King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  Dion glanced up. He was calm now, composed. "I'm marrying another woman this night, my friend."

  "Do you still love Kamil?" the Bear repeated softly.

  Dion started to say no, even though it was a lie. Lies were part of being a king.

  The big man's gaze reached inside, lay hold of the truth.

  Dion replaced the document on the desk, stood staring down at it, unseeing.

  "Do you remember. Bear, that day when we were riding to your palace, riding through the snow. We were talking about Sagan and Lady Maigrey. You said—Do you remember?"

  " 'By my heart and bowels, laddie, who wakes every morning and takes a deep breath and says to the air, "Air, I love you." And yet, without air in our lungs, we would be dead within moments. And who says to the water, "I love you!" and yet without water, we die. And who says to the fire in the winter, "I love you!" and yet without warmth, we die.' That is what you said, my friend.

  "And that"—Dion drew a deep breath, lifted the blue eyes—"and that is how I love Kamil."

  The Bear heaved another typhoon sigh, dabbed his eyes with the ends of his beard. "I feared as much. My heart grieves for you, laddie. Yet you are doing what is right. What is honorable. You are doing what is best for the people, as well. This strong alliance you forge with DiLuna will be the means of pulling the fragments of the galaxy back together. But you know that, better than the old Bear, who is a fighter, not a smooth-tongued diplomat."

  A silver bell rang. "Your Majesty." The secretary's face appeared on a vidscreen. "I am sorry to interrupt but you asked to be notified when His Holiness arrived—"

  "Yes, yes!" Bear waved a hand at him. "I know. I must be going."

  The secretary vanished. Olefsky made his way to the door, upsetting the remainder of the furniture he'd missed on the way in. He paused, turned.

  "I don't know whether I am right in saying what I am going to say, laddie. This tongue of mine does much damage, sometimes. The shield-wife tells me often that I should open my mouth only to shovel meat into it and the rest of the time I should leave it closed. But it seems to me it never hurts a man to know the truth.

  "The way you love Kamil, laddie, is the way Kamil loves you. I don't think she will be finding anyone else."

  "Your Majesty, His Holiness, the Lord High Abbot of the Order of Adamant."

  The abbot, resplendent in red and gold and white ceremonial robes, entered the king's chamber. He was a young man, extremely young to be the head of the galaxy's newly reestablished religious order, some said. But there was an air of serenity about him, a calm, firm conviction in his face and in the way he carried himself that soon convinced those who doubted him that he had complete faith not only in himself but in the One who guided him.

  The abbot glanced around at the destruction in the room, smiled. "Olefsky's been here, I see."

  Dion righted an upended end table. "Yes. From now on, I must remember to hold audience with him on a cleared airstrip. Thank you for coming. I know how busy you are, with the restoration of your abbey and the restructuring of your church, but it seemed only fitting that you should be the one to place the crown on my head and anoint me king."

  "It is I who am honored, Your Majesty."

  "I hope you don't mind if I call you Brother Daniel. Abbot Fideles just doesn't sound familiar to me, yet."

  "I must admit," said Daniel, face flushing, "that it doesn't to me either. Prior John said something to me the other day, referring to me by that name and title, and I walked clean past the man, thinking he was talking to someone else!"

  The two laughed, though Dion's laughter ended in a sigh.

  The priest gazed at him thoughtfully, placed his hands over Dion's. "Are you at peace, Your Majesty? With yourself and with God?"

  "Yes," Dion answered steadily. "I am. With myself, at least. God may take more time. But I'm working at it."

  "I am pleased to hear it, Your Majesty," said the priest, reassured.

  "Is all in readiness for the ceremony?" Dion asked.

  "Yes, sire. The cathedral is filled to capacity. Crowds line the streets. They tell me"—Brother Daniel looked somewhat abashed—"that I will have to wear makeup, because of the vids."

  "Yes, I'm afraid so," Dion said, hiding his smile.

  The priest sighed. "I don't know what the brethren will make of it. I've allowed vidscreens in the Abbey, you know. I thought it only fitting that they view this historic occasion which marks not only your ascending to the throne but the restoration of the Church. I can only imagine what Prior John will have to say about this. He will be most displeased. Still, I suppose we all must make some sacrifice.

  "And now I had better be going. I left the choir boys with Brother Miguel and I wouldn't doubt but that they have him tied to a pew by now."

  "Brother, just a moment," said Dion as the priest was about to leave. "Have you heard any word from Lord Sagan?"

  Brother Daniel paused, stood with his back to the king, thinking, perhaps, how to answer. Then, turning, he said gently, "He is with God, Your Majesty."

  "He's . . . dead?" Dion faltered.

  "I have said all that I can say, Your Majesty."

  Dion, thinking he understood, nodded.

  They were gone. All of them. The secretary had been sent on a manufactured errand. Dion was alone.

  Soon they would come with the royal robes, recovered from a museum. Soon they would come with the diadem and scepter, removed from the dwelling place of the late Snaga Ohme and returned, with the crown jewels, to the palace. Soon they would come with the crown, a blood red ruby placed in the center, placed in the hole left by the laser that had pierced it the night of the Revolution.

  Dion reached beneath the collar of his royal uniform, took out the eight-pointed star earring Tusk had given to him. Clasping it fast in his hand, he looked around the room.

  They were all here: his uncle, strong in his faith if nothing else; his mother, beautiful, laughing; his father, proud of his son; Platus, gentle, loving; Maigrey, her silver armor shining in the moonlight. They were with him. After all, he wasn't alone.

  "Make me worthy," he said to them.

  A tap came at the door. The ghosts departed. But, like Tusk, they would come back if he needed them.

  "Enter."

  The captain of the Palace Guard stood in the doorway.

  "Is it time, Cato?" asked Dion.

  "It is time, Your Majesty."

  The Palace Guard, armor polished and gleaming, formed two lines, one on either side of the doorway.

  Dion tucked the small earring in his pocket. Drawing a deep breath, he walked out, took the first step to his throne.

  The Palace Guard came to attention, saluted, fists over their hearts.

  "God save His Majesty!" the men shouted in one voice.

  And Dion echoed them in his heart.

  God save the king.

  Afterword

  The brethren of the Abbey of St. Francis gathered together in the courtyard, crowding around an enormous vidscreen that several brothers with mechanical and electrical skills had spent most of the two previous days installing. The brethren, habitual silence broken, chatted and talked among themselves, excited not only over the prospect of witnessing the coronation and wedding ceremony of a new king, but also (and perhaps more) over the unusual circumstance of the outside modem world invading their peaceful monastic life.

  Prior John, in charge now that Abbot Fideles was away, fussed over the machine, about which he knew absolutely nothing, got in the way of the electrical-minded brothers (who prayed for patience beneath their breaths), and nearly ruined everything by pushing the wrong button at the wrong time, resulting in an alarming explosion and a shower of sparks.

  Finally, however, the generator started with a roar and a strong smell of gasoline. The vidscreen came to life. The coronation ceremony began. The choir sang, lifting their voices in praise. Their abbot took his place before the altar in the cathedral. He called on God to anoint and bless His Ma
jesty. The youthful king, dressed in royal robes, with scepter and diadem, came walking down the aisle. He was pale, solemn, touched by a radiance that made the bright, glaring lights shining down on him dim in comparison.

  Their attention given to the vidscreen, their prayers going to the Creator, few of the priests noticed the hooded and robed brother coming late to join them, near the ceremony's end. Those who did notice paid him scant attention, not even a smile of greeting or brotherly nod, for they knew that neither would be returned.

  The man was a lay brother, one who had taken the habit and vows of a priest of the Order of Adamant, but, either through his own choosing or by the judgment of his superiors, would never be ordained.

  The lay brothers performed most of the heavy, manual labor about the Abbey and it was obvious from the condition of this man's robes, which were covered with dirt at the knees, the sleeves splattered with mud, that it was his duties—perhaps in the garden—that had kept him from seeing the beginning of the coronation.

  It was not surprising to the brethren to find this man at his labors upon this day, which had been declared a holiday in the Abbey. He was always working at some task or other, generally the most menial or those that required exhausting, backbreaking toil. If a brother was taken sick in the night, this man's strong arms lifted him. If a windstorm damaged the roof, this man made the perilous climb to repair it.

  He was the tallest among them, but thin and gaunt, his body wasted from fasting. Still, for a man in his middle years, his strength was remarkable. He rarely spoke to anyone and few spoke to him; he was not well liked. A darkness shrouded him, literally and physically, for he never removed the cowl that covered his head, never showed his face to the light. Those who—by chance or by the curiosity that is the besetting sin of even the most devout—had seen his face wished always afterward they hadn't. The shadow of the hood that covered it was bright light compared to the shadow in the eyes.

  He kept himself apart from the community. He did not even join his brethren in their prayers, but prayed alone, in his cell, refusing to enter the cathedral, as if he deemed himself unworthy of being there.

  No one knew his real name or anything about his past. That was not unusual. When one entered God's service, one severed all ties with the world outside. He had taken for his monastic name Paenitens—the Penitent One. But because of his refusal to enter into the presence of God, he became known unofficially among them as The Unforgiven.

  Abbot Fideles alone was the only person who ever noticed the man or went out of his way to speak to him; the man having been taken into the monastery by the abbot's recommendation and under his auspices. The abbot's greetings were never returned, but the man would, at least, bow his head in acknowledgment.

  Brother Paenitens stood unmoving, presumably watching the ceremony, though no one could see his eyes. The young king was kneeling, humbly, reverently before Abbot Fideles.

  Holding aloft the crown, the priest was calling upon the Creator to expurgate the blood that had stained it, forgive the sins of those who had defiled it, accept the sacrifices of those who had fought to restore it to its shining glory.

  The brothers forgot their excitement. The Presence filled the monastery, was all around them. They fell to their knees, bowed their heads, whispered words of fervent prayer for the young king, for his subjects.

  A few of them cast resentful glances at the lay brother, standing on the fringes of the crowd, for he cast a pall over their joy and they wished he would leave.

  Abbot Fideles placed the crown upon the young king's head. The king rose, faced his people. Bells pealed in the royal city, bells would ring out at this moment all over the galaxy. The cathedral's own bells began to chime. The brethren smiled and nodded and spoke quietly of their pleasure, except for one young novitiate, who was so carried away that he actually burst out with a loud cheer. The offender was immediately collared by Prior John, told to repeat his prayers twenty times over until he could behave in a more seemly manner.

  The vidscreen was immediately shut off. The brothers, singing, began to file away toward the cathedral, where a Te Deum would be chanted.

  "Te Deum laudamus, Te Dominum confitemur.

  "We praise thee, God; we own thee Lord."

  The lay brother, forgotten in the general happiness and joy, did not join them, but walked the opposite direction, toward his own solitary cell. But one of the young novitiates (the same who had so disgraced himself) boldly peered beneath the man's hood, sought to penetrate the shadow.

  This brother whispered, next day, among his fellows, that he had seen upon the man's lips a sad, dark smile.

  Requiem

  Someone once asked a famous author (I forget who) how long he had been working on a particular book.

  "All my life" was his answer.

  I feel that, in many ways, I've been working on this series of books all my life.

  One of my earliest childhood memories was of a television program popular in the fifties—Tom Corbet and his Space Cadets. The cadets became good friends of mine. They lived in the bathtub (we had a small house) and were faithful companions.

  The romance and excitement of adventure in outer space caught hold of me at that early age and increased, as I grew up. The bathtub was too small to hold all the real life astronauts and fictional space-voyagers who filled my dreams. I looked for them in books, for I am an avid reader, but I failed to find anything in science fiction literature at that time that took my fantasies and brought them to life.

  I was complaining about this lack to my agent, Ray Puechner. He said (probably to shut me up): "Why don't you write the kind of book you want to read?"

  And, I did.

  That was over ten years ago. I completed the first two manuscripts in about two years' time. I must admit, they were terrible. A friend of mine, who has a copy of the original, is hanging on to it, threatening to blackmail me if he ever gets hard up. The books made the rounds of publishers and were deservedly rejected (although I did receive several letters of encouragement. One, especially, from Susan Allison, meant a great deal to me.)

  The books were raw, too emotional. But then so was I. And the books served a purpose. They carried me through some hard times. One good thing about being a writer, you can always leave this world and find solace in another.

  The next year, I met Tracy Hickman and he introduced me to Raistlin and Simkin and Mathew and a host of other wonderful characters. I enjoyed writing those books, I learned a lot about my craft. But I never forgot Maigrey and Dion and I kept thinking about them, dreaming of them, making mental refinements to their story.

  Pulling the manuscripts out, one day, I reread them, blushed to see how dreadful they were, and began to rewrite. Friends offered help and suggestions, became part of the book. Raoul and the Little One came into being. Tracy suggested the "evil democracy" Gary Pack gleefully developed weapons of mass destruction. Jim Ward told me Cary Grant was not Darth Vader (Believe me, it made sense at the time.)

  And all the while, Ray had faith in Star and in me. He'd tell me, when I was discouraged, that one day I would be able to share my dreams of the romance of space travel with other people, share them with you. Then, in the mid-eighties, Ray was diagnosed with cancer. About that time, I offered the Star of the Guardians to Bantam. I wanted to have the series published for Ray's sake, almost as much as my own.

  Ray was too ill to handle the negotiations, but he was pleased when I sold the series, said he'd known I'd make it all along. Sadly, he didn't live to see the first book published, but the last promise I made to him was to dedicate Star to his memory.

  This is for you, Ray. For friendship—the shining star that lights death's darkness.

  About the Author

  Born in Independence, Missouri, Margaret Weis graduated from the University of Missouri and worked as a book editor before teaming up with Tracy Hickman to develop the Dragonlance novels. Margaret lives in a renovated barn in Wisconsin with her teenage daughter, Eliz
abeth Baldwin, and two dogs and one cat, where she is working on a new Star of the Guardians novel. She enjoys reading (especially Charles Dickens), opera, and aqua-aerobics.