" 'The taint in our blood,' as Lady Maigrey said to me once." Dion smiled faintly, sadly, at the memory. He shook his head, drew back from the past, returned to the present. "But if that is true, my lord, why has this cousin-if that's really who and what he is-waited? It seems to me that he would have chosen- My lord?"

Sagan did not respond. He had abruptly walked away. His back was turned; he was staring out the window. Dion saw, by the lambent light of the stars, that the Warlord's right fist was clenched tight, so tight it trembled with the force. The knuckles-of the clenched hand were white, as if the bones were laid bare. His face, reflected in the steelglass, was cold, hard, and bleak.

Bleak as the moon on which Maigrey had died, cold as the bier of stones he had made for her.

Dion's heart ached. He hadn't thought, when he'd spoken her name, of the pain this must bring to the man who had loved her, who had been doomed to watch her die in his arms.

What can I say? Dion wondered. What comfort can I offer? What words exist that can possibly assuage such bitter grief? I should not even be seeing this, he realized. Sagan wouldn't thank me for intruding. He doesn't want my sympathy; certainly not my pity.

Dion crossed to the opposite side of the chamber, poured himself a glass of water. He drank it slowly. The thought came to him of what it would be like to lose Kamil. More terrible than that, to know that he was responsible for her death. The memory of a dream came to him, of his shieldmaid falling at his side, of blows raining down on her, of himself helpless, unable to protect her....

"The question is, my liege, what do you do now?" Sagan's voice was harsh, unexpectedly close.

Dion's hand jerked; he nearly spilled the water. Hastily, he set the glass down, banished the dream, turned to face the Warlord, who had come up behind him silently, unobserved.

"What do you mean, what do I do?" Dion asked, irritated at having been caught off guard. "What can I do? If this cousin even exists-and we have no proof that he does, only conjecture-we don't know where he is-"

"He exists, Your Majesty. Have no doubt of that. And he's told us where: Vallombrosa."

"Nonsense. It's a dead planet. There's nothing there-"

"On the contrary, my liege. We have been made to think there is nothing there."

"Very well, my lord, what would you do?" Dion demanded, losing patience. "What is your advice and counsel?"

Sagan fell silent, studied him, measured him. "Do you truly want it?"

"Yes, my lord." Dion sighed. "I presume that this is the reason you chose to come to me in the first place."

"I did not choose to come. I was commanded to come," Sagan returned bitterly. "But now that I am here, I will give you my advice, though I don't expect you to take it."

The Warlord drew forth a leather thong that he wore around his neck, well hidden by the thick folds of the cowl that lay on his shoulders. He gave the thong a swift, sharp tug. It broke, came off in his hand. He held out the thong-and the unlovely jewel that dangled from it-to Dion.

"This is my counsel, my liege. Take the starjewel and place it in the space-rotation bomb. The jewel is the triggering device; it will activate the bomb. Travel to Vallombrosa and launch the bomb into the planet's heart. Detonate it, destroy everything for a radius of a million miles. And when you have done that, Sovereign, send in your army and your navy and command them to destroy everything for a million miles more."

Dion stared at the Warlord, aghast. "You can't be serious! If Vallombrosa is populated, then I would be committing genocide, slaughtering untold members of innocent people! You know I couldn't possibly do such a thing. And neither would you, my lord."

Sagan held the starjewel in his hand. Once, long ago, the beautiful rare jewel, carved in the shape of an eight-pointed star, had shone as brightly as the true stars in the night sky above. Now it was blacker than the wry night itself.

"Do not be so quick to judge me, Dion." the Warlord said gravely, his gaze on the jewel. He suddenly clenched his fist over it. "The danger is real. If it were me, I would be very tempted to end it...."

Dion shook his head. "We know nothing for certain. We don't know if this cousin is even alive, much less that he intends me harm-"

"If he did not, my liege, would he be doing this?" The Warlord held up his scarred palm.

"He wants to get our attention," Dion admitted. "That much is obvious. If only my uncle .. . Damn it, how could he do such a thing? He was deeply religious-"

"Oh, yes, he was religious. He leaned on his religion, used it as a crutch to prop up his own weakness. I've no doubt that every morning after spending the night coupling with his sister, Amodius prayed for God's forgiveness. And he blamed God when he lacked the strength to give up his obsession. Witness what he does when the illicit relationship bears fruit. Instead of taking responsibility, he hands it back to God. A judgment for his sins.' A judgment, all right. But it will not fall on his head. It will fall on yours."

Sagan thrust the star jewel into a pocket of his robes. "At least my father admitted, accepted, and paid for his sin."

Dion recalled, then, that Derek Sagan himself was the product of an illicit relationship, a brutal crime, a father who could not control his passions....

"Unless, of course, Amodius was more devious than we give him credit for," Sagan added quietly, almost to himself.

"What do you mean, my lord?" Dion came out of a troubled reverie.

"He could have deposited the child anonymously on someone's doorstep. Cast die baby adrift in a boat of rushes, so to speak. What are the odds that anyone who found the child would have discovered his true identity?"

"You found me," Dion pointed out.

"Ah, but you were meant to be found," Sagan said dryly. "By giving his son to Garth Pantha, who knew the child's heritage, knew his lineage, Amodius also meant his boy to be 'found.' Think about it Do you begin to understand what I mean about the danger?"

"Yes," Dion conceded. "And if our cousin is this dangerous, it seems to me that our wisest course would be to keep the space-rotation bomb safely hidden from him. Not send it to him."

"Judging by Dixter's reports, it may not remain hidden for long," Sagan remarked gravely.

"The so-called ghosts? Do you know what they are?"

"I have an idea, but I would prefer not to speculate. It is imperative, however, that we learn the truth."

"You must go to him," said Dion quietly.

"Yes, my liege, I must go to him."

"Are you certain? If you're right, you could be in danger-"

"Not me, my liege," stated Sagan, mouth twisting. "I am the one he wants."

Dion let out a held breath, slowly, softly. "Yes. I see. Of course, you're right. All of this: sending you to hear the doctor, the 'Ghost Legion,' the attack on Snaga Ohme's-"

"-done deliberately to draw me out."

"But he must believe you to be dead. . . ."

"I repeat-you knew I was alive. He does, too."

"But why? What does he want?" Dion demanded.

"He seeks me as you sought me. And for the same reason."

"And you think he'll trust you?"

"I can make him trust me, my liege."

And you can make me trust you, Dion added silently. But do I? Is your ambition truly dead ... or is it merely hidden beneath those shabby robes? Who are you? Lord Sagan or Brother Paenitens? Do you know for certain? What is it that you want?...

"What do I want?" Sagan asked, repeating aloud the words the king had spoken only in his thoughts.

The Warlord did not answer, but turned his back, walked over to the window, stared out at the stars. At length he said, "I chose penitence as my name when I left the world. I meant to repent, to seek God's forgiveness, my own redemption." He glanced around. "Do you know what the other brethren in the abbey call me? The Unforgiven. They know the truth, you see. There has been no answer to my prayers. No response. Only silence. Empty, terribly silence. Has the Lady Maigrey come to you, my liege?"

Startled at the strange and unexpected question, Dion grappled for an answer. "I ... I thought I saw her . .. her spirit, that is . . . the night of the dedication."

He thought back; the memory returned to him and he was surprised at how vivid it was. "She said nothing to me, but I felt comforted. She stayed with me until the end of my speech and, before she left, she raised her hand-as if in warning. Of course," he added, realizing suddenly how foolish he must sound, "I was under a great deal of stress. And I was thinking about her. Small wonder that I imagined I saw her-"

"She has not come to me," said Sagan in quiet, impassive tones.

Dion made no response, had no idea what to say.

The Warlord turned his gaze back to the night. "I want to hear one word from the Creator, an answer to my prayers." He clenched his fist. "Even if it is only to tell me that there is no hope. That I am damned!"

Dion caught a glimpse of the man's soul, saw it a vast, black scape of desperation and anger, bitter regret and despair. And he was doomed to walk the charred and desolate plains alone now, lacking, apparently, even the guiding hand of his own faith. For these last three years, he had tread the barren ground in abject humility and penitence, sacrificing his pride and ambition at every roadside shrine. And, in return, no balm, no comfort, no spring of sweet water. Nothing-Dion saw suddenly, clearly-but another temptation. A luring voice to draw him off the path and into a night from which the Warlord might never return.

Dion had been raised an atheist, but he had been forced to abandon his complacent atheistic view of the universe. An atheist assumes he has all the answers. At seventeen, Dion had assumed he had all the answers. Innumerable perplexing and inexplicable occurrences had taught him otherwise. And now he was left with only questions.

Did I truly heal Tusk? Or was his own will to live responsible for what had looked like a miracle? Did I truly see the spirit of Lady Maigrey? Or was the eerie vision nothing more than an electrical short circuit in my brain? Is this sudden appearance of a mysterious cousin some sort of cosmic test? Or is it a random event, brought about by the inability of a weak man to control a sordid obsession? Is it a judgment? Or just some stupid, shabby-albeit potentially dangerous-happening?

Whatever it is, Sagan is right. I have to have answers. I have to know the truth.

And so does he.

"Very well, my lord," Dion said. "You will go, discover if my cousin truly lives. If so, find out what he means by these seemingly threatening actions. What does he want of us? We may have misjudged him. I hope we have. Contact Sir John Dixter for anything you might need-"

"Is it necessary to inform Dixter, Your Majesty?" Sagan asked, expression darkening.

"Yes, it is," said Dion, firm, resolute.

The Warlord gave the king a measuring glance. "Very well, my liege. I suppose it is for the best. But no one else must know. No one! Not your best friend, not your secretary, not the captain of the guard, not your wife . .. not your mistress."

Dion wondered uneasily if Sagan knew the truth or if he was merely emphasizing a point. Too late, it occurred to the king- feeling his skin flushed and burning-that if Sagan didn't know the truth before, he probably knew now.

"If word of this were to leak out . . ." the Warlord continued ominously.

"I quite understand, my lord." Dion ended the matter.

Sagan did not pursue it. "At any rate, I doubt if Dixter could lay his hand on what I want as readily as I can myself-a spaceplane, unmarked, unarmed. An older model, the type used by interplanetary missionaries prior to the Revolution."

Dion smiled wanly. "I doubt if the navy has those currently in stock. But perhaps some sort of concealed weaponry-"

"Your Majesty forgets the vows that I have taken," the Warlord interrupted. "Or perhaps he imagines that I have forgotten?"

Dion made no reply. He stood silent, on his guard, carefully keeping-this time-his thoughts to himself.

Sagan smiled, chill and dark. "Still, there is information I will need that Dixter might be able to acquire for me. Tell him that I will be in contact."

The Warlord gazed at Dion searchingly, intently. "He will demand your sanction, my liege. To give it, you must place implicit trust in me. Do you, my liege? If not then I cannot be of use to you. Brother Paenitens will leave and never return."

Dion hesitated. He recalled the glimpse of that abandoned soul. He's testing me again, Dion thought, suddenly resentful. And the question came to him, unbidden: He may be, but who is testing him?

"I will give Dixter instructions to provide you with whatever you need, my lord."

Drawing the hood of his cowl up over his head, the Warlord-now once more a humble churchman-inclined his hooded head in silent acquiescence. Dion placed his hand on the manual override that would operate the door, was startled to feel Sagan's own strong, gaunt hand close over his wrist.

"A word of caution, Dion. From now on, do not use the bloodsword."

Dion regarded the Warlord coldly. "You have no need to worry, my lord. I can protect myself from him."

Sagan glanced pointedly at the king's hand. "Your cousin has entered your mind, Your Majesty. Have you entered his?"

"Thank you, my lord, for coming," said Dion. "You have leave to go."

Brother Paenitens pulled his hood lower over his head. "God bless and keep Your Majesty," he intoned, bowing low. His voice was muffled. Dion couldn't tell whether or not the blessing was meant in earnest or made in bitter mocking.

"Wait, my lord." Dion stopped Sagan as he was about to open the door. "What should I tell the archbishop? He'll be expecting your return. What should I say?"

Sagan raised his head; the dark eyes, with their flickering flame, met the king's.

"Ask him to pray for me, Your Majesty."

Bowing again, Brother Paenitens was gone.

Chapter Twenty-one.

Thou hast not half the power to do me harm As I have to be hurt.

William Shakespeare, Othello, Act V Scene ii Dion advanced several paces down the corridor until, rounding a corner, he was out of sight of his guards. Then he came to a stop. The door to his stateroom stood before him, closed and sealed. Behind it, Kamil waited patiently for him. His dinner was cold by now, but that didn't matter. He had no appetite left.

He remained standing where he was, needing to be by himself, to assimilate his thoughts, try to recover from the shock of this news. It reminded Dion of the time he'd been wounded during the adrenaline-pumped excitement of battle on board the Defiant. He hadn't even known he'd been hit until someone pointed it out, until he saw the blood staining his sleeve.

While he'd been talking with Sagan, the tension of the constant mental struggle waged between the two strong, opposing wills had forced Dion to keep his thoughts focused on the combat. Sagan would have been quick to take advantage of any display of weakness on Dion's part, quick to rout, conquer, and bend the younger man to doing the elder's will.

Dion was exhausted after the encounter, emotionally and mentally drained. But at least he'd held his ground, stood firm, refused to retreat from his convictions.

"I wonder if he respects me for it?" Dion asked himself wearily. "I wonder if he will ever respect me? And why do I care what he thinks of me anyway? Why am I constantly seeking his approval? I have the power he had and more. I am what he wanted to be. And I attained my success through peaceful means, not the bloody war he urged me to fight. I hope to be a better ruler, a better man than he was. Yet, once, just once, I'd like to hear him say to me, 'Well done.'"

Dion sighed. "I wish I could talk to Kamil about it. Perhaps I will. She wouldn't tell anyone. She'd die before she'd betray me. But then, I'd have to tell her everything-about my uncle. ___" Dion grimaced, sickened, repulsed. "She wouldn't think any less of me. It wasn't my fault. I wonder if my father knew anything about what was going on? Still, it's a shameful, sordid, repugnant thing to have to reveal about one's own kin. No, Sagan's right . . ."

Do not tell your wife ... or your mistress.

The Warlord's remonstration came back to Dion; again it made his face burn.