King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  "Bear Olefsky, ruler of the planetary system of Solgart."

  "Aye, laddie, well met again!"

  No formalities of bowing and scraping for Olefsky. Arms like the limbs of sheltering oaks clasped Dion to a breast rock-solid and big as a mountain. He was nearly stifled by the smells of cowhide and sweat; a trophy of human hair, dangling from the leather armor, tickled his nose; the skull of a small animal (he hoped it was an animal) dug into his cheek.

  Dion extricated himself from the embrace, did what he could to recover both his dignity and the breath that had been squeezed out of his body. He felt his anger begin to cool, he could see what was transpiring. These people were the three most powerful in the universe, next to Sagan. He had brought them here to pledge the king their allegiance publicly, for the first time.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dion saw they were under the close scrutiny of vidcams; Sagan's public relations people were hard at work, recording this historic meeting for posterity and the GBC.

  Dion's eyes sought those of the Warlord's, but couldn't see them, shadowed by the helm. The two moved away from the line of dignitaries, continued down the aisle of living statues.

  "Very impressive, my lord," Dion remarked out of the side of a mouth that was smiling left and right. "But we need to talk. Alone. Now."

  "Your wish is my command, sire."

  The response was correct, proper, and the sarcasm was like acid falling on Dion's flesh. Neither said another word. The ceremonies were concluded, the troops thanked and dismissed. Admiral Aks and his junior officers acted promptly to herd their guests back to the diplomatic portion of the ship.

  The king, accompanied by his apparently attentive lord, headed for the elevator that led to the Warlord's private quarters.

  "An interesting young man," said DiLuna. She despised men, but was accustomed to sizing them up for breeding purposes, "I'd bed him." A high compliment from the baroness. "What do you think, Rykilth?"

  "He's lasted longer in the contest than I'd expected," observed the vapor-breather through his translator.

  "The scars of his battles are plain upon him," Olefsky agreed. The huge warrior glanced back at the two figures, one tall and gleaming in gold, the other shorter, red hair burning like flame. "Who will be the ultimate winner?"

  "Who do you suppose?" Rykilth asked dryly.

  "Bet?" Olefsky raised his gigantic hand.

  "What stakes?" DiLuna demanded.

  "One hundred golden eagles."

  "Terms?"

  "That before we leave this ship, the crown will not rest on two heads, but one. The laddie's."

  "Ha!" Rykilth gave a snort that sent the fog billowing and nearly blew out his translator. "You might as well hand over your money now, Olefsky. By the time we leave this ship, the laddie' will be lucky to retain his head, much less the crown."

  "A bet, then?" Olefsky asked coolly, extending his huge hand.

  "A bet." Rykilth's small, gloved, three-fingered hand closed over as many of Olefsky's fingers as the vapor-breather could manage.

  DiLuna scoffed. "None of the three of us ever defeated Sagan. You're saying this 'boy' will do what we couldn't?"

  "I am," the Bear replied imperturbably. "None of us were Blood Royal."

  "All thanks to the Goddess for that! It will be a pleasure taking your money, my friend." DiLuna's hand gripped the big man's firmly.

  Laughing, the three shifted their conversation to more important topics.

  The double doors, decorated with the phoenix, closed and sealed. Sagan removed his helm, placed it carefully upon its stand. His hands clasped behind his back, beneath the flowing red cape, he took a turn about the spacious area of his living quarters, glanced out the viewscreen at the other ships in his fleet, looked to see if there were any messages on his computer screen, then turned to face his king.

  "What is it you have to say, Your Majesty?" Sagan asked coldly.

  Dion's anger was at hand, sharp and shining with the righteousness of his cause.

  "The girl died, the one I could have healed! She drowned herself, and it was my fault. Never again. Never again will I listen to you or take your advice. You don't want me to discover my true powers because you're afraid of me. I am king and I will be king!"

  The Warlord said nothing, did nothing.

  "I came to tell you that. I will be in my quarters, should you decide to respond." Dion tinned to leave.

  "I have a vid I think Your Majesty should see," came Sagan's voice behind him.

  Dion stopped, glanced around, eyes narrowed, immediately suspicious.

  "I am extremely tired, my lord. It can wait until morning."

  The Warlord depressed a button on a console. A vidscreen slid into view. "No, Your Majesty, it cannot. Computer, bring up exhibit number B-221."

  A vid appeared on the screen. Blurred at first, it sharpened as the computer adjusted the focus and brought into view the corpse of a teenage girl, her face hideously deformed, laid out upon a steel table. The girl's body was naked, her hair wet, bedraggled. The feet and hands were blue, a numbered tag was wrapped around one toe.

  Dion made a strangled sound, shock and fury robbed him of his voice. He continued walking toward the double doors.

  "Look at her, Your Majesty!" Sagan's voice grated. "If you have the nerve. Her death was, as you say, your fault. Your responsibility, though perhaps not the way you imagine."

  Slowly, hands clenching to fists, Dion faced the horrible image on the vidscreen, faced the impassive, shadowed visage of the Warlord.

  "You are right, my lord." Dion swallowed, his throat muscles constricting in his neck. "I must accept the burden of this young woman's self-destruction. I have much to learn. I thank your lordship for teaching me."

  "You have much to learn, all right!" Sagan snapped.

  The cam zoomed in on the body, bringing it closer, closer, studying it from every angle. Dion drew a deep breath, held himself steady.

  "Body of Jane Doe," came a voice over the audio, a woman's voice, sounding calm and bored. "Vid taken prior to autopsy for purposes of identification." The coroner gave the planet's date and time, also Standard Military date and time, her own name and official title, adding, "Anyone having information regarding the identity of subject Jane Doe is asked to report to—" name of local police chief.

  The cam lingered for a close-up of the hideous face, traveled casually over the upper part of the body, moved down the right arm to focus on the victim's right hand.

  "No tattoos. No moles or birthmarks," the coroner continued. "The only wounds found on the body were discovered on palm of the right hand."

  White flesh filled the screen—white flesh crisscrossed with the lines used by fortune tellers to trace a human's destiny, white flesh marred by five small puncture marks arranged in a peculiar pattern.

  Dion let go his inheld breath. Balls of yellow burst before his eyes, he was suddenly sick and dizzy. Dazed, he lifted his right hand, stared down at his palm. Five scars, five puncture marks, arranged in the same pattern. Draw a line between them, connect the dots, and they'd form a five-pointed star.

  Sagan ordered the computer to freeze the frame. It did so, leaving the image of the dead girl's hand on the screen.

  "By her report, the coroner had a difficult time determining what these marks were," the Warlord stated, regarding the photo with cool, frowning detachment. "She concluded that they were made by five metal needles, driven into the skin. But for what reason or purpose, she couldn't fathom She surmised it was some type of drug use, though she couldn't find any trace of drugs in the body. Admittedly, she didn't spend much time investigating. The young woman had obviously died by drowning, obviously finally succeeded in doing what she'd attempted to do several times before. We know differently, however, don't we, my liege? We know it wasn't suicide. It was murder, cold-blooded, calculating murder."

  Dion found a chair and sat down before he fell.

  "Abdiel." He spoke softly. The name conjured up bitter
memory. He stared at his hand, curled the fingers over the palm, hiding the marks.

  "Abdiel," Sagan repeated.

  "You knew ... all along."

  "I didn't know. I suspected. When I received news of the girl's suicide, I sent Dr. Giesk to examine the body, obtain the coroner's report. He recognized immediately the true cause of death."

  "But she drowned! It was suicide, the coroner said so." Dion clung to his fragment of hope.

  "Yes, death was by drowning. No one actually saw her jump, but, as you heard, no marks were found on the body. There were no indications of a struggle. I have no doubt she took her own life. But did she do so of her own volition?" Sagan shook his head. "You know yourself how Abdiel can manipulate the mind, especially those with whom he has bonded."

  Dion shuddered, grasped his right wrist, nursed his hand as if it pained him. "But she wasn't mind-dead. I would have recognized one of his disciples."

  "Exactly. Abdiel would know that, of course. The girl was probably a new acquisition, one recently obtained. The effects of bonding with the mind-seizer, such as the lifeless look in the eyes, come only after a period of time."

  Dion laughed suddenly, mirthlessly. "What would Abdiel have done if I had healed her?"

  "He had little cause to fear that. Through your bloodsword, he sees inside you."

  The young man flushed, frowned, made no response.

  Sagan followed up his advantage. "He sees your doubt, your lack of faith. He can use it all against you. And against me."

  Dion opened his mouth to argue, closed it again. The dead hand on the screen seemed raised against him, raised in wrath and vengeful accusation.

  "Due to the swift action of the guard in destroying that remote reporter 'droid, the damage that could have been caused by this incident was minimized. If that young woman's plea for healing had been made public, you would have been finished. As it was, we were able to put out the story that she accosted you, attempted to kill you. After which, filled with remorse, she killed herself."

  "But that's a lie!"

  "Would you prefer us to broadcast the truth, Your Majesty?"

  Dion sat silent, thoughtful, unhappy. He looked away from the screen, away from the hand, yet he could still feel its chill touch. "None of this is what I expected," he murmured. "Being a king . . . The lies, the deception. And when I do tell the truth, I'm never permitted to tell all of it. I'm not certain I even know what the truth is, anymore."

  Sagan eyed him. "What did you say, Your Majesty?"

  Dion regarded him, blue eyes reflecting back golden armor. "Nothing important. Nothing you would understand. What is your counsel, my lord?"

  "We escaped destruction this time," Sagan said grimly, "but just barely. We will not be so fortunate again. That is what Abdiel is telling us. That is his warning."

  "Warning?" Dion stared at him.

  "Of course! Don't tell me that even now, you don't understand. This"—Sagan pointed to the cold, dead hand—"was no blunder on his part. He flaunts his abilities, signs his name to his work."

  "But . . . why?"

  "Because he knows the debilitating power of fear."

  Turning, Sagan again clasped his hands behind his back, beneath the red cloak trimmed in gold. He walked over to the viewscreen, looked out at the fleet of ships. Destroyers, carriers, torpedo boats, support vessels—a vast armada surrounding the Warlord and his king with an impenetrable ring of steel and fire.

  Dion followed his gaze, his thoughts. "Against all this—one frail old man." He shook the mane of red-golden hair. "I'm not afraid of him."

  "I am, Your Majesty," Sagan said quietly.

  He left the viewscreen, crossed the carpeted deck to the computer. Dion noticed, for the first time, that the Warlord was limping slightly, favoring his right leg.

  Sagan caught the boy's glance. "A pulled muscle."

  He depressed a key on the computer. The dead hand vanished.

  "And what do you suggest we do, my lord?"

  Dion asked the question, but he already knew the answer, knew the reason why he'd been requested to return, knew the reason why Rykilth and DiLuna and Olefsky were on board Phoenix II.

  "We go to war," said Sagan.

  Chapter Six

  Commune with your own heart . . . and be still.

  Prayer Book, 1662, Psalms 4:4

  The Council of War among the allies gathered on Phoenix lasted three days, Standard Military lime. The Council's purpose had been to plan the war, but it spent much of its time attempting to convince His Majesty of the need to seize the crown, instead of, as Rykilth put it, "Standing around politely, waiting for it to be handed to you."

  They had to convince Dion, because the one weapon the allies wanted, desperately needed, was in the king's possession—the space-rotation bomb. Given to him, albeit under duress, by Lord Sagan.

  The king sat in on every meeting, listened attentively to every argument, asked questions to clarify some point, but then said nothing more. What he was thinking, what he was deciding, no one knew. Certainly not Sagan, whose frustration and anger were growing more apparent every SMD that passed.

  "I believe you will be owing me some money, Rykilth," rumbled Olefsky, giving the vapor-breather a nudge that nearly deflated his protective spacesuit. "The kinglet has proved stronger than you thought."

  The three were in the war room alone together. Sagan had, once again, pressed the king for a decision. Dion had, once again, refused to commit himself. The Warlord had stormed out of the Council meeting in rage. His Majesty himself had left shortly after. Bear Olefsky had ordered lunch.

  "I cannot understand why Sagan keeps up this pretence," Rykilth commented through his translator.

  The words of his language swirled and writhed like the fog in his helm. Always shifting, sometimes thickening or thinning depending on his body's needs, the mist obscured the vapor-breather's face, making it difficult for most humans to communicate comfortably with him. An eye would suddenly appear, staring at them from the fog, then vanish in the mist and only the toothless mouth could be seen.

  The mechanical voice of the translator flattened out all emotion. Those accustomed to dealing with vapor-breathers knew to judge their mental state by the color of the fog. Affected by even the slightest variation in body temperature, the vapor ranged in shade from an almost pure white—a sign of calm—to a dark yellow, stained with brown. Rykilth's vapor was, at the moment, a sort of ochre.

  "Lord Sagan should simply tell the boy, 'Your Majesty, we're going to war and if you don't like it you can take a walk out the nearest air lock.' " Rykilth's vapor darkened slightly.

  "His Majesty has the bomb and Sagan does not," said Olefsky, winking.

  DiLuna glanced significantly around the room. "Careful, my friend. Ears are listening."

  The Bear shrugged. A grin split the bearded face. "By my lungs and liver, what's Sagan going to do, shoot me for speaking the truth?"

  They were interrupted by orderlies, serving lunch: a huge platter of raw meat and bread for Olefsky, a plate of fruit and rice for DiLuna, and a plastic envelope of congealed red liquid for Rykilth.

  "Gracious Mother, accept our thanks for Your bounty," DiLuna prayed to the Goddess.

  Rykilth detached a tube from the envelope, attached it to a tube inside his helmet, and sucked up nourishment. The ochre color faded gradually in the enjoyment of his repast. Bear Olefsky forked raw meat into his mouth, wiped away the blood that dribbled down his chin with a hunk of bread.

  The orderlies poured wine for the woman, deposited what looked to be a keg of ale at Olefsky's side, asked if anything else was needed, and then disappeared, leaving the three to their meal and their conversation.

  "Just what is the truth about the space-rotation bomb?" DiLuna questioned.

  "That it belongs to Dion Starfire. That he has it hidden away, under lock and key. That he has it in his power to destroy us, to destroy Sagan, to destroy the galaxy, maybe to destroy the universe, if he chooses." Olefs
ky rolled his eyes, stuffed a wad of bread into his mouth, washed it down with ale.

  "And Lord Sagan can't get it back? From a whelp who's still got his mother's milk on his lips?" DiLuna made an impolite gesture.

  "Sagan can get the bomb anytime he chooses," Rykilth predicted. The red liquid was nearly gone. It had a slight intoxicating effect; the vapor-breather was in a more relaxed mood, his fog almost pure white. The mists had thinned, two of his eyes were actually almost visible. "What has there ever been that Sagan didn't get if he wanted it?"

  "One thing," Bear said with unexpected solemnity. "The one thing he wanted most—the crown. He pledged his word to Dion, you see. Pledged it before the good God."

  "Ah, well, that settles it," said DiLuna, nodding. She worshiped a different deity—or perhaps one could say a different aspect of the same deity—but the warrior woman was devout and reverent in her duties to the Goddess Mother. She understood.

  Rykilth, who believed in nothing except his own life-giving vapor, made a gurgling sound—a sneer among vapor-breathers. The mist thickened, a feint brown streak wafted up from the region around his neck. "Sagan always has an angle. You can't tell me he doesn't. I trust we're not being played for fools—by both of them."

  A line marred DiLuna's forehead. She shot a swift, shrewd glance at the other two. "We were each of us Sagan's enemy once. And what do we truly know about this Starfire?"

  The vapor-breather's mist turned an ugly shade of naphthol-yellow. Bear Olefsky set down his mug of ale, frowned at it as if it tasted bad.

  DiLuna rose to her feet. She was sixty years old, by her planet's reckoning, tall, broad-shouldered. "I'm going to contact my ship. I'm leaving tomorrow. If a decision has not been reached tonight, I'll take matters into my own hands."

  She turned, looked directly into what was supposed to be a concealed cam, and shook her long scalp lock of iron-gray hair. Gunmetal earrings jangled. "I won't go crawling back to Peter Robes."

  "Time for me to switch chemical packs," Rykilth announced. "I believe that I too, will make arrangements to leave tomorrow. I can only tolerate existence in this oxygen-contaminated atmosphere so long. What about you, Olefsky?"