Douglas felt guilty at such a thought, but unlike many he was in a position to know some of the truth. Very early in their reign, King Robert and Queen Constance allowed themselves to be persuaded by Parliament to sign a decree destroying all the actual footage of Humanity's saviors in action. Not one scrap, not one contemporary record, remained of what the blessed heroes actually did during the Rebellion. Not one interview survived, not one holo image. Every last news report or eyewitness account had been carried out of the archives and museums and news stations and wiped clean or burned. It was hard work, constructing a Golden Age. Humanity needed legends to inspire them, perfect men and women they could worship and revere. Facts would only have gotten in the way.
And the greatest legend of all had arisen around Owen Deathstalker, the Lord of Virimonde, who gave up wealth and power and prestige to fight Lionstones evil. The good man who saw Humanity's plight, and could not look away. The greatest warrior of his time, who somehow single-handedly saved Humanity from extinction at the hands of the Recreated out in the dark, dark spaces of the Rim. And never returned home, to receive the thanks and blessings of a grateful Empire. No one knew what had become of Owen Deathstalker. He passed easily out of history and into legend, and though not a year went by without some sighting of him, quietly doing good, healing the sick or performing some minor miracle, most preferred to believe he was sleeping somewhere, resting and preserving his strength for the day he would be called back to be a hero and a savior again, in the hour of the Empire's greatest need. There were statues and shrines to him all across the Empire, and even after all these years, people still laid fresh flowers at those sites every day. Beside the two great golden Thrones of the Court, of King and Queen, there was a third Throne, simple and unadorned and set slightly apart, waiting there for Owen should he ever return.
There were other idealized figures portrayed in the Court's stained-glass windows. Stevie Blue, of course, the esper martyr and saint, wrapped in bright blue flames of her own making. Who lived so briefly but blazed so very brightly. (No such portrait for Diana Vertue, of course. Even the official myth making process hadn't been able to smooth the rough edges off Psycho Jenny. She'd been dead almost a hundred years now, and the powers that be were still scared she might someday make a comeback.) But the greatest icon of them all, represented again and again in windows all across the Court, venerated and adored, was the only real Saint of the Empire; the Blessed St. Beatrice. More respected, more important, and more loved than any poor damned hero.
Douglas liked to think Owen would have approved.
He sighed quietly, hardly listening to his father at all now, lost in his own thoughts. He was intelligent and cynical enough to know the political reasons and imperatives behind the creation of such legends, but still… these had been real men and women once, and they had overthrown an Empire. His breath caught in his throat as he thought of what it must have been like, to fight such a clear and obvious evil in the company of such people in the great Rebellion. Everything and everyone seemed so much… smaller now. Part of him ached to know what it must have been like, to have fought in a war when giants walked the worlds…
Douglas was proud to have been a Paragon, to have fought the good fight and protected the people. But for all the good he'd done, the lives he'd saved and the things he'd accomplished, no one would ever set his image in stained glass after he was gone or set aside a Throne for his return. He was a Paragon, and he'd done his job. That should be enough.
To be King was actually a step down, as far as he was concerned. This vast and glorious Court was only there for show, for Ceremonial matters, and the kind of empty pageantry the people still loved. Power lay with Parliament, as of course it should. The King had a place there, but only as Speaker, to preside over debates and provide an impartial voice, to help Parliament reach its decisions. As it should be, of course. The Members of Parliament represented the worlds of Empire, one Seat to a planet; they were the Voice of Humanity, and expressed its will. Mostly. But never again would any one man or woman be allowed dominion over Humanity. Not after Lionstone.
Douglas approved. He really did. It was just that… if he had to be King, he wanted it to mean something.
Desperate for distraction, Douglas's gaze wandered over the hundreds of people scurrying back and forth in the Court, until his eyes stumbled over a short, stocky man in a shimmering white gown and tall jewel-encrusted mitre, and then he had to smile. It was good to know there was someone in the Court who wanted to be there even less than he did. As tradition demanded (and there's nothing more intractable than a fairly newly minted tradition), the new King would be crowned by the Patriarch of the Empire's official religion; the Church of Christ Transcendent. However, the current Patriarch had been in his job for only about five minutes, following the sudden and very unexpected death of the previous Matriarch in an accident apparently so embarrassing that the Church still wasn't willing to release any details on the subject. So the new Patriarch, chosen by blind lottery from among the hundred and twenty-two Cardinals, had turned out to be an extremely inexperienced twenty-seven-year-old man from a backwater planet who'd only been made Cardinal because no one else on that world wanted the position. No one doubted his sincerity or his good intentions, but it was clear to Douglas that the new Patriarch couldn't have been any more nervous if someone put a gun to his mitred head. Pretty much the whole Empire would be tuning in to watch him crown the new King, and the opportunities for screw-ups, fiascos, and making a complete bloody pratt of himself were almost limitless. The current Patriarch was currently walking up and down, endlessly shuffling and rechecking his notes, while mumbling his lines and accompanying himself with emphatic gestures. The servants were watching him out of the corner of their eyes and giving him plenty of room.
Douglas's smile widened into a grin as he considered the happy possibilities in sneaking up behind the Patriarch and saying Boo! very loudly.
And then he jumped and yelled himself as a firm hand took hold of his right ear and twisted it sharply. Douglas swore loudly, as much in shock as in pain, and then froze as everyone in the Court stopped what they were doing to turn and look at him. King William had released his ear by now, but Douglas could feel the fierce blush reddening his cheeks. He gestured curtly for the servants to continue in their tasks, and they did so. But he just knew what they were thinking. Douglas turned and glared at his father, who grinned nastily back at him.
"Teach you to pay attention when I'm talking to you, boy. I may be old, decrepit, and far from my prime, but I am still your father and your King, and while I am speaking I will have your full attention and respect. Is that clear, Douglas?"
"Yes, dammit! Jesus, I bet the other Paragons don't have to put up with this."
"Now then, where was I? I hate it when I can't remember things… Ah yes. Would it surprise you to learn that I never wanted to be King either? My father just took it for granted that I would follow in his footsteps, and so did everyone else. And I… wasn't strong enough to fight them. Your grandparents were both very… forceful personalities. I never was. I did what was expected of me, because it was easier that way. Story of my life, really. I knew from the start you weren't going to be anything like James. He studied hard to be King, because he wanted it. I never did figure out what you wanted. So in the end, I settled for raising you to be as tough-minded and independent as I could. To be nothing like me. So that when you finally came to the Throne, at least you'd bring something new to it. In many ways, you're a lot like your grandfather.
"You will be King, Douglas; because I want it, because Parliament wants it, and most important of all, because the people want it."
"And what I want doesn't matter?" said Douglas.
"The best person to wield power is the man who doesn't want it," said William. "The blessed Deathstalker said that. Supposedly. What will you do, Douglas, once you are King? Have you considered the matter at all?"
"Of course I have!" Douglas stopped himself
sharply. This was far too public a place for raised voices and an open row, but somehow his father's goading always pushed Douglas's temper to the edge. He made himself breathe steadily for a few moments before continuing. "I've thought about nothing else for months. And I'll tell you this: if I'm going to be King, I'm going to be King. I won't just sit around, nodding my head to whatever Parliament says. I'll not be anyone's rubber stamp. Everyone says this is a Golden Age, and maybe it does look all bright and shiny from up here; but as a Paragon, I saw the darker side of things. I saw people suffering every day, at the hands of villains who got away as often as not, because I was just one man and I couldn't be everywhere. Well, what I couldn't put right as a Paragon, maybe I can fix as King."
William surprised Douglas then, by nodding cheerfully in agreement. "Well done, Douglas. Well said. A little naive, but good intentioned. That attitude is why I pulled every string I had, called in every favor owed to me, to get you made a Paragon. James was a good boy, and well intentioned too, but he never raised his head out of his books. I wanted you out in the city, among the people, seeing the things they won't let me see. I wanted you to see the Empire not as a King's son, but as one of the people who make it work. I'm glad to see my efforts weren't wasted. You don't want to give up being a Paragon, do you, boy?"
"No," said Douglas. "No, I don't."
"Then be a Paragon on a Throne," said William. "The Crown may not have any real power, but it still has influence. You don't have to care about political niceties, such as whether backing an unpopular position might interfere with you getting reelected. You can say the right thing, the necessary thing, and to hell with what's expedient. You can still get things done, if you care enough. My problem was… I never did care enough, about most things. I drifted through my life, always following the path of least resistance. Hell of a thing to say about a life as long as mine, but there you go. I don't care. Perhaps… because so many people so badly wanted me to care…"
"Father…"
"I cared about your mother, about James, and about you; and that's all. Your mother and James are gone, so that just leaves you. And you… are everything I wished I could be and never was. Passionate, committed, honorable. I'm proud of you, son."
Douglas just nodded numbly, too surprised even to say anything in return. King William looked out over his Court.
"Be King, Douglas. Do the right thing, as often as you can. They won't love you for it. They'll adore you from a distance, but that doesn't mean anything. They only ever love the symbol, the public face, not the person underneath. In the end, they only remember the things you didn't do that you promised you would, or the things they think you should have done. Or the things you got wrong. And if you do manage to do something right; well, that's your job. That's what they pay taxes for. And Douglas, never trust Parliament. As far as they're concerned, you're just something they can use to hide behind. A public face to take the blame when things don't work out the way they were supposed to." William sighed, and suddenly looked even older, and smaller. "I did my best…"
"Of course you did," said Douglas, when the pause seemed to be going on too long.
"Do you know how it feels," said King William, leaning close to look him straight in the eye, "to know you did your best, and know it wasn't good enough? To know that all you managed to do was maintain the status quo? I hated being King, from the very first day they jammed the Crown on my head and bound me to my Throne with chains of duty. I only stayed on so long because your mother so loved being Queen. And because I wanted to spare you the burden of being King for as long as I could. So you can at least have a taste of the freedom I never knew. You're walking into a velvet-lined trap, Douglas. And there's nothing I can do to save you."
Douglas didn't have a single clue what to say for the best. Not once before, from his childhood days to full adulthood, had his father ever opened up to him like this. They'd never been one for heart-to-hearts with anyone, either of them. And now… it all sounded very much like an old man desperate to say the things that needed to be said while there was still time. Douglas wished he could feel more touched by it. He'd never felt close to either of his parents. They'd always kept him at a distance, perhaps afraid to lose another child they loved. They were always there for the public, but never for him. A less well-adjusted man would be bitter. And now; to learn it had all been deliberate, so that he could grow up to be his own man, and nothing like the father who had cared for him after all, in his own way.
Douglas was still searching for something to say, when a familiar voice called out his name. He looked around gratefully, ready to seize on any diversion; and there, striding across the floor of the Court towards him, came the Paragon Lewis Deathstalker, current holder of a proud and ancient name. Douglas hurried down the steps, leaving the Thrones behind him, and the two old friends clasped hands warmly. King William looked on, trying not to be too impatient, as Lewis and Douglas brought each other up to date on what had been happening in their lives in the few weeks they'd been apart. The King would have sent anyone else packing with a flea in his ear, old friend or not, but Lewis was different. William approved of the current Deathstalker.
Lewis had one of the best-known faces of all the Paragons. Broad, harsh-featured, ugly. Full of character, but already showing the signs of many hard knocks. The Deathstalker had never bothered with even the simplest cosmetic touches, to move his face towards… well, rugged, if not actually handsome. As far as Douglas knew, the thought had never even occurred to Lewis. The Deathstalker was short and blocky, well muscled by choice and exercise rather than via the shortcuts of the body shop, and so broad-chested that in certain lights he seemed almost as wide as he was tall. He wore his jet black hair in a short military cut, mostly so he wouldn't have to bother with it, shaved when he remembered, and had surprisingly mild brown eyes and a brief but flashing smile.
He'd only just hit his late twenties, but already there was about him a certain gravitas that made him seem older, wiser; more dangerous. He wore his Paragon's armor sloppily, and there was always a buckle or two hanging loose somewhere, but he never looked one inch less than utterly professional. He had large, heavily knuckled hands that rarely strayed far from the weapons on his hips. He looked… competent. No matter where he was, no matter what the challenge, Lewis always looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. Douglas had always envied him that. He would have been surprised beyond measure to know that Lewis often felt much the same about him.
The two of them had been close friends and partners in arms for almost ten years now. Their record for running villains to ground was unmatched by any other Paragon except the legendary Finn Durandal, greatest of them all. The Deathstalker and the Campbell, knights errant and defenders of the realm. Lewis could have been famous, if he'd wanted. If he'd cared. But mostly he didn't. One famous Deathstalker in the family is enough, was all he'd ever been known to say on the subject.
Lewis was the best kind of Paragon, which ironically tended to make him one of the least noticed. He couldn't be bothered to play the publicity game, not when there was real work to be done. And whereas the other Paragons milked their fame for all it was worth, with an eye to providing for their future when they retired, Lewis would just nod to the media when they turned up, smile politely when he remembered, and go looking for some more trouble to clean up. He was admired but not adored, renowned but not famous, and the man every Paragon wanted guarding his back when things got nasty. That this most unprepossessing of Paragons should have ended up closest to the man who would be King both infuriated and charmed the other Paragons, in equal measure.
The Inner Circle of Paragons was the King's Justice. Each world in the Empire sent its greatest hero, its most deadly warrior, to Logres, to become part of the fabled Circle, part of the glorious legend of the Paragons. The King couldn't be everywhere, but his Justice could. When the law wasn't enough, when peace enforcement failed, whenever men of bad intent threatened to triumph; send for a Paragon. The p
ublic couldn't get enough of these heroic men and women, the brightest and the best the civilized worlds had to offer, and each and every Paragon would fight to the death rather than betray that honor and that trust.
They didn't last long, as a rule. Most tended to retire young. In fact, it was rare to find a Paragon over thirty. It was a dangerous business, after all, with a high fatality rate and a high turnover. Even the brightest of heroes could burn out quickly, from the endless danger, the never-ending work, and the constant pressure. With all eyes forever on them, the Paragons couldn't allow themselves to be any less than perfect.
But in their time they were splendid and magnificent, the greatest righting men and women of their Age.
"They're all coming here?" said Lewis. "All of us? Damn. I don't think I've ever seen more than half a dozen in one place, and that was during the Quantum Inferno affair, when it looked like we were going to lose all six of the Heart Suns."
Deathstalker Legacy Page 2
