"My cousin must publicly abdicate," Flaim continued. "He must publicly acknowledge my right to rule. That will make it all so much simpler; don't you agree?"

"Yes, but as I said before, Dion will never do so."

"As circumstances stand now, no, he wouldn't. But circumstances have been known to change."

And he will tell me no more, Sagan said to himself. Not until I commit to him, and perhaps not even then. He will tell me only what I need to know. As I would do....

"You understand, of course, that I can make no decision until I give you the rite," Sagan said. "If you are not worthy-"

"I will be, my lord," Flaim said, rising to his feet. "You will see. I will prove myself."

"Very well, then." Sagan stood, somewhat slowly and stiffly. "Tomorrow, at the suns' zenith. We must use this tent, I presume?"

"Yes, my lord. Whatever you need. You have only to instruct Pantha and me-"

"You will come alone." Sagan glanced at Pantha, who bowed in silent acknowledgment.

"Certainly, my lord. And now, allow me to show you to your quarters." With grace and dignity, Flaim led the way outside the pavilion, pointed out several smaller tents placed around it.

"Thank you," said Sagan, grimacing and putting his hand to the small of his back, "but I would prefer sleeping in my own bed. And I must spend time alone, in private meditation."

"As you wish, my lord." Flaim smiled ingratiatingly. "I will escort you back. Who knows what strange beings may lurk about here at night?"

"Ghosts, perhaps," the Warlord suggested.

"Perhaps," responded Flaim with a quick, intense look.

Sagan's face remained impassive.

Flaim turned to Pantha. "I will see to it that our guest is made comfortable and has all he requires. Good night, my friend."

Taking the hint, Pantha bowed, wished Sagan a healthful sleep, and took his leave, heading for the tent closest to the fire. The blaze was beginning to die down, the massive logs starting to crumble in upon themselves. Gray ashes drifted upward, floated on the night wind. It must have been one of these that brushed softly against the Warlord's hand as he walked past the dying blaze.

He and Flaim continued down the hill. When they had reached the spaceplane safely, the prince expressed his wishes for a pleasant evening's repose.

The Warlord returned the compliment. He was about to enter the volksrocket when Flaim stopped him.

"Do not be surprised to find that you are unable to send any more transmissions, my lord. From this point on, I have taken the liberty of having them blocked. I want my cousin to know my strength. I want him to worry. But now he's learned enough from you. Let him wonder. A sensible precaution, I think."

"Yes," Sagan agreed. "One that I would have taken myself."

Flaim expression turned thoughtful. "Did you ever reach the point where you could afford to trust people, my lord?"

Yes, Sagan answered silently, but by that time, it was too late.

"No, Your Highness," he said aloud. "That is the price one pays."

Flaim nodded, the matter-for him-resolved. Smiling his good night, he walked up the hill. Sagan watched him go, his strides long and confident, his head thrown back, his hand resting upon the hilt of the bloodsword at his waist.

Sagan waited until the bastard prince had vanished into the' shadows. Then the Warlord entered the volksrocket, shut and sealed the hatch. All was quiet within. So very, very quiet.

But he sensed a difference about the silence now. It quivered, like a plucked string on the piano, whose note has faded away past hearing, yet which continues to resonate, sings softly for those who listen.

"Well, my lady," he said aloud, "what do you think of our 'cousin'?"

He received no reply, unless it was the sudden stillness, as if a gloved hand had muffled the singing string.

Chapter Eight.

Of all the plagues a lover bears, Sure rivals are the worst.

I can endure my own despair, But not another's hope.

William Walsh, "Song, Of All the Torments"

Kamil stopped by her dormitory room, ostensibly to drop off her books and change her clothes after morning classes. But her main reason for returning, though she tried hard to pretend to herself it wasn't, was to check to see if some message had come from Dion. She had not heard from him since the night he'd told her Astarte had left him, when he had to return at once, do what he could to contain the damage.

"I cannot permit the scandal," he had said to Kamil, holding her in his arms as if he would shield her from the blow he himself was forced to strike. "It could bring down the throne.

"Why can't they stay out of my personal life?" he'd demanded impatiently. "People who wouldn't give a damn if I ordered the destruction' of a million of their fellow citizens would rise up and howl for my blood on hearing that my wife has left me!"

Kamil had been confused, frightened-for him, he looked so dreadfully pale. Thinking back on it, she couldn't remember what she'd said, or if she'd said anything coherent. And the next moment, he'd kissed her, fiercely, despairingly, murmured something about this being their final good-bye.

Then, "I can't bear it!" he'd whispered, his cheek pressed against hers. "I can't bear to let you go!"

But he had let her go, and she had let him go.

Days had passed, and she hadn't heard a word. She'd monitored the news broadcasts, watched the gossip mags anxiously, but discovered nothing. And at length she had begun to breathe easier, though her heart was heavy enough to cut off her breathing altogether. For if no scandal broke, then Dion had managed to salvage his marriage. Her good-bye to him had been a final one, after all.

Kamil told herself she didn't want to hear from him, that it was better to end it clean, swift, like a laser beam through the heart. But she couldn't stop herself from hastening back to her room, looking first thing at her answering machine. She couldn't stop herself from feeling the aching pain, disappointment, when there was no message there.

This day, she had given herself a stern lecture.

"It's over. You're only hurting yourself by carrying on like this. You haven't eaten in three days. You damn near failed that last calc test. A fine spacepilot you'll make!" she scolded herself derisively. "You're being weak and silly, longing for something you can never have, letting it ruin your life.

"I won't. Today I won't look at that stupid machine. I'll sensibly put down my books and sensibly change my clothes and sensibly eat lunch and then, sensibly, I'll go work in the rose garden. And tonight, when I go to the library, I'll sensibly study. I won't hide in the stacks and cry."

Entering the small room, firm with resolve, strong with purpose, she tossed her books on her bed and started to change her clothes, looking everywhere except at the answering machine. Unfortunately, the denim jeans and work shirt she wore when working in the garden were hanging over the back of a chair that happened to be standing beside her desk, on which rested the machine.

Kamil was about to shut her eyes and try to snag her clothes without looking at the device when she told herself that this was stupid, irrational behavior for an adult. She walked over to the chair calmly, calmly and sensibly picked up the shirt and jeans, and promptly dropped them on the floor.

The light was flashing over "mail."

Kamil's heart jumped, actually ceased to beat for an instant, leaving her suddenly dizzy and light-headed.

"My mother," she said in a trembling voice. "Of course, that's all it is-a letter from mother. I'll be glad to hear from . . . mother."

Firmly she depressed the button, waited with impatience for the machine to process the electronic impulses, translate them into hard copy. The paper began to slide out. Kamil glanced at it. She had actually managed to convince herself that she would see her mother's gigantic, bold scrawl.

But the letter was typewritten, like a form letter. Her hopes rose, though she did her best to trample them back down. For security reasons, Dion always sent his letters to her this way, to make them look like any other everyday piece of mail. And then Kamil saw, at the end, a handwritten note. It was only a few words, but she immediately recognized the writing. Shivering, she clasped her hands together tightly to keep herself from snatching up the paper before the message was complete. And then, even when it was finished, she waited a moment to pick it up.

"He's writing to tell me it's over. That's kind of him. Good for me. Closure, as my psychology professor would say. I need this for closure. Then I can put this behind me and go forward." Kamil drew a deep breath, let it out, and read the letter.

Beloved.

This marriage was a travesty from the beginning. I tried to save it. As God is my witness (if He does indeed care about the follies of mortals, which I must admit I doubt), then I have made every attempt, short of abandoning my dignity as a human being, to reconcile with my wife.

I know now that she does not want reconciliation. She wants only power and she is using this means to try to wrest it from me. I have no doubt her mother is behind this, but my wife goes along with it. She may even be the instigator. I will not submit to their threats, their coercion. It will mean war, something I have always tried to prevent, but they have brought it on themselves.

I will divorce her. Then you and I can be married- what was always meant to be.

We must be patient, however.

The letter was unsigned. But, at the bottom, in a postscript added hastily, was this note in his handwriting.

I am sorry, my dear, but a queen cannot be a starpilot.

"Oh, Dion!" Kamil cried, and burst into tears. "Now, really, this is nonsense!" she said after a few moments. "First you cry when he leaves you, now you cry when he says he wants to marry you."

Drying her eyes, she blew her nose, then read through the precious letter again and again.

" 'Threats' 'coercion.' Poor Dion. It must have been terrible for him. He is truly angry. 'Her mother is behind this.' . . . Well, I don't doubt that, from what Father has told me about the baroness.

"And we're to be married!" Kamil sighed.

She closed her eyes, letting the joy well up within her, wash over her. Opening her eyes, she started to read through the letter again, when her gaze fell upon the postscript.

I am sorry, my dear, but a queen cannot be a starpilot.

"A queen." The word came as a sharp jab. Kamil's joy began to seep out, a trickle of fear seeped in. "Queen," she repeated. Her hands, holding the letter, had suddenly grown cold. "I can't be a queen! I won't be any good at it. Gracious, charming, graceful. Always expected to say the proper thing at the proper moment. Everyone watching me."

Kamil looked down at herself, sitting on the chair in her underwear, which she only wore when she came to the Academy. Such female underpinnings as bra and panties were considered superfluous on her own planet. She looked at herself in the mirror, tried to picture herself in one of the dresses she'd seen Astarte wearing-complete with hat and gloves-and Kamil shut her eyes again. The image was too ludicrous. She could imagine every one of her fourteen brothers, lined up laughing at her.

And behind them, the rest of the galaxy.

"Now you are being silly!" She caught hold of herself, gave herself a mental shake. "Dion loves me. I love him. And now we're going to be together, our love out in the open, for everyone to see. No longer hiding. No longer ashamed or afraid. That's what matters. Not what clothes I'll wear.

"I'll be a queen. I'll go to concerts and dedicate art galleries and visit hospitals and wave and smile and smile and smile . . . in a hat."

Kamil sighed. She rested one elbow on the desk, her head in her hand, and started to read through the letter one more time.

A knock at her door and the simultaneous opening of that door caused her to sit upright, give her wet eyes a quick swipe. She slid the letter underneath the answering machine.

"Glad you're here," said her next-door neighbor, wandering in and making herself at home on the bed. "My head's splitting. If I have to look at another equation I'll jump out my window. You want some lunch? I hear the food in the cafeteria's almost edible today."

"No, thanks," said Kamil, devoutly wishing her next-door neighbor on the next-door planet. "Rose garden time." Hopping up, she grabbed hold of the denim shirt and put it on, buttoned it hurriedly. "I'm behind on my hours. The calc test, you know."

"You can go gardening after you eat."

"I'm not hungry. I don't know where you heard that rumor about the food, but I walked past the cafeteria today. One smell was enough to kill my appetite forever. Besides, I want to finish the weeding before the afternoon sun gets too hot."

"All right. Go kill aphids. Whatever turns you on. By the way, you've got the shirt buttoned up wrong."

"Damn!" Kamil swore, unbuttoned it, started over again. Her eyes stung with tears, for no reason at all. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons.

"You okay?" her neighbor asked. "You look kind of green."

"Fine. Really, I'm fine." Kamil bent down to pull on her jeans. "Uh, you better get going. The molded gelatin salad'll be all gone."

"Only if the gods are merciful!"

The next-door neighbor wandered out. Kamil shut and locked the door. Turning around, she thought at first she would lie down on her bed and cry until she had all tears out of her system.

"No," she said suddenly. "I won't! I never used to cry. I wonder what's come over me? No, I will go sensibly and calmly to work in,the roses, get all dirty and sweaty and tired. And then I'll come back here and take a hot shower and go sensibly and calmly to bed."

Before she left, she started to sensibly destroy the letter. Dion had admonished her to destroy all the mail he sent her. But she discovered she couldn't. This was too precious. She had the strange feeling that if she destroyed it, she might end up destroying her hope. Folding the missive, she kissed it and placed it over her heart, in the pocket of her denim shirt.

The headmaster's rose garden was deserted this time of day-one reason Kamil chose to work in it. In the mornings, classes of art students roamed its picturesque paths, making drawings of the famous statues-Michaelangelo's Pieta and Rodin's The Burghers of Calais-or painting the first early spring flowers. In the late afternoons, the rose garden was a meeting and wandering place for couples of all ages. In the early evenings, before dinner, the headmaster sometimes invited chosen members of the student body to join him in the garden for sherry.

But hardly anyone ever visited the garden in the afternoon. During this hour, the headmaster took his nap-an institution that had become almost sacred to the Academy residents. No one dared disturb the headmaster's nap.

Vehicles approaching the house cut their engines and coasted down the long and winding drive. Students passing anywhere near nudged one another and lowered their voices. The nap even became a time-telling device. Such and such would be done or people would plan to meet at the "nap time."

The most remarkable thing about this was that the headmaster, the meekest and mildest of men, had no idea that his own private and personal nap had become a campus institution. His housekeeper-one Ms. Magwitch-ruled the house wherein the headmaster slept, and it was she and her umbrella-an instrument long and highly underrated as a lethal weapon-who first imposed the reign of silence.

One delivery person had been foolish enough to ring the doorbell, which noise supposedly roused the headmaster from his slumbers (such that he actually blinked, turned his head, and murmured, "What?"). The poor delivery man was met at the door by the infuriated Magwitch, complete with umbrella. The delivery person still shuddered when he spoke of it.

Kamil had arranged a truce with Ms. Magwitch, to the effect that Kamil would be allowed to work in the garden during nap time provided that she used no shears or rake or any other loud instruments of destruction. Kamil had agreed. Most gardening chores are best done by hand anyway.

The roses were not yet in bloom, but new growth was shooting up and so were the weeds. Dead stalks had to be trimmed, while certain bushes, which appeared about to succomb to last winter's frost, were given tender care and a word of encouragement.

Kamil paused in her labors, stood up to rest her back, which ached from bending over the flower beds. Though the roses were not blooming, other planets were. The garden was celebrating spring. The vivid reds and yellows of the tulips and daffodils, the deep purples of the lilacs, set against the bright greens of newborn leaves, was like an exuberant shout of joy after winter's long silence.

Kamil felt like shouting herself, and only the awful image of Magwitch and the umbrella kept her decorously silent. The garden was a blessed place to her, bringing back wonderful memories of the night she and Dion had first expressed their love for each other. Now it would be doubly blessed, for it was here that they would be married. She would be his, he would be hers, they would be one.

Kamil spread her arms wide.

"I will marry you, Dion," she pledged softly to the spring and the azure sky and flaming sun and the new life all around her. "I will marry you and love you and-"

Strong hands grabbed her arms in a firm grip, twisted them painfully, forced them behind her back. Strong hands tied a thick piece of cloth around her mouth, yanked it between her teeth, gagging her.