Free Ghost Legion by Margaret Weis Page A

mother was a tall, long-limbed warrior
woman, strong as most males, fierce, proud, a hard bargainer. Most of
her numerous daughters (DiLuna scorned to give birth to a male child)
were like their mother.
    Astarte was different. Perhaps this difference was because she was
High Priestess for her people. Or perhaps she'd become High Priestess
because of the difference. Dion didn't know. Again, he hadn't asked.
She was the embodiment of womanhood, the nurturing mother.
    With nothing to nurture.
    Dion knew immediately where this quarrel was leading—the same
place their quarrels always led. The bedroom.
    "I'm sorry things didn't work out, madam. I was only going by
what D'argent told me. What your secretary told him. Perhaps next
time. And now, if you will excuse me, I have several calls to make
before I leave."
    He started toward the door. He took two steps, but she was there in
front of him, her hand on his arm. This time he forced himself to
hold still.
    "Yes, madam," he said, trying to keep irritation from
showing its edge in his voice, "what is it you want? I fear you
must be quick—"
    "Why haven't you been in our bed for a month, Dion?" she
demanded. Her eyes were wide, trying to draw him inside. "Why?"
She tightened her grip.
    Dion, mindful of the reflection, gave a practiced smile. "You
know how busy I've been, madam. I'm up until all hours. I know you're
busy, too. I don't want to disturb you—"
    "Disturb me! I talk of making love to you and you talk of
'disturbing' me! We will never have a child if you are not a husband
to me."
    "I've been a husband to you, madam," Dion said, breaking
free of his wife's grip. Turning from her, he reached for a pair of
white gloves that he'd almost forgotten. He began to pull one on.
"For one and a half, two years, I performed my duty faithfully."
    "Duty!" Astarte repeated, following him, forcing herself
into his line of sight. "That's what it is to you—duty!"
    "And what is it to you?" he asked quietly, lifting his gaze
from the gloves.
    "I—" Astarte began, but she stopped. Tilting back her
head, chin high, she stared at him, said nothing.
    Dion nodded, picked up the other glove. "We discussed this on
our wedding night. You don't love me, madam. I don't love you. We've
never made a secret of that to each other. This was a political
marriage, made for the sake of uniting the galaxy. Your mother got
what she wanted. I got what I wanted—"
    "But what about me?" Astarte asked softly.
    Dion raised his head again, glanced at her briefly. His mouth twisted
in a bitter smile. "You are queen of the galaxy, my dear."
He turned from her again, ready to leave. "And now, if you will
excuse me—"
    Astarte again caught hold of his arm, pulled him around to face her.
"We are the talk of the media. 'When will a royal heir be born?'
'Almost three years, and the queen is not pregnant.' 'Is it him?' 'Is
it her?' 'The king undergoes medical tests.' The queen undergoes
medical tests.' 'Nothing is wrong with either of them.' Nothing
except that we sleep in separate bedrooms!"
    "There are ways, madam." Dion was carefully maintaining
patience, control. "We've discussed this before. Artificial
insemination—"
    "That is against my religion!" Astarte shouted at him. "You
know that!"
    "It's not against mine," Dion returned. "And keep your
voice down."
    "Let them hear!" Astarte waved her hand toward the door.
"Let the whole palace hear! A child must be born of the union
between husband and wife. Not between wife and test tube! And that is
another thing. You promised you would advocate the worship of the
Goddess. You promised you would help encourage her worship throughout
the galaxy. Another promise broken! Like your promise to be faithful
to your wife."
    Dion's face paled in anger; his eyes shone bright and hard and they
had gone ice blue, like a frozen lake beneath winter clouds. He drew
in a deep breath, let it out slowly.
    "I have been faithful to you, madam," he