and Rodin's The Burghers of Calais—or painting the first early spring flowers. In the late afternoons, the rose garden was a meeting and wandering place for couples of all ages. In the early evenings, before dinner, the headmaster sometimes invited chosen members of the student body to join him in the garden for sherry.
But hardly anyone ever visited the garden in the afternoon. During this hour, the headmaster took his nap—an institution that had become almost sacred to the Academy residents. No one dared disturb the headmaster's nap.
Vehicles approaching the house cut their engines and coasted down the long and winding drive. Students passing anywhere near nudged one another and lowered their voices. The nap even became a time-telling device. Such and such would be done or people would plan to meet at the "nap time."
The most remarkable thing about this was that the headmaster, the meekest and mildest of men, had no idea that his own private and personal nap had become a campus institution. His housekeeper—one Ms. Magwitch—ruled the house wherein the headmaster slept, and it was she and her umbrella—an instrument long and highly underrated as a lethal weapon—who first imposed the reign of silence.
One delivery person had been foolish enough to ring the doorbell, which noise supposedly roused the headmaster from his slumbers (such that he actually blinked, turned his head, and murmured, "What?"). The poor delivery man was met at the door by the infuriated Magwitch, complete with umbrella. The delivery person still shuddered when he spoke of it.
Kamil had arranged a truce with Ms. Magwitch, to the effect that Kamil would be allowed to work in the garden during nap time provided that she used no shears or rake or any other loud instruments of destructio
n. Kamil had agreed. Most gardening chores are best done by hand anyway.
The roses were not yet in bloom, but new growth was shooting up and so were the weeds. Dead stalks had to be trimmed, while certain bushes, which appeared about to succomb to last winter's frost, were given tender care and a word of encouragement.
Kamil paused in her labors, stood up to rest her back, which ached from bending over the flower beds. Though the roses were not blooming, other planets were. The garden was celebrating spring. The vivid reds and yellows of the tulips and daffodils, the deep purples of the lilacs, set against the bright greens of newborn leaves, was like an exuberant shout of joy after winter's long silence.
Kamil felt like shouting herself, and only the awful image of Magwitch and the umbrella kept her decorously silent. The garden was a blessed place to her, bringing back wonderful memories of the night she and Dion had first expressed their love for each other. Now it would be doubly blessed, for it was here that they would be married. She would be his, he would be hers, they would be one.
Kamil spread her arms wide.
"I will marry you, Dion," she pledged softly to the spring and the azure sky and flaming sun and the new life all around her. "I will marry you and love you and—"
Strong hands grabbed her arms in a firm grip, twisted them painfully, forced them behind her back. Strong hands tied a thick piece of cloth around her mouth, yanked it between her teeth, gagging her.
"Don't make a sound," whispered a harsh voice, unnecessarily.
Kamil was so exceptionally shocked by the sudden attack that she couldn't scream, couldn't even whimper. Her mind was bewildered. Her body limp, unresisting. All was over in those first few seconds, and by that time her arms were pinned, her captor had a tight hold on her.
A young woman appeared from around one of the bisecting garden paths, came to stand in front of Kamil. She recognized the woman—a fellow student.
Kamil went limp with relief. This must be some sort of prank. Then she stiffened with anger. If so, it wasn't funny! She didn't know the young woman very well; she'd only seen her around campus. She stood out among the other students, not only because of her height and unusually strong physical development for a human female, but because of her haughty pride and standoffish attitude. She kept to herself, viewed everyone else on campus with contempt.
She dressed in leather armor, which looked rather ridiculous for campus wear. Her head was shaved, except for the scalplock that was traditional among females of her planet, Ceres, the same planet that Dion's wife . . .
Astarte ... Ceres ... DiLuna ...
Baroness DiLuna and her women warriors . . .
Kamil understood. She had only to glance down at the long nails, digging into her arms to know that the person holding her captive was also a woman. And this was no joke. Kamil began to choke, tried to catch her breath. But the gag constricted her breathing.
"Loosen it, Phileda," ordered the woman holding Kamil. "We don't want her to die on us. Not yet."
Phileda—who had been eyeing Kamil warily—reached out and jerked the gag loose, enough to permit Kamil to breath.
"You are Maigrey Kamil Olefsky?" asked the woman holding her.
Kamil didn't respond.
Phileda answered, "She is, Portia. I recognize her. Maigrey Kamil Olefsky, we have received an order for your execution on the charge of adultery." The woman drew a long-bladed knife; sharp-edged steel flashed in the sunlight.
"First, however," said Portia, her voice grating in Kamil's ear, "we have been told that you received, this day, a message from the king. We have orders to intercept it. It is not in your room—we searched. Where is it?"
Kamil stared at the woman, unable to believe any of this was happening. She shook her head. "I don't know—"
"Search her," ordered Portia, holding on to Kamil more tightly.
Phileda reached a hand toward Kamil.
Stunned and confused, with only a muddled idea of what was happening to her, Kamil might well have died without making a sound. But the hand reaching for the letter acted like an electric shock, jolted her to action.
They must not have the letter! It doesn't matter what they do to me. Dion's crown, his honor, perhaps his very life are in my keeping. ...
Kamil Olefsky had been raised with fourteen brothers. Most of them were older than she was, larger, stronger, of a boisterous, fun-loving nature. She'd learned at an early age how to fight against overwhelming odds. Add to this the fact that she herself came from a warrior planet. She'd been trained in hand-to-hand combat since she was first able to pick up her mother's heavy war shield.
Using the woman holding her as a brace, Kamil lilted both feet and kicked out violently at the woman coming toward her. Her feet slammed into the solar plexus. Phileda groaned, bent double.
Kamil's feet hit the ground. She jerked her upper body forward, rolling her captor over her shoulder, throwing Portia into her compatriot, sending them both tumbling to the ground.
Kamil was off running. Fumbling in her pocket, she grabbed hold of the letter, held it clasped tightly in her hand, looking for a likely place to hide it.
The garden paths twisted and wound and turned around on each other. She came upon a diverging path. A few steps and she would be out of sight of the women, who had already regained their feet, were coming after her. This would be her only chance. She'd caught them off guard once. It wouldn't happen again.
A strange whirring sound came from behind her. Kamil hadn't time to wonder what it was. She started to race around the path. This direction would take her close to the garden wall. She could jump it and—
A leather thong whipped around her legs and ankles, tripping her, sent her crashing headlong to the ground. She squirmed to a sitting position, tried frantically to free herself. The thong, weighted by two ornately carved ivory balls, was far too tangled and tight.
The letter. No matter what happens to you. Hide the letter.
Kamil tried to shove it into the roots of a rosebush, ignoring the sharp thorns that tore long scratches in her flesh. And then the two women were on her.
One kicked her in the face, sent her reeling backward. The other stomped a booted foot down on Kamil's wrist.
Bone crunched. Pain shot through her arm. Kamil's fingers, clasping the letter, went limp.
"Finish her," Portia ordered, reaching for the letter.
Phileda loomed over Kamil. The knife flashed.
Involuntarily, Kamil turned her head away. She had time to whisper brokenly, "Dion, I—"
Two bursts of light, coming in rapid succession, exploded above her, blinding her. Heat washed over her body. She smelled burned flesh, heard soft thuds, a crash in one of the rosebushes.
She couldn't see, had no idea what has happening. Fearfully, she waited for the stab of the knife.
It didn't come.
Heavy footsteps crunched through the gravel, moving toward her.
Kamil blinked, trying to clear the red burst of the blazing light from her eyes. She started to push herself up to a sitting position, but pain flashed through her right arm. She collapsed.
Someone picked her up, using steel hands, apparently. She felt the cool touch of metal on her skin.
"Take it easy, sister," said a deep voice that had a faint mechanical sound to it. "Your arm's broken. Don't move it."
Kamil heard other sounds, other footsteps. But these were light, silken sounds, as of slippered feet walking with a delicate tread. The footsteps circled around her, paused.
"They're both dead," said a woman's voice, as cool as the steel fingers of the cyborg.
Kamil stared upward. Images were beginning to emerge from a fire-tinged blue haze.
"Of course they're dead," said the man. "You're not paying me to miss, Your Majesty."
Your Majesty . ..
Kamil leaned weakly back against the metal arm. Pain and shock left her without the ability to think. She couldn't understand what was happening, couldn't react to it.
The woman knelt down. She was heavily veiled, wearing a chador—the long, flowing, body-enveloping garment of the deserts. The woman removed the veil from her face, let it fall.
Queen Astarte. Queen of the galaxy. Dion's wife.
"I am sorry that they hurt you," said Astarte gravely. "They moved much faster than I had anticipated they would."
Her gaze shifted from Kamil to the letter, still clasped in the useless hand. Blood oozed from the scratches made by the rosebush. Kamil saw the eyes shift, but there was nothing she could do about it.
Astarte reached out with slender fingers, plucked the letter from Kamil's limp grip. Traces of blood stained the crumpled paper It was smudged with dirt from the attempt to bury it beneath the bash.
"We shouldn't hang around here long, Your Majesty," advised the cyborg. "We re lucky no one's spotted us before now. I'll put a field dressing on her arm. And I've got a drug here that'll perk up her a bit. At least so she can make it to the spaceplane."
"The drug won't harm her . . ."
"No, it's one of Raoul's concoctions."
"Very well." Astarte unfolded the letter.
"Don't . . . please . . ." Kamil made a feeble protest.
Astarte glanced at her, turned her attention to the letter. Kamil watched the purple eyes—beautiful eyes, she thought dreamily, through a haze of pain—track the writing, read every word, including the postscript.
It wasn't signed, but then, a wife would know her husband's handwriting.
A needle jabbed into the skin of Kamil's upper arm; a sensation of warmth flooded through the muscle, into her body. Pain began to ease away: the pain of her broken arm. The pain in her heart intensified. She was watching, with a dreadful kind of fascination, Astarte's face.
The queen was obviously skilled in keeping her emotions hidden beneath that suave and lovely mask. But for an instant, just an instant, the mask slid away, dropping like the veil. Hurt and betrayal, stark and terrible and cruel. It is one thing to suspect, another to hold the evidence in your hand.
Kamil's eyes filled with tears, not from the pain of her injury, which she could no longer feel, but from shame, guilt. The break in her arm would heal. This wound that she herself had inflicted on another mortal would never heal. No matter what happened, the pain would always be there.
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