King's Test

Kings Test

Star of the Guardians, Book 2

Margaret Weis

To Raoul and the Little One

I've been waiting at these damn

RR tracks since midnight!

Where are you?

And then, I said, we must try them with enchantments—that is
the sort of test—and see what will be their behavior; like
those who take colts amid noise and tumult to see if they are of a
timid nature, so must we take our youth amid terrors of some kind,
and again pass them into pleasures, and prove them more thoroughly
than gold is proved in the furnace. . . . And he who at every age, as
a boy and youth and in mature life, has come out of the trial
victorious and pure, shall be appointed a ruler and guardian of the
State. . . .

But him who
fails, we must reject.

Plato,
The
Republic

Avenging Angel

Proud, art
thou met? Thy hope was to have reached

The height of
thy aspiring unopposed The throne of God unguarded, and his side
Abandoned at the terror of thy power . . Fool! . . .

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

All of the
above.

One possible
answer, multiple-choice test, circa 1990

Outside, in the
passageway that ran parallel to the hangar deck, the Warlord
waited—silent, patient. The corridor was dark; he’d
ordered the lights shut down. It was empty. He'd sent his retinue
about their business, relayed a soothing message to the admiral to
the effect that he, at least, was back aboard.

The Warlord was
needed on the bridge, needed desperately.
Phoenix
had
sustained heavy damage in her battle with the Corasian fleet. Concern
was growing over the continued safety and effectiveness of the ship's
nuclear reactor. Aks was receiving garbled reports that another
Corasian vessel had been sighted coming out of hyperspace. And he'd
been repeatedly harassed by hysterical transmissions from the Adonian
weapons dealer, demanding to speak to the Warlord and no one else.

Sagan leaned up
against a wall, crossed his arms over his idlest. counseled patience,
and waited.

A door leading
from the hangar deck opened noiselessly; a lithe figure was briefly
outlined against the light behind her. Pale hair gleamed with an
almost hallowed radiance.

Quiet as the
shadows around him, the Warlord strode across the corridor.

Maigrey was
aware of him. Her hand went to the bloodsword, but Sagan's was
faster. His fingers closed over her forearm with a crushing grip and
he shoved her back hard against the steel wall.

"So, my
lady, you gave the boy his courage. Dion is gone?"

The light of the
starjewel was the only light in the corridor. The bluish white
brilliance illuminated Maigrey's face. The skin was translucent,
lifeless, the gray eyes dark and empty, sighted in on a battle with
him to death.

Her eyes
narrowed. "Yes. he's gone, she said warily.

"To
Defiant,
to warn John Dixter of my treachery" Sagan
almost smiled.

"I'm not
certain. I hope so." Maigrey stared a: him in sudden
understanding. "There was nothing wrong with the communications
aboard the spaceplane, was there, my lord'

"Nothing
that I couldn't have fixed, ray lady.

Sagan could
faintly see blood pulse in the livid scar on her cheek. The tense
muscles in her arm that held the bloodsword relaxed in his grip.

"Naturally,
since you were the one who broke it The message about the mercenaries
being held prisoner on
Defiant
was a ruse."

"Not
exactly, my lady." Sagan reached out his hand, touched the scar
on her cheek with his fingers. He felt her tremble at his touch. She
tried to draw away from him. but there was nowhere to go. He had her
backed up against the wall. "Captain Williams has these orders,
given before I left: If the Corasians are defeated, John Dixter is to
be taken prisoner and immediately executed. The mercenaries who
survived the battle with the Corasians are to be killed the moment
they return— So help me, lady, try that again and I'll break
your arm!"

Maigrey,
breathing heavily, subsided. The Warlord regarded her grimly,
intently, and when certain that she was once more under control—if
not his control, then at least her own—he continued.

"You will
be pleased to know, Maigrey, that Williams bungled those orders.
Dixter has escaped and joined his people. The mercenaries have
barricaded themselves on two hangar decks. They are currently under
siege.

Maigrey jerked
her arm free of his grip. "You've sent Dion headlong into a
raging battle! You knew that when you baited him!"

"The
bloodiest kind of battle, my lady. Men trapped, cornered, fighting
for their lives. "

"What is
this, my lord, another test? This one could him killed!"

"Yes, my
lady, another test. But not for Dion."

Sagan continued
to regard her gravely, opening his mind, opening his heart. Maigrey
listened and understood, stared at him in bewildered disbelief.

"You're
testing God!"

"If this
boy is truly the Lord's anointed"—Sagan's lip curled
slightly—"then He will watch out for him.' Wincing in
pain, the Warlord flexed his arms, reached around to massage the back
of his neck.

"Come, now,
my lord! I didn't hit you that hard." But she knew how he felt.
Every bone, every muscle in her body ached. We re getting old, she
thought. Wearily, she returned the bloodsword to its scabbard. But
she kept her eyes on him.

The two stood in
silence, watching each other, wary of the least move, the indrawn
breath, the flicker of an eyelid.

"You're
going to try to go after him, aren't you?" Sagan reached out his
hand, took hold of the starjewel she wore around her neck, studied it
with a contemptuous air. "You're going to play Guardian. ..."

He was near, too
near, as near as he'd been to her aboard the Corasian vessel. What
had happened there had been a mistake, but a natural one. They’d
both been in danger, they'd depended on each other, they'd defeated
their enemies, triumphed, as they had triumphed together so long ago.
She remembered the heat of his body, the flame of the shared power.
He was so close to her now, she could feel the vibrations of the
steady, strong beating of his heart.

Closing her eyes
to him, Maigrey wrenched the starjewel, the Star of the Guardians,
from his grasp, held it clasped fast in her hand.

His breath was
warm on her chilled skin. She pressed back against the wall, averted
her face. His hand touched her cheek, the terrible scar slashing down
from her temple to the corner of her lip.

"You're
going to try to get away from me, mother that sniveling boy, rescue
an old lover, when—together—we could have so much. ..."

Red emergency
lights flooded the chamber. Drum rolls broke the silence, beating the
tattoo, sounding the call to man battle stations.

A centurion, one
of Sagan's own personal guard, came clattering down the corridor.
Finding his lord and the lady in extremely close proximity, the guard
skidded to a halt, coughed in embarrassment, and looked as if he
wished the ship's hull would crack open, suck him into deepspace.

"Well, what
is it?" the Warlord snapped, turning away from Maigrey.

She sighed, held
on to the jewel tightly, its eight sharp points piercing the flesh of
her palm.

The centurion
kept his eyes fixed firmly on the bulkheads "A Corasian warship
is bearing down on us. my lord. Admiral Aks respectfully requests
your presence on the bridge.

"I'll
inform the admiral that I am coming. You escort my lady back to her
prison cell. "

The Warlord
started down the corridor, checked his stride. Glancing back, he put
his hand to his bruised neck. No my lady. On second thought, I'll be
damned if I let you out of my sight. Ever again." He held out
his hand. "My lady?"

Maigrey slowly
let go of the jewel. She would find a way to escape. In the confusion
of the forthcoming battle, with Sagan's attention necessarily
elsewhere, escape would be easy. It was the leaving that would be
difficult. She laid her hand in his. They walked together down the
corridor, walked calmly through the red flaring light, the drumbeat
warning of approaching peril, battle, death.

Perhaps, she
thought, suddenly chilled. Dion is God's way of testing us!

This is
servitude, To serve the unwise, or him who hath rebelled . . .

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

Peter Robes,
duly elected President of the Galactic Democratic Republic, entered
his private office, located behind his public one. The office was
dark, shades closed against the early morning sun, and smelled of
leather and polished wood and old books. His secretarial 'bot trailed
behind him, murmuring reminders of appointments in its soft and
calming voice. Robes nodded, making mental notes of each.

"First
meeting, military chiefs of staff," the bot informed him.

An emergency
session called to deal with the Corasian threat to the galaxy. That
meeting won't be difficult, mere dissimulation, Robes told himself.
I'll have to exhibit concern, of course, but not too much. Concern
alleviated by . . . confidence. Yes, that will do nicely. Concern to
keep them on their toes. Confidence to show that I trust them to
protect the fair citizens of the republic.

"Next!"
he snapped.

"Top
economic advisers," the 'bot replied.

Robes sighed,
frowned. This one would be more difficult. The galactic economy was
in shambles. The deficit was larger than the number of inhabited
planets, the people rebelling at the mind-boggling tax rate. But that
isn't my fault, he reassured himself. What am I supposed to do about
it? The Congress blocks me at even
⁷
turn. Mindless bunch
of idiots!

Fortunately,
this threat of war should settle
them
nicely. I'll ask for
emergency powers to deal with the current alarming situation. As for
those fools threatening to secede over the tax issue, we'll see how
fast the sheep run from the fold when they hear the wolf's prowling
about!

"When have
you scheduled the press conference?"

"1200
hours, Mr. President. The major networks are carrying it live ..."

The media ate
this stuff up—vids of ghastly aliens flaming across the screens
of billions of terrified galactic viewers. Voters, who would be more
than happy to give their President anything he wanted. . . .

Pausing in front
of a large mirror that hung just inside the office doorway, the
President flicked a switch marked interior lighting. Bulbs
surrounding the mirror flared. Robes studied his tie and his facial
expression at the same time, wondering whether to change either for
the day's business.

He wanted to
reflect worry, but not anxiety. A slight wrinkling of the forehead,
therefore, and a touch of puffiness beneath the eyes would do nicely.
He tightened the corners of his lips to indicate he was giving the
problem serious attention, then allowed the lips to relax slightly to
exhibit absolute confidence in his chosen leaders. Neatly combed hair
would represent discipline and authority to the military chiefs of
staff and the economic advisers. He would have to remember to tousle
his hair slightly for the press conference, to prove he was merely
one of the people.

The President
pressed a button, turned from the mirror to a vidscreen to see
himself as he would look on camera. The face was fine. The tie
wouldn't do. It was too dark, too somber for the vids. Yanking it
off, he tossed it over his shoulder to the 'bot.

"Bring me
something in a subdued purple, with a very fine gold thread running
through it. Keep this one for tomorrow, when I announce the news of
Citizen General Sagan's death. "

"Wishful
thinking," came a soft voice.

The voice
startled the President, startled the 'bot. Its clawlike hands,
grasping a lasgun, were lining up on its target.

The thought
crossed Robes's mind that all he had to do was allow the bot to carry
out its programmed response and he would be rid of that soft voice
forever. He quashed the temptation frantically, with a fearful glance
at the source of the soft voice.

"Halt!"
he shouted, more loudly than he'd intended. His voice cracked.

The bot obeyed
instantly, lowering the weapon. Gliding near Robes, it murmured
officiously, "This meeting is not on your schedule, Mr.
President."

"I know,"
Robes returned irritably, to cover his fright. "I—I won't
be long. "

"Security
will have to be informed—"

"No! That
won't be necessary. That is"—forestalling the bot's
response—"I'll handle security myself."