The Lost King

by Margaret Weis

  "The stench in here is enough to make anyone feel giddy," added the centurion.

  Well, well, Maigrey thought, gratefully accepting the man's assistance, perhaps they wouldn't watch her die with equanimity after all.

  "How are you feeling, young man?"

  The pinched, weasel-like face of Dr. Giesk loomed over the boy. A scrap of necktie escaped from beneath the doctor's white coat and flopped onto the blanket. Giesk rescued the tie, tucked it neatly back, and continued to peer into the boy's face. Dion blinked, involuntarily moving away.

  "I'm fine."

  Dion tried to push himself up to a sitting position in the bed, only to discover wires attached to his wrists, leading to a winking, blinking machine that stood nearby. The young man glanced around, saw sterile beds standing in orderly, well-dressed rows, their blankets folded and tucked to exact specifications, their crisp, smooth, white sheets overlapping by just the proper width, no more and no less. Even with a patient between them, the sheets did not relax. Dion had to squirm to ease himself out from beneath his sheet's rigid grasp. He was, he realized, in a sick bay.

  "What happened to me?"

  "You suffered a shock to your nervous system. A thing not uncommon for those who are guests of the Warlord." Giesk giggled and peered intently at the readings on his machine.

  Dion remembered. Fearfully, he lifted his hands and stared at them, turning them over and over. There was not a mark on them. But the pain had been real, the tearing flesh, shattered bones, severed tendons. And then the horrible moment when he saw his flesh withering and burning in the fire. The memory of the horror overwhelmed him and he began to shake. Cold sweat covered his forehead.

  "Mmmmm," Giesk murmured, frowning. "I think you had better keep to your bed today. I'll give you a sedative."

  "No, wait!" Dion reached out a hand to grasp the doctor's lab coat. "Who brought me here? Did they say anything?"

  "The Warlord brought you himself," Dr. Giesk said, giving Dion a shrewd, penetrating look. "Carried you in his arms and you're no lightweight. He's kept his strength up remarkably for a man of his age. Comes from exercise and the proper diet. I limit his intake of red meat, you know. And he has never in his entire life touched a drop of alcohol. The priests don't, or perhaps I should say didn't . . . but we're among friends."

  One half of the doctor's face suddenly performed the most grotesque contortions. Dion was considerably alarmed until he realized Giesk was winking at him.

  Shivering, the boy pulled the blanket up around him. Every object in the room was either metallic or white; the place even smelled cold. "But didn't he say anything? What about Lady Maigrey? Was she with him? Didn't she say anything?"

  "Lady Maigrey? Now, there's a fascinating woman. Have you noticed that scar on her face?" Giesk perched his thin behind on the edge of the bed. "Remarkable. Quite remarkable. She came to see you shortly after the Warlord brought you in for treatment. The lady didn't say anything, but she left that for you." Giesk pointed at a book lying on the bedstand.

  Dion snaked an arm out from under his blanket and grabbed it. Lying propped up on his elbow, moving awkwardly so as to keep from tangling himself in the wires, he opened the cover.

  "There's some writing on the inside and a few lines marked. I couldn't read the inscription. It's in one of those old languages." Giesk turned and motioned to a medicbot that was filing charts. "QUAC, over here, please."

  Casting the doctor an angry glance, which went right past Giesk, Dion carefully brushed the cover of the leatherbound book to rid it of the man's touch. The medicbot trundled across the floor. Giesk punched several buttons on its chest. A mechanized arm moved over a tray, selected an item, and stuck what looked to be a wet dot on Dion's arm. The young man, absorbed in studying the book, paid little attention to it.

  The book was David Copperfield. Hurriedly he flipped the pages to find Maigrey's inscription, for he guessed it must be some sort of message. He hoped it would let him know how he'd fared with the test. He wondered uneasily if he'd disgraced himself by passing out. He couldn't imagine Sagan flopping down on the floor like a dead fish.

  Dead . . . The memory of his ordeal became suddenly cloudy and hazy, not nearly as frightening. Dion felt his muscles relax and he stopped shivering.

  Preface. Introduction. A long introduction, written by some scholar. Table of Contents. Chapter One. "I Am Born." And there, lines marked. First lines. Dion read them carefully.

  Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

  Written in feminine handwriting on the margin were the words, "My love and prayers are with you always. Dominus tecum, Dion Starfire." It was signed with Maigrey's name.

  Dr. Giesk, still sitting on the edge of the bed, was rattling on.

  "That scar of hers. I think it was made by the blade of a bloodsword. Whoever handled it was extremely skilled or she was extremely lucky, since a blow like that should have split open her head. I haven't had a chance to examine the scar closely—not yet, anyway."

  Dion puzzled over the inscription. It seemed as if she were saying good-bye. He rubbed his eyes; he was drowsy. He couldn't think. Giesk rambled on. There were, at present, no other patients in the ward, so the boy was in for the full brunt of the doctor's bedside manner.

  "They'll bring the body to me afterward, however. I've specifically requested it. I'll be able to study it quite closely, see just how they managed to close the wound so that the skin grew back so smoothly. I think it was probably glued—"

  "Body?" Dion raised his head. It took an effort. Someone seemed to have filled his skull with rock. "What do you mean—body?"

  "She's to be executed today," Dr. Giesk said. "There's nothing you can do to stop it, young man, so you might as well lie back down and let the drug take effect. When you wake up, it will be long over."

  "Wake up . . ." The rocks were tumbling around and around, crashing into each other. "That . . . wasn't . . . sedative." Dion fumbled his way out of the sheet, ripping off the wires attached to his hands. Slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The rocks left his head, tumbled down his body, and landed in his feet.

  Dr. Giesk made no move to stop him , but sat watching, the cold eyes observing the boy with detached, clinical curiosity. "That's a very powerful sleeping drug. You won't make it to the door."

  Matter. You can control matter. I kept the silver globe in the air. I willed it to stay in the air and it did—until . . . until . . .

  Dion gritted his teeth.

  "I'll make it!"

  Why was the floor floating ten meters beneath the bed? He'd have to jump for it. The floor leapt up to meet him and he landed heavily on his hands and knees. Standing, reeling against the side of the bed, Dion took a step and realized he was naked.

  "Can't be a hero . . . naked. Can't go . . . t'rescue . . . 'thout clothes. All . . . laugh. Sagan'd . . . laugh."

  Peering around, Dion discovered his jeans, neatly folded, on a shelf beneath the bedstand. He made a grab for them, but they drifted away from him. He tried again and this time snagged them. But, holding them up, he was confused by the sight of two l§gs. He had no idea how to put them on.

  Seeing a patient needing aid and receiving no orders to the contrary, the medicbot set down its tray of medicines and went to assist. Dion allowed it to dress him like a child. Dr. Giesk watched all this with intense interest, never moving to stop him. Once his jeans were on, Dion lurched toward a door leaning at an odd angle at the end of a long metal and white tunnel.

  "Follow him, QUAC," Giesk ordered the medicbot. "Don't interfere with him. What a marvelous research opportunity! I want to see where he goes, what he does. Switch on your camera and your remote scanner. Keep a record of brain activity. Monitor his heart rate and, when he collapses, extract a blood sample."

  The medicbot whirred off in pursuit of its patient.

  Giesk stood staring after the two of them, his hands
fiddling with his necktie. "I wouldn't have believed it. I wonder how far he'll get? I almost think I'll go along . . . No." He smacked himself on the hand. "Naughty, naughty. You have work to do. Must prepare for the autopsy. It isn't every day you get a chance to observe a dead Blood Royal. And I'll be able to review the medicbot's vid tapes of the young man. That kid! Doped to the gills and still functioning. Remarkable! Absolutely remarkable."

  Maigrey sat in the empty lounge on the deserted level of the ship, watching the stars glittering in the darkness of the universe's cold and endless night. Her guards had retreated back near the door, standing well away from her, unobtrusive, respectful of her desire to be alone.

  She wasn't alone long. Her back to the door, she heard behind her the muffled footsteps of several men, the soft tread of one pair of booted feet walking across the carpet. She knew that tread; it matched the beating of her heart. Maigrey didn't move, didn't turn her head. Calm and relaxed, she waited, never taking her eyes from the stars.

  Heavy hands rested on her shoulders with unwonted tenderness.

  "It is time, my lady."

  Sagan's fingers brushed softly through the pale hair. Maigrey closed her eyes, her courage almost failing her. Why keep on fighting? Wouldn't it be easier, better, just to let it end?

  Yes, and he would despise her forever.

  The Warlord backed up a pace. Maigrey rose to her feet, turned, and stood facing him. She wore the indigo blue gown; the starjewel gleamed with its own light, brighter and warmer than any of its namesakes. At her side, the bloodsword,

  "And how am I to die, my lord?"

  "The beam. It's swift, painless. I owe you that much, at least." He frowned slightly as he said this, then shook his head, to rid himself of a disturbing thought.

  Maigrey wondered very much what that disturbing thought had been, but she couldn't see his mind.

  The beam. Laser through the forehead. There were worse ways to die. She knew; she'd seen most of them.

  Maigrey nodded gravely. "And what is the crime of which I'm accused?"

  "If I read the list, my lady, we'd be here for a light-year," Sagan evinced some impatience. "But, since you insist, the crime for which you must pay with your life is the crime of treason against the state."

  "I have not committed treason, my lord. My king lives and I am loyal to him. It is you, my lord, and your state who have committed treason."

  Sagan's eyes narrowed. "If you're trying to stall—"

  "It's my right to know with what I'm charged, my lord."

  The Warlord's lips compressed; his jaw muscles tightened. "Very well, Lady Maigrey. You are charged with breaking your oath of allegiance to a superior officer. You are charged with refusing to obey his commands. You are charged with betraying those who trusted in you."

  For an instant, it seemed the laser beam had struck her. Maigrey's face went livid, her eyes rigid and staring. Her breath stopped. It took her a moment to find the breath to speak, but when she did, her words were clear and strong.

  "According to the law of your state, I have the right to be tried and convicted by a jury of my peers. "

  "You have been tried by your peers, my lady," Derek Sagan said. "I am your peer—the only one left alive."

  "Then, my lord, you can have no objection to a trial by combat."

  The Warlord's well-disciplined, well-trained guards stirred, turned their heads, and exchanged glances.

  Sagan heard them, if he could not see them. His lip twitched slightly. He leaned close to her and whispered, "I am pleased to see that time cannot stale, nor custom wither your infinite variety, lady. I wondered what you had in mind. I compliment you."

  Maigrey lowered her eyes. "Thank you, my lord."

  Sagan said aloud, "I have judged you, my lady. I have found you guilty. I have sentenced you to death, and I will carry out that sentence."

  "I dispute that, my lord. And it is my right, being of the Blood Royal, to take my case to the Supreme Judge, the Highest Judge, the Judge who will someday judge us all. I challenge you, my accuser, to prove your charge against me on the field of honor. Through my valor and my skill at arms, I will prove my innocence. God alone will be my judge."

  The men behind them had fallen silent, too silent. Every man was waiting, each seemingly holding his breath, to hear his lord's answer.

  "You can't turn me down, Sagan," Maigrey said to him softly. "They would always wonder if you were afraid to face me—the first crack in the solid shield of their loyalty. And you're going to need that loyalty when you commit your own brand of treason."

  "Reconsider, Maigrey. You can't win. Even if you do manage to slay me, my men will kill you where you stand."

  "One thing at a time. That is what you always taught me, wasn't it, Commander?" Maigrey looked into his eyes, saw reflected there the blue-white light of the starjewel.

  Sagan's thin lips twisted in a bitter smile. "You have been very clever. I hope you won't live to regret your cleverness." Reaching out his hand, he touched the scar on her face, running his fingers down the smooth skin. "This time, I will not be merciful. My lady." He bowed, turned on his heel, and left her.

  "My lord." Maigrey pressed her hand against her cheek. The skin, where he touched it, burned.

  Chapter Thirty

  Die now!

  Ancient Greek response to good fortune

  Dion wondered fearfully if the ship was under attack. The deck canted away beneath his feet, the corridors slanted at impossible angles, making it difficult to walk them. He was continually dashing himself against the bulkheads, hurtling into blast doors. But if the ship was being fired on, no one seemed the least bit concerned. Everyone continued going about his business. Those who noticed Dion at all regarded him with either amusement or disgust.

  "Please ..." Dion lurched toward the two officers. "Lady Maigrey, tell me—"

  But the men continued past him, regarding him with disgust.

  "Drunk! The Warlord won't tolerate that!" one said to the other.

  Dion leaned against a wall to recover his balance and try to rediscover the floor. He could hear the medicbot whirring along behind him, its metal fingers clinking together, plucking at him if he allowed it to come too near. Whenever he stopped, it sidled close to him. He could see himself—a grotesque, curved, and convex reflection—in its round, lifeless lenses. Pushing away from the wall, filled with a vague terror, he stumbled on.

  "Dion!"

  The voice was familiar.

  The boy stopped in his headlong rush to nowhere and turned—too quickly. His body couldn't maintain its balance and he fell. The medicbot's motors whined in triumph, and Dion tried to scramble up and get away. He managed to make it to his knees.

  "Dion, what's wrong? Look, it's me, Marcus."

  Strong arms had hold of him. Strong hands supported him. Peering into the man's face, Dion knew him . . . one of his guards.

  "He drank his lunch," someone else said. "That's what's wrong with him."

  "No!" Dion protested, choking on his swollen tongue. "It's a . . . drug!" He waved his hand at the medicbot, hovering over him with a syringe in one metal claw, a ball of wet cotton in another, and a glass vial in a third.

  "Giesk?" Marcus asked, eyeing the medicbot with a grim and unfriendly expression.

  "Can't fall . . . asleep!" Dion clutched at the man. "Maigrey . . . execute. Must . . . stop."

  "So that's it," Marcus muttered. "Get away!" he ordered the medicbot. "Back off, you metallic ghoul!"

  The medicbot slid backward, clicked to a stop, and remained standing, staring at them through its myriad lenses.

  Marcus said to his companion, "Help me get the kid back to my quarters. Then you—" he added something in low tones that were lost on Dion, who was beginning to feel himself spiraling down into a deep pit.

  He started awake, grasping frantically at the edges of consciousness, trying to pull himself back.

  "I can walk," he mumbled, shoving the men's hands away from him.


  Marcus helped him to stand and guided him, offering a steadying hand when the boy's knees began to sink beneath him. The centurions' quarters weren't far away; Marcus and his friend had just left them when they ran into Dion. The two guided the boy inside, the other guard left on his errand, and Marcus shut the door in the medicbot's blinking face.

  Dion gazed longingly at the neatly made bed and planted his back firmly against a wall. "Lady Maigrey ... is she . . . dead?"

  "No," Marcus said.

  Dion closed his eyes, almost sobbing in relief.

  "Not yet," the guard added in a low tone. He stood in the center of the small room in which there was a bed, a computer, a desk, a locker, and a chair. "What did Giesk give you? Do you know?"

  Dion shook his head muzzily. "Sleeping . . . something."

  The wall was starting to tilt over backward, taking him with it. Marcus put out his hand, caught hold of him.

  "You better sit down before you fall. You might hurt yourself."

  "Can't. Must . . . rescue . . . lady."

  "There's nothing you can do, Dion. She's chosen trial by combat. Against Lord Sagan."

  Dion's eyes flared open. He stared at Marcus—who was beginning to separate and become three people. "I don't . . . understand."

  "You won't understand much of anything under that drug. I—"

  "Take me ... to her!"

  Marcus shook his head. "I've broken the rules, bringing you here. By rights I should have marched you right back to sick bay."

  "Then I'll go . . . myself—"

  Dion stared at the door and willed his body to walk over to it. It was going to be tough going, because someone had cut off his feet. At least he assumed that was what had happened, since he couldn't feel them anymore. The door slid open—

  Shining gold and fiery red filled his vision.

  "My lord! Please! You can't—"

  Dion lurched forward, clasped hold of metal, cold and unyielding. Flames burst in his skull and he began a sickening, slithering fall . . .

  The Warlord caught the boy in his arms.