King's Test

by Margaret Weis

"My lord, it was not worn in the presence of the king—"

  "When the king arrives, I'll take it off," Sagan said dryly.

  Raoul glanced questioningly at the Little One, who scowled ferociously and shook his head.

  "My ford," Raoul began, with a flutter of his long, thick eyelashes, "I trust there will be no cause for unpleasantness. ..."

  "None whatsoever," Sagan assured him. "You want the bloodsword, you remove it." The Warlord tossed back the red cape he wore to reveal the bloodsword hanging in its scabbard at his waist.

  Raoul started forward, hand outstretched.

  "Mind you don't prick yourself on the needles," Sagan continued, speaking in solicitous tones. "The virus injected into the bloodstream is of a particularly nasty strain. It kills, if one is lucky, in a matter of days."

  Raoul's lace-cuffed hand halted; the fingers twitched. He darted a swift glance at a mirror hung on the wall. Maigrey followed the line of his gaze, concentrated her thoughts. The lights in the room dimmed momentarily.

  The Loti cast another, more urgent glance at the mirror. Nothing happened, and a tiny frown line marred the unblemished surface of his forehead. Apparently some type of negative emotion was able to filter through the drugs.

  "There seems to be a problem with the electrical wiring in this house, my lord," Maigrey said. The lights flickered and dimmed again. "I noticed it the last time I was here."

  Raoul's hand dropped gracefully to his side. "My apologies for detaining you. Please, continue on into the ballroom."

  "We may keep our swords?" Sagan inquired.

  "The devil take you both and your swords!" the Loti said, smiling at them both with charming politeness. He opened the door, bowed them out. Maigrey, glancing behind, saw the Little One practically writhing on the floor in fury.

  Lord and lady walked to the grand staircase. Couples separated at the bottom of the stairs, each ascending one side of the double spiraling arms, revolving around each other as the stairs carried them upward to jewel-studded doors. An orchestra inside the ballroom struck up a march at just the moment Maigrey set her foot upon the stair. She recognized it.

  A pulsing heartbeat of sound. She began climbing the stairs, her eyes on the Warlord opposite. He, too, would know the music. It had been theirs, the squadron's. What coincidence, what chance played it for them now? The melody carried her on a quest, a search for an ultimate truth, tempered by a current of underlying sorrow, knowledge that the answer would never be found. A single trumpet's clear note called her higher. And with the searing note, the drums, a pounding counterpoint to her heartbeat. The trumpet call was stronger, louder, triumphant. She reached the top, the search was ended, sorrow vanquished in hope.

  Perhaps some Immortal hand held the baton that had led that music.

  Maigrey stood before the jeweled doors. Sagan met her at the same moment. They had ascended step by step, in perfect time, in perfect harmony.

  The two of them took their places. The doors swung open, bright light illuminated them, the music swelled louder, and with it rose a hum of voices lifted in laughter and talk, the scent of fragrant candles, perfume.

  The herald stood forward. "I present to you the Guardians ..."

  Guardians. The last of the Guardians.

  The Immortal hand beckoned them on.

  The two stood at the top of the stairs, looked down the vast marble cascade that would carry them into the room, looked down upon a veritable sea of life that had turned and was looking up at them. Silence rose like a wave, drowning even the musicians. Awe, respect, hatred, envy, malice, love, admiration—the silence rose to meet them, the flotsam it had acquired floating upon the top.

  The Warlord held out his hand; golden armor flared in the brilliant lights. Maigrey laid her hand in his, preparing to walk down the stairs, preparing—it seemed to her—to walk into destiny.

  Sagan turned to her suddenly, the dark eyes seeking, finding, holding her. He brought her hand to his lips.

  You are and will ever be my lady.

  And you are, she answered him, and will ever be my lord!

  Chapter Nine

  Nimis exalatus rex sedet in vertice—caveat ruinam!

  Raised to dizzy heights of power, the king sits in majesty— but let him beware his downfall!

  Carl Orff, Carmina Burana

  Looming head, shoulders, and most of his hairy upper body above the crowd, the barbarian warrior-king Bear Olefsky paused in the commission of ravages upon the buffet table to watch the entrance of Maigrey and Sagan. The Bear's eyes glinted; a chuckle rumbled deep in his massive chest. Turning to his two sons, who were both taller and wider than their father by a good meter each way and who both went in mortal dread of him, Bear poked one in his ribs.

  "Old Sagan's here, boys," he said in a roaring whisper that could be heard by at least half the people in the room, "and the Lady Maigrey! By my lungs and liver, I never thought to see her alive again! I'm glad we came," added Bear, who generally-objected to attending parties such as this, where he wasn't permitted to grab the women and was forced to drink weak wine from tiny crystal glasses that always seemed to shatter in his huge, engulfing hand. "This may turn out to be more fun than I'd expected!"

  Snaga Ohme, by contrast to his barbaric guest, was resplendent in gleaming white satin formal dress with ermine-lined cape, white velvet lapels, and white snakeskin shoes. Standing alone, he formed his own reception line, greeting his arriving guests. This was his Event, his grand moment, and he saw no need to share it with anyone.

  The Warlord, descending the stairs, sent his gaze sweeping over the crowd, brought it back repeatedly to one fixed point—the Adonian. He attempted to keep his mind fixed upon that point as well, but it was difficult. Turbulent inner emotions were robbing Sagan of his concentration. He knew he was in God's eye. It was not a new experience; the Warlord had known he was in God's eye from the moment he was truly capable of understanding the concept of a force, a will greater than his own. But he had never experienced, until now, the feeling that God's eye was intent upon him, watching him with a stern attention that was unnerving and frustrating. It was as if God expected him to do something, and Sagan had no idea what.

  Maigrey's hand locked suddenly onto his with a grip like death, brought him back to awareness of his surroundings with a jolting start. Sagan had noted that Ohme, of all the guests present, had not ceased his conversation long enough to pay homage to the Warlord, to a man who was—at this moment— probably the most powerful person in the galaxy. Snaga Ohme had laughed and chatted, eyes flicking briefly to the stairs, to the awestruck crowd. Ohme was aware of Sagan's arrival, obviously, but intended to indicate that he wasn't impressed.

  The Adonian turned, finally, to greet the arriving Warlord and his lady and now Sagan understood Maigrey's reaction. Snaga Ohme wore, on a silver chain around his neck, the Star of the Guardians.

  Sagan moved his hand swiftly to block her sword arm. "No, my lady!" His fingers closed like a steel vise over her wrist.

  "I'll kill him!" Her words seemed wrenched from her. There was no doubting her resolve. "Let go of me—"

  "Maigrey! Stop! Think! Not here! Not now!" He wrestled her hand from the hilt of the bloodsword.

  Maigrey jerked her arm from his grasp and he tensed, but she was calm again, though her breath came fast and deep, and her eyes, a storm-ridden gray, never left the Adonian.

  He was watching them, watching her, saw her struggle, and he grinned appreciatively. Bosk, standing near, had hastened forward, hand darting into the bosom of his formal evening coat. The guests may not have been allowed to bring weapons, but their hosts were apparently under no such stricture.

  "Greetings, Sagan, darling," Snaga Ohme said, languidly bowing. "So glad you could come."

  "Greetings, Ohme," Sagan replied, standing straight. "Tell your associate to keep his hand where I can see it or he's going to go looking for it in a moment and find it isn't there."

  "Bosk, my pet, don't be rude," Snaga Ohme
said, perfect teeth gleaming. Bosk removed his hand from the interior of his jacket, opened it, palm out, to show it was empty.

  "Lovely lady." Ohme was bowing again. "Delighted you could attend. What a charming game you played with me the other day. I quite enjoyed it, though I will never forgive myself for not deducing your true identity. Ah, you've noticed the jewel." The Adonian placed his hand carelessly on the chain holding the starjewel, flipped it casually up and down.

  Sagan noted that the man didn't look at it directly, however. The Warlord found himself unable to look at it without feeling a vague horror creep through his body.

  "A remarkable transformation," Ohme was continuing. "My lapidary has studied it and can't explain how it occurred. Sadly, though, there appears to be no reversal to the process. It's quite worthless now, except perhaps as an oddity."

  "Then give it back to me," Maigrey said, cold and pale.

  The conversation was being carried on in low tones, not meant to be overheard. Most of the crowd—some of whom had witnessed with eager anticipation the small altercation at the foot of the stairs—saw that nothing was likely to come of it and turned back, disappointed, to talk or eat, dance or wait to see who would be announced next. Several, however, continued to observe the Warlord's conversation and a few moved nearer, hovering on the edge of the circle, hoping to catch his attention.

  Sagan was aware of them, as he was aware of everything transpiring around him. He knew who they were, what they wanted. And he was prepared to meet them. But not yet, not now.

  "Give the starjewel back!" Snaga Ohme appeared highly amused, then deeply put-upon. "And I end up with nothing, I suppose," he said, frowning.

  "Wrinkles, wrinkles, darling," Bosk scolded, laying a soothing hand upon Ohme's arm.

  "I'll pay you our original, agreed-upon price," the Warlord stated, "though I shouldn't. You were the one broke faith with my lady when you attacked her and tried to steal back the . . . property in question. And don't give me that tale about rampaging drug addicts. A man in my employ was there. He saw it all. Your men were recognized. Give my lady her starjewel, Ohme, and I'll transfer the amount I owe you to your account tonight."

  "The price has gone up since then, Sagan," Ohme returned, his face smoothing. He glanced at himself in one of the thousand mirrors adorning the walls of the ballroom, perhaps to ascertain if permanent damage had been done. "Doubled, in fact. Your lady put me through considerable mental anguish—"

  "—and there's another buyer, isn't there?" Sagan interrupted with imperturbable, terrible calm. "You dared offer what I designed and invented to someone else—"

  "Only when it seemed likely I wasn't going to get my money," Ohme returned. "But we shouldn't be discussing business. Everyone's here to have fun!" The charming smile switched on, the Adonian turned away. "If you will excuse me, I must see to my other guests."

  "It's cursed, Ohme," Sagan said. And though he spoke softly, some quality in his voice carried, sending a thrill through those nearby who overheard it. Everyone in the vicinity ceased talking, began to watch and listen.

  The Adonian paused, glanced back over an elegant shoulder. "What's that you say, Sagan?"

  "The starjewel is cursed, Snaga Ohme. Just as if you had taken it from a corpse," the Warlord told him. "It brings death to the one who steals it—a horrible death."

  The people on the fringes of the conversation couldn't quite understand, but the Warlord's sternness and grim tone touched them. The gaiety faded; a pall seemed to settle over the crowd.

  Snaga Ohme flashed a radiant smile. "The nursery's down the corridor, Sagan. Third door to your left. Go frighten the children."

  The Adonian sauntered away, laughing. The crowd, seeing it must have all been some elaborate joke, began to laugh as well. Waiters hurried up, distributing champagne.

  "You're right," Maigrey said. "It is cursed, and so am I. What have I done?" She shook her head, sighing. The silver flame of her armor seemed to darken, as if a cloud drifted over the moon.

  "You did what you had to do, my lady. And if you had not done it, who knows? Abdiel might have the 'property' now."

  "Might-have-beens are no comfort. For me, there is no comfort. I did wrong. But," she added, lifting her head, removing her hand from his and placing it on the hilt of the bloodsword, "I will have the jewel back again. And fairly, not by murdering the wretch. I'll watch my chance and talk to him. He'll agree to your bargain, my lord."

  Sagan's eyes were on the Adonian. "He wears his doom around his neck, my lady. So it will prove."

  The Warlord caught sight of those who hovered near, waiting to speak to him. He made a slight gesture with one hand, discernible only to those watching for it. They understood, nodded, and melted back into the crowd.

  "Is that Rykilth?" Maigrey inquired.

  Sagan looked at her in some surprise, not entirely pleased. "You have sharp eyes, my lady."

  "Especially for an old enemy," she said dryly. "I couldn't tell if it was him or not. It's difficult with vapor-breathers, their heads encased in those bubbles, shrouded in that poisonous fog of theirs. He appears quite eager to talk to you."

  "He is . . . and I to him. Rykilth's a Warlord himself, now. Quite a powerful one."

  "I remember a time when you two— My God, Derek!" Maigrey directed his attention to the jeweled doors, to the top of the staircase. "Look!"

  "Abdiel ..."

  The lord and lady were the only people in the room who had noticed the arrival of the new guest. Those who had been paying attention saw only an old man in flashy-colored robes and, not recognizing him as anyone of importance, reached for another glass of champagne. Almost everyone in the room, therefore, missed the first scene of the act that was going to, literally, bring down the house.

  Abdiel was announced, using his name and the Order of Dark Lightning. Few in the room knew or remembered what that dread title meant. They paid him no heed. Two people knew and remembered, however. Abdiel sensed their presence immediately. They saw his gaze sweep over the thousand who interested him not at all and focus on the two who interested him a great deal.

  Maigrey shivered and rubbed the palm of her right hand. "Where's Dion?"

  "There, behind him." The Warlord's voice was grim.

  "Why doesn't he come in?" Maigrey asked impatiently, after waiting several moments. "I can't see him! What's going on?"

  "It appears that the boy is arguing with the herald. What-ever is happening," Sagan added in some concern, "Abdiel doesn't like it."

  Maigrey's gaze shifted to the mind-seizer, who—waiting for his companion—was forced to stand, fidgeting, on the staircase.

  "Oh, God!" Maigrey gasped, pressing her hand to her chest as if suffocating. "Oh, God, Derek! I know what Dion's going to do!"

  "Yes," the Warlord replied, "the question is now what are we going to do?" Bound by the bloodsword to Dion, Sagan knew, too, what the boy intended. The Warlord knew, as well, what God intended. Sagan stood unmoving, the bitter water crashing up against him, pounding on him, sweeping over him in wave after wave of chastisement, retribution.

  The herald stepped forward, ignoring the boy. Raising his staff, preparatory to pounding it on the floor to gain attention, the herald was suddenly knocked violently to one side. The staff fell from his hands, clattered down the stairs. The noise and commotion drew the notice of everyone in the room.

  Dion stepped forward, his hair a fiery halo, the jewels and beadwork on his vest dazzling in the bright lights. Pale as marble, his hands clenched at his sides, he spoke in a loud, clear, carrying voice that at first crackled with nervous tension but gained in confidence and resolve when he heard his words come echoing back to him.

  "I look out on this assembly," he said, "and I see kings and queens, princes and presidents, governors and emperors and rulers of every description. Permit me to introduce myself, since no one, it seems"—with a cool glance at the indignant herald, picking himself up off the floor—"will do it for me. I am Dion Starfire. My p
arents were Augustus and Semele Starfire, your murdered king and queen. I am their son. I am your ruler. I am your king. I am the king of kings, and this night I claim my throne."

  In the first moment following the boy's speech, no one moved or spoke, with the exception of a few, here and there around the room, who were tapping translators, wondering if they'd malfunctioned, wondering if they'd heard correctly.

  In the second moment, when everyone decided that they had heard correctly, heads turned, eyes met, gazes crossed, plotting, calculating, speculating. The rightful heir. Found at last. Claiming his own. There was no doubting him. His presence, his looks, the charisma of the Blood Royal. And now what?

  A weak and ineffective Congress. A President chafing with ambition. A political system falling apart. It was as if someone had scattered priceless pearls onto the floor. There were those already mentally preparing to grab what they could. . . . They began to edge their way forward.

  And then there were those who saw him as a threat, a danger. Certain men exchanged in their glances the knowledge that this king must die as had his father and uncle before him. Die before word reached the populace, die before the royalists could take him to heart, make him a martyr, and that must be soon because already the media commentators were edging their way forward . . . and so these shadowy men began to edge their way forward. . . .

  The sound of clapping brought them all to a halt. Abdiel was clapping his hands. The single applause from an audience of one echoed through the hushed and whispering room like the crack of a whip.

  "Bravo!" he shouted, his applause increasing in speed and vigor. "A magnificent performance, boy. Don't you agree, honored guests?"

  The honored guests weren't so certain. They looked at each other dubiously. Many turned to confront their host.

  Snaga Ohme had no idea what was going on, but was happy to take credit for it, whatever it was. He was always pleased when his Events created a sensation, and this one could hardly be topped. He would make vid headlines the galaxy over, royal impersonator crashes party . . .