A knock on her door interrupted her.
Odd. Sagan usually didn't bother to knock. She unsealed the door, opened it. The centurion, Marcus, stood at respectful attention.
"My lady, would you come to Lord Sagan's quarters for a moment?"
Maigrey stared at the man, puzzled. What an unusual message. Not the formal His lordship's compliments, and would you attend him in his quarters? or even the more peremptory and impatient Come to me at once, as he had been known to use upon urgent occasion.
"Did his lordship send for me?" she asked.
"If you would come, my lady," Marcus said.
Maigrey shrugged and followed. Entering the Warlord's quarters, she saw Sagan standing by a far window gazing out over the base. He looked around at her arrival but let her know, by his manner and the impenetrable gravity of his expression, that he held himself aloof from the proceedings.
She turned from him to find the members of the Honor Guard, drawn up in a line before her. Marcus was apparently their spokesman, for he saluted her, then said solemnly, "My lady, we would like to present you with a gift."
Maigrey blinked, startled. The polite response came to her by instinct through her blank amazement. "I would be honored," she murmured. She cast a quick glance at Sagan. He had his back to her, his hands clasped behind him.
The centurions parted ranks, moving with stiff precision. Maigrey had regained her composure, shaken off her surprise. Expecting roses, perhaps, or a pendant with the regiment's number and motto engraved upon the back, she was prepared to be touched and properly grateful.
She was not prepared to be shattered, dazzled.
"This is for you, my lady."
On a form standing at the end of the row of men was displayed a suit of armor. It was almost an exact copy of the Warlord's gold and adamantine ceremonial armor. Greaves, bracers, breastplate, white-feather-crested helm, leather gauntlets—all were identical to his, yet these had been cast in a feminine mold and were made of silver instead of gold. A floor-length cape of royal blue trimmed in swan'sdown hung from the shoulders, attached by jeweled stars. The Warlord's breastplate was decorated with the image of the phoenix; the breastplate of the silver armor was adorned with an eight-pointed star.
Maigrey saw this much before tears flooded her eyes, transforming the armor into a shining silver blur. She couldn't speak, for the ache in her throat, and was grateful to Marcus for talking to cover for her weakness. And she was aware, confusedly, of Sagan's being almost as shocked and overwhelmed by the sight as she herself.
"Will you accept this gift, my lady? It is presented by us, the men of his lordship's guard, with his lordship's permission and sanction in honor of your valor during the encounter with the Corasians."
His lordship's sanction. Then why the devil was Sagan staring at the armor as if it were being worn by a ghost? Maigrey, mastering her tears, could see him now from the corner of her eye. He had moved forward, almost unconsciously, and his lace was grim and dark and shadowed.
"This is beyond ... I am more honored than ... I can't tell you how much . . ." Words failed her, but it was obvious, by the expressions on the faces of the men, that she didn't need to say anything.
"Thank you, gentlemen," Sagan stated abruptly. "You have pleased her ladyship exceedingly. And now I must ask you to return to your duties."
The centurions filed out, Maigrey doing her best to thank each personally with a silent look of gratitude and a smile. They could never know how much this meant. Stumbling through her own personal darkness, she'd unexpectedly walked into a halo of silver light. When they were gone, she hurried to inspect the armor, eager to touch the cool strong metal, study more closely what she could tell by sight was fine-quality workmanship.
The Warlord stepped in front of her, blocked her way. "Don't wear it, my lady. Don't put it on."
"You can't be serious!" Maigrey glared at him, angry, affronted. "Of course I'll wear it! I can't in honor refuse it. It's a gift. And besides, I want to wear it—"
"It isn't a gift, my lady. It has a price."
"I should have guessed as much." Maigrey drew herself up, regarded him with a cool, imperious air. "Name it."
"Your life," he said gravely.
He wasn't being smug; he wasn't blustering or threatening. He was serious, regarding her with a composed, steady intensity that was disconcerting, terrifying.
"I don't understand." The darkness was closing in around her again.
"I have foreseen your death, my lady, at my hands. I told you this, aboard Phoenix."
She nodded, vaguely remembering something of the sort.
"Lady, in that vision, you are wearing silver armor. That armor." He pointed.
"You ordered it. . . ."
"No!" His denial was vehement. "The men told me what they wanted to do. It did morale no harm and was a logical, practical suggestion. I gave them my sanction, gave the orders needed to get the job done. To be perfectly honest, my lady," he added impatiently, "I took little interest in the project. I had far more important matters on my mind."
Maigrey pushed him aside, moved around him to see the armor. The metal gleamed, shone with a silvery radiance. She drew near, reached out and lifted the helm, smoothing the white feathery crest with her hands. Strong, yet lightweight, the helm was fashioned after Sagan's, covering the top part of the face. Yet she noticed a subtle difference. Hers had been designed, most subtly and delicately, to cover the scar on her cheek.
A tear dropped on the shining surface. She brushed it away swiftly, lest it should spot the metal.
"What are you saying, my lord?"
"That if you accept this armor, you accept your own doom."
Maigrey looked up at him suddenly, swiftly. "And yours!"
"Yes," he said, after a moment's silence, "and mine."
"We have no choice?"
"There is a choice, my lady. Cast the armor aside. Throw it away."
"And you would counsel me, out of fear, to renounce this gift that was given to me for my valor?"
"That would be the wisest course, my lady."
"But not the most honorable." Maigrey pondered not her decision—she knew in her heart what that must be—but her reason for it. "I have cast too much aside already, my lord. I thought, in fact, I had nothing left. But I find that I do have one thing remaining to me." She raised her eyes, smiling. "'He shall have his fine armor, and every man that sets eyes on it shall be amazed.' "
This armor doesn't come from the forge of the gods as did Achilles' armor, my lady," the Warlord said dryly.
Maigrey lightly fluffed the white feathers of the crest, watched them drift softly through the air. "Perhaps it did, my lord," she murmured. "You never know." She replaced the helm on its stand, turned to face Sagan. "And now, my lord, tonight's plan—"
"—does not concern you, my lady. You're not going."
"I'm not." Her voice was calm, flat, like the sea before a hurricane.
"No, you are not."
"And where is the prison built that can hold me, my lord? Where are the walls I can't walk through, if I choose? Where are the men to guard me whose minds I can't turn to butter—"
"Damn it! It's for your own good, Maigrey! It's far too dangerous for you. Remember, my lady, Abdiel wants Dion and me dead. You ... he wants alive."
"And so do you, my lord. And for the same reason." She came near him, stared up at him. "I am going. You can't stop me. I lost the starjewel. I will get it back. I abandoned Dion. I'll do what I can to save him. These are my responsibilities. My dying is a risk you will have to run, my lord.
"It is not your death that concerns me, my lady. Abdiel has little use for people who are dead."
Maigrey paled, but she remained firm, resolute.
Sagan regarded her with exasperation, then turned away. He strode angrily back to the window, stared out at the base, which had erupted into bustling activity. Troops were mobilizing, hovercraft taking to the air, planes thundering low over the tarmac be
fore swooping into the green Laskarian twilight.
"You will be responsible for acquiring the starjewel, my lady," he said at last.
"Yes, my lord." Her voice was cold and knife-edged.
"And talk to the boy, do what you can to make him understand his danger."
"That will be difficult, my lord."
"It may be impossible," Sagan snapped, watching the organized chaos, seeing very little of what was transpiring. "It's a dangerous game we'll be playing tonight, my lady. If you insist upon playing it."
Ignoring his last comment, she moved nearer him, laid her hand upon his arm. "We could eliminate Abdiel immediately, when we first arrive. Together, we could do it."
"I considered that," the Warlord said, drawing away from her touch. "But we can't kill Abdiel while he still maintains a hold on Dion. There's a possibility he could control the boy from beyond."
"After death? That's ludicrou—" Maigrey began, then bit her tongue, remembering her brother's ghost appearing to her. But she couldn't believe Sagan was all that afraid of spirits. No, there was much more to this game than he was letting on. The base on full alert, people and equipment mobilizing, obviously preparing for an assault. Surely he knew he couldn't take the Adonian's fortress! What did he have in mind? She tried to enter his thoughts, found them locked, barred, shuttered against her.
She was suddenly aware of his mind approaching hers and she immediately slammed and bolted her door. Yes, she would insist on playing this game. She was planning a few surprise moves of her own.
"What do we do about Abdiel?" she persisted.
"What we can."
"But if he leaves and takes Dion with him—"
"He won't leave, my lady," Sagan said flatly. "That has been arranged."
"The ubiquitous Sparafucile, no doubt. He's good, but Abdiel is far better."
"Sparafucile knows his limits, as do I."
"And so, in essence, my lord, we have no strategy tonight."
"On the contrary, my lady, my strategy is perfectly laid out and prepared."
"You won't tell me?"
"Since when does the commander need to explain his battle plan to his troops?" Sagan returned with bitter irony. "You have your orders, Major."
"Yes, I have my orders," Maigrey retorted. "But forgive me if I don't particularly trust you, Commander!"
"Forgive, my lady? No, I won't forgive! You betrayed me once—-"
Maigrey turned on her heel, headed for the door.
"Walk out, my lady, and you lose everything! Including your precious king!"
Her back stiff and rigid, she halted. But she did not turn around, did not look at him. "What would you have me do, my lord?"
"If you insist on going tonight, I insist that you take the oath."
"Which will work to your advantage!"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Certainly it is a risk you should take, my lady."
Maigrey struggled with her anger, paused to consider calmly, rationally, what she should do. She recalled the words of the oath. Yes, it could work to help her, especially if she found herself in trouble. And if not, if all went well and she acquired the starjewel and the boy, the oath gave her room to maneuver.
"Very well, my lord."
She meant to speak coldly, but she had the sudden, frightening impression that the solid bulkhead of the shuttle-craft was falling away from her, that the world was falling away from her, that she was shrinking and shriveling, becoming something small and insignificant and that—tiny and fragile and helpless as she was—she found herself cowering in the presence of a Being terrible and awful in Its divine majesty.
She sank to her knees, and whether it was out of reverence or because her body lacked the strength to stand, she couldn't tell. The Warlord knelt across from her, bending his tall body gracefully, more accustomed to the gesture. But it seemed to her as if he, too, was acting under constraint. Looking into his face, Maigrey saw the Presence and she saw his anger and the battle against it.
God has not abandoned us, after all, she thought, awed and frightened. Perhaps that had just been wishful thinking. If we speak these words now, He will hear and accept our oath and bind us in chains of adamant, forged in the fires of both heaven and hell.
Choice. Yes, we have a choice. We could rise up and walk away and no lightning bolt would blast us, no thunder would split the heavens. Our souls' light—this tiny, feeble candle flame in the universe that, nonetheless, shines brightly as a star in the sight of our Creator, will flicker and dwindle and die.
Two together must walk the paths of darkness to reach the light. So went the prophecy, given when we were young.
What a fool I was to think we'd already walked it! What a fool I was to rail against God for making such dreadful, tragic blunders. Maybe they weren't blunders. It wasn't God who failed us. It was we who failed God. Now He is giving us a second chance.
"Raise your right hand, my lady." Sagan's voice, angry and defiant.
Maigrey understood and could pity him. She had been offered a choice. He, who had made his choice long ago, had been chastised for it, reminded of his duty. Maigrey raised her right hand and held it, palm outward.
Sagan raised his hand, palm outward, the five marks of the bloodsword clearly visible.
"Maigrey Morianna, I hold your life dearer to me than my own. I hold your honor dear to me as my own. This I pledge before the witness of Almighty God." He moved his hand closer to hers.
Maigrey spoke the vow and each word burned itself into her heart. "Derek Sagan, I hold your life dearer to me than my own. I hold your honor dear to me as my own. This I pledge before the witness of Almighty God."
She moved her hand closer to his. Their palms touched; the scars of the wounds pressed together. His fingers closed over hers in a crushing grasp that seemed desperate for the warmth and touch of human contact. She held on to him tightly, no less grateful, and the two remained on their knees, holding each other fast until the Presence left and they knew themselves, once again, alone.
They stared at each other, aware of chill fingers and aching wrists and arms. Each let loose the other's hand, knowing they weren't really letting loose, knowing they couldn't let loose.
"Well," she said, trying to banish a tremor in her voice, "where does this leave us, my lord?"
"My lady, I have no idea," he answered grimly. Rising to his feet, he walked over to the door to his private sleeping quarters, slammed his hand against the controls. "Meet me here in one hour's time!" Pausing before he entered, he turned to face her. "You're wearing that damn armor?"
"Of course, my lord."
"Why?"
Maigrey managed a slight smile. "You would despise me if I didn't."
Sagan glared at her furiously, bitterly. "Which leaves me instead to despise myself for what I am destined to do! I'll have-it sent to your quarters." The door slid shut behind him.
Maigrey sighed and stood up, weak-kneed and trembling. Moving past the armor on its stand, she lifted the helm and, brushing the feather crest with her fingers, took it to her room.
Chapter Six
. . two different fates are carrying me on the road to death. If I stay here and fight . . . there will be no homecoming for me, but my fame shall never die ..."
Homer, The Iliad, translation by W. H. D. Rouse
Lord Sagan would have liked to have spent the hour before departure confronting God and demanding to know just what in hell was going on. The Warlord had no time for argument, however. He had to go over his plan with Haupt once again, reassure the brigadier of the likelihood of it succeeding, and bolster the man's sagging courage. Haupt was a good soldier; he was having difficulty being a good traitor.
These machinations took up almost the whole of Sagan's hour, and when they were finished to his satisfaction, he began to don his own ceremonial armor, made of gold and adamant. Ceremonial, but functional. It would turn a knife, deflect the fire of a lasgun, absorb the explosive force of a grenade. It could not, however, stop th
e blade of the bloodsword, nor would it shield him from a more insidious attack—an attack launched against his mind.
Sagan drew on his gauntlets, smoothed the leather over a forearm marred with the scars of self-inflicted wounds. He had no illusions about his ability to defeat Abdiel in a one-on-one physical challenge. The Warlord had strength, courage, skill in arms. But all that counted for nothing when the mind-seizer burrowed his way into Sagan's skull, carried the battle into realms where even the conscious mind feared to go.
Maigrey and I, joined together, our power totally committed to the defeat of our enemy—we might be able to defeat him. Might.
As for the Adonian, Snaga Ohme would probably drop out of the game tonight. Sagan had that contingency covered.
Which left only Dion. The Warlord decided he would have to wait and see. There might be so little of the boy's own will left that saving him wouldn't be worth the bother.
Sagan lifted the golden helm, fit it over his head. He felt better, calmer. He believed that he understood God now and, what was more important, that God understood him. The Warlord picked up the bloodsword, stopped, remembering. Weapons were not allowed.
Let them try to take it, he resolved, and buckled it around his waist.
Maigrey, too, wore her bloodsword, with much the same thought. Let the Adonian try to take it from her. Accoutred in the silver armor, she entered the Warlord's quarters just as he was emerging from his room. His gaze flicked over her and she thought she saw the eyes darken, but the helm masking his face kept her from seeing his expression. So did the inner helm masking his thoughts.
His gaze fixed upon her sword. "You know that there are to be no weapons allowed?"
Maigrey looked at the sword he was wearing and smiled.
Sagan nodded, lips parted in a rare, answering smile. Brusquely, he turned to face the Honor Guard, drawn up to send their lord and lady off with fitting ceremony.
"Captain, detail two of your men to accompany my lady—"
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