The door slid shut. Sagan stood near her, loomed above her. She did not move or look up at him, but only listened. What if youth had never been?
"I know I'm your prisoner, my lord, but you could at least have knocked."
"I heard the music. I didn't want to disturb you."
The Warlord walked over to the computer screen that printed out the title of the piece the person had selected from the ship's music library, but just as he bent down to look, the name flashed out. "What was it?"
"Faure's 'Pavan'—a 'grave and stately dance.'"
The Warlord moved to stand behind her and placed a hand upon her shoulder. She flinched at his touch, though it was gentle and matched his voice. "If so, my lady, then you must take your final turn upon the floor. For you, the dance is coming to an end."
Maigrey was not surprised, nor was she frightened. She was very tired and only wanted to rest. His hand was warm, a contrast to her chill skin.
"The boy is on his way," Sagan added.
"You've lost him, then, my lord."
Maigrey was surprised he wasn't angrier, but then he'd always been expert at controlling his emotions. She didn't bother to search his mind or she might have been prepared for his next statement.
"No, my lady, though you did your best to warn him. He's on his way to me."
Maigrey raised her head, stared at him. Her movement caused her pale hair to brush across the back of his fingers and he withdrew his hand away from the touch.
"I don't believe you."
"Yes, you do, my lady. We can keep our thoughts hidden from each other, but we can't lie. This shouldn't come as a shock, Maigrey." Sagan rubbed one hand over the other, as if the flesh had been burned. "You should have anticipated it. I did. He is, after all, of the Blood Royal."
Slowly, not taking her eyes from him, Maigrey rose out of her chair and stood, facing him. "A trap! It was all a trap."
"Traps are clumsy. I prefer to think of it as a finesse that, if it succeeds, gives me an extra trick."
"And if it had failed?"
"I still make my bid. You see, Maigrey, if the boy had taken your warning and fled, I had decided that I did not want him anyway."
"The taint in our blood. That's what's in him!" Maigrey began to shiver. Clasping her arms, she huddled within herself, turning away from him. "You've won, seemingly, my lord. If he's who you think he is. Why don't you leave? There's no need to torment me further, I suppose."
Sagan came near her. She could feel the warmth of his body, the heat of his mind. His hand touched her, his thoughts enveloped her, both drew her near.
"Perhaps the dance doesn't need to end. We could be partners again, like we used to be." His breath stirred against her hair; his hands closed, painfully tight, over her flesh. The name of the music she heard in his voice was power, its melody was ambition, its theme—conquest. And the hell of it was that she was enjoying it.
"I am going to the assembly hall to meet him. In one hour,
I shall send for you." Sagan's grip tightened imperceptibly. Maigrey couldn't breathe. He might have had his hands around her throat instead of on her arms. "You will make the identification."
No need to tell him she couldn't. He knew better.
Maigrey hung her head and did not answer. The hands left and took their warmth with them. She thought she heard Sagan over near the computer but she couldn't imagine why. Then the door opened and shut and he was gone. After a moment, music began to play again, something he'd programmed. She recognized it—the opening of the second act of Puccini's Tosca. Baron Scarpia's voice, rich, smooth, pleased with himself and the world.
"Tosca e un buonfalco. Certo a quest'ora i miei segugi le due prede azzannano!
The assembly hall was the largest chamber on Phoenix. Located in the very center of the ship, it was used only when the President arrived to address his troops. At other times, it was sealed off. The corridors leading to it were silent and empty. Maigrey's footsteps and those of her guards echoed through it with a hollow sound.
Lighting had been switched to the lowest level possible to conserve energy. Nuke lamps positioned in the ceiling at intervals of about ten meters illuminated circles of about three meters. The remainder of the corridor was in semidarkness, the lights' reflections shining in the metallic walls like small suns.
Maigrey wasn't surprised to see this portion of the ship deserted. Sagan had never been one for public exhortations to the troops to give their all for the fatherland. Under the Warlord's command, a soldier didn't fight and die for some faceless politician and dust-covered rhetoric. A soldier fought and died for his own honor and that of his commander's.
"As he was valiant, I honor him ..." the quote from Shapespeare's Julius Caesar began in her thoughts.
Courage was something you couldn't give a man in a speech but only by example. Sagan was their example. Once, he'd been hers.
Tosca is a good guide to our victims. Surely by now my bloodhounds have seized their double prey.
"... but as he was ambitious, I slew him."
Maigrey hadn't meant to finish the quotation and wished she'd never thought of it. She forced her mind to walk the dark and shadowy corridors of the ship, not those of memory. This meeting would be accompanied by enough ghosts without her bringing along extras.
The guards came to a halt in front of what appeared to be a blank wall. One pressed his palm against a security device and a huge steel panel rumbled open. The gap it created would have admitted an army. Maigrey felt small and abashed walking through it alone and smaller still when she set foot in the vast, windowless, circular chamber.
Hundreds of tiny spotlights positioned high, high above her in the ceiling imitated stars, were reflected off metal walls that had been covered with a dull gold alloy. The domed ceiling was ribbed with bands that rose up from the floor to meet at a circle in the center. The huge room reminded Maigrey of nothing so much as an overturned battle helmet.
At the circle's very top, illuminated by a single bright spotlight, was the seal of the Republic. Directly beneath the seal, on the floor below, stood a dais, and on that dais was a throne, fashioned with the arms and crests of the President. Moving nearer, studying it curiously, Maigrey saw that the dais was operated by hydraulic lifts and could be raised above the heads of the crowd. She guessed that it could also be slowly rotated, so that the President could be seen by all. Maigrey understood more fully than ever why this place was never used. The wonder of it was why Sagan hadn't been able to foresee, years ago, that the revolution would come to nothing but this—empty hallways filled with echoes, a politician's gimmick.
The doors boomed shut and Maigrey, starting nervously, turned to see that she was alone. The centurions had not followed her inside. Sagan, although he had said he would meet her here, was not in the hall, or at least not visible. She felt his presence, but then she always felt his presence now. He could be across the galaxy and she would still feel his presence.
Heat had not been wasted on this vast room. Maigrey shivered in the cold, and to keep her blood stirring and her thoughts from wandering off down forbidden paths, she walked across the floor toward the throne. The walk was a long one; the room's size was immense. She could imagine the boy making this same walk, under the scrutiny of herself and Derek Sagan. She pitied the young man, but it was a pity that was cool and dispassionate. He had chosen his own end.
Maigrey climbed the dais and, turning, looked out upon the empty chamber. She was forced to admit to herself that she admired the boy. Like Sagan had said, if he'd run, she would have understood, but she would have had no use for him. The taint in the blood. It burned like a fever—in some, not in all. Platus had never been afflicted. He'd tried to purge the boy of it, seemingly. Slowly, hardly realizing what she was doing, her mind on the young man whom she'd seen only briefly and indistinctly through a ring of flame, Maigrey sat down upon the throne.
"Power becomes you, my lady. But, then, it always did."
The voi
ce came from without and from within and drove the hall's chill deep into her bones. Sagan emerged from the shadows of the room's far distant perimeter. He was clad in burnished golden armor; the golden helmet hid his face except for the mouth. A red feathered crest burst like flame from the top of the helmet, his red cape edged in gold and decorated with the phoenix swept the floor behind him. Around his waist, he wore the bloodsword.
Maigrey was clad in the indigo blue robes of the Guardians. The light of the starjewel gleamed like a pale moon on her breast. Around her waist, she wore the bloodsword.
Sagan stood at the foot of the dais, looking up at her. Through the slits in the helm, she could see the starjewel's light glitter in the eyes as if on a blade of steel.
"This was the reason why I let you live that night, Maigrey. Killing you would have been like cutting off my sword arm. I once cursed the mind-link that bound me to you, but I was young then. I didn't understand. We were a power, lady, a force that nothing could stop. Don't you remember, Maigrey? When we were together, we were invincible. The Creator intended it to be so. As proof, He has brought us together again. Will you continue to thwart His will?"
Slowly the life drained from her body. Maigrey couldn't move, couldn't take her eyes from him. His words conjured up the past, brought back hopes and dreams, brought back exultation and victory and pride. Once again it could be like that. She could have it all and more, join together—Warlord, Warlady. Overthrow this mockery of a government and rule as they'd been born to rule. It would be easy. Nothing had ever defeated them.
Nothing, except themselves.
A small side door, invisible in the metal wall panels, slid open. One of the Honor Guard appeared and saluted, closed fist over his heart.
"The boy is here, my lord."
"At my signal, send him in alone. You and the others take up your posts outside. No one is to disturb us for any reason."
"Yes, my lord."
The centurion disappeared, the panel slid silently shut. Sagan climbed the steps of the dais. Maigrey would have risen to her feet, but she was afraid that if she did so, she would crumble in a heap at the foot of the throne. It took all her courage, all her resolve just to keep sitting there. The Warlord took his place beside her, standing at her right hand.
"My lady?" he questioned silently.
"My lord," she replied without a voice.
Sagan touched a tiny control on his wrist.
The huge doors slowly rumbled open.
Chapter Twenty-Four
By his shining and his power she knew him . . .
Mary Renault, Fire from Heaven
Stealing the old reconditioned Scimitar and flying it out of the mercenary base was an easy task. No one tried to stop Dion, or even seemed to notice his leaving, for that matter. Fighters were coming and going at all hours of the day and night, running escort for the TRUCs and whatever other functions the war on Vangelis called on them to perform.
Dion ordered the plane's computer to secure him clearance so that his voice wouldn't give him away in case there was anyone in the tower who knew him. The computer did as he commanded. An updated edition of the XJ model, it was extremely polite and subservient and performed its job without comment. The boy thought it boring.
Once outside of the planet's gravitational pull, Dion searched space for the Warlord's ship and couldn't find it. So all the young man's lies and plans had come to this—nothing. He felt a baffling, frustrated disappointment and was just trying to make up his mind to go back to base, tail between his legs, when he caught sight of an officially marked, short-range Scimitar streaking across the starlit darkness. He followed it, hoping it would lead him back to its base.
It did.
Be careful what you wish for.
Dion laughed. What did that old man know? At the age of seventeen, having just discovered he was heir to a galactic empire, the boy felt equal to anything. He was young; he was immortal.
The awesome sight of the Warlord's fleet was the first pin to prick ego's bright bubble.
Dion had never imagined anything so magnificent, so beautiful, so deadly—the gigantic Phoenix, its white surface gleaming brightly as a sun. Its escort ships surrounded it, planets basking in the reflected radiance. Heading toward this wondrous sun, flying his reconditioned, shabby Scimitar, Dion wasn't a planet, much less a sun. He was an insignificant dot, a speck of dust.
"I don't belong here. What a fool I am," he murmured to himself, but he didn't turn back. A tractor beam latched onto his ship and pulled him ignominiously toward a destroyer circling the outer perimeter. The tractor beam wasn't necessary. Another force—a force much more powerful than any created by man—was pulling Dion inexorably closer. He hoped, very much, that it was destiny.
Four soldiers were waiting for him when he emerged from his Scimitar. He recognized them by their Roman panoply and red-crested helms—the Warlord's centurions, the ones who had surrounded his house on the night Platus had died. They didn't say a word to him; it seemed—from the stern, impassive look of them—that they didn't intend to waste their hreath. On orders from their captain, they formed ranks around Dion and marched him off.
Impressed by them, irritated at himself for being impressed and even a little frightened, the young man lagged behind once to see what would happen. An iron hand clamped painfully over the flesh of his upper arm and a rough but efficient shove kept him moving. Something in the captain's eyes, flicking his direction, told Dion that the man's orders were to get the boy there—in what condition was left entirely up to the captain's discretion. After that, Dion kept in step.
They marched him on board a shuttlecraft that carried them from the destroyer across a vast expanse of space to Phoenix. He had a long time to look at the warship. Viewed up close, it was unbelievable—the most colossal object the boy had ever seen.
The shuttle waited in line to dock behind several others which apparently had more important business. What was he, after all, but heir to the galactic throne—a throne that didn't exist? Slumping into a chair, Dion felt his confidence ooze out of him. Guilty thoughts of his gentle, beloved mentor came to him.
Platus knew. He tried to save me from this. He gave his life to keep me away from Derek Sagan. And here I am, running to the very man who murdered him.
Surely Platus would have understood! Surely he must know how important this is to me! No, what am I thinking? Everything he taught me, everything he wanted for me was just to be a simple, good, ordinary man—like himself.
Dion tried once again to summon up his anger over being cheated out of what was rightfully his. But—looking around him at the visible, outward signs of incredible, ruthless power—he was beginning to realize that his anger was the frustrated anger of a little child whose father refuses to allow him to thrust his hand into the fire.
The shuttle docked on Phoenix at last. The guards escorted Dion out and marched him into and out of elevators and through a seemingly endless maze of corridors. Not one of the men moving purposefully about glanced at him or paid the slightest bit of attention to him. So much for the king of the galaxy. Dion stumbled and nearly fell. The iron hand propelled him onward. It wasn't defiance now; it was his heart, down around his shoes, tripping him.
The guards led him into a part of the ship that was empty of people. The corridors were cold and lifeless, their silence oppressive. Here, at the end of a passageway, he was met by four more of the Roman-clad centurions. One, whose feathered crest was black in comparison to the others' white crests, gestured to Dion to step forward. The young man did so, his own guards falling behind and to either side. The black-crested guard gripped him by the arm, led him in front of a blank wall, and stood silently, waiting. The guard didn't speak. Dion wasn't even certain the man was breathing.
Beneath his feet, the young man could feel the slight vibrating thrum of the ship's engines. He thought, almost, that if he listened closely enough he might hear them. But that was wishful thinking. The silence dinned and echoed a
round him. When a small beep went off on the black-crested guard's wrist, Dion nearly climbed up the sheer-sided walls.
The guard placed his hand, palm down, over a security panel. A massive door rumbled aside, revealing a vast, domed, circular chamber. A rush of cold, purified air blew past Dion, ruffling the flaming red-golden hair and drying the chill sweat on his body.
Looking within the hall, he saw—far away—a dais, and on it what seemed to his dazed and blurred vision to be the embodiments of the moon and the sun.
He looked at the guard.
"In there," the man said—the first words anyone had spoken to Dion in hours.
The young man stepped inside, hoping his legs wouldn't collapse beneath him. The door slid shut behind him. He was alone, except for the two people on the dais, and they only made him feel more alone than he'd ever felt before in his life.
"Come forward," the man said.
Not "Come forward, Your Majesty." Not "Come forward, Your Highness." Just "Come forward."
Dion wondered if he could. He recognized the man: the one who had driven the shining sword through Flatus's body. He recognized the woman: the one who had warned him away.
The sun and the moon. He was in the presence of both and he felt their pull on him, felt his blood surge like the tide, his body move in response. It would be very easy, he realized, to take his place in orbit around these two. And he realized in the same instant: But I want them to orbit me.
He walked across the metal floor, his thick boots making an unholy noise that jarred every nerve in his body. There was no help for it but to grit his teeth and end it quickly. When he came to stand before them, in front of the dais, the echoes of his footfalls seemed to linger on long after he'd stopped walking.
Dion looked into the eyes of the woman because he could see her eyes. They drew him and held him. Too late, he discovered that they were peeling him, laying back his flesh in layers, cutting open bone to see the heart and brain beneath. She tore out every secret and held them up to the light of the glittering jewel she wore and examined each carefully. She tucked them back within him and sewed up the gashes, but Dion knew he would always carry the scars, the marks of her probing—like the scar on her face.
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