King's Test (66 page)

Dion appeared,
standing above them at the top of the ladder leading down into the
cockpit. A halo of flame framed the pale, resolute face, marred by
the dark smudge of a bruised cheek and swollen lip.

The Warlord
faced Maigrey, saw her relax, the fingers cease their twisting. The
silver chain slipped unheeded to the floor. "You should have
left, Dion," she advised him quietly, not looking at him. "You
could have escaped."

"I'll
leave." Dion returned, "when I have what I came for. My
lord. I know how to stop the bomb."

"You do?
How?" The Warlord's gaze remained on Maigrey. Suddenly he
understood.

"Yes,"
Dion said, acknowledging his unspoken words. "She told me. She
told me what she had done, just as she told you. Only she told
me
how to stop it."

Maigrey's face
was pale, sadly smiling. She shook her head, avoided meeting anyone's
eyes.

"Tell me
the code," the Warlord commanded. He was on his feet, putting
his hand to the keys atop the crystal bomb.

"I will, my
lord. But first I want something in return."

"You fool!"
Sagan snarled. "I don't know how much time is left—"

"Not a
lot," Maigrey murmured. "It's too late for any of us now "
She pointed to a digital readout on the console. "T minus one
minute. And counting."

"I will
tell you how to stop the bomb"—Dion ignored the
interruption—"in return for . . . the bomb."

Sagan stared at
him. "You . . . want what?" He fought a wild desire to
burst out into uncontrollable laughter.

"You heard
me, my lord. I want the bomb. Give me your word of honor. Swear to me
in the name of your God that you will hand over the bomb to me, and
I'll give you the code words needed to shut it down. If not—"
Dion shrugged.

"T minus
forty seconds," Maigrey said, "and counting."

"You expect
me to believe that you'd actually have the nerve to stand here and
wait to die?" Sagan sneered.

"Try me."
Dion was firm, unmoving.

Sagan's eyes
narrowed, dark brows coming together. He searched the boy for a
crack, a flaw. The Warlord was tense; he could feel sweat running
down his neck into his armor. Dion was cool, flawless, perfect as the
crystal of the bomb.

"Well,
well," Maigrey said, almost to herself, "it seems that our
little boy has grown up. T minus—"

"You will
have the damn bomb! I swear it, by Almighty God!" Sagan ground
the oath with his teeth. "Now tell me the code!" His hand
hovered over the keys.

"T minus
fifteen seconds ..."

"The poem's
name. 'The Second Coming.'"

"You
didn't
alter it!" Sagan muttered in an aside to Maigrey.

He punched in
the words as swiftly as he dared, taking deliberate care.

"No, I
didn't." She lifted her head, her eyes fixed on Dion. "I
thought it . . . appropriate."

One by one, the
rays of light running from computer to bomb flickered and went out.
The humming sound ceased.

"Detonation
cycle . . . ended," Maigrey said, and softly sighed.

And be who at
every age, as boy and youth and in mature hie has come out of the
trial victorious and pure, shall be appointed a ruler and guardian of
the State.

Plato,
The
Republic

Dion drew a deep
breath. His knees had gone suddenly weak. He nearly fell, and grasped
hold of the ladder's hand railing to catch himself. He was careful
not to reveal his weakness, however, or how frightened he had really
been. Consequently it was some moments before he considered his voice
under control enough to speak.

The Warlord had
leaned back wearily against the console. Brow furrowed, he was
staring quizzically at Maigrey. She alone seemed unmoved.

"Here we
are!" XJ's cheerful voice shattered the silence. "Back
again. One big happy family. All together for the holidays. And now
I've got something to say. I'd just like to make it known—"

The Warlord came
suddenly to attention, listening to a voice on his commlink.
"Sparafucile? I can't hear you! The transmission's breaking up.
Just a moment. Computer, pick up this signal. Enhance it."

"Yes. my
lord," XJ responded," rather miffed at being interrupted.

The half-breed's
voice came over the computer's speaker.

"He is
gone, Sagan Lord!"

Maigrey glanced
at Sagan swiftly; their eyes met. Dion remained standing above them,
in the living quarters of the Scimitar He saw them conversing, the
thoughts winging from mind to mind. He knew himself to be alone, left
out of the world these two shared. For a moment he was filled again
with jealousy, anger. Then his gaze went to the crystal bomb. He
eased his grip on the railing, stood straight and tall. He supposed
loneliness was something he'd better be getting used to.

The Warlord's
face had darkened. He looked older, suddenly, and tired. He rubbed
his hand over his brow. "Explain."

"We kill
the mind-dead, Sagan Lord, and we capture shuttle. But"—the
half-breed's voice sounded awed—"when we come close to
shuttle, it wasn't!"

"Wasn't?
Wasn't what?"

"Just
wasn't,
Sagan Lord!"

"Damnedest
thing I ever saw!" added another voice, sounding shaken.

Dion recognized
it. "Tusk!" he shouted, elated, the lonely feeling ebbing
away. "Tusk, are you all right? And Nola, is she—"

"Yeah,
yeah, we're all fine here, kid. You're with the Warlord, huh?"
Tusk didn't sound happy.

"Mendaharin
Tusca, what's going on?" Sagan demanded, glaring at Dion,
stopping the words on the boy's lips.

"Beats the
hell outta me, your lordship," Tusk said. "One minute this
big mother shuttlecraft was sittin' there, and I go to put my hand on
it, and bam! It's gone!"

"Jump-juice,"
XJ said in gloomy tones.

"XJ? Is
that XJ?" Tusk yelled. "Damn it. Look, my lord, I haven't
been drinking! I'd swear on ... on my father's grave that one minute
that blasted shuttle was there and the next it wasn't—"

"Calm down,
Tusca. I believe you."

"You do?"
Tusk sounded dubious. "That's good, my lord, because I'm not
sure I believe myself. ..."

"You saw
what he wanted you to see, Tusca. He created the illusion in your
mind," the Warlord explained.

"He—
Oh, you mean Abdiel. Yeah," Tusk added after a pause, "I
guess I can believe that."

"There's
nothing more you can do there. Tusca, report back to me at the base."

"Uh, if
it's all the same to you, my lord, I'd rather not—"

"Come back,
Tusk," Dion cut in firmly, blue eyes on the Warlord. "And
you report to
me
from now on. I am your king."

"Shit, here
we go again!" Tusk could be heard muttering in the background.

Dion saw the
Warlord's dark smile, felt his skin burn.

"You have
orders for me, Sagan Lord?" Sparafucile came on.

"I'll be in
touch," the Warlord responded briefly.

"Yes, Sagan
Lord."

The connection
went dead.

"Abdiel
escaped." Maigrey said.

"Yes,"
Sagan answered, and then both were silent. But Dion could almost hear
the unspoken conversation filling in the emptiness.

The Warlord
picked up his helm. "It's been an interesting night, for all of
us. I'm returning to my shuttle. By your leave, of course, Your
Majesty.

The sarcasm cut,
and Dion would bleed from the wounds inflicted until the day he died.
I have Sagan's loyalty, albeit gives under duress, he realized. Damn
it all to hell and back again what do I have to do to earn this man's
respect?

"The night
isn't over yet, Warlord," he said.

"Not by a
long shot, sire."

"There is
still much to be done."

"And with
Your Majesty's permission, I'll set about doing it." Sagan said,
impatience sharpening the edge in his voice.

You'll
set about doing it. And I'll . . . I'll . . .

"You re
injured, my liege," Maigrey said gently, looking up at him. "You
should lie down and rest. I'll call for a medic—"

"No. I'll
take care of it myself. The wound's not . . . very deep."

Dion continued
to stand, jaws clenched, rigid. He didn't look at Sagan or at
Maigrey. He stared fixedly at the crystal space-rotation bomb. "You
have my leave to go, Warlord, and continue your duties."
Whatever those are, he added silently. You would know. I don't. What
am I, after all, but king? The crystal blurred in his vision. His
fingers curled around the cold metal.

"Thank you,
sire. My lady," Sagan added, "I'll need to confer with
you."

"Yes."
Maigrey sounded tired beyond endurance. "I'll join you in a
moment, my lord."

There was more
to that conversation than there seemed on the surface Dion glanced
down swiftly, suspiciously, saw the Warlord's dark eyes fix on
Maigrey's gray ones, saw the shadow in his darken hers.

Sagan nodded,
turned, and climbed the ladder leading up out of the cockpit.
Reaching the top, he faced Dion, the Warlord's tall, muscular body
looming over the young man. Gold armor gleamed like flame in the red
emergency lights. "Get some sleep, Your Majesty," he said.
"And have that wound of yours looked at. You'll have a lot to do
. . .in the morning."

Dion didn't
reply.

Sagan's
expression grew grave. "You should have been careful what you
wished for, Your Majesty. It was granted. Now we will see what you
can do with it." He bowed low, whether with respect or with
mockery, Dion wasn't certain. He wasn't watching. He waited until he
heard Sagan's heavy tread descending the outer hull of the
spaceplane, then the young man slid down the ladder, coming to stand
behind Maigrey in the cockpit.

She had her back
to him, her fingers tracing around the edges of the blood-encrusted
star that was the deadly heart of the space-rotation bomb.

"Don't go
with him, my lady," Dion said, putting his hand on the back of
her chair.

Maigrey shook
her head, said nothing.

"Stay here,
with me," Dion persisted. "We'll fly back to
Defiant.
Sagan will have to free John Dixter now. ..."

Maigrey
shuddered. The pale hair had come undone from its braid, fell across
the scarred cheek.

"The
Warlord's right, Maigrey." Dion moved around to try to see her
face, but her hair was a curtain, hiding her from his view. "I
need someone to advise me. I don't know how to be a king."

"What man
does?" she asked. The starjewel's radiance gone, it was black as
a void in space, empty as the vastness between galaxies. Sighing, she
rose to her feet. The space-plane's red lights gleamed in her silver
armor, making it seem as if she walked in blood.

"There it
is, Your Majesty," she said, gesturing to the bomb. "Yours.
Power."

Dion stared at
it, frowning, disbelieving. "Sagan actually walked off and left
me with it. I don't trust him. He'll try to get it back! Maigrey, you
must stay with me—"

"You can
trust him, my liege," she interrupted him. "He swore his
oath to God."

"An
illusionist who believes in his own illusions!" Dion scoffed.

Maigrey smiled
wanly, sadly. "We all need to believe in something."

"Do we'"
Dion challenged. "Then tell me this, my lady. That rite you and
Sagan put me through. Was that real? Or was that illusion?"

"If you can
ask the question, my liege, you aren't prepared to understand the
answer." She lifted the silver helm with its white-feather
crest. "By your leave, Your Majesty—"

"Riddles!
Games! Tests!" Dion shouted, blocking her path. "That’s
what this was, wasn't it? Another test! You wanted to see if I'd risk
my life to attain my goal, my desire, my ambition—that ambition
you call the taint in our blood. Well, I did! I was willing to die
for it! Does that mean I pass?"

Maigrey gazed
down at her own bloodstained hand. She didn't look at him and when
she spoke, it wasn't an answer.

"I’m
giving Your Majesty my starjewel. You'll need it to arm the bomb. And
I'll tell you the code to activate—"

"No! Dion
cried, halting her.

Maigrey lifted
her eyes, stared at him. "You don't understand, my liege.
Without the code—"

"I
understand," he interrupted. "I will keep the bomb . . . as
it is. And now," he added tersely, turning his back on her, "you
better go. The Warlord will be waiting for you."

She said
nothing. Then he felt her arm around him. She held him close. He shut
his eyes, longed—for an instant—to lay his head on her
breast and sob like a child.

I want to tell
you about Marcus, Dion cried silently. He gave his life for you. He
died in my arms! I want to tell you about those others I killed. How
I dream about them at night. I want to tell you I'm frightened,
Maigrey! I don't want to be what I am! I don't think I can! I know I
failed the test. I failed you, failed Sagan. I failed myself! I'm
ordinary. . . .

"Like
Marcus?" she asked aloud.

He opened his
eyes, stared at her.

"I must go,
my liege. Your Guardians have one last task they must perform."
Maigrey reached out to him, touched the necklace he wore around his
neck—a necklace bearing a small ring of fire opals. He gazed
down at her hand, saw the opals sparkle with myriad lights, a
contrast to the dark jewel in the bomb.

Leaning near,
Maigrey kissed the bruised cheek.

"Congratulations,
my liege. You passed."

After she left
him, he could feel, on his skin, the wetness of her tears. Dion
slumped wearily down into the pilot's seat. His wound burned and
throbbed.

"She didn't
really arm it, you know," XJ-27 remarked.

"What?"
Dion was jolted from his pain-filled lethargy. "Didn't arm
what?"