oran scanned the crowd looking for the telltale flashes of knives, or the flicker of a laser sight. If he had his way, this particular ceremony would have been cancelled or at the very least would have moved inside. However, the Queen refused to even consider those alternatives. He could almost hear her now, her voice straining the upper registers at the impossibility of the four hundredth monarch of Quantax being the first to "hide from my people behind the skirts of the Praetorian." Goran suppressed a wry smile and continued his watch.

The square was built to impress. The temples to the lesser Gods were faced with Centaurian marble, their three storey columns giving a rose pink tinge to the sunlight they reflected. In the centre of three sides of the square great gateways pierced the bulk of the temples. Goran flicked his eyes over his men who were still carefully searching every sack, purse and article of clothing that might possibly conceal something. Wagons and animals were forbidden today, the people were not here for a market.

Goran's surveillance never faltered, but part of his mind went back to the day, eighteen years before, when the present Queen's father had made his final trip to the Temple of Light. Goran had been just a junior member of the Praetorian unit assigned to the three year old Princess that day, but the sense of guilt and loss still galled him. He had followed his orders precisely; grabbing the girl-child and hiding her in a place known only to himself until he could summon trusted help. But the fact remained that the King had died and he, like all the Praetorian, was sworn to protect the Crown.

A flourish of trumpets announced the closure of the side gates to the square. For at least the fifth time that morning Goran checked that he could see only Praetorian outlines on the rooftops. Goran moved behind the unit briskly clearing a pathway through the crowd from the Temple to the Royal Gate. His men were stationing themselves at intervals of three metres to restrain the crowds. Although each man carried a long bullwhip in his hand and a sword at his belt, they were under strict orders not to use these, or any of the sundry other weapons they carried, unless absolutely necessary. Generally, the reputation of the Praetorian saw that they were obeyed without resorting to actual violence.

As Goran reached the Royal Gate a few stragglers were still coming through. Looking down the Avenue of the Stars he could see that the royal procession was clustered in front of the palace. With a nod to the lieutenant in charge of the gate Goran took his position by the wall and waited.

The drumbeat started as a slow pulse, keeping time with the ponderous footfalls of the photosyn beasts. These mighty animals, with their scaly skins, feathered legs and photosynthetic pads on the top of their three-horned heads, had been tamed generations before and now were the most common beast of burden on Quantax. The royal photosyns were the premier breeding stock on the planet but their appearance at the front of the Queen's carriage reinforced 'the common touch' that rulers so often need. Slowly the royal procession moved up the Avenue towards the Gate.

As the Queen came level with Goran he took his place on a running board beside her. Her face was tight, her lips underlining the concentration in her eyes. Gripping the frame of the carriage's window Goran whispered to her,

"Are you sure you want to go through with this, Clary."

His use of the diminutive familiar made her glance sharply at him, before she simply nodded. He hadn't expected anything else, but his devotion to his Queen had made him try, one last time, to protect her from her ordeal. Facing forward, Goran rode through the Gate into the square.

Their entry into the square was greeted with a roar from the crowd. Quantax wasn't big on pomp and ceremony, but the young Queen had made an impression in the hearts of her subjects. While most didn't, and probably never would, understand the danger she would be in during the ceremony, they nevertheless understood that she was doing something very special for them.

Goran continued to watch carefully. Although he had seen the Temple of Light countless times before, it still impressed him. The great white statues of Brant, first King of Quantax, stood sentry either side of the enormous golden doors. Above the doors, inlaid into the white stone, was the golden pentangle which symbolised the preeminent religion of the planet. As the royal carriage came closer an invisible hand pulled a lever and a thousand white doves flew into the air, sparkling in the bright midday sun.

The carriage stopped twelve metres from the vast entrance. Goran offered his hand to his Queen and assisted her to the ground. She removed her purple cloak revealing the simple white cotton dress she wore. Her only ornamentation was the gold pentangle, mirror of the much larger one above her, on a thick chain around her neck. Goran took the cloak and stood by the carriage. He felt helpless. Despite all his precautions and the planning and the positioning of his men there was nothing else he could do for his Queen now.

The Queen, small and frail-looking before the huge Temple, walked slowly towards the altar fire burning at the base of the steps up to the golden doors. She raised her face and arms to the sky.

"Lords of Light and Lords of Dark, hear me. I am Claresta, Queen of Quantax by right of birth. My reign is incomplete. I come to claim your power. As you have done before, so I beseech you now."

The sun glinted off her pentangle amulet and shone on her coal-black hair. She remained standing, arms upraised, facing over the fire to the doors.

There was a mournful clanging from within the Temple. Slowly the huge doors swung open. A procession of priests slow-marched out of the Temple's depths and descended towards the altar fire. At their head was Rimon, High Priest of the Temple of Light. His long, grey hair was plaited either side of his head, and his beard seemed made of iron. He stopped across the flames from Claresta and planted his staff before him.

"You claim the power but the Gods must know your purpose." Rimon's powerful voice boomed across the square.

"My purpose is the lawful rule of Quantax. More detail is for the Gods themselves."

Rimon flushed angrily. Goran coughed and hid a smile. Go for it girl, he thought, don't let that old scavenger bully you.

Rimon drew himself up to his full height and thrust his staff into the flames. Instantly, Claresta seized the other end. Her face contorted with the searing pain. In a low voice, too quiet even for Goran to hear distinctly, she began to chant. Above the flames a vortex of light and dark began to grow. It grew until its top was level with the roof of the huge Temple. The tail of the vortex danced along the staff coming to rest on the blistering hands of the Queen.

Claresta felt the searching power of the vortex. It probed deep into her mind, lingering here and dismissing there. Things that had been really important to her at the time, such as her coronation three years before, were dismissed. Other things she hadn't really considered at all, her trust in Goran for one, were examined minutely. But the vortex stayed nowhere for long, probing ever downward in search of her source, her anima.

The deeper the vortex delved, the less Claresta understood of its intentions. In its initial probing the vortex had sifted coherent memories and feelings. Now it was searching through parts of her mind she could identify only as colours, and then only fleetingly. Abruptly the vortex seemed to reach some kind of decision. The tail leapt from her hand to her amulet. The towering swirl of force began to pour itself into the Queen's chest. Claresta lost her grip on the fiery staff and fell back. Before she could strike the floor Goran reacted without thinking. Leopard-like he sprang to catch her. Rimon's eyes went wide with horror. The old High Priest started to shout some kind of warning, but it was lost to Goran as he shared the convulsive surges racking the body of his Queen. Driven to his knees, Goran felt the power of the vortex seeking out his own inner recesses.

And then the vortex stopped. There was no noise, no waning. The maelstrom of light and dark simply winked out of existence. Goran could feel the confusion of the crowd as he frantically checked Claresta for signs of life.

Moving as if his age had finally caught up with him, Rimon tottered to the couple in front of the altar fire. Bringing his face close to Goran's he hissed,

"You fool! What have you done? She was being accepted. Who knows what has happened to her now."

Goran ignored the High Priest as Claresta groaned. Her eyes opened and Goran recoiled in horror. The orbs of her eyes were a storm of dark and light. The vortex was inside her head. Swallowing his revulsion Goran lifted his Queen in his arms and returned to her carriage. He barked swift orders to the Praetorian units who sprang to clear the crowd away. He lay the Queen on the cushions of her seat, climbed into the driving position and flogged the photosyns into action.

By the time the carriage reached the safety of the palace compound, Claresta had regained enough consciousness to recognise him. Her eyes were still that fearful non-colour, but she seemed unaware of it. As he bent to pick her up again she touched his arm,

"Goran" she whispered, "I have the power, more than I ever dreamed possible. And you…" realisation dawned in her face "you made it possible. Your love for me was the strength I needed to absorb the entire vortex. Goran, I never knew."

Goran's face was a mask of mixed emotions. In one way he was elated that the Queen finally knew the depth of his feeling for her. But at the same time he was appalled that his innermost desires had been ripped from him so easily. And where now, he thought. He would never allow Claresta to compromise her position for him, and a queen needs to keep marriage as a political tool. Where did that leave him? Claresta sat up and looked at her charred hands. With a shrug of her mind she healed them. She felt no exertion as she did so. She reached out, mentally, and could feel the old High Priest running towards her. On a whim she stopped him and held him just outside the compound while she considered what to do about Goran. His agonising indecision was a palpable blow against her newly heightened senses. Without thinking how she did it, Claresta sent a wave of comfort over him, soothing his fear and massaging his ego.