The man left the fire, strode rapidly down the gentle slope of the hill, came to stand in front of the Warlord. Reaching out his hands-his movements graceful, respectful-he took hold of the hood covering Sagan's head and laid it back, revealing his face.

The Starfire eyes regarded Sagan intently, taking in every line, every shadow.

"It is you," the man said at last. "I knew you would come. Welcome, my lord. Welcome."

He extended his hands. Sagan's hands opened. The young man grasped them in a firm, strong grip.

"Welcome, my lord," he said again.

"What are you called?" Sagan asked, studying the younger man's face, attempting to trace some feature he knew, find a family resemblance.

This young man and Dion were first cousins. Coming from an incestuous liaison between brother and sister, they were linked genetically closer than most first cousins. And there was a resemblance. But beyond the eyes, which could have been exchanged two for two, the resemblance was subtle-a way of tilting the head, an echo in the voice, the lift of the hand.

"I am Flaim," said the younger man, with a glance at the blazing fire and a smile that included Sagan in the jest. "The name was my poor mother's choice. She was something of a romantic, Pantha tells me. I have a poem she wrote shortly after my birth, explaining the name. It is a long, rambling piece, filled with images of purifying fires, exploding suns consuming the universe, that sort of thing. Probably all sexual in nature; a psychiatrist would find it most enlightening.

"Yes," he added, in response to Sagan's frowning, questioning look, "I am aware of the truth about my past. Pantha has never made a secret of it. Why should he? I have no need to be ashamed. In this age, are we to allow ourselves to be governed by out-of-date taboos handed down from our forefathers? We might as well be wearing their animal skins and living in their caves.

"But come, my lord." Flaim gestured toward a large pavilion set on a rise beyond the crackling blaze. "Come inside, rest yourself. Take food and drink. We have much to talk about, you and I." He took hold of the Warlord's hand. "I have heard so much about you. It is good to meet you at last."

Sagan made no response, and his silence did not seem to disappoint Flaim. He smiled again, a warm smile, brilliant as the eyes, and, keeping hold of the Warlord's hand, led him with charming grace to a large striped tent that had been erected on a level plot of ground near the fire. The tent flap was raised, attached to two spearlike poles thrust into the ground. A glowing brazier inside kept the pavilion warm. Colorful rugs covered the ground, tasseled bolsters provided arm rests when seated.

As they entered, a man emerged from the shadows at the back of the pavilion. Flaim motioned to him.

"Garth Pantha. Lord Derek Sagan. I don't believe you two ever met," said Flaim, his gaze shifting from one to the other, curious to note the reaction of each.

"No, I never had the pleasure," said Pantha, extending his hand. His voice was the deep, rich baritone that so enthralled his millions of fans, and though he must be nearing ninety, he stood erect, walked firmly, had obviously kept himself in superb physical condition.

Sagan saw the accumulation of years in the wise scrutiny ofthe dark eyes, in the white hair that was a marked contrast to the black skin, in the tightening of the flesh across the finely sculpted bones of the face.

"I never had the pleasure of meeting you, my lord," Pantha repeated, "but I do feel that I know you. I have followed your exploits with interest. I remember hearing about you and your Golden Squadron. I said to myself, 'There goes a dangerous young man, one who knows what he wants and will take it.' "

Pantha smiled, shrugged. "Too bad I did not share my concerns about you with Amodius. Not that he would have listened. And I must admit that the Revolution caught even me by surprise. I discounted Abdiel, you see. As did others. .. ."

His keen gaze probed, sought to penetrate.

Sagan met the gaze, blocked it, turned it.

"Needless to say I am quite familiar with your exploits, sir." the Warlord returned. He added, with a significant glance at the world around him, "Though obviously not all of them."

Pantha chuckled. "Well put. I trust you studied your instrument readings on your way here. I would be interested to know what you deduced-"

"Enough, my friend," Flaim interrupted, placing his hand on the Warlord's shoulder. "The two of you can discuss scientific anomalies at a later time." He drew Sagan away from Pantha, who-with a glance of fond indulgence-bowed and faded back into the shadows.

But Sagan saw the old man's eyes gleaming in the firelight.

"Seat yourself, my lord. Forgive the informality of our surroundings." Flaim watched over the Warlord anxiously, eager to promote his comfort. "I intended that our first meeting should take place in absolute privacy-as much for your sake as my own. The alcazar where I reside is a large building. There are those on my staff who would know you by sight. You want people to believe you dead. I respect that, you see. Whether and when you reveal the truth shall be your decision."

Sagan stretched out on the rugs, reclined against the armrest. He refused an offer of food, but accepted water. Flaim himself poured the water into a silver tankard, placed it within the Warlord's reach. Assured that he could do nothing more to add to Sagan's comfort Flaim sat down cross-legged, with the ease and elasticity of a youth. His face was sideways to the firelight. Sagan's face was turned toward the light. Pantha sat in the shadows, near his prince.

"By the way," Flaim said, placing his hands on his knees, "did you see something move out in the night as you were coming our direction? I saw it, and I thought you did as well, for you stopped and turned. What was it? Do you have any idea? Was someone out there?"

If so, Sagan thought, sipping at his water, you don't appear to be much worried. No guards in sight. And just what did you see? Or think you saw? Her? It's possible, I suppose. You are Blood Royal. ...

"I heard something rustle in the brush," he said aloud. "I assumed it was some animal."

Flaim appeared dubious, regarded Sagan in thoughtful silence, as if wondering how to say politely that he knew the Warlord was a liar.

"It could have been one of them, my prince," said Pantha from out of the shadows.

Flaim's brow cleared. "Yes, you are right. I hadn't considered that. Of course they would be curious. And now, my lord," he continued, leaning forward eagerly, "tell me, why have you come?"

Sagan carefully replaced the tankard upon the multi-colored rug on which he reclined. Lifting his gaze, he looked into the Starfire blue eyes, spoke quietly, calmly.

"I come in search of a king."

Flaim seemed in an instant the embodiment of his name. The heat was palpable.

"You have found him, my lord," he said softly.

Sagan's heart constricted with a strange pain. He saw a resemblance at last, a striking resemblance, but not to Dion. The Warlord saw himself.

He hadn't expected this, wasn't prepared to face it.

"That remains to be seen," he said coolly, looking down at the water, seeing his reflection again in the smooth surface. "I have questions, many questions. And there is the rite of initiation."

"Yes, my lord. So Pantha told me. I am ready."

"He did not tell you too much?" Sagan's eyes narrowed. He looked at the old man.

"Only what is permitted, my lord," Pantha said. "Flaim needs nothing more, as you will see."

Yes, Sagan concluded, I can well believe that. Still, we will see. . . .

"And now it is my turn to ask a question: What is it that you want, Flaim Starfire?" Sagan asked.

"What do you think, my lord?" Flaim's answer was illuminated by his blazing smile. "The throne, the crown. I want to be king."

"Gaining that will be difficult."

"Of course." Flaim shrugged, nonchalant. "My cousin Dion knows about me, doesn't he? You told him what you discovered at the hospital. You told him the doctor's story."

"I told him. He was already aware of you, though." Sagan glanced pointedly at the bloodsword.

Flaim caressed the hilt with his hand. "We've seen each other, but not communicated. Not as you and I have, my lord. I decided it would be best if information about me came from you. He would believe you. But that wasn't the only reason I arranged the hospital scenario. I wanted to pique your curiosity, my lord."

"Scenario." Sagan frowned. "Was her story a lie?"

"Oh, no, my lord." Flaim was suddenly serious, earnest. "The doctor told the truth. She was with my mother. Pantha knew her. He was the one who later found her. He can tell you."

Sagan glanced back into the shadows, to the old man's gleaming eyes.

"I made certain, my lord," Pantha said, "that I found out the name of every person on the staff. I kept files, complete dossiers on each. I knew, you see, that someday my prince might need these people to come forward as witnesses."

Sagan stirred, but said nothing.

"But, as I told you, I was not expecting the Revolution. It upset our plans considerably-"

"Our plans?" Sagan interrupted.

"Mine ... Amodius's. Oh"-Pantha waved a hand, barely visible in the shadows-"Amodius didn't instruct me in so many words, but I knew him. He was ambitious, more than most would credit him. Why would he give me the child, if he was not certain that I would raise him to be a king, and that someday I would bring the boy back to claim his rightful inheritance?"

"Not rightful," Sagan corrected mildly.

"And why not?" Pantha demanded, with a flare of anger. "Taboos of the dark ages!"

"Taboos with a reason."

"Bah!" Pantha waved that away. "Such societal laws made sense to our benighted ancestors, but that was before genetic engineering. Are we saddled with any of the rest of their archaic ideas? They used to believe that man could not travel faster than the speed of light. They used to believe that they were the only creatures with intelligence living in the galaxy. We no longer subscribe to those outdated notions. Why should we be forced to follow their outmoded codes of morality?"

"Pantha, my friend," interposed Flaim, suddenly cool and imperious, with a hint of steel, "please desist. Now is not the time."

The older man said nothing further, subsided back into the shadows. Flaim turned to the Warlord.

"You must forgive my dear friend's ardor. He is right, of course, and, as I said, I am not ashamed of my parentage. But I understand that the taboo against incest is a gut-level feeling for many humans, not something that can be argued away rationally. It comes with the same cave-man instincts that pump adrenaline into our blood, enabling us to run away from the lion.

"Pantha would have me reveal my birth openly, but I can see where it would cause problems. I have therefore concocted documents which prove my father's secret marriage to a woman of whom he was enamored in his youth. What was her name, my friend?" Flaim turned to Pantha. "I can never recall it."

"Magdelena of Artemis 6," answered the old man. "You know the story, naturally, my lord."

"Yes," said Sagan. "I know Amodius loved this woman, openly courted her. I also know that she died of the plague which swept over that planet."

"Of course she did," said Flaim. "But who's to remember that now? We play with the truth, keep the elements of the truth alive. She goes insane. Her family locks her away, gives out to the media that she's died of the plague. But Amodius, faithful to the love of his life, visits her monthly, fathers a child. ..."

"Why didn't he introduce the baby into court as the legitimate heir, then?"

Flaim shrugged. "Who knows? Many reasons. Perhaps Amodius wanted to make certain I was strong and healthy. Perhaps he hoped my mother might recover her sanity and could herself be introduced as queen. Does it matter? Because then comes the Revolution. Amodius and my uncle are murdered. Pantha, fearing for my life, keeps me hidden away. Much as the Lady Maigrey and her friends kept my cousin Dion hidden. You see, my lord, the seeds of the romantic tale are already planted in the people's minds. They will accept my story without hesitation."

"Ingenious," Sagan admitted. "And quite convenient of the doctor to die and make a deathbed confession at this point in time. How did you manage to find her?"

"Pantha discovered her." Flaim glanced at his mentor.

"The Revolution was a devastating blow to me," Pantha conceded. "When I heard the reports-"

"You had a base established for yourself here on Vallombrosa prior to your 'death,' I take it?" Sagan interrupted.

"Of course. The planet's 'inhabitants' performed the work for me, built a place for me to live. But you will hear more of them later. As I was saying, I was here on Vallombrosa when I heard the reports. I feared the worst-that the hospital, all the records, all witnesses had been destroyed. I hastened to the planet, traveling in disguise, of course, for I was supposed to be dead.

"Investigation led me to believe that this doctor had escaped the pogrom. I traced her-a long and tedious task. Eventually I learned the name of the man with whom she fled. Fortunately, since he was not Blood Royal and therefore in no danger, he saw no need to change his name. She simply altered hers to his.

"A study of passenger ship records enabled me to discover the name of the planet on which they disembarked. I found them and kept them in sight, hoping that the day would come when the doctor would be of use. And it did."

Sagan shook his head. "The doctor could testify that Amodius had fathered a son. But she also knew that Flaim was not only illegitimate-which would in itself prevent him from ascending to the throne-but that Flaim was the product of an incestuous union. I don't see how this helps you."

"I must admit that at first I wasn't certain myself. I had various ideas. Perhaps we could 'persuade' the doctor to go along with our story. A risky procedure, but . . . who knows?" Pantha shrugged. "Everyone has a price. Fortunately, we did not have to resort to that. Three circumstances made our next move ob-vions: the fall of the corrupt government of Peter Robes; Flaim's young cousin coming to power; and you, my lord, disassociating yourself from him."

"I felt your disappointment, my lord," said Flaim earnestly. "I understood. Dion was not what you hoped he would be. But then, he didn't even know his own name until four years ago. I have always known who I am. I was raised to be a king."

He looked to Pantha and smiled. The younger man reached out and clasped the old man's hand. Pantha nodded; the firelight in the dark eyes shimmered a moment. Then, clearing his throat, Pantha continued speaking, in a low and husky voice.

"You see, my lord, at that point, it was no longer a question of having to prove my prince's claim to the universe. We had only to prove it to you."

Sagan was silent, thoughtful. He shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. There is an art to reclining on rugs and cushions, just as there is an art to kneeling all night in prayer on a cold stone floor.

"You find the doctor. The doctor has contracted a deadly disease." Sagan pursued the subject with interest. "What did you do then?"

"I discovered that she was a convert to the religion of the Order of Adamant. From there on, my course of action was plain. It was fortunate for us that she became infected with this particular disease. The progression of the illness is slow. It does not debilitate the mind, but leaves it-in its weakened condition-open to outside influences. It was a simple matter to induce the 'dreams,' drive her to make her confession."

"Fortunate?" Sagan asked.

Pantha smiled, shrugged. "Many of her patients were infected. The odds were against her, and she knew it. She was not surprised to find she had accidentally contracted it. Nor did she ever suspect otherwise"

Sagan nodded. "The doctor's death was necessary," he conceded. "But now two other people beside myself know the truth. The reverend mother, who heard the confession, and the archbishop."

"The reverend mother has suffered a most unfortunate accident," Pantha said gently.

Sagan frowned, said pointedly, "The archbishop is a friend of mine. I trust he will not have an 'accident.' "

"Oh, no! Most assuredly," Flaim answered, looking surprised.

"We would never- That is, we know you will be able to deal with the situation."

Yes, I can deal with it, Sagan thought. I dealt with it in the past.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked slowly. Holding up his hand, he halted the immediate response. "First, know this. If you're expecting me to use my influence to convince Dion to abdicate the throne, forget it. He will never do so. He is strong, stronger than you think, perhaps. His loyalty to his people is great. He will not be easily coerced or intimated. And so long as he has the space-rotation bomb in his possession, you are powerless to touch him."

"I understand, my lord," said Flaim. "Do not imagine that I underestimate my young-cousin. The same blood burns in our veins. But Dion's very strength is also his weakness. He has the space-rotation bomb, that is true. But he will not use it. Am I right in this, my lord?"

Sagan made no response.

Flaim, smiling to indicate that the secret was safely held between the two of them, went on.

"What do I want from you, my lord? Your support, of course. Your expertise, your knowledge. Your leadership. I will make you Lord Commander of my forces. My armies are immense, powerful. My people are fiercely loyal and committed to one thing-making me king. And then there is our secret weapon. You had a brief-but I would guess impressive-demonstration of it upon your arrival."

"You plan to go to war, then."

"No, my lord. I do not want to." Flaim shook his head emphatically. "Cousin Dion once made an extremely interesting point. It is not wise to declare war upon one's own people, he said. You start out with half your subjects hating you. I would avoid that, as he did."

Sagan was beginning to understand.