"You're getting old," XJ repeated. "Old and soft. You were glad."

Tusk climbed the ladder, stomped up the rungs, felt the metal vibrate beneath his fingers. XJ had the hatch open by the time Tusk reached it.

"Call Nola, will you? Tell her I may not be home for dinner."

"Old," muttered XJ. "Old and soft."

The computer waited until it could no longer register the sound of the whining clunk of the hovercraft's engine. Then it raised Nola on the commlink.

"This is me, Nola. Tusk won't be home for dinner tonight. . . . Yeah, he's got the shakes again. Bad this time. He's gone over to Link's. . . . Over a year. It was that job Dixter wanted him to do. . . . Naw, Tusk's not gonna do it, but it looked like for a while he might. . . . What? Oh, sure, it figures, Dixter. Dion. No wonder. Brought it all back... . Me? Of course I was sympathetic and tactful! Tact is my middle name. I told him he was getting old and soft. . .. No, he didn't say anything. ... What? Twins? Oh, great. Fine. Yeah, that's just dandy. Look, if you two haven't figured out what's causing this yet, I'll be happy to buy you a manual!"

XJ ended the transmission with a vicious click. "Twins!" the computer repeated in a gloomy tone, and immediately called up the computerized grocery service, ordered out two cases of cookies.

Chapter Eight.

There's fennel for you, and columbines; there's rue for you; and here's some for me ...

William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act IV, Scene v Three years ago, and almost eighteen years before that, the Academy had been a ghostly place. Once it had been an institution of learning for the children of the Blood Royal. Brought here at an early age, the children, whose genetically altered bloodlines gave them special talent for leadership (or at least that had been the plan), were raised in an atmosphere dedicated to learning.

The site had been chosen with care. The Academy was built on a planet whose atmosphere and environs were as close to old Earth (pre-devastation Earth) as the designers could possibly find and far from all major cities, trade routes, and any other type of disturbing influence.

Built among rolling, thickly forested hills, the Academy's halls and libraries and classrooms stood solemn and quiet, each connected with the rest by winding paths which led through groves of towering oak and poplar and aspen, gardens of flowers and vegetables (the students and professors were required to grow much of their own food), rambling brooks and placid lakes.

Following the downfall and purge of the Blood Royal during the revolution, the Academy was abandoned. Attempts at various times to use the buildings and grounds for other purposes-from public housing to a retirement center-had all failed. It was rumored to be haunted, if not by genuine, chain-rattling ghosts, then by the ghosts of childish voices reciting Shakespeare or the multiplication tables, ghosts of youthful voices discussing quantum mechanics or, in the spring, Walt Whitman and D. H. Lawrence. Perhaps it really was only the rubbing of tree limbs, one against the other, that created the odd sounds, but no one could stay on the Academy grounds long without hearing them. Most left, immediately.

But now all that had changed.

One of Dion's first official acts, following his coronation, had been to reestablish the Academy, open it as an institution of higher learning for any student creatively gifted, academically talented enough to qualify for admission.

Old buildings had been lovingly renovated, new buildings added, their designers careful to coordinate them with the old. Grants were established, many in the names of those who had died in the fight to end the corrupt republic, bring the rightful heir to the throne.

A memorial chapel, located in the new wing of the library, the Platus Morianna wing-had been set aside, by the king's command, to honor the dead. It was this wing, this chapel, that were to be dedicated today.

The ceremony was to take place in the evening. Before that, in the afternoon, Dion was accorded the honor of a private tour of the Academy grounds. The new buildings had been completed and open for use for several months prior to the dedication, the king's busy schedule having precluded him from coming earlier. But the buildings had all been closed the day before His Majesty's arrival for cleaning and decorating, done by the students themselves.

The dean of students was the proud guide. She walked His Majesty relentlessly over every centimeter of the new structures, pointed out every new feature of the new library, and would have undoubtedly exhibited each new volume individually had time allowed. His Majesty was interested and attentive, however, and if Dion's eyes occasionally strayed out the windows, to the crowds to students massed outside to catch a glimpse of their king (and he was their king, being the same age as most of them), no one noticed the lapse except D'argent, who noticed everything, and the captain of the Royal Guard, whose duty it was to watch over His Majesty's every move.

And perhaps by the headmaster, a quiet and unassuming man, who reminded Dion of his own mentor, Platus.

"You have done a splendid job, Dean, Headmaster," said Dion when they were nearing the end of the tour. "This is exactly what we had in mind. We couldn't be more pleased."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." The headmaster smiled with quiet pride. Both he and the dean were dressed in their academic gowns-long, flowing-sleeved black robes with silk-lined hoods, which had been a tradition among scholars for centuries.

"Working on this project has been a true labor of love for me and for my staff. We deeply appreciate Your Majesty's support."

They had emerged from the new music conservatory and were standing at the end of a corridor, on ground level. "But where is the memorial chapel?" Dion asked.

"Ah, we have saved the best until last, Your Majesty. This way."

The headmaster, accompanied by the dean, and the king, accompanied by the ever-present, ever-vigilant Royal Guard and the quiet, unobtrusive D'argent, proceeded to the end of the corridor.

There were no other rooms in this part of the building, no windows. The walls were painted in soft, subdued colors; the lights gradually dimmed as the party proceeded down the corridor, giving an effect both soothing to the eye, calming to the soul. At the end of the corridor stood a large double door, carved of oak, bearing the emblem of the lions-head sun, the king's standard. The doors had no handles, no locks.

"As Your Majesty requested," said the headmaster. "It is open to all, day and night."

Dion gave the doors a gentle push, walked inside.

The chapel was a round room, cloistered, but light and airy. Its walls were of marble, whose stern aspect was softened by a row of slender columns forming a series of arches around the chapel's outer perimeter. Diffused light, from a glass dome in the ceiling, cast the columns' shadows against the marble walls behind them, forming a delicate pattern of light and darkness.

Beneath the skylight was a fountain, carved of limestone, unadorned, plain and simple in design. The name platus morianna was engraved in the stone.

Dion walked up to the fountain, stood a moment in silence, his head bowed, his thoughts with the gentle man who had raised him, who had given his life for him.

The headmaster held back a moment, out of respect. Then he came forward to stand by Dion's side.

"The chapel is quite popular with the students, Your Majesty. Several traditions have already sprung up concerning it. It is said, for example, that the sound of the falling water has a soothing effect upon troubled spirits. Those who are depressed or unhappy, sad or worried, have taken to coming here. They sit there, on the fountain's base, and many swear that they hear a soft voice in the water, offering counsel and sympathy.

Dion stood still, listened to the musical sound of the gently splashing water, imagined the water was washing over him, cooling the fever and soothing the turmoil in his soul. He had the impression that, if he sat here long enough, he, too, would hear Platus's voice, receive his wise council.

"I've experienced the feeling myself '' added the headmaster, noting Dion's softened expression.

"Platus would have liked this," said Dion quietly. He could almost hear words in the varying modulations and tones of the plashing drops. If only he were by himself if only he had time to truly listen, time to truly ask ...

He supposed he could order everyone to leave. He was king; they would obey. He had the feeling that the headmaster might even understand. Dion was tempted ... but he abandoned the idea.

He had not yet seen Kamil, nor had any word from her, received any message. Somehow, somewhere, they must meet. He needed to see her. And so he dared not deviate from his well-publicized schedule, lest she should be waiting for him, and he miss the opportunity of finding her.

The water spoke to him no more. He roused himself, was able to attend again to the headmaster's conversation.

Directly opposite the fountain, opposite the door through which they had entered, the circular line of columns ended, forming an alcove, with the marble wall behind. On this wall hung two portraits.

One was of Derek Sagan, Warlord of the fallen republic, a member of the Blood Royal and cousin to the king. The other was a portrait of Maigrey Morianna, outlawed royalist, member of the Blood Royal, cousin of the king. The portraits were uncannily lifelike, so lifelike that Dion's heart constricted painfully when he looked at them, and he heard, behind him, his captain of the guard Cato-an unemotional, stem, and disciplined soldier, who had served many years under Sagan's command-murmur in awe.

"Remarkable, aren't they ? Your Majesty hasn't seen them before ? inquired the Dean.

"I saw only the sketches and the preliminary watercolors. The artist what was his name?"

"Youll. Your Majesty. Stephen Youll."

"Youll offered to show the finished work to me, of course, but he said that he would prefer it if I saw them after they were properly hung. These . . . this is incredible." Dion for the moment forgot the voice of the king, spoke as himself.

"Quite a remarkable man, Youll," said the headmaster, gazing at the paintings with the pride of ownership, as well as appreciation for their beauty. "I had a chance to meet him when he supervised the hanging. A former spacepilot, he told me. He fought with the Warlord in the battle against the Corasians at Vangelis."

"That was one reason I chose him for this commission," said Dion. "He had served under Derek Sagan on board the old Phoenix. He knew both Sagan and the Lady Maigrey. To all the other artists, they were just . .. names. This man remembered them. He knew them as I knew them. That was what I wanted."

"It seems Your Majesty has succeeded," said the headmaster.

The Warlord had been painted in his golden Romanesque armor, fiery red cape, with the phoenix emblem-a controversial choice of costume. But then the placing of the Warlord's picture had been extremely controversial, since he was known to have murdered numerous innocent people, including the king's own guardian, Platus Morianna.

True, Sagan had redeemed himself by his heroic actions in the final battle against the Corasians. During this battle, having become separated from the rest of the fleet, he had fought alone and outnumbered. His spaceplane had been destroyed. He was declared missing in action and presumed dead. But there remained those who had little cause to either love or honor his memory.

"Was there any trouble on campus over this, Dean?" asked Dion, thinking of the debate that had raged in the media when he had announced that he was building a memorial to honor Derek Sagan.

"Some of the students protested, Your Majesty. Was he a fallen angel redeemed or a demon damned? That subject was debated at length," answered the dean. "As you might imagine, the argument became more muddled as some of the true details of the late President Peter Robes and his ghastly ties with the mind-seizer, Abdiel, were made public."

"On one point everyone was in agreement," inserted the headmaster. "Such an honor, granted after death to a man who had wronged you, is very much to Your Majesty's credit."

Dion bowed slightly, a lowering of the eyes and an inclination of the head, acknowledging the compliment and letting it pass He concentrated instead on the portrait. The face was exactly as he remembered: dark, stern, impassive. He recalled Platus's words, spoken before he died, spoken before Sagan had killed him-"... his face, deep scars of thunder had intrenched," from Milton's Paradise Lost. Fallen angel redeemed . . . demon damned. Or perhaps the question had not yet been resolved.

The dark eyes of the painting stared back at Dion and he was once again that awkward, dazzled, and confused boy of seventeen, standing before the two of them, standing before Sagan and Lady Maigrey. In Sagan's eyes, cool appraisal, doubt, scorn. In her eyes ...

Dion's gaze shifted to the other portrait. The artist had portrayed Maigrey in her silver armor, matching Sagan's. Her robes were blue and adorned with the eight-pointed star which had been the symbol of the Guardians. Around her neck she wore the starjewel, and in the painting it shimmered with an argent flame. The last time he had seen the jewel had been to place it reverently on her body; its fire had burned pale, cold as the fire of distant stars. He looked into her eyes and he saw now what he had seen the first time he'd met her: understanding, cool pity, sorrow.

"It's almost eerie, the way the two seem to be looking at each other, isn't it, Your Majesty?" commented the headmaster.

"Yes, it is," agreed Dion politely. He looked again, thinking that he might have been mistaken. No. He wasn't. They weren't looking at each other. They were both watching him.

"The story of their ill-fated love is well-known and, in fact, Your Majesty, this alcove has started to acquire a certain romantic history of its own."

"Indeed?" Dion glanced surreptitiously at his watch, though he knew well that the silent and observant D'argent would be keeping track of the time and would politely and graciously intervene when necessary to keep His Majesty on schedule.

"The chapel has become a trysting place for lovers," the headmaster was continuing. "Particularly those who have quarreled or separated. They meet here, or leave small bouquets of flowers beneath one painting or the other. ... Why, gracious me, there's one there now. I must apologize, Your Majesty. I wanted this kept neat. . ."

The embarrassed headmaster, robes flapping like sails, was bearing down upon the small flower lying on the floor beneath the portrait of Lady Maigrey.

D'argent, swift, graceful, unobtrusive, cut in front of the headmaster, retrieved the flower with a gracious, murmured "Allow me, sir."

The headmaster bobbed his thanks, was shaking his head over the incident.

"Please, think nothing of it," said Dion graciously.

D'argent turned to the king, offered the flower. "Perhaps Your Majesty would like to keep this as a souvenir," suggested the secretary.

Accepting the white, waxen blossom, Dion placed it in the buttonhole on the lapel of his uniform. The heady, spicy fragrance took his breath away.

"This is truly a beautiful place," he said, looking around once again. "Truly beautiful."

Dion suddenly wished for, longed for it to be night. It was with great effort that he forced himself to attend to his duties.

The headmaster and dean were extremely pleased to receive His Majesty's warm praise. They would have gone on discussing and exhibiting the chapel for the next hour had not D'argent, whose sharp eyes had noted the king's sudden lapse of interest, quickly intervened.

"His Majesty's schedule prohibits . . . His Majesty should rest . . . aware that the headmaster has other duties in connection with this evening's ceremonies . . ."

Dion heard very little, made the automatic, proper responses that he could have made if he had been drugged, drunk, or somnambulant. Fortunately, he'd had long experience in practicing the control of his emotions, was careful to conceal irritation, boredom. He could maintain a steady pulse rate; could regulate the beating of his heart, prevent the rush of blood to his face.

Passing the fountain, he glanced at himself in the pool of blue water. His reflection, though marred somewhat by the constant motion of the falling water, was the reflection of the mirror in his dressing room: cool, detached, unaffected. He wondered that he heard the fountain's voice no longer, for, in his mind, it should have been singing an aria in celebration of love.

Dion did not fully regain consciousness until he was alone, back in the headmaster's house, which had been turned over to the king and his retinue for his use during his stay. Pleading fatigue and the desire to rest and go over his speech for the dedication ceremony that night, the king retired to his bedroom. The door had barely closed behind him before he removed the camellia from his lapel, pressed it to his lips.

He touched the commlink worn on his wrist, allowing him to speak either to his secretary or to the captain of the Royal Guard.

"D'argent."

The secretary responded immediately, entered, shut the door behind him.

"Yes, sir."

"All is arranged? She'll dine with me this evening?"

"Yes, sir. The dedication ceremony ends at midnight. Princess Kamil Olefsky and her party will arrive at 0100 hours for a late dinner. I gave the Royal Correspondent that information, as you requested."

"How was it received?"

"Since the princess is known to be a longtime friend of Your Majesty's and her father is one of your most valued and trusted allies, nothing untoward was said. They requested the usual: the names of those she would be bringing with her, what they would be wearing, the menu, the wines. The Royal Correspondent gave them all the details."

"And you have arranged for the princess and her friends to spend the night here."

"Yes, sir. This house has numerous guest rooms, which are being made ready."

"Very good, D'argent," said Dion, trying to sound nonchalant, though at the moment not even he could control his swift racing pulse.

"Is there anything further I can do for you, sir?"

"No, thank you, D'argent. I'm going to read over the speech now."

The private secretary bowed again, left.

Dion lifted the copy of his dedicatory speech from the table, sat down in a comfortable chair, and started to read. He made it through one sentence, then the hand holding the speech sank to the chair's arm, all thoughts of the ceremony faded away.

In Dion's mind, it was already night. He was alone, at last, with the woman he had loved in secrecy and in silence for almost three years. And in all that time he had been faithful to his wife, as he had told Astarte. Faithful in body, if not in soul.

But the hunger was strong. Duty and honor had not sated his appetite, filled him as he had hoped they would.

The gleaming crown was losing some of its luster; the scepter was growing heavy for him to bear alone.

Chapter Nine.