King's Test (50 page)

"You are
quite fast enough now, Dion. Faster than Mikael. You should rest, my
king. Tomorrow night will be a momentous occasion in your life. You
must be ready."

Dion was ready
to argue, the sensual lips pursed in the stubborn pout that made him
resemble his late uncle.

"Good
night, Dion," Abdiel hinted.

The young man
handed the gun to the disciple with an ill grace and left them,
another of the mind-dead appearing on silent command to escort him to
his room.

Mikael and
Abdiel remained standing in the target range, waiting patiently,
hearing the boy's footsteps move far away.

Abdiel reached
into the robes that encircled his body, withdrew from the
winding-sheet folds another gun.

"Identical,"
Mikael said, holding the two, one in each hand, comparing them.

"Almost,"
Abdiel amended. He retrieved the gun Dion had been using and hid it
securely in the folds of his robe. "Take this to him just prior
to our leaving. Don't give him time to examine it closely. It's
difficult to discern the difference, but an astute eye, studying the
gun at leisure, could tell."

"How
certain are you that he will do this deed, master? It is one thing to
shoot at a hologram, another to kill a living man."

"He will.
His mind crawls with jealousy, fear, the desire for vengeance. He's
killed before this, too. Much as the murder horrified him,.he felt
secretly exhilarated by the idea of having power over life and death.
Besides, what young man does not dream of destroying his father and
marrying his mother?"

"His
mother, master? I thought his mother was dead—"

"I will
explain the concept to you another time, my dear. I am not at leisure
to discuss Freudian psychology."

"Yes,
master. What about the prisoners?"

"Have them
executed," Abdiel said casually, "but not until after we
have left for the Event. By then, if the boy senses Tusca's death at
all, he will be too excited and keyed up to fully assimilate it."

"I
understand, my master."

"Disassemble
the house and have my shuttlecraft prepared for lift-off. This planet
will be in chaos and, when I return with the bomb, I want to be able
to leave immediately."

Mikael bowed in
acknowledgment and left to make the necessary arrangements.

Abdiel wended
his way back to his sauna. It was nearly time for his bedtime
snack—four pills and an injection. After that, an early period
of sleep. Tomorrow night's work promised to be strenuous, mentally
and physically draining. He would be exhausted for days afterward.

I must look past
that, he counseled himself, look to the rewards, the compensations.

Abdiel composed
his body on the sofa, lifted the hookah's pipe, and put it between
his lips. He summoned up a vision of the boy lying on his bed, hands
beneath his head, expending an enormous amount of energy attempting
to relax.

"A
momentous occasion, my king," Abdiel reiterated, sucking on the
pipe. 'The most momentous in your life." He drew the smoke into
his lungs, spoke to the wisps that curled out of his mouth. "Your
death."

Dion lay upon
the bed, fidgeted and twitched. He knew he should rest, but he
couldn't get comfortable. His supper sat untasted on the table in his
room. He had tried to eat, but he was so tense the food wouldn't go
past the tightening of his throat.

Abdiel had seen
inside Dion clearly. The young man could, at this moment, have killed
Derek Sagan with the cold-blooded efficiency and dispassion of a
professional terminator. In his mind, Dion had moved beyond the
murder. The deed was finished, over and done. And it left him
standing at the edge of a void.

What would he
have accomplished? The removal of his greatest enemy, certainly. The
freeing of Lady Maigrey, the ability to rescue John Dixter. But had
it taken him one step toward his real, ultimate goal? Had it taken
him one step nearer the throne? No, not if things went as Abdiel had
them planned.

"And who is
he to tell me what to do?" Dion asked himself, sitting up on the
edge of the bed. "I'm grateful to him, of course. Without him, I
would never have known the truth. But I am king, not Abdiel. And
though all kings have their advisers, I'm the one who must make the
final decision.

"And I've
made it," he announced softly. "I've considered the matter
as Platus taught me. I've set the weights in the scale of balance. I
know that there are risks to what I plan, but the benefits outweigh
them, cause the scale to tip in my favor. Tomorrow night, the most
powerful people in the galaxy will be assembled together. I might
never have this chance again. "

He stared at the
five marks on his palm. Abdiel had hinted that he wanted to bond with
the boy again, but Dion— remembering all too clearly Tusk's
look of shock and revulsion—had pretended not to understand. It
had been worth the pain once, to know the truth. But never again. And
he would continue to be careful, as he had been for the past few
days, to keep the fortress of his mind guarded and secure.

Abdiel might
approve what I intend to do, but then again, he might not. I don't
want to waste my time, Dion told himself, in pointless arguments.

The truth was
that he wanted to take everyone completely by surprise.

"Turning
and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold . . ."

Maigrey paused,
and sighed. She had found what she sought. She knew it; the words
seemed to spring out of the page as if they'd been printed in red
ink, as if dipped in blood.

She should
really, she supposed, slip over to the spaceplane and run a
simulation. But that would take energy, energy she didn't have.
Disrupting the electrical system, forcing open the door, dealing with
the centurions both here and those guarding the spaceplane. And all
for what? For proving to herself what she already knew.

Maigrey closed
the slender volume of poetry, placed it on a shelf. Lying down on her
bed, she sought vainly for sleep.

He shall have
his fine armor, and every man that sets eyes on it shall be amazed. I
wish I could bide him from death as easily . . .

Homer,
The
Iliad
, translation by W. H. D. Rouse

Maigrey sat
before a mirror in her chambers aboard the Warlord's shuttlecraft.
Brushing her hair, she gazed at her reflection and it seemed to her
as if she had become her reflection—hard, smooth, cold.

The starjewel
was gone, lost to her forever. She might get it back . . . she
would
get it back (she reminded herself to think positively) this night.
She
had
to. It was the only way to save John Dixter. But its
fire had gone out. Once she imagined her star would go nova, explode
in a brilliant fiery ball, its death visible to countless generations
for light-years after. But no. Her star had imploded, sunk in upon
itself, become a small dark spot, lost in the vast darkness.

She had failed
everyone, it seemed: Sagan, Semele, John Dixter, Dion. Now add to
that list two more: herself and God. Her intentions had been good. .
. . What was it they said? The road to hell is paved that way. Or did
she have the right to comfort herself with even that poor excuse?

No, Maigrey had
to admit it. Her own ambition led her down this road. She should not
curse the darkness when she herself had blown out the light.

And what of the
future? She saw no future. She could see nothing at all. Though she
might grope her way forward, it was like being trapped in a maze.
Reaching out blindly in all directions, she found herself continually
running up against a blank wall.

Listlessly, she
threw down her hairbrush, turned away from the mirror. She had better
start dressing. On the bed lay an evening gown borrowed from some
soldier on the base. The dress wasn't particularly well made or
becoming. But it would do. . . .

A knock on her
door interrupted her.

Odd. Sagan
usually didn't bother to knock. She unsealed the door, opened it. The
centurion, Marcus, stood at respectful attention.

"My lady,
would you come to Lord Sagan's quarters for a moment?"

Maigrey stared
at the man, puzzled. What an unusual message. Not the formal
His
lordship's compliments, and would you attend him in his quarters?
or even the more peremptory and impatient
Come to me at once,
as he had been known to use upon urgent occasion.

"Did his
lordship send for me?" she asked.

"If you
would come, my lady," Marcus said.

Maigrey shrugged
and followed. Entering the Warlord's quarters, she saw Sagan standing
by a far window gazing out over the base. He looked around at her
arrival but let her know, by his manner and the impenetrable gravity
of his expression, that he held himself aloof from the proceedings.

She turned from
him to find the members of the Honor Guard, drawn up in a line before
her. Marcus was apparently their spokesman, for he saluted her, then
said solemnly, "My lady, we would like to present you with a
gift."

Maigrey blinked,
startled. The polite response came to her by instinct through her
blank amazement. "I would be honored," she murmured. She
cast a quick glance at Sagan. He had his back to her, his hands
clasped behind him.

The centurions
parted ranks, moving with stiff precision. Maigrey had regained her
composure, shaken off her surprise. Expecting roses, perhaps, or a
pendant with the regiment's number and motto engraved upon the back,
she was prepared to be touched and properly grateful.

She was not
prepared to be shattered, dazzled.

"This is
for you, my lady."

On a form
standing at the end of the row of men was displayed a suit of armor.
It was almost an exact copy of the Warlord's gold and adamantine
ceremonial armor. Greaves, bracers, breastplate,
white-feather-crested helm, leather gauntlets—all were
identical to his, yet these had been cast in a feminine mold and were
made of silver instead of gold. A floor-length cape of royal blue
trimmed in swan'sdown hung from the shoulders, attached by jeweled
stars. The Warlord's breastplate was decorated with the image of the
phoenix; the breastplate of the silver armor was adorned with an
eight-pointed star.

Maigrey saw this
much before tears flooded her eyes, transforming the armor into a
shining silver blur. She couldn't speak, for the ache in her throat,
and was grateful to Marcus for talking to cover for her weakness. And
she was aware, confusedly, of Sagan's being almost as shocked and
overwhelmed by the sight as she herself.

"Will you
accept this gift, my lady? It is presented by us, the men of his
lordship's guard, with his lordship's permission and sanction in
honor of your valor during the encounter with the Corasians."

His lordship's
sanction. Then why the devil was Sagan staring at the armor as if it
were being worn by a ghost? Maigrey, mastering her tears, could see
him now from the corner of her eye. He had moved forward, almost
unconsciously, and his lace was grim and dark and shadowed.

"This is
beyond ... I am more honored than ... I can't tell you how much . .
." Words failed her, but it was obvious, by the expressions on
the faces of the men, that she didn't need to say anything.

"Thank you,
gentlemen," Sagan stated abruptly. "You have pleased her
ladyship exceedingly. And now I must ask you to return to your
duties."

The centurions
filed out, Maigrey doing her best to thank each personally with a
silent look of gratitude and a smile. They could never know how much
this meant. Stumbling through her own personal darkness, she'd
unexpectedly walked into a halo of silver light. When they were gone,
she hurried to inspect the armor, eager to touch the cool strong
metal, study more closely what she could tell by sight was
fine-quality workmanship.

The Warlord
stepped in front of her, blocked her way. "Don't wear it, my
lady. Don't put it on."

"You can't
be serious!" Maigrey glared at him, angry, affronted. "Of
course I'll wear it! I can't in honor refuse it. It's a gift. And
besides, I
want
to wear it—"

"It isn't a
gift, my lady. It has a price."

"I should
have guessed as much." Maigrey drew herself up, regarded him
with a cool, imperious air. "Name it."

"Your
life," he said gravely.

He wasn't being
smug; he wasn't blustering or threatening. He was serious, regarding
her with a composed, steady intensity that was disconcerting,
terrifying.

"I don't
understand." The darkness was closing in around her again.

"I have
foreseen your death, my lady, at my hands. I told you this, aboard
Phoenix."

She nodded,
vaguely remembering something of the sort.

"Lady, in
that vision, you are wearing silver armor.
That
armor."
He pointed.

"You
ordered it. . . ."

"No!"
His denial was vehement. "The men told me what they wanted to
do. It did morale no harm and was a logical, practical suggestion. I
gave them my sanction, gave the orders needed to get the job done. To
be perfectly honest, my lady," he added impatiently, "I
took little interest in the project. I had far more important matters
on my mind."

Maigrey pushed
him aside, moved around him to see the armor. The metal gleamed,
shone with a silvery radiance. She drew near, reached out and lifted
the helm, smoothing the white feathery crest with her hands. Strong,
yet lightweight, the helm was fashioned after Sagan's, covering the
top part of the face. Yet she noticed a subtle difference. Hers had
been designed, most subtly and delicately, to cover the scar on her
cheek.