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sir."
    "Tusk"—Dixter
looked at him earnestly—"I don't have time to explain and
I'm not certain I could anyway. I'll say this once, and then the
subject will be closed forever between us. I've known Maigrey over
twenty years. I've loved her, it seems, longer than that. I loved her
when I thought she was dead and lost to me forever.
    "I know her, Tusk. She didn't just 'leave.' She fled. She ran away. She's
trying desperately to escape."
    "Escape?"
Tusk thought it over. "Yeah, I can understand. That old man,
that Abdiel ... I heard he gave her a rough time. And she outsmarted
him, tricked him. He can't be happy about that. Yeah, I guess it
makes sense—"
    "Tusk!"
Dixter sighed in exasperation. "Maigrey's not running from
Abdiel. She never ran from an enemy in her life. Yet all her life
she's been running, trying to escape the one enemy who has the power
to ultimately defeat her."
    "Who's
that? Sagan?"
    "No, son.
Herself."
    Tusk saw the
mingled pain and love on the general's face, saw the pain the love
had cost. The mercenary was forced to clear his throat of a sudden
husky sensation that clogged his windpipe.
    "I think I
understand, sir. I ran around in that wire wheel myself not long
back." His hand went to an earring in his left earlobe, an
earring fashioned in the shape of an eight-pointed star. "Odd,
though. It was the lady who helped me climb out."
    "It's
always easier to help others than ourselves, son."
    "Yeah, I
guess that's right. Anyway, sir, I'm sorry about what I said. I
wasn't thinking—"
    "What did you say, anyway?" Dixter smiled. Reaching out, he took
Tusk's hand and pressed it warmly. "I can't seem to remember. It
must not have been all that important."
    "Lord Sagan
on vidscreen three, sir," reported the operator.
    The door to the
comm slid open. Dion entered, followed by a fussing Bennett—clothes
brush in hand—and the omnipresent Honor Guard.
    Dion had changed
to the same severe black uniform worn by Tusk and Dixter, worn by all
the officers aboard the Warlord's ships. No insignia of rank
glittered on the collar or banded his sleeve. A sash of purple satin,
attached at his left shoulder, tied at his waist, banding his chest
was the mark of his royal stature. That and the brooch, made of gold,
with the face of a lion whose mane was the rays of the sun. The
lion's eyes were blue sapphires. The brooch had been a gift from the
Warlord.
    The Honor Guard
drew up in a line, snapped to attention.
    General Dixter
bowed, grave and dignified. "Your Majesty."
    Tusk bowed as
well, clumsily. He'd practiced and practiced, Nola coaching him, but
he could never quite make it come off with ease and grace. The
atmosphere in the comm changed, crackled with energy and tension, as
if that red hair of Dion's was a generator that sent a jolt of
current through everyone present. He fed them. It was exhilarating,
exciting to be in his presence.
    And they fed off
him. Drained him.
    Those in the
comm who could leave their duties rose and bowed respectfully. Those
who couldn't darted glances at him out of the corners of their eyes,
hoping for a look, a smile, before turning back to their work.
    Dion gave them
what they wanted. He smiled, gracious, yet aloof, a perfect blend.
How does he know where to draw the line? Tusk wondered, marveling.
How does he know what to say and how to act and how to command the
respect of these men, men like Agis, men double his age? When had he
learned it? How had Tusk missed it?
    Or had he missed
it? No, he admitted. He was a part of it himself. Had been, all
along. Something the general told him a long time back returned to
Tusk.
    "We've
flown too close to the comet," he said to himself. "Now
we're trapped, just one more spark in the fiery tail streaking
through the heavens, being carried along behind a brilliant,
beautiful, flaming ball of ice. He flashed into our lives, and before
we could help ourselves, we were lit by his light, warmed by his
fire, swept up in the