King's Test

by Margaret Weis

  Ohme began to laugh, clapping his hands and glancing around at the crowd to make certain all credited him for providing such a spectacular show. People breathed easier, many joined in the laughter, more than a few looked a little foolish, perhaps ashamed for having, momentarily, believed.

  Bear Olefsky burst into a roar, caught sight of Sagan and Maigrey. The Bear's laughter died. "Mmmmm," he rumbled deep in his chest. Scratching his bearded chin, he watched and waited.

  The room rocked with laughter and applause. Shrill whistles split the air. Many shouted for Dion to repeat his performance. The noted actress Holoscova remarked confidentially that she knew the boy's agent. Bosk was telling the media commentators that Snaga Ohme had discovered the young man acting in a performance of Henry V on a cruise liner bound for Star's End.

  Dion stood motionless at the head of the stairs. His face was white, drained of life. His eyes had the fixed and glassy stare of a corpse. Every mocking laugh, every shout for an encore seemed a nail driven into his body.

  His dream was ending, ending not with a bang but a snicker. Ridicule: the wooden stake through the heart, guaranteed to kill and make certain the victim stays dead. Dion would never rise from this. He was trapped, sealed inside the tomb unless some angel would come and roll away the stone.

  "Sagan!" Maigrey turned to the Warlord, grasped his right hand in her right hand, and was amazed and frightened to feel it burning hot and trembling. "Abdiel didn't know anything about this. I felt his fear, for just a moment, and then he devised this means of discrediting Dion. Of discrediting you! The boy is strong, Sagan. He's defied Abdiel. But he's dying now. We have to help him!"

  She wasn't certain he heard her. He wasn't looking at her; the dark and shadowed eyes stared straight at Dion, stared at him, through him, beyond him. She caught a glimpse inside her lord's soul, saw the bitter struggle, the most desperate battle he'd fought in his life, and she longed to help him but knew—against this Opponent—her aid was impossible.

  Maigrey let go of his hand, fell back a pace as if to give him room to swing his sword arm. She could only stand outside the ring, prepared to go on and battle alone if he should fall. Prepared to take her place at his side if he should win.

  The fight was mercifully swift, soon ended. The hand slowly unclenched. The shoulders beneath the golden armor sagged, the muscles of the arm went flaccid, the face beneath the helm aged. "Thy will be done!" He ground the words, spit them out as if they were choking bile in his mouth.

  His body straightened, tall and strong. He drew the bloodsword, inserted the prongs into his hand. For the first time, he looked at her.

  Draw your weapon, Guardian, he said without speaking. We must defend our king.

  Sagan activated the sword; Maigrey activated hers. The weapons hummed and blazed with fire. Those standing near them fell back, shouting in alarm. The Warlord stalked forward, the lady at his side. The crowd, murmuring with delighted, horrified anticipation, fell back before them. The two reached the staircase.

  Cover me, Sagan ordered silently, and began to climb the stairs.

  Dion remained standing perfectly still, but the corpselike eyes had come to life. He watched the Warlord's approach warily, but unafraid. And then his hand moved, moved slowly to the buckle of his belt.

  Maigrey turned, ascended the stairs backward, her sword functioning as a shield to guard her partner's back. The Honor Guard, though weaponless, deployed around her and around their lord. Maigrey wasn't really expecting an attack from the crowd, however. She knew, as did Sagan, that their true enemy stood near the top of the stairs. She managed to shift her gaze slightly, dividing her attention between the people below and the mind-seizer above. Abdiel was watching them, a pleasant smile, a knowing smile on the thin, chapped lips.

  Sagan reached a wide landing on the staircase directly beneath where Dion stood. The young man had his hand clasped over the buckle of his belt. The blue eyes regarded the Warlord without recognition, without feeling, without emotion. The Warlord's golden armor flared in his eyes like the sun on hard blue ice.

  Slowly, gracefully, Sagan bent his great height, knelt down on one knee. The bloodsword's fire flickered and died. Leaning forward, the Warlord laid the hilt at Dion's feet.

  "My liege," he said, and bowed his head.

  Chapter Ten

  Hell at last . . .

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Dion's hand twitched on the belt buckle, then dropped. He stared at Sagan dazedly, unable to understand or comprehend. It slowly dawned on the boy, however, that no one was laughing at him now. The crowd was silent, stunned, fumbling to grasp the amazing ramifications of what they had just witnessed.

  "Pick it up!" Maigrey's voice jolted Dion from his stupefaction.

  "What?" he said, staring at the sword at his feet.

  Maigrey glided up the stairs, came to stand on the landing just beneath him. "The most powerful Warlord in the galaxy has just made you king! Pick up the damn sword!" Her eyes were still on the crowd, still darting toward Abdiel. "My liege," she added.

  Dion reached down.

  "Young man, take care!" Abdiel hastened forward, paused when he felt the heat of Maigrey's blade as she turned to face him, keeping her body between him and the boy. "Think what you are doing! You don't know Sagan's motive!"

  "I know he didn't laugh at me," Dion returned.

  Abdiel's gnarled hands fluttered in deprecation. The lidless eyes narrowed. "I was trying to save your life, Your Majesty! You unwittingly put yourself in dreadful danger. And you'll do so again if you go along with him. He wants you only for his own purposes. He'll make you king, all right! King of puppets!"

  Reaching down, Dion carefully lifted the bloodsword and held it in his shaking hands.

  This was the weapon that killed Platus. For all I know, it was the weapon that killed my parents. Perhaps Abdiel is right. What are Sagan's motives? Should I trust him?

  No, I can't trust him, Dion decided. But, for now, I can use him. Perhaps that's what it means to be a king.

  "My lord, I— We . . ."he amended, using the royal "we," for a king is not one but many, "we accept your service. Take back your sword and use it to defend our cause."

  "Whatever that is," Sagan muttered, accepting the blood-sword and rising heavily to his feet.

  Dion flushed. He'd sounded ridiculous. He didn't have a cause, didn't really have anything. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask "What now?" but he bit the words and bit his tongue, tasted the blood in his mouth.

  "And now, my liege lord," the Warlord began, and Dion heard—or thought he did—the sarcasm, and smarted beneath its lash, "I have done for you what I can for the time being. All those present, whether they think you king or madman, know you are under my protection. But don't deceive yourself. Abdiel is right. You've made many enemies. Hasn't he, mind-seizer?"

  Sagan's shadowed gaze flicked to Abdiel, who merely bowed disdainfully and did not respond. Dion, hearing the warning in the Warlord's tone, looked to the old man and found Abdiel looking intently at him, as if to say, Heed my warning!

  Frustrated, confused, Dion looked to Maigrey, saw in her eyes, barely visible behind the silver helm, compassion, pity, admiration. But her eyes weren't on him. The gray eyes were on Sagan.

  Dion was suddenly angry and glad of his anger; it neatly covered his fear and confusion.

  Abdiel approached him. "And now, my king, if you will come with me—"

  "I'm not going with you or anybody," Dion cut the old man off. He felt smothered, as if these people surrounding him were using up all the air. "Just leave me alone, all of you! I need to be ... be by myself. I need to think."

  The Warlord said nothing, but remained standing where he was. Abdiel remained standing where he was, appearing to think Dion had meant everyone leave except him. Maigrey's eyes were on the young man now, and they were dark with concern and, oddly, sadness.

  It was obvious none of the three was going to budge without seeing the other two lea
ve first. Dion, exasperated, frustrated, marched off, angrily tromping down the stairs.

  "Keep near him," Maigrey ordered Marcus.

  The centurion bowed and immediately followed Dion.

  "What do you want?" the boy demanded, seeing the guard loom suddenly at his shoulder. "I'm not going back, if that's why Sagan sent you."

  "The Lady Maigrey sent me, my liege," Marcus said respectfully. "I am to act as your bodyguard."

  Dion turned to look back up the stairs where Maigrey stood, her silver armor shining bright, glittering, cold as the stars. He wanted to talk to her, needed to talk to her, but not around that man. Not around Sagan. And not around Abdiel, either. It seemed she understood, for she smiled at him and nodded.

  Drawing a deep breath, trying to ease the tight sensation in his chest, Dion turned to face the staring, whispering multitude. He wished, suddenly, that he was billions of light-years away from this hateful place, from these vampirelike people, who seemed intent on sucking the life from him, feeding off his body. He saw his old home, the drab little house in the outback of Syrac Seven. He pictured himself sitting at his desk, studying with Platus, or playing the syntharp, or digging in the garden. A wistful longing came over him to return to that former life, to go back and be . . . ordinary.

  The feeling was overpowering, overwhelming. These people would devour him, take from him everything he had to give, and despise him for giving it. I will always be alone. He'd said the words, but only now did he truly understand their veracity and it terrified him. He would always, always, always be alone.

  He half-turned, deciding to run away and save himself, but in doing so he lifted his eyes and his gaze caught Sagan's. The golden and adamantine armor flared bright as flame; the red cape flowed like blood. He saw the Warlord standing in the doorway of that small house, saw the expression of contempt twist the mouth, visible beneath the helm, remembered the contempt in the man's voice.

  He made you a king! Maigrey's words.

  Did he? Did God? Did anyone? Or did you take this on yourself? And if you did take this, do you have the guts to see it through?

  "He's afraid," Maigrey said.

  "He better be," Sagan returned.

  Dion heard them, not in his head, but in his heart.

  "Go back to her ladyship, Marcus," Dion ordered. "Tell her, thank you, but I need no one."

  He squared his shoulders, shook back the mane of red-gold hair, and walked slowly and proudly down the stairs, walked into the crowd, alone.

  "You've lost him, Abdiel," Sagan said.

  "On the contrary," the mind-seizer returned pleasantly, "I've lost nothing . . . unlike her ladyship." He turned to Maigrey. "Is that your starjewel the Adonian is sporting on his breast?"

  "If it is or it isn't, it's no concern of yours."

  "But I am concerned, Lady Maigrey. I've always had your best interests at heart, my dear. Haven't I, my lord? Sagan and I spoke of you often, dear lady, in those weeks before the revolution. When he and I were such good friends. . . ."

  Everything around Maigrey darkened; a shadow stole over her. Sagan had lied to her in the dream! He'd known what Abdiel had intended. He had planned it with him! She could almost see the two of them together, the mind-seizer's hand pressing Sagan's. Perhaps, even now, they were in this together, conspiring against her. . . .

  She forced a smile and, with her words, the shadow over her heart lifted. "Long ago you tried to divide us, mind-seizer. You failed then. You fail now."

  Abdiel regarded her with grieved sadness. "You persist in willfully misunderstanding me, my dear. My only aim during that unfortunate time to which you refer was to serve you, to open the doors of power to you, as I have opened them for Dion. Yes, I've bonded with the boy. Didn't you know? Couldn't you tell?"

  Maigrey could not forbear flashing a startled glance at Sagan. The Warlord gazed at Abdiel coolly, calmly.

  "And look where your reckless independence has brought you, my lady," Abdiel was continuing. "To the brink of the abyss. Lower and lower you have sunk. Your starjewel is not only lost to you, it has become an object cursed and defiled. But I see in your heart—for I can see still into your heart, dear lady—that you want it back. I have some influence over the Adonian. Allow me to intercede for you. I will see to it that he returns the starjewel to you."

  "And what do you ask in return for this magnanimous offer?"

  "Only that you think of me as a friend, my lady," Abdiel replied humbly. "As I have always tried to be, though you would not let me."

  "I really don't care to think of you at all, mind-seizer, if I can help it." Maigrey bowed to him. "Thank you for your offer, but I will act on my own."

  The old man's eyes were flat and empty as the eyes of a reptile. Abdiel bowed to her silently; the eyes slid to Sagan. The mind-seizer bowed to him, then Abdiel glided down the stairs to mingle with the admiring and curious throng surrounding Dion.

  "You handled him well," the Warlord remarked.

  Maigrey shivered, as if she had just avoided treading on a poisonous snake. She could not look at Sagan, attempted to banish the feelings of panic and betrayal the mind-seizer had dredged up from the depths of her being.

  "Don't give me too much credit, my lord. I allowed him entry into my mind! I forgot how powerful he was. I let down my guard. ..." She shook herself free of the memory. "But enough of that. I'll be more careful next time. And now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to try to talk to Dion."

  She shifted her gaze to him, smiled. "What you did for the boy was truly noble, truly generous, Derek. I know how much it cost you!"

  Sagan shrugged it off coldly. "I did it for myself, my lady. If he had been laughed out of the room, do you think I could ever have promoted him as king? And I don't like the thought of you going off by yourself. We shouldn't separate. "

  "Don't be ridiculous. We both agreed that I must talk to Dion, warn him of his danger. Besides," Maigrey added with a mischievous grin, "I'm dying of thirst and I'll never get a drink if I'm with you."

  "You may find yourself dying of something else, my lady," Sagan said grimly, catching hold of her arm, detaining her. "Abdiel's threat is only the beginning for you, Maigrey. He wants the bomb. He needs the starjewel and he needs you in order to obtain it. I repeat: It's dangerous for us to separate."

  "What are you worried about, my lord?" Maigrey leaned near him, suddenly laughed. "If your vision is true, then I'm in danger from only one person—you!"

  Sagan released his grip on her, and Maigrey, with a grave salute, left him, running lightly down the stairs. He watched the blue cape flutter after her. The silver armor, catching the light, flared brilliantly, then was lost to sight, its flame almost extinguished by the milling crowd. But here and there, among the multitude, he caught a flash of silver, like moonbeams dancing on a night-dark lake.

  "If anyone could cheat destiny, my lady, it would be you. I almost hope ..." Sagan paused, considering what he had been about to ask. He shook his head. "No, for that would mean we were given over to chaos."

  The Warlord cast his gaze upward, to the high, vaulted ceiling adorned with paintings telling the story of—what else—Adonis. The handsome youth was portrayed stalking the wild boar that would be his death. Sagan did not notice the mural, however. He sought higher, beyond mortal boundaries.

  "I tested You. You gave me Your answer—with the back of Your hand!" Sagan rubbed his jaw, as if he could almost feel the blow. "But this may yet succeed ... to both our advantage! Now there is work to be done. Work on behalf of . . ."he paused, shook his head in bemused and wondering resignation, "my king."

  Chapter Eleven

  In fortune solio sederam elatus . . . nunc a sumo corrui . . .

  Once on fortune's throne I sat exalted ... I was struck down . . .

  Carl Orff, Carmina Burana

  Freed of the stern and disapproving eye of her commander, Maigrey was finally able to enjoy a glass of champagne, taking care to pour one for herself from a splashing fount
ain decorating the buffet table. She had seen Raoul and his diminutive partner circulating among the guests and, recalling Sagan's warning, wasn't about to drink from any glass offered her by anyone. Sipping the wine—champagne went straight to her head; she had learned to drink it slowly—she took time to observe the room and the people in it.

  No one disturbed her solitude. The two formidable-appearing centurions warned the media away; few others chose to come near her, though they stared at her with morbid curiosity. Maigrey understood. Perhaps Lazarus, risen himself from the dead, had undergone the same treatment. Not only was she a ghost, she was— How had Abdiel put it—cursed, defiled? Snaga Ohme must be spreading the story of the starjewel. Maigrey downed her glass of champagne at a gulp, poured herself another. Alcohol couldn't make one forget, but it made remembering a damn sight easier.

  She saw Sagan descend the stairs, saw him almost immediately drawn into conversation with the vapor-breather, Rykilth. The two moved off and were eventually lost to her sight. Were they talking treason, sedition? Almost assuredly. Ryltilth—an ally. Maigrey raised an eyebrow, smiled at the bubbles rising from the glass's hollow stem, remembering the time Rykilth had been an enemy, remembering the time they'd captured and boarded his ship. Their squadron had stumbled about blindly, unable to see in the thick, poisonous atmosphere, afraid to fire for fear of hitting each other, easy targets for the vapor-breathers. Frustrated, Maigrey had opened an air lock . . .

  "My lady." Her centurion, Marcus, drew her attention from the bubbles rising to the top, breaking when they hit the surface, and vanishing. "The young man is in trouble."

  Maigrey turned her attention to a knot of people near the foot of the stairs. It looked more like a knot of snakes, writhing and twisting about a central object. She could barely catch a glimpse of flame-red hair in the center.

  "Go to him, Marcus. Bring him to me. Alone."

  "Yes, my lady."

  The centurion left upon his errand, slicing through the knot like a steel-tipped spear. Maigrey watched closely, more than half-expecting to see the magenta robes with black lightning hanging over the boy like an evil cloud. Marcus attained his objective, however, and managed to extricate the young man. Maigrey couldn't tell by his expression if Dion was thankful for the rescue or angered at the interruption of his first press conference. At this moment, she didn't care. Despite the champagne, she was in no very good mood herself. She had just spotted Abdiel, conversing with Snaga Ohme. The Adonian was fingering the starjewel. . . .