King's Test

by Margaret Weis

  "You guys aren't big on electricity around here, huh? Solar heat, no force fields, no lasguns or phaser weapons ..."

  Mikael pushed open the door, revealing a small, square, windowless room made of cedar that looked like every other room in the house.

  The zombie gestured politely for Tusk to enter.

  "Just a little test, if you don't mind." Tusk drew the lasgun, pointed it at the lock on the door, and fired.

  Nothing. The weapon was dead.

  "The master's body has a natural tendency to disrupt electric fields," the disciple explained. "He can control it, of course, but it tires him, being constantly forced to exert so much energy. We find it easier, when we are at home, to do without. Please step inside."

  "Where's Nola?" Tusk demanded, looking around the room.

  "Resting in her own room. Please step inside."

  Tusk glowered. "What if I said Nola and I wanted to leave?"

  "The woman is, I'm afraid, far too tired to travel. Please step inside."

  My gun may not work but I could punch this bastard out, Tusk thought. Shit, though, I'd never find Nola in this rat's nest. And then there's the kid. . . .

  Tusk, scowling, stepped inside. As he passed the door, he noted that the cedar was a veneer; the door itself was made of solid steel.

  "Your dinner will be brought to your room," Mikael said, and shut the door. The bolt slid home.

  Swearing beneath his breath, Tusk hurled the useless lasgun to the floor. It bounced, skittered across the hardwood, slammed up against the opposite wall.

  "To my cell, you mean."

  "I apologize for Tusk," Dion said later, when he had finished dining—alone—in his room, and had been brought by Mikael into Abdiel's presence once again. "I don't know what gets into him sometimes."

  "There is no need for apology, my king." The old man reached out his hand, rubbed the fingers gently along Dion's arm. "He is not of the pure Blood Royal, is he? His mother was, I believe, quite an ordinary human."

  "Yes." Dion's first impulse was to withdraw from Abdiel's touch, but he was strangely attracted by it. It promised him things—just what, he didn't know, couldn't specify. Things he wanted, was hungry to obtain.

  He submitted to Abdiel's caress, allowed the old man to lead him like a child to another cedar room, identical to the first and to all the others, except that this one was almost devoid of furnishings. A short-legged table stood in the center of the room, surrounded by cushions on the floor.

  "Please, sit down, my king." Abdiel motioned, seated himself cross-legged on the cushions, his elbows resting on the table. The room was stiflingly hot. Dion, seating himself awkwardly across the table from Abdiel, saw that the old man was shivering.

  "You can't expect those who are not of the Blood Royal to understand us, my king," Abdiel was saying. "You might as well ask the worm to empathize with the eagle. That is why I have not invited him to join us. Are you comfortable? We may be here a long while, once we began the viewing."

  "The viewing?" Dion glanced around, puzzled. He had expected some sort of vidscreen but saw nothing like that.

  Abdiel smiled, pointed to three objects that stood on the table: a thick, round, white candle, burning with a clear, bright flame, and two rocks that had each been honed into the shapes of perfect globes. "No, you will find no vidscreens here, my king. I have no need of them. And neither will you."

  Abdiel placed the lighted candle in the center of the table, equidistant between himself and Dion. Taking one of the rocks in his hands, he handed it to the young man, kept the other rock himself.

  Dion turned the rock over, studying it by the candlelight. The stone was a dark green, highly polished, and veined with streaks of warm red. He rolled it in his palm. The sensation produced by the smooth, polished rock moving against his skin was sensual and soothing.

  "Heliotrope," he said, identifying it.

  "Also known as the bloodstone. Very good. Your Majesty. Your education has not been neglected. Platus, your mentor, was a wise man, an intelligent man. A gentle man, too gentle for his own good, I fear."

  Dion didn't answer; the memory of his dead Guardian, who had given his life for him, jabbed him painfully. He set the rock down on the table, kept his hand on it to prevent it from rolling. "You said we were going to view something that has to do with the Lady Maigrey." His voice harshened. He was, he reminded himself, here on serious business.

  "I forget the impatience of youth. Very well, we will begin. Grasp the stone tightly with your hand—your left hand, my king. Give me the right."

  Abdiel held his own bloodstone in his right hand. He stretched across the table, reaching to Dion with the left. Candlelight danced and sparkled on the shining needles.

  Dion didn't move. A shudder convulsed his body. He stared at the needles, his right hand opening and closing spasmodically.

  "You will feel a sharp pain at first, my king, just as you do with the bloodsword. But the pain will soon pass." Abdiel's voice was soft, seductive, sensual as the feel of the smooth rock against the young man's skin. "Or rather, you won't notice it. The sensation of our minds, our souls, flowing together will completely obliterate any physical discomfort."

  "Why must I do . . . this?" Dion asked through lips so numb he could barely move them. "What will happen?"

  "You will see, young man. Your eyes will be opened. Not only your physical eyes, but the eyes of your soul. Once, long ago, Maigrey and Derek Sagan bonded with me. We retain that bond. I have the power to see them, to know what they are doing, saying, sometimes even thinking! I can share that power with you, Dion, if you will share your being with me."

  Confused thoughts, words of Maigrey's came back to Dion about the stronger being able to gain ascendancy over the minds of the weaker. But what did that have to do with him? He'd been warned against Sagan, and he had not succumbed.

  I am, after all, destined to be king.

  "The power," Dion said, his eyes on the glistening needles. "Maigrey told me I possessed it, but I could never use it."

  "A lie!" Abdiel breathed. "She is afraid. She fears the power in you. Of course you can use the power of the Blood Royal. You have only to reach out your hand, my king, and take it!"

  Dion pressed his lips tightly together, stretched out his hand. Not trembling, not wavering, his palm with its five new, fresh scars closed over the palm of the old man.

  Abdiel clasped it tight. The needles penetrated the boy's flesh.

  Dion gasped in pain, shivered at the sensation of the virus flowing into his body, burning, pulsing, far stronger than with the bloodsword. His arm jerked. Abdiel held the boy's hand fast, stroked it, pressed the needles harder into the flesh.

  "Look into the candle flame!" he ordered.

  Dion, shuddering, moaned and tried to free himself.

  "Look into the candle flame and see!"

  The voice came from within, from his heart, from his mind. It was his, it was Abdiel's. Wonders unheard of, knowledge unguessed at stirred in Dion's brain. He couldn't use it yet, couldn't catch it, but he would. He would learn to. The ache of invasion subsided. Sublime pleasure suffused him. He would be old and wise when he was young and strong. He would be, with this power, forever and truly a king!

  Dion lifted his head, looked into the flame, and saw.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I've a grand memory for forgetting . . .

  Robert Louis Stevenson, Kidnapped

  Maigrey looked tired, tired and defeated. Her head drooped; her shoulders slumped. She put her hand to the wound on her neck. It must sting and burn, but the Warlord guessed that its pain was minor compared to old wounds that throbbed and bled, draining the exultation of victory from her. She thought she had won the war. She had now discovered she hadn't even been on the right battlefield. He knew how she felt. He'd been on the field, unfortunately facing the wrong direction.

  "How long have you known?" Maigrey's voice broke the silence, but not by much. Sagan couldn't be certain if he ha
d heard her. But he knew her question from her thoughts, and answered.

  "Not long, my lady. Abdiel kept himself well hidden. I was aware of him a short time back, on Phoenix. Even then I wasn't certain. I made inquiries, studied the records of his supposed death. No one, of course, had seen or heard of him for many years. Not surprising. He could stand in front of you and, if he didn't want you to see him, you wouldn't see him. I sent Sparafucile to investigate, warned him how the mind-seizer operates." Sagan laid his hand on the half-breed's shoulder. "My friend was not blinded like the others. He saw him. Abdiel is a frequent, albeit unknown, guest at the presidential mansion."

  Sparafucile grinned, pleased at the commendation. Maigrey cast the breed a disgusted glance from the corner of her eye. "Why didn't you just have Abdiel assassinated? Your 'friend' appears quite adept at that line of work."

  "Why didn't we kill him once, that long time ago, lady? We had the chance, yet we were thankful to escape with our lives. You know his defenses, Maigrey! You're not thinking—"

  "Damn it, I know I'm not thinking!" She rounded on him, fists clenched in her anger. "I don't want to think! I'm tired and I hurt and ... my God, Sagan, he's got Dion! Do something! We've got to do something!"

  He stared at her in astonishment, saw that she was frantic, on the verge of hysteria. He grabbed hold of her wrists and gave her a swift, firm shake. "What the devil is the matter with you?"

  Maigrey gulped, caught her breath. She stared at him blankly, without recognition, bloodless lips gaping open. A shudder convulsed her body; she drew back from him, shrinking in upon herself. He let her go. Shivering, she turned away from him, rubbing her arms.

  Your lady not fight the dead ones, Sagan Lord. Sparafucile's report on the ambush returned to the Warlord. She fight the others and fight well. Boom! Boom! Boom! All of them gone. But the dead ones . . . the lady froze. If Sparafucile had not been there, the lady would, I think, be a dead one herself now.

  Sagan had disregarded the statement. Sparafucile had his faults and one was that he invariably made himself the hero of any situation. The Warlord had fought with Maigrey in numerous battles and had never known her to freeze in the face of danger. But then, he'd never known her to be hysterical, either.

  "Surely this news of Abdiel can come as no surprise to you, my lady." Sagan probed, not delicately or gently. He didn't have time. "You were attacked this afternoon by his mind-dead. Surely you recognized them. The night of the revolution—"

  Maigrey's head jerked involuntarily. She fixed him with a look expressive of such horror and fear that the Warlord was taken aback. She hid herself in an instant, averting her face, retreating behind strong defenses. But she could not build her walls fast enough, or thick enough. Sagan remembered that look. He had the feeling he would remember it until the day he died.

  She was shivering so much she could barely stand. Lifting his cape from the table, he wrapped it gently around her. "You're exhausted. There's nothing we can do tonight. Get some sleep—"

  "Don't condescend to me!" Maigrey snapped, flinching away from him, though she kept the cape and huddled into its warmth. "I apologize for my weakness, my lord. It won't happen again."

  But it will, Sagan said to himself, dark eyes and thoughts on the pale woman shivering in his cloak. It will happen again, and the next time it could well prove fatal—to you, to me, to my plans, to the boy. I need you strong, Maigrey. I need you well.

  "You're not the only one who has had a trying day, my lady. I, too, need to rest. We will continue our discussion in the morning. I hope you will do me the honor of being my guest. I have ordered quarters readied for you in my shuttle, just down the corridor."

  "Thank you, my lord, for your hospitality." Maigrey bowed gravely, started to move past him. "But I will return to my spaceplane."

  He blocked the way. "I cannot allow that, my lady—"

  "Why? What are you afraid of?" she flashed bitterly. "That I'll 'escape' my prison? You're not my jailer, my lord. I'm the one who's locked myself into my cell!"

  "It is your safety about which I am concerned, my lady," the Warlord said coolly. "Snaga Ohme knows you have the bomb and undoubtedly his spies in Haupt's command know where to find it. And then there is Abdiel, though perhaps he doesn't know yet—"

  "He knows, Sagan Lord," Sparafucile struck in. The half-breed fished among the tattered rags, withdrew an object, displayed it in the palm of his hand—a green rock, veined with red, once carved in a perfect globe, now split into innumerable pieces.

  "Where did you find this?" Sagan took the bloodstone's pieces gingerly, tossed them on the deck, ground them to dust beneath his heel.

  "The lady's plane. I search like you tell me, and find it in the underfittings—"

  Maigrey closed her eyes, sank down onto a chair, her strength gone.

  "You have the bomb in the spaceplane, am I correct, my lady?" Sagan questioned. "If anyone attempts to take it by force, the computer will blow up the plane and anyone inside."

  "That is, I believe, standard procedure, my lord." Her voice was low, hardly audible.

  "You gave the computer instructions, however, that would release the bomb . . . verbal instructions? Instructions that could have been . . . most likely were overheard. ..."

  Maigrey remained motionless. She might have been a marble statue, set to guard a tomb.

  "Careless, my lady. Very careless. And after you had encountered the mind-dead as you did once this day—"

  Gray eyes, glistening with fever, opened, stared at him. Bloodless lips parted, speaking silently. You could have told me! You could have warned me!

  "Would you have believed me, my lady?" Sagan asked.

  Maigrey looked away, rose unsteadily to her feet. "If you will excuse me, my lord—"

  "Wait one moment, Maigrey." Sagan put his hand on her arm. "There is a very simple solution to all this. Give me the bomb. I can then concentrate my efforts on freeing Dion."

  "Perhaps you would, my lord. Perhaps you wouldn't. Once you had this weapon, you might not think it necessary to save the boy. No, I will keep what I have. I paid dearly for it."

  "You may pay dearly to keep it."

  "A threat, my lord?"

  "A statement of fact, my lady. Two of the most powerful and unscrupulous men in the galaxy will stop at nothing to obtain the bomb."

  "Only two? You omit yourself—out of modesty, I presume."

  "No, I omit myself for a reason. Like it or not, lady, in this I am your ally."

  Maigrey smiled suddenly, sadly. "Yes, you are, though not precisely in the way you imagine. You see, Derek, in order to release the bomb, XJ-27 must both see me and hear me and be able to identify me."

  "As you say, standard procedure. Sagan shrugged. "Go on. I take it that isn't all."

  "The computer must also identify an object that I show to it, verifying this object by its physical properties and its—"

  "Yes, yes, Sagan interrupted impatiently. "The object is?"

  Maigrey's smile twisted the scar on her face. "The Star of the Guardians, my lord. My Star of the Guardians."

  The Warlord regarded her for long moments in silence. Then he bowed gravely, from the waist. "I am impressed, my lady."

  Maigrey inclined her head. "I thought you would be, my lord."

  "You did strike a fair bargain for it—"

  "I would have kept my part fairly if the Adonian had kept his."

  "So now if I want to recover my property—"

  "—you must help me recover mine."

  "But with no guarantees."

  "No guarantees. I am glad we understand each other, my lord."

  Sagan nodded. "I think that, whatever else may have happened between us, we have always understood each other."

  "Have we?" she asked him suddenly, abruptly. Again, in the gray eyes, he saw the shadow of unnamed horror. "Have we?" she repeated, with desperate earnestness.

  The question was unexpected. He probed her thoughts but her mind was dark; he grope
d through an unfamiliar, unlit room. He chose not to answer.

  She turned away. He escorted her to the door of his chambers. She walked next to him in silence, wrapped for warmth in his red cloak.

  "Captain, take the Lady Maigrey to her quarters and post a guard outside her door."

  "Yes, my lord."

  She left him. Sagan watched the small procession walk down the corridor. Behind him, the half-breed made a shuffling movement, indicating he was prepared to leave if not wanted. Sagan made a sign with his hand, however, and Sparafucile waited quietly for his lord's attention to return to him.

  The Warlord watched the light in the corridor shine on long, pale hair. "A pretty problem. Four of us want this 'pearl of great price.' Maigrey has it, but she must keep it. Snaga Ohme has the starjewel, but not the lady. I have the lady, but not the jewel. Abdiel has neither, he wants both. But he has Dion. I wonder how he figures to use Dion. ..."

  The lady disappeared into a room not far from his. He heard the door sigh shut, the scrape of the boots of the Honor Guard, taking up their positions outside. Sagan shook his head.

  "I must have you strong," he repeated to her. "I must have you well."

  Chapter Fifteen

  A night of memories and sighs . . .

  Walter Savage Landor, "Rose Ayltner"

  It was midnight, the darkness at its deepest, approaching the flood. Laskar was a ship sailing upon night's rough sea. Its bright lights and noise and gaiety pitched and heaved on waves of money and liquor, drugs and sex. Occasionally it tossed an unwary passenger overboard, left him to drown in the murky depths.

  Dion stumbled outside Abdiel's house, hoping the fresh air would help him regain his senses. But though the air had cooled rapidly with the setting of Laskar's green sun, the sand still retained the day's heat. Warmth radiated upward, like the solar furnace in the rooms inside.