Dion made no response. Flaim turned to leave. Pausing, he turned again, came back.

"Damn it, cousin! Don't make me do this! Abdicate the throne. Go live with that girl. Most men would give their lives for love like hers. What's being king compared to that?"

"My duty," said Dion. "My responsibility." He glanced at Flaim. "You understand. It's what we were born to, bred to. What would our lives be without it?"

"Nothing, of course." Flaim regarded him with admiration. "You are right, cousin. I do understand. Forgive me. I won't trouble you about it again.

"Five minutes," he said, and shut the door behind him.

Dion and Astarte looked at each other, shy and awkward as they had been on that first unhappy night together. Then Dion reached out his hands to his wife.

"Can you forgive me for being a blind fool?" he asked.

She clasped hold of his hands, held on to him tightly. "Only if you can forgive me for being a selfish monster."

He gathered her close. He had never noticed before how fragile she felt in his arms, yet how strong.

"It was my mother's fault, for coercing you into this marriage," Astarte whispered.

"I used to think so," Dion replied. "But now I'm not certain. Maybe some god ... or goddess had a hand in this."

He stroked her hair. This was the first time he'd ever seen it mussed. "Astarte," he said softly, "as hard as my death will be, it will be easy compared to your life."

"Don't ..." Her eyes filled with tears.

"Hush, listen to me. You could escape this marriage. Flaim won't pursue it. He'll have too many other concerns. I could urge you to do this, but I'm not going to.

"You possess power-the power of your faith, the power of being yourself. The people admire you. You can use this power to glove my cousin's iron fist. He won't like it. He'll fight you. But he won't be able to stop you. Work long and hard, slowly and subtly and you will build up a resistance to my cousin's tyranny that will be invincible. Perhaps, in years to come, you can overthrow him."

"With the help of our child."

"Our child. My only regret ... is that I will never . . ." Dion faltered, his strength failing him for a moment, "never see . . ."

He couldn't speak. He could only hold on to his wife and she to him. Sadly, their silence said more than three years of spoken words.

"Time to go, Usurper." The guard thrust open the door.

Astarte drew back from her husband's grasp. Smoothing her hair, she stood tall and upright, her eyes dry, a smile on her lips. They might have been parting for the day's duties. She extended her hand. The fingers were chill, but the hand was steady.

"God go with you, sire," she said softly.

He took her hand, pressed it to his lips. "May the Goddess be with you, madame. And with our child."

He turned and left her. The door shut behind him. She heard the key grate in the lock.

"I won't cry," she said, pressing her hands over her womb. "I won't cry. I won't make myself sick. For the child's sake. Everything I do from now on will be for the child's sake."

She sank to her knees, clasped her hands in prayer. "Blessed Goddess, you fought at the side of the heroes at Troy, you brought us safely through the heavens to our world, you sustained us through the dark times when all seemed hopeless. Blessed Goddess, send angels to fight at my husband's side-"

The key rattled in the lock. Thinking it might be Flaim coming to escort her to the ship, Astarte sprang to her feet. She drew herself up haughtily.

"You have leave to enter," she said, for form's sake only. The door was already opening.

"Tusca!" She gasped, startled.

Entering the room, Tusk crossed over to her. "Dion thought you might like this to remember him by."

He pressed something into her hand and winked-at least she thought he winked. It was hard to tell; one eye was swollen almost shut. Before she had time to ask a question or say a word, he was gone.

Astarte opened her palm. In it lay a silver earring, formed in the shape of an eight-pointed star.

Book Four.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre.

The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity....

William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

Chapter One.

Things fell apart ...

William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

Vallombrosa was now truly a ghost planet. The alcazar was deserted, stood empty beneath the double suns. All personal effects, all data files (primarily Pantha's) had been transferred secretly to the Flare.

Her Majesty the queen was also transported to Flare, to be taken back to Minas Tares. Those who observed her noted that she was pale, but calm and composed. It was well known that the royal marriage had not been a particularly happy one.

The space-rotation bomb was taken aboard the ship carrying His Majesty. Pantha himself carried the bomb aboard, concealed in the same box that held the two bloodswords.

The brief interruption of the electricity to the door of the communication room during the night had been reported to him. He was at first concerned, but finding on investigation that nothing had been disturbed, that the space-rotation bomb was still there, he decided that it must have been the dark-matter creatures.

"They have an extreme interest in the bomb," Pantha told Flaim as they traveled to what Flaim was terming, between themselves, the "ghost" ship. "They were probably checking on its safety."

Flaim was displeased. "I don't like to think of them getting close to it. They won't harm it, will they?"

"They didn't harm it transporting it to you, my prince. I told them that we intend to destroy the bomb in a distant part of the galaxy, far from their own world. They intimated their satisfaction."

"They won't be happy when we build another."

"Precisely why we won't build it on Vallombrosa. I doubt if they'll ever discover it. They wouldn't have known of this bomb if I hadn't warned them of it.

"They are really rather provincial beings, I believe. Attached to their own homeland, with no ambitions or design on any others. As long as they can be assured Vallombrosa-and by extension their own world-is safe, they will be content."

Arriving on board the "ghost" ship, Pantha took the bomb to Flaim's quarters. Here they would leave the bomb, armed, the code punched in, to tick away the seconds of the lives of everyone on board.

"What will you tell the crew?" Pantha asked.

Flaim smiled. "My speech is all prepared. I will tell them that we are embarking on a great enterprise, one that will carry them to eternal glory. I have obtained secret intelligence, gleaned from the dark-matter creatures, warning of an impending Corasian invasion. Not even the Royal Navy knows of this threatened attack-which will be the truth; the Corasians are still in their own galaxy.

"I will take it upon myself to thwart the enemy's plans and drive them back to their own galaxy. When the people of the galaxy learn that I have saved them, they will be only too eager to grant me any demands that I might make upon them. And I will demand to be made king. That's what I will say to them."

"Won't they wonder why the Usurper is on board?"

Flaim shrugged. "I don't trust him out of my sight."

"And when we flee the ship?"

"We're inspecting the fleet."

Preparations were made to leave orbit. Everything was in readiness. Lord Sagan had arrived on board, as had Dion. Flaim ordered his cousin and Lord Sagan to join the prince in his cabin to hear the speech.

The prince made his speech over the vidcom, to the cheers and applause of the assembled crew. None of them had any doubt at all but that Flaim Starfire would soon be king and that their fortunes would be made.

"How was that, Pantha?" Flaim asked when he was finished. He glanced around. '"Where's Pantha?"

"He was called to the bridge, an urgent summons," said Sagan. "The speech was quite good. Your Highness. You played down the death of the Usurper, I noticed." An oblique glance at Dion, who sat unmoving, expressionless.

"I took your advice, my lord. As you said, some may still have a soft spot in their hearts for my cousin." Flaim nodded politely in Dion's direction. "They wouldn't stand for seeing him executed, but if he dies in battle . .." The prince shrugged.

Sagan nodded in understanding. The three were seated in Flaim's private quarters aboard the "ghost" ship. Only two people, Flaim and Pantha, had access to these quarters-an arrangement similar to one Derek Sagan had once used aboard the Phoenix. Now the former Warlord was relegated to a small berth in the officer's part of the ship. He stood looking out the steelglass window at Vallombrosa, still in sight, and permitted himself the luxury of memory.

He was-as he had always been before a battle-calm, relaxed. His senses were heightened. All objects in his sight seemed sharp-edged, bathed in bright light. He could hear words unspoken, attune himself to the thoughts of those near him, keep his own thoughts shrouded in darkness. All was going well, according to plan. Tusk and his Scimitar were safely aboard; the Warlord had ascertained as much. He could trust Tusk to handle his end-the mercenary had a powerful incentive and he was a good man. Dependable, like his father.

Sagan had now only to wait and be patient, something he'd never been very good at when younger. He glanced down at his arm. Hidden beneath the knife-edged crease of the sleeve of his uniform (disguised as that of an admiral of the Royal Navy) were countless scars. Self-inflicted wounds, intended to remind him of his own mortality, his own frailty, intended to remind him of his duty to God. Patience. Yes, he had learned patience.

Or at least he had learned to conceal his impatience.

Garth Pantha entered through the large double doors.

"My friend!" Flaim began exuberantly, stopped at the expression on the elderly man's face. "Something's gone wrong, hasn't it? What?" He rose to his feet, leveraging himself out of his chair with a shove of his hands. "What is it? Wait. Call the guards to escort my cousin back-"

Pantha halted the prince's command with a swift gesture. "Your cousin should stay, my prince. He ... may be needed."

Flaim answered with a frown. "What is it, then? Speak. What's wrong?"

"The dark-matter creatures, Your Highness."

Flaim glanced involuntarily in the direction of a large vault. "Not the space-rota-"

"No, not that," Pantha interrupted hastily. "I ... I really don't know how to tell you this, my prince. It is all . . . most inexplicable. I don't understand ..

"Just tell me!" Flaim snapped.

"We have received a report-it has gone galaxy-wide, Your Highness-that the system of Bidaldi, in the center of the galaxy, has been attacked by a mysterious force. From all indications it appears that every major city in the Bidaldi system was destroyed by horrific nuclear war. Yet there were no explosions, no radiation. Buildings have been leveled, people killed. The death toll, Your Highness, is said to be in the millions."

"Dear God!" murmured Dion softly.

No one else spoke, all silent, pondering.

"Bidaldi is a populous system." Dion was the first to break the silence. "And a wealthy one. They are located in the center of a Lane convergence. And they are peaceful. They have no enemies- "Everyone has enemies," Flaim returned. "What does this have to do with us?"

Pantha wiped sweat from his face; his wrinkled black skin glistened. He swallowed, tried to speak, paused to lick his lips. "Your Highness .. . I'm afraid it has everything to do with us."

Flaim stared at him. "No!" he protested, aghast. "You can't be serious! The dark-matter creatures?"

"All evidence points to it, Flaim," said Pantha. The man looked suddenly ancient. He sat down heavily in a chair. His hands shook. "I have studied the data as it came in. Due to the fact that we're tapped into the Royal Naval channels, I was able to intercept the navy's official communications. Instruments on Bidaldi recorded wild and inexplicable fluctuations in the gravitational readings. These are all now back to normal. Survivors report people dropping dead of no apparent cause. And there is more evidence. I would not tell you this, my prince, if I was not absolutely certain." Pantha shook his head. "There can be no doubt, I'm afraid. The dark-matter creatures attacked and destroyed Bidaldi."

"But why? What do they possibly hope to gain? You said they weren't ambitious!"

"I didn't think they were! And it doesn't look as if they've gained anything. They have abandoned the planet, apparently." Pantha lowered his head into his hands. "After they wreaked havoc on it, maimed and slaughtered, they just left...."

"Perhaps they're not ambitious," said Dion slowly, considering. "Or if they are, ambitious only for their own survival. You taught them, cousin, how easy we flesh-and-blood mortals are to destroy. The bomb taught them to fear us. Perhaps their only goal is to see to it that we will not be a threat to them again."

Flaim cast him a swift, baleful glance. Going to the commlink, he contacted the guards standing duty outside the door. "Return the Usurper to his quarters."

Pantha lifted a haggard face. "The people will be expecting their king to make a public pronouncement on the tragedy. If he doesn't, they will suspect something is wrong-"

"I'll deal with that when the time comes!" Flaim said angrily. "Guards, take him."

Dion stood up to leave. "The creatures have slipped from your leash, cousin-if they were ever really on one. How much longer before they turn on you?"

The king left, the guards marching him back to his quarters that were, in essence, his prison. Once he was gone, Flaim began pacing the room.

"This is intolerable! If I am linked to this disaster, it could ruin me."

Wheeling, he came to stand in front of Pantha. Gripping the old man by his shoulders, Flaim jerked him to an upright position. "You have to talk to them. Now! Find out what the devil is going on! Tell them to stop immediately. Tell them . . ." Flaim fell silent.

"My prince?" Pantha looked at him.

"Hush, wait. . . . My lord." Flaim turned to Derek Sagan.

The Warlord stood before the viewscreen, staring out at Vallombrosa. He had said nothing at the news, which appeared to have made very little impression on him. Now he looked deferentially around at the prince.