King's Test

by Margaret Weis

  The young man mopped his sweating face, reveled in the breeze that lifted the thick red hair, cooled his scalp, did little to cool the fever within him. His right arm burned and ached; the pain seemed to travel up into his brain. He sought vainly to try to organize and sort his thoughts, but they shimmered in the heat like mirages on the desert floor. He looked upward, into the black sky, dusted by sparkling stars.

  Deep space: frigid, aloof, peaceful, vast. He could lose himself up there quickly, vanish into obscurity, become ordinary. For a moment, he longed for it as a parched man longs for cool water while his brain bubbled and seethed, a witch's caldron.

  King! You shall be king. . . .

  Clutching his pounding head, almost sick from the heat, Dion stumbled back into the house and ran bodily into one of the mind-dead.

  "Tusk. I want to see Tusk," Dion demanded, grabbing hold of the image of the mercenary, clinging to him in the upheaval of his senses. "He hasn't . . . left, has he?"

  "No," Mikael said. "He has been waiting for you."

  "Good. Take me to him."

  Dion staggered upstairs and down, feeling his way with his hand on the walls more than walking, following Mikael's lead. The young man was completely lost. The house, with its numerous sharp corners and angles that each looked exactly like the one before and exactly like the one after, made no sense.

  Mikael halted before a door. Dion, not watching, tumbled into him. The mind-dead steadied him with a strong, impersonal grip. Unlocking the door with a key, he pushed it open.

  Tusk sprang out instantly, the mercenary's face contorted with fury and determination. Whether by accident or design, Mikael had maneuvered the unstable Dion to a position in front. The boy's body blocked the door. Tusk would have had to go through him to get out.

  "Tusk?" Dion was startled out of his confused state by the mercenary's sudden and frightening appearance. "What's wrong? Is—"

  Dion swayed on his feet. Tusk, swearing beneath his breath, caught hold of him, dragged him inside the room. Mikael slammed shut the door; the lock turned.

  Tusk led Dion to the bed, eased the boy onto it. "I'll get you some water, kid. ..."

  "No." Dion shook his head, made a feeble gesture with his hand. "I . . . don't think I could keep it down."

  "Name of the Creator, kid, what'd that bastard do to you?"

  Dion glanced up, frowned. "Don't talk like that. If you mean Abdiel, he didn't do anything to me. He showed me the truth, that's all."

  "Put your head between your knees. Take a deep breath. There. Feel better?"

  Dion did as he was told, and in a moment, when the room quit turning topsy-turvily, he raised his head. Tusk, no longer floating balloonlike on the ceiling, was standing stolidly in front of him.

  "What happened to your shoulder?" Dion noticed the mercenary rubbing his left arm.

  "Hurt it, bashing it against the door."

  "Why?" Dion stared at him.

  "To get the hell outta here! This may come as a shock to you, kid, but I don't much like being locked up in prison cells!"

  This isn't a prison. We can leave anytime we want."

  "Yeah? Then why did Rigor Mortis there turn the lock and take away the key?"

  "You were acting like such a bastard, I'd have locked you up, too."

  "All right, kid." Tusk waved at the door. "Let's get going. We'll find Nola on the way out—"

  "You go ahead. I'm not leaving." Dion massaged his right arm. The pain seemed to be growing in intensity.

  Tusk grabbed Dion's wrist, turned the boy's palm to the light. Five welts oozed blood.

  "What—?" Tusk understood, caught his breath with a clicking sound in his throat. He dropped the hand, stared at Dion in revulsion, edged away from him. "My God!"

  Dion closed his hand swiftly.

  "My God, kid!" Tusk repeated hoarsely. "You let him do that to you!"

  "You can't understand! You're not of the Blood Royal," Dion said coldly, trying to ignore the pain.

  "Damn right! And before I let that old man do something like that to me, I'd—" Tusk stopped.

  Dion wasn't listening. The boy had curled in upon himself, shaking, shoulders hunched. "I saw her, Tusk!" he whispered. "I saw her! He was kissing her, Tusk!"

  "Saw who?" Tusk gazed at the boy, perplexed. "Nola? Who was kissing Nola?"

  "I'm not talking about Nola!" Dion bounded to his feet, paced the room. "Maigrey! Lady Maigrey!" He rounded suddenly on Tusk. The blue eyes burned, flames dancing on ice-cold water. "I saw her, Tusk! Through this!" Dion raised the bleeding right hand. "I saw her. She went to the house of that Snaga Ohme. She told him she was sent by Sagan. She sold him her starjewel, Tusk! The Star of the Guardians! For what? For a bomb that could blow up . . . blow up . . . everything." Dion waved his hands. "All of us. And you know what she did with it, Tusk?"

  The mercenary tried to stem the incoherent flow. "Kid—"

  Dion caught hold of Tusk, fingers squeezing the mercenary's flesh. "She met Sagan. In the office of the commander at Fort Laskar. The Warlord kissed her hand, Tusk! I saw him. I saw her. I saw her face. They left together, arm in arm. Friendly. Oh, yes, very friendly."

  Dion started pacing again. Tusk followed him.

  "How did you see this, kid? Vids? Did he have a spy camera—"

  "The candle flame," Dion muttered. "I saw her in the candle flame. ..."

  "A candle—? Kid! It's a trick! He's put some sort of drug into your system! You hallucinated—"

  "No, Tusk." Dion stopped his restless movement, turned and faced his friend. He was suddenly calm, terrifyingly calm. "It wasn't a hallucination. I know. Everything I saw, every word I heard, really happened. She's with him, Tusk. She's betrayed me."

  "Kid, all right. Let's say . . . somehow you saw her and him. There's got to be some explanation. You know the lady! She wouldn't do anything to hurt you. She risked her life for you!"

  Dion sighed, softened. "That's what Abdiel said."

  "What?" Tusk scowled, not particularly liking this sudden new ally. "What'd the old man say?"

  "He said that there must be . . . extenuating circumstances. He defended her, Tusk. I want to believe him. I want to believe in her. But I saw—"

  "Dixter!" Tusk said, snapping his fingers. "That's it! Sagan's got Dixter. He'd use the general to force her to side with him, kid."

  "Of course!" Hope's flame illuminated the blue eyes, burned bright and clear with strengthening resolve. "And now I know what I must do."

  "Yeah, get outta here! Somehow or other we'll reach the lady—"

  "No." Dion shook his head firmly. "The Warlord would never let us. He'd use me as he's used her. Or merely eliminate me altogether. He doesn't need me now. He doesn't need the true heir to the throne. He has the bomb. He can blackmail the galaxy. In fact, I'm a threat, a liability to him. I see my way, Tusk. I know what I must do. Abdiel will help me."

  "Fine, kid, but he can help from a distance—"

  "You can leave, Tusk." Dion's head was clear, his thoughts and plans and ideas shining like crystal. "Take Nola and go back to Vangelis. And thanks for everything. I truly appreciate it."

  "And leave you? I can't. I'm—" Tusk's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  "My Guardian? Not any longer. I don't need you now, Tusk. Abdiel is with me. He'll help me. He'll give me the strength, the power I need. Look." Dion went to the door, turned the handle. A click, and the door swung open. "Look. You're free. You can go."

  "Not without Nola ..."

  "Tusk, I'm here! I was so frightened!" Nola stood dazedly in the hallway, Mikael right behind her. "What's going on?"

  "We can leave," Tusk said evenly, without expression. "The kid doesn't need us. Abdiel's going to let us walk out of here, isn't he, Rigor?"

  Mikael's face was imperturbable, no expression, eyes looking at nothing. "I am acting according to the master's wishes. Your Majesty"—the eyes swiveled in the boy's general direction—"my master wishes to confer with you, if you are free."


  "Yes. I need to talk to him. We have plans to make, and not much time to make them."

  Mikael glided unobtrusively into the room, came to stand behind Tusk. The mercenary reached out his hand, motioned Nola near him.

  "Good-bye, Tusk. Good-bye, Nola," Dion said from the doorway. "Say hello to everyone on Vangelis for me. If everything works out, the lady and I will be with you soon."

  "Yeah, sure. So long, kid." Tusk spoke through clenched teeth.

  Cold beneath his sweat-soaked shirt, the sharp blade of a knife pressed against his skin.

  Laskar's night, so glaringly radiant in the city, gathered darker around the Warlord's shuttle by contrast. Near midnight, a ragged figure could be seen slinking out from it, padding swiftly, a shadow of a shadow that disturbed one of the centurions, who thought he saw something from the corner of his eye. A sharp-spoken order prevented him from taking action.

  Sagan, having given Sparafucile his orders, stood thoughtful and alone in his own chambers. He pondered, weighing alternatives, and finally made up his mind. Stepping out into the dark and silent corridor, he walked down it, came to a stop before Maigrey's quarters.

  The Honor Guard snapped to rigid attention.

  "Centurion."

  "My lord." The guard's eyes stared straight ahead.

  "Carry my compliments to the captain and .ask him to double the watch tonight."

  The soldier's eyelids flickered nervously. "I am not permitted to leave my post, my lord."

  "I will stand your guard, centurion."

  The guard's brows came together. He shifted his gaze, eyes meeting his Warlord's. "My lady is asleep, my lord.'

  Sagan almost smiled. Another of Maigrey's champions. He recognized the man, now that he looked at him closely. "Marcus, isn't it?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "I gave you an order, Marcus."

  The centurion's lips tightened. He put his fist to his heart in salute, marched off to perform his duty. The Warlord waited until the man was gone, the corridor empty. Opening the door, he glided silently inside.

  Security lights, small pinpricks in the darkness to guide those who must move by night, cast a dim, lambent glow over the woman asleep on the bed. She lay on her side on top of the bedclothes, fully dressed, as if she had flung herself down and not been able to rise again. The Warlord's cape, lying on the deck, resembled a pool of blood. He lifted it, settled it gently over her for a blanket.

  Her left cheek was against the pillow. Her hair covered her face. Reaching down, his movement carefully quiet, the Warlord lifted the strands of pale hair and moved them aside.

  She did not stir; her breathing remained deep and even. The scar was a livid streak on her smooth skin. Sagan started to touch it, run his finger along it. He changed his mind, held his hand poised above her.

  "Lance the wound . . . drain off the poison. Painful, but necessary surgery, my lady."

  Sagan laid his fingertips on her temple, spoke. "My memories, your memories: one."

  Book III

  The Betrayal

  . . . made me dream of thunder and the gods.

  Charles Dickens, David Copperfield

  Chapter One

  Thou art a traitor and a miscreant, Too good to be so, and too bad to live . . .

  William Shakespeare, King Richard II, Act I, Scene 1

  Lord Derek Sagan, commander of the famed Golden Squadron, sat fuming with impatience in the backseat of the staff car. Discipline, he reminded himself. Discipline. But his hands itched to grab hold of the young driver by his uniform collar, hurl him out of the car and take over the wheel himself.

  Sagan leaned forward. "Can't you make this thing go any faster?"

  "This is a restricted zone, Commander," the corporal apologized nervously. "We're pushing it as is. But if it's an emergency—"

  "No! Belay that." Sagan flung himself back into the luxurious leather seat, glowered at the magnificent scenery with a look that might have withered the graceful poplars.

  Certainly it seemed to have withered the corporal, who kept his gaze stolidly in front of him, much to the risk of his vehicle. But he'd obviously far rather let some other craft zoom up on his tail than glance into the rearview cams and inadvertently meet the glare of those dark and burning eyes.

  The tree-lined boulevard leading through the Glitter Palace park offered Sagan no distraction from his thoughts. He turned his brooding gaze forward, hoping for the hundredth time to see the gleaming towers of the castle, repeating to himself— for the hundredth time—that they couldn't possibly be near it yet. His gaze shifted to his driver, noted the man's discomfiture: neck rigid, jaw clenched to the point where his teeth must ache, hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

  Sagan forced himself to relax, mentally taking himself to task. He'd been careless, allowing his tension to show. He could almost hear the corporal, on returning to his barracks, remark to a commanding officer, "Lord Sagan was as jumpy as a guy comin' down off the juice. The rumors must be true. Something's happening."

  By way of making amends, Sagan leaned forward again, placed his hand in a friendly manner on the driver's shoulder. "Relax, Corporal. I didn't mean to criticize. No land vehicle can ever go fast enough to suit a space pilot."

  Sagan saw immediately that he'd only made matters worse. The corporal was staring at the commander through the rearview cams in unparalleled astonishment. It occurred to Sagan that not once had he—a mighty lord, commander of the Golden Squadron, member of the Blood Royal, cousin to His Majesty the King—ever previously acknowledged the corporal as a fellow human being.

  Sagan gave his acting up as a bad job. Relapsing into the seat, he permitted himself the luxury of indulging in his tension and drummed his fingers on the armrest. Let the corporal relay his suspicions back to base. There'd be. no time to do anything about them anyway. It was too late. Already too late.

  Poplars and oaks gave way to stands of firs, then aspen and linden and countless other varieties of tree life rescued from the ecologically ruined planet of old Earth, cradle of civilization. The staff car sped through the air about level with the uppermost branches, rustling the leaves in its wake. Below them stretched grassy lawns, decorated with carefully designed and carefully tended gardens, colors gleaming jewellike in the sun. Swans floated majestically on mirror-surfaced ponds, graceful gazelle leapt across swards of green grass. It was late afternoon, all peaceful and serene, shining in the sunlight.

  "The palace, my lord," the corporal said, a note of profound relief in his voice.

  Sagan's hand slowly ceased its restless drumming, came to a halt.

  The vast lake stretched before him, its cobalt blue water still and dark; no wind blew this day on Minas Tares. In the lake's center, far distant but visible by the glare of sunlight off the glass, gleamed the towers of the Glitter Palace. A bridge of null-grav fused silversteel spanned the lake, soaring upward in a shining curve before sweeping down toward the palace. A marvel of engineering, this bridge, as the three others like it, was almost fifty kilometers long and stood without supports.

  The bridges were, ostensibly and by law, the only routes one could travel to reach the palace. Of course, jet-propelled cars, such as the one in which Sagan rode, rendered the law not only ridiculous but dangerous. Just how ridiculous . . . and how dangerous . . . would be proven this night.

  Derek Sagan had not been alone in attempting to convince His Majesty of the need for stricter security measures: force fields shielding the palace from attack from sky and ground, armed guards patrolling the perimeters, land mines in the gardens. King Starfire refused to consider the matter. Land mines would kill the gazelle, armed guards upset the swans. God was His Majesty's guard. God had placed him on his throne. God's hand held him safe and secure.

  "This night," Derek Sagan said to himself, "God's hand will clench into a fist."

  Armed guards, wearing the royal crest, stood at the silver-steel gates guarding the bridge. The corporal brought the staff car down to gr
ound level. The guards glanced inside, saluted when they recognized the commander by his armor and the eight-pointed Star of the Guardians that flashed on his breast. Sagan returned the salute with more than his usual care. In hours, these men would be dead.

  The staff car shot onto the silver span, flying low, as dictated by royal decree, traveling decorously at the posted speed. It was slow going, but Sagan, suddenly, was not in a hurry. It would be the last time he saw the royal mansion like this . . . ever.

  The palace did not come into the viewer's full sight until he reached the top of the arch. Standing in the center of the midnight-dark, perfectly round lake, the Glitter Palace shone like myriad diamonds in a blue velvet crown. The four silver bridges formed a cross, with the palace and the lesser jewels— the buildings of the royal city—on an island in the center.

  The entire palace was made of steelglass, the innumerable multitude of panes used in its construction each set at a minute angle to every other. By day, the panes of glittering glass caught the sun like the facets of a gemstone—refracted the light, reflected it, created shimmering, radiant sparkles of every color of the rainbow. The sight was dazzling to the eye and the mind. By night, the glass walls became the night, reflecting the icy white of the stars, holding captive the pale light of the moon. No lights shone from within the palace walls. The steelglass acted as a one-way mirror. Those inside were permitted to look out; those outside could not look in.

  "You look out your windows, Your Majesty, but you do not see. You listen but you do not hear. You will listen tonight, Amodius Starfire. You will listen tonight."

  "I beg your pardon, my lord? Did you say something?" The corporal was peering fearfully back at him, obviously afraid that his commander had taken it into his head to make another attempt at light conversation.

  Sagan waved his hand irritably, brushing his words from the air, not aware—until then—that he'd spoken aloud. The corporal, relieved, urged the car forward with slightly more speed than propriety dictated.