Kamil was silent, faced with irrefutable logic. Her hands twisted together. Then her expression hardened. "We just stay in hiding, then. Don't bother about fighting Flaim. Or else wait a few years. Wait until you are stronger and he is weaker. Wait until he makes a mistake. Wait until Sagan turns on him and they're at each other's throats. It's bound to happen," she pointed out with grim and bitter certainty. "Sagan betrayed you. It's only a matter of time before he betrays Flaim."
Dion shook his head, his face again thoughtful, dark, and troubled. He glanced—oddly enough—at Tusk. The mercenary hadn't moved. But he was watching them from beneath half-closed eyelids.
"What will I do during that time I'm 'hiding'?" Dion asked.
"Why, you'll... Well, I guess you could ... We ... we'd .. Kamil looked foolish, then irritated. "What does it matter what you'd do? We'd just go on living, waiting ..."
"Try to see the road ahead," Dion told her. "Go on. Look into the future. What will I do? Wait on tables? Sell computer chips door-to-door? Where will I go that I won't be recognized? You are asking me to exile myself, live in constant fear, live again without a name."
He shook his head. "You forget, Kamil, I was raised like that. I lived seventeen years of my life in hiding. I won't go back. And I won't raise a child of mine like that."
She was frustrated, unwilling to give up. "It would only be for a little while—"
"Kamil." He spoke to her gently, reaching out and taking hold of her arms. "You can't see down that road because that road doesn't exist for me. I am king. When the archbishop placed the crown on my head, the scepter in my hand, I accepted a responsibility. I took it upon myself to be the people's protector. I can't flee and leave them to their fate. What would I say to them? That I ran away when there was danger, came back when it was safe?"
Kamil tried to say something, but he held her tightly, silenced her with his earnestness.
"There would be no return for me, Kamil. If I throw away the crown in fear, how could I ever reclaim it?"
"At least you'd be alive," she told him, not looking up at him.
"Would I?" he asked tiredly. He dropped his hands from her shoulders. The weariness was evident on his pallid face. "Would it matter?"
"Yes, it would matter!" Kamil returned. "What nonsense—to say you might as well die as not be king. You lived seventeen years without knowing you were a king and you were happy. You told me you were. You had your books and your music and . . . and someone who loved you."
She faltered a moment at that, then, taking a breath, returned to the fray, stronger for her momentary weakness. "Platus never wanted you to be king. You told me that, too. He wanted you to be an ordinary man, doing what you could for people in ordinary ways. That's what truly counts in this life. If every ordinary person lived his life respecting others, their rights and their feelings, then we wouldn't need kings.
"You were happy being ordinary until Derek Sagan came along. He murdered Platus, but he did something worse to you that night. He murdered the good, the quiet, the ordinary part of you!"
She choked back a sob. Dion put his arms around her again, drew her close. She rested her head on his breast. But he stared out over her head, his thoughts far away. His lips moved. Sagan, attuned to the thought heard the silent words he himself had said to Dion years ago.
I came to rescue you...
But Kamil was also attuned to the thought though it was love's ear that was quick to hear it not the telepathic ear produced by genetic design.
She pushed herself away from him, looked up into his face. That's it isn't it?" she said softly. "That's why you're ready to throw your life away. What Sagan said."
"What do you mean?" Dion said, startled and troubled.
"About you fading the test. You believe him. You don't think you're good enough. You've let Sagan convince you that you don't deserve to be king. You think, like him, that your cousin's better than you are and so you're just going to crawl away and die!" Kamil was angry now, her anger driven by her fear.
Dion had grown pale and silent during her attack, but her words seemed to give him pause, made him think. "Perhaps you're right. Believe what Sagan says," he repeated, musing. "He never lied to me, no matter what else he did. ..."
His gaze went to Tusk, who had either fallen asleep or passed out again. Dion withdrew into himself, took himself far away from spying ears, loving or otherwise. Sagan couldn't read the young man's thoughts, but he could guess them, and the Warlord frowned in the darkness.
"Oh, Dion, you can't think that!" Kamil cried, alarmed. "Flaim will be a dreadful ruler, cruel and vicious. Like he was today. Astarte told me so. I didn't want to believe her, but I see now what she meant."
Dion, looking back to her, smiled in spite of himself. "A fine counselor you are," he said, gently teasing. "One minute I shouldn't be king and the next minute I should. Which is it to be? You can't have it both ways, my dear."
"I know. I'm sorry. I don't understand any of this horrible mess. I shouldn't have tried to lecture you. I've probably done more harm than good."
Kamil sighed forlornly. Then, putting her arms around him, holding him, she said quietly, "I understand only that I love you and I'm afraid for you. We have a chance to escape. Take it. Once we're away from here, then everything will work itself out. I know it will."
Dion hesitated, tempted.
Sagan watched in silence. Knowing that he could intervene anytime he chose to prevent such a rash and hasty act, he was curious to hear the king's response.
"No, Kamil," said Dion. His hesitation had lasted only a moment. He wasn't uncertain of his decision; he was reluctant to destroy the hope shining in her loving eyes. "I have to stay and see this through I have to catch that damn silver ball," he added with a bitter smile. "If I am meant to die, then it will be with dignity, as a king. I won't die shot in the back, caught running away."
Sagan's eye caught movement in a distant doorway, saw two shadows cross a window. Tusk, who had not been sleeping, saw them, too. Rising to his feet, rubbing his aching jaw, he slouched over to Dion.
"C'mon, kid," he said in a low voice. "Someone's lookm for you." His gaze flicked to his left, over his shoulder.
Dion turned to Kamil. "Will you—"
"No, go on," she said, and her tone was cool. She didn't understand, was afraid and feeling helpless, and because she was afraid and helpless, she was angry. "I'll stay here awhile. I like it outdoors ... in the sunshine."
She turned her back on him. Dion looked at her, obviously wanting to say something to do or make everything right. Realizing this was impossible, he walked away with Tusk. The two crossed the courtyard, stepped over the circle, and disappeared into the alcazar.
Kamil held herself stiff and rigid until she could no longer hear the echoes of their footsteps. Then, thinking herself alone, she sagged down on the bench, lay on it like a heartsick child, and began to cry—hurting, despairing sobs that wrenched her body.
Sagan waited, still, silent in the darkness. He was not disappointed. A flash of silver appeared very near the weeping girl, a silver armored guardian, standing vigil over her grief.
He watched a moment longer, then left his post, taking care that his footsteps were quiet and muffled, not to disturb either of them.
Chapter Twelve
The game's afoot ...
William Shakespeare, King Henry V, Act III, Scene i
Sagan arrived early for his meeting with the prince. Flaim, in excellent humor, welcomed the Warlord cordially and even Garth Pantha seemed to unbend and greet Sagan with cordiality.
They met in the communications room of the alcazar, the one place in the fortress where they could be sure of talking without interruption, for no one—not even the guards—were permitted to enter this room, on pain of death. It was the first time Sagan himself had been accorded such an honor. He knew, of course, that he had been tested and gathered that he had passed.
He looked around with curiosity; that would be only natu
ral. But he had to keep from appearing too curious, which would have aroused suspicion. It was from this room Garth Pantha communicated with the dark-matter creatures. The Warlord's gaze darted swiftly from one complex machine to another, from vidscreen to commlink, from old outdated equipment to new. He recognized everything, saw nothing strange, no familiar equipment being put to unfamiliar use.
Pantha was watching him, and Sagan had the distinct impression the sharp old man knew what the Warlord was searching for. Pantha placed the tips of his fingers together, gazed at Sagan over them with an amused smile, like a parent watching a child search the house for a hidden birthday gift.
Go ahead, he seemed to challenge silently. Look all you want. You'll never find it.
Sagan, in answer, fixed his gaze on Flaim and kept it there.
". . . truly remarkable," the prince was saying. "Did you see my cousin's face when you dragged Kamil up to me? I was almost afraid for a moment you had gone too far, my lord. It occurred to me that, caught up in the chivalrous mood of the moment, our cousin might take it into his head to thwart my wicked design on the woman he loves by killing himself. Which would have put an undoubted crimp in my plans."
"There was little fear of that, Your Highness," said Sagan. "Dion is not a fool."
"No, I don't suppose you would have lavished what time and care on him as you did if he were. And I must admit, it all worked marvelously. Taken up in the heat and excitement of the contest, he reacted as you predicted. He lowered the guard on his mental processes to concentrate on the physical. I was able to slip through quickly and easily, penetrate his mind and discover the location of the bomb. The dark-matter creatures have been dispatched and should be back ..." He glanced at Pantha.
"Any moment now, Your Highness."
"They will bring it here," said Flaim, gesturing to a marble stand that stood in the center of the room. "I am eager, most eager, to see it. So is Pantha. He has made quite a study of it, did he tell you, my lord?"
Sagan was not surprised. "Indeed, sir? You obtained information on it from the Corasians, I presume."
Pantha nodded acknowledgment. "The information Abdiel was able to glean from you, my lord."
Sagan did not like the reminder. Pantha was quick to notice. The elderly man grew grave. "An evil man, Abdiel. I sleep sounder nights knowing he is destroyed."
"Yet you're not above using the information he gained, no matter how he gained it."
"As a scientist yourself, my lord, surely you would agree that valuable information should not be wasted simply because it was obtained in a manner we might not approve. After all, we owe our very existence as Blood Royal, as genetically superior beings, to experiments done by the Nazis in their concentration camps."
"Which might suggest something to somebody," Sagan remarked.
Pantha frowned, wondering if he was being insulted. Then— eyeing Sagan closely—the old man apparently decided that the Warlord was making a joke and let it pass.
"Considering the way in which the information was obtained." Sagan went on coolly, "didn't you fear that some of it might not be accurate? That I might have deliberately lied to him?"
That was to be expected. But with my technical expertise-almost as great as your own, my lord, or so I flatter myself—I was able to determine what was workable and what was not. Something the Corasians were never able to figure out, which was why they have not been able to produce a space-rotation bomb of their own. I discovered, for example, the cyborg's 'arming' device. I must say I had a good laugh out of that. And you should see the monstrosity the techno-moronic Corasians created because of it. I lacked only one thing—"
"A working model."
"Yes. And now that is being supplied. I believe, mind you"— Pantha raised a bony index finger—"that I could have developed a working bomb myself. I am very close. But this will make it all so much easier."
Sagan regarded the man intently, wondered if he was telling the truth; if so, how much? Pantha was adept at keeping his thoughts hidden; he had not used the bloodsword in years. Might have been afraid to do so, after his disappearance. There was no way even Derek Sagan could penetrate that old and cagey mind. But he guessed that Pantha did have some knowledge of the bomb, though probably not as much as he boasted, else why the desperate need to get his hands on the real thing?
Which might make matters awkward. Still . . .
Sagan trampled his thoughts down swiftly, shoved them back inside his mental strongbox. He could still feel Flaim's quick, jabbing probes, like uncomfortable surges of electric current passing almost continually through him.
An interruption came in the conversation. Sagan experienced the unpleasant compressed sensation he had learned by now to associate with the dark-matter creatures. At the very same instant, the space-rotation bomb appeared out of nowhere, resting securely on the top of the marble stand.
He had not seen it since that fateful night Lady Maigrey had convinced him—and others—she was planning to detonate it. A trick, as it turned out. But a trick that had won Dion the prize.
Sagan, coming forward to look at the bomb, lifted his hand involuntarily to the starjewel he wore around his neck. And, as he did so, he saw Garth Pantha do the same; the old man's hand going to his neck.
There gleamed the Star of the Guardian. A rare jewel, the secret of whose creation died with the priests of the old Order of Adamant ... and the triggering device on the space-rotation bomb.
Garth Pantha was in possession of a starjewel. Probably, aside from Sagan's own, the last one in existence. How? Pantha had not been a Guardian, and only the Guardians received the coveted, mystical starjewel. Amodius, of course. He must have given his favorite this valuable token of esteem and friendship. Or perhaps as payment for removing the unwanted fruit of the king's sins.
Awkward indeed.
Flaim was gloating over the bomb like a doting mother over a new baby—hovering near it, afraid to touch it. Pantha regarded the prince with amusement.
"You may pick it up, Your Highness. It is quite harmless, when not armed."
Flaim lifted the bomb gingerly. It did not look like what it was—the ultimate destructive force in the universe. A solid crystal cube, about ten centimeters in height and width, it might have been mistaken for a lady's jewel box—of a rather bizarre design. Embedded in the crystal was a pyramid made of pure gold. A small flat computer keyboard containing twenty-six small keys was affixed to the top of the crystal. The point of the pyramid connected to the underside of the keyboard.
"Even when armed," said Sagan, "the correct code would have to be entered in order to detonate it."
" 'The center cannot hold,' " quoted Garth Pantha.
Sagan cast him a swift glance.
"One of Abdiel's earliest acquisitions," Pantha explained, almost apologetically. "Obtained first from the Lady Maigrey, confirmed through yourself. I was not familiar with the quotation, not being a student of ancient literature. However, I discovered it in my files. One of Yeats's poems, I believe. A most apt quote, considering the way in which the bomb works.
"The quarks of the atom pulled apart, the color bond which holds them together stretched to its limit, the space between them rotated in such a way that, upon release, the quarks rushing back together collide, totally annihilating matter. In theory, it could tear a hole in the fabric of the universe. Quite ingenious."
Sagan acknowledged the compliment with an oblique nod, all the while wondering how the fact that Pantha knew the key to exploding the bomb would affect his plans, not daring to give the matter thought. The Warlord turned to the prince.
"You have the bomb now and the knowledge and the capability of detonating it. In what capacity can I serve Your Highness?"
"Let us be seated," suggested Flaim, "and discuss this comfortably." He replaced the bomb back on its marble stand, gave it one more covetous glance, then sat down at a table. He indicated chairs. Sagan took one located directly opposite the electronically controlled and guarded door
that was the room's only entrance, only egress.
"You, my lord, will take command of the fleet," Flaim told him. "I want to move ships into position in key areas of the galaxy—Minas Tares, the Houses of Parliament, DiLuna's system. I have taken your advice and disguised my ships to resemble those of the Royal Navy. But I want to take no chances. I want to keep out of detection range of any naval vessels. Can this be done?"
"Certainly, Your Highness."
"When the king's death is announced, my ships will then be ready to move into position. I don't anticipate any trouble, except perhaps from DiLuna . ..?" Flaim looked at Sagan questioningly.
"Astarte can handle her mother," Sagan responded. "The queen is shrewd and ambitious. She wants her child to be king. I do not foresee DiLuna or her allies giving you any difficulty."
"Excellent." Flaim leaned back comfortably in his chair.
"However, such a plan will require your entire fleet, Your Highness," said Sagan. "We will not be able to spare even one single ship to guard Vallombrosa."
"The dark-matter creatures will guard it, such as it is." Flaim glanced around the room with disfavor. "I, for one, do not intend to ever come back here. All my people will come with me. The one thing I regret is the loss of the ship that will be carrying the king."
"We discussed other options," Sagan said. "Are you, perhaps, reconsidering?"
"No, no, my lord. You're absolutely right. Any other way of disposing with His Majesty would look far too suspicious. The ship has been fitted out to match the king's royal flagship. The crew has even been issued copies of official naval uniforms—not that there will be enough left of them to identify. If what you say is true, the blast will vaporize them."
"It is never wise to take chances, Your Highness. You must remember that this bomb has, for obvious reasons, never been tested. We are not certain precisely what it will do. It would be a shame to have your hopes dashed by the discovery of a fragment of a body clad in the wrong uniform."
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