King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  The Warlord regarded her grimly for long moments, then bowed.

  "So be it, my lady," he said coldly.

  "So be it, my lord."

  And that was their farewell.

  Twilight gilded the tops of the trees with a golden, red-tinged radiance, driven away by dusk's shadows that crept through the garden, night moving inexorably to overtake and banish day. The two said nothing more. The Warlord retrieved his helm, that he had left upon the bench near the statue of the eternally doomed burghers of Calais. Lord and lady walked in silence to the gate, where Brother Fideles waited patiently.

  Two together must walk the paths of darkness before they reach the light. Maigrey recalled the old prophecy, shook her head. Destiny, prophecy. Perhaps it had meant nothing more than that the two of them would walk through a dying rose garden in the dusk. She looked quickly at Sagan, half-afraid he'd heard her unspoken words. He would consider such thoughts blasphemous.

  He gave no sign that he had. The fortress of his being stood fast, impenetrable, impervious to assault.

  Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.

  But I wonder if Lucifer ever thought of repenting, of going back, Maigrey asked herself. And what would God do to him if he did?

  Book Two

  I will say unto the God of my strength, Why hast thou forgotten me: why go I thus heavily, while the enemy oppresseth me?

  My bones are smitten asunder as with a sword: while mine enemies that trouble me cast me in the teeth;

  Namely, while they say daily unto me: Where is now thy God?

  Prayer Book, 1662, Psalms 42:11

  Chapter One

  . . . the lion does not defend himself against traps, and the fox does not defend himself against wolves. . . .

  Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince

  "We interrupt this broadcast for a GBC special report. As expected, the former Citizen General Derek Sagan—hero of the Revolution, a hero of the recent battle with the Corasians—has been indicted by a military tribunal for the coldblooded and brutal murder of the notorious Adonian Snaga Ohme.

  "If found guilty, Sagan would, by military law, automatically receive the death penalty. We are standing by, live, for what we are told will be a personal appeal by the President of the Galactic Democratic Republic for Derek Sagan to give himself up.

  "No evidence against the citizen general has been made public and will not be, according to the office of the judge advocate general, until the trial. However, private sources reveal that the evidence is extremely damning.

  "And now we are going live to the Common House."

  An officious voice: "The President of the Galactic Democratic Republic."

  The President faced directly into the cam. A shimmer of tears brightened his eyes, his voice broke. "Derek, you and I have known each other a long time. You've always claimed to be a man of honor. Do the honorable thing now, Derek, and turn yourself in. Stand trial. Answer these terrible allegations publicly. You owe it to yourself, Derek, and to your followers.

  "And now I have a message for those followers, for the people of the systems who have left the Republic. Citizens, for I still think of you as citizens, you are being led blindly to your own destruction by leaders who care nothing for you or your well-being.

  "One of those leaders, who had long styled himself Warlord, has been accused of committing a crime whose ferocity shocks the galaxy. Rise up and let your leaders hear your voices. Let your leaders know that you won't put up with their attempts to drag you into a devastating war. For it is you, not they, who will suffer.

  "We would add"—the President's voice softened, the facile face molded itself into a look of paternal patience and understanding—"a word to Dion Starfire. We all admire you, young man. We believe that, deep down, you truly believe you are doing the right thing. Derek Sagan proclaims you publicly to be his king, his ruler. Therefore, we trust that in the interests of justice that you claim to uphold, you will encourage him to give himself up. In any case, I am certain you will not want to be embroiled in the scandal and disgrace of harboring a fugitive from the law.

  "And finally, I leave you, Derek Sagan, with this warning. You are powerful, but the people are the true power in the galaxy. The people have spoken. You are not above the law. The people will see justice done. If you do not turn yourself in, you will be arrested like any other common felon. I give you forty-eight hours, Standard Military Time."

  And how does it feel to be alone, my king? came the insidious voice, the voice through the bloodsword.

  Dion knew the voice was Abdiel's, yet it spoke his own words. He knew Abdiel's voice, knew it far better than this other voice, trying to be heard within him. He knew Abdiel's words were lies, deceits, but there was always, disconcertingly, a hint of truth within them. A hint of truth that made him doubt. . . .

  Sagan is gone. The Lady Maigrey gone. They discovered they couldn't use you, and so they have left. Plotting some treacherous scheme against you, my king, of that you may be certain!

  "Shut it off," Dion ordered.

  Tusk did so, lightly touching the controls on the arm of his chair. The vidscreen went blank, but no one in the room moved. They sat in their swivel chairs in the War Council Room, stared in brooding silence at the vast expanse of whiteness or exchanged glances with each other.

  "Well, well," said General Dixter.

  "This is insane!" Dion shook his head. "Sagan didn't kill Snaga Ohme! It was—It was . . "He stopped, unwilling to say the name. He thought he heard, from deep within, silent laughter.

  "But no one knows he was there," Dixter said grimly. "His image doesn't even show up on the vids. And the only people who know he was the murderer are the Lady Maigrey, you, and Derek Sagan. Give evidence that a mind-seizer, a member of the Order of Dark Lightning, still lives and has done murder and you'd be laughed out of the courtroom."

  "We could testify, sir," said Nola. "Tusk and I. Abdiel tried to kill us!"

  "And who would corroborate you? That Sparafucile fellow who saved your lives? One of the Warlord's paid assassins? Against this, they have probably obtained evidence that Snaga Ohme attempted to double-cross Sagan over the sale of the space-rotation bomb. Sagan was heard by half the people in the room, the night of the party, making threats against the Adonian's life. And, then, of course, those officers—his peers—who would sit in judgment are all his enemies. All of whom would sleep much better at night with the pleasant sight of Derek Sagan walking into the disrupter in their minds."

  "But this phony personal appeal! What is Robes up to?" Dion asked, running his hand through the mane of flaming red-golden hair. The voice had left him and he felt, as always, an unsettling emptiness inside. He hated it, yet he missed it when it was gone.

  "Remarkable timing, too. These charges come out right when Sagan disappears. What a coincidence," Tusk added.

  "It's no coincidence. Robes knows Sagan's not around to answer the charges or turn himself in. The fleet is riddled with spies and no matter how we've tried to keep the Warlord's continued absence quiet, you know the word's leaked out."

  General Dixter, hands on his knees, pushed himself to his feet. "I wonder . . ."He paused, frowned as if a sudden thought had occurred to him and he didn't particularly like it. "We know it's not coincidence. But what if it were more than that?"

  "More than what, sir?" Tusk stared at him. "What are you saying? I don't understand."

  "I don't understand myself, son. Robes is up to something, that's for certain. For openers, it puts Dion in one hell of a spot."

  "How? We'll simply issue a statement, saying that the Warlord has disappeared and we have no idea where he is. At least," Dion added wryly, "we'll be telling the truth."

  "Yes, but unfortunately, the truth will only get you in worse trouble. Few will believe you. They'll figure—and Robes will be certain to point it out in case they miss it—that you're simply harboring a fugitive."

  "The solution is simple. We fight!" said Tusk, slamming his fis
t on the table. "The Republic's got no right to board this vessel. If they attempt to do so by force, we defend ourselves. That way, we don't start this war. They start it."

  "I don't think war is what Robes is after," Dion said thoughtfully. "I'm still extremely popular with a majority of the people and it would mean a lot of bad publicity for the President at a time when he's got to be thinking of holding the Republic together. He could have declared war on the secessionists, but he hasn't. Still, if not war, then what?"

  "Your Majesty." Admiral Aks's face appeared on the vid-screen.

  "Yes, Admiral?"

  "A large fleet has materialized out of hyperspace."

  "Whose? Rykilth's? DiLuna's? Olefsky's? All promised when they left to send us support."

  "No, Your Majesty. These are ships of the Galactic Democratic Republic, from the fourteenth sector. Their commander is Citizen General Pang, a woman known to be loyal to the President."

  Tusk glanced at Dion. "Not war, you said?"

  "Are they threatening us in any way, Admiral?" Dion asked, brow furrowed.

  "No, Your Majesty. But they've begun weaving the net."

  "Weaving the net?" Dion looked questioningly at Dixter, who looked questioningly at Tusk, who looked grim.

  "Standard procedure. They're deploying their destroyers to block off all the Lanes, so that we can't make the Jump and disappear on 'em. When they're finished, it'll be 'we've got you surrounded, come out with your hands up.

  "Or else come out shooting," Dion said.

  That's about it, lad."

  "Has Citizen General Pang attempted contact, Admiral?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty. She asked permission to come aboard to speak to Lord Sagan."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "I told her that Lord Sagan wasn't receiving visitors."

  "What did she say?"

  "She laughed, Your Majesty."

  "I see," Dion murmured. "And then, Admiral?"

  "Citizen General Pang demands that Lord Sagan surrender himself into her custody. If he does not, she will send an armed force to board the ship and arrest him. If we refuse to permit them to board, it will be considered an act of resistance and they will have no choice but to fire on us. We have forty-eight hours."

  "How long before they get this . . . er . . . net in place?"

  "Only a few hours, Your Majesty. If we're going to escape, we've got to do it now."

  "And play right into Robes's hands," Nola warned. "This would look extremely bad, Dion. The President would claim that Sagan was fleeing arrest, proving his guilt. And now you'd be involved, too. Robes stopped short of trying to implicate you in these crimes, but that would probably be his next step. You'd leave yourself wide open to accusations."

  "And neither Rykilth nor DiLuna would take kindly to hearing of their king running away with his tail between his legs. I don't think even Olefsky would stand for that."

  "It's heads Robes wins, tails we lose," muttered Tusk.

  Dion stood up, began to pace the room. "How could Sagan do this to me? Surely he must have foreseen ..." He pivoted to face General Dixter. "That's what you were thinking, wasn't it, sir? What you said about Robes arranging—"

  "Your Majesty," Admiral Aks interrupted, his face excited, inflamed. "Lord Sagan's shuttle has just been reported coming out of hyperspace!"

  All looked at each other, doubtful of believing, wondering if this was good news or bad. Dion almost heaved a relieved sigh, caught himself just in time.

  "Surely the Republic's fleet must have recognized the shuttle, Admiral. Is his lordship under attack?"

  "I don't believe so, sire. If you'll excuse me—" Admiral Aks turned to receive a report. "It appears, Your Majesty, that Lord Sagan was aware of the presence of enemy forces prior to making the Jump. He waited until the last possible moment before coming out of the Lane, which put him well out of range of General Pang's ships. Several short-range Scimitars flew to intercept, but he outmaneuvered them and is now safely within our own perimeter. The shuttle will be landing momentarily. "

  "Have you spoken to Lord Sagan?"

  "Certainly not, Your Majesty." The admiral's tone was faintly rebuking. "We are under the guns of the enemy."

  "Yes, of course. I forgot." Dion paused, considering. "I'll meet Lord Sagan in the docking bay. Join us there, Admiral. We can waste no time in deciding what to do."

  "Yes, Your Majesty. I quite agree, Your Majesty!"

  The admiral's image faded abruptly from the screen.

  Dion left the room in haste. Tusk, Nola, and Dixter followed more slowly.

  "Jeez! I never thought I'd be glad to see Derek Sagan." Tusk tugged thoughtfully at the small silver star he wore in his left ear.

  "We haven't seen him yet, Tusk," said John Dixter. "We haven't seen him yet."

  Dion waited with ill-concealed impatience for the interminably slow docking bay doors to shut, and air rush in to fill the vacuum. Admiral Aks stood at his side, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. The others present nearly filled the remainder of the small ready room. Dixter's shrewd eyes were narrowed, their gaze fixed on the Warlord's shuttle, as if certain sums in his mind were not adding up.

  The red warning light flashed off, the door to the ready room unsealed. Dion slammed his hand on the control, shot through the door before it was more than half-open. Admiral Aks did not lag far behind.

  The young man walked swiftly, but proudly, head held high, hps tightly compressed. He was angry, and he told himself he was angry at Sagan. The Warlord had behaved in a cavalier manner, shrugging off responsibility, rushing off recklessly to God knows where. In reality—a reality Dion refused to admit—he was angry at himself for knowing relief at the Warlord's return.

  The shuttlecraft's hatch opened. The Honor Guard, led by Agis, descended, formed a double line on the deck, came to attention, fists over their hearts in salute. Dion halted near the head of the line of men, some distance from the shuttle. He held himself stiffly, with dignity.

  A figure appeared in the opening in the shuttle's hull. It was clad in armor, but that armor was silver, not gold. It stood tall and straight, but not nearly as tall as the Warlord. A blue cape, not a red one, hung from die figure's gleaming, armor-covered shoulders.

  Dion's anger was sucked out of him, like the air out of an air lock when the docking bay doors were opened. Astonishment and perplexity rushed in to fill the vacuum. He recognized the figure ... or thought he did.

  "Lady Maigrey!"

  Behind him, he heard Admiral Aks gasp.

  She removed her helm, placed it in the crook of her arm in correct military fashion, and walked between the rows of centurions. She faced Dion, her gray eyes fixed on his. Yet, still, he wasn't certain he knew her.

  The face was the face he remembered, the pale hair tied in braids and wound around her head to fit neatly beneath the silver helm, the scar slanted down her right cheek, slightly twisting one corner of mouth. Her physical presence was the same, but Dion had the strange feeling he might have been looking at a likeness carved in cold stone. There was no life, no warmth. A chill flowed from her reminiscent of the black void from which she'd come.

  She halted before him, bowed low, gracefully, sinking down on one knee, her head bent. The folds of the blue cape fell around her.

  "Lady Maigrey," said Dion again. "I—Where—"

  Maigrey lifted her head, the expression in the gray eyes stopped the words on the young man's lips. She remained kneeling, glanced downward swiftly. The folds of the cape stirred. Dion shifted his gaze.

  In Maigrey's left hand, concealed beneath the cape from all eyes except his, she held a bloodsword. Not her own. Her own was buckled around her waist. Dion recognized the sword, knew to whom it belonged. He caught his breath.

  Maigrey rose to her feet. "Your Majesty," she said quietly, hiding the sword from view as she stood up, "we must talk."

  The small group, accompanied by the admiral and Captain Williams, returned to the War Council Room. Dion h
ad, while proceeding through the ship, kept his composure, not allowed his disappointment or his mounting anxiety to show in his face or his attitude while in view of the crew. Once inside the room, however, he gave way to his frustration.

  "You know where Sagan is, my lady?"

  "Yes, sire."

  "But you refuse to tell me?"

  Maigrey sighed. This was the fifth time he'd asked.

  "I cannot, Your Majesty. It isn't my secret."

  "Lady Maigrey isn't one of the enemy, Your Majesty," General Dixter said gently.

  Dion felt his skin burn. "I'm sorry, my lady." He turned away, walked over to stare out the viewscreen.

  Maigrey inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment. She was pale and cold, untouchable, unapproachable. The jagged scar, pulsing with a faint infusion of blood beneath the skin, seemed, oddly, the only living part of her.

  She looked at no one else gathered around the conference table, but kept the gray eyes fixed on Dion or occasionally shifted her gaze to deepspace. At such times, she would lose track of the conversation, blink when anyone spoke to her, and seem to return to them from a long and fruitless—to judge by her wan expression—journey.

  Captain Williams rose to his feet, leaned toward her over the table. "But, Lady Maigrey, it seems to me vital that we get in touch with Lord Sagan!"

  "I most strongly agree with the captain," interjected Admiral Aks, having recourse to the handkerchief again. "This is an emergency, Lady Maigrey. A situation my lord could not have possibly foreseen when he left. We must know his orders—"

  "These are his orders," interrupted Maigrey coldly. "I am in command."

  A momentary silence. Dion looked around at her. Tusk cast a startled glance at Dixter, who became exceedingly grave. The silence was broken by Admiral Aks.

  "I beg your pardon, Lady Morianna. I do not mean to imply that you are lying, but I would appreciate seeing some token of my lord's authority."

  Maigrey wordlessly reached her hand beneath the blue cloak. Drawing out a bloodsword, she laid it upon the table, lowering it gently, not making a sound.