Sagan yanked Kamil to her feet. The girl stumbled, and held back; he was forced to drag her over to Flaim. Grasping Kamil firmly around her shoulders with his left arm, Sagan took hold of her right arm, thrust forward her right hand, palm up.

"Give her the weapon, Your Highness."

Flaim held the needles of the bloodsword poised above Kamil's flesh and looked questioningly at Dion.

Behind him, Sagan heard Tusk surging forward. "Are you mad? Do you know what that'll do to her? It'll kill her! You bastard! I didn't agree to-"

Sagan shifted his hold on Kamil, struck Tusk a backhanded blow against the side of his head.

Tusk hit the ground, as if he'd been felled by lightning. Shaking his head, he made a feeble effort to get up. Blood dripped from his mouth. He groaned, collapsed, lay still. Sagan paid no further attention to him.

Flaim was holding Kamil's hand firmly, forcing the palm open b> pressing down on the thumb joint, bending the wrist. The girl gasped from the pain, but did not cry out. She didn't struggle, knowing it would be ineffectual against the strength of the Warlord. She stared in terrible fascination at the needles, glittering in the light of the double suns, at the strange double shadows they cast over her flesh.

Does she know what terrible death she faces? Sagan wondered curiously.

Yes, she knows. She lifted her eyes and looked at Dion.

He had gone white, so pale it seemed he might have died where he stood. No color at all was left in him, except the flaming hair. Wet with sweat, his hair trailed down over his face like rivulets of blood. He stared at the needles and at Kamil's hand, and he breathed suddenly, very hard and heavily.

"I saw Marcus die," he whispered.

"Not by the bloodsword," Sagan returned. "You saw him die swiftly, mercifully, by your own hand. And he was in the early stages of the disease, before the cancer had spread like poison through the body. Three days he would have lingered; no drugs to ease his terribly agony. Of all the deaths a man can die, this death is said to be the worst. A man ... or a woman."

Flaim forced Kamil's hand nearer the sharp needles. She flinched, and Sagan felt her shudder in his grasp, but she still did not cry out. She averted her face from the sight of the deadly needles, or perhaps to keep from influencing Dion, keep him from seeing the fear she couldn't help but feel.

Sagan was pleased with the girl's courage ... for Maigrey's sake.

"What will it be, cousin?" Flaim demanded. "Will you fight for your crown? Or will she?"

Dion stared at Sagan, a searching look. The Warlord felt the mental probe, was careful to keep all inner doors sealed, shuttered, barred. He assumed he had done so, was somewhat surprised and considerably displeased to see a faint flicker of light in the despairing blue eyes. It was gone swiftly. The eyes dimmed, looked away. Then, as if he'd found the answer to his unspoken question, the king reached out and snatched the bloodsword from Flaim's grasp.

Dion thrust the needles into his own hand. The spasm of pain that crossed his face was only partly caused by the needles entering his flesh. The more bitter pain came-as was obvious from the last, dark glance he cast at Sagan-from betrayal.

The Warlord released his hold on Kamil abruptly, with little care. Weak and trembling, now that the danger was past, the girl staggered and nearly fell. It was Flaim who gallantly caught hold of her, led her back to her bench with a soothingwords of apology. She only shook her head, availing herself of his support because it was either that or fall down on her hands and knees.

Astarte received her gently, drew her down on the bench, said something to her that no one else could hear. Kamil shook her head and pulled away. Slumped against the wall, huddled on the bench, she stared bleakly at the ground.

Because of me. Her lips formed the words. Because of me.

Girlish innocence had apparently come to a swift and painful end.

Tusk, groaning, was regaining consciousness. The Warlord bent down, grasped the mercenary by the combat vest he wore, and dragged him out of the sun into the meager shade of a wall.

"You bastard . . ." Tusk mumbled through split and swollen lips.

"I had no choice. You nearly got us all killed," Sagan said softly, coldly, talking under cover of the sound made by Tusk's body scraping across the courtyard. "One more stupid stunt like that and I will have no choice but to destroy you."

Tusk started to say something.

"Shut up," Sagan told him.

Yanking the mercenary to a seated position, the Warlord shoved him back against the wall. Tusk caught himself, barely saved himself from falling. Propping himself up, he rubbed his jaw, spit out a tooth, and groaned again.

Flaim walked jauntily back to the circle. He appeared inordinately pleased, was sweeping the bloodsword this way and that, loosening up his arm.

"Perhaps, my lord, you would go over the rules of combat. For my sake," he added, with an apologetic smile for Dion. "Since I have never been privileged enough to witness a duel, as has my cousin."

Again the memories. The duel: Sagan and Maigrey. And he knew he wasn't the only one who was remembering, for he heard the music, faintly sweet and sorrowful.

"Combat must take place within the circle," intoned the Warlord, speaking coolly, impassively, sinking memory deep. "A combatant may step outside the circle to rest. The other may not pursue him. Two rest periods are permitted. Then it is a fight to the finish If a combatant steps outside the circle after the two rest periods, he is deemed to have surrendered and therefore lost the match."

The Warlord said this last offhand, with a slight curl of the lip. Surrender might exist in the rule book, but it was an option never seriously considered.

Flaim stepped into the circle. His face was flushed with excitement and exhilaration. Dion did not enter the circle yet. He was still pale, still shaken from the confrontation over Kamil. He glanced at her once or twice, worried, to see if she was all right.

The kid better concentrate on what he's doing," came a muttered voice at Sagan's shoulder.

Tusk had pulled himself to a standing position, was slouched against the wall at the Warlord's side.

"Never did understand how those damn swords worked," Tusk continued casually, too casually. "Dad tried to explain it once, but, hell, what did I care? You mind going over it now?"

"Why?" Sagan asked dryly, his gaze fixed on Dion. "You thinking of using one?"

Tusk shrugged. "A guy never knows when information like that might come in handy."

Sagan was glad the folds of the cowl hid his smile. "When the swordsman grasps the hilt, those five prongs inject a virus into the bloodstream. In the Blood Royal-someone with the correct blood type and DNA structure-the virus opens channels that parallel the normal nerve channels and eventually reach the brain. Micromachines are injected, making connection with the body's lymphatic systems to draw energy from the body's cells to power the weapon. The energy comes from adenosine tri-"

"Skip the science lecture," Tusk interrupted, scowling. "My head aches enough as it is. I thought the damn thing had its own external energy source."

"It does, but once that is depleted, the sword draws on the body's energy."

"Uh-huh." Tusk faced him, dark eyes red-rimmed, one of them starting to swell shut. "I know what happens if someone who isn't Blood Royal uses it. What about me? Half-and-half."

Sagan shook his head. "I can't say. No studies were ever done that I know of. Half-breeds weren't considered of much importance. I wouldn't advise it, however," he added quietly. "You would probably be able to use it, though not very well.

And you would risk contracting the disease. Only in a mild form...."

"I might live for months, eh?" Tusk asked with interest.

"If you were lucky," Sagan replied. "If not, you might last for years."

Tusk regarded the Warlord thoughtfully, probably trying to decide if he was bluffing or telling the truth. The mercenary jammed his hands back in his pockets, gloomily hunched his shoulders, and turned his attention to the duel.

Dion had at last pulled himself together. Now that he was forced to take this action, he must know that he would have to kill his cousin. Kill ... to keep from being killed.

Both bloodswords activated. The thoughts of each cousin rushed into Sagan, ran through him, mingled with his own thoughts in a boiling confusion as difficult to separate as it would be to separate the mingled strains of blood.

He had to be careful, very, very careful. Fortunately, the two were concentrating heavily on each other, would pay little attention to him-a broken old man. He settled back to watch the duel.

The two saluted each other; Flaim bowed, as ritual demanded. Dion, however merely inclined his head. A king still. Each assumed the correct stance, blades burning. Blue flame held blue flame, blue eyes held blue eyes. The thoughts were already probing, though the swords were still. Then Dion lunged; Flaim parried, and the battle began.

The two are evenly matched, Sagan decided after the first few moments. Advantages, disadvantages canceled each other out. Dion had the advantage of having sparred against a living, breathing, thinking opponent (Sagan himself had been the young man's tutor), whereas Flaim had only fought against his own imagination. But Dion, busy and preoccupied with the cares of kingship, was out of practice. He had not used the bloodsword in action in years. Flaim, by contrast, had practiced daily, following the routine pattern Pantha had taught him, a routine that kept both body and mind in prime condition.

Dion remembered his tutelage, opened aggressively, attacking with spirit and skill, and soon forced his opponent to go on the defensive. Flaim's blade disappeared, the weapon shitting-with the swiftness of thought-from bright blade to invisible shield.

The use of the shield required far more energy than the blade, drained the sword's reserves, would soon start to drain the body's. Dion's swift and furious onslaught actually forced Flaim backward, caused him to step outside the circle.

"Hold!" Sagan called, palm raised outward.

Dion fell back, resting, breathing hard.

Flaim, looking grim and defiant, leapt back into the circle immediately and, having learned his lesson, went on the offensive. A flurry of blows made the eyes ache trying to follow them. Dion's foot slipped once, but he shielded himself, held Flaim's battering attack off until he could regain his balance. With a tricky maneuver (one Sagan recognized as his own), Dion dove under Flaim's guard with a slashing stab that might well have ended both the duel and the prince's life.

A skillful diving roll carried Flaim out of danger . . . and out of the circle.

"Hold," Sagan called out for the second time. "If you step out again, Your Highness," he cautioned the prince grimly, "you forfeit and must surrender."

"I understand, Thank you, my lord," Flaim said.

Dion's blow had cut open the prince's white shirt; it hung around his body in bloody tatters. His left knee was slashed open.

Both combatants were sweating; Dion's shirt clung to him. He wiped his hair out of his face. Of the two, Flaim appeared the more fatigued, however, and he had certainly taken the most serious injuries. He limped when he walked back into the circle.

Dion did not look triumphant, however. He was watching Flaim warily, cautiously, knowing that these duels were-as Sagan had once told him-one-tenth physical and nine-tenths mental. Flaim seemed in just a little too much pain, he was limping just a little too weakly, breathing just a bit too heavily.

Dion was on his guard, therefore, when Flaim suddenly regained his strength with a bound and, grinning, swept into the circle with slashing fury. Dion shielded, came back to the offensive. Flaim shielded, came back.

The duel went on. Tusk rubbed his eyes, wincing at the bright light. Astarte and Kamil watched silently, both very properly fearful of breaking Dion's concentration. Each woman was instinctively, perhaps unknowingly, clasping tight hold of the other's hand.

Pantha watched with no more than a placid interest as if he were already certain of the end.

Dion stepped outside the circle, but was back in before Sagan could call a halt. Though the king knew the misstep counted against him, he chose not to take advantage of the rest period-to rest himself was to give his opponent the opportunity to do the same. Dions blade flamed and vanished, attacking far more than defending. He was in control of the fight. It was as if some angel with a flaming sword had descended from heaven to do battle for the king.

He burned with a pure, holy fire. Imbued with the rightness of his cause, the knowledge that he was light battling darkness, he fought with valor and skill.

Watching Dion, Sagan remembered. He knew that look-it had once been his own. He could feel again the exhilaration of battle that brought with it a strange calm, an air of detachment. Let go of fear and advance to meet death. Step partway into the silent realm, stand straddling die border. And when you do so, you become vibrantly aware of life, from the cloudless sky above to the tiny, glistening drop of blood on the ground at your feet. Let go of fear and the soul floats free, the mind is clear and fixed and the flaring blade is the fatal embodiment of thought.

"Well done, boy," Derek Sagan said, deep, deep within.

But Dion heard. The blue eyes, brighter than the fire of suns, turned upon Sagan and the king's smile was that of one exalted.

And then Flaim stepped out of the circle and fell upon one knee, raising his hand over his head, the classic position of surrender. He shut off his bloodsword.

It took Sagan a moment for his soul to rejoin his body. He felt the flesh's heavy dead weight acutely, dragging him down; came back with a bitter sigh.

"Hold!" he called, harsh and strident.

He stepped into the circle, between the combatants-one standing tall, the other bent-kneed on the ground. Dion, breathing heavily, could not speak. He had lowered his sword, but the blade hummed. His face was expressionless; his own soul still floated far above. He seemed not to understand that he had won.

No one in the courtyard spoke; Kamil and Astarte were confused. Never having seen a duel, they were uncertain what this meant. Tusk, having-or so Sagan hoped-learned his lesson, was watching the Warlord for a cue. Garth Pantha knew. He'd seen bloodsword duels before, likely fought in a few. He sat unmoved, watching with detached interest.

"By the rules of the contest, by stepping outside the circle, by shutting off your sword, you, Flaim Starfire, admit defeat," Sagan informed him.

"Oh, yes," said Flaim, with a laugh Rising gracefully to his feet, he bowed to the king. Thank you, cousin. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Pantha."

The elderly man came forward, bearing the box. He opened the lid. Flaim laid his bloodsword inside. Shaking the raven hair out of his face, he smiled at the queen, who still neither moved nor spoke.

"I am certain the ladies enjoyed it," he added, with a bow and a flourish for Her Majesty.

"Then I have won," said Dion, appearing to suddenly realize it himself. "You renounce your claim to the throne. You will let us go free."

"I'll let you go ... to the devil."

Flaim had taken a soft leather glove from Pantha, was pulling the glove on over his hand, over the puncture wounds left by the bloodsword.

"I won," Dion repeated grimly.

"You lost," Flaim told him. "You lost the true battle, cousin. The one we were fighting in our minds. I penetrated your secrets. I now know the location of the space-rotation bomb. I know where you've hidden it. Pantha, you must contact the dark-matter creatures, send them to fetch the prize."

Dion stared, white with shock and disbelief and terrible understanding. "A ruse," he whispered. "All a ruse."

"Yes, cousin." Flaim laughed. "A ruse. To goad you into using the bloodsword, to trick you into revealing the location of the bomb."

The bloodsword flared blue. Dion made a sudden lunge at the prince, sweeping the sword in a slashing arc.

Derek Sagan stood in his way, blocked his path. Sliding expertly inside Dion's guard, the Warlord caught hold of the king's sword arm, hurled him off balance.

Dion stumbled, fell, landing heavily on his hip on the ground.

"Don't be a fool!" Sagan told him. He cast a significant glance around the courtyard.

Dion looked up. Armed men were running into the courtyard, their lasguns drawn and aimed-some at the king, others at the queen and Kamil.

Dion's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Your advice comes rather late, my lord," he said bitterly.

Chapter Eleven.

You may my glories and my state depose.

But not my griefs; still am I King of those.