"I'm going to die," he repeated and looked into her eyes to see reflected there a ghastly, livid face—his own.
Imbued with a terrible calm, almost light-headed, Dion moved without hesitation to the screen and, at Sagan's gesture, stepped around it and saw before him the table covered with the black cloth.
Maigrey cast a swift, questioning, fearful glance at the Warlord, but if he answered her, it was an answer given in silence, for he did not meet her eyes. She stood a moment, irresolute, staring intently at Dion, trying, it seemed, to penetrate to his soul. The young man gave back nothing; he had nothing to give. The Warlord placed his candle in one of the silver candle holders and, moving to the opposite end of the table, lit the other. Now he looked at Maigrey, and the look was one of irritation.
Sighing, she lifted the hood of her gown and covered her fair hair. Her face was hidden in shadow and Dion knew, suddenly, that he was alone.
"Stand in the center of the circle," Lord Sagan said, indicating a white line on the floor. "Step over—not on—the edge."
The circle was made of some sort of powdery, crystalline substance. Dion did as he was told, lifting his feet gingerly, one after the other, careful not to break the line.
Sagan took his place behind the table, behind the objects that were concealed beneath black cloth. Maigrey drew near him, standing at the Warlord's left.
Clasping her hands before her, Maigrey bowed her head. Sagan raised his, lifting his eyes and arms to the heavens. Neither gave any indication to Dion of what he was supposed to do, but he knew that it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, for soon he was going to die. Calm, uncaring, empty of thought and feeling, he stood alone in the center of the circle of salt and waited.
"Creator, one comes before you who is on the verge of manhood and who seeks to understand the mystery of his life."
Maigrey tried to concentrate, tried to keep her thoughts on the words of Sagan's prayer; she couldn't help but dart swift, furtive glances at Dion. What had come over the boy? She might have suspected the Warlord of deliberately terrorizing him, except she sensed Sagan was equally perplexed by this strange behavior. Maigrey wondered, somewhat guiltily, if she could have been responsible. She had meant for Dion to take this seriously, but surely recommending that he read Nietzsche could not account for a reaction like this!
Dion's face glimmered white; his eyes were wide and stared ahead at the candle flame. His hands clenched tightly, gripping his courage. His breathing was quick and shallow. The red-golden mane of hair clung damply to his forehead and neck. Sweat trickled down his temple. He looked like a man going to his own execution.
"... we of the Blood Royal have been granted talents beyond those of other men. In return for your blessings, Creator, you have given us additional responsibility. You have given us responsibility for the lives of other men. ..."
And you, Sagan, abrogated that responsibility, Maigrey silently added. You threw it away. You're mouthing the ritual. In your heart, you don't truly believe the words you speak. God exists for you and you alone, exists for the sole purpose of putting the universe within your grasp.
"... use our mental and physical prowess to protect and defend—"
"And to conquer." Maigrey didn't realize, until she felt the sudden stiffening of the man's body beside her, that she had accidentally spoken her thoughts aloud.
"Use it to create—"
"To destroy!"
Sagan paused, drew a deep breath, then said in a voice that was low and shook with the effort of his self-control, "My lady, you blaspheme!"
"I blaspheme!" Maigrey forgot where she was, forgot her purpose, forgot everything but where she had first heard those words he spoke. "You're the one who's making this ceremony a mockery!"
"Stop it!" Dion's eyes went from one to the other of them, from Maigrey to Sagan, his gaze wild and staring. His face was covered with a sheen of perspiration; the words burst from him in agony. "Stop it'" His hand closed spasmodically over his chest, as if he were trying to hold himself together, trying to keep from being torn apart.
Maigrey pressed her shaking hands to her temples to calm the blood throbbing in her veins. What had come over her? What had made her say such things? Her fury subsided quickly, leaving her weak and shivering with cold and a numbing awe.
"This is all wrong, Sagan! We should stop—"
His hand closed over hers, nearly crushing the bones.
"We've gone too far. The Creator is with us. Can't you feel His presence?"
Yes, God was with them. He was in the darkness and the light, within them and without. He was too far, too near. Maigrey's chill fingers clasped tightly around Sagan's. For a moment he held on to her, she held on to him, neither knowing what they did, both knowing that they needed to cling to something real and solid.
Before them stood the boy, alone, waiting.
Waiting to die.
Sagan let go of her hand. He stepped back, behind her. This she must do on her own.
God. God is with us. His will be done.
Calm. Calmly, Maigrey, she told herself. The boy is watching. He'll need your strength, your support. It won't help if you crumble to the floor and curl up in a ball and wail like a terrified child. You can do that on the inside.
Maigrey lifted the black cloth. Beneath it were four objects—a silver pitcher filled with water, a silver dish filled with oil, a silver globe, and a silver wand.
Facing Dion, Maigrey forced the boy to fix his wild-eyed gaze on her, using the strength of her will to keep it there.
Waves, waves washing upon the shore. Eternal, unending, one after the other. Receding, gathering, surging forward, receding. The sand, smoothed by the water's endless caress, is cool beneath your body. The water over your skin is warm.
Dion's locked jaws relaxed; his limbs ceased to tremble. He brushed the red-golden hair back from his forehead and watched her expectantly, anxiously.
Maigrey drew a breath, let it out, and was about to begin when she realized the words had gone clean out of her head. She stammered. Sagan moved up, standing right behind her, their bodies almost—but not quite—touching, and Maigrey remembered.
"In the time of the Ascendancy of Man, on a distant planet chosen by the Creator as one to cradle life, it was written that four elements bound the universe together. These were called"—she spoke in the ancient tongue "—earth, air, fire, and water.
"From the dawn of time, man sought ways and means to control these elements. He discovered he could control them physically, by inventing devices that would serve him, devices to rule the elements. Centuries later, man discovered that, if he were made strong enough, he could rule the elements with his mind and his soul.
"This night, Dion Starfire, you come to us to be initiated into the mystery. You seek control of that which is beyond the control of most. If the Creator deems you worthy, you will be granted that control. That is what we are here tonight to learn. Pray to the Creator, Dion," Maigrey added softly. That wasn't part of the ritual, but she felt a desperate need to communicate to the boy the presence of God. "Pray to Him for guidance."
Dion continued to stare at her. What was transpiring in his heart and in his soul was known to two alone—himself and God.
"We bring to you now the four elements. Concentrate on each, come to understand and realize that you are one with each. Only through understanding can you gain ascendancy."
Reaching out her hand, Maigrey picked up the silver wand and held it above the table, level with her own heart.
"Air. The breath of life. The wind of destruction."
She moved the wand in a slow circle and the air around them began to stir and whisper. The wind she summoned grew stronger, swirled around them, rustling her robes, setting the candle flames flickering. The breeze lifted Dion's red-golden hair and stirred it with gentle hands. The wind began to die down. The first part of the rite was nearing its end. Maigrey, relieved, was about to return the wand to its place on the table when she saw that Dion was
suffocating.
The boy, clutching his throat, was gasping for air and not finding any. There was terror in the eyes that were bulging from his head. His lips were turning blue, his chest jerked, the muscles fighting frantically to sustain life. Dion staggered, reaching out a hand to her for help.
Maigrey started to move around the table, started to go to him, but she felt firm hands grip her shoulders. A voice breathed into her ear, "Wait!"
The boy dropped to his knees. Crouched on the floor, he sucked in a breath. Panting, he gasped in another and another. Sitting back on his heels, closing his eyes, he threw back his head and just breathed.
"Derek, what—"
"I don't know, lady." Sagan's hands, tense and rigid, gripped her shoulders. "I don't know. Keep on. We must keep on."
Then let go of me, she knew she should say, but she didn't, she didn't want him to let go. Once again, lost in darkness, they were each other's strength.
Dion rose unsteadily to his feet and came back to stand in front of the table. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes; his skin was so pale the blue and purple lines of the veins stood out clearly. It took Maigrey several tries—looking into that frightened face—to speak the next words.
"Earth." She cleared her throat. Sagan stood close behind her, their bodies warm together, pressed near each other for comfort. "Matter. You can control matter."
Maigrey lifted the smooth silver globe from the table. Tossing it lightly up into the air, she exerted her will upon it. The globe hung suspended, inches above her hands. Its appearance began to change. Razor sharp metal spikes, several centimeters long, emerged from the sides until the ball was studded with them.
Withdrawing her hands from beneath the globe, Maigrey commanded, "Place your hands beneath it."
Dion, after a moment's hesitation, stretched out his hands. The globe started to fall and, by frightened instinct more than conscious thought, he controlled it, caused it to remain suspended in the air.
Dion gasped in elation, his eyes—glistening with triumph— went to Maigrey. His lips parted.
She shook her head slightly, warning him not to speak.
"You can control matter with your mind, but there are forces in this universe over which you will have no control. Then you will be required to withstand pain—mental and physical. Such a force you will face now. The globe will drop. I cannot stop it. Neither can you. Will you have the courage to catch it?"
This was the most difficult part of the rite. Maigrey could remember quite clearly staring up at those flesh-rending spikes, her imagination portraying with vivid clarity what would happen if those spikes tore through her palms. It took every measure of courage she possessed to stand and let that globe drop and not snatch away her hands at the last instant. And, even then, she admitted to herself later, if it hadn't been for Sagan standing there, prepared to catch the ball without hesitation, she would have failed. The thought that she might fail where he would succeed had goaded her beyond what she had known to be her limits.
Illusion, Dion. She attempted to give the boy a telepathic message. It's all illusion. The spikes aren't really there. They're illusions—
Only they weren't.
The globe fell; the knife-sharp spikes made an eerie whistling sound in the air and a dull, soggy, plopping sound as they drove through flesh and muscle, tendon and bone. Blood spurted. Dion screamed. His hands were impaled on the silver globe.
"My God!"
Maigrey could only stare. Sagan flung his arm around her, holding her tightly, keeping her from going to the boy. His precaution was needless; she couldn't move.
The spikes suddenly withdrew; the globe rolled from the boy's torn hands, fell to the floor, and bounded into the darkness.
Dion raised his head and looked at Maigrey. Slowly, he held out his hands. Blood oozed from the palms, severed fingers dangled by strips of skin. He had ceased to scream, he was in shock.
Sagan withdrew his arm, shoved her forward.
"Continue!" His voice was harsh and unrecognizable.
"I can't, Derek! I don't know what's happening!"
"Continue, lady! Or the boy will die!"
"Water."
Maigrey wondered if she had strength to lift the pitcher and was not surprised when she very nearly dropped it. The boy will die. The words she spoke next came from a place inside her that was acting completely on its own, of its own volition. She no longer had any conscious idea what she was saying. "Water—from which comes life."
Upending the pitcher, Maigrey poured the water on Dion's injured hands. The cool liquid flowed over the palms, bringing relief to the pain, seemingly, for he closed his eyes, tears sprang from beneath the lids. The water mingled with the blood, washing it away.
"Fire. Sustainer. Destroyer." The oil lamp burst into bright flame.
Maigrey lifted the oil lamp, uncertain what to do, for in this part of the ritual the initiate passed his or her hand through the top of the fire. Sagan reached out, snatched the lamp from her grasp. Grabbing hold of the boy's hands, he thrust them into the flames.
Maigrey caught hold of the Warlord's arm, trying to stop him, but he flung her aside and poured the burning oil directly onto the flesh.
The smell was nauseating. Dion never made a sound, but stared with a calm, terrible fascination at the flame covering his hands. The fire blazed, finally died. When it was out, the flesh of his hands was left whole, untouched, unblemished, healed.
Dion looked up at them, at each of them, smiled brilliantly, radiantly, and dropped, lifeless, to the floor.
"Is he—" Maigrey couldn't find breath enough to speak the word.
Sagan walked around the table. Standing over the boy, he stared at him a moment, then leaned down and put a hand on Dion's neck.
"No. He's fainted." The Warlord straightened. "He'll be all right ... in time."
Maigrey walked slowly around the table. The cloth was wet with water. The pitcher lay where she'd dropped it when Sagan knocked her aside. The silver globe had disappeared; she doubted they'd ever find it. The One who had made use of it was gone and had probably taken His tools with him. If there was blood on the cloth, she couldn't see it, couldn't distinguish it in the darkness from the oil and the water.
This wasn't what the script called for. This hadn't been the way the scene was supposed to be shot. No one had requested these special effects. What did it mean? Pain, suffering. Yes, that was to be expected of those who lived to serve, that was the rite's lesson. But initiates were given the power to compensate, to turn the pain into illusion, to prove that the mind could overcome outside forces. Dion was given the power, but apparently he wouldn't be allowed to use it, just as he had not been allowed to use it during the rite. Or, if he did use it, it would be turned against him. He would be expected to sacrifice . . . everything? For nothing in return?
Sagan's thoughts were turmoil, darkness, confusion. He was staring into the stars, into the night, into nothing. Maigrey looked at the young man lying at her feet.
"What was that ritual, my lord? The rite for a king?" Sagan stirred, returning from whatever dark realm he'd been traveling. "A king? Yes."
His lips tightened. The struggle was bitter indeed. "And more. A savior."
Chapter Twenty-nine
I am born.
Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
The guards knew that today she would die. Maigrey saw the knowledge, saw respect mingled with sorrow, in their eyes when they met her that morning for her customary walk. There was no shame, no guilt, however. They were devoutly loyal; they believed implicitly in their lord. They would die themselves if he ordered it. They would see her put to death with equal equanimity.
"Please take me to the sick bay," she requested.
"Yes, my lady," the centurion answered, and she heard a softness in his voice. Yes, they knew. It was to be today.
Dion was still unconscious. Dr. Giesk, flitting around her like a bat, assured her that the boy would sleep for days. Good. W
hatever happened, however this encounter ended, it would be hard on Dion. Maigrey had seen, last night, the darkness and the light enter his soul. All his life, the two would fight within him, each striving for dominance, each bringing its own strengths, its own weaknesses. He would never be free of the conflict. Never, from this moment, be truly happy.
Leaning over the bed, Maigrey brushed back the red-golden hair from the white forehead. A sudden, vivid, flashing memory came to her. Semele, lying in my arms, dark hair tousled. Her face is deathly white, streaked with tears and blood. So much blood, and the flames are getting nearer. . . .
Maigrey's soul shrank back, appalled. The memory sank and she did not try to dredge it back up.
The young man stirred and cried out in his sleep. Maigrey clasped his hand and held it fast. Her touch seemed to bring him ease, and he sighed and slept. Leaning down, she kissed him on the cheek.
Rising suddenly, briskly, she turned and saw one of the centurions blinking his eyes with unusual rapidity. Maigrey carefully kept from observing him and laid the book she had brought with her down upon the bedstand.
"Please see that the boy is given this," she said to Dr. Giesk.
The doctor's eyes were fixed not on her but on the scar on her face. When Giesk realized she had spoken to him, he started and gave her a deprecating, guilty smile.
"Oh, yes, my lady. Certainly."
Firmly resisting the impulse to grab the man's necktie and knot it around his scrawny neck, Maigrey brushed past him. She saw his glance go from her to a set of double swinging doors at the far end of the sick bay. Maigrey knew what was behind those doors—a shining steel table standing on a tile floor with a drain beneath it; instruments to cut and remove and slice; shining steel basins. This night, her body might be lying there. This man, gloating over his prize. . . .
"Come away from here, my lady."
One of the centurions had hold of her arm and was guiding her firmly away from the autopsy room, out of Giesk's odious presence.
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