He sensed approval and pity, expressed in a small, whispering sigh. The woman did not take her eyes from him, but their scalpel cutting ceased. She passed the knife to the man.
"What is your name?"
"Dion, sir."
The Warlord stepped from the back of the throne where he'd been standing. He made a polite, if chill, gesture toward the woman "I would introduce Lady Maigrey Morianna. But then. I understand that you two have already met."
Dion flushed. He didn't know what to say. His tongue went stiff. Maigrey smiled at him, her eyes grew warm, and he relaxed cautiously. Apparently he wasn't supposed to say anything.
"I am Lord Derek Sagan. We have not met."
Oh, yes, we have, Dion said, but only to himself. Lady Maigrey seemed to understand him, however. He saw one of her eyebrows lift; the smile was sad and shared sympathy. He remembered, then, that Platus had been her brother.
"Who gave you your name?"
It was a startling question. Dion was momentarily confused. "The man who raised me, l-lord." The title came clumsily. He felt reluctant to talk about Platus to his murderer.
"His name?" Sagan's voice was cold and sharp, doing more damage than the woman's gaze, for the man was leaving wounds he obviously didn't intend to close.
Dion swallowed, his throat burned, his tongue was thick and didn't fit inside his mouth. "Platus, my lord. Platus Morianna."
"And what is the derivation of your name?"
Dion blinked at the man, staring stupidly.
"Who were you named for?" Sagan said with a touch of impatience. "Why this particular name?"
"I was named for Dion, ruler of Syracuse in Earth's fourth century b.c., my lord."
"A ruler who was betrayed and assassinated by those who claimed to be his friends. Truly a worthy namesake."
"That wasn't the reason, my lord!" Dion cried, stung to courage. "I was named for him because Dion was the student of Plato and was considered by the philosopher and those of the Academy to be the embodiment of what they considered ideal in a king—"
Dion's voice died. Why had this never occurred to him? This name Platus had given him was a clue to his destiny. He'd never seen it before now. He'd always been too absorbed in his anger over the question of a last name to understand that the first was his answer. Platus hadn't despaired of him or his heritage. The name Platus had given him was his blessing— and his warning.
Memories—the two of them sitting together, reading together, his master's gentle voice expounding, explaining. Tears burned Dion's eyes and he was frightened of them, for he knew Sagan would have no patience with them. He thought of running, flinging himself out from under the cruel knife of the man's gaze. But he knew if he ran away that would be the end. He would always be running, not from the Warlord, for he would no longer care, but from himself.
A bright, cold light—half-seen through a shimmer of tears— caught his gaze. Lady Maigrey had lifted the starjewel in her hand and held it so that it would capture his attention. Its cool, pure radiance eased Dion's grief and pain. His tears could not shame him; if anything, they shamed the man who had caused them.
The drops itched as they dried on his cheeks, but he didn't wipe away the traces.
"Very good," Lord Sagan said in a voice so soft that Dion wondered if he'd heard the words or imagined them. "Lady Maigrey"—the helmed face turned toward the woman—"the night the king died, you and the Guardians stole a baby from the palace at Minas Tares. Whose child was it that you took?"
The starjewel's light was no longer clear and beaming but was suddenly splintered and jagged, refracted. Dion saw the woman's hand tremble and she clasped her fingers around the jewel tightly. The light almost completely disappeared and the hall seemed dark and barren without it.
"The baby was born to Semele, wife of the Crown Prince. The child was a boy." The lady's voice, heard for the first time, was dark and barren as the hall.
"The child, for some reason I will never fathom," Sagan continued, "was given into the care of your brother, Platus Morianna. I presume, my lady, that there was some token you sent with the child so that, in the eventuality that something unforeseen occurred, the Guardians would know the child, the heir to the throne, at a later date?"
Maigrey's answer was inaudible. Dion understood it only by the movement of her lips. "Yes, rpy lord."
"What was that token, my lady?"
The hand holding the jewel tightened visibly, the knuckles white. Dion, thinking of the sharp points of the star, knew they must be driving into the woman's flesh. He felt them pierce his own flesh as well. Her words, these next few seconds, must irrevocably decide his fate.
Be careful what you wish for.
"A ring of . . . his mother's. There was no other like it, because I'd had it made especially for her ... on her wedding."
The Warlord stepped down from the dais and approached the young man. Dion gritted his teeth and concentrated every nerve in his being to hold himself perfectly still. He had forgotten how tall the man was, how massive the body. The golden armor radiated heat and it was truly as if the sun had left the sky. Dion was scorched and dazed and almost sick.
"Do you own a ring that might be this token?"
The baritone voice boomed next to him, coming from the chest, resonating through the golden armor. Dion glanced up once at the face but couldn't keep his gaze on the gleaming helmet and immediately lowered his watering eyes. His hand fumbled inside the collar of his shirt; he scratched himself on the little Scimitar pin that Tusk had given him a lifetime ago. Dion hadn't remembered that he was still wearing it.
The boy drew out the ring, hanging from its silver chain.
Sagan's hand took it and he held it in his palm. Dion flinched away from his touch and involuntarily drew back as much as possible, with the result that he nearly strangled himself.
"Describe the ring, my lady."
"You know what it looks like, Sagan." Maigrey's voice had changed; it was grinding.
"Describe it." His ground against hers. Rock against stone.
"A Qirclet of flames, done in fire opals and rubies, banded with gold."
Sagan's hand let the ring drop. It struck Dion's chest with a thud and the boy drew a deep and shuddering breath.
The Warlord walked back to the dais, his eyes fixed on the lady. It seemed Dion was forgotten.
Sweat poured off the boy, rolling down his face, obliterating the traces of his tears. His legs were weak and there was a twisting in his bowels. The room tilted, sending him sliding across the floor.
"Sagan!"
The man turned with incredible swiftness and agility. A strong hand gripped Dion by the back of the neck and shoved his head down.
"Take a deep breath. No, keep your head lowered."
Those were the only words Dion heard clearly, but he thought there was something added about "typical" and "fine choice for a king."
Then soft, cool hands were holding him and comforting him.
"He's had a shock. My God, Sagan, how would you have reacted? He's only seventeen."
"When I was seventeen I was commanding a flight squadron. When you were seventeen you fought in the bloody Battle of Shiloh's Sun. This one nearly faints in my presence. Your brother has raised us a poet for a king!"
Dion raised his head, he could breathe again. The star's light shone clean and bright in his vision.
A pale and slender hand reached up to touch the ring he wore around his neck. He saw, on the palm, five tiny spots of blood. Maigrey was tall; her gaze was level with his.
"Are you feeling better, Dion?"
"Yes," he managed. "Thank you, my lady."
They stood together in silence, each glancing at the other, and Dion was suddenly aware of a shared consciousness among the three of them, of an unspoken question: What do we do now?
Suddenly, Sagan stirred. "I asked you to make a decision, Lady Maigrey, before the young man entered. Do you have an answer for me?"
Her hand lingered on
the ring. The opals flashed their blue-orange fire, the rubies their blood-red flame. It was reflected in her eyes—the fire of the ring and the cold light of the starjewel. Maigrey looked into Dion—far, far into him—and once again he felt her approbation and her pity . . . yearning, heart-rending pity.
"Yes, my lord. I have made my decision."
Maigrey let go of the ring gently. She took a step back from the young man, facing him. Her hand went to the scabbard of the bloodsword she wore at her side. With an easy, graceful motion she drew the scabbard from around her waist and, holding it out hilt first toward Dion, she sank to her knees on the metal deck at his feet.
"You are my liege lord. From this day forward, I live only to serve you and those you take under your protection. Accept my sword, that it may defend the innocent in time of war. Accept my sword, that it may stand as a symbol of your strength in time of peace. Accept my sword, my king, and with it accept my honor and my life."
Dion stared, dazed and uncomprehending. He hadn't expected to become a sun quite so soon.
"What do I do?" he whispered.
"Take the damn sword." Sagan was angry, bitterly, lethally angry. Not at Dion, but at the woman who knelt at Dion's feet. "She's a Guardian, after all."
Maigrey kept her eyes on Dion. Her face was solemn and ethereal; the pale hair flowed over her shoulders like the sea he had never seen, it stirred about her in the whispering air. And she knelt before him, at his feet, pledging her protection, her love, her loyalty. Slowly, with a trembling hand, Dion reached to grasp the strange-looking weapon.
"It will not harm you," Lady Maigrey said, thinking, perhaps, that was why he hesitated. "Not while it is sheathed. Be careful, and do not remove the hilt from its scabbard. Do not touch the needles."
Dion didn't understand, but he couldn't ask questions. This wasn't the time to reveal ignorance. He wasn't afraid of the sword. He was reluctant to take it because doing so meant taking the responsibility.
But wasn't that why he'd come?
Dion's fingers closed gingerly around the hilt, carefully avoiding the five razor-sharp needles protruding from it. He nearly dropped the blade. Not from pain. He'd expected it to be heavier and was surprised at its light weight.
Neither of the two watching him said a word, though he saw Maigrey cringe, just slightly, and make a swift movement with her hand that she checked, holding herself back, letting him learn.
Dion fumbled with the weapon and finally managed to get a firm grip with his sweating hands. He remembered hearing stories from Platus about kings of ancient days who knighted subjects by tapping them on each shoulder with the sword's blade. The young man wondered if this ceremony was still appropriate, but he didn't know what else to do and he had to do something. Was it right shoulder first or left, and did it matter? What was he supposed to say? Something resounding and memorable; but all he could think of, as he clumsily and fearfully brought the blade down upon the blue indigo velvet, was, "Thank you, my lady."
Maigrey rose to her feet and took her weapon back, somewhat hurriedly, Dion noticed. She was probably afraid he'd cut off his hand.
"Kings are made, not born," Derek Sagan said. "You will note, young man, that my sword stays at my side."
Dion was stunned, fearful. "Then you don't believe I'm . . . I'm the heir?"
"I believe you're the son of the crown prince, let's put it that way. The lady and I, by the way, are both your cousins— though just what the relationship is I can't begin to explain to you. Had those I trusted long ago not betrayed me, I might have raised you, young man, and then you would truly have been prince of a galaxy. But now—" Sagan shrugged and turned on his heel to leave.
"What are you going to do to me?" Dion knew he sounded like a frightened child, but he couldn't help himself.
Sagan paused and glanced back over his shoulder. "I'm not going to do anything to you. I might do something with you or for you. I haven't decided yet."
He continued walking, his cape billowing out behind him, his anger whipping like a storm wind around him.
Dion felt Maigrey, standing near him, breathe a small sigh.
Sagan halted. Golden flame and red fire, he faced her.
"Enjoy the final set, my lady. For you, the dance is drawing to an end."
He bowed and turned. By some unseen, unspoken command, the doors rumbled open and the Warlord walked through them. The doors did not, however, close after him. They saw him say a word to the guards and gesture toward them with a gloved hand. Then he was gone. The guards took up positions outside the door.
Dion shivered and glanced around, feeling helpless and disheartened. This hadn't turned out as he'd planned. What had he expected? Anything from immediate arrest and execution, he supposed, to sudden adulation and success. What he had was nothing. He hadn't expected nothing.
Oh, sure, now Dion knew who he was, but then he'd known that for a long time, anyway. His one small bit of comfort was Platus's message to him from the grave. But even that was bittersweet. Hope. Hope for what? Hope for a wise, compassionate ruler? Hope for a king who ruled by justice tempered by mercy? Hope for the millions being kicked in the faces by heavy boots? Hope for those ground beneath the wheel of corruption? Yeah, hope—brought to you by a seventeen-year-old orphan who couldn't hold a sword without dropping it.
"What a fool I was to come here! I should have done what Platus wanted, what he gave his life for. I should have lived my life an ordinary person. That's all I am or ever will be."
Dion spoke bitterly. It was only when the lady answered him that he realized he'd spoken aloud.
"No life is ordinary. Each, no matter how small or insignificant, is a tiny spark of divinity."
Maigrey drew nearer to him. He saw himself suddenly as protected and protector all in one, and felt warmer, better.
"If it is any comfort to you, Dion," she continued, looking at him with grave intensity, "you were drawn here, not by him or by me, but by what you are."
"You mean fate? A Higher Being? Destiny?" Dion shook his head. "I don't believe in that. Platus taught that man is his own destiny, he is free to choose his own path in life."
"My brother was an idealist. We can never have complete freedom to choose what we are or become. We aren't born into a void. We are born to parents in a city in a world on a planet and each of those are links in a chain dragging us through life."
"But the chain can be broken."
"By some, perhaps, but not by us. Not by those known as the Blood Boyal. How do you think you came to be, Dion? Did your parents meet and fall in love? No, their DNA met. It was a match discovered beneath a microscope. The matchmaker was a computer. It's how all of us were 'produced.' Almost all," Maigrey amended, glancing toward the door. Though Sagan had left them, his presence lingered around them still.
Dion's head throbbed and he put his hands to his aching temples. "Why the hell didn't they just build androids? It would have saved them all a lot of trouble!"
"The spark of divinity, Dion. The spark that can burst into the flame of greatness ... or a devouring fire. But I shouldn't keep you talking. You're tired and it's cold in here. I'll call the guards, they'll escort you to your quarters."
"Wait! What if I don't want to stay on this ship, my lady? What if I want to go back?"
She looked at him and he saw again the cool pity in her eyes. "It's too late for that now, Dion. Don't blame yourself. I think it was too late from the moment you were born."
"I'm a prisoner, you mean." But if she was right, who was his jailer?
"For a time. You're not what Lord Sagan expected, Dion. I can tell you that much. The reason I know is that he and I . . . our minds are linked. It's difficult to explain—"
Dion nodded. "I know, my lady. The general told me about you, about both of you. General Dixter. John Dixter."
The young man watched the woman out of the corner of his eye, hoping for a reaction, although he had decided that the rumpled, brandy-soaked old man wasn't worthy of her.
No blush crimsoned the lady's pale cheek, no smile touched her lips. She gave no indication that the name held any meaning for her at all. Ice. Flaming ice. Dixter had been right. The warmth Dion'd first felt around her began to seep away.
Maigrey turned from him and gestured. The centurions had left their posts and were marching into the chamber toward them.
"You're his prisoner, too," Dion said, edging near her. "What he said about the dance—that means he's going to execute you, doesn't it, my lady?"
"He can try," Maigrey answered, her gaze on the guards.
Dion was somewhat nonplussed at her coolness, but he forged ahead, lowering his voice. "We could escape ..."
Maigrey turned, looked at him, the gray eyes smooth and placid and fathoms deep. "We could, Dion. Would you come?"
He started to answer "Yes, of course," but she'd seen inside him, seen his secrets. She held them up before him, one by one, illuminating them in the harsh, brilliant light of the starjewel.
The "yes" wouldn't be spoken; he was ashamed to say the "no" aloud. And so he averted his face from the gray-eyed gaze and said nothing.
"God be with you, Dion."
Coolly bowing her head, Lady Maigrey left him. Her guards fell into step behind her and with her dignity, her regal posture, and the respect the men accorded her, she gave the impression that she was their commander, not their prisoner.
Alone with his own guards—and that was tantamount to being alone, for they didn't even look at him, much less attempt any form of conversation—Dion stood in the huge, round, empty hall.
"At least now I have a name."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Even in heaven they don't sing all the time.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, from Pictures of the Gone World
A million dark suns revolved erratically around in Tusk's brain. Suddenly and without warning, they all exploded into fiery life.
The Lost King Page 27