King's Test

by Margaret Weis

  Dion hesitated, undecided. But Tusk had already made up his mind.

  "Kid! What the hell do you think you're doing?" He caught hold of Dion by the shoulder, drew him to one side. "Uh, 'scuse us a minute, old man, will you? Got to have a little chat with my friend. Private."

  "I quite understand." Abdiel made a gesture with his hand; a patch of skin fell off and was blown away on the wind. "If you will permit me, I will return to my dwelling. I am subject to chills and cannot stay long in the out-of-doors. Whenever you are ready to enter my house, Your Majesty, I will be honored to receive you. My disciples and I await your coming with pleasure."

  Wrapping his robes around him, the old man made a deep bow, glided across the barren, rocky ground, and disappeared into the house. Several of the dead-eyed disciples standing around the dwelling went in after him. Others remained outside and it seemed to Tusk, who was watching them warily, that he was being outcircled, outflanked. He turned back to Dion, saw the boy's jaw set, the blue eyes harden.

  "Look, kid, be smart! We should get in that 'copter and get the hell out of here now."

  "I don't think they're going to let us leave, Tusk," Nola said quietly. Two of the blankly staring humans had moved nearer the chopper.

  "All the more reason to try it. There are three of us, we've got lasguns. We knock 'em out before they know what hit em— Why the devil am I wasting my breath?' Tusk raised his arms to heaven. "You're going in there, aren't you, kid? 'My king.' You really eat that stuff up."

  Dion flushed in anger, opened his mouth, snapped it shut. Turning on his heel, he began to walk toward the house.

  Tusk, glaring after the boy, felt a painful poke in his back. Nola was glaring at him.

  "All right, all right! Hey, kid!" the mercenary shouted at Dion's departing figure. He hurried to catch up, Nola running along behind. "We're coming with you."

  "You don't have to," Dion said coldly. "I'll have Abdiel's people take you back to your . . . your junkyard."

  "Yeah, and I bet they would, too,' Tusk muttered, but kept it beneath his breath. "Probably drop us off at five thousand without benefit of a 'chute." Aloud he said, "I'm not doing it for you, kid. I'm . . . kinda curious to know how he knew who I was. I've kept my real name quiet—"

  "That's right, he did know!" Dion said. Eagerness and excitement made the blue eyes flame like sapphire. "He knew Platus, he knew your father. He probably knew all the Guardians years back, before the revolution. I wonder why Maigrey never mentioned him. They must have been friends."

  "Not necessarily, kid. Not necessarily," Tusk said, but he said it to the sand blowing through the air and to Nola, who took hold of his hand and clasped it tightly.

  Two of the lifeless beings, noting the trio's destination, came up and escorted them into the house of cards.

  The heat, inside, was intense.

  "It's a goddamn sauna!" Tusk breathed, mopping his face.

  The dwelling was divided into innumerable small, square rooms piled up on top of each other, connected by stairs. The walls and floors were constructed of cedar. On entering, each was asked to please remove his or her shoes.

  One of the zombies, as Tusk not-so-jokingly referred to them in an undertone to Nola, led them up a flight of stairs and down another and through a maze of empty boxlike rooms, and finally brought them into Abdiel's presence. The old man sat huddled near a small solar furnace. Heat radiated from red-glowing stones. Every so often, one of the zombies stepped forward and poured a cup of water on the rocks. Steam hissed into the air, its wisps reaching out to the old man.

  The hot, moist air burned Dion's lungs. Tusk's black skin glistened like polished ebony. Nola's hair curled around her face in drop-covered ringlets.

  Abdiel, shrouded in his thick robes, rose to his feet, bowing. "Enter and welcome, my king. I know that the temperature is uncomfortably warm for you. The bones of the aged are thin and brittle, our skin shriveled. The cold penetrates to the heart. Years from now"—the old man's eyes glinted—"you, too, will suffer the indignities of old age."

  Something in the old man's tone made Tusk's blood run cold, the sweat chill on his body. "Not if he has his way, we won't," he whispered to Nola, who crept nearer to him.

  The three entered the windowless room and took seats where Abdiel indicated, reclining on oblong-shaped, cushion-covered cedar couches that looked, to Tusk, too much like coffins for him to be exactly comfortable. He was startled and pleased, however, to feel cool air blowing on his face. Glancing up, the mercenary saw that it came from vents, located in the ceiling, directed only on himself, Dion, and Nola. The zombies, standing like statues around the room, were sweating profusely but did not appear to be otherwise uncomfortably affected by the heat.

  Abdiel resumed his spot by the furnace, huddling near to it greedily. A hookah stood beside him. The water bubbling in the porcelain vase contrast soothingly with the hiss of the steam on the rocks. The old man put a pipe to his lips, sucked on it, then removed it and offered it politely to Tusk. A thin curl of smoke wafted from the bowl.

  "No, thanks," the mercenary said. "I don't like having my mind bent out of shape."

  "I find the drug eases the pain. I do not complain; my affliction was self-inflicted and I have derived great benefit from it." Abdiel removed his left hand from the winding coils of fabric, extended it, palm up. The red glow from the rocks shone on five needles, embedded in the palm.

  Dion sucked in a startled breath. Tusk stood up without realizing he'd done so. Nola tugged sharply on his pants leg, and the mercenary slowly and numbly resumed his seat. His father's voice was talking to him, coming from somewhere out of the past. He wished desperately he'd listened to his old man, but what teenager, whose eyes look only ahead, wants to hear about days behind, days dead and gone?

  "I am one of the Order of Dark Lightning," Abdiel said. "Ah, I see recognition dawn, my king."

  "The Lady Maigrey said . . . something. You were all killed during the revolution. 'Good came out of evil,' she said."

  "That's what she said?" Abdiel appeared saddened, grieved. "Ah, poor woman. Poor woman. She was right, almost. Sagan attempted to destroy us. He feared us, as well he should. But I survived. He could not destroy me I am afraid, however, that I have arrived too late. Too late to help my Lady Maigrey."

  "Why do you keep saying that?" Dion demanded impatiently. "Where is she? I want to see her! She sent me a message—"

  "The message." The old man's skin attained a crimson hue; the sleepless eyes glittered. "I must make a confession, my king. I sent the message."

  "I knew it!" Tusk was on his feet again. "C mon, kid—"

  "If you please. You are so hasty, Mendaharin Tusca. It was a fault of your father's and because I enjoy being reminded of him, I will overlook it. But I beg of you, do not interrupt again. This is between myself and your king."

  "Tusk, sit down!" Dion snapped.

  "Yes, Your Majesty!" Tusk made an elaborate bow. "Anything you say, Your Majesty!"

  "Stop it!" Nola whispered. "You're acting like children. Both of you!"

  Dion overheard her, flushed, looked momentarily ashamed. He cast Tusk an apologetic glance. Tusk subsided back onto the couch, muttering to himself. Nola gave him a vicious jab in the ribs, and he fell silent.

  Dion turned back to the old man. "Is the Lady Maigrey in danger?"

  "She is." Abdiel sighed. "She was. But, as I said, I arrived too late. Lord Sagan has landed on this planet. . . . You didn't know that?"

  "No, I didn't," Dion said slowly. "Tusk—"

  "I'm with you, kid."

  Abdiel raised his hand. "There is no need for alarm. Do not be afraid, my king. You are now under my protection. I tried to save the lady, as well, but I could not. She is with him now. He possesses her, body and soul."

  "I don't believe you! She fought him—"

  "Yes, she fights him. Poor, brave woman. She has fought him for years, ever since they were children. The Creator was not kind to her, linking her to that
dark-souled, evil man. Sagan's will is strong and, mind you, I don't know, but I fear something has happened that has finally beaten her down, drawn them close together. ..." Abdiel put the pipe to his lips. Smoke curled up around the bald, sweat-covered head. The eyes, sharp as needles themselves, jabbed into Dion.

  Tusk almost laughed aloud. Nola nudged him, nodded her head toward Dion. The boy's expressive face had darkened.

  "Dion, you don't believe this crap!" Tusk began, "You know the lady—"

  "You didn't see them together, Tusk," Dion said in a low voice. "I did. The two of them ... on that Corasian ship. They were ..." He fell silent, his cheeks burning.

  "Were what? Ouch!" Tusk glared at Nola, nursed his arm that had imprints of her nails in his skin.

  "They used to be lovers, you know," Abdiel said, puffing on the pipe, the water gurgling in the vase. "When they were young. They were to have been married. The revolution divided them. She remained loyal to her king—"

  "She saved me," Dion said softly.

  "Yes, and Sagan struck her down. Savagely, without mercy. Then he left her to die. He didn't even have the nerve to finish her off. He was always a coward, was Derek Sagan."

  Dion said nothing, looked troubled, confused. Tusk knew how the boy felt. The mercenary certainly had no love for the Warlord. He'd used them, betrayed them. He was holding Dixter prisoner, putting him through God knew what torment. Still, Tusk would never have called Sagan a coward.

  "You know, of course, why the Lady Maigrey came to Laskar?" Abdiel said.

  "No." Dion shook his head.

  The old man appeared concerned. "She didn't tell you?"

  Dion's flush deepened. "There wasn't time! We were in the middle of a firefight—"

  "Yes, perhaps that was the reason." Abdiel sighed delicately.

  Tusk, seeing Dion's pain increasing, repressed an urge to wring the old man's neck.

  "Or perhaps . . . But who can read a woman's heart? I will tell you what little I know. She came to Laskar at his bidding. She came to perform a task for him. Have you ever heard of a man named Snaga Ohme?"

  Abdiel's gaze shifted suddenly to Nola. "I believe you said you'd heard of him, my dear?"

  "Sure, I've heard of him." Nola shrugged. "Who hasn't?"

  "Quite true. Though some, I think, have heard more of him than others. Be that as it may"—the eyes sent their needle gaze to Dion—"the Adonian is a genius when it comes to building weapons. In the last few years, Derek Sagan has devoted his life to inventing the most horrific killing device yet known to man. He sent his plans to Snaga Ohme, and the Adonian—who would sell his soul to the highest bidder-created it. The weapon is known as a space-rotation bomb and it has the power to destroy solar systems, perhaps even to destroy a universe. With such a weapon of terror in his control, the Warlord could place his bootheel upon the necks of every citizen in the galaxy.

  "Snaga Ohme completed his work. The bomb is finished. Derek Sagan was about to accept delivery and commence his reign of darkness when the Corasians attacked him and he was forced to fight or lose his miserable life."

  "He fought bravely!" Dion said, white to the lips.

  "Rats generally do, when they are backed into a corner. His ship, through his own negligence, was blown out from underneath him. He escaped, naturally, but he was discommoded by the pressing duties of command and found that he could not pick up the bomb himself. He sent the Lady Maigrey in his stead."

  "C'mon, kid. Let's get out of here," Tusk said, but he said it halfheartedly and he wasn't at all surprised to note that Dion didn't move.

  "I don't believe you," Dion told the old man.

  "I am proud of you, Your Majesty." Abdiel regarded him with a sad, admiring expression. "You remain faithful to her. That pleases me." He put his pipe to his lips, smoked, frowned, seemed to wrestle with himself. At length, he laid the pipe down, coiled up the tube carefully, and motioned for one of the zombies to remove the hookah from his side.

  "I hate to destroy such loyalty, my king, but it is only right that you should know the truth. How else are you to help this poor woman, if, indeed, she can be helped? Mikael"—this to one of the zombies—"prepare the viewing chamber."

  Mikael leaned over, whispered something in his master's ear, gesturing at the guests. Abdiel nodded, smiled, and with Mikael's assistance rose to his feet.

  "My assistant has informed me that outside the sun is setting. Your journey has been long and tiring. Undoubtedly you are hungry. I would be greatly honored if you would be my guests for dinner."

  "Thanks, but we really should be g—" Tusk began.

  "I won't hear of it." Abdiel cut him off with a wave of his decrepit hand. "The viewing chamber won't be ready for some time. We so rarely set up the equipment. Mikael will show you to rooms where you may refresh yourselves. Lie down, if you like, and take a brief nap. Dinner will not be ready for an hour or so. I will see you afterward."

  "You won't be dining with us?" Dion asked.

  "No, my king. You would find my 'meal' singularly unappetizing. I could not exist on mere food." Abdiel held out his left hand, palm up, to the light, and tilted it slightly. The needles cast long, thin, dark shadows against his skin. "Your bloodsword, my king, holds the virus and neuro micromachines within it, injecting them into your body when you establish contact with the weapon. I have taken the virus and micromachines into my body, and my diet must be regulated accordingly. Twenty-one capsules three times daily constitute my repast. No, I will not be joining you for dinner."

  This was the first good news Tusk had heard in a week and he was sorry to see that Dion looked disappointed. The young man was staring at Abdiel's palm with a kind of puzzled fascination.

  "Ah, my king." Abdiel smiled benignly, placed his hand— the one without the needles—on the boy's arm and squeezed it affectionately. "I see your question in your eyes. You wonder why I have deliberately ruined my health, my life? You need not be embarrassed. I know many consider my appearance repulsive. This outward deformity occurred to all of us of the Order. The neuro micromachines tend to collect at the nerve endings, forming these nodes and nodules you see on my skin and at the back of my head. The virus eats up a great deal of energy, lowers my body temperature, forces me to live in what would be, to normal humans, sweltering heat. I suffer agonizing pain, sometimes. But the compensations, Dion! The compensations outweigh all physical discomfort . . . reduce my sufferings to nothing more than minor inconveniences."

  Dion didn't appear convinced. Abdiel's smile broadened.

  "I will offer you one example, my king, which may help you to understand. I presume that you are trained in the use of the bloodsword? You know, then, that the sword can create a bond between you and another member of the Blood Royal who also wields a sword. The mental bond is fragile, however, easily broken, and is completely reliant on the swords being in use.

  "We of the Order discovered that we could, by bonding directly with each other instead of bonding through the sword, achieve a symbiosis of a most remarkable nature. We could actually become one with each other, share our dreams, our knowledge, combine our powers, two becoming stronger than one could possibly imagine. And this symbiosis did not diminish, my king! Once we tap into a member of the Blood Royal, once we inject our . . . shall we say . . . being into that person, we form a bond that can never be entirely broken. A brotherhood of the soul and body that lasts a lifetime!"

  Dion opened his right hand, stared down at the five scars on his palm with rapt attention. Tusk's bowels clenched at the sight—the boy's hand near the old man's, the five needles protruding from the too-smooth flesh.

  "Dion, c'mon," Tusk said. He stepped forward, intending to break up this cozy twosome and drag Dion away.

  Abdiel glanced at him, a tiny frown line forming on the domed forehead. The old man shot a look from the lidless eyes to his disciple.

  The zombie named Mikael glided over.

  "It is impolite to interrupt the master," Mikael said.

&nb
sp; Tusk whipped out his lasgun, pressed it against the zombie's gut. "Yeah? It's impolite to burn a hole through your belly, but I'll do it if you don't get out of my way!"

  Abdiel scratched at his decaying flesh, the old man appearing pained and faintly embarrassed by the inappropriate behavior of a guest.

  "Tusk!" Dion was shocked. "Have you gone crazy? Put that gun away!"

  "I mean it, lad! We're gettin' out of here. Nola—" Tusk paused, looked around. "Where's Nola?"

  "The female was tired." Mikael's lifeless eyes stared at him, through him, never seeming to see him. "I ordered her escorted to her room. Perhaps you would care to join her?"

  Tusk slowly lowered the weapon. "You're right. I'd 'care to join her.'" He shoved the lasgun in its holster with a deliberate, angry thrust, hoping Dion would notice and understand.

  The young man regarded him coldly, the petulant mouth drawn tight. "I'll see you later, Tusk."

  "Yeah, sure, lad."

  Turning to leave, escorted by Mikael, Tusk saw Abdiel put a thin arm around the boy's waist, draw him near. The mercenary strained his ears, listening.

  "Many years ago, when they were both young—about your age," Abdiel was saying, "the Lady Maigrey and Derek Sagan—that was before he had gone entirely evil—were initiated by me into the Order's secrets. It was a wonderful time. Our spirits communed, and I might have been able to help them, particularly Derek. But he grew impatient, because I would not teach him all that he wanted to know. He turned Maigrey against me, and I was forced to send the two away. . . ."

  The old man's voice faded in the distance, taking Dion with it.

  Mikael led Tusk through the maze of the house, upstairs and down and around innumerable sharp comers. No windows offered a view outside, but the mercenary had the impression from the number of stairs they climbed as opposed to those they descended that he was being led to an upper portion of the multileveled house.

  Arriving at a door that looked like countless other doors they'd passed in a hall that looked like every other hall, Mikael halted, withdrew an old-fashioned metal key, and inserted it into an antiquated metal bolt lock. The key clicked, the zombie turned the swivel on the bolt, slid it aside. Tusk watched, puzzled, then understanding clicked with the lock.