"The priests were reluctant to accept me, because I was not of the Blood Royal. They were going to turn me away, but one came forward, an older priest, grim and stern, dark and silent. He never spoke, but placed his hand upon my head."
The young man paused, as if he thought Sagan had spoken. The Warlord was silent, however, did not move. After waiting a moment Brother Fideles continued.
"From that time on, no word was said against me. I was taken into the monastery and educated and promised that, in time, if I was still of the same mind when I grew old enough to make the decision, I would be taken into the brotherhood. My faith, my determination, never wavered.
"I was almost eight years old the night of the Revolution. The mobs, led by soldiers of the rebel army, stormed the monastery walls. We had received a warning, however. We never knew how or from whence it came—some said God himself warned his faithful."
The priest's eyes were lowered again, he did not look at the Warlord.
"We were ready for them, when they came. We were forbidden to take human life, of course. None of us were warrior-priests. But under the direction of the dark and silent priest, we built cunning traps that captured men alive, rendered them helpless, but did them no harm. We defended the Abbey with fire and water, with rocks, with blasts of air.
"Many of our Order died that night," Brother Fideles continued in low, quiet tones, "but by the Power of the Creator, we defeated our foe. They fled, most of them, in dread and awe. They felt the wrath of God. To this day, no one comes near it. We—those of us who remained—live in peace. I believe you are familiar with the Abbey of which I speak, my lord. The Abbey of St. Francis."
"I know it." Sagan spoke without a voice. "Its walls still stand, then?"
"Yes, my lord."
"I have not been back. I did not think—" The Warlord checked himself, made a gesture to the young man to continue.
"There is little more to tell, my lord. The Order was outlawed, banned, but it was not dead. It went underground. We established a secret network, discovered those who had survived, and kept in contact. Quietly, circumspectly, we continued to do our work for the Lord. Occasionally a priest or nun would be captured, tortured. But each died maintaining he or she was alone in the faith, never revealing the truth. Our numbers have grown, since then. We are not many, for we must be careful who we take in, but there are more of us than you might imagine, my lord."
"None of them, the Blood Royal?"
"No, my lord. They are ordinary, like myself. The work we do is ordinary. We can no longer perform miracles. But it is, I believe, nonetheless blessed in the eyes of God."
"Perhaps it is more blessed, Brother Fideles," said Sagan, but he said it so softly and in a voice laden with such pain that the young man pretended not to have heard, made no response.
"You bear a message," Sagan said abruptly, tightly. "You risked your life to deliver it. Who from? What is it?"
"It is from the head of our Order, my lord. I am to tell you that a certain priest, whom you believed died eighteen years ago, is alive."
"Deus! Oh, God!"
It was a prayer, a supplication. The Warlord's flesh chilled, his eyes stared ahead sightlessly, he ceased to breathe.
The male nurse, alarmed, approached the man, laid his hand upon the wrist, felt for a pulse.
"My lord, you are not well—"
"Tell me, damn you! Tell me!" Sagan's voice sounded ghastly, the command burst from his mouth as if torn from the chest. Brother Fideles was frightened to see spots of blood fleck the ashen lips. "Tell me why you came!"
"My lord, this priest lies now upon his deathbed. His last wish is to see you once more, to beg your forgiveness, and to grant his dying blessing to you—his son."
Chapter Nine
Moira . . . the finished shape of our fate.
Mary Renault, The King Must Die
"Why doesn't he come, get it over with!" Tusk demanded, pacing back and forth, ten steps in each direction, with a slight jog hallway to avoid running into a chair.
"The delights of anticipation, Sagan's a master at it," Dixter returned. Lifting his gaze from the book he was pretending to read, he looked intently at Dion.
Why? he wondered silently. Why have you done this?
Dion hadn't told them anything, hadn't spoken a word to them since they'd been escorted into the young man's quarters. He stood staring out the viewscreen, stared at the flickering lights of spacecraft, the steady, ever-burning lights of the stars.
"You're right, sir." Tusk stopped in mid-pace, pivoted on his heel, and sat down on the edge of the chair. "By God, I won't give Sagan the satisfaction of thinking he's got me worried."
He threw his arms over the chair's metal back, crossed his legs, and concentrated with grim attention on looking relaxed. Dixter hid a smile, returned to the book.
"I wonder if Sagan would marry us, before he executed us, like the Nazi officer married Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn in that movie about the boat," said Nola dreamily.
She sat in a chair, her arms stretched out across a desk, her head resting on her hands. They'd been locked in the room for eight hours now.
"Damn it, Nola, stop talking about executions!" Tusk exploded. Bouncing up from his chair, he started to pace again. "Nobody's gonna get executed." He rounded on the general, demanded for the tenth time, "There must be something we can do—"
Dixter looked up from his book. A corner of his mouth twitched. "The door's locked and sealed. But let's say we did manage to tunnel our way through a meter of solid null-grav steel. That accomplished, the four of us, armed, I suppose, with that pair of scissors lying on the desk, take on ten centurions—"
"I'm sorry you were all involved in this," Dion said suddenly, coolly. "I thank you for your attempt to help, but you needn't have. I know what I'm doing."
There's something different about him, Dixter thought. Something strange. He seems fey, as if he were above this reality or beyond it, as if he were, perhaps, out there with those glittering stars, instead of a prisoner, confined to his own bedroom.
Tusk shook his head, came to stand near Dixter. "Begging the general's pardon, but I think we should try to make a run for it. Some of those men on guard have been with the kid a long time. If push came to shove—"
Dion turned from the viewscreen. "No, Tusk," he said, guessing, by the low tone, what the mercenary was proposing. "I refused to start a civil war in the galaxy. I won't start one aboard this ship."
"You sure you made the right decision?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I know," Dion added, seeing Tusk look skeptical, "because originally I made the wrong one."
"You're not makin' sense, kid. 'Course that wouldn't be the first time," Tusk added, mopping sweat from his neck. He had, by taking the aforementioned pair of las-scissors to his uniform, finally managed to rid himself of the constricting collar.
("You might as well go ahead and cut it off, Tusk," Dixter had recommended wryly. "With what's facing us, I wouldn't be overly concerned about receiving a few demerits for deliberate maltreatment of a uniform.")
"I meant to go to the banquet. I planned to tell them we were going to war."
Tusk stopped his pacing.
Dixter ceased to pretend to read.
"What happened, son?"
Nola lifted her head, shook her curls out of her eyes.
"I told myself that Sagan was right—war was the only alternative. I was going to give him the space-rotation bomb."
"Jeez, kid, I—!" Tusk frowned, clamped his mouth shut.
Dion nodded slowly. "I know what you're thinking. That I'm a coward and a liar. After everything I said about not making war on my own people. But now I had a way out. I was going to give in to Sagan's threats, let him take over. That way, I could blame him for whatever happens. I wouldn't have to take the responsibility, wouldn't have to blame myself. I could always comfort myself with the fact that I didn't have a choice.
"And so I made my decision. Or I thought I did
. But when I went to leave my room for the banquet, when I went to walk out the door, it was like ..."
Dion paused, considering how best to express himself.
"It was as if a force field had been activated around me. I couldn't walk through that door. Whenever I tried, my insides seemed to shrivel up. I began to sweat. I couldn't breathe."
Nola looked wise, nodded in understanding. Tusk rolled his eyes and glanced at the general. Dixter kept his gaze, intent and penetrating, fixed on Dion.
"What did you do then, son?" The general closed the book, but kept his finger to mark the place. He'd just noticed something on the page that he hadn't been reading, and he wanted to check it, to make certain.
"I told myself I was coming down with something. The flu, maybe. Or stress. I went over to the bed and lay down, thinking I'd rest a little, then go. There was still plenty of time. As I lay there, I admitted to myself that I did have a choice. I could refuse to give in to Sagan's threats. I could do what I believed was right. After all, I was the king. I'd taken on the responsibility of caring for the welfare of my people. I couldn't let them down.
"And the moment I made the decision, I felt better, calm and relaxed. And I sent the message," Dion concluded.
"This is all in that correspondence psych course I took," Nola struck in, excited. "You knew subconsciously that what you were doing wasn't right and it was your subconscious that made you sick."
"Subconscious, my ass! More like something he ate for lunch. Well, what the hell do you expect to do now? You won't fight. You just gonna stand there and let him shoot you."
"He won't," said Dion softly. "Any more than I could shoot him that night at Snaga Ohme's."
"Godalmighty ..."
"You don't have to back me up, you know," Dion pointed out, with a slight smile.
"It's a little late to switch sides, kid," Tusk muttered, threw himself into a chair, and subsided into gloomy silence.
Dion smiled at his friend, walked back over to stare out the viewscreen.
Far out in space, beyond the fleet, a pulsar flashed, twice every second.
Dixter returned to his book, and this time actually saw it. He glanced at the title, an ominous one. The King Must Die, by a twentieth-century author, Renault. The book was old. It had fallen open to a page, as Dixter held it in his hands, as if that particular part had been read many times. One paragraph, near the middle, was marked with a dot of red ink.
. . . When the King was dedicated, he knew his moira. In three years, or seven, or nine, or whenever the custom was, his term would end and the god would call him. And he went consenting, or else he was no king, and power would not fall on him to lead the people. When they came to choose among the Royal Kin, that was his sign: that he chose short life with glory, and to walk with the god, rather than live long, unknown like the stall-fed ox.
Dixter rubbed his stubbled chin, rough with a night's growth of beard. He had heard a sound, barely audible through the steel door, but easily identifiable to those who've been listening for it: the muffled tread of many pairs of booted feet marching in step.
The faint sound became clearer, seemed to boom like thunder through the tension-tight silence of His Majesty's quarters. Tusk's head snapped up. Nola sat straight in her chair, her hand reached out for Tusk's. Dion turned from the window, to stare calmly and dispassionately at the closed, sealed door. But Dixter saw that the young man's fingers, clasped together behind his back, left livid marks on the skin of his hands. The general slowly shut and laid down his book.
Could they truly hear, through the door and the metal bulkheads, the thud of fists striking body armor over the heart, or did they imagine it? Could they truly distinguish one set of booted footfalls from the others?
Tusk, shining black and coiled tense as a cornered panther, rose to his feet. Dion moistened dry lips.
The sealed door slid open, the Warlord entered. He placed his hand on a control panel. The door slid shut behind. He stood alone, no guards accompanied him. He was clad in full battle armor and helm; not his ceremonial armor, but the accoutrements of war. He wore the bloodsword at his side. A long cape fell from the shoulders, attached by golden phoenix pins. The metal face regarded Dion in silence, then Sagan removed his helm, held it in the crook of his left arm.
His long black hair, graying now beyond the temples, was slicked back smooth, tied at the base of the neck with a leather thong. The features of his face were steel-cold, he might have been still wearing the helm.
The young man's unrelenting defiance did not crumble. He stood proud, resolute.
When the Warlord spoke, it was to Dion alone, as if the two of them were alone in the room, perhaps alone in the universe.
"I have come to inform Your Majesty that I am leaving."
Dion had been prepared for anything except this. He stared at the Warlord in astonished silence, wondering if he'd heard correctly.
"Admiral Aks will be in command of the fleet," Sagan continued. "Aks is not particularly bright, but he has sense enough to know his limitations. He is a skilled and experienced commander, you can rely on him. I would suggest to His Majesty that he select General John Dixter to serve as commander in chief of both land and air operations in my absence."
Sagan's eyes flicked sideways, acknowledged the general's presence briefly, coolly. No love lost, but grudging respect.
What the devil does this mean? Dixter wondered.
Apparently, he wasn't the only one trying to figure out what was going on. The Warlord paused, waited for Dion to say something. But Dion obviously didn't know where to begin.
The rock wall of defiance was crumbling. He had realized, as had everyone in the room, that this was no trick. The Warlord was in earnest.
"I have already made the necessary arrangements. It remains only for you, sire, to give the final orders. I have placed Agis, captain of the Honor Guard, in charge of His Majesty's personal safety.
"In capacity as adviser, I suggest that for the time being His Majesty rely on the wisdom, if not necessarily the common sense"—Sagan's mouth twisted slightly—"of Bear Olefsky. He is bullheaded and rough-edged, but his great mound of flesh conceals a shrewd knowledge of men and their thinking. As for DiLuna and Rykilth, use them, get from them what you can, but do not trust either of them. Never betray weakness to them. Once they smell blood, they will tear you to pieces. Never let them forget that you are their king. Farewell, sire."
The Warlord bowed stiffly, turned on his heel, and started for the door.
"Wait!" Dion found his voice. "You can't do this! Where are you going, my lord? When will you be back?"
"I cannot say."
"You're leaving me alone?"
The Warlord spoke in a low and bitter voice. He did not turn around. "Not alone. God is with Your Majesty."
The door slid open. Sagan walked out. The door slid shut behind him;
No one moved or or said a word.
Out in space, the pulsar flashed, once every two seconds; reminded Dixter of the knowing wink of some gigantic eye.
The following morning, early, the allies were escorted to their ships. Admiral Aks and Captain Williams were both present, ostensibly to see them off, in reality to make certain that they had no time to talk privately among themselves. The Warlord's sudden departure was common knowledge. Where he was going and why was not.
"Keep those three from putting their heads together, monitor every word, and get them off this ship fast," had been Sagan's final instructions.
Surrounded by their own escorts, a guard of honor, sent by His Majesty, and ship's personnel, the three met only briefly in the hangar to say their formal farewells. DiLuna was stem, frowning. Rykilth was "fogged in," as the saying went among vapor-breathers, his face completely shrouded by a thick, swirling mist. Olefsky, however, positively smirked.
"What are they talking about?" Aks asked his captain in a low voice. The admiral appeared to have slept badly. He was endeavoring to overhear what was being said, but
the noise inside the hangar and a dull, throbbing ache in his temples was making it difficult.
"Horse racing, sir," said Williams in a whisper. The captain looked grim. He had not slept at all.
"Horse racing?" Aks stared. "Is that all? Are you certain?"
The two sidled a step or two closer.
"And did you hear who won the last race?" the Bear was asking, smoothing his beard.
DiLuna's voice had a sharp edge. "Subspace transmission was garbled. I couldn't be certain I caught the name correctly."
"You did," said Olefsky, "and you each owe me one hundred golden eagles."
Rykilth's mist turned an ugly shade of greenish yellow. "Your horse has yet to cross the finish line."
Aks blinked in astonishment. "How very strange," he murmured. "But, then, perhaps it's one of those mechanical 'droid horses. ..."
"It matters not!" Olefsky roared. "When one horse drops out of a two-horse race, the contest is ended, as we agreed." The Bear held out a huge hand. "Pay."
DiLuna pulled a purse made of tiny steel rings out from her belt, weighed the jingling purse in her hand, eyed the Bear thoughtfully. With a sudden flashing smile, she tossed the gold to Olefsky.
"A paltry sum, after all, considering the amount of prize money at stake. In fact, I think I may enter a horse of my own."
"I might do the same." Rykilth gave a nasty laugh that came over the translator as a metallic squawk. "I don't think much of that colt of yours, Olefsky. I doubt if he'll last the season. My guess is that he'll come up lame and we'll be forced to put him down."
"He's had good trainers. And he proved himself in his first outing," the Bear said complacently. "Pay up. Cash, not credit."
One of the vapor-breather's eyes was suddenly visible, glowering at Olefsky through the mist. Incoherent gargling sounds came over the translator. Rykilth began to fumble stealthily among the myriad small, zippered pockets and compartments of his flight suit.
"Tightfisted as a vapor-breather," Aks commented in an undertone, shaking his head.
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