Before God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes.

William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene i Dion sat on the stage in the crowded auditorium, sat with the outward assurance and regal presence of a member of the Blood Royal-the image in the mirror. Inwardly, anticipation teased him with its delightful pain, tempted him into rash and completely stupid, juvenile acts. What if he leapt from the stage and went dashing down the center aisle, singing that lewd song Link had once taught him, a song he'd forgotten until this very moment? He almost giggled at the thought, actually caught himself grinning. Appalled, he corrected himself, corrected the image.

The speakers droned on. Half-blinded by the glare of stage lights, he could not find Kamil in the audience, though he had been searching ever since he'd entered-to a thunderous ovation-almost an hour ago. It was foolish of him to hope to find her, he supposed, since there must be several thousand people in the auditorium. How could he discover out of that number, in the darkness, one head of cropped silver hair, one pair of golden eyes? Still, he searched. It gave him something to do, something to think about besides the coming night...

And now it was time for his presentation. The headmaster was introducing him. The audience was on its feet, cheering. The orchestra played the Royal Anthem-adapted from the Fate motive of Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony-as Dion ascended the podium and began to give his speech. He spoke the beginning words by rote, spoke them without really thinking about them until he came to the name of Lady Maigrey.

Her name fell from his lips and, at that moment, he saw Kamil. A spotlight had been playing over the crowd for the benefit of the vidcams recording the historic occasion. The light illuminated her, shone on her silver hair, her white gown.

The effect was startling, magical. Dion felt like an inept sorcerer who accidentally stumbles on the correct incantation or the wanderer who falls into the ring of mushrooms, finds himself standing before the fairy queen.

Kamil knew he saw her. She smiled at him, a secret smile for just the two of them, but it sent an arc of blue flame flaring from one to the other. The flame jolted through Dion's body, left him dazed, shaking. Someone behind him coughed. He realized he'd been standing silent, staring dumbly, his speech cut off in the middle of a sentence.

He looked down at his notes. They made no sense. He couldn't read them. He was drying up, literally. Not a drop of saliva was in his mouth; his throat was closing. The spotlight moved on, Kamil vanished, swallowed up by darkness. Dion was suddenly conscious of the audience, conscious of thousands of eyes on him, and they seemed malevolent, vicious, the eyes of the pack waiting for him to fall.

His stomach wrenched; his knees went weak. He clutched at the podium to keep from falling. How long had he been standing here? Hours, days? His face burned with shame. The mirror image was cracking, glass falling . . .

And then he saw her.

Dion blinked, stared.

Lady Maigrey, clad in silver armor, her pale hair shining, stood in the center aisle directly opposite Dion. She smiled at him, and he began to speak.

He spoke to her and to her alone.

He told her how much he valued her advice, her wisdom, what it had meant to him. He told her about her brother, about Platus, his influence, his living example of a true gentle man. He talked to her about Derek Sagan, about lessons learned, about failing, repentance, redemption. He forgot the audience, spoke to Maigrey, as if the two of them were by themselves. And when he concluded, when his heart and soul were empty, he waited for her to answer, was amazed and disappointed when she did not.

She was gone.

The spotlight flowed over the crowd. The aisle where she'd been standing was empty. He stared into darkness, into a hushed silence. He was like one who awakens in a strange place. He had no idea where he was. He looked around, lost and confused.

He turned to step from the podium, staggered. Sweating beneath the heavy uniform, he began to shake with chills in the cool air. He was limp, wrenched, wrung out. The headmaster came to him swiftly, gave him his hand, assisted His Majesty's faltering steps.

"Wonderful, sire!" the headmaster said in broken tones. "I've been sobbing like a child."

"Thank you," Dion murmured, still not certain what was going on.

He heard a strange rustling sound, couldn't imagine what it was. Then he saw. In solemn and reverent silence, a silence more eloquent than the loudest applause, the audience was rising to its feet, rising to pay homage to the fallen . . . and to their king.

Dion was backstage. He had no idea how he had arrived here. He assumed-hoped-he had made a dignified exit.

Captain Cato was here to meet him. Dion clasped the soldier's arm, thankful to feel warmth, flesh, solid bone, strong muscle.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Cato said to him softly. Tears shone on the soldier's ordinarily stern and implacable face. "Thank you for what you said about my lord."

Dion wondered what that had been. For the life of him, he couldn't remember a word.

"You were standing in the wings, Cato. Did you see her?" Dion asked in a low voice.

"Who, Your Majesty?"

"Lady Maigrey."

The captain looked puzzled and suddenly concerned. "No, Your Majesty."

Dion was angry. The man must have seen her. Why was he lying?.

D'argent came gliding up. "Your Majesty, are you feeling well?"

Dion put his shaking hand to his forehead. He must sound like an idiot. Her appearance had been a trick of the spotlight or a trick of his mind, reacting to save him from stage fright. But even as he said this, he saw her again in his memory, and he knew he could not banish that vision with logic, disbelief.

Dion roused himself with an effort. From the wings, he'd been staring once again down the center aisle, searching for the ephemeral figure in silver armor.

"Your Majesty," D'argent persisted tactfully.

"No. I'm not well." Dion smiled wanly, shook his head. "I hadn't realized this would be so difficult for me. Talking about them ... the memories ..

He turned to D'argent, who was holding the king's overcoat, top hat, and white silk scarf. "I won't be attending the reception, D'argent. Make my excuses."

He attempted to put on the coat; his arm missed the sleeve. He was shivering uncontrollably.

"I'm certain they will understand, sir."

They had no choice but to understand. He was king.

D'argent assisted him with the coat, holding it patiently while Dion fumbled his way into it. Made of finest cashmere, the coat was thick and warm, but it did nothing to alleviate the chilling sensation that numbed his fingers and limbs. He pulled on a pair of gloves, winced in pain as he tugged one over his right hand.

"Will you be keeping your dinner engagement tonight, sir?" D'argent asked.

"Yes!" Dion grasped at Kamil as at a lifeline. He realized then how desperate he sounded, softened his tone. "I just need to rest a little while. Get away from the crowds."

"Certainly, sir."

The Royal Guard escorted him outside, to the waiting limo-jet. Cato and his men effectively kept the crowds, the reporters, the vidcams, the robocams at a distance. Fortunately, due to Academy policy that restricted visitors from outside, the number of the press in attendance had been cut considerably from what His Majesty would have faced on other worlds. Those who were here were going about their jobs halfheartedly, mainly in the hope of something to spice up what they considered leftover news.

The death of Derek Sagan had caused a brief stir three years ago, when it happened. The death of Maigrey Morianna had received minor mention. A week later, they were forgotten. This was due primarily to the efforts of Dion, who understood that these two would not have wanted their story sensationalized, their sacrifices made trivial, their faults and their virtues mouthed over by those who could never hope to understand.

The true memorial was in the hearts of those who had known them, who remembered them.

Who remembered them....

Dion settled back into the comfortable leather seat of the limo-jet, tried to relax, but he continued to shiver, despite the fact that the limo had been warmed, awaiting his arrival. He was alone, D'argent having remained behind to soothe any ruffled feelings occasioned by His Majesty's absence from the reception line. Cato and four members of the Royal Guard rode in a separate compartment up front, behind the driver. Other guards followed in their own specially designed armed hovercraft.

Dion stared out the window, watched the snow-illuminated by the lights on the side panels-fly at him out of the darkness. The sight of the white flakes spiraling through the air was mesmerizing, almost dizzying. He lay back wearily in the seat.

And he saw Maigrey again, her silver image burned into his mind, like the afterimage seen when looking directly into the sun.

She had come at first to reassure him, to steady him. She'd remained with him throughout that entire ordeal. She'd left him when he no longer needed her. But before she had gone, her expression had altered. No longer reassuring, she was solemn, urgent, dire. She had raised her right hand in token of. . . what? Warning?

Dion tore his fascinated gaze from the whipping snow. He yanked off his glove, looked at his own right hand.

The five scars were swollen, red, burned with pain, as they had the first time he'd grasped the bloodsword under Sagan's instruction, plunged the needles of the bloodsword into his hand.

Dion rubbed the wounds. He hadn't used the bloodsword in a month. Ever since that disturbing interruption, that strange intrusion into his thoughts. Ever since the words Ghost Legion had come unbidden into his mind.

He closed his fist tight over the wounds, and thought only of tonight and golden eyes.

Chapter Ten.

Let us roll our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life ...

Andrew Marvell, "To His Coy Mistress"

The chosen few fortunate enough to enjoy a private dinner with His Majesty, Dion Starfire, told the press the day afterward that the king had seemed quiet, preoccupied. He was charming-His Majesty couldn't be anything but charming, according to the young women in attendance. He made them feel at ease, after the first terrible few moments of shyness and abashment. He talked easily and readily on subjects that interested them, knew as much or more about their various home planets as they did, and generally won the hearts of the five young women present.

But they each noticed that he would occasionally lapse into silence which he would break only when the lack of conversation was beginning to intimidate his guests. Had any of these young women been extremely astute observers, they would have seen that Princess Kamil Olefsky often introduced the topic herself and her voice seemed to jolt the king out of his solemn reverie. But the friends of the princess's, and not particularly close friends at that, were too absorbed with their own inner flutterings and confusion about which of the myriad spoons to use to notice much beyond how handsome His Majesty was up close and what remarkable eyes he had.

The evening ended with champagne and chocolates, and then His Majesty's private secretary appeared, with an invitation to show them all to their guest suites. The girls shared two large rooms, with the exception of the princess, who was given a suite of her own in another wing. None of them missed her. They spent the time doing their hair, removing their makeup, and discussing the highlights of the evening.

D'argent, bringing in an additional supply of fresh towels, was arranging them in the bathroom when he heard one girl say to another, "You know, even though they're supposed to be such old friends, the king didn't pay much attention to Kamil tonight, did he? He hardly ever spoke to her and I don't believe he looked at her once."

"It's all political," stated her friend, speaking as an expert. "The king needs to keep on good terms with her father, who's backing him on this alliance they're trying to forge with the vapor-breathers. His Majesty probably felt like he had to do this."

"I never heard that they were close friends," said another. "The king met her once when he was staying on her planet. It's not like they were brought up together or anything."

"His wife is so beautiful! Why would he even look at another woman?" This said with a sigh.

D'argent smiled to himself. Having informed the young women that, due to security reasons, it would be inadvisable for them to wander the halls during the night, he moved on to the princess's bedroom.

He was not surprised to find she was not in it. Smiling again to himself, but this time shaking his head, the secretary retired to his own bed. He did not, as was customary with him when traveling with the king, stop in His Majesty's rooms to see if Dion needed anything before retiring.

They met in the rose garden.

The meeting had not been prearranged. No covert glances or whispered words, no nods of the head, no folded notes passed between them during dinner. After dessert, she left with the others. She was alone in her room. The king was alone in his. Both rooms had long French doors opening out into the rose garden. Both people in those rooms seemed suddenly in need of fresh air, in need of escaping the confines of walls. Never mind that it had been snowing.

He did not admit to himself that he went out in search of her; that he knew, hoped, guessed that she, who came from a snowy climate, would seek solace in a midnight walk in a quiet, snow-filled garden. When he rounded the trunk of the giant oak tree and saw her sitting on a marble bench, he wasn't surprised to find her. And she, when she heard his softly indrawn breath, was not surprised to look up and see him.

They said nothing at first. Whatever had drawn them to meet here drew them together here. He held out his arms and she came to him. For long moments they stood in silence, clasped in close embrace, her body warm beneath the enveloping fur cloak, her silver hair, wet with snow, shining in the moonlight.

"I knew you'd be here," he said.

"I knew you'd come," she said.

They kissed and the aching desire that each had known and felt and dreamed about for so many days and nights burned through them, strengthened their hold on each other . . . frightened them.

Kamil did not pull away from him; his hold was too longed-for, too wonderful to break. But she averted her face, lowered her head to his shoulder.

"This is wrong," she whispered.

"No!" Dion ran his hand over her cropped silver hair, pressed her closer still. "No. We love. And love can't be wrong. Love makes all things right."

She could have argued, but she didn't want to. She believed him. How could there be harm in this? In two people finding comfort, renewal, joy in each other? She lifted her head and raised her hands, took hold of him and kissed him fiercely, passionately.

His unspoken question was answered in that moment. It was all too perfect. The Creator himself seemed to bless their union. It was meant to be.

And now that they knew the longed-for moment of their love was close at hand, theirs for the taking, they paused to savor the anticipation, to enjoy the delicious ache of wanting, knowing that it would soon be satisfied.

She laid her head against his breast, listened to the rapid beating of his heart, his quick breathing. Her gaze went to the snow-shrouded paths of the slumbering garden, to the marble statues, frozen forever in one moment of their lives, unable to take the next breath, unable to blink or stir and move beyond. Beneath the statues, around them, stood the roses, pruned, bound, their summer's growth and glory ruthlessly cut back, only to flourish stronger in the spring. Towering above the statues and the roses were the trees, masquerading for dead, their branches black lace against the moonlit sky, whose black clouds were gilded in silver.

"I love this garden," she told him. "I work here, you know.

We all have to give so many hours of volunteer work to the Academy. I've loved this garden ever since the first time I walked in it. The headmaster opens it to the students, but not many come here. It's too far away from the rest of campus. And now," she added with a sigh, crowding closer, "it will be even more blessed to me."

He held her fast, the pain in his heart both wonderful and terrible. Wonderful in that they had time yet to come, terrible in that the time must be short and then they would be forced to part. And she would be here, walking in the garden, alone. And he would be here, walking in the garden, only in his tortured memory.

"Do you know," Kamil continued softly, "I often think of Maigrey and Sagan meeting here. They must have, when they were students in the Academy. I don't know why, but I sense them together, in the rose garden, when I don't sense their presence anywhere else. Perhaps that's because I saw her here, only a few months ago."

She spoke in such a calm and matter-of-fact tone that it took Dion a moment to assimilate her meaning. Even then he thought perhaps she'd mixed up her pronouns, was talking about someone else. He drew back, looked at her, looked into the golden eyes that were like sunlight, even in the snowy darkness.

"Who?" he asked.

"Lady Maigrey," said Kamil. "Oh, now, don't look like that!" She laughed, though a little self-consciously. "I haven't been taking any mind-altering drugs. It was last summer. I was working here in the afternoon. It was hot; no one else was around. I don't know what made me look up, because there was no sound. I saw a woman dressed in a blue gown standing in the path. She was looking at the roses. She had her hand out, as if she might touch one, but she didn't. I stared at her, trying to think who would be walking in the garden at this time of day. I put down my spade and stood up and started to go to speak to her. But when I looked again, she was gone."

"A visitor," said Dion.

"You're shivering," said Kamil. "We should go inside ..."

"... where it's warm," he murmured, kissing her again.

But they made no move, not yet. It was too wonderful to build the flame, then bank it, let it burn as long as possible.

"I thought it was just a visitor," said Kamil softly, her heart beating against his. "But when I saw her portrait, I knew that it was her. I'd never seen her before that, you know."

"You must have," Dion remonstrated, with a halfhearted laugh to cover his own disquiet. "On the vids, at your father's house."

"You know how my father feels about technological monstrosities." Kamil laughed, shook the snow from her hair. "No, I'd never seen a picture of her before. Truly."