"I'll stay—" Danha rumbled.
"No." Maigrey shook her head. "As you said, the ship will be guarded. You'll both be needed. Platus can't fight; he has the child. Not that he would be of much use anyway." She smiled slightly. "Don't tell him I'm staying behind. Tell him I'll be joining you soon. You understand, don't you, Stavros?"
"Yes," Stavros answered bitterly. "And Platus will understand all too well. He won't leave you."
"He has no choice. He is a Guardian. Remind him that he has another responsibility now. He must raise up a king." Her fond, sad gaze encompassed both of her friends. "Dominus vobiscum. God be with you."
It seemed Stavros would have continued to argue, but Danha clamped his hand around his friend's arm, silenced him. "Et cum spiritu tuo, Maigrey. And may the spirit be with you."
Maigrey watched them leave, heard hushed voices in the distance, her brother's raised in protest, Danha shouting him down. Apparently, whatever Danha said convinced Platus to accompany them. Maigrey, though she listened intently, heard nothing more. Her brother, after all, hadn't argued very long or hard.
Platus would be good as both a father and a mother to the boy. He had been gentle as a mother to the little sister who had never known one. He'd comforted her in those first few days at the Academy when she was homesick and lost and afraid. He'd been patient and kind, an eye in the storm of her tempestuous tantrums. He'd been understanding, even when he hadn't understood. All he had ever wanted in return was her love. Would it have cost her so much to have given it to him?
Maigrey stood in front of the door, in company with the dead. The hallway was hushed, silent, the spirits having long since left the frail, mortal bodies to present themselves to God and receive His judgment, His comfort, His wrath. Maigrey heard footsteps, but only in her soul. Sagan wasn't here yet, although he was coming nearer with each breath she drew, each heartbeat. If she could have stilled one or the other, she would have. Her life was worth nothing to her now, but it was worth something to others and so she held on to it, ready to spend it to buy the only thing left of value—time.
Nothing was going as it should have. A bloodless coup had turned into a bloodbath. Sagan, who could never remember any time in his life when he had not been in control, had lost all control.
"The king is dead, the Guardians are being slaughtered," he fumed aloud to himself. "Abdiel and Robes plotted this between them—genocide, the decimation of the Blood Royal."
Sagan withdrew in a blazing fury from what had been the banquet hall and was now a tomb. If he had been at all sickened and appalled by the mass murders of the helpless, he had sacrificed his better feelings on the altar of his raging anger, watched them blacken and die, leaving nothing but cold ash. The thought had occurred to him that he himself could be in danger, but a glance around the antechamber and the lower hallways of the palace caused him to discard the notion. His troops, whose training he had personally overseen during the last month, were disciplined and organized.
"No, Robes won't harm me. He doesn't dare. He needs me. And he's afraid of me." Sagan considered this fact with regret. He had truly admired and respected Peter Robes; he had believed in the man and in his cause. Admiration and respect were dead now, lying cold and charred upon the altar.
As for the cause, it, too, was dead. Derek Sagan had looked into the faces of the people and had seen nothing to admire. He'd made a mistake; he could admit that to himself. What made the mistake easier to accept was that now he saw how much he stood to gain. The phoenix would truly rise out of the ashes and its wings would be golden.
Sagan was not angry at himself, nor was he angry at Robes, who after all had proved to be weak and fallible and, as such, would be easily used. Derek's anger had now one focus, one object—those who had betrayed him.
"Your report, Captain," Sagan said to an advancing soldier.
"The computer rooms and files and all personnel are secure,-sir, as are the elevators to the upper levels. We have also secured the power generator. We were forced to shoot several of the mob—"
Sagan waved this aside as unimportant. "Has anyone tried to reach the upper levels?"
"No one, sir. Except, of course, Major Morianna—"
"What?" Sagan glared at the man so fiercely the soldier felt his skin scorched beneath the burning gaze.
"M-Major Morianna, sir. The men recognized her. She said she was acting by your orders—"
Sagan saw everything, then, saw it through her eyes. He saw the mind-dead in the hallway, saw them raise their rifles, saw fire, blood, struggle, death. And he saw the new life, saw the child, and he saw, suddenly, how it all could work for him . . .
Or maybe not. The royal ship! The one way they could escape! He cursed himself. Why hadn't he foreseen this?
Because he hadn't expected all hell to break loose. Because he hadn't expected chaos. Because he hadn't expected betrayal!
Sagan glanced toward the computer room. He could bypass the security codes, obtain access to the launching bay, but that would take time. He knew from his mind-link with Maigrey that the Guardians were attempting to reach the ship via the secret passages. It was a long way down from the thirtieth level. They were tired, hampered by the need to move slowly and carefully for the sake of the baby. . . .
One obstacle only blocked his path.
Sagan left the stammering captain standing in the hallway and ran through the corridors that were hazy with smoke, littered with bodies and wreckage. He fumed impatiently in the elevator that, had it traveled at light speed, would have traveled too slowly.
She had betrayed him. They had all betrayed him, but hers was the treachery that had entered his body with the force and rending pain of a thrown spear. He had yanked it out, cauterized the wound with the flame of his anger, but he could still feel the bitter pain and would feel it until he had the satisfaction of revenge.
The elevator reached the floor of the royal family's private chambers. The door slid aside, letting him out into the hall of death. He paid scant attention to the bodies, though his gaze was drawn for a brief instant to that of Semele, lying in her husband's blood.
Sagan continued on.
Maigrey was waiting, the only living being in the hall. He bore down upon her, stoking the fire of his rage, feeling it burn hot and satisfying within him. But when he saw her, the flames wavered.
She seemed more dead than the corpses.
The only light that shone anywhere around her was the light of the sword, glowing in her hand, and the light of the jewel on her breast. All else was dark, black as the blood on her gown and in her pale hair.
Sagan activated the bloodsword, raised it. "Stand aside, Maigrey. Let me pass."
She did not answer, did not move. The folds of her gown were not even stirred by her breath—a cold, marble angel with a flaming sword. Sagan moved ahead, muscles tensed to feint, dodge around her.
Her bloodsword, with a quick, deft stroke, was there to block him. And though the gray eyes were dark and lifeless and did not look directly at him, he saw blood flow warm, staining the translucent skin, sensed her mind alert and active.
She did not attack him, but merely blocked his way. He understood her. Getting killed too quickly would thwart her plan. She was buying time.
He hesitated to fight her. Maigrey was a skilled opponent, quick, intelligent, resourceful. They had fought together often for the fun of it and for the practice. Often, she had bested him. Now, she had no care for her own life, which put him at a disadvantage, for he suddenly had a great care for his. Vast vistas of power and glory were opening up before him. And it occurred to him that, without her, he would walk them alone.
"Maigrey"—he lowered his weapon—"don't do this. Come with me."
She made no reply, did not move from her guarded stance.
Sagan’s voice softened; he was speaking his heart. "Robes is a fool, Maigrey. The rabble that brought him to power will tire of him quickly. We have but to bide our time and then we can step in and take ov
er. And, in the meantime, together we can raise Semele's child, raise the king."
Maigrey still made no move. But she was listening. He knew. He could tell by the flicker of the long eyelashes, a pulsing of warmth in her cheek.
"Come with me, Maigrey, and I will forgive you."
The eyelashes flickered again, and tears glistened in them. The gray eyes shifted their gaze, sought him, found him.
"But I will never forgive you, Derek," she said, her voice remote and low. "Or myself. "
The fire of his anger flared and scorched and consumed him, blinding him with its dark, choking smoke. He struck at her with all the force of his impassioned rage, struck swiftly and savagely. He couldn't see where he struck; he couldn't see her. His eyes burned from the glare of his fury.
He came to himself; the black, blood-tinged mists cleared from his vision. He found her lying at his feet. She had fallen without a sound. He looked to the door, started to enter, but checked himself. He knew he was too late. The child was gone.
Maigrey lay face-down, a pool of blood forming beneath her head mingled with the other blood—the blood of her enemies—on the floor. Sagan stooped down beside her, balancing himself on one knee. She was still alive. He didn't touch her, feel the limp wrist for a pulse, put his hand to her neck. He had no need. He knew she was alive and, in that moment, he knew she was dead to him. The mind-link was broken except for a tiny flickering spark.
Derek Sagan reached down and lifted a lock of the pale, fine hair in his hand. He felt no remorse, no regret. She had betrayed her oath of allegiance; she had betrayed their friend-ship, their love. She had merited death. And for what? For an aging, inept king whom even God Himself had abandoned.
Sagan felt nothing. His soul was dark and silent as the hall of the dead in which he stood. From now on, he would hear only the echo of his own footsteps walking empty corridors— corridors of power, corridors of glory, but all empty, barren, dark, and chill.
He should kill her, he supposed, his thumb gently caressing the sea-foam-colored strands that lay in the palm of his left hand. The coup de grace, the stroke of grace in which one mortally wounded is put out of his misery. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. To strike her thus, defenseless, unconscious, would be tantamount to murder. Justice had been served. He would place her in the hands of God.
Sagan lifted the strands of pale hair to his lips. "My lady," he murmured, and kissed them, then let them fall. Rising to his feet, he walked away, leaving the empty hall to the dead and to the dying.
Thirty floors below, Derek Sagan emerged from the dark shadows into the light of flame and battle. Entire sections of the city were ablaze. The hallway was lit by the lurid flare. Looking up, he could see bursts of tracer fire in the skies—perhaps some of the Guardians attempting to escape, or battles between those loyal to the crown against their own comrades turned rebel.
Chaos, confusion. And up there, somewhere, was the royal ship, carrying the tiny king. Sagan considered what it would take to stop them. The Air Corps was under the revolutionary army's jurisdiction. If he could even get through to anyone in command, which he highly doubted, it would be hopeless to try to set them on the trail of the royal spaceship. Danha would be piloting it, and Danha was one of the best, as his former commander had good reason to know.
"Never mind. I'll find them." Sagan swore the oath aloud, to himself and to God. "If it takes years, I will track down those who betrayed me and mete out justice. And, through them, I will find the boy."
A captain, searching the halls for his superior officer, caught sight of Sagan and hurried toward him. Seeing his commander's face, however, the captain paused, hesitated, and appeared reluctant to approach.
Sagan made an abrupt, peremptory gesture, and the captain came forward.-
"Pardon me, sir," the captain said, eyeing his commander with concern. "You're not wounded—"
"What is the current status?" Sagan demanded coldly.
"All secure, sir. The fighting in the banquet hall has ended. As you instructed, we are identifying the bodies and entering the names into the computer files. It is certain that several managed to escape."
"We will know who they are. What of the mind-seizer and his . . . troops?"
"They've left the palace, sir. We had a report that they invaded the cathedral. The priests are reportedly defending it." The captain spoke in subdued tones. Perhaps he knew of his commander's background.
Sagan's lips tightened. He could imagine what was transpiring in the sacred precincts. The priests were defending it. Yes, but without weapons other than the Holy Power. And they were forbidden to use that to take life.
Another massacre in the name of the people. Sagan absently rubbed the scars on his left arm, scars inflicted by himself upon himself in the name of God, scars borne only by priests of the Order of Adamant. Abdiel was taking no chances, destroying all opposition. Sagan could do nothing about it now, but the day would come when these dead priests would be avenged.
"What of the city?" he asked, keeping his mind on the business at hand.
"The Army of the Revolution has seized control. We've had reports of looting, rioting, burning. ..."
Yes, he could see that from where he stood. "The media?"
"They've been escorted off-planet, sir, along with the President."
Good. The holocaust could be glossed over, the truth distorted. In the name of the people.
All was going well—as well as could be expected, considering the chaos.
"Anything further?" Sagan asked wearily. It had been a long night.
"No, sir."
"Then carry on with your duties, Captain."
"Yes, sir." The man saluted, the new Roman-fashioned salute Sagan had instituted among his own command.
His own command. Finally. A fleet of ships, a galaxy to rule. In the name of the people, of course.
Of course.
Turning on his heel, he walked over to a window and stared out into the turmoil and destruction of a city in the throes of revolution. Smoke hung in the air; its acrid smell was in his nostrils and with it the faint, iron-tinged smell of blood.
He watched the flames leap high and saw himself rising up with them on golden wings . . .
Alone.
Book IV
Death Is the Door Prize
O fortuna,
velut luna
statu variabilis, semper crecis,
aut decrescis . . .
O, fortune!
Like the moon
ever-changing,
rising first,
then declining . . .
Carl Orff, Carmina Burana
Chapter One
Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace tonight . . .
William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act II, Scene 2
Thick clouds, dark and sullen and charged with lightning, blanketed Laskar's horizon the next morning. The green sun made no appearance, keeping beneath the covers as if it, too, had slept badly during the night and was loath to rise. Distant thunder rumbled, shaking the ground, stalking the land like vengeful titans.
The rumblings shook Abdiel's prefab house, disturbed the soothing gurgling of the hookah, interrupted his morning's meditations. Just as well to proceed with the day's activities, he decided, removing the pipestem from his cracked, chapped lips and coiling the tube neatly in place.
The door opened noiselessly. Mikael appeared in response to his master's thoughts that had been bent his direction. Abdiel sensed Dion stirring restlessly as well. The thunder had jolted the boy awake from disturbing dreams of a castle in flames. Abdiel sent thoughts that direction, and Dion's subconscious dragged him back down into darkness. Abdiel had arrangements to make, which the boy's presence would render exceedingly awkward.
"The young need their sleep," he told Mikael, who nodded silently in agreement. Drawing up a small table to the sofa on which the mind-seizer lounged, Mikael placed in front of Abdiel the handful of various-colored pills that were his
breakfast.
"Sit down, my dear," Abdiel instructed, gesturing with his needle-pronged hand, patting the cushions beside him.
Mikael did as he was told, not lounging, but keeping his body bolt upright, his empty eyes fixed upon the man who gave him inner life.
Abdiel, as was his custom, lifted the first pill, sniffed it, studied its purple hue, licked it, then bit it open to taste the granules inside before swallowing it. He did this with every pill he ingested, treating each as if it were the most rare wine or the most flavorful food. His breakfast, eaten in this fashion, often lasted thirty minutes or more. Dinner could stretch into hours.
The mind-seizer was fond of talking during his meals, which meant that one or more of the mind-dead were often invited to join him. The mind-dead were not noted for their conversational flair. Discoursing with them was, in essence, tantamount to discoursing with himself, since Abdiel put any thoughts they might have into their heads. But it was occasionally useful to him to hear his words come out of another's mouth, just as the text read aloud is often imprinted more deeply in the memory than that absorbed by sight alone.
"Our prisoners?" Abdiel asked, taking up a red pill, holding it to his nose, then putting it down in favor of a black.
"They did not sleep. A guard is posted in the room with them and they attempted to remain awake, hoping the guard would fall asleep and they could steal her key."
Abdiel chuckled, placed the black pill on his tongue, and bit it through. The mind-dead do not require sleep and can remain awake, alert, and functioning until the body itself keels over.
"It is a waste of personnel, master, to keep a guard on them day and night. It would be far more resourceful to kill them now." Mikael made the statement but the thought was Abdiel's. He considered it, then shook his head.
"No. The boy is Blood Royal and has, even for us, an unusually high empathy. Tusca is also Blood Royal, though diluted. The two have formed a bond, unknown to either of them as yet. If the mercenary died, the boy would immediately be aware of his loss. We will kill the mercenary and the woman shortly, but all in good time, my dear Mikael. All in good time."
King's Test Page 32
