Authors: Margaret Weis
"Your wish
is my command, sire."
The response was
correct, proper, and the sarcasm was like acid falling on Dion's
flesh. Neither said another word. The ceremonies were concluded, the
troops thanked and dismissed. Admiral Aks and his junior officers
acted promptly to herd their guests back to the diplomatic portion of
the ship.
The king,
accompanied by his apparently attentive lord, headed for the elevator
that led to the Warlord's private quarters.
"An
interesting young man," said DiLuna. She despised men, but was
accustomed to sizing them up for breeding purposes, "I'd bed
him." A high compliment from the baroness. "What do you
think, Rykilth?"
"He's
lasted longer in the contest than I'd expected," observed the
vapor-breather through his translator.
"The scars
of his battles are plain upon him," Olefsky agreed. The huge
warrior glanced back at the two figures, one tall and gleaming in
gold, the other shorter, red hair burning like flame. "Who will
be the ultimate winner?"
"Who do you
suppose?" Rykilth asked dryly.
"Bet?"
Olefsky raised his gigantic hand.
"What
stakes?" DiLuna demanded.
"One
hundred golden eagles."
"Terms?"
"That
before we leave this ship, the crown will not rest on two heads, but
one. The laddie's."
"Ha!"
Rykilth gave a snort that sent the fog billowing and nearly blew out
his translator. "You might as well hand over your money now,
Olefsky. By the time we leave this ship, the laddie' will be lucky to
retain his head, much less the crown."
"A bet,
then?" Olefsky asked coolly, extending his huge hand.
"A bet."
Rykilth's small, gloved, three-fingered hand closed over as many of
Olefsky's fingers as the vapor-breather could manage.
DiLuna scoffed.
"None of the three of us ever defeated Sagan. You're saying this
'boy' will do what we couldn't?"
"I am,"
the Bear replied imperturbably. "None of us were Blood Royal."
"All thanks
to the Goddess for that! It will be a pleasure taking your money, my
friend." DiLuna's hand gripped the big man's firmly.
Laughing, the
three shifted their conversation to more important topics.
The double
doors, decorated with the phoenix, closed and sealed. Sagan removed
his helm, placed it carefully upon its stand. His hands clasped
behind his back, beneath the flowing red cape, he took a turn about
the spacious area of his living quarters, glanced out the viewscreen
at the other ships in his fleet, looked to see if there were any
messages on his computer screen, then turned to face his king.
"What is it
you have to say, Your Majesty?" Sagan asked coldly.
Dion's anger was
at hand, sharp and shining with the righteousness of his cause.
"The girl
died, the one I could have healed! She drowned herself, and it was my
fault. Never again. Never again will I listen to you or take your
advice. You don't want me to discover my true powers because you're
afraid of me. I am king and I will
be
king!"
The Warlord said
nothing, did nothing.
"I came to
tell you that. I will be in my quarters, should you decide to
respond." Dion tinned to leave.
"I have a
vid I think Your Majesty should see," came Sagan's voice behind
him.
Dion stopped,
glanced around, eyes narrowed, immediately suspicious.
"I am
extremely tired, my lord. It can wait until morning."
The Warlord
depressed a button on a console. A vidscreen slid into view. "No,
Your Majesty, it cannot. Computer, bring up exhibit number B-221."
A vid appeared
on the screen. Blurred at first, it sharpened as the computer
adjusted the focus and brought into view the corpse of a teenage
girl, her face hideously deformed, laid out upon a steel table. The
girl's body was naked, her hair wet, bedraggled. The feet and hands
were blue, a numbered tag was wrapped around one toe.
Dion made a
strangled sound, shock and fury robbed him of his voice. He continued
walking toward the double doors.
"Look at
her, Your Majesty!" Sagan's voice grated.
"If
you
have the nerve. Her death was, as you say, your fault. Your
responsibility, though perhaps not the way you imagine."
Slowly, hands
clenching to fists, Dion faced the horrible image on the vidscreen,
faced the impassive, shadowed visage of the Warlord.
"You are
right, my lord." Dion swallowed, his throat muscles constricting
in his neck. "I must accept the burden of this young woman's
self-destruction. I have much to learn. I thank your lordship for
teaching me."
"You have
much to learn, all right!" Sagan snapped.
The cam zoomed
in on the body, bringing it closer, closer, studying it from every
angle. Dion drew a deep breath, held himself steady.
"Body of
Jane Doe," came a voice over the audio, a woman's voice,
sounding calm and bored. "Vid taken prior to autopsy for
purposes of identification." The coroner gave the planet's date
and time, also Standard Military date and time, her own name and
official title, adding, "Anyone having information regarding the
identity of subject Jane Doe is asked to report to—" name
of local police chief.
The cam lingered
for a close-up of the hideous face, traveled casually over the upper
part of the body, moved down the right arm to focus on the victim's
right hand.
"No
tattoos. No moles or birthmarks," the coroner continued. "The
only wounds found on the body were discovered on palm of the right
hand."
White flesh
filled the screen—white flesh crisscrossed with the lines used
by fortune tellers to trace a human's destiny, white flesh marred by
five small puncture marks arranged in a peculiar pattern.
Dion let go his
inheld breath. Balls of yellow burst before his eyes, he was suddenly
sick and dizzy. Dazed, he lifted his right hand, stared down at his
palm. Five scars, five puncture marks, arranged in the same pattern.
Draw a line between them, connect the dots, and they'd form a
five-pointed star.
Sagan ordered
the computer to freeze the frame. It did so, leaving the image of the
dead girl's hand on the screen.
"By her
report, the coroner had a difficult time determining what these marks
were," the Warlord stated, regarding the photo with cool,
frowning detachment. "She concluded that they were made by five
metal needles, driven into the skin. But for what reason or purpose,
she couldn't fathom She surmised it was some type of drug use, though
she couldn't find any trace of drugs in the body. Admittedly, she
didn't spend much time investigating. The young woman had obviously
died by drowning, obviously finally succeeded in doing what she'd
attempted to do several times before. We know differently, however,
don't we, my liege? We know it wasn't suicide. It was murder,
cold-blooded, calculating murder."
Dion found a
chair and sat down before he fell.
"Abdiel."
He spoke softly. The name conjured up bitter memory. He stared at his
hand, curled the fingers over the palm, hiding the marks.
"Abdiel,"
Sagan repeated.
"You knew
... all along."
"I didn't
know. I suspected. When I received news of the girl's suicide, I sent
Dr. Giesk to examine the body, obtain the coroner's report. He
recognized immediately the true cause of death."
"But she
drowned! It
was
suicide, the coroner said so." Dion clung
to his fragment of hope.
"Yes, death
was by drowning. No one actually saw her jump, but, as you heard, no
marks were found on the body. There were no indications of a
struggle. I have no doubt she took her own life. But did she do so of
her own volition?" Sagan shook his head. "You know yourself
how Abdiel can manipulate the mind, especially those with whom he has
bonded."
Dion shuddered,
grasped his right wrist, nursed his hand as if it pained him. "But
she wasn't mind-dead. I would have recognized one of his disciples."
"Exactly.
Abdiel would know that, of course. The girl was probably a new
acquisition, one recently obtained. The effects of bonding with the
mind-seizer, such as the lifeless look in the eyes, come only after a
period of time."
Dion laughed
suddenly, mirthlessly. "What would Abdiel have done if I
had
healed her?"
"He had
little cause to fear that. Through your bloodsword, he sees inside
you."
The young man
flushed, frowned, made no response.
Sagan followed
up his advantage. "He sees your doubt, your lack of faith. He
can use it all against you. And against me."
Dion opened his
mouth to argue, closed it again. The dead hand on the screen seemed
raised against him, raised in wrath and vengeful accusation.
"Due to the
swift action of the guard in destroying that remote reporter 'droid,
the damage that could have been caused by this incident was
minimized. If that young woman's plea for healing had been made
public, you would have been finished. As it was, we were able to put
out the story that she accosted you, attempted to kill you. After
which, filled with remorse, she killed herself."
"But that's
a lie!"
"Would you
prefer us to broadcast the truth, Your Majesty?"
Dion sat silent,
thoughtful, unhappy. He looked away from the screen, away from the
hand, yet he could still feel its chill touch. "None of this is
what I expected," he murmured. "Being a king . . . The
lies, the deception. And when I do tell the truth, I'm never
permitted to tell all of it. I'm not certain I even know what the
truth is, anymore."
Sagan eyed him.
"What did you say, Your Majesty?"
Dion regarded
him, blue eyes reflecting back golden armor. "Nothing important.
Nothing you would understand. What is your counsel, my lord?"
"We escaped
destruction this time," Sagan said grimly, "but just
barely. We will not be so fortunate again. That is what Abdiel is
telling us. That is his warning."
"Warning?"
Dion stared at him.
"Of course!
Don't tell me that even now, you don't understand. This"—Sagan
pointed to the cold, dead hand—"was no blunder on his
part. He flaunts his abilities, signs his name to his work."
"But . . .
why?"
"Because he
knows the debilitating power of fear."
Turning, Sagan
again clasped his hands behind his back, beneath the red cloak
trimmed in gold. He walked over to the viewscreen, looked out at the
fleet of ships. Destroyers, carriers, torpedo boats, support
vessels—a vast armada surrounding the Warlord and his king with
an impenetrable ring of steel and fire.
Dion followed
his gaze, his thoughts. "Against all this—one frail old
man." He shook the mane of red-golden hair. "I'm not afraid
of him."
"I am, Your
Majesty," Sagan said quietly.
He left the
viewscreen, crossed the carpeted deck to the computer. Dion noticed,
for the first time, that the Warlord was limping slightly, favoring
his right leg.
Sagan caught the
boy's glance. "A pulled muscle."
He depressed a
key on the computer. The dead hand vanished.
"And what
do you suggest we do, my lord?"
Dion asked the
question, but he already knew the answer, knew the reason why he'd
been requested to return, knew the reason why Rykilth and DiLuna and
Olefsky were on board
Phoenix II.
"We go to
war," said Sagan.
Commune with
your own heart . . . and be still.
Prayer Book,
1662
, Psalms 4:4
The Council of
War among the allies gathered on
Phoenix
lasted three days,
Standard Military lime. The Council's purpose had been to plan the
war, but it spent much of its time attempting to convince His Majesty
of the need to seize the crown, instead of, as Rykilth put it,
"Standing around politely, waiting for it to be handed to you."
They had to
convince Dion, because the one weapon the allies wanted, desperately
needed, was in the king's possession—the space-rotation bomb.
Given to him, albeit under duress, by Lord Sagan.
The king sat in
on every meeting, listened attentively to every argument, asked
questions to clarify some point, but then said nothing more. What he
was thinking, what he was deciding, no one knew. Certainly not Sagan,
whose frustration and anger were growing more apparent every SMD that
passed.
"I believe
you will be owing me some money, Rykilth," rumbled Olefsky,
giving the vapor-breather a nudge that nearly deflated his protective
spacesuit. "The kinglet has proved stronger than you thought."
The three were
in the war room alone together. Sagan had, once again, pressed the
king for a decision. Dion had, once again, refused to commit himself.
The Warlord had stormed out of the Council meeting in rage. His
Majesty himself had left shortly after. Bear Olefsky had ordered
lunch.
"I cannot
understand why Sagan keeps up this pretence," Rykilth commented
through his translator.
The words of his
language swirled and writhed like the fog in his helm. Always
shifting, sometimes thickening or thinning depending on his body's
needs, the mist obscured the vapor-breather's face, making it
difficult for most humans to communicate comfortably with him. An eye
would suddenly appear, staring at them from the fog, then vanish in
the mist and only the toothless mouth could be seen.
The mechanical
voice of the translator flattened out all emotion. Those accustomed
to dealing with vapor-breathers knew to judge their mental state by
the color of the fog. Affected by even the slightest variation in
body temperature, the vapor ranged in shade from an almost pure
white—a sign of calm—to a dark yellow, stained with
brown. Rykilth's vapor was, at the moment, a sort of ochre.