That boded ill, and he was on his guard.

"It is a pleasure, as always, to speak with you, Baroness," he said, using her formal title in her own language, of which the common Standard Military term of "baroness" was, in reality, only a crude translation, "but I am endeavoring to reach Her Majesty. She is, I believe, residing in the Temple of the Goddess. How long do you anticipate these solar interferences to last?"

"A long time," said DiLuna, black eyes glinting. "Perhaps indefinitely. Who can say? Our sun is unstable. Such manifestations often occur when the Goddess is displeased."

Dion stirred in silent anger. Ceres' sun was as placid as was possible for a burning mass of gases and molten rock to be. But he maintained his calm, refusing to let DiLuna provoke him to anger-one method she often used to defeat an unwary opponent.

"This is most inconvenient. Naturally, I am concerned about my queen's safety and well-being-"

"Since when?" DiLuna's lip curled.

Dion was hit. She'd drawn first blood, while he'd been standing flat-footed. So this was how Astarte kept her promise to keep this quarrel between themselves. Dion could do nothing, however, but pretend he had not been wounded, hope the bloodstain wouldn't show.

"Truly, this interference is most annoying," Dion said coolly. "I was unable to hear your last remarks, Baroness DiLuna. I have enjoyed speaking with you, but I am hoping to speak to Her Majesty. Perhaps she could come to the palace, since it appears that your communications channels are not affected-"

"That is not possible, my liege lord. My daughter prays to the Goddess for the salvation of her marriage and the destruction of her rival."

Her words entered Dion like sharp steel, drew life's blood this time. He could not breathe, for the pain and the fear that suddenly engulfed him. Destruction of her rival! His one thought, which he clung to as a stable point in the reeling room, was that he could not, he must not let this woman know she had mortally wounded him.

"I want to speak to Astarte," he said coldly, thickly. "My wife."

"That is not possible. You have no wife. You broke the sacred vows of marriage and by that act you insulted not only my daughter, but her people, her nation, her Goddess. We consider this an act of war. We therefore declare ourselves independent of your rule and authority and will establish our own monarchy."

"War!" Dion repeated, unable to believe what he was hearing. "You would send your people to war!"

"In a minute, my liege. But"-DiLuna smiled, in smug triumph-"I doubt if that will be necessary. The scandal alone would topple you, Dion Starfire. But it can all be smoothed over. I believe I could persuade my daughter to forgive and forget, if you will accede to our demands. First, you will make my daughter queen, not queen-consort. She will share equally in the rule of the galaxy and, upon your death, will succeed to the throne. Second, you will make the worship of the Goddess the official religion of the galaxy and require all your subjects to follow it. Third, you will pay us a large sum of money-the exact amount to be agreed upon later-as reparation for the harm you have done our world. There are certain other conditions, but we will discuss those when the main terms have been met."

Dion had relaxed somewhat. He was able to smile himself, the smile of the mirror. "These demands are impossible, Baroness. Make them public and the rest of the galaxy will think that you have gone insane. Your own people will not tolerate this. You will do them incalculable harm."

He was calmer now, able to think, react rationally. "Baroness, I will not deny that Her Majesty and I are having problems. What marriage doesn't? But they are our problems. It is up to us to work them out. I want to speak to-"

"These wretched flares. Your transmission is breaking apart," called DiLuna loudly. "I could hear nothing of what you just said, my liege lord. We will speak on this matter again."

"I want-" Dion began, but the image of the baroness dissolved. "Damn!" He struck the console with his hand. Turning, he walked away, came back. He depressed a button on the commlink. "Reopen that channel," he commanded D'argent. "Belay that," he said in the next breath.

Straightening, he ran his hand through his hair, glared in anger and frustration at the vidscreen. What a stupid, ugly, sordid little mess. And it was Astarte's fault! Why the devil had she run off? Why hadn't she confronted him directly?

Her letter had touched him, had made him see his error. He had been prepared to admit his guilt and make a very real at-tempt to start to build a relationship. But now . . . she had lied to him, she had promised to keep this secret, but she had obviously told her mother. Astarte might have known how DiLuna would have reacted....

Of course she knew! This was part of a plot. She was in league with her mother to gain more power for herself, untold wealth for her planet. Dion had never supposed his wife had wanted more power; she had always seemed content with her own duties, which were considerable.

"But then I never really knew her," he said to himself. Thirty minutes previous, he would have made that statement in a remorseful tone. Now he said it in anger.

He tried to decide what to do. He had no doubt DiLuna meant what she said. She would make the scandal public, she would ...

A spark fell on the withered hopes and dreams in his heart. The flame burst into life, rushed throughout his body, blood crackling with excitement.

Divorce. This was his chance, God-sent. He could divorce Astarte, marry Kamil.

He kept very still and let the fire spread, fanned the flames, warmed himself at the blaze, tried not to be blinded by the smoke.

"Say that I refuse my wife's demands. If she truly expects me to give in, she will have no recourse but to go public. The parliament will react in shock. Astarte has no claim to the throne; she's not Blood Royal. The people don't want a religion-any religion-imposed on them. And they certainly won't want to hand over large sums of money to an aggressive and warlike race.

"As for her accusations against me-Astarte has no proof." Dion tamped down the flames, deliberately poured cold water on the fire to permit himself to think clearly. "No," he determined at last. "She has no proof. She couldn't possibly. As Dixter said, no one who knows of the affair would betray me. I will simply deny the allegations.

"Astarte is popular with the people, but their favor will wane when she shows herself willing to risk our marriage in an attempt to grab more power."

Dion reached into his pocket, took out the letter. 'And to think I almost fell for this, madam."

He tore the letter in half tore it in half again, dropped it into the disposer canister, where it was reduced, in a fraction of a second, to ash.

Chapter Four.

With the dead, there is no rivalry.

Lord Macaulay, "Lord Bacon"

"You have done what, Mother?" Astarte rose from her throne, faced DiLuna in shocked outrage. Footsteps emphasizing each word, the queen walked slowly and deliberately down the stone stairs of the dais, advancing on her mother. "How could you? How could you! You have ruined everything!"

DiLuna stood over six feet tall, hard and strong as steel, arm muscles firm and well delineated, chest muscles smooth and pronounced, thigh and leg muscles hard as any youth's. Her daughter was not quite five-foot-four, soft-skinned and soft-muscled, fragile. Yet it was DiLuna who fell back a pace before this white-faced, flaring-eyed fury, whom she barely recognized. Or perhaps she did recognize her. Perhaps, for the first time since the frail child had been born to her, DiLuna saw something of her own steel in her daughter.

"How dare you?" Astarte demanded again, taking advantage of her mother's momentary shocked dumbness. "You knew my wishes! How dare you countermand them?"

DiLuna recovered herself, smiled indulgently. "You silly little chick! I did it for your own good, of course." Her voice hardened. "If you have no pride, I do. Did you think I would let this man disgrace you? Disgrace me? Disgrace our family? Our people? No, by the Goddess! He will pay for his betrayal!"

"What betrayal?" Astarte asked. She was suddenly cool, wary. "What are you talking about, Mother?"

Turning away, clasping her hands, Astarte walked across the gray marble floor of the temple to stand by the wide-open doorway. She pretended to be absorbed in the view from the columned portico, pretended to gaze at the beautiful parorama of trees and flowers, sweeping downward into a lovely valley, then upward to majestic mountains. In reality, her eyes, hidden by the long lashes, were darting sideways, keeping anxious watch on her mother.

"I said nothing of any betrayal," Astarte continued. "We have grown apart, that is all. The pressures of his schedule and mine. This separation was meant to give us both time to think. Now, thanks to you, Mother," she added bitterly, "that is ruined. His Majesty is probably furious with me now. And I don't blame him!"

"Bah!" DiLuna snorted. "You know perfectly well he has been sleeping with another woman."

"I know no such thing," Astarte returned.

"Then you are a blind mole! Your women know."

So that's it, Astarte realized. That's how she found out. I should have known. Damn! Damn! Damn!

Her small fist curled, clenched tight against her stomach. She took care to keep her unhappiness and disquiet concealed.

I have to be strong, she reminded herself. I have to be strong or I will lose everything ... if I have not already lost him. . . .

"But don't worry, Daughter," DiLuna was continuing. "Your rival is one problem that can be easily managed."

Astarte stiffened; her stomach muscles clenched. A foul taste, as if she'd been chewing on the bitter leaves of rue, coated her tongue, dried it, made it difficult to speak. She moistened her lips, waited until she was certain her voice would sound natural.

"What are you talking about now, Mother?" she asked, with affected irritation.

"Ridding you of your rival, of course."

Astarte swallowed, drew in a breath. "I have no rival. This is all in your mind."

"You have, and I will give you her name. Maigrey Kamil Olefsky. She and the king have been meeting at the Academy. He was with her, in fact, the night you left him."

Astarte was thankful she was standing next to a column. Without its support, she might have fallen.

"You need take no part in this, Daughter," DiLuna advised her. "I will make all the arrangements. It is lawful."

"A law that has not been used in centuries, a law that dates back to a time of barbarism." Astarte said in a low voice.

"Yet it is written," said DiLuna, shrugging. "His Majesty himself decreed that local custom shall take precedence over galactic law."

"Not when it comes to murder." Clasping her hands together hard to keep them from trembling, Astarte turned around.

Head held high, she faced her mother. "In any case, I am the one wronged. I am the one who has the right to claim the blood price."

"That is true," DiLuna was forced to concede.

She eyed her daughter dubiously; then, suddenly smiling, the baroness patted her daughter's smooth pale cheek in what she probably considered a caress. But DiLuna's touch was rough and callused; her long, sharp nails were cold as real nails made of iron. Astarte held herself rigid beneath the touch that had never in her life been loving, gentle.

"Little Dove," said DiLuna softly, "what do you know of such things? Let Mother arrange it, take care of it for you."

Astarte reflected. She could use her power as High Priestess to order her mother to keep out of her affairs, take no action whatsoever.

DiLuna would counter that this was a political matter, not a religious one, and she would be right. Their society had always been extremely careful to keep the two separate. Astarte might reply that the Goddess had everything to do with the marriage covenant, the bearing of children, the continuation of the race. But in her case, where the marriage had been made for strictly political reasons, the point was debatable. And DiLuna was not one who would be interested in debating.

"Give me until tomorrow at this time, Mother," Astarte begged, suddenly meek and contrite. "I want to pray for guidance. This . . . this is so unexpected." She allowed the tremor to show in her voice. "You can't ask me to make a decision on this now."

"Poor Little Dove." DiLuna's iron nails pressed into Astarte's flesh. "Pray to the Goddess. She will comfort you and reassure you. What I do is right. The Goddess will agree with me that this man who deceived you, who sows his seed in another and keeps your womb barren, must be humbled, chastised, brought low. Who knows but that he has not already fathered a child with this bitch? No, this threat must be averted."

"Mother, please leave me now." Astarte could scarcely breathe, barely forced the words out. Her mother's touch, her words, the images they conjured twisted inside her; jealousy's poison worked on her.

What if he had? What if this . . . this woman is pregnant? Her mind blurred, her thoughts swirled and eddied among dark places. Perhaps Mother is right. Better this woman should die....

Astarte seemed to hear the voice of the Goddess; the Holy Mother was stern, sad and disappointed.

Don't you remember the vision? The warning?

Realizing what she'd been thinking, Astarte was appalled at the depths to which she had sunk. She struggled upward, until she once again found herself in calm water.

DiLuna was gone. She had seen the fierce jealous anger in her daughter's face, had obviously assumed this was a propitious time to depart.

Astarte, recovering her strength, left the outer temple, and retired to the inner sanctuary, kept sacred to the priests, priestesses, and their acolytes. No one else was permitted to enter this holy chamber-not DiLuna, not Astarte's "bodyguards"-in reality her mother's spies. Here the queen was certain of being alone, here she could meditate undisturbed, for when the High Priestess was in the Holy Sanctuary, no one else was permitted to enter.

The Temple of the Goddess was a vast complex, the center of worship for millions of followers. It was built on the steppes of the sacred mountain. The Goddess had descended these steppes, so it was believed, from heaven, to deliver her children safely into this blessed land.

Astarte knew the truth, as did all her people. It was on these steppes the early space travelers had landed. But her race had always found it easy to blend the harsh, gray colors of fact with the softer, more beautiful shades of mythology.

No one knew quite when the worship of the Goddess began. Various sociologists had written innumerable learned treatises on the subject, but no two ever agreed, and few paid attention to them anyway. The religion's seeds may have been brought from old Earth, and were related to the ancient religions that revered the All-Mother. But it did not take root and flourish in this culture until the strange illness decimated the male population, left the females to struggle in the new world on their own. With their men weakened, debilitated, dying, it was not surprising that the women came to view their deity in a strong female form.

Even now, years after the hormone-based disease had been isolated and conquered, with the male population thriving, the people of Ceres and its surrounding systems retained their ma-triarchal culture and their worship of the Goddess. Men as well as women served Her; the priests practicing their own rites and ceremonies. Young boys as well as young girls were required to give a year of their lives to the Goddess, learning to respect life and the land that gave it, both of which were the Goddess's special province. Women were held in high esteem in the society; the crime of rape was practically unknown.

But there was darkness in the past, arising from the early bad times when society was in chaos, the women fighting among themselves to propagate their race. The few fertile men who survived became valuable commodities, a source of wealth and power to the women who owned them. A wife would share her husband and his seed with other women-for a price.

But if the husband decided to indulge in a little private pleasure on the side-spent without being paid, as the saying went-his wife was entitled to remuneration. The price was often paid in blood, the injured wife having the legal right to kill her rival.

The custom belonged to the history books now. Most people on Ceres would be shocked to hear of the commission of such a barbarous act. But it was a part of their heritage and, knowing and respecting their past as they did, they would most likely (however reluctantly) approve the deed.

DiLuna knew this, and so did Astarte. The realization of how easy it would be to have her rival put out of the way appalled her. That-and the temptation to do so.

She entered the chapel. Several novices, young girls, were placing fresh garlands of flowers and fruit at the feet of the statue of the Goddess. They bowed in awed reverence to the High Priestess. Urged by the duckings and whispered scoldings of their priestess overseer, they blushingly hastened to leave the chapel.

When they were gone, Astarte made the customary offerings at the altar, then knelt at the Goddess's feet. This statue was ancient, the oldest in all of Ceres, dating back to the very beginning of the religion. It portrayed the Goddess in her mothering, nurturing form; the warrior image would come later. The perfume of the freshly cut flowers and the fragrance of the fruit mingled with the sweet smell of incense.

Astarte took time to rearrange one of the garlands. Nervous, childish hands had dropped it in the wrong place. Remembering a time when she had been one of those young girls, remem-bering how she had loved and adored this statue which, to her, had been the only true aspect of the Goddess, Astarte sighed. She had learned a lot since then.

"What am I to do, Blessed Lady?" Astarte prayed aloud. She was not afraid of being overheard here; not even her mother's spies would dare commit such sacrilege. "I could return to my husband. It would mean a bitter argument with my mother. She could not prevent my leaving, but she would certainly make it difficult, keep me here as long as possible.

But going back to Dion now would avail me little. The damage has been done. He would never believe that I was not in on this plot with my mother. He would never trust me, never respect me, and I could not blame him. And if anything were to happen to this woman he loves, he would accuse me. And he would hate me for it-always."

Shivering, Astarte lifted one of the flowers, smoothed its petals. "I see your guiding hand in this, Blessed Lady. I know my mother. She was planning to murder this woman without my knowledge. I would have never discovered her plot if you had not brought me here. I will not fail you, Holy Mother. I will not fail my husband ... or myself."

Rising to her feet, Astarte made a deep reverence to the statue, whose eyes gleamed warm and approving in the flickering altar light. "My way is clear, Holy Mother. Grant me strength."

She left, heading for her own private quarters in the temple complex. Due to the "solar disturbance," Astarte would not be able to communicate with the Glitter Palace, but she guessed it would be possible to transmit messages to other, ordinary places in the galaxy.

On her way to her own private communications center, the queen did, for her, an unusual thing. She stopped to pay homage-with a prayer and a gift of a golden dagger with a jeweled hilt-to the statue of the Warrior Goddess, who reigned over a small, dark chapel of her own.

Chapter Five.

The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.