King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

Fideles took the hand. "Et cum spiritu tuo. And His spirit with you."

  Retrieving the candle, Brother Fideles waited until he saw Brother Miguel safely hidden within the shadows, protected by the dead. Then Fideles left, hurried back up the aisle of cold and silent marble figures. Placing his foot upon the first stair, looking into the darkness above him, Fideles thought of the monk with the dead eyes, of the horrors he had heard about, of the serpent's tooth. His courage almost foiled him. He couldn't make himself take that second step.

  "God spared Miguel for a reason. Yes, perhaps to warn me. To save my lord's life! And here I stand, cowering in the darkness. God is with me. I am in His hands."

  Firmly, swiftly, Brother Fideles began to climb the stairs.

  The priest emerged from a cellar door that led him out into the Abbey's large communal kitchen.

  He paused in the shadows of the doorway, peered out, "reconnoitered" as the soldiers said. No one was about. The kitchen had not been used in some time, apparently. Perhaps the mind-dead had no need for food. Or maybe they had brought their own.

  Fideles pulled his hood low over his head, slid his hands into the sleeves of his robes, and slipped out the door. He hurried through the kitchen, noticed, in passing, that it had not been cleaned after that fetal, last supper. Bowls and pans lay on the floor, a sack of flour was opened, spilled. He thought of the brothers working, feeling the first pangs of the poison. Rats scurried away at his approach. What, he wondered suddenly, had been done with the bodies? Averting his eyes, not wanting to think about it, he hurried through the room.

  At the doorway, he stopped again, looked into the hall, expecting to see the monks who were not monks at all but those Miguel called the mind-dead.

  The hall was empty.

  Maybe they've gone and taken my lord with them! Fideles thought in sudden panic. His fear drove him into the hallway, determined to search the entire Abbey if he had to.

  Two robed and hooded figures stepped out suddenly from the shadows, blocked Fideles's path.

  The young priest's heart nearly stopped beating.

  "We have been expecting you, Brother Fideles," said one.

  "Come this way," said another.

  Their voices, like the eyes that he could see now, glittering in the darkness of the hoods, were lifeless, expressionless. Once his heart had resumed its normal cycle, Brother Fideles found himself responding to this desperate situation with the calm and steady nerve that sustained him when his ship was under fire.

  "I want to see Lord Sagan," he said firmly. "Take me to him."

  "That is our command," said one of the mind-dead implacably. "Follow us."

  Fideles hadn't expected to be obeyed with such alacrity, wondered uneasily at the sudden cooperation. The monks led him past the infirmary, the herbarium. Fideles pictured the bloody tragedies enacted within, shivered, and said a prayer for the dead. The monks continued walking. Fideles, looking up, saw the door that led to the last room all brothers eventually entered.

  "Is my lord . . . dead?" Fideles stopped.

  One of the mind-dead turned around. "Come," he said.

  Fideles heard, then, the sound of a groan, a cry of terrible agony, coming from behind the mortuary door. He thought he recognized Sagan's voice, and the young priest hurried for-ward. Pushing aside the mind-dead, no longer thinking of his own danger, Fideles thrust open the door to the mortuary and hastened inside.

  "My lord!" he breathed in anguish and in pity.

  Sagan lay upon the stone bier, the bier on which the dead rested. A corpse—Fideles recognized it as that of his lord's father—had been removed to make room for the living. It had been dumped unceremoniously in a corner of the stone room, the bodies of several of the mind-dead lay still and motionless near it. The Warlord was bound, hand and foot, with steel manacles, a precaution that seemed unnecessary, considering the terrible severity of the punishment he had endured.

  Fideles hurried forward, stared in shocked horror at the tormented body. Sagan was half-naked, his black robes had been torn from his upper body and his legs. He had been beaten so severely that, in places, the flesh had been stripped away, exposing the white bone beneath. Puncture wounds, turning an ugly bluish purple, oozed dark blood. His face had been battered almost past recognition.

  Fideles glanced at the bodies on the floor, at the blood that ran in the gutters of the room. The Warlord had not submitted to his torment without a fight.

  "My lord!" Fideles repeated in a choked voice, grasping hold of Sagan's right hand. He felt blood, warm and sticky, on his fingers. Turning the hand, palm up, he saw five fresh puncture marks in the flesh.

  The priest's voice roused Sagan from his half-conscious stupor. Turning his head with a painful effort, he looked at Fideles. Recognition lighted the dark eyes.

  "I, too, must pass through the fire," he whispered through lips that were split and swollen and caked with blood.

  "My lord, tell me what to do! How can I help?" Fideles said urgently.

  "By carrying out your orders, of course, Brother Fideles," said a voice.

  An old man with a disfigured, bulbous head crept out of the shadows of the back of the room. He wore magenta robes, decorated with a streak of jagged, black lightning.

  "Abdiel," whispered Brother Fideles.

  "Ah, you've heard of me. His lordship told you, no doubt. How convenient. It saves the need of tedious and time-consuming explanation. And you haven't much time, Brother Fideles. You must return to Lady Maigrey and to His Majesty, the king, immediately! You must warn them, tell them that I, Abdiel, have taken Lord Sagan hostage. Though I think you'll find that your news is not news to them, at all. I'm certain that the Lady Maigrey already knows."

  Sagan's eyes narrowed, the swollen lips parted. The fingers of the hand that Fideles held clenched in a spasm of rage and pain.

  "I don't understand, my lord," Fideles said, holding fast to Sagan and ignoring Abdiel. "What is it you want me to do, my lord? If it is to remain with you, to suffer and die with you here, then I will commend my soul to God and do so."

  "Those weren't your orders, however, were they, Brother Fideles?" Abdiel said cunningly. "That wasn't your lord's final command to you. Hasten! The spaceplane is ready to go, to carry you safely to Phoenix, where the Lady Maigrey awaits your arrival."

  The Warlord's body jerked, muscles bunched. He raised his arms as if he would rip the manacles apart. Wounds opened, blood flowed, his chest heaved.

  "My lord, stop! It's killing you!" Fideles cried.

  "Remarkable, isn't it," said Abdiel, eyeing Sagan in jealous admiration. "After all he's endured, he still has the strength to try to defy me. But, you are right, young brother. It is killing him."

  Abdiel held up a scythe, shaped like the head of a snake. "Before I'd let you die, Derek, I'd use this. I don't want to have to. It would make you extremely difficult to control, but I will, if you force me."

  The Warlord's eyes closed, a bloody froth formed on his hps. His head lolled, the body went limp.

  Fideles, thinking he had died, placed his hand upon the naked chest, was about to give a thankful prayer to God, when he felt, weak and slow but steady, the beat of the heart.

  "He is not dead," said Abdiel. "He has escaped me the only way left to him. His mind has withdrawn deep into its own hiding places. It will be difficult, the task long and tedious, but I have time. I will track him down and find him."

  The mind-seizer raised his left hand. Five razor-sharp needles, protruding from the flesh, gleamed in the candlelight.

  "And now, Brother Fideles, you will obey your lord's final command."

  Fideles remembered the spaceplane, the myriad dials and buttons whose use and function he did not understand. He thought about the long flight through cold and hostile space, helpless, alone, perhaps drifting, lost, marooned. He looked at the wizened old man, who stood leering over the bier at him, and knew that, somehow, he would be doing this evil man's bidding. Yet, Sagan had obviously foreseen somethin
g like this happening. He must have had his reasons.

  "Yes," said Brother Fideles, "with God's help, I will obey my lord's command."

  "Good, good. And you will carry to the Lady Maigrey a message from me, from Abdiel. Tell her that I have taken Lord Sagan to the galaxy of the Corasians. In that mind"—Abdiel pointed at the Warlord's bloodied head—"are the plans and designs for the space-rotation bomb.

  "I will gain access to those plans by means of this"—Abdiel made the needles wink and glitter in the light—"and I will pass the knowledge on to the Corasians, who will then construct such a bomb."

  Fideles stared at him. "You're mad! You'd give this power to our enemies?"

  "No, to myself," Abdiel replied with a wink and a smile. "I will deal with the Corasians when the time comes. In the meanwhile, they will serve me. Tell this to the Lady Maigrey. She will know where to find us."

  "A trap," said Fideles. "Another trap. I'll warn her. She won't fall into it."

  "She won't fall, she will walk, run! Only she possesses the power to stop me. Only she stands in my way from taking total control of this galaxy . . . and of her king. She must destroy me. I must destroy her. An interesting contest, don't you think?"

  Brother Fideles cast one last look at his lord, asking for some sign, some indication if he was doing the right thing or not.

  Sagan lay still, unmoving.

  Fideles sighed. Lifting the limp hand, he pressed it to his lips. "God be with you, my lord," he whispered. He laid the hand back on the stone bier and turned away abrupdy, blinking back the tears that filled his eyes. Bracing himself, he started to walk away from the bier, away from the old man. The thin, cracked voice stopped him.

  "And when you talk to the Lady Maigrey, you should remind her of something that she may have, perhaps, forgotten. Something that will make this contest all the more entertaining."

  Fideles paused. He could not look around, revulsion and horror had almost overwhelmed him.

  "I'm listening, " he said, keeping firm control over his voice to prevent it from breaking.

  "Remind my lady, " said Abdiel, "that if she saves the life of Derek Sagan, she saves the life of the man who is destined to end her own. "

  Book Three

  Build then the ship of death, for you must take the longest journey, to oblivion. And die the death, the long and painful death that lies between the old self and the new.

  D. H. Lawrence, The Ship of Death

  Chapter One

  Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.

  Prayer Book, 1662, Solemnization of Matrimony

  General John Dixter, standing outside the double golden doors, decorated with a phoenix rising from flames, leaned back against one of the bulkheads, folded his arms, and crossed his legs at the ankles.

  "Her ladyship is extremely busy, sir," began Agis in apologetic tones, embarrassed at keeping an officer of such high rank standing in a hallway.

  "I'm aware of that," said Dixter mildly. "I said I'd wait."

  "My lady . . ." The captain had recourse to the commlink.

  "Send him in," came the curt reply.

  The doors slid open. Dixter stood upright, nodded his thanks to the captain, who saluted the general as he entered the Warlord's quarters. The doors slid shut behind him, the soft sigh of the mechanism masking Dixter's soft sigh as he walked into the room.

  Maigrey was seated at a communications center at the far end of Sagan's quarters. Dixter could see an image of Captain Williams, an obviously distraught Captain Williams, on the screen in front of her. Maigrey said nothing to her visitor, but she turned her head to acknowledge his presence and invited him, with a glance and a nod, to be seated.

  Dixter, having experienced Sagan's furniture, decided to remain standing. He lounged about the far end of the room, keeping a discreet distance between himself and the communications terminal, and appeared to busy himself by examining a few of the curiosities Sagan had collected to replace those lost in the destruction of Phoenix.

  The general looked at everything, saw nothing. Now that he was here, now that he was close to her, he was wondering if he'd done the right thing in forcing himself into her presence. He listened to her voice, to one side of the conversation, the volume on the commlink being kept low, and he heard the ragged edge of weariness, the sharpness of fatigue that was not so much of body but of spirit.

  "The wedding is scheduled for 1800 hours, Captain. That gives the tailor and his mates six hours. I am certain that in this time—"

  Williams interrupted, his tirade inaudible to Dixter, who could, however, guess what was being said.

  Maigrey bit her lip, listened patiently, though her fingers drummed restlessly on the console. At length, she cut in.

  "Yes, Captain Williams, I am fully aware that Nola Rian is an officer in the Royal Air Corps. I am aware that she has been credited with shooting down twelve Corasian fighters and the disabling of another four. I am aware that she was decorated for her valor in the Corasian battle and I will possibly concede the feet, Captain, that Nola Rian is one of the 'toughest broads' you've ever met. But, damn it, she is also a woman and this is her wedding day and if she wants to be married in a white dress, then I say she will be. Besides, it will look well on the GBC nightly news. You know that Lord Sagan would never dream of using those white lace tablecloths anyhow."

  Williams was apparently still inclined to argue. Maigrey let him rant on a few moments, then, "It would seem to me, Captain, that sewing a skirt is far easier than sewing trousers. It's just a matter of a few seams. . . . No, I've never done it before myself, but—Tell the tailor I will send down one of my own dresses that he can cut up to use for a pattern. You may also tell him that he will have that wedding dress ready on time or I'll put a seam in his head! Is that understood, Captain?

  Thank you. Now, about the wedding cake." Maigrey brushed back a lock of hair from her face. "A cake designed in the shape of this warship is not particularly romantic. I want something else. I have no idea what. Tell Cook to use his imagination."

  Williams made a comment.

  "Not quite that much imagination, Captain," Maigrey said with a wry smile. "Remember, the reception will be open to the press and available for public broadcast. Every man off-duty is to be in attendance in full dress uniform. And, of course, yourself and Admiral Aks."

  Williams made another comment.

  Maigrey sighed, placed her hand on the switch. "Believe me, Captain, no one wishes my lord were back more than I do. You have your orders."

  She depressed a button. The screen went blank. She sat staring at the empty screen. "If I ordered them to smash through that blockade out there, I wouldn't hear a murmur. But this?" Her shoulders slumped, her head sank into her hands. "Declaring war would be easier. ..."

  "My lady." Agis's voice came through the commlink. "Admiral Aks requests—"

  "Tell the admiral I'm in conference."

  "He says it's urgent, my lady. Something about the flowers. ..."

  "I could come back later," Dixter offered.

  "No, stay here, John. I—We need to talk. Tell the admiral to do the best he can, Captain. I rely completely on his judgment.

  "There." Maigrey rose to her feet, walked around the chair, but she kept her head lowered, her face hidden behind the curtain of pale hair. "God knows what the man will come up with. I'm not sure Aks knows the difference between a rose and a cauliflower. I don't suppose it will matter much, at this point ..." Her voice trailed off.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between the two. Maigrey looked down at her hands, resting on the back of the chair. Dixter carefully replaced whatever object he'd been inspecting back on its stand.

  "You've been avoiding me, Maigrey."

  "Yes," she answered coolly. "And I would have continued to do so if you hadn't insisted on this meeting .that can only be extremely painful to both of us."

  "Maigrey, I—"

  "Don't, John!" she cried suddenly, raising her hand
in a warning gesture. "Don't say it! I won't listen."

  "Say what?" Dixter stopped, stared at her, truly puzzled.

  "Say that you forgive me. I don't deserve your forgiveness. I don't want it."

  "Forgive you?" Dixter said, perplexed. "Forgive you for what? Maigrey, I don't understand—"

  "You never did!"

  She raised her head, the gray eyes were darker, emptier, colder than the deepspace he abhorred. "You never did understand, did you, John? You're too damn nice. Too damn honorable. I left you on Defiant to die, John Dixter. I left you, I left Dion, knowing that if I had stayed, I could have saved you both! I owed you my loyalty out of friendship. I owed Dion my loyalty out of a sacred trust. I renounced both. As it turned out, Dion saved himself and Sagan saved you."

  "But, Maigrey, you had your duty—"

  "Duty!" She tossed her hair back from her face, gave a bitter laugh. "Duty. You mean going after that space-rotation bomb? Snatching it out from under Sagan's nose? Do you want to know the real reason I went after it-, John? Do you?"

  Maigrey took a step toward him. The gray eyes were light now, but the flame that burned within them gave them an ugly cast. She clenched her fist, fingers grasping, clutching. "I wanted it for myself! I wanted the power for myself! My God, I sold my starjewel to get it!"

  Her hand closed over the empty place on her breast, the place where the gleaming, glittering starjewel had always rested. John knew where the jewel was. He'd seen it . . . once. Once had been all he could stand. Its clear crystal had darkened. Its aspect was hideous, horrible to look upon. The silver chain, from which it hung, was black with the clotted blood of the Adonian Snaga Ohme. The jewel was now in Dion's possession, it rested in the interior of the space-rotation bomb. The jewel was the bomb's triggering device.

  "Sagan was right, John. The scar on my face struck far deeper than flesh. It's in my soul." She drew herself up, tall, majestic. "I think you had better go."

  "You've got me right where you want me, don't you, Maigrey?" Dixter asked calmly. "Whatever I say, whatever I do, you despise me. If I say there's no need to talk about forgiveness between us, then you despise me for being a 'nice guy.' And if I say all right, yes, you hurt me but I forgive you, you despise me for being weak. And if I said I despised you and I walked out the door, then that would be the best that could happen for you, wouldn't it? All memory erased, the screen blank."