King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,—wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be . . .

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  A low stone wall, of irregular shape and design, surrounded the rose garden. A wrought-iron gate, accessed from the headmaster's tree-shaded patio, permitted entry. The garden was large. Stone paths and walkways wound around maple trees and lindens, oaks and pines and spruce. Statuary, copies of famous pieces of antiquity, stood in nooks and niches and crannies. Rosebushes, a thousand varieties, filled the air with their fragrance, filled the soul with their beauty.

  Maigrey pushed on the gate, its hinges made no sound. She had taken care, when she first came here, six months ago, to oil them. The silence of the grounds was sacred. It seemed to Maigrey that only Nature's voice, like that of a priest's in a cathedral, had the right to disturb it.

  Thinking of priests and cathedrals, she was rather disconcerted to catch a glimpse, as she entered, of a brown-robed and cowled figure, standing in the shadows of an oak tree. Maigrey did not speak, nor make any indication that she had seen the priest. The young man, for his part, remained immobile as one of the statues, keeping his eyes lowered. It was not permitted to those who had taken the vow of chastity to look at women directly.

  Maigrey sighed deeply when she shut the gate behind her.

  She could not see the Warlord, but she knew where he was. It was as if she heard the beating of his heart and could find him by following the sound. She walked the stone paths that had, despite the years, remained in relatively good condition. Maigrey had been surprised, pleasantly surprised, to see that few changes had come to the garden. She had expected to find it dead, bleak and barren. But it teemed with life, though some of the hybrid roses had gone wild and some of the climbers, with their long, thorny runners, had completely overrun certain sections.

  The paths had almost vanished, covered with dead leaves, those of this autumn and those of autumns gone by. The hem of her skirt, as she walked, brushed among them, making a soft, whispering sound that was echoed by the gentle breeze and the drifting, falling leaves.

  Rounding a corner, she came upon Sagan, seated on a marble bench near a copy of one of Rodin's sculptures, The Burghers of Calais. The Warlord had removed his helm, it lay upon the bench at his side. His head was bowed, his arms crossed over his chest. His black hair, streaked with more gray than she remembered, fell loose around his neck and shoulders.

  He sat silent, staring at nothing, immovable as the statue of the brave, doomed men standing over him. He had been sitting thus for a long time, Maigrey noticed. Brown and withered leaves had fallen on his shoulders, on the hem of his cloak that trailed on the stone walkway.

  Maigrey paused at the bend in the garden path. Whatever had brought her this far—courage, pride—failed her. She could not take another step.

  He either heard her or sensed her coming. He lifted his head, saw her standing beneath the oak tree, her hand upon its trunk as a child might have clung to the hand of its mother. He rose to his feet with respectful, soldierly grace.

  Maigrey drew a breath, let go of the tree, pushing herself forward slightly with the tips of her fingers, and walked to meet him.

  "My lady," he said with a slight inclination of the head.

  "My lord."

  She held out her hand, wishing that it would not tremble, wishing her chill, numb fingers had some life in them. He took her hand in his, but did not carry it to his lips. He held it fast. His strong, warm fingers closed around hers. He drew her near him.

  Can you feel the pain? She had felt it, shared it with him. The battery of emotions assailing him had beaten down his fortress walls, smashed through his defenses, left him, for a brief time, open and vulnerable. Maigrey had wept for him, that first night after he'd heard the news. And though her giving way to tears generally irritated him, this time she'd sensed him grateful, as if through their shared consciousness, he'd found solace in her compassion.

  But that was past. He was working to repair the breach, build the walls around him higher, thicker than before. Not a crack remained in the stonework. She could catch no glimmer of light.

  "You will go?" she asked, knowing the answer but wishing him, willing him to change his mind.

  "Yes, my lady. I will go."

  Maigrey removed her hand from his grasp, twisted and twined her fingers together, a habit when she was nervous. She averted her eyes from his steady, intense gaze, stared unseeing at the statue, her brow furrowed, twisting her hands.

  A sudden gust of wind swirled dead leaves in a small cyclone down the path. She watched it, her attention caught by the sound and movement. The cyclone ended suddenly, the leaves becoming tangled in the thorns of a bush filled with blood red roses. Maigrey reached out a hand, touched a blossom.

  "Have you ever noticed that the roses are most beautiful in autumn? Their colors are more brilliant, vibrant, as if they know what fate awaits them and they are reveling in life."

  He said nothing, made no movement. Patiently waiting, he stood near her, still looking at her, she knew, though she was not looking at him. She kept her gaze on the roses.

  "My lord," she said softly, "the words I'm going to say we hold captive in the darkest portion of our souls. I'm going to free them, speak them aloud although, God knows," she added, shivering, "I wish I could let them stay there."

  Maigrey turned her gray eyes, earnest and intent, full upon him. "One man knows about the crack in your armor. One man knows the weak link in the chain mail that will give way and let the point of the spear drive home. Abdiel was in your mind, my lord. He owns a portion of you, as he owns a portion of ... a portion of—"

  Maigrey's voice broke. She began to shake uncontrollably. Huddling deep within the folds of the sky-blue mantle, she lowered her face, trying to hide her weakness behind the curtain of hair.

  Sagan put his arms around her, gathered her close She stiffened for an instant at his touch, then she relaxed, pressing her head against his breast. Eyes closed, she heard his heartbeat, slow, strong, steady. The warmth of his body, radiating through the armor, drove away the chill from her skin, at least, if not her heart.

  "Derek, I used my power."

  She spoke hesitantly, uncertain whether her words might not impel him forward, rather than hold him back. The body pressed against hers tensed, muscles went rigid. He ceased to breathe.

  Maigrey drew a breath, as if for both of them. "I looked across time and space and . . . and inside the Abbey walls."

  His hands closed painfully over her upper arms. He stared at her eagerly, hungrily.

  "It's true. Your father is alive. ..."

  Sagan relaxed his grip on her. His eyes closed, he drew a shuddering breath. Maigrey grasped him in turn, digging her strong fingers into his flesh.

  "Derek, listen to me. A shadow lies across him, across the Abbey! A shadow my power couldn't penetrate."

  "That could be due to many things, my lady." Sagan thrust her away from him. He was suddenly crisp, businesslike, evidently sorry for his former display of emotion. "The priests would not permit you to see within, for one thing. Or," he added, his voice growing cooler, "it could have been the shadow of approaching death. ..."

  "Yes, but whose?" she demanded, fear snapping patience.

  He frowned, crossed his arms over his chest. "This wasn't what I came to discuss, my lady—"

  "Oh, Derek!" Maigrey caught hold of his arms, felt, beneath her chill fingers, the taut muscles, the smooth skin broken by the scars of his battles and the scars of his devotion to his faith. "You told me, that night at Snaga Ohme's, that we could never fight Abdiel alone. That the only way we could defeat him was to fight him together. Don't you see, my lord? This is the one way he knows he can divide us! I know you must go. At least take me with you!"

  He was angry, extremely angry, and she thought for a moment the anger was directed at her. But it wasn't, it was aimed at himself. The flesh beneath her hand trembled. She unde
rstood the depth of his fear, understood that he was angry because he had been tempted and he had nearly weakened, nearly let himself be persuaded.

  "Derek, please," she urged.

  He sighed. Reaching up, he ran his fingers gently over the scar on her face. Her pale hair, tousled by the evening wind, brushed across his hand. He smoothed it back.

  "Impossible, my lady. Women are not permitted within the monastery walls—"

  "I was once!"

  "You would not be again."

  "I could wear a disguise. The hooded robes, like those the young priest has on, would hide my face, my body. ..."

  The Warlord almost smiled. "The brethren would know, Maigrey."

  Yes, she thought in bitter despair. They would know. But what mattered most was that he would know. The warrior-priest would never permit such sacrilege within the walls of his one true sanctuary.

  "Besides, my lady," he continued coolly, smoothly, "you have other duties. That is what I came to discuss. You must return to Dion."

  Maigrey stared at him. She hadn't been prepared for this, hadn't seen the blow coming. He'd caught her uncovered, off her guard. She went numb, the blood and life drained from her as surely as if he had stabbed her. She turned away from him, walking blindly, tripped, stumbled, and caught hold of the trunk of the oak to save herself from falling.

  U-r », y>

  I won't go.

  "No? Where will you run to this time, my lady?" he asked dryly. "There aren't many hiding places left."

  "How can I face him? After what I did? He knows, doesn't he? Knows the truth?"

  "Dion knew it before that night, my lady. Abdiel made certain of that."

  Maigrey lifted her head, stared out into the garden that was slowly darkening with evening's lengthening shadows.

  "Then he knows I failed him. He knows I planned to betray him. I was going to keep the space-rotation bomb. I was going to be queen!"

  "In the end, you didn't."

  "But that wasn't my fault! Give credit where it's due, my lord. Give it to yourself, to Abdiel. Our blood's all tainted with the same poison."

  "Yes," he said somberly, and there was something dark and ominous and hurting in his tone that made her forget her own grief. She turned, fearfully, to look at him.

  "I broke my oath to him, Maigrey," Sagan said. "Or rather, I would have broken it, if Brother Fideles hadn't stopped me with the"—there was the slightest hesitation—"with the message from my father."

  "My God!" Maigrey could say nothing more, could only Stare at him. She had seen the deepening of the lines of his face, noted the pallor beneath the rich tan, the darkening of the shadows around the eyes, the grim tightness of the lips. But she had accounted them to shock.

  Now she knew, now she understood. A wind swept through the garden with the biting cold of winter, scattering the dead leaves. They skittered down the paths like demons dancing for joy at the fall of another soul.

  "You're shivering," Sagan said. "We should go inside—" He was drawing the hood of her cloak up over her head.

  "No, I want to stay out here. I couldn't breathe . . . inside." She glanced around, shuddered. "I feel sometimes that our lives are like this garden. All the paths surrounded by a stone wall that hems us in and constantly turns our footsteps so that no matter where we walk we must end up in the same place. If God exists at all, Derek, is this what He is? A stone wall?"

  Sagan shrugged. "I read somewhere—perhaps in the Kaballah, I can't remember—that the closer man comes to God the less free will he has. The truly devout man knows the mind of God, you see, and to work God's will, man must forfeit his own. The angels," he added grimly, "being the closest to God, are therefore virtual slaves."

  Which is why Lucifer rebelled, she thought. Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.

  "Maigrey," added Sagan quietly. "There is the gate. You are always free to open it and leave."

  "You mean run away," she said bitterly.

  Run away from my responsibility. From trying to set right what I made wrong. Those who know the mind of God. Or if not His mind, at least their own.

  Maigrey sighed wearily, bowed her head in resignation. "What must I do?"

  "My shuttle will take you back to Phoenix. The Honor Guard will be yours to command. Brother Fideles and I will go on in my own private spaceplane."

  "Alone? Surely you could take one of the centurions—"

  His brows came together in annoyance.

  Maigrey saw her words would do no good, saved her breath.

  "When you return to Phoenix," he continued, "go to my quarters. I have reset the controls to allow you and you alone to enter. Using our code—you know the one—you will have access to all my secret computer files, all my reports, all my wealth. Use the information, use the money. Use whatever you need."

  Maigrey shrank back from him, shaking her head, appalled. "No! I don't want—"

  "Then turn it over to Dion, if you think that's what's best!" he said impatiently. "I mean," he amended, "to His Majesty."

  His hands went to his waist, he unbuckled his sword belt. Folding the straps neatly around the bloodsword, he handed it to her.

  "Keep this for me. One does not come armed into the presence of God."

  Maigrey took the bloodsword, felt the leather smooth and warm from his body. No need to tell him he might be walking defenseless into the presence of the one enemy in the universe who had the power to destroy him, to destroy them all. He knew.

  "I will keep it for you until you return," she said steadily, calmly.

  He started to say something, changed his mind. Silently, he reached into the worn and ancient leather script he wore at his side, drew forth a small rosewood box, and held it out to Maigrey.

  For a moment she didn't think she had the strength to take it. But her courage would match his. She accepted it, opened it, was surprised to find it empty. She lifted her eyes to him in mute questioning.

  In answer, he drew aside the folds of his cloak. The Star of the Guardian hung on a silver chain around his neck. The jewel was dark, unlovely, hideous to look at.

  "My penance," he said with a rueful, dark smile.

  Maigrey felt tears running down her cheek, the moisture cold on her skin. She knew her crying would annoy him, raised her hand to hastily brush the tears away, attempted to hide the motion behind a curtain of pale hair. He saw, however.

  "Let's walk," he said. "Warm the blood. Time grows short and I have one more subject to discuss with you."

  They walked the garden paths, walked unconsciously in step, each with the other, their footfalls sounding on the stone paths as one. Blue cape and crimson red trailed behind, dragging the dead leaves after them with soft, rustling whispers. They walked shoulder to shoulder, close but not touching. His hands were clasped behind him, beneath his cloak. Hers held the hilt of the bloodsword.

  Each knew what the last subject was to be discussed. Neither wanted to bring it up, both planned to avoid it as long as possible. Maigrey hoped fervently he would decide not to mention it at all.

  "How have you lived here, my lady?" Sagan asked, striving to speak nonchalantly, his gaze roaming over the low stone wall, going to the abandoned, deserted buildings.

  "My needs are simple," she replied. "I live in the caretaker's cottage. Do you remember it? The house is small, with a fireplace for heat and cooking. There's a village near here, now. It was supposed to be a city, when Robes took over the Academy, but it never quite got that far. Now it's a farming community, the inhabitants glad to live isolated lives, away from the world. A young woman comes once a week, with a gift of bread and fruit and meat."

  "A gift?" He glanced at her, amused.

  Maigrey flushed in embarrassment. "I try to pay her for it, but she refuses. I'm not sure, but I think the people believe I'm a ghost. Either that, or I'm insane. They hope their gifts will keep me from murdering them all in their beds. You should have seen the poor child when they first sent her up here. She was half-dead f
rom fright. She fainted when she saw me. Even now, she puts the food down on the grass, waits until she sees me take it, then runs."

  The Warlord made no reply. Maigrey didn't blame him. She was rambling, talking simply to fill the vacuum.

  She stole a glance at him, doubted if he'd even heard. The lines in his face had deepened, darkened. He looked gaunt, haggard, weary beyond the ability of sleep to give him ease. She drew near him, placed her hand upon his arm. He closed his own hand over hers, stopped in the middle of the path, standing before a copy of a Pieta, done by some forgotten artist of the past.

  "Maigrey, have you ever considered that it might be better if I did not come back?"

  "No, my lord," she answered calmly, looking up at him.

  "You know that you are destined to die by my hand—"

  "Destiny, again!" Maigrey interrupted him. "The stone wall, the winding, twisting paths. No, I won't believe it! You had a dream. That's all! You were furious with me for failing you that night. You hated me, you wanted revenge. Wishful thinking, that's all it was and—"

  "My lady." He finally managed to stop the torrent by placing his fingers gently on her lips. "You are right. I was furious that night, the night we failed each other. And I had the dream soon after. I've dreamed it many times. And at first I reveled in it, I looked forward eagerly to my revenge."

  "There, you see?" she said quickly when he stopped to draw a breath. "It's time we were returning. That poor priest of yours you left standing by the gate has probably frozen solid—"

  "Maigrey. The dream comes to me still. Now I loathe it. It haunts me. And yet, each time, its images are clearer."

  "Which means?" she asked reluctantly, knowing he would never leave until she heard him out.

  "That the event is coming closer. Do you still have the silver armor?"

  "I won't give it up. It was a gift from Marcus. Now a gift from the dead, doubly precious."

  "Or doubly cursed. Heed my words, Maigrey. The time may come when you are forced to make a choice—"

  "If so, it will be a choice, Derek! And I will make the decision. I will determine my own fate. Neither you nor God nor anyone else will determine it for me."