King's Sacrifice (44 page)

She was about to
thank him. The look in the misshapen eyes froze the words on her hps.

"You not
kill my lord," said Sparafucile softly.

So that was it.
Maigrey tried to remember what had been said. It was Agis who had
spoken.
In other words, if we cannot rescue my lord, we must
destroy him.
And she had agreed.

"I trust
that will not be necessary," she began, "but circumstances
might force—"

The half-breed
drew in his breath, let it out in a hiss. "You will die yourself
first!"

No good arguing,
attempting to explain. He would never understand. Maigrey turned
away, stepped into the air lock. It sealed shut. Pressure dropped,
stabilized, the lock opened. She stepped out onto the moon's surface.
Agis was there, waiting for her. He had sent Brother Daniel on,
remained to escort her.

"Problems
with the half-breed?"

"I was
worried that he might not be loyal enough." Maigrey shook her
head. "It never occurred to me that he might be too loyal."

"Do we
continue to use him?"

"Yes,"
she answered, adding wearily what seemed to have become an accursed
credo, "we have no choice."

Upon that I kiss
your hand, and I call you my queen.

William
Shakespeare,
King Henry V,
Act V, Scene 2

Time is, as one
noted twentieth-century thinker put it, so that everything doesn't
happen at once. The measurement of time, at least by the clock, is
exact. The measurement of time by the heart and the head is far
different. Time passes, time flies. It creeps or crawls. It moves
faster than light. Time, for Maigrey, was running rapidly through her
fingers. The hourglass emptying fast. Time, for Dion, was standing
still. The stars had ceased to turn. All the suns in the galaxy were
shining down on him.

"Isn't she
beautiful, Tusk!" Dion demanded.

"Yeah,
kid," Tusk agreed, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.
"She's a beauty, all right. Hard to believe. She must take after
her mother's side of the family. She sure," he added with
heartfelt emphasis, "doesn't take after her father."

"And what
do you think of her, Nola?" Dion turned to the young woman, who
sat curled up on the bed beside Tusk.

"I like
her. There's something very refreshing about her. She's honest, open,
unpretentious—"

"Barbaric,"
Tusk whispered in her ear.

"Be quiet,
he'll hear you!" Nola squeezed Tusk's hand.

"No, he
won't. Look at him." Tusk yawned again.

Dion didn't hear
them. He stood at the window, staring out blissfully at the lake that
could be seen in the distance, stars and moon glimmering in its dark
water. A golden haze surrounded him with radiance, elevated him above
all other mortal beings, filled him with enchanting music that
obliterated all sounds except those he wanted, needed to hear.

Tusk and Nola
had been ready to retire for the night when Dion appeared at their
door. He couldn't sleep, didn't want to end what had been the most
marvelous evening of his life. And he couldn't clearly remember any
of it. He could only remember her.

"I'm going
to ask her to marry me," he said.

Tusk and Nola
exchanged alarmed glances, sleepiness startled out of them.

"Uh, isn't
this a little sudden, kid. Talk to him!" Tusk urged his wife in
an undertone.

"Why me?
You're his friend."

"Because
women are better at these things."

"Oh, yeah!"
She snorted. "I thought the only difference was in X and Y
chromosomes. I didn't know we had one labeled 'advice to the
love-lorn' !"

"C'mon.
It'll be good practice for you—when we have our own kids."

"He's not a
kid," Nola retorted. "Or hadn't you noticed?"

"What is
it?" Dion turned. "What were you saying? You agree with me,
don't you? She's wonderful."

Tusk, making
emphatic signs to Nola with his eyebrows and jerks of his head,
appeared to have contracted a nervous disorder.

"What's the
matter? What's wrong?" Dion asked, the golden haze receding
enough to let him see that his friends weren't exactly bounding
around the room with joy.

"Nothing,
kid," said Tusk, standing up. "Uh, I got to go use the
facilities. I'll ... be back." He dragged out his boots, slid
his feet into them, beat it for the door. "You and Nola . . .
have a nice little talk while I'm gone. "

"I'll get
you for this!" Nola shot out of the corner of her mouth.

Tusk grabbed a
nuke lamp and fled, slammed shut the door behind him. Out in the
hall, he leaned back against the wall, heaved a sigh of relief, wiped
sweat from his forehead. "God! What a narrow escape!"

Feeling some
remorse that he'd left his wife behind, but not enough to go back, he
hastened down the hall, determined to make his stay in the outhouse
last as long as it would be humanly possible for him to endure the
cold and the smell.

"I admit I
haven't known Kamil very long," said Dion, leaving his place by
the window, coming forward to plead his case, "but look at all
the other women I've met in the last few months! I've dated women
from all over the galaxy. Every age, every type. None of them come
near comparing to her. Do they?"

"No, Dion,"
Nola answered slowly. "Kamil is different, very different."

"And I
never fell in love with any of those others, did I?" Dion
demanded. "I'm not like Link, who's in love with somebody on a
weekly basis. I knew I hadn't found the right person. I had to keep
searching. But when I saw her standing on that rock, when I looked
into her eyes, I knew I'd found her, Nola. The only woman I could
ever love."

"I know you
think so now, Dion," Nola said hesitantly, "but you've been
lonely, very lonely. I've seen it, so has Tusk. And what with our
getting married, and Lady Maigrey leaving, and all the turmoil and
upset . . . well, it's natural that you should be looking for someone
to love—"

"And I
might latch on to the first person who came along?" Dion asked
her quietly. "I thought about that, Nola. I really did, on the
walk home tonight. I had to, if I was going to ask her to be my wife.
I looked into my heart, and I know the answer. She's the one, Nola,
the one I've been waiting to find."

He didn't
mention the dream, didn't mention the woman with golden eyes who'd
fought at his side, held her shield protectively before him. Despite
experiencing the still, small voice within, despite seeing Platus's
spirit appear to him, Dion had been unable to come to believe
completely in a Creator, in a Will and Force other than his own,
guiding his life. But this latest miracle had nearly convinced him.
It seemed to him, because of the dream, that his love for Kamil had
been foreordained and therefore blessed.

"And I know
she's been waiting for me," he added.

"It's
something you should think seriously about, Dion," said Nola.
"You've been around other women, lots of other women. But Kamil
hasn't been with other men. Oh, yes, she's got scads of brothers and
probably male friends. But, Dion, despite the fact that she's as old
as you are in years, she isn't nearly as old as you are in experience
or maturity. She's obviously just barely out of her childhood. In
fact, I'll bet she's never before thought about or dreamed of
thinking about a man the way she's suddenly starting to think about
you."

Dion remembered
her sitting on the rock, calmly watching him swim stark naked, with
no more passion than if she'd been looking at one of her brothers,
whom she must have seen from diapers on up. He was forced,
reluctantly, to admit that Nola was right. He himself had witnessed
her dawning awareness of his sexuality, and perhaps her own, as well.
He remembered vividly the warm blush suffusing the smooth, tanned
skin, the eyes that had been bold and laughing, suddenly
selfconsciously unable to meet his gaze.

"You
believe she does care for me, then?" Dion asked, skipping over
the part of the conversation he didn't want to hear, landing squarely
on the part he did.

His thoughts
went to the evening they'd spent together, to the rowdy, boisterous
gathering around the dinner table, to the girl—almost a
woman—who'd talked only to him, who'd looked only at him. It
had seemed to him that they were the only two people in the room, but
now he vaguely recalled her brothers' nudges and snickers, her
father's beard-tugging ruminations whenever he observed the young
couple.

"Oh, Dion,"
said Nola, smiling at him. "Everyone in the hall saw how she
felt about you, tonight. And that's my point. She's been raised to be
honest, open with her feelings. She knows nothing about
flirting—harmless or otherwise. She knows nothing about deceit,
flattery, playing mind games, manipulating. Can you have Kamil, Dion,
and still be what you want to be?"

"Can I have
Kamil and still be king, that's what you're asking me, isn't it?"

Nola nodded
gravely.

"Of
course," he said impatiently. "Why couldn't I?"

"Because
you'll put her on display in a glass cage for billions of people to
stare at, poke at. Because they'll stick vidcams in her face, want to
watch her eat, dress, go to the bathroom, make love, have babies.
They'll hate her, love her, become obsessed with her. . . . You know,
Dion! You know what it's been like. But the difference is that you
were born and bred to it. Fame, adulation—they're mother's milk
to you and to all the Blood Royal, to the Lady Maigrey and Sagan. To
Kamil, it could be poison."

"Oh, come
on, Nola! You sound like her big sister and you've only known her a
few—" He stopped, looking rather foolish.

"Dion,"
said Nola gently, wisely refusing to press her advantage on an
opponent who'd just inadvertently lowered his guard, "Kamil's
like the jewel the Starlady wore—clear and pure and flawless. I
have no doubt, from what I saw tonight, that you could make her love
you. But if she gives her heart to you, Dion, she will give herself
completely, utterly. Her love will be her life, and she will
expect—and deserve—no less from you. And if you ever
failed in that ..." Nola sighed, shook her head.

"I wouldn't
fail, Nola. How could I?"

"I don't
think you'd have any choice. You aren't some ordinary Joe. Your life
isn't your own. Already, you're bound by commitments. You talk of
marriage and yet in a few days you're planning to go off to the
Corasian galaxy—"

"All right.
You've made your point. Just drop it, will you." Moodily, Dion
turned away and stared back out the window, stared back out at the
moonlight glistening on the lake.

The cost . .
. will run high. It may be higher than you are willing to pay. Higher
than, perhaps, you should pay.

Maigrey's
warning. He'd answered glibly enough, he remembered. But what little
he'd had then didn't seem too much to spend. His life. Yes, he'd been
willing to give up his life. He knew the dangers he faced in the
Corasian galaxy. He'd fought the Corasians, been captured, tortured
by them. And that was all he'd supposed she'd meant. A life. Easy to
give up a life, especially when it was hollow, empty . . . lonely.

But there'd been
the dream. Surely the dream was a portent, a sign. Surely there could
be a way to pay the price and withhold just a tiny bit for himself. .
. .

Turning
abruptly, wanting to be alone to think, Dion nearly fell over Nola,
who had come up silently behind him. He tripped, she stumbled, they
caught onto each other for balance.

"You're not
mad at me, are you, Dion?" she asked wistfully.

Dion was mad at
her, mad at fete, mad at himself for having given fate a few healthy
pushes along the way. He was tempted to relieve his feelings by
shouting, acting like a royal pain, as Tusk sometimes accused him. He
mastered himself, however, was startled to feel tears, cold and wet,
on his lashes.

Shaking his
head, unable to speak, he squeezed Nola's shoulders tightly and then
bolted from the room. He didn't even see Tusk, who passed him in the
corridor.

"For God's
sake, sweetheart, what'd you say to the kid?" Tusk demanded,
coming inside, shutting the door behind him and locking it, in case
Dion might get it into his head to have another midnight chat. "You
were supposed to talk to him, not jab a knife into his gut!"

"Oh, Tusk,"
cried Nola, flying into his arms, burying her head in his chest. "Why
do people have to fall in love? Why does it have to hurt so much?"

"What?"
Tusk, mystified, stared down at her.

"Leave me
alone!" Nola shoved him away.

Flinging herself
on the bed—the side of the bed farthest from Tusk's side of the
bed—she pulled the sheets and comforters and blanket up over
her head, curled into a tight ball, and turned her back on him.

Foreseeing a
long and cold night ahead of him, possibly many long and cold nights,
Tusk scratched his head ruefully.

"This does
it," he muttered. "I definitely got to get back to indoor
plumbing."

Dion, in his
haste, had neglected to take his nuke light with him. The castle's
corridors were cold and dark, except for where windows admitted the
light of moon and stars, forming patches of ghostly whiteness on the
floors and the walls. Dion didn't mind, however. He was glad of the
darkness, it suited his mood.

He groped his
way through the chill hallways, feeling his tears freeze on his skin.

"Nola's
wrong," he told himself. "Kamil isn't some fragile doll.
She's strong, a fighter. And she's smart. All she needs is someone to
tell her what to wear, how to behave in front of the vidcams, what to
say, what not to say."

He tried to
picture her in a sleek little number one of his dates had worn—a
short, tight skirt; low-cut, tight-sleeved blouse; a cute little hat
perched on her forehead. He thought of Kamil's long huntress strides,
her free-swinging arms, silver boyish-cropped hair. . . .