He kissed her lips, her forehead. Lifting her gloved hand, he kissed the palm, closed her fingers over it. Then he opened the door. The King's Guard snapped to attention, bodies and faces rigid.

"Centurion," Dion said to one of the men on duty, "escort the princess back to her room."

"Yes, my liege."

Kamil's complexion was the color of the roses as they bloomed in the summer. She kept her head lowered, the hood falling forward to hide her face. She cast one swift and loving glance back at Dion, then hurried down the hallway toward her room, the guard following a pace behind.

Dion watched her leave. She was flustered, embarrassed. She moved awkwardly, stumbling over her long dress, and would have taken a turn down the wrong hallway had not the guard respectfully corrected her.

Dion thought of her walking through the grass of her home-land with her long, manlike strides, her arms swinging free, her head held high. Not like this. Not ashamed, not embarrassed.

He gave in to a moment's rebellious anger. Why couldn't she be his? Why couldn't he say to the universe: She's mine. I love her!

He shut the door, shut it carefully, to keep from slamming it. Gritting his teeth, he leaned against the door until the fire-tinged dimness cleared from his eyes, his mind.

Duty, responsibility. He was, after all, the king. Today he would return home to the palace.

Return home to his wife.

"This will be enough," he said to himself with a long, indrawn sigh. "This will be enough..."

Chapter Eleven.

I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more.

Robert Browning, "Two in the Campagna"

Astarte Starfire, wife of the king, queen of the galaxy, High Priestess of both her own people and of a growing following throughout the galaxy, lay in her bed alone and stared into the darkness. The sheets were rumpled in the place beside her, still warm from his presence. She could put out her hand and feel the warmth, feel it rapidly cooling.

Dion's fragrance was there, too. She wondered about that; she had often wondered, from the first time she'd met him-on their wedding day. He used no perfume, yet there was a sweetness about him, a ... softening of the air around him, for lack of a better way to describe it. Like a spring morning. She came to think she was the only one who smelled it. When she had questioned her women about the mysterious fragrance, her retinue looked blank.

He was gone.

It was the middle of the night and she was alone.

His excuse was that he was troubled with bad dreams, he didn't want to disturb her. That was true. Often, after they were first married, she'd heard him muttering to himself in his sleep, moving restlessly, waking with a gasp and a start. She had tried to comfort him, but he would rebuff her, sometimes coldly, sometimes gently, but always letting her know her interference was unwelcome. She was an intruder. She'd been relieved when he had moved into a separate room, though his absence from her bed had meant scene after scene with her mother.

Astarte stared into the darkness. Her hand left the rumpled sheet that no longer held his warmth, pressed over her belly. He had made love to her.

Made love to her? She laughed, but it turned to a sob.

She lay there, her hand flat over her flat belly, fingers kneading the smooth, bare flesh. "No, you didn't make love to me. You made love to her! My body. But she is in your mind!"

Dion had made love to his wife, dutifully, every night for a week after his return from the Academy. The first night, Astarte had been thrilled with joy. There had been a feverishness about him, desire. His lovemaking had been fierce, passionate. It was only after he'd left, with a chill kiss, to return to his own bedroom, that she'd realized he'd been loving someone else.

His ardor had quickly cooled. Their lovemaking now was brief, perfunctory. She had no pleasure from it, guessed that what pleasure he received was from the fantasy he conjured up to enable him to perform. He kept his eyes closed the entire time. Astarte imagined herself ripping out his eyes, to see what other woman's image was on the inside of the lids. Her imaginings grew quite violent, and they scared her.

She thought of confronting him, but she kept silent because she knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to give her the baby she longed for.

Perhaps this time ...

She closed her eyes, dozed.

He was with her again, as he had been just a few moments ago. He was "performing his duty" and she was lying beneath him, enduring it, hating it, wishing it would soon end. And it did and she felt the rushing warmth inside her. She opened her eyes and looked into his face . ..

And it wasn't his face.

Astarte caught her breath in a horrified gasp. She struggled under the weight of a heavy body, trying frantically to push him away. He was laughing at her.

"My child! Mine!" he said . . . and she found herself sitting up in her bed, flailing with her arms at the air.

She shuddered, curled up in a ball, her hand clutching her tight, flat belly. She guessed, then, that she was pregnant. "But what does this vision mean? Whose face did I see? It was his. And it wasn't his. Blessed Goddess, what are you trying to tell me?"

Astarte rolled over on her back. Her tears dried on her cheeks unheeded. She was devout The vision came from the Goddess. It was not the first she'd experienced. The visions did not come often, nor did they come when sought, but when they did come to her, what they revealed to her always came to pass. But what did it mean?

Hastily, with trembling fingers, she lit her lamp and sat up, fumbling for her robe. Catching hold of it, she wrapped it around her body. Hurrying from her sumptuously furnished room, oblivious to the luxuries that surrounded her, she entered a door hidden behind a rich tapestry, a small door that led to a small room off the main one.

Her chapel, private and secret, all things in it placed here by her own hands. If she had been forced to name a favorite room in a palace of many magnificent rooms, this small, windowless alcove would have been it.

She lit a candle, a white beeswax that stood in a plain wooden candle holder. The Goddess liked simple things, things "of the land, of the hand," as the saying went. The candle's light fell upon the altar's centerpiece-a statue of the Goddess herself. It was old, far older than Astarte, having been given to her by her mother's mother, a High Priestess like herself.

The statue portrayed two women. One woman was clad in long white robes. In her right hand she held a sheaf of grain; her left hand rested upon a child who stood before her. Back to back with this woman was a woman clad in armor and helm, who held a sword in her right hand, a shield in the other. The dual image of the Goddess-on one side the nurturing mother; on the other, the warrior who would defend her children.

The statue of the Goddess stood on every altar in every home of Astarte's people. The Goddess had been worshiped there for centuries, ever since the sickness had taken most of the men, left those who survived weak and precious, nurtured like hothouse plants for their seed. In most homes, the Goddess's statue had only one face-the face the woman chose as her own. For Astarte's mother, the Goddess wore the face of the Warrior. For Astarte herself, the Goddess was the gentle, loving Nurturer. But now Astarte reached out, turned the Goddess slowly around.

There was a time when a woman had to fight to save what was valuable not only to her, but to those who trusted in her.

The alabaster statue regarded Astarte with clear, empty eyes. Astarte had hardly ever looked at this side of it; she knew every line and carved fold in the garment on the other side. She had often thought this side cold and hard; it reminded her too much of her own mother. Now she saw that if the Goddess was cold, it was because She had to freeze her heart against sympathy for those who would do Her people harm. If She was hard, it was armor against the wounds that She must both give and take.

Astarte stared at the Warrior a long time, then, sighing, turned the statue back around. She felt warmed, comforted by the familiar sight of the Mother. Lifting a sprig of dried sage, she crushed the leaves in her palm, scattered them in a small brass dish, and set them on fire. She breathed in the sweet incense, wafted some of the smoke over to the Goddess with her hand.

"Blessed Mother," Astarte prayed, "thank you for the vision. I do not understand, but I will heed its warning. Praise to your unspoken name."

She lifted a small brass lid, placed it over the smoking sage, quenched the smoke. Slowly, reaching out her hand, she turned the statue back around. The Warrior stared back at her with the empty eyes of one who must kill.

Astarte sat back on her heels. She had never made an offering to the Warrior and, though she knew what was required- blood-she could not bring herself to make it.

"I know what you want me to do," she said to the Warrior. "You want me to spy on him. You want me to have him followed. You want me to turn men loyal to him into his betrayers. Or if that isn't possible-and I pray to the Goddess it would not be-then you would have me hire a snake to slither after him. And then what? You demand photos of the two of them. Pictures of their lovemaking, laid upon this altar. You would have me confront him. You want the anger, the shame, the hatred. Hating me, hating himself.

"This is not me," she said to the Warrior, pleading with those empty eyes to understand.

They did not. You don't love him, they said.

"No, but I honor him," she explained. "Respect him."

She would have loved him; she had started to love him. But that was over now.

When had she first begun to love him? Perhaps in those early months of marriage,, which were like a dream to her now. Two strangers, forced together by circumstance, forced to play a never-ending role upon a stage before the devouring eyes of billions. Finding themselves maintaining the roles, even when the curtain was down, the stage empty, except for themselves upon it.

During that time, she caught glimpses of the man behind the mask, the man beneath the crown, the man inside the purple robe. Strong, decisive; and at the same time weak, vulnerable, tormented by inner doubt. Making decisions, making right decisions, and a part of him amazed when he was right. Punishing himself severely on those rare occasions when he was wrong. Learning from his mistakes and going on, fearful of making more, yet always finding the courage to continue.

She was beginning to love him. She wanted him for her own, and it was then that she realized he was unattainable. She could not win his love, because it belonged to someone else. And now his love for this other woman, which had so long been platonic, had been consummated. Astarte knew it as well as if she had seen them together.

The danger was great. He was one more step removed from her and, if this went on, he would be lost to her-and to his people-forever. The child he had just fathered this night would not be born. Or if it was, it would belong to another. Perhaps the man in the vision. ...

"What, then, am I to do? I must save him." Astarte's hand went to her belly again, slid inside her robe to press against her bare flesh. He was not the only one she had to save.

The empty eyes of the Warrior held no answers, or else held answers she rejected. Their cold stare was unnerving. Impulsively, Astarte reached out to turn the statue back around. Halfway, she stopped. She had never seen it like this before. The Warrior and the Mother, standing back to back. To nurture and defend, to fight and care. Was it possible? Was this what the Goddess was telling her?

Lessons of DiLuna returned to her daughter. Astarte recalled nights spent listening to the warrior women talk. A warrior did not always rush forth to meet the enemy, weapons raised, screaming defiance. Sometimes it was best to retreat, to seem to surrender, to fall back and let the enemy come to you.

Astarte pondered. Her plan was hazy, not yet clear in her mind, but it could work. And then she understood suddenly why it would work.

"I know Dion. Deep inside, he despises the deception. He's fought against this illicit love; that was why he remained faithful to me for so long. But he is human. In the end, his love for her proved too strong. During one of those times when he was weak, vulnerable, one of those times when he sought shelter, she was there. He turned to her."

Astarte would have been less than human herself if she did not feel the twinge of jealousy's cruel bite. She thought of him in bed with his lover, of the kisses and caresses given to her that his wife had never known, of pleasure taken with his eyes open. Astarte was the Warrior then, could have watched her enemy's body sliding off her sword and known the emptiness of the statue's alabaster eyes.

An emptiness that would always be with her.

"No," she said, "I can't think about that. Not now. Not ever. If I let that poison work on me, it will kill me." She pressed her hand against her stomach. "Kill us all."

She offered thanks once again. Dousing the candle, she rose to her feet. She felt comforted, her decision made. It would be painful, painful for both of them. But she would be merciful as she could, keep her strokes swift and clean, end it quickly.

Chapter Twelve.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre . . .

William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

Tusk crept slowly out of the hoverjeep, moving carefully so as not to jar his aching head. Squinting-the dark sun-goggles were still permitting far too much sunlight to burn into his eyeballs-Tusk fumbled around the outside of the Scimitar until his hands closed over the ladder rungs, then he crawled slowly up the ladder to the Scimitar's hatch.

"XJ, lemme in!"

The roar reverberated around inside his skull like lasgun fire, ricocheting off four walls. He groaned and lay sprawled on the hatch. It was still early morning, but Vangelis' broiling sun was already heating up the spaceplane's shining metal surface. Sweat rolled down Tusk's body. It occurred to him that if he lay here any longer, he'd fry like a piece of raw meat on a griddle.

"XJ, damn it, you know I'm out here!" Tusk pleaded. "I'm not feelin' too good. I feel kinda like I might throw up. . .."

"Not on my paint!" snapped the computer.

The hatch whirred open. Tusk lowered himself gratefully into the cool darkness, descended cautiously down the ladder, placed his foot gently on the deck. Even then the vibration sent waves of pain crashing over his head.

"Juiced," said XJ in disgust.

"Shud'up," Tusk mumbled.

Holding one hand over the goggles in case they should slip and permit even the dim lights shining inside the plane to pierce his brain, he stretched his other hand out in front of him and groped his way to one of the couches. Bumping into it, he fell onto it with a groan.

"You didn't go home last night," stated XJ.

Tusk made a brief circuit of his memory. "Shit," he said, sitting up and regretting it instantly. "I didn't, did I?"

"Don't worry. I called Nola, told her where you were."

"You did?" Tusk sank back down, pleasantly surprised.

That didn't last long. The more he thought about XJ being nice to him, the less he liked it. He dragged himself to a sitting position again.

"What do you want from me?" he croaked, hanging on to the couch for dear life.

"Jeez, you're so suspicious. Can I . . . can I get you a cold compress?"

"Stop it!" Tusk snarled, bounding to his feet. He put his hand on his head to keep it from blasting off. "So I had the shakes yesterday! Big deal. It happens. See if you can reach Dixter."

"I try to be nice. And this is the thanks I get." XJ sulked. "Next time, I wont call. I'll let you go home to Nola. I hope she skins you alive-"

"Anything'd be better than this. How can something that makes you feel so good turn around and make you feel so awful? It's like God's standin' there with His hand out saying, 'Glad you enjoyed yourself. Now pay up.' "

"Philosophy. From a juicer. It's what I live for."

"Shut up. And while you're shutting up, get hold of Dixter."

"Dixter! Hah! You expect me to believe that you and Link actually discovered some useful bit of information last night? What'd you do, peel the label off the jump-juice bottle and find a prize underneath?"

"Just call Dixter, damn it." Tusk moaned. "And turn the lights off while you're at it."

Clinging to the railing, he lowered himself into the cockpit, fumbled his way to his chair. He lurched into it, rested his elbows on the console, lowered his head to his hands.

Dixter's face appeared on the screen. "Yes, Tusk?"

Tusk lifted his head with an effort. "Oh, hullo, sir."

"Hello, son." Dixter was slightly taken aback by the sight of Tusk sitting in the spaceplane in the dark wearing sun-goggles. "Hard night?" he asked sympathetically.