King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  "Here you are!"

  Soft candlelight glimmered beneath his half-closed eyelids.

  Dion opened his eyes. "Kamil ..."

  She was dressed in a long white gown, the fur-covered skin of some animal thrown around her shoulders for warmth. Her hair glistened spun silver in the light of her candle. Her eyes were dark and liquid and flashing fire. She held, in one strong arm, her youngest brother. His head lolled on her shoulder, secure in the warmth and closeness of his sister's body.

  "You went out to take a piss and got lost, didn't you?" she said to Dion gravely. "No wonder. Wandering around without a light. And without a coat. Your room's down this hall. Wait until I put Galen to bed, then I'll show you."

  Dion stared at her, had a sudden image of his queen saying to news commentator James M. Warden, "You went out to take a piss . . ."He began to laugh uncontrollably.

  "Hush!" Kamil admonished, glancing down at the baby, who started and began to whimper. "I just got him to sleep!"

  "Sorry!" Dion stifled his laughter.

  She rocked the baby until his whimpering ceased. He sighed, stuck a fat thumb in his mouth, and cuddled against her. "I'll just put Galen in his crib—"

  "I—I can find my way," Dion stammered, feeling his knees go weak, thankful he was leaning against the wall. "You don't need to bother—"

  "It's no bother," said Kamil, shrugging. "I was up with the baby. He had a bad dream, howling like a wolf had him. I couldn't sleep, so I told Mother I'd get up with him."

  She started walking down the hallway, back the way Dion'd come. He hesitated, then turned and followed her. After all, she had the candle and it was extremely dark in the castle, now that he thought of it.

  He opened the door to the baby's room for her, held the candle while she laid the child in the crib and covered him with a blanket. At her direction, Dion stirred up the dying fire. They discussed adding another log, decided against it. The room was warm enough, she said. After a last peep at the baby, Kamil took the candle from Dion and led him out and into the hallway.

  "I couldn't sleep either," Dion said.

  Kamil nodded, solemn, serious. "You have important business to do tomorrow. I heard Father and Mother discussing it, before they went to bed. My father says that DiLuna and Rykilth won't be eager to risk their ships and men in the Corasian galaxy. You will have a difficult time convincing them."

  "Your father's right," Dion said, "but that wasn't why I couldn't sleep. That wasn't what I was thinking about."

  Any other woman Dion had known would have understood the implied compliment, smiled knowingly, or perhaps have teased him until he confessed. Kamil looked at him with her wide, frank, curious eyes.

  "Oh? What were you thinking about?"

  You can make her love you, Dion.

  They reached his room, stood outside the door. She turned to face him, the candle held steady in her hand. This was the time to thank her politely for the light, for showing him the way. This was the time to open the door, walk into that chill and empty room alone, bid her good night, send away the light, shut the door behind him, lock himself in the darkness, and never open the door again.

  A strong man would do it. Lord Sagan would do it. Or would he? For seventeen years, he'd searched the galaxy for what? For a lost king? Or for love lost, cast away by the hand that had reached, instead, for the crown. No, that will not happen to me. I won't make the same mistake.

  "You," he said, reaching out to her, grasping hold of her gently. "I was thinking of you."

  She smiled at him, a smile warmer than the candlelight, whose flame suddenly wavered, trembled in her hand. "I was thinking of you, too," she said.

  He drew her close. They were of equal height, their lips met, touched, burned together an instant, parted.

  "I want to marry you, Kamil," he said, holding fast to her, his hands stroking, caressing the animal fur that covered her shoulders and was warm from her body's heat. "I want to fight for you in the betrothal ceremony."

  "You don't fight for me. You fight with me. I will be at your side, holding my mother's shield, as she held it for my father."

  "Then you will marry me? You'll be my queen?" Dion couldn't believe it, was afraid she'd misunderstood.

  "Queen!" Kamil laughed, seemed amused at the thought. "I will be your wife. And, of course, I will marry you. I'd made up my mind to it this night. If you hadn't asked me, I was going to ask you."

  The candle flame wavered, a blast of chill air hit it, nearly blew it out. Dion felt the cold breath blow across his rapturous happiness. He didn't understand it, or refused to understand it.

  The draft died away, the candle flame burned steadily.

  "I will ask your father for permission tomorrow," Dion began.

  Kamil bristled at the thought. "I don't need my father's permission to marry!"

  "I mean ..." Dion stammered, "I thought that was customary—"

  "We go together to talk with my father and my mother and ask for their blessing. That is the custom of my people. We would talk to your father and your mother," she said, more softly, "but my father tells me that they are dead."

  Her eyes were warm with sympathy, pity for his loss. It was the first time he could remember that anyone had shown him sympathy, the first time that anyone had cared about him and what he felt. And suddenly, the mystical power that was the birthright—and some might have said the curse—of the Blood Royal lifted the future's opaque curtain for him.

  He was given a glimpse ahead, saw the long and convoluted path that would be his life, saw the people crowding alongside that path, for good and for ill, and saw that, of all of them, this one person alone, this one woman, would love and care and think only of him, of Dion. To all others he would be king, to be obeyed, manipulated, wheedled, bribed, worshiped, despised. To her, he would be a man. A man to be loved. She, she alone, would love him. That would be her blessing, and her curse.

  The curtain dropped down with a rapidity that left Dion mentally blinking. He could not be certain what he had seen, wondered, after a moment, if he had really seen anything. All he knew, deep inside, was that he could not give this woman up. He needed her.

  "It's cold in this hallway," Kamil said suddenly. "You're shivering, your arms are all covered with gooseflesh again. And you have much to do tomorrow. You should sleep, now."

  Moving shyly around him, she opened the door to his room, looked inside.

  "They didn't lay a fire for you. We never have one at night, except in the baby's room. But I'll build one for you," she said, and started to slip past him.

  Dion caught hold of her, held her back. "No, you shouldn't be in my room, not with me, alone."

  He was afraid she would argue, perhaps laugh at him. And he wondered how he would make her understand, when he wasn't certain he understood himself. But he didn't have to explain. She paused a moment, then looked back at him, her cheeks faintly flushed.

  "You take the light," she said, offering him the candle.

  "But you'll need it—"

  "No." She shook her head. "I know the way."

  He took the candle from her. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the forehead. Their first true kiss had been too special, too sweet, to repeat again quite so soon. He could still tasted, like the honey coating of mead, on his lips. He wanted to keep it through the night, taste it again and again.

  "Sleep well," he said to her.

  "May your dreams be blessed." She kissed him shyly, on the cheek, then turned and left him, running lightly down the hallway.

  Dion watched until the flutter of her white gown and the silver sheen of her cropped hair could no longer be seen. He entered his room, shut the door, forgot to lock it. He lay down in his bed, wrapped himself in the comforter, left the candle burning on the nightstand. Its golden light filled his thoughts, was sometimes flame, sometimes the golden light of her eyes. He fell asleep.

  And again he dreamed of the warrior woman, standing at his side during the battle, holding her shie
ld protectively in front of him. But in the dream, when she protected him, she could not protect herself. And he had no shield to hold over her. He was helpless to defend her, was forced to watch her take blow after blow that had been meant for him, until she sank, battered and bleeding, at his feet.

  Dion woke with a start, his body bathed in cold sweat.

  The candle had guttered out, leaving his room in darkness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The very pulse of the machine . . .

  William Wordsworth, She Was a Phantom of Delight

  The luxury liner, Galaxy Belle, appeared as a bright-colored, glittering bauble, set against a backdrop of black, empty space and coldly burning stars. Maigrey watched the ship intently as they drew nearer, waiting with inheld breath for it to alter course, come to a halt, or make any other move that might indicate the Belle was suspicious of the small white craft approaching her.

  Belle continued sailing through space, however, traveling at a leisurely pace that would disturb neither the expensive wines nor the guests.

  "Hailing Galaxy Belle. Galactic Federation Agent Gibbons, requesting permission to come aboard. Over." Xris's tone was crisp, official-sounding.

  "They're not responding," said Maigrey.

  Xris smiled, took a twist from his pocket, examined it, then stuck it in his mouth. "I'll tell you exactly what's going on in there, sister. The captain of that ship has just contacted the big boss, wanting to know why the hell he didn't pay off the government agents in this sector. The boss will come back, inform the captain that he did pay the agents off, same as usual. The captain will want to know who the hell are we, then. The boss will decide that we're probably a hotshot agent, new in the sector, wanting our share. The captain—if he's smart—will tell the boss that maybe this is a trick and they should get the hell out of there, make the Jump, find another sector."

  Seeing Maigrey grow uneasy, Xris lit his twist, took a deep drag on it, and smiled at her. "Don't worry, sister. Do you know what it takes to make a Jump in a cruise ship like that? First, you have to get the guests to leave the blackjack tables and slot machines—and you've always got one who has a lucky streak going and refuses to budge—and go to their cabins. That's just the beginning.

  "And when you come out of the Jump, three fourths of the high rollers are sicker than dogs and threatening to sue. No, it's much cheaper to invite us on board, show us a good time, fork over a few thousand, and we'll all part the best of friends."

  "But—" Maigrey began.

  "Agent Gibbons, permission to come aboard granted, sir. Hanger bay nine. Oh, uh, and how do you like your steak, sir?"

  Xris glanced at Maigrey. "The way I like my women," he answered. "Lean, hot on the outside, and pink in the middle. Hanger bay nine. Copy. ETA thirty minutes, so don't put that steak on the coals yet. Over and out."

  He ended the transmission, laid in the course, then leaned back and blew smoke in the air.

  "Very good," said Maigrey, relaxing in the co-pilot's chair. "I'd say you've done this kind of work before."

  "Yeah," Xris answered, not looking at her, keeping his gaze fixed on the Belle. "Like I told you back on the breed's plane, I used to be a government agent. But that was before—" He raised his cybernetic arm, his lips twisted in a bitter smile.

  "How did you get hold of this official spaceplane?"

  "Simple. The government sells them at auction. Of course, the agency modifies them first, removes the armaments, gives the planes a new paint job. But it's easy to restore them again ... if you know what you're doing. I was an agent for ten years. I knew what I was doing."

  He sat silently smoking, staring, unseeing, at the garishly lit cruise ship that was growing larger in the vidscreen.

  "I was a damn good agent, too," he added. "One of the honest ones. Look what it got me." He flexed the fingers of his metal hand. Lights blinked on his upper arm, a series of small beeps indicated that it was functioning properly. "I'd have been better off dead."

  Taking the twist out of his mouth, he tossed it on the deck, ground it out beneath his foot.

  "Like I tried to tell her—my wife," he added, glancing at Maigrey, then looking back out the vidscreen.

  There were only the two of them aboard the small space-plane. Federal agents normally traveled in pairs. Anyone else aboard the plane would have looked suspicious, Xris said, in case the cruise ship might actually bother to scan them. Brother Daniel had remained behind with Agis on board Maigrey's plane. Sparafucile carried Raoul and the Little One as his passengers. Neither those two planes nor any of Xris's men could be seen, though all were—Maigrey trusted—on their way, moving into position.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  It was easy to talk, necessary to take the mind off what faced them. For a few critical moments, the two of them would be by themselves on the cruise ship.

  "We raided an illegal munitions factory run by a gang of drug lords on TISar 13. The raid was supposed to be an open and closed job, but the drug lords had been tipped off, probably by someone inside our own agency. They waited until we were in the plant, then blew the son of a bitch sky-high.

  "I was lucky, I guess. They were picking up pieces of my partner for three days. But I was alive, more or less. They took me to a hospital, hooked me up to a machine . . . and then turned me into a machine."

  "Why didn't you stop them, if that was what you wanted?" Maigrey asked, startled at the cyborg's vehemence.

  "I tried to. But I was half out of my head with pain and the drugs. They said I wasn't in my right mind." Again, the bitter smile. "And my wife, she couldn't let me go. She told them to do anything they could to keep me alive. A year I spent in that goddam hospital. A year learning how to walk and talk and see and hear and think all over again. The only thing that kept me going was her. I was doing this all for her. And then they sent me home. I walked in the front door and reached out to touch my wife, reached out with my new, fake hand ..."

  Xris suddenly grabbed hold of Maigrey's arm, the metal fingers closed painfully over her flesh.

  "Like that," he said.

  She sat unmoving, regarded him calmly. "And what happened?"

  "She didn't say a word, but I felt her flinch, shudder." Slowly, he released Maigrey. "And the light in her eyes—love? Hah! Pity. She was sorry for me. I could just imagine what it would be like that night. Her lying in bed, stiff and cold, that pity in her eyes, letting a machine make love to her—"

  "You never even gave her a chance, did you?"

  "Gave her a chance to what? Hurt me ten times more than I'd been hurt already? They can't give you drugs to ease that kind of pain, sister. No, I turned around and kicked the door down with this fake leg of mine, and kept on going. I figured she'd divorce me, but she never has. It's been five years now. I guess she heard how much money I was bringing in and decided to try to get hold of it all when my battery pack shuts down for good."

  He glanced at Maigrey's arm, saw the marks his metal grip left on her skin. "I don't seem to bother you. Or else you're just really good at keeping it all hidden inside. But then," he added, shifting his gaze pointedly to the scar on her face, "I guess you've been hurt yourself."

  "Scar tissue is tougher than ordinary flesh, though not nearly as pretty."

  "Hunh. You could cover it up, some makeup, plastiskin—"

  "You could do the same. It wouldn't matter, would it?"

  "No," he said after a pause, studying her. "I guess it wouldn't."

  She looked away from him, stared out into space. "Has it ever occurred to you that your wife hasn't divorced you because she still loves you? Because she took a vow for better, for worse ..."

  "Forget that shit. This wasn't in the contract."

  "Perhaps," said Maigrey, "you didn't read the fine print."

  Xris snorted derisively. Tilting back in his seat, he took another twist from his pocket, stuck it in his mouth. He glanced at the digital clock on the console. "Ten minutes, thirty-five seconds. You know wh
at to do?"

  "It is my plan," Maigrey pointed out.

  "Okay, sister. Don't get riled. Just remember, when the gas pellets go off, hold your breath for ten seconds."

  "I'll try to keep it in mind. I hope those men of yours know what they're supposed to do. And when they're supposed to do it. Timing is critical—" She glanced at the viewscreen nervously. "If any of them fly into visual or instrument range too early . . ."

  "Relax, sister. Don't worry about my men," said Xris easily. "Worry about your own, especially that monk."

  "He's a renegade priest."

  Xris removed the twist from his mouth, regarded her, a glint of amusement in his one living eye. "Like hell. The same goes for that supposed deserter, too. You could put him in a dictionary under Loyalty, Duty, and Honor. Still, he looks like a good man. The monk's a different story. Speaking of contracts, working with a gutless wonder like that wasn't in mine. That's going to cost you extra."

  "Brother Daniel is no concern of yours. I'll take care of him."

  "He's my concern if he snaps." The cyborg clicked his metal fingers together. "He puts everyone else in danger."

  "Brother Daniel is stronger than you might imagine. Or than I think he imagines."

  "You selling me on him, sister? Or selling yourself? Hey, look, it doesn't matter. First time he screws up, he's gone. That's it. I intend to make it back—if not in one piece, then at least in however many pieces they've put into me. Besides, I didn't manage to spend half that money you paid me and I sure don't plan to let my wife enjoy herself with it."

  A hangar bay yawned open. They could see bright lights inside, robot crews standing around waiting to receive them.

  "You could divorce her, you know," Maigrey pointed out coldly, readying her bloodsword. "Or arrange to will your money to someone else."

  "I could," said Xris grimly, the twist balanced precariously again on the corner of his lip, "but knowing she'll get everything when I die is my one incentive for staying alive."

  Chapter Fourteen