Part 19 (2/2)

No wait I'll check perhaps Medor or Betularn or Fafnor conspired circ.u.mvent authoritySave yourd.a.m.nface anywhichway but hands off Roniah!

Checko. You just rest easy.

[Pained laughter.] ??? (!) Aiken we can be Mends. ManyColouredLand bigenough for all. And about the Sword ... You know it's sacred to mypeople. It belonged myown sainted greatgreatgrandsire SharnAtrocious. Give it back to us Aiken. We'll keep the peace. I swear.

No nnaldecision until postTourney. Consider Sword security goodbehaviour.

Agreed! I knew you'd be a reasonable lad! I'll use yourpromise Swordgift keep hotheads inline let 'em save energy for Tourney!

Great idea! Wait till you see wonderful SingingStone[Weariness.] Good night Sharn.

Good night Aiken.

Good night ...

For the first time in nearly a week, Aiken came to the royal apartments.

The golden doors were back on their hinges and there remained no traces of the damage done by the invaders. He had commanded that all things that had belonged to Queen MercyRosmar should be removed. And now as he pa.s.sed through the silent sitting room with its balcony overlooking the moonlit sea, he noted that certain paintings and pieces of sculpture and potted plants were gone, and the loom where she had woven soft shawls from the wool of the sheep she herself had brought to the Pliocene, and the water dish of her great white dog, and the carved cabinet with the stoppered flasks of special herbs, and a certain blue rug, and the embroidered cus.h.i.+ons from the rattan lounge seats. In her dressing room the closets gaped open and empty. The vases held no flowers. Her jewel cases were gone, and the cosmetics, and even the scent of her perfume.

Her chaise with its Milieu-style reading lamp had been removed, and the cases with her page-books and plaques and the audiovisual recordings of the medieval pageants and the operas and the plays and the travelogues of Old Earth that she had shared with him, a callow boy from a colonial planet, on the nights last winter when the rains lashed the Castle of Gla.s.s and they planned together how he would seize the throne ...

She was gone. She remained. And the other as well.

Standing there in the empty dressing room he seemed surrounded by leftover laughter. He burned. His brain and his body seemed hideously swollen, straining the seams of the golden storm-suit he had insisted on wearing even when the Summer Fog was long gone. He found himself saying: If only you'd loved me! Or if I hadn't! And remembering: ”When I'm gone, you'll find no other. Fatal Fool! How will you do it, Amadan-na-Briona?”

He had done it as his instincts drove him, taking both of them in a rage of fear and envy and terrible love, gorging himself on the coveted power, the vitality.

It was the only way, his mind screamed.

He found himself standing in the royal bath, reflected in the mirrored walls, a manikin in s.h.i.+ning gold leather, reduplicated to infinity. He put both hands to his ears, pressing the stormsuit's hood tightly against his skull with all his superhuman strength. The coa.r.s.er agony swamped anguish. He cried, ”You belong to Me!”

And it was all right.

One little man staring at himself in a jewelled mirror. The familiar onyx-and-gold bathroom, with the small fountain playing in the cool end of the great sunken tub and the warm end steaming invitingly. Baskets of heavy-scented yellow orchids. A lumpish moon spying on him through the glazed skylight. Piles of purple towels and his yellow-silk dressing gown and amethyststudded espadrilles. A pitcher of iced mead and a crystal tumbler, just as his telepathic orders to the silver domestics had specified.

It was all right.

He studied his reflected face, pale and woeful in the crested hood. The lips were tight-shut in reaction to his involuntary shout, the nose cruelly sharpened. He had thought that the fever would manifest itself physically. He had worn the tough gilded hide of the storm-suit to conceal his condition from the others: the gross swelling, the incandescence. He knew that when he took the suit off, the consequences of his gluttony and l.u.s.t would be shamefully manifest.

But it seemed to be all right.

He unfastened the hood, pulled it away. His head was sweatplastered, the dark auburn hair almost as black as his eyes. He kicked off the boots, opened the wrists and ankles, threw away the belt, finally unzipped the suit from throat to crotch and stepped out of it. His body was wiry, corded with muscle, scantily haired. There were faint pressure marks from the seams of the tight suit but otherwise he was ordinary, and quiescent. What he had been so afraid of finding was gone. If it had ever existed.

He gave a great shout of laughter and dived into the steaming pool.

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