King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  At least that's what he thinks he's doing. Aks watched his lord in concern. The flame remains, it will never die, never be tamped down, never snuffed out. His anger was not directed at Maigrey, but at fate. And it was burning him alive.

  These past few months had aged Sagan. He was only forty-eight (almost forty-nine, his natal day was approaching, a day Aks dreaded). The Warlord was in life's prime for one of the Blood Royal, whose life span exceeded that of ordinary mortals. But the fire within Sagan was consuming those extra, genetically manufactured years. The gray at the temples had lengthened to streaks through the thick black hair. The lines on the granite face and brow were darker, deeper.

  He walked with a slight limp, nothing serious. He had pulled a muscle exercising. But the injury itself was significant. The exercise routines that had once been enjoyable, had once been performed for relaxation, were now done in grim earnest, as if he could outrun time . . . and destiny.

  "My lord"—Aks tread delicately—"why not allow young Starfire the chance to test his healing power? We could set up a controlled experiment. Dr. Giesk has suggested how it could be done."

  "Bah!" The Warlord's calm had returned, at least on the surface. '"God works in mysterious ways,' not through the mechanical fingers of Giesk's medicbots."

  "But if we could prove to His Majesty one way or the other—"

  Sagan broke in irritably. "The fact that he needs proof that be can perform miracles. Admiral is the surest possible sign that he can't. And according to the rite, to the ritual of initiation, God has granted him the powers of the Blood Royal but not the ability to use them. The ultimate sacrifice. Although"—the Warlord's voice grew bitter again—"I could be wrong about what God intends. I've been wrong about His plans before now."

  Aks backed off, detoured around this path in haste. Loyal as he was to Sagan, the admiral refused to follow his lord into the deep, dark, and tangled bog of religion.

  "Your orders, my lord?"

  "Maintain our current position, Admiral. And prepare for guests. Open up the diplomatic suites."

  "Very good, my lord. May I inquire the names?" Aks was trying to remain nonchalant, but he had the feeling he knew what was coming.

  The Warlord glanced at his admiral, smiled the rare, dark smile so few ever saw. "You know them, Aks. Olefsky, Rykilth, Baroness DiLuna ..."

  "It's war, then." Aks rubbed his hands together with pleasure. If anything could blow away the clouds hanging over his lord, it would be the winds of war.

  "We have no choice. President Robes—or whoever's behind him, advising him—is good." Sagan's brow furrowed. "Very good. We came near losing without a shot being fired. I dare not take the chance any longer."

  The Warlord's darkness threw a shadow over Aks. The admiral was ready for aggressive action. In his mind, war was long overdue. But he scented the gangrenous whiff of fear and desperation, and that unnerved him. What did his lord mean by the statement Robes—or whoever's behind him?

  Derek Sagan was afraid. The sudden realization appalled Aks, alarmed him beyond the power of speech. He had never known his lord to fear anything. Sagan had faced down Death so many times the two must be bored by the sight of each other by now. What had really happened that night at Snaga Ohme's? What were these "certain circumstances"?

  "Aks?" An impatient snap.

  The admiral started guiltily. "My lord?"

  "Did you hear what I just said?"

  "I—I'm afraid, not, my lord. I was thinking of . . . arrangements—"

  "I realize that thinking does require an extraordinary amount of effort for you, Aks. Perhaps you could pay attention to me now and think later."

  "Yes, my lord," replied the admiral gravely.

  "I was saying that we should start making preparations fin-war, although these need not be mentioned to His Majesty. The king will believe himself to be in command, of course."

  "Will His Majesty go along with it?"

  "He will," Sagan said, his tone ominous, "when I fully explain the circumstances. That is all, Admiral. You have leave to return to your duties."

  Aks bowed silently, crossed the room, was near the door, when he paused, turned, and noiselessly crossed the thick heavy carpet that covered the deck in the Warlord's sparsely furnished, Spartan quarters.

  Sagan, thinking he was alone, had relaxed his rigid posture. His shoulders slumped in weariness, he ran his hand through sweat-dampened hair.

  The admiral was not a brilliant man. He knew this feet about himself, the knowledge had never bothered him. He knew his value to Sagan, knew himself to be an ally who was trusted because he wasn't cunning enough to be feared. Older than Sagan, Aks had known the Warlord over twenty years. They had met after Sagan had left the Academy to begin his career in the now-defunct Royal Air Corps. Aks had long admired his lord, holding him in awe, in mortal dread. Aks had never, until now—the ache of fear and pity in his heart—realized that he loved him.

  "Derek," he said, greatly daring, placing his hand upon the Warlords bare shoulder. "Who is the true enemy? I think I have the right to know."

  The muscles beneath Aks's hand tensed, bunched, anger at the liberty, anger at the invasion of the private self that Sagan worked so hard to keep hidden nearly unleashing a storm off outrage upon the admiral. Aks had known the risk, braced himself to face the onslaught. He kept his hand on the battle-scarred flesh, fingers firm, grip steady.

  The taut muscles relaxed. Black eyes, dark with the smoke of smoldering fire, looked up, regarded Aks with wry intensity.

  "Is it that obvious?"

  "To me," Aks reassured gently. "Only to me. I've known you a long time, Derek." And I deserve better than this, the admiral added, but he added it silently.

  Sagan heard the unspoken words, however. For long moments he was quiet, sat unmoving. Finally, he stirred restlessly beneath the admiral's touch.

  Aks, taking the hint, removed his hand.

  "Abdiel. Does the name mean anything to you also?"

  "Good God!"

  The Warlord's lips tightened to a dark slash across his face. "I see it does."

  "But he's . . . he's dead! You yourself had him assassinated."

  "One of my many blunders, Aks, and one for which I am paying dearly. I neglected to drive the stake through his heart, so to speak. And now he has come back to haunt me. He is the one behind Robes, my friend. No, not behind him. He is inside him!"

  The Warlord lifted his hand, stared at five marks upon the palm, continued in a soft voice, speaking more to himself than to Aks.

  "Abdiel, former abbot of the Order of Dark Lightning, was at Snaga Ohme's that night. Abdiel was the one who murdered the Adonian. Abdiel nearly caused Dion to murder me. It was Abdiel who captured the Lady Maigrey. She was strong enough to fight him, and so saved herself and the bomb that he sought to acquire. But she could not overcome him. He escaped her, escaped me, escaped Laskar, and disappeared.

  "Now, almost assuredly, he is with Robes again. That wretched girl with the ravaged face who approached Dion— Abdiel's plotting, if not his handiwork. He knows Dion, for he probed his mind. He knows what will affect him, how to manipulate him without ever coming near. What is worse, he has Dion's bloodsword. The fool young man, trusting Abdiel, left it behind the night of Ohme's party."

  "But what could Abdiel do—"

  "—with the bloodsword? The Blood Royal can communicate with each other through the sword, Admiral. It is even possible for a stronger mind to control a weaker through the sword. Although I don't believe that is the case with Dion, at least not yet. Dion is strong, stronger than he gives himself credit for being sometimes. He defied Abdiel, that night at Ohme's. He knows Abdiel now, knows him enough to be wary of him. Still ..."

  "His Majesty is in terrible danger—"

  "We are all in danger, Admiral," Sagan snapped, straightening, stiffening. He retreated back inside his stone fortress, the iron gates crashed down. "And you, I believe, have your orders."

  Aks, shaken and unn
erved, could only nod abruptly. He left in precipitous haste.

  One of the Honor Guard, standing outside the golden double doors, decorated with the symbol of the phoenix rising from flames, regarded Aks with silent concern.

  The admiral saw his face reflected in the man's shining helm and was shocked. His skin had gone gray beneath its artificial tan. His eyes were red-rimmed, the lids puffed and swollen. A nerve twitched in his cheek.

  Abdiel . . . still alive.

  The admiral glowered at the centurion, harumphed an unintelligible remark, and stalked into the elevator, ordered it to take him to the bridge. At the last moment he reconsidered.

  "Officer's club."

  Courage is rarely found at the bottom of a Scotch bottle, but it couldn't hurt to go looking.

  Tusk was engaged in his own exploration of the bottoms of bottles. He was not in an officer's club; his ship was— ostensibly—not a military vessel. When he first saw the yacht, Tusk had registered a strong protest against trusting Dion's travel through a dangerous galaxy in what appeared to be a space-going spa. On entering and discovering the yacht's many secrets, the mercenary changed his mind.

  He should have known, he told himself. The yacht had, after all, once belonged to the late Snaga Ohme. The vessel's sleek, almost sleazy outer appearance belied its true nature. A fake hull, adorned with neon lights that flashed witty epigrams to fellow ships passing in the night, could be rolled up instantaneously, revealing a real hull bristling with lascannons, banks of phasers, hypermissiles—the very latest in death-dealing technology.

  Inside the yacht, the lavishly decorated interior altered itself the moment a shot was fired or even contemplated.

  Objets d'art retreated back into the bulkheads or sank down into the deck. Classic paintings slid aside to reveal instrument panels and weapons consoles. Plush love seats rose up, swiveled to align themselves with the guns that sprang out of the cedar paneling. The yacht was fast, fester than anything Tusk'd ever down. Like a rat, it could run if outnumbered, stand and fight if cornered.

  Ohme had, in fact, named it The Rat. Sagan had ordered the name changed to something better suiting the dignity of the king it now carried. But the crew called the ship by its old name, as a kind of tribute to the late owner. Tusk heard it referred to as The Rat so often he couldn't remember half the time what the new name was. He had come to respect it, admire it, though he never could get used to blast doors beautified by the very latest in modern art.

  He highly approved of the lounge, that was dimly lit, with large black marble tables and deep white leather sofas. Vidscreens provided vicarious amusement for those who couldn't find it anywhere else. The vidscreen was currently replaying Dion's interview with news commentator James Warden.

  They had die lounge practically to themselves, the few crew members who had been present had quietly left, out of respect for the king's need for a few moments privacy. As private as he could ever be, surrounded by aides, bodyguards.

  Tusk had his back to die vidscreen, refusing to watch. Dion, seated across from him, glanced up at himself occasionally, but mostly kept his morose gaze fixed on the beer in front of him—beer which he hadn't tasted and which by now must be warm and flat Nola looked from one to the other and sighed.

  "Boy, you two are about as much fun as a TRUC marooned in deepspace. And to think I washed my hair for this. Jeez, I wish link were here," she added teasingly.

  "Me, too," Tusk said, clenching his fist a gleam in his eyes.

  "I wonder what he's plotting," Dion muttered, the first winds he'd spoken since they'd left die comm over an hour ago.

  Tusk assumed they weren't referring to Link.

  "Whatever it is, you'll find out soon enough. Don't worry about it Look, I'll get you a fresh beer. Drink it and go to bed. . .

  "I am tired," Dion admitted wearily, shoving the glass aside.

  He glanced up again at the screen. The interview was approaching the end. He started to say something, when the image abruptly changed.

  "We interrupt our deepspace broadcast for this GBC special report."

  A premonition swept over Tusk. "Switch that damn thing off!" he shouted at a startled 'droid bartender, who stared at him in mechanical bewilderment.

  The controls were located behind the bar. Tusk twisted to his feet, lunged over the polished surface. He broke several glasses and sent a bowl of pretzels flying, but accomplished little else. The voice droned on.

  "The body of a human female has been discovered floating in one of the ornamental ponds located on the GBC grounds. She was the victim of an apparent suicide. The body has not been identified, but reliable sources tell us that she is the same person involved in a dramatic confrontation that took place today with Dion Starfire, self-proclaimed king of the galaxy—"

  Tusk drew his lasgun, aimed and fired. The vidscreen exploded, raining bits of plastiglass down on the indignant, protesting droid. Too late to undo the damage, of course, but shooting the damn screen gave Tusk an infinite amount of satisfaction.

  Dion stood frozen, drained of all color, white and cold and stiff. His eyes went vacant, glassy.

  "Dion!" Nola cried, frightened.

  He didn't respond.

  "Tusk, he's not breathing!"

  "Kid!" Tusk grabbed Dion's shoulder, shook him hard, fingers pinching the flesh. "Kid, snap out of it. Nola, hand me that beer—" he began, with the intention of throwing it into Dion's face.

  But the blue eyes slowly regained their focus, though he did not seem to recognize his surroundings. He drew in a shivering, sucking breath.

  "You okay?" Tusk demanded, worried.

  "Yes, I'm fine."

  Tusk shuddered at the sound. "Come on, kid. I'll take you back to your room—"

  "No, I'm fine. I need time to think, that's all."

  Dion shook off his friend's hand, walked to the door. The Honor Guard came to attention, saluted.

  Tusk followed after him, thinking he should, though he didn't particularly want to. What could he say?

  At the door, Dion turned to him. "Tusk, report to the bridge. Tell the ship's captain to take us into the Lanes. I want to reach Phoenix immediately."

  "Sure, kid," answered Tusk. He exchanged glances with Nola. Her eyes were wide, her freckles stood out like ink blots on her pallid skin. No need to mention that the ship was already in hyperspace.

  "Thank you," Dion said in the same flat and lifeless voice.

  The centurions were prepared to fall into step behind their king. But Agis, their captain, brought them to a halt. The centurion then did the unthinkable. He broke a rule, spoke without being spoken to.

  Coming forward, he said softly and most respectfully, "Your Majesty, I'm sorry."

  Dion, who was staring at nothing and seeing, perhaps, the body of the dead girl, her pretty brown hair floating in the water, shifted his gaze to the centurion.

  "So am I, Agis," he said quietly. "So am I."

  Chapter Five

  She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.

  William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene 1

  His Majesty, King Dion Starfire, arrived aboard Phoenix II and was met with due ceremony. Ranks of centurions stood to attention, forming an aisle of gleaming breast-plated human columns on either side of the path His Majesty tread. Behind the Honor Guard, those crew members of Phoenix not needed to keep the ship operational, attired in their dress uniforms, were present to do their king honor.

  Lord Sagan, clad in golden armor, golden helm with blood-red feather crest, red cape trimmed in gold with its golden phoenix stitched on the back, greeted his king with grave and solemn ceremony and presented him to the other dignitaries.

  Dion knew what was expected of him before an audience, knew it wouldn't be politic to indicate, by either bearing or manner, that there was a rift between himself and his chief military commander. He returned his lord's salute with dignity and aplomb, acknowledged a bow from
Admiral Aks, advanced to meet the dignitaries.

  "Lord Rykilth, Your Majesty," said Lord Sagan. "Warlord of galactic sector twenty-four."

  An extremely powerful Warlord, the vapor-breather had once, during the rule of the old king, been Sagan's mortal enemy. They were allies now. Rykilth's system had seceded, he had pledged the new king his support.

  Dion spoke the words of formal greeting in the vapor-breather's language, acknowledged the swirl of yellow fog in the vapor-breather's bubble helm that was his answer, remained a moment to exchange meaningless pleasantries.

  His mind was not on the polite words, spoken in the language that sounded rather like a hydraulic leak. His mind was on Sagan. What was he plotting? Why was Rykilth aboard Phoenix and not in galactic sector twenty-four, where he belonged?

  "Baroness DiLuna, Your Majesty, Warlord of sector sixteen." Sagan, moving along gravely at his king's side, continued the introductions.

  Another powerful Warlord, another whose sector had seceded from the Galactic Democratic Republic. Strong, swaggering, DiLuna ran a ship crewed exclusively by women, many of them her daughters. Various Baron DiLunas came and went. Always young, always handsome, they lived to service the baroness. These men were provided one year of sublime pleasure, anything and anyone aboard DiLuna's ship was theirs for the asking. After that year, the barons were "retired." No one ever knew what happened to them, the ceremony of retirement, like the ceremony of marriage, was performed in strictest secrecy, a mystery sacred to the baroness and her women. The following night, however, a new young man warmed DiLuna's bed.

  Dion, thinking of all this, understood the woman's sardonic smile and did not take offense at the coldness of her greeting. He may have been king but he was, after all, only a man, an inferior being, who served one useful purpose only. His face grew warm at the thought.

  DiLuna's smile broadened, perhaps she read his mind. He saw what he immediately assumed to be glances exchanged between the woman and Lord Sagan—obviously there was one man DiLuna respected. Dion's anger swelled and served him well, burning away his embarrassment.