King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  He knew happiness in that moment, not bliss or rapture or joy but happiness, plain and simple. He was content. He wanted nothing except for this moment to last forever.

  Die now!

  The words came to him in Sagan's voice, startled the young man, cast a shadow over his heart. In ancient Greece, this call had been the response to great good fortune.

  Die now! For you can never be as happy as you are at this moment and it would be better to die with this feeling in your heart than know the bitterness of its loss.

  Tusk was at his elbow. "We got a message, kid, from the Lady Maigrey. She has the ship, they're ready to make the Jump. She wants to know if everything's okay on this end, when you expect to rendezvous ..." Tusk paused, added with significant emphasis, "if you expect to rendezvous."

  Dion set the toddler on his feet, bid him run to his mother, and followed after the Bear up the winding stairs to the tower room. And there came, in the whistling of the wind through the cracks and crannies of the castle walls, the urging voice of fate.

  "Die now."

  Entering the room with the high-tech equipment, Dion was forced to pause a moment to reacclimate his thinking, wrench himself back to a former life that suddenly seemed sterile and cold and achingly lonely. He told himself it would be different, now that he had Kamil. Everything would change for the better. But he found himself staring at the vidscreen with a feeling of dread.

  "Baroness DiLuna, standing by, Your Majesty," said one of Bear's sons through his translator.

  Bear, Tusk, and Nola were waiting, watching him. Dion sat down, clasped his hands in front of him.

  "Very well. Put her through. Baroness," he said with a cool smile for the image on the screen. "It is a pleasure to talk to you once more."

  "What pleasure either of us derives from this conversation remains to be seen . . . Your Majesty," DiLuna said with a slight inclination of her helmed head and derisive laughter in her eyes.

  Dion, lost in his dream of happiness, was wearing blue jeans, a homespun tunic loaned to him by Sonja, who had told him, with a knowing smile, that Kamil had woven the cloth. Dion instantly realized his mistake. He should have been wearing his dress uniform, the purple sash, and other symbols of royalty. He had committed a serious tactical error, lost ground before the battle even began.

  Sagan would never have made such a blunder, Dion told himself bitterly, or let me make it. What was I thinking about?

  He knew, all too well, what he had been thinking about. Nothing for it, but to make the best of it. He relaxed, appeared supremely confident that what he wanted, he would obtain. This meeting was, after all, a mere formality.

  "You received my report on the status of affairs, Baroness. You know where we stand, the danger we are in. I've told you about Abdiel, the head of the former Order of Dark Lightning. I've told you about the scheme he has for turning the space-rotation bomb plans over to the enemy. I trust you have gone over my proposal on how to deal with him, Baroness. I know I can count on your aid in this time of crisis. When may I expect your ships to join the fleet?"

  "When I'm damn good and ready to send them," DiLuna responded.

  Dion replied with a frown. "Are you telling me, Baroness, that you are refusing to come to my aid? Are you saying that the promises you made meant nothing to you? Or is it, perhaps, that your promise means one thing when all is safe and secure and quite another when there is danger? Is this the honor of the people of Ceres?"

  The baroness was an experienced warrior, not to be tricked into losing her temper, making wild swings that would leave her open to an opponent's skilled verbal thrust.

  "My promise, Your Majesty, was to support you in a battle against the corrupt government of this galaxy. In such a war, we would stand to gain a lot—restoration of star systems taken from us unjustly, a reopening of trade routes now closed to us, increased power in the galaxy. My people and I are willing to risk our lives and money for that. But this war you are proposing! You offer us nothing except the opportunity to die so that you might wear a crown on your head."

  "I thought I made myself clear, Baroness," said Dion, controlling his growing anger. "The threat to our galaxy is very real. You know the power wielded long ago by those of the Order of Dark Lightning. The opposition of the Blood Royal alone kept them at bay and, eventually, that failed. Is there any doubt in your mind, after reading my report, that it is Abdiel who has long ruled this galaxy? That Peter Robes is nothing but a husk sucked dry by the mind-seizer, a puppet who dances at Abdiel's bidding?

  "All Abdiel needs is the space-rotation bomb and he will blackmail the remainder of the galaxy into submission. And, unless we stop him, he will obtain it. Or, as seems more likely, the Corasians will wait for him to acquire the plans and then they will build it themselves. We have the chance to stop this now, to crush it!"

  Dion clenched his fist. "We have a chance to prove Peter Robes is a pawn of the mind-seizer. Yes, that will mean putting the crown on my head, Baroness, but you will have everything you want and everything will come to you in peace, without turning the people of the galaxy against each other in a bloody and bitter civil war."

  DiLuna gazed at him, cold-eyed, speculative, then, suddenly, she smiled.

  Dion, not liking that feline smile, tensed.

  "Lord Sagan has taught you well, Your Majesty," DiLuna conceded. "I am impressed. Your plan is a good one. I have no objections to fighting the Corasians, and then have the grateful citizens of this galaxy shower on me what otherwise I must take by force. I have no objection to placing the crown on your head. You have the makings of a strong king. But you must admit that what you ask goes far beyond what I ever promised. I know I can win a war against the puny armies of the Galactic Democratic Republic. I'm not certain about defeating the Corasians in their home territory. This battle you propose will cost a great deal more in money and lives than war here at home.

  The baroness raised a hand, forestalled Dion's interrupting her.

  "I didn't say I would not be willing to pay that price. But you're asking more from me than originally bargained. I want something more from you."

  "Name it, Baroness," said Dion.

  "First, sire, I want the worship of the Goddess restored throughout the galaxy."

  Dion waved a deprecating hand. "When I am king, all will be free to worship as they choose. The Order of Adamant, banned by the current government, will be restored, as will—"

  "You misunderstand me, Your Majesty," broke in DiLuna. "I want the worship of the Goddess given official status and sanction, placed exactly on the same level with the Order of Adamant—something that the Blood Royal would never previously allow," she added with a curl of her lip.

  "Very well, Baroness," said Dion graciously, thinking that agreement to this could do little harm. He was getting off cheap. "Restoration of this ancient religion will be one of my first proclamations."

  "Thank you for that, Your Majesty, and that will be an answer to our prayers, but I fear it will not be enough. The people of the galaxy need to see that you yourself take the worship of the Goddess seriously, that you respect it and honor it. Then they will come to it themselves."

  "I assure you, Baroness," said Dion, "that I will make it clear—"

  "Indeed you will, Your Majesty. Your wife, your queen, will be the Head Priestess."

  Dion was confounded, couldn't speak for a moment, tried to grasp what the woman was implying. He had the sudden image in his mind of Kamil standing before an altar, performing solemn rites, and he nearly laughed aloud.

  "As you know, Baroness, to my regret, I have no queen—"

  "But you will, Your Majesty. You will agree to marry one of my daughters."

  Die now! sighed the wind, only it was the mournful echo of a chance forever lost.

  "I must think about this," said Dion. His teeth were clenched tightly, a stabbing pain shot through the nerves of his jaw.

  Tusk was in the background, reminded him urgently, "Kid! The Lady Maigrey's
waiting. You don't have much time."

  I can't say what your allies might ask of you. Maigrey was saying to him once more. But you can be certain that the cost of their loyalty will run high. It may be higher than you are willing to pay. Higher than, perhaps, you should pay.

  "An hour, Baroness," said Dion. "I need an hour to consider this."

  "In an hour, then, Your Majesty," said DiLuna, smiling, as one who has won and who knows it. The vidscreen went blank.

  The room was silent. Even the faint mechanical hum and whir of the high-tech equipment seemed to hush. Dion stared at the empty screen, still seeing the image of the woman burned into it, as it was burned into his mind. He was vaguely aware of Tusk starting to say something, of Nola putting a restraining hand on his arm, of Bear Olefsky considering him gravely. Dion knew, in that moment, that Olefsky knew—if not in his head, then at least in the father's loving heart—all that had transpired between Dion and his daughter.

  "By my lungs and liver, I fear the woman has you where it hurts, laddie," said the Bear, heaving a sigh that came from his toes. "We need her, there's no doubt. And she knows it."

  "With our forces and Rykilth's—" Dion began, trying to draw breath, feeling as if he were suffocating.

  "It won't be enough, laddie," Bear said. "And I've more than a presentiment that Rykilth has been drawn into this with her. I'll bet my beard that he won't commit his forces unless DiLuna commits hers."

  I could give it up, Dion said silently. Give it up and be ordinary. Live my life here, in this castle, with her. Let the rest of the galaxy go to hell. What do they care about me anyway? Nothing. They huddle behind me, shove me forward to fight for them, defend them, give up my life, my happiness, for them. And in return they will revile me, mock me, plot against me.

  Here, I could be happy, father children, grow old, die peacefully in my sleep. It might be a long time before the Corasians acquired the bomb. Let another generation worry about it. Another king ...

  The palm of his right hand started to itch, to burn. He slowly unclenched his fist, looked at the skin of the palm, at the lines fete had drawn on it, at the five scars he himself had chosen to accept. He thought back to the rite of initiation or passage or whatever it had been. He saw the spikes of the silver ball cut into his flesh; he felt, again, the terrible agonizing pain; saw, again, the blood flow from the wounds . . .

  So it had been real. Not illusion. He knew, because the pain he felt now was the same.

  He could give it up. The choice was his.

  Or could he? He saw Maigrey standing in the Audience Hall on board Phoenix, saw her glimmer in his mind, pale and cold as the moon.

  It's too late for that now, Dion. Don't blame yourself. I think it was too late from the moment you were born.

  "Kid"—it was Tusk, reluctant, shoving something in the king's unfeeling, unresponsive hand—"messages, kid. One from Rykilth. The Bear was right. The vapor-breather's in this with DiLuna. He won't go unless she does. And another message from the Lady Maigrey. It's urgent, kid. She needs to know what your plans are.

  "Look, Dion. " Tusk squatted down on his haunches, put his arm around his friend's shoulder. "You have to go along with this. Agree to the marriage. What can it hurt? Hell, a lot can happen between now and then. We'll work on it, find some way to back out. In the meantime, we keep it quiet. No one'll know except us. You don't have to tell Kamil."

  Already, Dion thought, I'm hiding things from her, keeping secrets. Already, it's begun . . .

  Die now . . .

  Too late.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein.

  And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

  Friedrich Nietzsche, Jenseits von Gut and Bose

  "I'm sorry, Dion," said Maigrey. "Truly sorry."

  "My lady?" Agis glanced at her. "Did you say something?"

  She was for away, her eyes gazing off into a distant world, into a castle, a tower room. Agis's voice brought her back. When she returned, she sighed, removed her hand from the hilt of the bloodsword.

  "You were with His Majesty?" pursued Agis.

  "Yes. There are disadvantages to this means of communication, Agis." Maigrey looked somberly at the five red marks on her palm. "Unlike comm links, it transmits pain."

  "Is there a problem?"

  "We will hear from him. He knows what he must do, what is born in him to do. But for a while he can pretend he doesn't have to. He can pretend to be . . . ordinary."

  Agis said nothing more, accepted her word without question, though he must be wondering what they would do if Dion didn't agree to join them. Maigrey wished she could be as confident of him as she'd forced herself to sound. He was only eighteen. The burdens of kingship already sat heavily on him. But he was old enough and wise enough to look ahead with clear eyes, and see that, Adas-like, he would bear them all his life. How could she blame him if he chose to cast the heavy crown aside and walk bareheaded into happy obscurity?

  And what would she do if he did?

  Maigrey leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and thought longingly of a hot shower and bed, sleep, oblivion. She suddenly, fiercely envied those poor wretches who were now burrowed deep in their drug-enduced hibernation, all bodily functions slowed to an absolute minimum, mental faculties shut down. They didn't even dream. . . .

  "My lady," said Agis, voice low and warning, "trouble."

  Maigrey jerked awake, cursed herself for having dozed off. Sparafucile stood in the doorway.

  "What is it?" she demanded. "What's wrong?"

  "You come," said the assassin.

  Maigrey rose quickly, followed him out into the corridor, where she found Raoul and the Little One, waiting. "Brother Daniel?" she asked, and was startled to feel bitter disappointment. It was then she realized that she'd been using the priest as a kind of good-luck mascot, God's sign that He was with her. If she lost Brother Daniel, if he betrayed her . . .

  "The priest okay," said Sparafucile, grinning at her. "Him not fail my lord."

  Maigrey noted, as a point of interest, that the assassin said "my lord." Not "Him not fail you, my lady."

  "The tricksy woman say nothing to him. He say nothing to tricksy woman. I know. I listen."

  "How—"

  "I think maybe something like this happen when captain want to have fun with me. I put bug in room when I there. Now I hear everything, even her breathing." The half-breed leered.

  Maigrey swallowed her revulsion. "Go on," she said coldly.

  "Priest, he give her injection—"

  "Then what's the problem?" she demanded irritably.

  "Captain not go under."

  "What?" She stared at him.

  "Tricksy woman not respond to drug. Oh, she not walk very well and she take long naps and her tongue is very thick, but she not sleep."

  Maigrey shifted her gaze to Raoul and the Little One. The empath seemed to shrivel up beneath his fedora.

  "How is this possible? Are we going to have more passengers like this? I thought you said you knew what you were doing—"

  "My lady," broke in Raoul, hands spreading gracefully in a pretty pleading gesture, "truly, I can understand your anger but it is not justified. False pride is unhealthy, you feed yourself lies. It is, however, right and good to feel proud of what one does well and thus I may say with pride that I am an expert in my field, as oftentimes my former employer, the late Snaga Ohme, had reason to comment. Indeed, my former employer, the late Snaga Ohme—"

  "Get on with it!" Maigrey snapped, too tired to put up with the Loti's meanderings.

  The Little One, eyes fixed on Maigrey, edged nearer his partner. Reaching out a tiny hand from the pocket of his raincoat, the empath grabbed hold of the Loti's velvet coattail and tugged. Raoul glanced down at him; they shared their silent communication.

  "I understand. My lady," he said, turning back to her, speaking more clearly and prec
isely than she had ever before heard him, "the other passengers are completely somnambu-lent. A periodic injection, administered every so often, will maintain them. I have no idea why the ship's captain has not reacted to the drug in a similar manner."

  The half-breed grunted. Raoul glanced at him, eyelids lowered in acquiescence. "My friend here has expressed an opinion that the priest may have given the woman only part of the injection. That would account for the unaccountable. Being a trained nurse, he would, of course, know how to decrease the dosage without being discovered—"

  "Of course," said Maigrey coldly.

  The Little One blenched. Raoul paused, smoothed his hair and perhaps his thoughts at the same time. "There is also the possibility, although it is a remote one and I have never known it to previously occur, but—I repeat—it is possible that the woman herself is of such a strong will that she has the ability to put mind over matter, so to speak."

  It took Maigrey a moment to disentangle the meaning from the words, but eventually she understood. "What can you do if that's the case? Increase the dosage?"

  "That would not be wise, unless you wanted her to sleep for a long, long time. Which could be arranged," Raoul added, as an afterthought, adjusting a froth of lace that fell over his delicate-boned wrists.

  "I take care of her," said the assassin. "Faster, better than any drug."

  "I beg to differ, my friend," said Raoul politely, bowing. "I have, at the moment, on my person, a poison which can cause—"

  Angrily, Maigrey shoved the Loti out of her way, stalked off down the corridor. She heard, behind her, after a moment's pause, the tap-tap of Raoul's high heels on the deck, the rustle of the hem of the Little One's raincoat trailing along the floor. She did not hear Sparafucile, but she knew he was following. He would not allow anything to interfere with the rescue of his lord.