King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  "You can heal him! You did it before! And that was a stranger! Tusk risked his life for you, Dion. You can't let him die."

  "Nola, I don't know . . . That other . . . may have been a ... a coincidence. Sagan himself said ..."

  "Lady Maigrey said you could help your friend." Brother Daniel reminded him.

  Was that what Maigrey had meant? Dion wondered dazedly. Had she been giving him her sanction? Her blessing? Her reassurance? And what about Sagan. After all the arguments. Everything he'd said. The bitter sarcasm. . . . Had he meant any of that? Or had the arguments been an attempt to force me to mean it?

  Nola's face became a blur. Brother Daniel's was too sharp, too vivid. Xris's mechanical eye stared into him, like another eye, a calm, unblinking eye. Dion was frightened, more frightened than he had been facing certain death. He was frightened of himself, of Ming. For if he did fail, it meant he would fail, always.

  God go with Your Majesty, came a voice. Maigrey's voice, or maybe the priest's.

  And Dion knew he wouldn't fail. He would be granted the power, but not without cost. And, at last, he understood what that cost would be. He had come prepared to sacrifice his life. He would do so, only not in the way he had imagined.

  He would give it up, little by little, piece by piece, everyone wanting, taking a tiny part of him, eating his food to sustain themselves, drinking his water to quench their thirst, warming themselves at his fire.

  This is what the rite had tried to teach him. This is what it meant to be king.

  "I can't do it alone!" he said and didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Brother Daniel answered him.

  "You won't be alone, Your Majesty. I am here for you and"— the priest hesitated a moment, then said firmly—"and so is He."

  "I want to believe you, but I can't see Him and I don't know where to look."

  "Within, Your Majesty." Brother Daniel placed his hand on his heart. "You look within."

  Dion closed his eyes. In his mind, he went back to Syrac Seven, went back to the house in the middle of the prairie, back to the garden and his music, back to the open window, the breeze ruffling his hair, the pages of his book.

  Dion went back to Platus, who had loved him for himself.

  Dion went back.

  And he took Tusk with him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  . . . to lose thee were to lose myself.

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Phoenix had arrived at the Corasian outpost. The warship maintained a stationary position between planet and sun. Its short-range Scimitars patrolled deepspace, keeping watch for the Corasian strike force that was reportedly on the way.

  The cruise liner, Galaxy Belle, had joined it. Its captain had, for some reason, refused to leave the vicinity, though she had been given the coordinates necessary to make the Jump. A contingent of men was sent over to assist the captain. Scimitars surrounded the liner protectively, in case of attack.

  Phoenix would remain in the vicinity only long enough to remove those on the planet, then destroy the outpost. A demolition squad, armed with proton bombs, had been sent below.

  Xris and his commandos were taken aboard Phoenix, along with Raoul and the Little One. Men and officers eyed the Loti and his small friend with suspicion, particularly when it became known that the two had been discovered moving among the bodies of the mind-dead on the surface, leaving business cards on the corpses. Word spread that the formidable cyborg and his commando squad had taken the pair under their protection, however. Xris had made the two a part of his team. Once again, they were six.

  Admiral Aks was again in command, having received a very handsome apology from His Majesty. Captain Williams proved somewhat more difficult to placate, but his wounded dignity and injured pride were eventually assuaged, a major's bars for his collar assisting in the process.

  The young king, looking worn and tired, arrived on board to a hero's welcome, which he graciously acknowledged, then immediately disappeared into the sick bay in company with his critically wounded friend. Rumors, spawned by the medical staff, soon began to circulate concerning this friend. Men listened, shook their heads in disbelief.

  "I've seen nothing like it in all my years," Dr. Giesk said to General Dixter, who stood outside Tusk's room, waiting for Dion. "Evidence of massive internal injuries, to say nothing of the loss of blood. He shouldn't be alive. Should not be alive." The doctor appeared to take Tusk's living as a personal affront.

  "They're talking miracle." Giesk sniffed. "There's a rational explanation. Somewhere. I'm running tests. I'll soon come across it. Tusca's half Blood Royal, you know. That may account for it."

  Dion emerged from Tusk's room. The young king was pale, drawn with weariness and anxiety. But a radiance shone about him, coming from deep within, that illuminated the eyes, like the sun rising into a cloudless blue sky.

  "You wanted to see me, General?"

  Dixter shook his head to counsel silence for the moment, waited until Dr. Giesk had hustled back, eager to get his hands on his patient. "Poor Tusk," said Dixter sympathetically.

  "Brother Daniel is with him," said Dion. "He'll keep the doctor from harassing Tusk too much."

  "How is he?"

  "Fine. He's going to be fine." Dion smiled to himself, a smile that was both elated and sad. Glancing around the corridor in which they stood, he saw men regarding him in awe. "How is every thing going, sir?"

  "That's what I came to tell you, Your Majesty. The demolition squad reports that the bombs are set and primed. They're on their way back. The Corasian strike force is drawing near. It's an armada, two of those of mother ships, plus God knows how many fighters. We've got to clear out of here and soon."

  "Everything's ready. When the demolition squad returns, give the order. Why not? What's the matter."

  "Dion," said Dixter quietly, drawing the young man aside, into a nearby doorway, "Lord Sagan hasn't returned. There's been no word from him. Have you seen him or Lady Maigrey?"

  "No. I thought she might be in sick bay. She had a cut on her hand. But Dr. Giesk hasn't seen her and—General Dixter, sir. Are you all right?"

  The general had gone gray. "What do you mean—a cut?" He could barely speak. "The crystal scythe shattered on her armor. You didn't tell me she'd been hurt."

  Dion stared at him, perplexed. "She said she cut herself on a rock." He stopped. The shadow that had laid across his heart deepened, darkened. "I'm going back down there."

  "Well have to hurry," said Dixter grimly. "We don't have much time."

  Dion arrived on planet just as the shuttle carrying the demolition squad was leaving. He was flying Tusk's long-range Scimitar, its anti-grav unit having been hastily repaired. If the Corasian armada was sighted, Aks had orders to make the Jump. Dion and Dixter would follow, find their own way back across the Void. The space-rotation bomb was still aboard. Dion had not had time to disarm it.

  XJ, having been assured innumerable times that Tusk was safe, finally believed Dion was telling him the truth. The computer spent the entire trip complaining bitterly about the blood on the deck.

  "There's Maigrey's plane," Dion reported, pointing out the viewscreen. The sun's feeble rays were beginning to drive back the darkness on the planet's surface, illuminating the white spaceplane on the ground below. "But my instruments don't show anyone nearby. Wait. There. I've got a life-form reading. Some distance away. On the other side of those trees. I'm going to put the plane down here."

  John Dixter said nothing. He had not said anything since they'd left Phoenix.

  Dion landed the spaceplane, shut it down, prepared to leave the cockpit.

  "Is that Maigrey's starjewel?" Dixter asked suddenly. He was staring gravely, fixedly, at the space-rotation bomb.

  "Yes," Dion answered, startled.

  "I think you should bring it with you."

  "But that would mean disarming the bomb."

  "You weren't planning to use it, were you, son?"

  "No," Dion said after a moment's t
hought. "I'm not planning to use it. Ever."

  "And it would be safer not to leave it—"

  Carefully, Dion removed the starjewel, stood a moment, staring at it, as if willing it to give him a sign. It lay in his hand, dark, unlovely. He closed his hand over it, and prepared to exit the spaceplane.

  They found Derek Sagan standing at the head of three rock cairns on which lay three bodies. His hands were clasped before him; his red cape, ruffled by the morning breeze, fluttered on the wind. His golden armor gleamed, reflecting the burning red sliver of a new and fiery sun, rising up over the tops of the ruined trees.

  Dion clasped the starjewel tightly in his hand, the sharp points dug into his flesh, leaving eight tiny bruise marks that he would find the next day. He could not see the figures on the cairns clearly, but he could see, on the one in the center, silver armor, shining in the sunlight.

  Starjewel in his left hand, Dion drew the bloodsword with his right. The sword had, during the intervening hours, been recharged. It burst into life, its blue-white blade flared. The flame, the fluttering red cape, the golden armor, the terrible, burning ache in his throat and heart, all combined to remind him vividly of the night Platus had died, this sword in his hand. Dion ran forward with a shout, a challenge.

  Derek Sagan did not move.

  Strong arms clasped around Dion. A voice, deep and heavy with grief, but sharp and stern from years of command, sounded above the roar of blood pounding in his head.

  "Dion, stop!" Dixter wrestled him backward. "You don't know what you're doing!"

  "Maigrey's dead! Can't you see that?" Dion cried. "And look at him! Her blood on his hands! Just as Abdiel said—

  "Dion! The crystal scythe! That was the serpent's tooth! That cut on her hand ..."

  The shadow lifted from Dion's heart, the curtain parted. Light flooded in, he saw and understood. The bloodsword's fire faded, went out. His arm was weak, numb. He slid the sword back into its sheath before he dropped it.

  "Oh, God!" he whispered in agony. "She knew. They both knew and they kept it from me. They . . . they sent me away. But if I had stayed . . . I could have helped her . . ."

  "And Tusk would have died." John Dixter put his arm around the young man's shoulders. "I'm not sure there would have been anything you could have done for her, son."

  The general looked at Sagan, tears glistened on the weathered cheeks.

  "Her destiny . . . and his . . . are fulfilled."

  Three cairns, made of rocks piled one on top of the other, stood together, in a row. The one in the center rose higher than the other two. On it lay the body of Lady Maigrey Morianna, King's Guardian. She was clad in the silver armor that had been washed free of blood. Her hands were clasped upon her chest. The bloodsword's empty sheath had been removed from around her waist and rested at her feet, to denote her victory over her enemy. The pale, fine hair had been loosened from its braids, arranged over her shoulders.

  Dion leaned down to fasten the starjewel around her neck, felt the hair brush against his hand. It seemed warm, alive; the flesh his hand touched was chill. He looked into her face, saw it white, cold, fair. He knew her, and he didn't. He realized, after a moment, that she looked unfamiliar to him because the scar was gone. The deathly pallor overspreading her complexion had absorbed the scar, made it one with the marble flesh.

  Dion adjusted the Star of the Guardians to lie on her breast. Drawing his hand back, he paused, waiting, hoping to see its darkness fade, as had the scar. He waited to see it catch the sun's bright rays.

  The sun touched it, the starjewel altered in appearance. It did not burst into blazing fire, however, did not regain the shining brilliance he remembered. Or if it did, he saw its fire as he saw the fire of the stars, far removed from him, their warmth diminished by distance, by time. The starjewel, like her armor, gleamed with a pale, cold light.

  On Maigrey's right lay Agis, centurion, captain of the Guard. On her left, Sparafucile, half-breed, assassin. Disparate companions for her long journey. And yet, thought Dion, somehow right and fitting.

  John Dixter looked down at the still, calm face. He reached out his hand, softly stroked the pale, fine hair.

  "No more good-byes for us," he said to her softly. "Ever."

  The sun climbed steadily higher.

  Dion cleared his throat, turned to Sagan. "My lord, a Corasian strike force is on the way. We've set proton bombs in the tunnels. We're going to destroy the outpost before we leave."

  Derek Sagan said nothing, did not move from where he stood at the head of her cairn. His face was impassive, registered no expression, neither grief nor anger, sadness nor regret. Nothing.

  "We have to go, my lord," Dion prompted gently.

  Sagan made no response.

  Dion glanced helplessly at Dixter, who only shook his head.

  Suddenly, the Warlord turned the dark eyes, looked into Dion's. Lifting his hand to his neck, he seemed about to remove his own starjewel.

  "No," said Dion, confused for a moment, then understanding Sagan's intent. "I don't need the jewel. I don't intend to arm the bomb . . . ever again. I will keep it, but only to make certain that it doesn't fell into the hands of another. I will"—he paused, amended—"I hope to rule without fear."

  Sagan's bloodstained hand fell, nerveless, to his side.

  John Dixter reached out, clasped the bloodstained hand, whispered something to the Warlord, something between only the two of them. The empty expression on Sagan's face did not alter. His hand tightened around Dixter's for a brief instant, then released its hold. He withdrew more deeply into himself. The stones of the cairn seemed more alive than he did.

  "Your Majesty," said John Dixter, "it's time for us to leave."

  Dion laid his hand over Maigrey's still fingers. "Go with God, my lady," he said. He looked into Sagan's dark, empty eyes. "My lord."

  Turning, the king left the dead, walked into the dawn.

  Phoenix was ready to depart. The demolition squad was safely on board. The short-range Scimitars had been called back. One task remained.

  Captain Williams approached the admiral. "Should I give the order to explode the proton bombs, sir?"

  Aks, troubled, glanced at Dion. The king had just arrived on the bridge. He stood staring out the viewscreen at the planet, that appeared nothing more than a nondescript mote of dust at this distance.

  "Your Majesty, we haven't received any word from Lord Sagan. It's possible that he's still—"

  "Are you picking up any life-form readings from that planet, Admiral?" Dion asked quietly.

  "No, Your Majesty, but—"

  "Do your scanners indicate that the spaceplane is still on the planet?"

  "No, Your Majesty. It took off a short time ago, but if Lord Sagan were flying it he would have contacted—"

  "Proceed with the destruction of the planet."

  "But, Your Majesty!"

  "Proceed, Admiral."

  Jaw working, face blotchy, Admiral Aks did as he was commanded. "Detonate the proton bombs."

  Dion turned back to the viewscreen. General Dixter came to stand by his side.

  A flash of light, white-hot, blinding in its intensity, flared in the viewscreen. The planet became a fireball, burned, for an instant, brightly as a star.

  Then darkness.

  Chapter Nineteen

  God save the king.

  The man and woman walked the long and echoing hallways of the Glitter Palace, trailing in the wake of a velvet-coated footman, who, after a journey of what seemed like several kilometers, turned them over to a velvet-coated chamberlain, who cast an extremely shocked and highly disapproving look at the man's flak jacket and battle fatigues and was on the verge of refusing them admittance.

  "We're expected," growled the man, fishing around in the pockets of his flak jacket. Finally, after much fumbling (the chamberlain's face becoming increasingly frozen), the man produced a card with His Majesty's seal—a golden, lion-faced sun.

  "Mendaharin Tusca and No
la Rian," said the man, pointing to the names engraved on the invitation. "That's us."

  "I see," said the chamberlain, glancing askance at a ketchup stain and a ring left by the bottom of a bottle on the invitation that appeared to have served time as a coaster.

  "They have security clearance," reported the footman.

  The chamberlain indicated, by his expression, to consider this a vast mistake. He said only, "This way, if you please," turned and headed for the massive, double doors, made of steel, emblazoned with the king's seal.

  Two members of the Honor Guard (now Palace Guard), wearing the same Romanesque armor as always, blocked the door, beam rifles across their chests. At the chamberlain's approach, they relaxed their watchful stance, stepped aside.

  Tusk recognized both men, having served with them aboard Phoenix. He started to greet them. Both merely glanced at him, however, and that scrutiny, he realized, was to make certain that he posed no threat. They didn't remember him.

  The chamberlain threw open the double doors with a flourish. Feeling considerably uncomfortable, wishing that he hadn't come, Tusk entered what he presumed were the king's private quarters.

  The Glitter Palace had stood abandoned and empty for nineteen years, was now currently undergoing extensive restoration. The royal antechamber—an enormous room, once extraordinarily elegant and beautiful—had been among the most heavily damaged during the Revolution. The room was being returned to its former glory, but repairs would take some time.

  Although most traces of the workmen had been cleared away in honor of today's ceremony, drop cloths covered the paintings hanging on the walls. The crystal chandeliers, swathed in cotton, looked mummified. Multicolored bunting had been hung in an attempt to hide the scaffolding.

  Tusk looked around, curious. "My father must have stood here, where I'm standing."

  He could almost see his father, dressed in the blue ceremonial robes of a Guardian, robes that had been too short on the tall, muscular Danha Tusca, striding about this room, arguing in his booming voice, laughing his booming laugh.