The Lost King

by Margaret Weis

  The captain was at a loss. He had been given strict orders to attend the Warlord the moment they arrived on the planet. He could do nothing but obey, although it was quite obvious to him that his liege lord had gone into one of his mystical trances. The captain knew that speech sometimes roused the Warlord. Sometimes not. Having no idea what to do if it didn't work, the captain decided to speak.

  "My lord, we have landed," he said in the tone one uses to waken a fast sleeper.

  "Yes. Thank you, Captain." Sagan spoke quietly, without turning his gaze on his officer.

  The captain felt hot blood rush to his cheeks.

  "I'm sorry, my lord, I didn't know— I thought you were—"

  "We'll leave now, Captain."

  Sword in hand, Sagan rose to his feet. He was clad in the Romanesque military style he fancied. A golden phoenix decorated a breastplate made of null-gravity steel. Lightweight, comfortable, it could withstand the blast of a laser. Projectiles—including those fired by gas-guns—bounced off harmlessly. The only weapon that could penetrate it was reputedly the bloodsword, and then only one wielded by a person whose mind was powerful enough to fully control it.

  If the Warlord had been going into battle, he would have worn full armor made of this material. He expected no danger on this mission, apparently, for he was clad in a short tunic protected by heavy leather strips, ornately decorated with inlaid silver and gold. Leather sandals that laced to the knee completed his costume. The Warlord had no adjutant. At his gesture, one of the centurions brought forward the red cape and draped it around the man's bare, well-muscled shoulders. A golden chain, attached to two phoenix pins—one on either shoulder—held the cape securely in place. The Honor Guard reverently lifted the Warlord's golden helmet with the blood-red feather crest and stood holding it patiently until his lord should request it.

  The captain was somewhat confused. He had been told they were landing on this planet to apprehend a prisoner. From his ceremonial dress, Lord Sagan might have been going to an audience with the defunct king.

  "Have the quarters adjacent to mine prepared to receive a guest, Captain," the Warlord instructed, carefully attaching the bloodsword to a belt girded about his waist.

  The captain blinked. "My lord," he said hesitantly, "I was told we were transporting a dangerous political prisoner. I have made ready the hold—"

  "She will be a prisoner, Captain. She is dangerous. You will remember that. She is also the daughter of a planetary king, Morianna—one of the most feared warriors of his time. Her mother was a princess of the Leiah system. Of course, I realize, Captain, that in our present society this noble lineage is worth less than the cost of the microchip on which it is recorded. Nevertheless, you will accord her the same respect you accord me."

  "Yes, my lord."

  The captain heard something that sounded like a sigh. His face as grim as if he were facing an army often thousand foes, the Warlord covered his face with his golden helmet and started for the hatch.

  Accompanied by his Honor Guard, the Warlord moved through the thick vegetation resolutely. The way seemed impenetrable. The guards' weapons sliced through twisted, slimy vines as big around as a man's leg, chopped down giant elephant-ear plants, and hacked the limbs off trees that seemed—by acts of eerie intelligence—to be determined to block their path.

  It was hot work in the steaming, humid jungle air, and after only a few yards had been cleared, the men were panting, wiping sweat from their faces, and wondering how much farther was their destination. A short distance from the shuttle, however, the Warlord came upon a cleared path. He did not arrive at it by accident. He had obviously been expecting to find it, and chose his direction and began walking along it without hesitation.

  The Honor Guard followed close and with more caution than their lord. His life, after all, was in their hands, and the centurions knew this planet to be inhabited by natives—so it was reported—who were fearful of them and hostile to their intent. And although these natives were purportedly only a step removed from the stone age in terms of weaponry, a spear through the gut kills just as surely as a laser blast. Sensing devices were useless. The life-form readings they would pick up in this jungle environment would be too numerous to count, more confusing than helpful. Their lord preferred depending on God-given senses—saying that a man was safer to rely on instincts bred over thousands of years of survival rather than a machine that, no matter how sophisticated, had never walked in fear of its life.

  An army of thousands could have been hiding in that moonlit mass of plant life and the centurions could never have seen it. They could hear rustlings and growls, snufflings and furtive slitherings among the undergrowth and in the branches above their heads. Animals going about their nightly business, said their lord.

  The centurions did not relax their vigilance, but followed closely behind their lord, who was forging his way ahead without pause. Occasionally, the path split into two separate trails, heading in diverging directions. Occasionally, another path left the one on which they walked, wending its way into another part of the jungle. Sagan never hesitated when it came to a choice, but went to the right or to the left as whatever was guiding him dictated.

  What was guiding him? His guards had no idea. The magnetic force that both drew him and repelled him was invisible to them, though its effects on him were not. He had drawn his helmet over his head; his face was hidden. He walked purposefully, determinedly, never wavering. Opposite magnetic fields attracting. Yet every step seemed an effort. The cords of his neck were taut, the muscles of his shoulders twitched and bunched as though he were pushing against something that was pushing back. Like magnetic fields repelling.

  His tension communicated itself to his men, who—after a half-hour of watching him fight this internal battle—would have welcomed a flight of arrows. Suddenly one guard touched his captain's arm, pointing ahead in silent communication. Through the breaks in the jungle's growth, a light could be seen. It was a bright light, yet pale and eerie, with a bluish cast to it, almost as if the moon had fallen from the sky and landed on the ground before them.

  The Warlord headed straight for the light, and no man among his guard had any doubt that this was their destination. The light grew brighter, illuminating the jungle with a stark, white glow that sucked all color—and thereby seemingly all life—out of any object it touched. The centurions' own flesh appeared corpselike, luminescent, transparent. Trees seemed carved of white marble; metal glistened like ice.

  In contrast to the light, the darkness around them became complete, impenetrable. To step into the shadows was to step into black depths that were not the purient, sterile voids of space but a smothering, unfathomable miasma.

  The Warlord's footsteps slowed. His breathing was heavy and measured, as one who makes a conscious effort to draw every breath. With a gesture, he brought his guards up around him. The jungle ended. With the next step, they would walk out into an area open and unprotected.

  Here was the source of the light.

  The centurions, each and every one, were men proven and tested in battle. Each had performed some act of heroism, daring, and courage that had brought him to the attention of the Warlord. They sacrificed everything to serve him— country, home, family. Sagan allowed no loves, no other loyalties that might distract or interfere with their duties. They led grueling, Spartan lives, for their commander denied himself comforts and they lived as he did. Outwardly they were cold and hard and emotionless as their lord. Midas, it was said, had a touch that turned all to gold. Sagan, it seemed, turned all he touched to iron.

  Yet more than one centurion, staring at the sight before him, saw it through a sheen of tears.

  They gazed on the Hall of Moonrith, one of the wonders of the universe. And the universe did not even know it existed.

  Moonrith, the semiprecious gem, was thought to be so-called because of its moonlike whiteness. In reality, moonrith gained its name through the gem's ability—unnoticed by those who imprisoned
it in metal settings—to diffuse and radiate moonlight.

  Standing in a large, open area of the jungle, on the top of a small hill that rose up out of the vegetation, was a large, natural formation of moonrith. The natives held it to be a sacred place and had done it honor by smoothing the rough edges of the stone, rounding and shaping the pillars nature had carved with tools of wind and rain.

  By day, the building—formed out of a huge slab of rock supported by as many as sixty irregularly shaped, crude pillarlike columns—was nothing more than a geological curiosity. On a moonlit night, the beauty of the Hall of Moonrith pierced the heart.

  The stone absorbed the moonlight, diffused it, radiated it forth. The templelike structure glowed with a white luminescence that shone from within the stone. The hill leading up to it had been terraced, carved into steps. At the foot of these, some meters back, stood the trees of the jungle—whispering guardians, who worshiped at a distance.

  The Warlord, after a long look, turned to see the reaction of his men and, immediately, faces softened by the miraculous loveliness hardened. Eyes blinked back tears, sighs of awe were swiftly checked. He saw that they had been touched, however. Even as he, who had thought himself immune to beauty, had been touched. Sagan's face grew grimmer still.

  He should have come alone.

  Turning his back upon his guard, the Warlord climbed the stairs that had been delved into the hillside. His red cape— drenched black by the eerie light—billowed out behind him. His men, ashamed, hurried after him, attempting to keep their eyes on their lord but finding their gaze drawn irresistibly to the glowing temple.

  The centurions hastened up the stairs and reached the pillars that formed a colonnade around a vast, rectangular hall. Above them, the moonrith ceiling shed a silvery light, bright enough that each man could see clearly the lines fate had etched upon his palm, the scars of battle and of death man had etched upon his flesh.

  "Wait here," the Warlord commanded. Leaving them, he passed in between the glowing columns and entered the hall.

  At the far end stood a woman. She was dressed in white; the folds of her long gown hung in smooth, flowing lines, broken only by a silver belt around her waist. Pale fine hair, the color of moonlight, was worn loose, falling over her shoulders in a glistening stream. Her back was to them; she did not seem to notice them but stared up into the night. Thin clouds, gliding before the moon, dappled the dark sky with silver.

  The virgin goddess of the silver orb, discovered alone in her temple. Sagan, glancing back, thought it likely his men might fall down and worship her.

  She was good. Very good. And how well she knew him. She had played into his myth. Diana to his Mars.

  And what was Mars but a bumbling, stupid, bloodthirsty oaf?

  Sagan's lips twisted to a bitter smile. Peter Robes, he thought, former professor of political science, this woman will chop you up and feed you to the public with a silver spoon.

  The Warlord crossed the floor. His booted footsteps rang on the stone, the hollow sound echoing gratingly through the quiet, peaceful air.

  Paler, colder than the moonlight, the woman did not move, not even when he came to a halt directly behind her. A slight breeze, whispering through the jungle, stirred the gold-trimmed hem of his robe, reverently lifted wisps of the woman's pale hair.

  "Lady Maigrey Morianna," spoke Derek Sagan.

  His voice, harsh and discordant, caused a stir among the jungle animals. Infuriated shrieks and cries answered him, wings flapped angrily, trees shook and rustled. His guard started in alarm and drew their weapons. Sagan raised a warning hand, and they relaxed. Gradually, peace and calm returned.

  The woman answered softly, without turning her head or looking at him. "I am Lady Maigrey Morianna."

  "Then, Lady Maigrey Morianna, by order and decree of the Revolutionary Congress of the Galactic Democratic Republic, I hereby place you under arrest."

  She faced him now. Perhaps it had taken her this long to steel herself. Gray as the sea beneath a leaden sky, her eyes confronted him. Like a prisoner who knows the blow is coming and can't avoid it, Sagan braced himself and absorbed the pain without flinching. It passed swiftly, burned away by an anger whose flames he had fed daily for seventeen years.

  "What is the charge against me, my lord?"

  "The charges are numerous, my lady—and all punishable by death. The most notable is aiding and abetting the smuggling to safety of an offshoot of a family whose crimes against the people are legion."

  "A newborn baby!" Maigrey's face was colorless, pale as the moonlight except for the gray eyes that had darkened as in a storm. "You would have murdered him that night as you murdered his mother. As you murdered my king."

  "I did not make war on children! You know the truth of my actions that night—"

  Her lashes flickered, her gaze faltered beneath his. Sagan noted this weakness in her defenses, he read the doubt in her mind, but he was too caught up in his own anger, too intent on keeping his own walls manned to take advantage of this lapse on the part of his enemy. It would be a long time before he remembered the crack in the fortress and came to realize its import.

  "I had no intention of killing the child. He would have been raised a citizen of the Republic—"

  "—taught to believe his parents were criminals! Taught to be ashamed of what he is! Taught to denounce his own heritage—"

  "At least it would have been the truth, my lady," Sagan said. "Better than what your brother taught him!"

  He saw the scar on her face. The moonlight had masked it, the white line blending with the pallor of her complexion. Now it leapt out. Her heart pulsed in it, blood stained it, and it seemed almost as if the wound had been reopened.

  Seeing his gaze fix upon the right side of her face, Maigrey felt the pain again and consciously put her hand to her cheek to cover it. Sagan shifted his eyes to meet hers.

  Looking into them intently, Maigrey saw no pity, no remorse, no disgust, no compassion. Nothing.

  "I lack time to argue irrelevancies, my lady. We will be off-planet within the hour. I must ask you to surrender your weapon."

  A silver scabbard, decorated with an eight-pointed star hung from her waist. Wordlessly, she nodded. Her hands moved to unfasten the buckle.

  "The people of this planet know nothing about me," she said, inwardly cursing her trembling fingers that fumbled at their task. "They are a primitive race. They live peacefully. They have hurt no one." Slowly, she drew the belt from around her slender waist. Putting the ends together, she folded the leather as was proper, the scabbard resting on top. Maigrey held it out. "Don't vent your anger on them, Sagan!"

  It was the first time she had called him by name. He was caught off guard, the point of the bloodsword she held might have slipped beneath his armor and touched flesh.

  "It's not anger, my lady," he said evenly, accepting the weapon. "It is justice."

  Maigrey saw that it would be useless and undignified to plead. Tears filled her eyes, and she lowered her head, allowing the long hair to slide forward and hide her face.

  The Warlord was familiar with this trick and ignored it. "My guards will carry what other possessions you have to the ship. "

  "There is no need. I have only the sword and this." From a pocket in the loose-fitting white gown, Maigrey produced a rosewood box. "And you will not take this from me."

  Sagan knew what the box contained. "No, my lady," he said, after a pause, "that you may keep."

  For long moments, he stared at her in silence. She lifted her head, her tears burned dry, and steadily returned his gaze. Though neither moved, a battle raged. Their minds probed and touched in a mental fencing match, seeking out weaknesses, learning once again to respect strengths.

  His gaze broke first, but it was not defeat, merely drawing back to consider a new angle of attack. When it came, it was unexpected and effective.

  He held her sword across his forearm and presented it back to her. "Give me your word, Lady Maigrey Morianna�
��your word, as a Guardian—that you will not attempt to escape from custody, and you may wear the bloodsword."

  Maigrey stared at him, confounded.

  "Well?" he said impatiently.

  "You have my word, my lord." She accepted the weapon in its silver scabbard, and stood clutching it awkwardly, fumbling not to drop it or the rosewood box.

  "My lady."

  Bowing, Lord Derek Sagan turned on his heel and left her, crossing the stone floor to where his men waited in the shadows of the columns. "Bring her," he instructed as he passed them.

  The centurions hurried to obey. A cloud passed over the moon, obscuring it completely. The Hall of Moonrith, bereft of its source of light, was suddenly nothing but crudely carved rock. The centurions were forced to switch on their hand-held nuke lights. Seen by the harsh, sterile beams, the goddess dwindled to a woman in her early forties with a scarred face, holding a sword and a wooden box.

  The centurions surrounded her—one at her right, one at her left, two behind her. They did not touch her but waited respectfully for her to proceed. They would give her a few moments to move on her own. If she did not, they would most certainly drag her. Lifting her chin, Maigrey moved resolutely forward, the sound of her slippered footfalls obliterated by the guards' heavy tread.

  Ahead of her, the Warlord had disappeared into the darkness.

  She would be taken onto a ship of war, a ship populated by hundreds, and every man loyal—ostensibly—to whatever this bloodstained government of the revolution was calling itself. In reality, however, Maigrey knew they were loyal to one lord. One lord who might fight against the heritage within himself but who would never fail to use it.