Maigrey began to shake. It seemed her body was going to fell apart. Once again the flesh and sinew and muscles of his arms were around her, holding her close; his lips brushed against the scar on her cheek. Tears burned her eyes, seeped beneath the closed lids.
A sound came from behind her. Maigrey turned, fearfully, her hand on her bloodsword.
The Warlord was sitting up, rubbing the back of his neck. Glancing up at her, he said irritably, "For God's sake, my lady, stop sniveling!"
Chapter Sixteen
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.
William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"
"I'll take the controls."
His great height bent in the small spaceplane, the Warlord came up behind the pilot's chair.
Dion glanced at Maigrey.
"I'll take the controls," Sagan repeated, "or we'll stay out here in space and rot."
Maigrey shrugged. She was tired, very tired and thirsty, and she didn't care anymore. Dion rose. He and Sagan shifted positions, squeezing past each other in the cramped space, the Warlord sliding into the pilot's seat. Grimacing in pain, he reached to massage his aching neck and shoulder muscles.
"As I remember, you killed a man like that once, my lady."
"As I remember, my lord, I did so because he was about to kill you."
The Warlord said nothing; the memory she'd summoned like a specter from the grave was a disturbing one to him, bringing with it vivid images of magenta robes and dark Hghtning. He looked behind her, saw Dion slump over in his seat. Beneath the grime of battle, the young man's skin was pale. Sagan saw a tremor convulse the boy's body. The Warlord was expert in forms of torture. He had watched other men suffer it and he had endured his share, as had Lady Maigrey, once, long ago, when they'd been captured by the mind-seizers. That was when she had killed the man who had been about to . . .
Sagan shook his head in angry dispersal of the thought, and almost immediately regretted the move. A flash of hot pain shot through his neck. He glanced at Maigrey. Her eyes were closed; she might have been asleep. Sagan's hands and part of his brain concentrated on flying the spaceplane, another part sorted thoughts.
Dion was growing to look increasingly like a Starfire. His lips didn't tighten, they tended to pout. He brooded, lived too much in the mind. Dion's father—the crown prince—had been, in Sagan's estimation, a fop, an affected dandy, a pseudointellectual. Starfire had managed to marry one of the most beautiful and spirited women in the galaxy, but Sagan didn't give him credit for that—the wedding had been arranged, as was usual with the Blood Royal. Admittedly, from what Sagan's heard, Starfire had died bravely, fighting overwhelming odds, trying to save his wife and newborn son.
The Warlord's fist clenched over the controls. To this day, seventeen years later, their deaths still galled him. He hadn't meant that tragedy to happen. It shouldn't have happened, as Robes realized soon after, when the Guardians had managed to escape with the boy. The President would have been much better advised to have followed Sagan's suggestion—keep the Royal Family alive, use them for propaganda purposes, allow them to sink into the mire of parties and dinner balls given by elderly and infirm duchesses.
But Robes hadn't listened to Sagan's advice. And now Sagan had a good idea of who had made the decision to kill the king. This Other—as the Warlord was wont to think of him, preferring not to give him a name—had taken control of the minds of the mob. He had driven them to murder and to mayhem. The king and crown prince had been made martyrs, the vanished heir a subject of romantic speculation and fomenting royalist revolt.
The Other. The Warlord's clenched fist trembled. His arm ached with the tension and he forced himself to end this dark and unnerving train of thought. He glanced, out of the comer of his eye, at Maigrey. His thoughts had not been well guarded. She might have read them, discovered his weakness, his one real fear.
The lady leaned back in her chair, her eyes open now and staring out into space. Her face was covered with soot and black ash, her tears had made tracks through the grime—a mockery of the scar on her skin. Who had she been crying for—herself ... or for him?
The pale hair, damp with sweat, had come undone from its braid; it clung to her forehead and hung limply, lifelessly around her shoulders. He remembered—with a deep, wenching pain—the fine strands of hair tangled in his fingers. The pain was lust, desire, but not necessarily for a brief moment of sexual gratification. The enhancement of their mental powers, of his own powers, magnified by hers— that was his true desire. He must find a way to make that happen . . . permanently.
The Star of the Guardians, untouched by blood or the soot of battle, rested lightly on her breast. It rose and fell with her even breathing, sparkling brilliantly in the dim lights of the plane's interior. Maigrey's thoughts, he sensed, were turned inward, on herself, wrestling with her own fears—or her own desires.
The Star of the Guardians.
Sagan cast a final glance back at the boy. He'd succeeded in one goal, at least. He'd broken Dion's spirit. The Warlord had now, if he wanted, a limp doll, a spineless puppet that would dance at his bidding.
I should be pleased. Derek Sagan cursed himself. What damning weakness within him always shriveled the sweet fruit of victory every time he brought it to his mouth?
It was bitterly cold in the plane. Maigrey, shivering, missing her flight suit, huddled into the seat for warmth. She should have been watching Sagan, should have been probing, touching his mind, trying to discover and forestall whatever might be his next design. But she didn't dare come near him. She felt his lips on her cheek, more painful than when he'd inflicted that first wound. She banished the feeling, banished the pain and tried to banish the memory of the power, the knowledge that—for a moment—they'd been invincible.
Maigrey shifted to look back at Dion. His head drooped. He was shaking so, it seemed as if he must crumble into pieces. For a moment he'd been king. Now he was . . . ordinary. Maigrey turned away in dull despair. It was hopeless. Why keep fighting?
Her gaze shifted to the viewport and she saw, reflected back to her, shining brighter against the blackness than a real sun, the light of the starjewel. White, glistening, pure.
Only the dead are without hope.
Maybe, she thought. But they have other benefits.
Sighing, Maigrey crossed her arms and tucked her hands beneath them for warmth.
The enemy," Sagan said.
Maigrey jumped, and refoeused her gaze. The Corasian fighters had ceased their attack. Confused, lacking direction, they drifted aimlessly—easy targets for the Warlord's men. It was only a matter now of picking them off.
"It seems you have won, my lord," Maigrey said.
"Try not to let your elation overwhelm you, my lady."
The Warlord turned to face her, his eyes fixed on her, drawing her eyes to his, and she shuddered, for all within him was dark and empty and, like a black hole, seemed to suck her inside.
You should have left me to die, my lady. He spoke those words to her mind. The next, he spoke aloud. "Computer, transmit this message to Defiant: Lord Derek Sagan to Captain Michael Williams. Battle won. You may proceed with the extermination of the mercenaries as planned. Take no prisoners."
"What?"
Perhaps nothing else would have jolted Dion to life. The young man was on his feet, gripping the back of the Warlord's chair with white-knuckled hands.
"You can't! You promised! You gave them a pardon!"
"So I did, boy They'll face their God—if they have one— free of sin."
"They trusted you! T—the boy's voice rattled in his throat— "7 trusted you!"
"That's your misfortune and theirs. Computer! Where's the verification of the transmission?"
"Do something, Lady Maigrey!" Dion turned to her, his blue eyes glittering, hard and piercing. "Stop him!"
Maigrey did not look at the boy. Her face was empty of expression, devoid of warmth, of life. But her arms uncrossed, her hand moved slowly and st
ealthily to the bloodsword.
Transmission failed, sir," the computer reported.
"Check for damage!"
"Checking, sir."
"And try to raise Phoenixl"
Fuming, Sagan ran his hand rapidly over the control panel, his attention focused on the dials, activating, shutting down, reactivating, and once giving something a sharp rap with his thumb and forefinger.
Maigrey's hand closed over the hilt of the bloodsword, driving the needles into her flesh. She waited, hoping Dion would take the hint.
"No damage, sir."
Then transmit!" Sagan snarled.
What was the boy waiting for? Maigrey wondered impatiently. Did he expect her to rise up and attack, start a fight to the death in this small, cramped space? They'd all three end up dead, and while that might solve her problems, it certainly wouldn't do much for Dion's.
"Verify transmission of message to Defiant."
Transmission failed, sir. Damage recheck negative—"
Maybe it was her imagination, but Maigrey thought the computer was beginning to sound panicked. She gripped the sword tightly, keeping it hidden by her thigh, and concentrated her thoughts on Dion. To her relief, she heard a rustle of fabric behind her and the very slight gasp of pain when the boy closed his sore palm over the needles.
Maigrey7 spoke to him silently, through the bloodsword, keeping her thoughts carefully shielded from Sagan.
Dion, can you understand me?
Yes! He was nervous, excited, angry, and hurt. His emotions were a jumble and tangling up his thoughts.
Calm yourself, Dion. Sagan can't get his order through. Theres still a chance to warn Dixter. Count backward. Do something to clear your mind. Don't take a deep breath, though; Sagan would hear you.
Ten. Seven. Six ... six .. . fourthreetwoone. There. Tm all right.
Well, Maigrey thought, it will have to do.
When we reach Phoenix, steal a plane and fly to Defiant and—
Steal . . . How?
You have clearance. You can go anywhere. You know the codes; they'll let you fly out without saying a word.
Fear Terrible, debilitating fear flowed from the boy like a cold and sickening wave. Whatever had happened to Dion in that spaceplane out there must have been horrible.
You go, Lady Maigrey. I ... I can't fly, ever again. I'll help you—
Maigrey understood. She pitied the boy. And she hardened her heart against him. It had to be done. This plan might not save tlie mercenaries. But it could save her king.
No, Dion. I must stay behind. Sagan will try to stop you. And I'm the only one who can stop him.
"Computer!" The Warlord's harsh voice. "Activate emergency landing distress code, since we can do nothing else."
Phoenix loomed large in the viewport. They would be landing in minutes. Maigrey released her hand from the bloodsword. Sagan's attention might return to them at any moment, but it wasn't that danger which caused her to break the connection. She didn't want to cajole or urge Dion or force him. That wouldn't help. He had to decide to take this risk on his own. He would never do it to save himself; he was thinking too little of himself right now. But a threat to others, to people he loved, might impel him to act. The urge to protect and defend. It was in his blood—the Blood Royal.
Or it had been, once.
"Emergency distress signal sent, sir."
A docking bay door yawned wide to receive them. Maigrey could see a flurry of activity inside. They wouldn't know the nature of the emergency and there'd be medics and crash squads and fire details. Chaos. Confusion. And Phoenix had undergone heavy shelling, had doubtless sustained serious damage. The Warlord's full attention would be claimed the moment he set foot on deck.
No, it wouldn't.
Maigrey closed her eyes.
I'll have to kill him this time.
Chapter Seventeen
The end is where we start from.
T. S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"
Emergency personnel in their ungainly, protective suits swarmed over the plane when it was safely down. The Warlord lifted the top hatch, and men peered into the cockpit. Their faces, dimly seen through the panels of the huge helmets they wore, registered extreme astonishment at the sight of their Warlord seated in the prototype Scimitar.
"Get that thing out of my face!" Sagan snarled, shoving aside a man waving a radiation detector at him. The Warlord rose from his seat, obviously glad to stretch to his full height.
"Admiral Aks!" A lieutenant was shouting into a commlink. "Lord Sagan's arrived safely, sir! Yes, sir. Docking bay sixteen. Yes. sir. I ll relay the message, sir."
The emergency crews were scattering, disappearing to attend to some other pressing duty. Red lights were flashing, Maigrey could hear the distant sound of drums.
The lieutenant's head popped up in the viewport. "My lord, Admiral Aks requests your presence on the bridge. As quickly as possible, my lord."
Sagan released the side hatch and started to exit. "I'm on my way First, send this message to Defiant—"
The harsh sound of weeping interrupted him. Maigrey turned, the Warlord glanced around. Dion was bent double, head buried in his arms, sobbing. His body shook; he could scarcely draw a breath.
Disgust darkened Sagan's face. His lips twisted in a sneer. "He seems to have inherited your weakness for tears, my lady. Lieutenant, send for Dr. Giesk."
"Ill stay here with him until help comes," Maigrey offered. She tasted despair like gall in her mouth.
The Warlord paused and looked at her, intently, steadily, and Maigrey could have sworn, in that instant, that he knew everything. If so, he must be triumphant, she thought and couldn't help but avert her gaze, biting her lip to keep from screaming in frustration.
He turned without a word. When she was able to risk looking after him, she saw him striding across the hangar deck.
"Is he gone?" came a clear, cool voice.
Astonished, Maigrey whirled around. Dion lifted himself up out of his seat. There wasn't a trace of a tear on his face.
"You're all right?" Maigrey gasped.
"No, but I notice that doesn't seem to stop anybody around here." Dion drew a deep breath. "I'll fly this plane to Defiant."
"My God, child, I'm glad you're . . . you're not ordinary!" It was all she could think of to say. "You'll have to leave quickly, while there's no one in the hangar. Give John my . . . my love"—Dixter would understand, he always understood—"and godspeed, young man!" She added fervently. "Godspeed!"
Dion caught hold of her. "Come with me! Give John Dixter your love yourself! We've tricked the Warlord. We'll be away from here before he knows we're gone!"
Maigrey recalled the look Sagan'd given her before he left.
"He'll know," she said.
"Lady, please—"
"You have your duty, Your Majesty, and I have mine. Yours is to your people. Mine is to you."
Dion's blue eyes flared beneath the flaming hair, the reddish brows creased, the underlip thrust out. He was a Starfire, and they were accustomed to having everything they wanted. He was afraid, too. The fear must twist inside him. He didn't want to go by himself.
"Our duty isn't easy sometimes, Dion, but it must be done. Its what we were born to do." Maigrey clasped his hand and held it fast. "You won't be alone, Dion."
The struggle was brief and bitter. When it ended, the boy's hps had tightened into a straight, dark line.
"I be alone. I'll always be alone. It's what I was born to." Dion released her hand. "God be with you, at least, Guardian. If that's what you want."
Maigrey backed away.
Dion sealed shut the hatch and did not look at her again. Through the viewscreen she could see him—face set and rigid, the blue eyes a sheet of ice, jaw hard and clenched. The red-golden hair burned like living flame. Dion was a Starfire, and they were kings.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my excellent friend and science adviser, Gary Pack, for his creation of the bloo
dsword and the really horrible and terrifying new weapon featured in the next book.
I would like to thank Janet Pack for moral support, even if she didn't know who wrote "I love my truck"!
I would like to thank Patrick Price and his mother, Camille Chasteen, for their translation of the French language in this text and John Hefter for the translation of the Latin.
I would like to thank my wonderful friend and co-author (on most everything except this), Tracy Hickman, for his overall help and inspiration.
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