William Shakespeare, Richard II, Act IV, Scene i "I must ask you to hand over the sword, Your Majesty," said Sagan.

Dion rose slowly and stiffly to his feet. Shutting off the bloodsword, he thrust the hilt back into its sheath, unbuckled the belt and removed it from around his waist. He carefully wrapped the belt around the hilt, silently handed the bloodsword to the Warlord.

Sagan replaced the sword in the box, alongside Flaim's. Pantha shut the lid, tucked the box under his arm.

"My lord Sagan, I thank you especially for your assistance in this matter." Flaim cast a triumphant glance at Pantha as he said this. "We will meet in two hours. By that time, the bomb should be in our possession. We have plans to finalize. Would you be interested in hearing them, cousin?"

Dion made no response.

"It seems the Corasians are about to invade the galaxy," Flaim continued. "Yes, cousin, within a few days, your Lord Admiral will start receiving reports that the enemy has crossed the Void and is preparing to attack. You, Your Majesty, will heroically and valiantly defend the galaxy by detonating the space-rotation bomb in the middle of the Corasian invasion force.

"Alas, cousin." Flaim spread wide his hands. "A terrible accident. You yourself are killed in the explosion. You die, a martyr to the cause, having saved your people. Your funeral will be most impressive. And I will be there, the next Starfire in line, to take the throne. The people will welcome me with tears in their eyes. Especially, as it will turn out, when they learn that the Corasian threat has not ended."

"You've allied yourself with the enemy," said Dion, quiet, the quiet of despair.

"By necessity. Kings must do things out of necessity," Flaim said, with a sly glance toward Kamil. "The Corasians will be granted certain planets-secretly, of course-to do with as they please. In return, they will 'retreat' on command, return when needed, keeping the galaxy in a suitable state of turmoil and fear that only I can quell.

"But your soul may rest easily, cousin. I do intend to keep my promise to you. I will marry the queen and raise your child to be heir. And if Her Majesty proves so indelicate as to refuse me, then her planet will be one of the first to fall victim to the enemy."

"I don't suppose she will refuse," said Dion, his eyes on his wife.

"An ingenious plan, don't you dunk, cousin?"

"Most ingenious," Dion agreed.

"I wish I could take credit for it." Flaim shrugged. "But I have Lord Sagan to thank."

"Indeed?" Dion-his expression troubled, thoughtful- turned to the Warlord.

Sagan bowed in acknowledgment.

Dion gazed at him for long moments. Then, the shadow falling dark over him, he lowered his head and stared down at the ground. "I see."

"Guards, attend Her Majesty. Escort her back to her quarters," Flaim commanded. "But perhaps Princess Olefsky would like to remain a moment, recover from the shock of her ordeal. For which I do apologize. I think she should be allowed to have a few words alone with the king. Tusca, remain with my cousin, take him back to his room whenever he is ready."

Tusk, standing against the wall, nodded sullenly.

Orders issued, Flaim left the courtyard, accompanied by Pantha and the box. Two female guards came to take charge of Astarte. The queen crossed the courtyard with her accustomed dignity and cool aplomb. But she hesitated when she neared Dion.

He remained standing in the center of the courtyard, inside the circle, his head bowed, rubbing the palm of his right hand.

Astarte stopped beside him, seemed to want to speak, to offer comfort. She reached out her hand.

He didn't see it, didn't look up.

But after all, what comfort can 1 give him? I'm a stranger. .. . Her words were unspoken, but they were written on her face. Her hand fell to her side. She sighed and started past.

Dion, hearing her sigh, became aware of her. He caught hold of her hand, looked at her steadily, intently.

"Astarte, are you all right? The child-" He faltered a moment, then said gently, "Our child-" He couldn't go on.

Astarte's pale face flooded with color. She was radiant, beautiful, life beating within the confines of death and despair. "Our child is fine. I am fine," she said to him, clasping his hand tightly. "Don't worry about us."

He couldn't speak, but brought her hand to his lips, then pressed it against his cheek. Astarte's eyes filled with tears. He smiled at her reassuringly. She returned the smile, blinked back the tears, and, with regal bearing, walked out of the courtyard.

Kamil remained sitting on the bench, staring at Dion, her heart and soul in her eyes. Dion glanced at her, shook his head, stared back down at the bare ground beneath his feet, at the drops of blood in the circle.

The courtyard emptied of people. Sagan, heading for one of the buildings, walked past Tusca. The mercenary looked sick, sat hunch-shouldered on the bench.

"I hope to hell you know what you're doing," Tusk said in a low voice, through split and blood-caked lips.

Ignoring him, the Warlord continued on. Tusk didn't bother to repeat himself. He sat unmoving on the bench.

Sagan entered one of the buildings adjacent to the courtyard. He walked through the corridor, whose windows looked out upon the courtyard, taking care that his footsteps were loud and heavy. Pausing at the end of the hall, he turned and silently doubled back. Keeping in the shadows, he took his place near a window, as near as he could get to the circle in which the king remained. Kamil had joined Dion now, was standing beside him.

. The air was calm, sound carried well, and the Warlord had excellent hearing. Still, he might have had difficulty eavesdropping on their conversation had not Kamil inadvertently assisted him. Glancing mistrustfully at Tusk, she took hold of Dion's limp hand and, tugging him into responsiveness, drew him away from the mercenary. Her movement took them nearer Sagan, so near he was forced to retreat a step or two back deeper into the shadows to avoid being seen.

Her words took the Warlord by surprise, apparently startled Dion, too.

"Dion," she said to him firmly, her voice pitched low, "you've got to find a way to escape."

He raised his head, roused from his despairing lethargy.

"Listen to me first, before you say no," she continued swiftly. "I have an idea. A good one. When Tusk comes to take you back, grab his weapon. Force him to fly us out of here in the Scimitar. We'll rescue Astarte, take her with us. Tusk knows all the passwords, all the codes. His spaceplane is parked near the alcazar.

"He'll do it. I know he will!" Kamil gulped for air, nervous excitement stealing away her breath. "He doesn't like this, any of this. You saw him. He tried to help me. It was only Sagan, knocking him senseless, who made him back off. We'll escape and ... and ..." She paused, uncertain.

"And what?" Dion asked, smiling sadly.

"Well," she said, faltering, "you'll have to go into hiding. Flaim would be searching for you. But meanwhile we could raise armies against him. My father would help, and the baroness-"

"Until the bomb exploded. Or the strange dark-matter creatures attacked them. Or the Corasians invaded. No," said Dion quietly, "your father might want to help. But he couldn't. He'd be too busy fighting for his own survival."

Kamil was silent, faced with irrefutable logic. Her hands twisted together. Then her expression hardened. "We just stay in hiding, then. Don't bother about fighting Flaim. Or else wait a few years. Wait until you are stronger and he is weaker. Wait until he makes a mistake. Wait until Sagan turns on him and they're at each other's throats. It's bound to happen," she pointed out with grim and bitter certainty. "Sagan betrayed you. It's only a matter of time before he betrays Flaim."

Dion shook his head, his face again thoughtful, dark, and troubled. He glanced-oddly enough-at Tusk. The mercenary hadn't moved. But he was watching them from beneath half-closed eyelids.

"What will I do during that time I'm 'hiding'?" Dion asked.

"Why, you'll... Well, I guess you could ... We ... we'd .. Kamil looked foolish, then irritated. "What does it matter what you'd do? We'd just go on living, waiting ..."

"Try to see the road ahead," Dion told her. "Go on. Look into the future. What will I do? Wait on tables? Sell computer chips door-to-door? Where will I go that I won't be recognized? You are asking me to exile myself, live in constant fear, live again without a name."

He shook his head. "You forget, Kamil, I was raised like that. I lived seventeen years of my life in hiding. I won't go back. And I won't raise a child of mine like that."

She was frustrated, unwilling to give up. "It would only be for a little while-"

"Kamil." He spoke to her gently, reaching out and taking hold of her arms. "You can't see down that road because that road doesn't exist for me. I am king. When the archbishop placed the crown on my head, the scepter in my hand, I accepted a responsibility. I took it upon myself to be the people's protector. I can't flee and leave them to their fate. What would I say to them? That I ran away when there was danger, came back when it was safe?"

Kamil tried to say something, but he held her tightly, silenced her with his earnestness.

"There would be no return for me, Kamil. If I throw away the crown in fear, how could I ever reclaim it?"

"At least you'd be alive," she told him, not looking up at him.

"Would I?" he asked tiredly. He dropped his hands from her shoulders. The weariness was evident on his pallid face. "Would it matter?"

"Yes, it would matter!" Kamil returned. "What nonsense-to say you might as well die as not be king. You lived seventeen years without knowing you were a king and you were happy. You told me you were. You had your books and your music and . . . and someone who loved you."

She faltered a moment at that, then, taking a breath, returned to the fray, stronger for her momentary weakness. "Platus never wanted you to be king. You told me that, too. He wanted you to be an ordinary man, doing what you could for people in ordinary ways. That's what truly counts in this life. If every ordinary person lived his life respecting others, their rights and their feelings, then we wouldn't need kings.

"You were happy being ordinary until Derek Sagan came along. He murdered Platus, but he did something worse to you that night. He murdered the good, the quiet, the ordinary part of you!"

She choked back a sob. Dion put his arms around her again, drew her close. She rested her head on his breast. But he stared out over her head, his thoughts far away. His lips moved. Sagan, attuned to the thought heard the silent words he himself had said to Dion years ago.

I came to rescue you...

But Kamil was also attuned to the thought though it was love's ear that was quick to hear it not the telepathic ear produced by genetic design.

She pushed herself away from him, looked up into his face. That's it isn't it?" she said softly. "That's why you're ready to throw your life away. What Sagan said."

"What do you mean?" Dion said, startled and troubled.

"About you fading the test. You believe him. You don't think you're good enough. You've let Sagan convince you that you don't deserve to be king. You think, like him, that your cousin's better than you are and so you're just going to crawl away and die!" Kamil was angry now, her anger driven by her fear.

Dion had grown pale and silent during her attack, but her words seemed to give him pause, made him think. "Perhaps you're right. Believe what Sagan says," he repeated, musing. "He never lied to me, no matter what else he did. ..."

His gaze went to Tusk, who had either fallen asleep or passed out again. Dion withdrew into himself, took himself far away from spying ears, loving or otherwise. Sagan couldn't read the young man's thoughts, but he could guess them, and the Warlord frowned in the darkness.

"Oh, Dion, you can't think that!" Kamil cried, alarmed. "Flaim will be a dreadful ruler, cruel and vicious. Like he was today. Astarte told me so. I didn't want to believe her, but I see now what she meant."

Dion, looking back to her, smiled in spite of himself. "A fine counselor you are," he said, gently teasing. "One minute I shouldn't be king and the next minute I should. Which is it to be? You can't have it both ways, my dear."

"I know. I'm sorry. I don't understand any of this horrible mess. I shouldn't have tried to lecture you. I've probably done more harm than good."

Kamil sighed forlornly. Then, putting her arms around him, holding him, she said quietly, "I understand only that I love you and I'm afraid for you. We have a chance to escape. Take it. Once we're away from here, then everything will work itself out. I know it will."

Dion hesitated, tempted.

Sagan watched in silence. Knowing that he could intervene anytime he chose to prevent such a rash and hasty act, he was curious to hear the king's response.

"No, Kamil," said Dion. His hesitation had lasted only a moment. He wasn't uncertain of his decision; he was reluctant to destroy the hope shining in her loving eyes. "I have to stay and see this through I have to catch that damn silver ball," he added with a bitter smile. "If I am meant to die, then it will be with dignity, as a king. I won't die shot in the back, caught running away."

Sagan's eye caught movement in a distant doorway, saw two shadows cross a window. Tusk, who had not been sleeping, saw them, too. Rising to his feet, rubbing his aching jaw, he slouched over to Dion.

"C'mon, kid," he said in a low voice. "Someone's lookm for you." His gaze flicked to his left, over his shoulder.

Dion turned to Kamil. "Will you-"

"No, go on," she said, and her tone was cool. She didn't understand, was afraid and feeling helpless, and because she was afraid and helpless, she was angry. "I'll stay here awhile. I like it outdoors ... in the sunshine."

She turned her back on him. Dion looked at her, obviously wanting to say something to do or make everything right. Realizing this was impossible, he walked away with Tusk. The two crossed the courtyard, stepped over the circle, and disappeared into the alcazar.

Kamil held herself stiff and rigid until she could no longer hear the echoes of their footsteps. Then, thinking herself alone, she sagged down on the bench, lay on it like a heartsick child, and began to cry-hurting, despairing sobs that wrenched her body.

Sagan waited, still, silent in the darkness. He was not disappointed. A flash of silver appeared very near the weeping girl, a silver armored guardian, standing vigil over her grief.

He watched a moment longer, then left his post, taking care that his footsteps were quiet and muffled, not to disturb either of them.

Chapter Twelve.

The game's afoot ...

William Shakespeare, King Henry V, Act III, Scene i Sagan arrived early for his meeting with the prince. Flaim, in excellent humor, welcomed the Warlord cordially and even Garth Pantha seemed to unbend and greet Sagan with cordiality.

They met in the communications room of the alcazar, the one place in the fortress where they could be sure of talking without interruption, for no one-not even the guards-were permitted to enter this room, on pain of death. It was the first time Sagan himself had been accorded such an honor. He knew, of course, that he had been tested and gathered that he had passed.

He looked around with curiosity; that would be only natural. But he had to keep from appearing too curious, which would have aroused suspicion. It was from this room Garth Pantha communicated with the dark-matter creatures. The Warlord's gaze darted swiftly from one complex machine to another, from vidscreen to commlink, from old outdated equipment to new. He recognized everything, saw nothing strange, no familiar equipment being put to unfamiliar use.

Pantha was watching him, and Sagan had the distinct impression the sharp old man knew what the Warlord was searching for. Pantha placed the tips of his fingers together, gazed at Sagan over them with an amused smile, like a parent watching a child search the house for a hidden birthday gift.

Go ahead, he seemed to challenge silently. Look all you want. You'll never find it.

Sagan, in answer, fixed his gaze on Flaim and kept it there.

". . . truly remarkable," the prince was saying. "Did you see my cousin's face when you dragged Kamil up to me? I was almost afraid for a moment you had gone too far, my lord. It occurred to me that, caught up in the chivalrous mood of the moment, our cousin might take it into his head to thwart my wicked design on the woman he loves by killing himself. Which would have put an undoubted crimp in my plans."

"There was little fear of that, Your Highness," said Sagan. "Dion is not a fool."

"No, I don't suppose you would have lavished what time and care on him as you did if he were. And I must admit, it all worked marvelously. Taken up in the heat and excitement of the contest, he reacted as you predicted. He lowered the guard on his mental processes to concentrate on the physical. I was able to slip through quickly and easily, penetrate his mind and discover the location of the bomb. The dark-matter creatures have been dispatched and should be back ..." He glanced at Pantha.

"Any moment now, Your Highness."

"They will bring it here," said Flaim, gesturing to a marble stand that stood in the center of the room. "I am eager, most eager, to see it. So is Pantha. He has made quite a study of it, did he tell you, my lord?"

Sagan was not surprised. "Indeed, sir? You obtained information on it from the Corasians, I presume."

Pantha nodded acknowledgment. "The information Abdiel was able to glean from you, my lord."

Sagan did not like the reminder. Pantha was quick to notice. The elderly man grew grave. "An evil man, Abdiel. I sleep sounder nights knowing he is destroyed."