Dion freed himself from the centurion and started across the arena. Marcus, uncertain what was happening or how it affected his orders, allowed the boy to go and followed him. His lord did not look like himself.
"My lord!"
Captain Nada had entered the arena. Making his way through the dirt toward the two combatants covered with grime and sweat and their own blood. A disdainful expression on his face, Nada paused inside the ring to flick a bit of soil from the pants leg of his uniform. Like the fool who comes on before the last scene in a tragedy, he gave the audience a chance to relieve their pent-up feelings. Nervous, stomach-clenching laughter burst from the watching men. The captain's face flushed purplish red. He glared around at the men in silent rage, but it was obvious he blamed this insult on the Warlord. He gave the man and woman kneeling in the circle a look of complete and utter disgust.
"My lord, we have received a message from outpost B545 on Shelton's Planet I. They are under attack. Enemy unknown. Battleship Diana is on patrol in that vicinity. I have ordered Jupiter to reinforce—"
"Call it back." Lord Sagan's voice cracked harshly, from exhaustion and strain. He freed himself from Maigrey's grasp and rose wearily to his feet. Glancing around, he caught sight of Marcus's bright armor. "Centurion, take the lady to sick bay—"
That threat was enough to rouse Maigrey from her trance. "No," she murmured, holding out a warding hand, waving Marcus away. "I'm fine. I'm all right. Just ... let me rest a moment."
The Warlord was strolling rapidly out of the arena. The men were breathlessly silent, straining to hear.
Nada, obviously incensed, followed. "My lord, I protest—"
"I said order Jupiter back, Nada. Their mission is pointless."
"I hardly call going to the aid of an outpost under attack pointless, my lord. We have received no further reports from Shelton but—"
Sagan spun on his heel. Captain Nada, nearly tripping on the Warlord's feet, was forced to backpedal swiftly to avoid a collision.
"Nor will you, Captain. Ever. The outpost no longer exists. I've seen it. It has been wiped out—to the man."
"What—"
"Corasians, Nada. They've entered the galaxy." Sagan, turning again, continued walking. His centurions were hurrying to him, eager to be of use, and he was issuing orders as he walked. "Put the fleet on alert and get hold of the President. I'll use the emergency channel. Where's Aks? Send for the admiral and tell him to meet me in the war room. Alert the outposts on Shelton's Planets II and III, but don't be surprised if they don't respond."
Maigrey, forgotten, brushed the pale hair out of her face. Her eyes were on the Warlord. She looked drained. Dion, kneeling beside her, heard her sigh. She closed her eyes, overcome with a weariness that was not of the body but of the spirit.
"And so we go on." He heard her murmur.
Book II
Where All Life Dies
. . . while I abroad
Through all the coasts of dark destruction seek Deliverance for us all .. .
John Milton, Paradise Lost
Chapter One
I wish to have no connection with any Ship that does not sail fast, for I intend to go in harm's way. . . .
John Paul Jones
Derek Sagan stood in the war room aboard Phoenix. On the vidscreen before him, President Robes sat at the oval table. He was alone. Robes was attired in a white, cable-knit, V-necked sweater, striped at the neck, and with cuffs of bright lines of red and blue. The white set off his tan, which in turn set off the touches of gray at the temples; the entire effect looked extremely good in the newsvids. He had apparently been taking some sort of gentle exercise which Sagan's urgent message had interrupted.
The President leaned forward, nudging to one side a silver water pitcher that sat on the table before him in order to get a better view of the vidscreen. The Warlord, glancing at this water pitcher, saw the image of another person reflected in it, someone who was keeping out of range of the camera, someone standing directly across the room from the President. Robes did not look in this person's direction, but clasped his hands before him—a gesture which meant he was giving you his full and complete attention. His face was expressive of grave concern.
Derek Sagan swiftly depressed a series of buttons on the control panel before him. Robes's face disappeared, replaced by the silver water pitcher that was, with every shot, growing larger on the screen.
"You have, of course, verified this news of an attack, Citizen General?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
The silver water pitcher was revealing a curved and distorted magenta blob. Sagan ordered it brought closer. Magenta. The Warlord's blood congealed in his veins.
"This is an outrage," the President was saying. "I'll take it to the Congress, of course. I'll call an emergency session. I've no doubt that we will declare war on the Corasians."
"Yes, Mr. President."
The person reflected in the water pitcher could be seen clearly. Sagan hadn't been wrong. Magenta robes, edged in black, the zigzag of black lightning—dark lightning—running down the front. It was him! Mentally, the Warlord staggered.
He was reported dead! What's he doing here? Of course! Robes. He has Robes! Perhaps he's had him under his control from the very beginning. It would explain much.
"Citizen General Sagan? Have we lost communication?"
"Excuse me, Mr. President." Sagan wrenched his mind back to his duty. The silver water pitcher dwindled in size and on the screen, once again, was Peter Robes. "I was ... receiving further news on the enemy."
"I understand your interest, Citizen General. But perhaps you could favor me with your full attention?"
"Yes, Mr. President." Sagan ground the words with his teeth.
"It is likely, if the Corasians follow their usual plan of action, that they will use Shelton's Planets I, II, and III as bases and strike out at the rest of the galaxy from there. Wouldn't you agree, Citizen General?"
Sagan agreed.
"Then," the President continued, "we are fortunate that the enemy has picked a relatively worthless and out-of-the-way system—"
"There are seven million people on Shelton's planets, Mr. President."
Robes's face crumbled instantly from grave concern to gentle grief. "You misunderstood me, Citizen General. Of course, I didn't mean worthless in terms of human life. That is a terrible tragedy, certainly, but . . . let's be brutally realistic."
Yes. since the press isn't around, Sagan thought.
"Seven million people is a mere drop in the ocean of the life of the galaxy. And, in terms of resources, Shelton's planets are, I believe, devoted mainly to scientific research. There are vast numbers of scientists in this galaxy.
"I intend—once Congress has declared war, of course—to command the generals of the other sectors to pull back and guard the dense population centers of our galaxy. I want you, Citizen General Sagan, to stop the Corasians from penetrating further into the galaxy."
"Yes, Mr. President. I will need reinforcements—"
"Impossible, I'm afraid, Derek." Robes leaned forward, his face revealing complete and absolute confidence in his commander. "Let's drop the formalities. We're old friends, after all. The inner circle of the defense will need all the galaxy's current resources in case—and I don't mean this to be negative thinking, I'm only being realistic—in case you fail to stop the enemy."
"I would say, Mr. President, that fighting the Corasians with the force I have means failure is a foregone conclusion."
The President's face exhibited gentle sorrow, extreme disappointment. "I'm sorry to hear that, Derek. You are my ablest commander. I expected better of you." Robes's eyes flicked, almost involuntarily, to the unseen person standing across the room from him. Their gaze returned to the Warlord immediately. Sagan might not have caught the glance if he hadn't been watching for it. "You have your orders, Citizen General Sagan."
"I have my orders. Yes, Mr. President."
"Our best wishes and th
ose of the galaxy are with you."
Are they indeed, Mr. President? Sagan silently commented.
The screen went blank. The Warlord stood staring at it in profound silence for a long, long time.
In the forgotten lounge on the diplomatic deck, Maigrey and Dion were alone. There were no guards in attendance—an oblique compliment to the lady, and one which she found depressing. The threat to her galaxy was holding her prisoner now more surely than Sagan ever could. She sat limp and lifeless in a chair, staring, unseeing, out at the stars. Her head rested wearily on her hand. Dion watched her with grave concern. She had drunk nothing, eaten nothing in the several hours that had passed since the duel. She had not spoken at all.
An orderly entered the room, padding softly, not breaking the heavy silence. He bore a tray and set it down on a table at Maigrey's side. On the tray was a porcelain teapot of fanciful design—the spout was the head of a dragon, the pot was its body, and the handle was the dragon's tail. The pot rested on four small clawed feet. Steam curled from the dragon's parted mouth. Two cups, shaped like dragon eggs, without handles, stood near the pot, along with a bowl of fruit and a plate of plain, unsalted crackers.
"From his lordship," the orderly said and left.
Dion, leaning over, sniffed at the tea. It had a faintly tarry aroma and his nose wrinkled. He glanced up at Maigrey, who was looking at the pot with a wan smile.
"You don't think he's trying to poison us?" The young man was half-serious, wholly in earnest.
Maigray's smile widened slightly. "No, Dion, it's supposed to smell like that. It's called lapsong souchong." She traced her finger over the dragon's head. "Even the teapot looks familiar. But it couldn't be the same one. It couldn't." Sighing, she closed her eyes.
Dion carefully and awkwardly lifted the teapot. "Here, let me pour you a cup. You should drink something."
"Why? To keep up my strength? To keep on living?"
Her bitterness and anger startled the young man. He tried to set the teapot back down gently, but it struck against one of the cups and made a frightful clatter. Maigrey opened her eyes, saw his face, and sighed.
"I'm sorry, Dion. It's just—" She paused, thinking, then said softly, "Once, I knew a man, a renowned poet, who fell down an elevator shaft. He was rescued and they brought him up alive, but the doctors diagnosed some sort of internal injury to the brain and said he only had a few months to live. The man bid his friends and family good-bye, completed the book of poetry he was writing, and then prepared himself to die. But he didn't. He kept on living. Five years later he was still alive. It was his biggest disappointment."
Dion said nothing. The story appalled him, though he didn't understand its point. He picked up a cracker, broke it in two, started to eat it, then tossed it back down onto the plate.
"Lady Maigrey," he said abruptly. "What did the test tell you about me? Did God . . . er . . . speak?"
What a superstitious fool he sounded! Might as well ask a Ouija board.
"He spoke, but not quite what we expected to hear." Maigrey lifted the teapot with a sudden, brisk gesture. "Will you try this? It doesn't taste as odd as it smells and it's good for queasy stomachs. How are you feeling?"
"The drugs seem to be wearing off. I was feeling hungry, in fact, until the food came in. Now, I'm not certain." Dion looked at the hot brown liquid in the dragon's egg cup. "If you don't mind, my lady, I think I'll go see if I can find some water."
So that's all she plans to tell me, Dion thought. Bah! God talking! What kind of fool do they think I am? What's God supposed to say—that I'm going to be a great king because I passed out on Sagan's floor? Probably all the Warlord meant to do was torture me and see how I reacted! Well, if you ask me, I think I came through it pretty fine. Now if I could just figure out how I managed to make that silver ball float in the air. . . .
When he returned, he found Maigrey standing by the viewport, staring thoughtfully into a distant part of the galaxy.
"I saw the Corasians before the fight began, you know." Maigrey didn't turn, didn't look around at him. "Black shapes, blotting out the stars. I'd seen them in my mind before, but it was years ago, and I couldn't remember what they were, I couldn't concentrate. I didn't dare concentrate on them."
"But—you saw them!"
"Our altered blood structure does quirky things, sometimes, things scientists can't explain. I can see images in my mind of events happening somewhere far distant. Sometimes I can control it and see what I want; sometimes the visions come to me unbidden, as this one did today. It was how Sagan hoped to be able to use me to find you. But, as it turned out, that wasn't necessary."
Dion stirred uncomfortably, angrily, feeling that he'd been accused of some misdeed. Shaking the red-golden mane of hair out of his face, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and stared moodily out at the stars.
"What about sharing this vision with Sagan? That hand-on-the-face business." Dion hadn't meant to sound jealous and only realized he'd done so when he saw her glance at him, amused.
"Because we're mind-linked, he and I can share the visions, but only if we are physically touching." Maigrey lifted her palm. By the dim light of the lounge and the lambent light of the stars, he could see the five small white marks that were now slightly red and swollen from contact with the bloodsword. "It happened only after we'd been given our swords. I think it probably has something to do with the virus. Two people of the Blood Royal who aren't mind-linked can experience a certain amount of mental telepathy when they are using the swords. This can be good or bad, depending."
"Depending on what? It seems good to me."
Maigrey looked at him fully, intently. "On the minds using the swords. The stronger, you see, has the ability to control the weaker. "
He hated it when she looked inside him like that. Dion flushed and rubbed the palm of his right hand. Ever since he'd seen the bloodswords, he'd felt those five marks on his skin. Clearing his throat, he turned away from the window, wandered over to the table, and absentmindedly devoured all of the crackers. He heard a sound, a faint jingle of armor, and was almost relieved to see Lord Sagan standing in the door.
Maigrey turned back to staring out the steelglass.
Sagan glanced at the young man. "How are you feeling, Dion?"
"Fine, my lord." The young man spoke coldly. He was furious at Sagan and his anger vied with his intense admiration. The conflicting emotions were confusing and painful and he didn't know how to handle them. Standing straight and stiff, he clasped his hands behind his back.
The Warlord's face was drawn and tired-looking; there was a gray tinge to the skin. The lines around the mouth and nose and on the brow were deeper, darker.
"Fine or not, I want you to report to sick bay."
"Why?" Dion's anger flared. Sagan was obviously trying to get rid of him. "I feel fine. I—"
"I said, you are to report to sick bay. There are some tests Giesk wants to run. Guards." Sagan made a peremptory gesture. "If he won't go, take him."
Dion glanced at the Lady Maigrey, but she was no help. She stood with her back to him, looking out at the stars. The young man swallowed the hot words that came flooding to his mouth and, after a moment's bitter struggle, did as he was commanded. Stiff-necked, red-faced, he stalked out of the room.
The Warlord indicated with a gesture that the guards were to follow.
"My lord," said one of the centurions, "should we send for replacements?"
Sagan shook his head.
The guard saluted and left. Maigrey could hear their booted feet ringing on the steel deck, then the sound faded and she and the Warlord were alone.
"You were hard on the boy, my lord."
Sagan came to stand beside her. "He better get used to it. Things are only going to get worse."
"So it's as bad as that?"
"Don't you know? I haven't kept my thoughts hidden from you. I've been too damn busy."
"I didn't want to see them." Maigrey's voice was soft. H
er hands were clasped before her. Tensely, unconsciously, she twisted her fingers.
"The Corasians are attacking in force. We had a treaty with them. Don't blame me, lady. I had nothing to do with it. It was Robes's first act as President, guaranteed to win him popularity. For the past fifteen years, our spies—mine and those of the other Warlords—have reported to him that the Corasians were not holding to the terms of the treaty, that they were building up their forces. Robes always refused to comment directly, but his mouthpieces in Congress accused us of war-mongering, of using the Corasians as an excuse to keep our fleets and armies strong."
"This attack surprised you, then?"
"To be honest, yes. I had expected them to strike, but not this soon. According to my last report before I lost contact with my agent, the Corasians couldn't possibly have been ready to make a full-scale assault. But I think," Sagan added, his voice dry, "I was the only one surprised."
Maigrey turned, stared at him incredulously.
"You think Robes knew?"
"I'm convinced of it."
"And he let hundreds of thousands of people on those planets die? I can't believe that, even of him!"
The Warlord shrugged off the question. "What are thousands to him when he has trillions of votes in the inner circle of the galaxy? Shelton's planets were inconsequential—mostly inhabited by soldiers and scientists, their families, a few scientific stations, and the usual population centers that grow up around military bases."
Pausing, Sagan leaned near, lowered his voice. "You must understand, lady, that my agent in the Corasian galaxy was good. Very good. He'd been there for years—a slave in one of their chemical factories, that was his cover. They'd never come near discovering him. Then he disappeared. In his last report he indicated that there was someone on to him."
"Robes's agents?"
"Someone's agents. And not, I think, the Corasians."
Turning, the Warlord left the viewscreen and went over to seat himself wearily in a chair. Suppressing a groan, he rubbed a knotted muscle in his thigh.
The Lost King Page 35