"No. I am sorry. It is not permitted. Your will is too strong, sir," he said to Pantha. "You might inadvertently influence your prince."

Garth Pantha bowed, nodded.

"And I trust the strange dark-matter creatures will not interfere," Sagan added, casting his gaze around the pavilion, the hillside, the trees, the mists.

"Pantha has spoken to them," Flaim replied. "They do not, of course, understand, but they have agreed to leave the vicinity in order that their energies do not unduly influence the proceedings."

"How very gracious of them," Sagan remarked wryly.

He realized, suddenly, what was wrong, why he was irritable and out of temper. Others were in control here. He was not-a new circumstance for the Warlord. Flaim might treat him as an honored guest, the prince might even look up to Sagan, admire him, accord him respect. But a turn of a key in the cell door makes the honored guest a prisoner. And even less effort makes the prisoner a corpse.

Sagan held open the tent flap. Flaim walked confidently inside; the Warlord followed. Pulling the flap down, he secured it carefully, shutting out all traces of gray light that seeped inside. The interior of the pavilion was suddenly extremely dark. Flaim couldn't see and came to a standstill, not wanting to bump into anything.

The Warlord took hold of the prince's arm, guided his steps to the table that stood in the center of the tent.

"At your feet," said Sagan, "you will find a robe. Take off your clothes and put it on. Take off your weapon, as well," he added, aware that Flaim wore the bloodsword at his side.

Flaim knelt down, felt for the robe. "Ah, the customary hair shirt," he said, grimacing at the feel of the rough cloth.

"It is not permissible for you to speak unless I ask you a direct question," Sagan reprimanded.

"Sorry," said Flaim in a low tone, a hint of a laugh in his voice By the rustling sounds, he was changing his clothes.

Sagan made his way around the table, feeling the edges with his hand. Finding what he needed by touch, he lifted a white beeswax candle, lit it, placed it in a silver candleholder that stood at the end of the table. The other objects on the table remained hidden beneath a black cloth.

Flaim's head emerged from the crude, slit neckline of the garment. His face was flushed; the candle flame burned in the Starfire-blue eyes. His shining raven hair was tousled. He shook it back out of his face, squared his shoulders, smiled.

Looking into those eyes, Sagan saw another young man, saw Dion standing in precisely the same place. His face livid, his body shaking in uncontrollable fear, the boy had very nearly been sick.

I'm going to die, Dion had said.

Sagan lifted the cowl of his habit up over his head. He lit another candle, placed it at the opposite end of the table.

A white circle on the floor glistened in the light.

"Stand in the center of the circle," Sagan instructed. "Do not break the line."

Flaim did as he was instructed, moving forward into the circle of salt confidently, still smiling. He was enjoying this.

Dion had walked into the circle with trepidation, certain he was going to his death.

Sagan began to speak the ritual words. "Creator, one comes before you who is on the verge of manhood [No, that is ridiculous! leave it out]-who seeks to understand the mystery of his life [and that is not true, my lady. Look at his face. He understands all too well].... We of the Blood Royal have been granted talents beyond those of other men ... use our mental and physical prowess to protect and defend ... [I didn't, as you, my lady, reminded me. I used it to conquer. And so will this one]."

The rite continued. The four elements: earth, air, fire, water. "Man seeks control over each," Sagan intoned.

Flaim stood in the center of the circle, eager and expectant as a child about to receive a longed-for gift.

"This night, Flaim Starfire, you come to me . . ." Sagan paused. "To us," he amended softly, grimly, acutely aware that he wasn't alone. "You come to us to be initiated into the mystery. You seek control of that which is beyond the control of most. If the Creator deems you worthy, you will be granted that control. [And if He doesn't, I'll take it, that's what you're thinking, Flaim, isn't it? Yes, I know. I remember thinking the same.]"

Reaching out his hand, Sagan removed the black cloth that covered the objects on the table. Candlelight gleamed off a silver wand, a silver pitcher filled with water, a silver dish filled with oil, a silver ball.

Flaim's hands flexed beneath the sleeves of the robe, his fingers twitched. He licked his lips, his breath came quick and hard.

Sagan reached for the silver wand. Maigrey had performed this part of the rite. Her hand had been the last to touch it. He picked it up.

"Air. The breath of life. The wind of destruction."

He moved the wand in a slow circle. The air around them began to stir, a wafting breeze that caused the candle flames to flicker. The wind strengthened, the candles began to smoke, the flames whipped around the wick. And then they were blown out.

Dion was suffocating. The boy, clutching his throat, was gasping for air and not finding any. There was terror in his eyes, which were bulging from, his head. His lips were turning blue, his chest jerked, the muscles fighting frantically to sustain life.... The boy dropped to his knees. . . .

The prince laughed exultantly in the darkness and gulped in a deep breath.

The wind died. The candles flared back to life. Sagan placed the silver wand down upon the table.

"Earth," said Sagan. "Matter. You can control matter."

Lifting the silver globe from the table, he tossed it into the air. He exerted his will upon it. The metal globe hung suspended in the air above his head. Its appearance began to change. Razor-sharp spikes protruded from its surface.

"Place your hands beneath it," Sagan instructed.

Flaim did as he was commanded, extending both hands beneath the ball, which was studded with flesh-piercing spikes.

The globe began to drop.

"Hold," ordered Flaim, and the globe halted, hung above his hands.

"Fall," commanded Sagan, and the ball dropped.

A look of anger marred Flaim's face; the blue eyes flared as the candle flames had flared. He cast a glance at Sagan, a fiance of enmity from one who does not like his will thwarted, bested. But Flaim did not move his hands. He held them steady, ready to catch the spiked ball.

The globe fell; the knife-sharp spikes made an eerie whistling sound in the air and a dull, soggy, plopping sound as they drove through flesh and muscle, tendon and bone. Blood spurted. Dion screamed. His hands were impaled on the silver globe.

The spikes withdrew an instant before they touched the prince's flesh. Flaim caught the ball with ease. He smiled at Sagan-a grim smile, a smile of triumph.

Sagan reached out to take hold of the silver ball.

Flaim clasped both hands around it, crushed it. He tossed the pieces, like bits of broken eggshell, on the black cloth.

"Water." Sagan lifted the pitcher. "From which comes life. Cup your palms." He poured water into Flaim's hands. "Drink."

The prince lifted his hands to his mouth, drank deeply.

"What did you taste?" Sagan asked.

"Blood," Flaim answered.

Upending the pitcher, Maigrey poured the water on Dion's injured hands. The cool liquid flowed over the palms, bringing relief from the pain, seemingly, for he closed his eyes, tears sprang from beneath the lids. The water mingled with the blood, washed it away.

"Fire. Sustainer. Destroyer."

The oil lamp burst into flame. Before Sagan could say a word, Flaim placed his hand over the fire, brought his hand down on top of the flames. The fire licked his flesh. He covered the lamp with his palm, smothering the flame, then lifted his palm, his right palm. It was red, already starting to blister from the self-inflicted burn. The five scars made by the needles of the bloodsword oozed a darkish liquid.

The expression on Flaim's face had not altered, not changed.

Dion never made a sound, but stared with a calm, terrible fascination at the flame covering his hands. The fire blazed, finally died. When it was out, the flesh of his hands was left whole, untouched, unblemished, healed.

"My lord," said Flaim, holding out his burned hand, "have I proven myself to you? Will you grant me your support?"

Sagan smoothed the black velvet cloth with his fingertips. He stared into the candle flame, which glowed steadfast, unwavering in the still air. His fingers brushed over a cool spot of water, splashed on the cloth. He cut himself on a jagged piece of metal-all that was left of the silver ball. He remained standing, unmoving, silent.

Flaim did not move, did not make a sound, though the pain of his injured hand must have been severe.

Sagan stirred, spoke aloud, but softly. "I helped put Dion Starfire on the throne. I pledged my allegiance, my loyalty to him. He knew-everyone knew-that I had misgivings about him, about his ability to rule. But Fate conspired against me." He looked at Flaim. "Chance, coincidence-call it what you will. I fell from grace. Dion rose. I left the world ... to avoid temptation."

Sagan raised his hands, removed the cowl that covered his head, settled it back on his shoulders. Reaching out, he took hold of Flaim's hand, his right hand, his burned hand. Sagan grasped it, pressed it hard, tight.

Flaim tried to maintain his stoic demeanor, but the pressure of the Warlord's grip was too much. A gasp of agony escaped his lips. He flinched; a trickle of sweat trailed down his temple, glistened on his cheek.

But then he smiled, fierce, exultant. He straightened his shoulders, shook the black hair from his face. And he strengthened his grip on the Warlord's hand, pressing burned flesh to callused flesh, fresh scars left by the bloodsword matching long-unused scars.

"I came here searching for a king," said Derek Sagan. "I have found him."

Chapter Ten.

In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe.

William Walsh, "Song, Of All the Torments"

Kamil awoke in a peaceful, quiet room of green-tinged shadows weaving back and forth against a far wall; of muted sunlight, bird song, and the gentle melody of a flute playing softly near her. She lay in a comfortable bed, with clean, sweet-smelling sheets, and stared around her in a serene, calm, and uncaring state-the aftereffects of the drug. She was drifting on the surface of a placid lake after a terrifying struggle with horrible things beneath its surface.

The green-tinged shadows were leaves and branches, stirred by a fragrant breeze. The flute music stopped. Kamil glanced in its direction.

A young woman, seated at a table near the window, had been playing. Seeing that Kamil was awake, the woman smiled at her and, taking the flute with her, left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Shortly after her departure, the flute music began again, repeating the same melody, as if the player were practicing it. The tune was simple and sweet, with the faint undercurrent of melancholy peculiar to the song of the flute, whose every breath seems a sigh. Kamil hummed it, lying in her bed, looking drowsily about her, and then she remembered everything.

Her broken arm lay across the coverlet, wrapped in a more sophisticated type of inflatable sling than the cyborg had used. The arm was numb, felt heavy and foreign; it didn't belong to her. Fearfully she moved it, was relieved to see her fingers wiggle. There was no pain; Kamil assumed this was due to whatever drugs they had been giving her.

She sat up and looked more closely around her room. Her clothes were neatly folded on a nearby chair. They'd been washed, apparently, for all traces of blood and dirt were gone. She was wearing some sort of sleeveless gown made of cotton.

It was comfortable, if not fancy. The room was a small bedroom, not much bigger than her dorm room back at the Academy.

Sliding out of bed, pausing a moment to recover from a wave of dizziness, Kamil padded softly to the door. Slowly, quietly, she tested the handle. Not locked. She crept over to the chair, grabbed her clothes, and dressed herself with considerable difficulty, encumbered by the sling and lacking the use of her right arm. It was especially frustrating attempting to button her shirt, but she managed and, sliding on her shoes, was just about to glide out the door when it opened and someone glided in.

Kamil sat down on the bed and tried to look as if she hadn't been going anywhere.

Astarte smiled coolly, but said nothing. The queen was wearing some type of loose-fitting white garment that fell in soft folds from her shoulders. A golden belt, made to look like sheaves of wheat, circled her slender waist. Her dress came to her ankles; golden sandals, matching the belt, covered her small feet. Her shining black hair was done up in an elaborate twist. Her eyes-with their vivid, glittering wine hue-seemed the only bright color in the softly colored room.

Another young woman, standing behind the queen, carried a tray draped with a white cloth. Astarte gestured. The young woman placed the tray down on the table. A delicious smell- fresh-baked bread-scented the air. Kamil gazed at it longingly, all thoughts of escape put on hold.

"Are you hungry, Daughter of Olefsky?" Astarte asked. "Yes, I thought you would be when you awoke. Xris advised us not to give you anything to eat until the drug wore off. He said you'd get along without food fine for a few days. You were given water, of course. You probably don't remember much about the trip, do you?"

Kamil shook her head. What she did remember, she'd just as soon forget.

Astarte sent the young woman out of the room, bid her shut the door. Advancing to the table, the queen removed the cover from the tray, fresh fruit, cheese, a loaf of warm bread.

"I don't suppose it's the type of fare you're accustomed to eating," said Astarte, folding the covering cloth meticulously and placing it at the side of the tray. "Your people are carnivorous. I believe. We do not eat meat, particularly in the temple environs. I should not do so myself but I am often forced to-a concession I made when I became queen. It would not do to offend a host-such as your father-by refusing what is served. The Goddess understands. Come, eat."

Kamil stared at the food, her mouth salivating, but she made no move to leave the bed.

Astarte shook her head. "You will accomplish nothing by starving yourself."

That made sense. Kamil stood up, went over to the small table, started to sit down. Then she realized she was in the presence of the queen, who was still standing. Kamil caught herself, stood deferentially.

Astarte smiled again, but this time her smile was strained. "You think it perfectly all right to make love to my husband, yet you wait for my permission to be seated in my presence."

Kamil flushed, embarrassed and guilty; angry that she was being made to feel embarrassed and guilty.

Folding her hands, Astarte sat down gracefully, her back straight, head high. "Go ahead, Olefsky's Daughter," she said, her tone no longer bitter, but sounding only resigned. "Sit down. Eat your meal."

Feeling foolish, but not knowing what else to do, impelled by her hunger, Kamil sat down in a chair opposite Astarte's. Lifting the bread, Kamil began to eat, then remembered her manners.

"Will ... will you have some, Your ... Your Majesty?" she offered awkwardly.

"No, thank you. I have dined. And don't call me that. It sounds . .. ludicrous." Astarte waved her hand. "I don't suppose you call my husband 'Your Majesty.'"

Kamil was chewing bread. She swallowed the piece, then laid her hand down on the table, the remainder of the bread uneaten. Her gaze fixed on her plate; her body grew cold, stiffening.

"I'm sorry," said Astarte suddenly.

She reached out her hand, rested it on Kamil's hand, which was still clutching the piece of bread. Astarte's long fingernails brushed Kamil's skin, their touch cold, a contrast to the warmth of her fingers.

"I'm being a bitter, vindictive wife." Astarte sighed. "That won't accomplish anything either. I don't want to alienate you, Olefsky's Daughter. Of course, we can't be friends. That would be ludicrous." She smiled briefly, wanly. "But we do have one thing in common. Dion. We both want what is best for him."

Kamil said nothing. Removing her hand slowly but gently from Astarte's touch, she resumed eating.

The queen drew in a deep breath, placed her hands once again in her lap. Whoever was playing the flute outside her door had started over. Kamil knew the melody well enough by now to flinch whenever she heard a wrong note.

"Your name is Maigrey Kamil," said Astarte. "But they don't call you Maigrey, do they?"