"No, no, thanks." Tusk licked his lips.

"We'll have luncheon served in about half an hour. I can't visit with you long, I'm afraid. Not as long as I'd like. You don't know, my friend," said Dion after a moment's pause, "how good it is to see you."

"Yeah. Well, it's .. . uh .. . good to see you, too, kid. I mean, Your . . . uh . . . Majesty." Tusk shifted uneasily in the chair. He eyed Dion. "Maybe I shouldn't be saying this, but you don't look real good."

" 'Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,' you know," said Dion with the practiced smile. "Pressures of the job. You can't imagine," he added, voice softer, the smile fading, "how many times I've thought about you. About the old days. When it was just you and me and XJ. When I was ordinary."

Tusk ceased his restless fidgeting, regarded Dion with an odd intensity. "You were never ordinary, kid. You were then what you are now. Like that comet Dixter used to talk about. The rest of us just sorta got caught up as you flew by. And I wish to God we never had!" he exclaimed suddenly, fiercely, bounding out of the chair.

Hands in his pockets, he headed aimlessly for the windows. "These things open?" he asked abruptly. "It's stuffy in here."

"No," said Dion, rising, looking after his friend in concern. "Security reasons, of course. They're laserproof steelglass, like on the old Phoenix."

"Able to withstand a bomb blast, I suppose," Tusk muttered. He was standing with his back to Dion, working at something with his hands, working swiftly and deftly, to judge by the motion.

"Yes, something like that." Dion took a step forward across the sculptured carpeting, decorated with the royal seal. "Tusk- are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No," said Tusk, turning around. His voice was steady now, his demeanor calm. Sunlight glinted off a metal object he held in his hand-an object he pointed at Dion. "You are."

Dion stared in disbelief. "What are you talking about? Tusk, if this is some kind of joke-"

"No joke, kid," said Tusk grimly. "And just hold it right there, will you? You see this?" He exhibited the object in his palm. It had been the snake belt buckle, was a belt buckle no longer. "You remember that gun you used to try to kill Sagan that night at Snaga Ohme's? The one Abdiel designed to get past the Adonian's security?"

"Yes." Dion stared at his friend.

"This is something like it. Almost. Runs off a little tiny nuke cell in my watch." Tusk held up his wrist. "Not as fancy or as powerful as the gun you carried, but this one works the same way. Except that it only fires in one direction-where I point it."

"Are you going to use it on me?" Dion asked steadily.

He couldn't believe he was this calm. None of this was real-that was the reason. None of this made sense. He was waiting for Tusk to laugh and tell him that the gun was really a chocolate bar. . ..

"Are you going to kill me?" Dion persisted.

"No, kid. We need you alive. But I'll use it on anyone who thinks they'd like to try being a hero. Like that secretary of yours, for instance. Or maybe Cato or Crassus or any of the rest of the boys.

"You see, kid," Tusk continued, keeping the gun aimed at Dion, "we're going to be taking a little trip. Now, you can make this real easy and safe for everyone concerned, or you can cause trouble. In which case, a lot of people will die. Including your wife," he added.

And now everything began to come together.

"I could kill you right now, Tusk," said Dion quietly.

"Yeah, I know," Tusk said, glancing around the room. "You got all these fancy security devices, hidden lasguns and so forth. What is it-one word and I'm a dead man?" He shook his head. "But you won't."

"No, you're right, I won't," said Dion softly. "I couldn't. That's why they chose you, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Tusk with a brief bitter laugh, "that's why they chose me."

"Whose idea was it?"

"Sagan's."

Dion sighed. His shoulders slumped. He began to massage his burning, aching right hand. "And Astarte? She's safe?"

"So far," Tusk said. "Kamil, too."

"Kamil!" Dion looked up swiftly. "How-? No! That's not possible... ."

"It is, lad," said Tusk, almost gently. "I know. I saw her. I . . . uh . .. talked to her."

"Dear God!" Dion murmured in agony. "What have I done? What have I done?"

He leaned against his desk for support, stared down unseeing at the objects on it. Then he focused on one of them. Smiling wanly, he reached out. . . .

"Steady," warned Tusk, moving a step closer.

"It's . . . nothing," said Dion. He picked up a small blue leather box. Flicking it open, he held it out for inspection. "You see? Nothing."

Tusk looked inside. A spasm of pain crossed his face. Keeping the gun aimed at Dion, he took the small eight-pointed star out of the box. He stared at the star; then, slowly, deliberately, he closed his hand over it.

"What a sucker I used to be."

He shoved the earring in his pocket.

"Come on, Your Majesty," he said harshly, waving the gun. "Quit stalling. And don't think I'm gonna get sentimental, either. What went down between us was a long time ago. Times have changed. So have you. So have I."

Dion shook his head. "It won't work, Tusk. I'm not going with you. I don't know what my cousin wants from me, but he won't get it. These men, my guards"-the king glanced toward the door-"are pledged to die-not for me, but for what I represent. I'm not just a person, Tusk. I'm the king."

Tusk grunted. "They're pledged to die for you; it comes with the job. But what about all these other people you got livin in this mother castle? How many are there-a few hundred? And what about this city? Another coupla thousand? Men, women, little kids? They pledged to die for you?

"You heard about what happened to those military outposts? I give the signal and the same thing happens here, Your Majesty. Buildings squashed like some giant something stepped on 'em. Quakes that go clear off the damn scale. I've seen the 'ghosts' work, kid. I saw one of the outposts get hit. It's weird. Kind of spooky. The only sounds you hear are the screams of the dying."

"Ghosts?" said Dion.

"His Highness calls 'em strange dark-matter creature? They do his bidding. The blood that was spilled in the palace the night of the Revolution will be nothing compared to what the creatures will do if he unleashes them. And two of the bodies they'd find in the rubble will be your wife's and Kamil's."

"I don't have much choice, then, do I?" Dion said in quiet defeat. "What does my cousin want with me?"

"Family reunion, maybe," said Tusk. "I don't know. And I don't care. My job is to bring you. That's it."

"I can't just leave, disappear...."

"You won't. You're going to Ceres, to be with your wife. A religious retreat. Give thanks for her 'escape from death.' We'll arrange a live broadcast to the galaxy once we're on board ship. And don't worry. You won't be gone long. A coupla days ought to wrap this business up.

"Now"-he motioned with the gun at the commlink-"tell your secretary you're leaving, coming with me for oltl time's sake. We'll use the back route, take the unmarked limo to the spaceport. You'll be doing the driving. Tell your chauffeur we won't be needing him today."

"You've done your homework, I see," said Dion, reaching for the commlink.

"Not me. Derek Sagan. I think he knows you better'n you know yourself, kid." Tusk grunted, gestured again. "Talk. And don't try anything fancy."

"D'argent, I'm . . . going to be out of the office for a while. I need some time to myself. Tusk and I are going to the spaceport to see the old Scimitar. Inform the Prime Minister that I'll meet with him tomorrow. And call off this evening's press conference."

"Very good, sir," came D'argent's cool voice. "And shall I reschedule your five o'clock appointment with Mr. Gold?"

Dion hesitated, glanced at Tusk.

The mercenary regarded him grimly.

"No," the king said, after a moment. "No. I will be back in time to meet with ... Mr. Gold."

He ended the communication, straightened, stood up.

"What was that Gold business?" Tusk asked suspiciously. "Some type of code?"

"Yes. D'argent suspects something's wrong. He's highly intuitive. If I'd said to him "Yes, reschedule'-"

"-the room'd be crawling with guards. Only they'd be dead guards before long. This secretary won't do anything on his own, will he? Won't decide to be a hero?"

"No, D'argent obeys my commands. Besides, I've told him everything was all right."

Tusk continued to regard Dion with doubt. "I hope you're telling the truth. For all our sakes."

"Tusk-" Dion began.

Tusk glowered, frowned, motioned toward the hidden door. "Get movin', kid."

"You will address me as 'Your Majesty,' " Dion said.

"Yeah? Well, maybe not for long." Tusk's grin was stiff, like rigor mortis had set in. "I just found out what the word usurper means. Oh, and bring the bloodsword. His Highness's orders."

The secret panel slid open. The king, carrying the bloodsword, walked through it.

Tusk followed along closely behind.

Chapter Eight.

God save the king! Will no man say, amen?

William Shakespeare, Richard II, Act IV, Scene i Once on board the Scimitar, Tusk barely spoke to Dion. The mercenary spent most of his time flirting with his attractive copilot, introduced to the king as Captain Cynthia Zorn. XJ was also quiet and appeared to be in low spirits, an unusual condition for the loquacious and irascible computer. Tusk attributed this to the sustaining of a recent shock that had disrupted its systems.

The Scimitar had changed, too. The hard-fighting spaceplane now resembled a spacegoing motel. Dion recognized hardly anything about it, except the cockpit. And he wasn't allowed there.

He had little time to feel nostalgic for the old days, however. Safely out in deep space, certain that they were not being followed, the Scimitar joined up with a warship. Dion was received on board without either honor or ceremony. He was immediately escorted to a communications room. There he was handed a prepared script, which he was told to read as written. Any deviation and he would face reprisals of an unspecified nature.

He had no intention of rebelling. Giving the matter serious thought during his trip on the Scimitar, Dion decided that the best way was to go along with his cousin, make the required broadcast. To do anything else would start rumors flying, set the media wondering and speculating, and cause panic among major systems already unnerved by the supposed attempt on the queen's life. Dion could count on Admiral Dixter and the prime minister to deal with situations which might arise in the king's absence. Meanwhile, he would deal with this family matter.

A family matter. That was how he came to view it. An ugly, dark, insidious inheritance, bequeathed to him by his unfortunate uncle. The sins of the fathers, visited upon the heads of the unsuspecting sons. This hadn't been Dion's fault, but it was now his responsibility. A family matter. He was the only one capable of dealing with his cousin.

"Capable ..," Dion repeated with a twisted smile. He looked at his right hand, the inflamed scars. "He rages inside me, taunting, teasing, provoking, constantly probing my mind for its secrets. And what do I do in return? How do I affect him? A shadow on his mind perhaps, nothing more than that. I can't do more!" Dion argued. "I can't focus on him."

The king stared at his reflection-a ghostlike image wavering in the steelglass, insubstantial and ephemeral against the cold blackness of space. "He slid into my mind through the cracks, through the self-doubts, the constant questioning, the inner turmoil. And he has none of these. His mind is honed and sharp and unflawed. It is a weapon he can use with skill and agility. Like a weapon, it lacks compassion. But what has compassion ever brought me," he questioned bitterly, "except sleepless nights?

"He is the epitome of the Blood Royal, the perfect rider: soulless, uncaring, practical, fearless. He is what Sagan wanted me to be," Dion added with a grim, disparaging look at his pale, flat twin in the glass. "And my lord has apparently now found a king he can honor.

"But surely you don't honor my cousin, do you, Lady? He isn't what you meant for me to be." His voice softened. He thought of Maigrey, appearing to him in her silver armor, her hand upraised in warning. "Yet where are you? Why don't you come to me now, as you came to me once before? Surely this isn't what You want a king to be?" he asked of the impenetrable, eternal darkness. "Surely this isn't what You intend? Will You help me? Support my cause?"

He waited, listening for the still small voice within to bring comfort, reassurance.

Nothing. Silence.

"Very well," said Dion after a moment. He clenched his fist over the scarred and wounded palm. "This is a family matter, left for me . . . alone."

Dion made his broadcast, told the people their king was going on a private religious retreat, assured them he would be gone for only a few days, asked for their prayers and their un-derstanding. It was a good speech, touching, well written, and sounded very much as though Dion had constructed it himself. The cadence, the rhythm, the music of the words, the declamation of a thought, all these might have been Dion's. But they weren't. They were Flaim's.

Having never known any close blood relations, Dion had never been forced to question what part of him was truly himself and what part he owed to genetics. He had always imagined, fondly, that he was a unique and singular creation. Now suddenly he was confronted with the disquieting fact that perhaps he was merely one in a long, long line. . . .

When the broadcast was complete, the warship entered the Lanes, made the Jump to Vallombrosa.

An armed guard escorted Dion from the warship to the fortress palace of the prince located on Vallombrosa. The king was shown to his quarters-a suite of rooms located deep in the interior of the strange, labyrinthine building, which had no reason or logic to its design but appeared to have been scooped up and thrown together by the children of giants.

His rooms were large and chill and sparsely furnished. His door locked on the outside. Guards stood in front of it.

Dion was gazing bleakly at his uncomfortable surroundings when the guard thrust open the door.

An elderly black man entered. He bowed politely, introduced himself as Garth Pantha, the prince's aide and mentor. Pantha was respectful, deferential, and asked Dion if he would be so kind as to favor them with his presence before dinner.

"Your wife," Pantha added gravely, "is most anxious to see for herself that you have arrived safely."

Dion replied coldly, "I will most assuredly come."

Pantha led him into a large, high-ceiling hall, with flagstone floors, tapestry-covered stone walls. A huge fireplace stood at one end; a roaring blaze gave light and warmth. The room seemed filled with people.

Confused and slightly disoriented by his bizarre surroundings, Dion could not, for a moment, place any of them. He saw disembodied heads and faces; eyes, familiar eyes, stranger's eyes. No one spoke.

And then suddenly he was aware of Astarte's eyes, of Kamil's shining hair, of Sagan's face emerging from darkness, of Tusk turned sideways, not looking at him.

Walking toward Dion, moving with die same gait, the same grace, was his own shadow.

"Dion Starfire," said Flaim, gazing at him intently. "I am your cousin. We meet, at long last."

Ties of blood. A reminder of a father and a mother, of grandparents; an extension into the past, bringing forth the future. Not alone, not free-floating, but bound to past generations by an umbilical cord that might be cut, could never be severed.