That had occasioned the restless, sleepless hours. There might still be a way. Now, of all times in his life, he needed Kamil, needed her love, support, understanding. There had to be a way. .. .

"Dion . . ."

He raised his head, looked up. "Hello, sir," he said. "I didn't hear you come in."

Dixter settled himself in the comfortable chair opposite the king's desk, eyed Dion intently. "I heard the reports of your illness. Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked with characteristic bluntness.

Dion smiled wanly. "Just a touch of space sickness. I'll be all right. And, actually, it proved a convenient excuse for canceling my appointments." He drew in a deep breath, sat up straight, back rigid. His face was the face of the mirror. "Tell me everything. How bad is it?"

"Not as bad as it could have been, Your Majesty," Dixter said gravely. He rubbed his grizzled chin, appeared embarrassed.

"Look, sir," said Dion, "let's drop the formalities. This isn't going to be easy on either of us. I'm sorry you had to be involved-"

"Better me than someone else, Dion," said Dixter. "Astarte came to me because she knew you and I were old friends. She doesn't want scandal, any more than you do, than we all do. She's an intelligent woman. She knows how critical this time is for you. She knows the wolves are out there, waiting for you to stumble, waiting to rip your throat out."

"Then why is she doing this?" Dion demanded irritably. "I think you better read this, son." Dixter held out a letter. "She left this for you, in my care."

Dion took it, stared at it. It would contain reproaches, accusations. It would be bitter, vindictive. Very well. Then he could reply with justified anger. Anger felt good to him at the moment. Far better than guilt.

He opened the letter. Rising to his feet (motioning Dixter to remain seated), Dion walked over to the window, held the letter to the sunlight to see it better. Actually, his desk lamp was perfectly adequate, provided excellent light, but he needed the excuse to keep his face to himself.

The letter was written in ink, by hand-Astarte's hand, neat, small, precise, beautiful-much like herself.

My husband, They have wronged us. Politics brought together two who were not meant to be together. We were both very young. We were given no choice. We were given no help. Like those in a fairy tale, when the story ended, they shut the book on our lives and assumed that we would live happily ever after. Yes, they have wronged us.

I have wronged you. I knew, on our wedding night, that you loved another. That was all right. I loved someone else, too. Or at least I thought I did. The Goddess, in her divine wisdom, showed me I was wrong. I should have told you. I think it would have made a difference between us. But I was proud, too proud to admit I had a rival. I thought, woman-like, that I could win you over. Yes, I have wronged you.

You have wronged me. You have broken the vows you took-to honor; respect. You did not respect me enough to make me your friend, if you could not make me your lover. You have not respected me enough to confide in me. You could have told me the truth, that you loved someone else. Yes, it would have hurt me, but how much more have you hurt me, hurt us berth, by your cold silence? Worst of all, you have made no effort to give up this love. You have defended it with every weapon you can lay your hand on, you use them to drive me away. What do you fear? That you might, accidentally, love me ... just a little? That you might be unfaithful to her? Yes, you have wronged me.

I do not intend to create a scene or a scandal. I am leaving to give us both time to think calmly, now that the truth has been spoken. I do this now, because I know our marriage has reached a crisis point. I will tell the media that I am returning home to celebrate the Spring Blooming Festival, which is a holiday of great significance to my people, honoring, as it does, the redemptive power of the Goddess. Our people would be pleased if their king would come to participate in the festival.

Will you, my husband? Will you take this opportunity to say anew vows that now lie dead beneath winter snows? Will you reach out to one who feels affection for you? She is prepared to forgive you your wrongs, if you can find it in your heart to forgive hers.

The letter was signed, In honor and respect, your wife. And below, penned in a more agitated style, was the postscript, This will be between ourselves!

Slowly, Dion folded the letter up. Slowly, he slipped it back into its envelope, slowly slid the envelope deep inside the breast pocket of his uniform coat. He waited a moment before turning around, not because he needed time to conceal his emotions-that was impossible; they ran far too deep. He waited because he was looking, for the first time, into that mirror image of himself.

"Your Majesty .. ." Dixter said, concerned. "I'm all right," Dion replied. Drawing in a deep breath, he turned, walked back to his desk, resumed his seat. "Do you know what she wrote, sir? Did she show you the letter?"

"No, son, of course not. But I have a pretty good idea. She told me everything. She seemed to need someone to talk to. She's very lonely, Dion."

"I know. Damn it, I know! Everything she said was true. And more. A lot more. She had the grace to spare me the worst." He hesitated, then said, "I have been having an affair." "Olefsky's daughter," Dixter said quietly.

Dion started up out of his chair, alarmed, amazed. "How could you know? Did she know, say anything-"

Dixter flushed. "I'm sorry. 7 shouldn't have said anything. It was just a guess on my part, Dion. Nola told me all about your relationship, years ago, when she heard you were going to be married to someone else. She was worried about you, wanted me to keep an eye on you. Your secret's safe with me."

"Safe with you. Safe with D'argent, safe with Cato, safe with his men, safe with Olefsky and his wife . . ."

"Not one of these people would betray you, son."

"No," said Dion, "but what must they think of me? I am their king. I'm supposed to be the example-"

"You're also human, Dion," said Dixter with a gentle smile.

"And how can one be both?" Dion walked away from his desk, returned to the window. "Strange, that this should come right on the heels of the other. An object lesson from God, Sagan would say."

"Sagan." Hearing the name, Dixter leaned forward. "You heard from the archbishop?"

"I heard from Sagan, spoke to him."

"He is alive," Dixter murmured.

"Very much," said Dion dryly. "More than he wants to be, I think. He had an interesting tale to tell. As if I don't have problems enough. Apparently I'm not the only reprobate in the family."

Dion related the doctor's confession. John Dixter listened in attentive silence and if he was shocked or repulsed, he kept his feelings concealed. At the conclusion, he only shook his head.

"It's hard to believe. And yet, it isn't. Many of the Blood Royal came to think that they were above the laws which governed ordinary men. Your uncle, the king, for one. Sagan, for another."

"Me-for a third?" Dion said, glancing at Dixter. "And yet, if I were an ordinary man, I would not be in this situation. I would be married to Kamil. ..."

"You made the choice. Your Majesty."

"Yes. I made the choice. But now we have additional worries," he said briskly. He reported Sagan's speculations and deductions concerning Pantha, the child, Vallombrosa.

Dixter frowned, shook his head again when Dion told him of the Warlord's advice to destroy the planet outright. The admiral nodded, appeared to agree with Dion's refusal to accept the starjewel, arm the space-rotation bomb. Yet nevertheless, at the end of the king's report, Dixter again rubbed his chin, sighed.

"And now we can do nothing but wait."

"And trust in Sagan," Dion said.

John Dixter heard the ironic tone, shook his head. "That's the part I don't like. What did you think of him?"

"Dangerous. Maybe more dangerous now than he ever was. Then he had a purpose, a mission, a divine calling. Now he has nothing, consequently nothing to lose. He thinks even God has abandoned him."

"And yet you do trust him." It was a statement, calmly made.

"Yes," said Dion, after a thoughtful pause. "I trust him. I can't tell you why. Maybe because ... what other choice do I have?"

"Several." Dixter shrugged. "Not the least of which is the one he made you himself. Oh, maybe not explode the bomb on them, but we could send in warships, a show of force-"

"Against an uninhabited planet? Send the fleet into a dead part of space? We'd look like fools."

"Call it a training exercise, maneuvers-"

"The media would jump on it like starving hounds. They'd be bound to uncover something-this Ghost Legion, if nothing else. We'll let Sagan confront my cousin, find out what he wants. Find out if he even exists. Then, when we know the facts, we can deal with the matter."

"And then Sagan can make his choice," Dixter said softly.

"What did you say?" Dion looked up. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid I was thinking about something else."

"Nothing." Dixter waved a deprecating hand. "Just talking to myself. A bad habit. Comes with getting old. With Your Majesty's permission . . ."

"Certainly, my lord." Dion stood up. The interview was at an end.

Dixter rose to his feet. "I'll double the guard around the space-rotation bomb. And I'll post a few ships in the general vicinity of Vallombrosa. The worsening situation on Maluvura will give us a good excuse. It's near there."

But John Dixter didn't leave. He stood gazing thoughtfully at the king. He was obviously wanting to add something, say something further.

If I were an ordinary man, Dion said to himself, if I were Tusk, for example, Dixter would rest his hand on my shoulder; offer some bit of wise advice. He wouldn't expect me to take it, not really. He'd just be saying it to let me know he cares. That he understands.

But he can't understand. He knows that; he is coming to realize it now. And so he won't say anything. What man dares offer sympathy to his king?

What king dare accept it?

"Good-bye, sir," said Dion. "Thank you for coming. As I said before, I am sorry you were involved."

After Dixter had gone, Dion stood a moment in silent thought; then, sighing softly, he summoned his secretary.

"Establish communication with the planet Ceres," he told D'argent. "I want to speak to . . . my wife."

Chapter Three.

Giving honor unto the wife, as unto the weaker vessel.

The Bible, 1 Peter 3:7 Dion sat at his desk, studying-or trying to study-the latest proposals for a peaceful settlement on Muruva. He was wondering, in reality, what was taking D'argent so long to reach Astarte, had placed his hand on the commlink twice to find out and, twice, had withdrawn it. His secretary knew quite well what he was doing, how to manage it discreetly. Better than Dion, who-now that he thought about it-had very little idea where Astarte was, how she could be reached.

Almost an hour passed.

Something's wrong, Dion realized, giving up all pretense at working. He was on his way to find out what, when the door opened and D'argent entered.

The secretary's cheeks were flushed, the quiet, calm demeanor disturbed.

"Forgive the delay, sir. I am unable to reach Her Majesty."

"Yes, and ..."

D'argent's lips tightened. It was the first time Dion could recall having seen his secretary angry. "The Baroness DiLuna wishes to speak to you, sir."

"So much for keeping this between ourselves," Dion muttered, speaking before he thought. "Her Majesty ran home to her mother!"

"Not precisely, sir," D'argent replied, his expression softening somewhat. He had always liked the queen. "According to my contacts on Ceres, Her Majesty has returned to the Temple of the Goddess, which, although it is located in the central city-state of Ceres, is high in the mountains. It is isolated, at some distance from the palace. Her Majesty was raised in the temple, sir. She is High Priestess. It would be natural for her to go there, rather than to the palace of her mother. The two of them have never been particularly close. As you might guess. Her Majesty is not the type of daughter the baroness would be proud to have 'sired,' so to speak."

Dion knew the relationship between mother and daughter was tense. The baroness visited infrequently, and when she did, Astarte was quiet and reserved, seemed to retreat into herself. Dion-who had always been on friendly terms with the baroness, as long as he didn't have to be around her a great deal of the time-recalled that he had noticed his wife's unhappiness during one of her mother's visits, but had never bothered to discuss it with her, never cared enough to find out the reason.

"I assume you attempted to reach Her Majesty at the temple. If that's possible ... It's not closed to outside communication, is it?"

"Oh, no, sir. It is quite large, as large as a city itself, and they have an extremely sophisticated communications network. They are the central authority for a religion that has a vast number of followers, not only on their home planet, but throughout their system, as well as several systems nearby. Mostly due to the efforts of Her Majesty, the religion is spreading. Her Majesty is quite popular with the people, sir."

Is that meant as a subtle rebuke? Dion wondered, eyeing his secretary with a momentary flicker of displeasure. Well, what if it is? he asked himself. I have earned it.

"You can't get through to her there, I take it."

"No, sir. All channels to the temple and vicinity are closed. The excuse is some sort of solar disturbance, but I am convinced that they are being jammed."

"The baroness."

"Undoubtedly, sir. Her Majesty may have no idea that this is happening."

"How would DiLuna find out, then?" Dion asked, still suspicious.

"Her Majesty's guards, sir, are far more loyal to the baroness than they are to Her Majesty."

"I see." Dion pondered.

Something else he hadn't known. He had always assumed that his wife and the warrior women who dogged her every step were all part of the same sisterhood. Now he was being forced to take a different view of the matter.

She's lonely, Dixter had said. Dion had wondered at the time how that could be possible. He was beginning to understand.

"I'll talk to the baroness," he said, heading for the room ad-joining his office, his own personal and private communications center.

"It won't be pleasant, sir," predicted D'argent ominously, leaving to make the necessary arrangements.

No, thought Dion, but then I've asked for this, too. He was not extremely apprehensive, however. He had earned the warrior woman's respect by piloting a spaceplane during the Battle of the Void, as their flight from Corasia had come to be called. As commander he could have remained in relative safety on the bridge of Phoenix, but he had chosen to lead his troops into battle. DiLuna gloried in combat and figured that, because he had chosen to fight, he felt the same.

Dion had never disillusioned her, never told her-or anyone-that he'd been testing himself. The first time he'd flown combat against the Corasians, he'd panicked, been captured, taken prisoner. Maigrey and Sagan had been forced to risk their lives to rescue him. A hot rush of shame suffused his body whenever he recalled that incident. He was determined, the first chance he had, to prove himself to them.

But by then Maigrey was dead, had given her life to save his. Sagan had vanished. Dion had been left to prove himself to himself. He'd done it. He had overcome his fear, fought well-as both Sagan and Tusk had taught him.

If he hadn't, he would not have been king. He'd made up his mind to that. It was the least he owed them.

Ever since that time, DiLuna had thought quite highly of her son-in-law; more highly of him than of her daughter, apparently.

"Baroness DiLuna," he said, and added the formal greeting in her own language, when her image came on the vidscreen. "It is a pleasure to see you again."

She was an imposing woman. Oyer sixty years old, she had borne daughters who had themselves borne daughters, who were nearly of an age to bear daughters themselves. Her scalplock was pure white, no longer jet-black, but her black eyes were as fierce and proud as they had been in her youth. Tall, strong, well-muscled, she still trained her warriors-men as well as women-in hand-to-hand combat herself, offering a purse of golden eagles to anyone who could best her. Few had been known to win and those few were immediately promoted to either her own personal guard (the women) or her bed (the men).

"My liege lord." She acknowledged Dion with an abrupt jerk of her head that set her gunmetal earrings to jangling discordantly.

No bow, no formal greeting in return. The expression on her leathery, heavily lined, and battle-scarred face was unreadable. Dion could make nothing of it except for, perhaps, a faint hint of elation, triumph.