King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  Aks stared at the sword, eyes bulging. "My lord is dead!" he cried in hollow tones, pushing himself away from the table, staggering to his feet.

  "No, he is not!" Maigrey returned, her voice sharp, too sharp, her response too quick. She drew a deep breath, let it out before she spoke. "Understand this, all of you. Derek Sagan is gone. He has placed me in command. He has given me access to his quarters, he has given me the code to unlock his computer files, including those that are classified.

  "I did not ask for, I do not want this responsibility, Your Majesty." Maigrey shifted her gaze to Dion. "But I had no choice. No choice," she repeated softly, bitterness tinging her voice.

  Her gray eyes were dark, no color in them, no color in her voice or anywhere about her. "This may be negative consolation, Your Majesty, but I can tell you this much—even if you knew where my lord was, you could not communicate with him." Her fingers absently worked the leather of the sword belt, caressed it, dug into it.

  Admiral Aks subsided slowly back into his seat.

  "Now, Your Majesty," Maigrey continued crisply, her hands leaving the sword, fingers clasping together on the table, "I would appreciate an updated report on the situation."

  "Tusk, go ahead," Dion ordered.

  Turning his back on them, he returned to staring moodily out the viewscreen. The ships of the Galactic Democratic Republic crawled among the stars like small annoying spiders. He heard Tusk's voice in the background, going over what had happened, but the king wasn't listening to him.

  Wait . . . counseled the voice inside him. And Dion was at last beginning to understand why.

  "And that's the story, your ladyship," Tusk concluded. "General Dixter doesn't think it's any coincidence that Robes chose to pull this stunt the moment Sagan's . . . er . . . back was turned, so to speak."

  Dion glanced around, saw the mercenary reclining in his chair, frowning at the toe of his boot.

  "I believe that General Dixter is correct," said Maigrey. She was keeping her face averted from the general, though he had several times attempted to catch her eye. "I am certain Robes took advantage of the opportunity. In fact, it may even be worse than that."

  So I'm right, Dion thought. He was astonished at his calm.

  A terrible calm, he was almost light-headed. He was reminded forcibly of the time he'd killed those men on Defiant, or when he'd held Sagan's life in his hands . . .

  Silence again. Uncomfortable, ominous, menacing. Maigrey stirred, smoothed back a lock of hair that had straggled out from her braid, then spread her hands flat upon the table. For the first time, she looked around at each of them, gathering them to her.

  "You think I understand more about what's going on than the rest of you. But I don't, not really. We know why Robes's has done this: to discredit Dion and the Warlord. We know the President's chosen this particular time to act because his spies informed him that Sagan was not around to defend himself against these charges. Not that my lord would have done so, in any case. What we don't understand—what I don't understand—is what Robes is hoping to gain from all this."

  "Simple." Tusk shrugged. "He's trying to goad us into war. And I say we give it to him!"

  "I agree," said Admiral Aks. "Citizen General Pang has threatened to board this ship in forty-eight hours. Make that forty-four hours now. That would be a disgrace, an affront to Lord Sagan . . . and to His Majesty," the admiral added hastily, as an afterthought. "I would blow this ship up first!"

  "And I would be the one to press the button, Admiral," said Maigrey. "But hopefully there are other alternatives."

  Dion felt her eyes upon him. Hands clasped behind his back, he had turned again to stare unseeing out the view-screen.

  "There are other alternatives, my lady." Aks was holding forth eagerly. "We send for Rykilth and DiLuna. Their fleets join with ours, we surround Pang's forces and we—"

  "—start a civil war. Is that what we want?" General Dixter argued. "Listen, Admiral, I've fought in countless civil wars in my time and I've never yet seen a winner. A victor—yes. But a winner—no."

  My throne smeared with the blood of my subjects, Dion reflected, watching the tiny, gleaming white dots of the spaceplanes move as close as either side dared, harassing, tempting, luring the opponent to make a mistake. I would rule a kingdom forever divided; steel and fear the glue holding it together.

  "Then what do you suggest we do, General Dixter?" Captain Williams demanded acidly.

  "Beats the hell out of me," Dixter replied.

  "Bah!" Aks exploded. "No wonder you were never more than a money-grubbing mercenary. What amazes me is how you managed to attain the rank of general, even in the Royal Army. But, then, it was always well known that you had influential friends. . . ." He gazed pointedly at Maigrey.

  Tusk was on his feet, fist clenched. "You goddam—"

  "That will do, Tusk," Dixter said firmly. "Admiral Aks, I don't care what you say about me, but you owe the Lady Maigrey—"

  "It seems to me," said Dion, turning abruptly, facing them, his voice cutting cold and sharp through the clamor, "that there is one point you have all overlooked. Admiral, General, Major Tusca . . . if you would all resume your seats."

  Another moment's tense silence. Dion's eyes met and held the defiant, anger-filled glares. One by one, he stared them down. Chairs scraped, feet shuffled, places were resumed, not without some muttering and clearing of throats and sidelong glances that promised the hostilities were not ended, merely deferred.

  Maigrey had neither moved nor spoken. Dion wondered if she even knew what had been said. She sat staring at the bloodsword and he realized, suddenly, that she was far away from them, far away from him.

  She, too, had left him, but he'd known that a long time ago.

  "Forty-eight hours," Dion said. "Why forty-eight hours? Lord Sagan's an accused murderer. What other murderer is given so much as forty-eight seconds to turn himself in? Why didn't Robes order Sagan arrested immediately? Why doesn't Pang force this ship to halt and board it this minute?"

  Silence again; this time he could see everyone considering, swallowing, digesting the premise. He could tell, by the sudden grimaces, that they were beginning to understand. The taste it left in the mouth was bitter.

  "It's Robes who needs the forty-eight hours." Dion answered his own question. "Within that time, he's expecting news. This"—he gestured at the net, closing fast around them—"is a mere diversion, meant to keep us occupied."

  "A trap!" Tusk whistled softly, off-key. "He's set a trap for Sagan!"

  "You must tell us where my lord is, Lady Maigrey!" Aks was on his feet again, pounding the table. "He must be warned!"

  "He knows," Maigrey said quietly. "He knew when he left."

  The admiral's mouth moved, but no sound came out.

  "We could do nothing to help him anyway." The scar was a leaden streak against Maigrey's livid skin. Her hands closed convulsively over the leather belt of the bloodsword. "He is out of reach, out of touch."

  Out of sight, Dion added mentally. Not even you, with the power of the Blood Royal can see him, can you, my lady?

  "So what do we do?" Tusk demanded.

  "We wait," said Dion.

  Chapter Two

  Try me, O God, and seek the ground of my heart: prove me, and examine my thoughts.

  Prayer Book, 1662, Psalms 139:23

  The Warlord guided his spaceplane to a landing on a barren, windswept desert. No planetary government challenged him, no control tower gave him coordinates, directions, warnings to avoid other aircraft. There were no other aircraft, there was no control tower, no government—planetary or otherwise—any longer. The planet seemed devoid of all life. If it had once had a name, that name had long since been expunged from the records.

  The spaceplane's systems shut down, with the exception of life support. The planet's atmosphere was thin; they would have to wear oxygen masks when they left the plane and began their trek across the desert.

  "We have landed some di
stance from the Abbey, my lord," Fideles stated timidly.

  It had taken them the equivalent of a day and a night to travel the Lanes, reach the isolated, forgotten planet where the Order had located its headquarters. Despite this length of time spent together, in the relatively cramped quarters of the spacecraft, Fideles was still so much in awe of the Warlord that it took a great deal of courage to venture this remark.

  Sagan did not respond. He was absorbed in his work, doing something with the plane's controls and computer. Fideles, who knew nothing of the mysterious and complex workings of a spacecraft, had no idea what.

  The Warlord had set the craft down behind a range of sawtooth rock formations, keeping them between his plane and the Abbey, whose walls stood black against a lurid red sky. It occurred to the young priest that the Warlord had landed here deliberately, was hiding the spaceplane from view.

  Fideles decided such a precaution was probably an instinctive action, taken by an old soldier, who could not relax his guard.

  The Warlord removed his hand from off five gleaming needles embedded in the arm of his pilots chair. Those needles, linked with his body, worked like the bloodsword, connecting him mentally and physically to his spaceplane. This was, Fideles knew, how Sagan flew and controlled his craft.

  But it wasn't the only means available.

  The Warlord looked thoughtfully, speculatively at the priest seated in the co-pilot's chair next to his.

  "Can you fly a spaceplane, Brother Fideles?"

  Fideles's mouth and eyes opened wide at the question. He cast a glance at the dials and switches and flashing lights on the control panel, and shook his head, smiling, thinking that perhaps the Warlord was teasing him.

  "No, my lord."

  Sagan turned the matter over in his mind one more time, then set to work again, barking sharp commands at the computer, hands moving swiftly and assuredly over the complex instruments. Brother Fideles watched him uneasily, with trepidation, afraid that these complicated maneuvers had something to do with him.

  The Warlord turned to him once more. "Brother Fideles, now you can fly this spaceplane."

  The young priest shook his head. "It is an engine of war. To operate it would be against my vows. I—"

  Sagan raised his hand. "It might be more correct to say that the spaceplane will fly you, Brother. I have set the controls in such a way that all you have to do is give a single verbal command to the computer. It will do the rest."

  The Warlord looked intently into the eyes that were gazing back at him in dismay, then continued, speaking in an even, controlled voice, as he might have spoken to a student pilot.

  "I have locked the plane's destination onto the last-known coordinates of Phoenix. The plane will carry you there, but it will do nothing more for you than that. It will not fight, for example, if anything attacks you. The Lady Maigrey will maintain the ship's position as long as it is possible to do so. If you arrive and the fleet is gone, then, Brother Fideles, you must put your trust in the Creator."

  The young man cast a nervous, sidelong glance at the onboard computer, the confusion of incomprehensible me-chanical devices, the intimidating flare of ominous-looking lights. He shook his head.

  "My lord, I think I understand what you are saying. You plan to remain in the Abbey after your father's death, perhaps take his place. And you make these arrangements in order that I may return to my duties. But that is not necessary, my lord. For if you do not return, then I will not return. I will stay and serve you in whatever capacity you might need me."

  Sagan made no reply. He rose from the pilot's chair, moved into the cramped space behind, and began to strip off his armor. Brother Fideles kept his eyes lowered, out of modesty, as was proper. He'd seen naked bodies, of course, but that was during the performance of his duty, treating the sick, the injured, the wounded, the dying. But this instance—alone with another human in the intimate confines of a cramped space—was different. Those who pledge vows of chastity both of mind and of body are taught to avoid temptation.

  He acted strictly out of force of habit, doing what he had been taught, not because he felt any uncomfortable stirrings of desire. Fideles wasn't tempted by the beauty and comeliness of the male physique. The dreams that tormented him in the long hours of the night were dreams of women, and the torment was very gentle, for Fideles was truly devout and had never once been led to question his faith.

  The young priest heard the clink of battle armor being packed away, neatly, orderly, in bins located on the plane's bulkheads. Sagan's silence continued. Fideles, who couldn't see the man's face, thought perhaps the Warlord was angry.

  "My lord, if you are worried that I am a deserter and that by allowing me to stay you are shielding a criminal, you can put your mind at ease. I am not, technically speaking, a member of the ship's crew."

  This evoked a response. Sagan paused in his undressing, half turned. "You're not? And how did you manage to sneak aboard my ship, Brother Fideles?"

  "With God's help, my lord," the young priest answered serenely.

  "Since He is not subject to court-martial and the death penalty, I suggest you tell me your story," Sagan said dryly.

  "It is a long one, my lord, and I am not permitted to give details, for I would not want your anger to fall upon any other than myself. Suffice it to say that I met a young man in the medical corps who was newly assigned to serve under your command. He confided in me that he was terrified at the prospect, for it is said, my lord, that those who sign their names on the roll to serve you sign their names on Death's roll, as well."

  Fideles heard the rustle of soft cloth sliding over the hard-muscled body. He saw the hem of long black velvet robes, the robes of a warrior-priest, brush the deck. He could not forebear raising his eyes, fascinated. He had never seen the black robes of those who were permitted to do battle for their faith, to engage in physical combat, to injure, maim, kill in the name of the Creator. Once, long ago, such priests and priestesses had defended the Order of Adamant against its enemies. But King Starfire, shocked at the thought of men of God spilling blood, had demanded that the Holy Father, the Lord High Abbot, head of the church, rid the Order of its warriors. The Holy Father had complied—there being some doubt existing with the body of the church itself as to the exact propriety of maintaining this guard. Thus, the night of the Revolution, there had been no one to protect the men and women of the Order from the mobs.

  "Well, Brother?"

  Fideles blinked. "Forgive me, my lord. I—I'm sorry. I wasn't listening."

  He had been wondering how Sagan had managed to become one of the forbidden warrior-priests. Obviously, it must have been done prior to the Revolution. In secret, of course. But why? Unless the Order had foreseen the need. . . .

  "How did you get aboard my ship?" the Warlord repeated patiently. Perhaps he guessed the thoughts running through the young priest's mind.

  Fideles flushed. "The young man of whom we were speaking came from a wealthy family. He had, I believe, joined the military as an act of rebellion against his parents and come to regret it. He offered me a vast sum of money to take his place. I took the money and—"

  "You took it? A member of the Order accepting payment to further a criminal act?"

  The young priest appeared much abashed. "I did not view it in that way, my lord. We in the Order take vows of poverty, but the church requires funds to continue its work. God had, in essence, granted this young man's prayers, and I felt it only proper that the young man show his gratitude. I gave all the money to the Order, in the young man's name. I told him I was giving the money to charity, but I don't think he believed me. Such lack of faith in his fellow men will count against his soul, however, not mine," added Fideles gravely.

  The Warlord compressed his lips, perhaps to hide a smile.

  "Continue, Brother. Confess to me the rest of this crime."

  Fideles glanced up, startled and somewhat frightened by Sagan's stern tone. The young priest saw the Warlord's thin lips twi
tch, saw the dark eyes amused, not angry.

  Brother Fideles relaxed. "It was easy to slip aboard Phoenix in the confusion just prior to launching. The young man's friends knew, of course, that the switch had been made, but I believe he had paid them well to hold their tongues. And so you see, my lord, the person who is now AWOL from your ship was actually a deserter years before. He changed his identity and disappeared long ago."

  "You entered my service and, from what Giesk tells me, you have served me and my men well. You are courageous, cool, and levelheaded under fire. During the Corasian attack, Giesk said you remained on board Phoenix, treating the wounded, until ordered to take the last evac ship."

  "In serving men, I serve the Creator, my lord. My courage comes from Him."

  "Does it, indeed?" Sagan murmured, almost to himself. "I hope He has a good supply of it laid up in storage for you, Brother Fideles. I have a presentiment you're going to need it."

  The young priest stared at him, incredulous. "What do you mean, my lord?"

  The Warlord did not immediately answer; he appeared to be in doubt whether or not to explain or let the statement stand. He wrapped a braided leather belt around his waist. Reaching into a worn scrip—the only object he'd brought with him beside the black robes—he removed the small silver dagger with the star-shaped handle, slid it into its place beneath the belt. The scrip, with its chalice and the silver dish for the oil, remained in the pouch, attached to the belt. Taking hold of the black hood that rested upon his shoulders, Sagan drew it up over his head. Fideles rose to his feet, thinking they were preparing to leave.

  The Warlord made up his mind to speak. He put his hand upon the young man's arm, restraining him, holding him.

  "Brother Fideles, within those safe and peaceful-looking Abbey walls, we may face greater danger than would be present if we found ourselves surrounded by the entire Corasian nation. In fact," Sagan added grimly, "I would far rather be facing a Corasian battle fleet alone in this small plane than what perhaps lies ahead for us in there."