"Has that electronic malfunction in the Warlord's room been cleared up?"

"No, my friend, nor will it be." Flaim laid a soothing hand on Pantha's thin shoulder. "It is Sagan's doing, of course."

"If he had nothing to hide, he would not bother!" Pantha said testily.

"What do you have to hide, then, my friend?" Flaim asked, teasing. "Is the equipment in your room functional?"

"You are being flippant," Pantha rebuked, stern and displeased. "The matter is serious-"

"I am aware of that," Flaim returned. A flash of cold steel in the voice silenced the older man. "Tomorrow will be the test. Sagan will prove his loyalty to me tomorrow. Once my cousin Dion lays his hand upon the bloodsword, he is finished. Sagan knows this, and if he tries in any way to dissuade him . . ." Flaim shrugged.

Pantha shook his head, unconvinced.

"You will see, my friend. You will see. Sagan is mine. And now let us leave this darkness to our Lady-friend, if she is here, and make our way to our beds."

Flaim made a graceful bow to the shadows and left the surveillance room and the night to the dead.

Chapter Ten.

Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere ...

William Shakespeare, King Henry VI, Part One, Act V, Scene iv At midday, Vallombrosa's double sun hung directly over the alcazar. The sky was cloudless, as if sucked dry by the heat. The suns-one yellow and large, the other small and red- glared on Vallombrosa with a perpetual, leering squint. Arms of flames, red and yellow, swirled from one sun to the other, disembodied hands, holding floating eyeballs.

The suns had reached their zenith, stared down upon a large courtyard located in the center of the alcazar. Built roughly along the lines of a quadrangle surrounded by tall, bleached-bone-colored stone walls, the courtyard was open to the air and was the alcazar's recreation area.

Black streaks on the walls marked where hard rubber balls had bounced. Lines in the gravel drew the crude boundaries for some sort of game. Rows of wooden benches, for the convenience of spectators, sheltered beneath an overhang, huddled in the shadows.

But there were few shadows today. The suns, directly overhead, bathed the arena in hot, harsh light that reflected with blinding brilliance off the hard-packed playing field, the bleached white walls. The heat was not oppressive, for the air was cold, the suns wanned the grounds pleasantly. But Sagan blinked in the bright light when he emerged with the prince from the building's dark interior, pulled his cowl over his head.

Flaim was charming. He might have been leading his guests onto the lawn of a manor house to play at croquet until tea time. He was particularly attentive to Astarte. The prince led the queen by the hand (with the utmost deference and respect) to a bench in a far corner, one of the few shaded areas in the quad. He fussed over her comfort, ordered cushions brought to ease the hardness of the bench's wooden surface, and offered refreshments. All of his attentions were politely and chillingly declined.

Baroness DiLuna had always openly despised this priestess daughter of hers, considering her soft and weak. Sagan, watching Astarte maintain her dignity and composure in this seemingly hopeless and dangerous situation, would have advised the baroness to reconsider her assessment.

Kamil sat down beside the queen. Sagan had not, until now, met Olefsky's daughter, Maigrey's godchild. He eyed the slender, boyish woman with a feeling of relief. He had steeled himself to see in her a resemblance to Maigrey, if not in form (which would have been unlikely) then in spirit. He looked for Maigrey's brash, reckless courage, her fierce pride and love of honor, all tempered by the glimmer of laughter in the sea-gray eyes.

This girl (Sagan thought of her as a girl, though Kamil must be near twenty-one) might yet come by such qualities. But she didn't possess them now. Or if she did, they had been consumed by love, whose fire, out of control, often consumed what gave it life. Kamil appeared to have little interest in what was going on. Her eyes and attention were only for Dion, fixed on him alone. Sagan knew Maigrey was present; he could hear the faint music of the sad, sweet chord vibrating in the still air. He wondered what she thought of this goddaughter.

Sagan turned his glance away from Kamil. He was glad to feel nothing. It would make things easier, later on.

Pantha came into the courtyard, carrying with him a large wooden box. He spoke a few quiet words to Flaim-who was continuing to make various attempts to try to talk to the haughty queen. The old man took his seat in the sunlight, basking in it like an elderly cat. He placed the box on the bench beside him.

Dion entered last, accompanied by Tusk. The mercenary was sullen and silent and had one hand wrapped up in a bandage.

"I bumped into a wall," he muttered in response to Flaim's question.

The prince turned back to the queen, and so missed Tusk's glowering gaze shift to Sagan.

The Warlord's jaw set. Tusk was going to be a problem. But he was a problem that could be dealt with, when the time came.

Sagan, clad in the stiff folds of a black cassock, walked across the courtyard and stood with his back to the wall, feet planted wide apart, his hands clasped behind his back, his face hidden in the shadows of his cowl. He closed his eyes against the sun's glare, retreated deep into himself dragged into the depths of his soul all inconvenient and dangerous thoughts and feelings, - locked them away and shut heavy doors of discipline and resolve upon them. Though he himself would not handle a bloodsword, the two using them would be acutely sensitive to each other and, Sagan guessed, one of them, at least, would try to probe his mind as well.

What he found there would be exactly what Sagan wanted him to find.

"Quite a merry party, eh, cousin?" Flaim was commenting to Dion when the Warlord returned to the level of upper consciousness.

The prince had left the queen and was strolling forward to stand near Dion. Flaim was wearing tight leather pants, tall black boots, and a white shirt with long flowing sleeves and an open V-neck, of a style popular with duelists in vids. "That will be all for now, Tusca, thank you. Would you like to stay and watch? Perhaps you'd care to join Pantha... ."

Sagan caught Tusk's eye, made a brief movement with his head. The mercenary gave some mumbled excuse, lounged over to post himself beside Sagan. Crossing his arms, Thsk leaned back against the wall. The mercenary's eyes were red and puffy and he blinked them constantly against the light.

One good thing about Tusca, Sagan remarked to himself with satisfaction, he doesn't look in the least dangerous.

"And now, cousin," Flaim resumed, smiling at Dion, who hadn't spoken a word, "we will take a little light exercise, for the amusement of ourselves and our guests. You have no idea how long I have been looking forward to this. Being forced to practice day in and day out with one's shadow is incredibly dull. How I have longed for a partner to test my skills I Pantha, my friend, if you would be so kind ..."

Pantha rose to his feet. Opening the box, he drew out the two bloodswords and brought them forward. Flaim, meanwhile, was scraping out a circle on the hard pavement with the heel of his boot.

"Not precisely accurate, but good enough for our purposes. This is not a formal duel, after all, but only a friendly practice session. I believe that is close to the correct diameter, my lord?" He turned deferentially to Sagan.

"Near enough, Your Highness," said Sagan, who had barely glanced at it.

Flaim lifted his bloodsword-the sword that had once been Pantha's-from the box. The two bloodswords were almost identical in appearance, except that one-Dion's-was decorated with the engraving of an eight-pointed star, signifying that it had once belonged to a Guardian.

Dion reached out his hand and took hold of his sword, being careful to keep the needles clear of his flesh. He held it a moment, studied it carefully, as if making certain it was truly his. Then, moving slowly and deliberately, he replaced the sword in the box.

Pantha looked questioningly at Flaim. The prince shrugged, gestured. Pantha set the box down on the ground between the two men, went back to his seat.

Flaim buckled his sword around his waist, cast the circle a critical glance once again, walked about it experimentally, peered up at the suns, as if to determine how the light would affect him, then looked back at his cousin.

Dion stood calmly, relaxed, made no motion to retrieve his sword.

Flaim studied his cousin with interest. The prince had not expected such a response, apparently, seemed not quite certain what to make of it. Shrugging again, he smiled again, squinting in the sunlight, and inserted the needles of the sword into his hand. He winced a bit, caught his breath; the pain is intense, but quickly over-for those who are meant by genetic design to use the swords.

For those who are not, it can kill.

"Surely you will try a few passes with me, cousin," Flaim urged. His face reflected the warm and tingling sensation that comes after the pain, when the micromachines are surging into the bloodstream, connecting the weapon with the brain, making it another limb, respondent to the brain's command.

"No," replied Dion.

"Oh, come, come," Flaim pleaded, still charming. "We need not even bother with the rules, if you don't want. A couple of passes ... to get the blood flowing."

He activated the sword as he spoke the words. The hot blade flared, hummed, loud and discordant in the still air. Swift as thought, Flaim slashed the fiery blade past Dion.

Dion fell back, stumbling, averting his face or the sword would have blinded him.

As it was, the blade scorched his skin. Everyone in the silent courtyard heard the sizzle, smelled the burning flesh.

Kamil gasped and started to jump to her feet. Astarte caught hold of the girl's wrist, pulled her down.

Tusk shifted his weight, uncrossed his arms, jammed his hands into his pockets. He glanced over at Sagan, who was very careful to take no notice.

Flaim shook his head in concern. "I am deeply sorry, cousin. Forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you. Just provoke you a bit. Come, this is poor sport! Pick up your sword."

Dion brought the back of his hand to his injured cheek, glanced at the blood on his fingers.

"I will not fight you, cousin. If you are going to kill me, then you must do it in cold blood." Dion looked at Sagan as he spoke, perhaps thinking back to a time when the Warlord had said almost those very same words to him.

Sagan permitted the memory to enter his mind; it might prove useful. But any emotions attached to it were stripped away, leaving it skeletal, bare.

"Kill you? Yes, cousin, I could kill you. I could slay you where you stand." Flaim spoke impatiently. He lowered the bloodsword; then, abruptly, he switched the sword off. "But I don't want to. Your death would serve no purpose. It would be a waste."

Reaching out with the warm, strong, persuasive clasp of an elder, wiser, more knowledgeable brother, he embraced Dion, drew him near.

"Abdicate the throne, cousin. Give me the crown. We both know I am the worthier of the two. Give me the trouble, the crushing responsibility. Give me the sleepless nights, the lonely days. I am the stronger. I will bear the burden. You have only to live the rest of your life in peace"-he glanced obliquely at Kamil-"with one who loves you."

Dion's brows drew low over the blue eyes; his lips parted, as though he would answer. Flaim gripped him tighter, moved nearer, forestalled him.

"You have much to live for. More than you might think. Did you know, cousin, that your wife is pregnant? Yes, she bears vour child. No trick, cousin. Look at her. You will see the truth."

Dion was astounded. Involuntarily, he turned his head to look at his wife.

Astarte knew, though she could not possibly have heard, what Flaim had just said to her husband. And at that moment, the queens composure failed her. The blood mounted to her face, staining it crimson, then fled, making her deathly pale by contrast. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Beside her, Kamil sat rigid, flushed, her head bowed, unable to look at Dion, unable to see anything else.

Dion sighed, a sigh that seemed to come from the echoing empty well of the past three years.

"I will make you a deal, cousin," said Flaim softly. He spoke in Dion's ear, but the flow of the Blood Royal through both their veins and through the bloodsword brought his words to Derek Sagan. "Give me the throne and I will make your child heir. I swear it. I will swear to it in public, sign papers, whatever you would have me do. I can't father children of my own, you see."

Dion shook his head.

"Listen, cousin." Flaim's voice altered subtly, became softly lethal. "I would seriously consider this offer if I were you. Because either way I will have what I want. If I must kill you and marry the grieving widow, I will. She won't marry me, you say? Oh, yes. She'll have no choice. Not if she wants her child to be king! Come, cousin! Give me the crown! Don't make me kill you!"

Dion lifted the blue eyes, looked into the blue eyes that must have been like looking into his own reflection. "No."

Flaim glared at him, the prince's blue eyes flaring with thwarted desire. He dropped his hand from Dion's arm and, turning, paced once about the courtyard, his expression dark and frowning.

"Then I have no choice," he said, but he spoke reluctantly and he did not look at Dion as he said the words.

Suddenly, struck by an idea, he turned on his heel, faced the king.

"I tell you what, cousin. We will settle this as princes of the blood settled such disputes a thousand years ago. We will fight for the right to wear the crown. The victor takes the throne. What do you say to this? Who knows?" Flaim laughed lightly.

"You might kill me. And then all your problems would be solved."

Dion was tempted. Sagan could see the temptation in his face, feel it in the young man's heart. The king hesitated, considering.

No one in the courtyard spoke. The only sound was the distant echo of music, now troubled and played in a minor key, and the faint rustle of the stiff folds of Sagan's cassock.

Dion glanced again in the Warlord's direction. Sagan said nothing, either aloud or silently through the blood. But Dion must have heard anyway. Or perhaps he had finally learned to listen to his heart, as Sagan had advised him.

"I will not hazard what is not mine to wager. I am the rightful king. I believe I was destined to be king." He glanced again at Sagan; this time his gaze was troubled. "Though some might dispute it. I will not fight."

Flaim was frustrated, more than angry. Scratching his head, he took another turn about the courtyard, then came to stand in front of Sagan.

"My lord, how is this to be resolved, short of murder? Have you any suggestion?"

"I do, Your Highness," said Sagan smoothly. His shadowed eyes did not leave Dion, even to look at the prince, to whom he spoke. "In the ancient days, to which you referred, a king might name a champion to fight in his stead."

"A champion," said Flaim, appearing to consider, but his voice took on a cool note. "I trust your lordship is not offering himself ..."

"No, Highness," said Sagan, bowing. "My vows prohibit me from bearing arms. But there is one who would be honored, I believe, to fight for the king's cause." His gaze shifted from Dion and went across the courtyard to Kamil.

Flaim had not expected this. He was suspicious, dubious. Then, suddenly, he grinned broadly.

"Well done, my lord," he said softly beneath his breath, with a chuckle.

Turning on his heel, he walked over to the box, which lay at the king's feet. Flaim grasped hold of Dion's bloodsword, lifted it out of the box-taking care not to touch the five sharp needles.

"Tusca, bring forth the king's champion," he ordered.

Tusk jerked bolt upright, gawked. "What?"

"Bring forth the king's champion!" Flaim instructed him, somewhat impatiently.

"You've all gone nuts," Tusk said in disgust, and leaned back against the wall.

"Do it!" Sagan shot out of the corner of his mouth.

"Do what?" Tusk scowled at him. "Rush out and polish up my plate mail? Come back with my two-handed broadsword? This is the stupidest-"

Sagan left the wall against which he'd been standing. Ignoring Tusk, the Warlord stalked over to Kamil, who was staring in confusion, not understanding. Well, she soon would. It would be interesting to see how she reacted. He hoped, for Maigrey's sake, she would accord herself bravely.

Sagan grabbed hold of Kamil's right wrist.

Astarte clasped hold of the girl's other arm protectively, glared at the Warlord with a bold defiance that would have done her warrior mother credit.

"Let her go!" she demanded.

"Do not interfere, Your Majesty," Sagan told her coldly.

He stared at the queen, exerting the influence of the Blood Royal over her. Astarte paled; her hand slid limply away.