Authors: Margaret Weis
Sagan smiled
sardonically. "I didn't stop you, Your Majesty."
"Yes, you
did!" Dion retorted. "Not physically. Mentally. Doubts. You
make me doubt myself!"
"Why the
devil," Sagan said with biting mockery, "didn't you just
tell her to go see a good plastic surgeon?"
Dion stared,
blinked.
"No,"
Sagan continued, anger mounting, "you didn't think of anything
that simple, that logical, did you,Your Majesty? You fell into the
sentimental trap provided for you. Fortunately, you managed to crawl
back out before any harm was done. What would have happened if you
had gone ahead and attempted to heal that young woman and you had
foiled? Failed in full view of several billion watchers throughout
the galaxy. Everything lost! Everything we've worked for gone,
disappeared, vanished!"
Crimson stained
Dion's cheeks. He started to say something, but Sagan pretended not
to notice.
"Why do you
think Robes planted that woman there?" the Warlord persisted
relentlessly. "Why her and not an assassin? Because an
assassin's shot makes you a martyr. The people would be furious.
Robes would fall tomorrow, his government toppled in an instant. That
girl did far worse than almost fool you. She almost made a fool of
you. And Robes deals easily with fools."
The crimson in
the king's face faded, leaving behind a deathly pallor. "You are
right, my lord," Dion said in a low voice. "I . . . didn't
think."
"You
escaped this time, barely. You may not be so fortunate again. I
suggest you return to
Phoenix
without delay."
Dion's hps
tightened. "Very well, my lord."
Sagan bowed. "By
your leave. Your Majesty. End transmission," he ordered.
The Warlord
turned on his heel, stalked off the bridge, booted footfalls
resounding like thunder on the deck. The ensign obeyed his lord's
orders with alacrity, slumped in relief over his console when the
vidscreens went dark. Aks could sympathize. The admiral himself was
starting to relax, now that the storm was receding, when Sagan
stopped and looked back.
"Admiral
Aks?"
"My lord?"
"Cancel His
Majesty's next engagements, whatever they are."
"Yes, my
lord." It was hardly an admiral's place to act as a public
relations agent, but Aks certainly wasn't going to argue. He would
pass the word to where it needed to go.
The Warlord
strode on, walking the corridors of his ship in mute fury. The
admiral knew his lord's moods and, aware that he was needed, followed
after, steering a careful course to keep from being swamped in the
tidal wave. Sagan's private elevator carried them to the lord's
private quarters. Once inside, with the Honor Guard taking up
positions outside the sealed door, the Warlord could unleash his
anger in private.
"Damn and
blast him! He brought us to the brink of disaster, and then has the
gall to defy me, to question
my
actions!"
Sagan removed
his helm from his head. Aks had the distinct impression that the
Warlord's first impulse was to hurl the helm from him, send it
crashing into the bulkhead. The admiral wished fervently his lord
would do so, would give way to the hot rage that was a devouring
flame. Sagan would never permit himself to lose control, however. He
held the ornate metal so tightly that it left behind vivid imprints
in the flesh when he finally, with deliberate calm, placed it on its
stand.
But Aks knew he
stood on fault-lined ground. The pressure of two opposing forces, of
Sagan and Dion—two solid rock plates grinding together—had
to give, had to be released. The quake, when it came, would be
destructive, devastating. It might carry them all to ruin. It would
certainly destroy one ... or the other ... or both.
The admiral
decided to risk causing a small tremor. "My lord, perhaps the
Lady Maigrey could be of some assistance—"
The deck might
have split beneath his feet. Sagan gave Aks a look that stopped the
rest of his sentence, came close to stopping his breath.
"The Lady
Maigrey abandoned him," the Warlord said coldly. "You know
what happened that night on Laskar."
"Not
precisely, my lord. " Aks had heard rumors, of course, but the
subject of my lady's disappearance always put his lordship in a
particularly bad mood and was therefore not often brought up during
casual dinner conversation.
Sagan did not
answer immediately, but regarded Aks long and thoughtfully. Deciding
how much of the truth to tell me, the admiral knew, from long
association with his lord.
"That
night, Aks, following certain circumstances which I need not go into,
my lady was left in sole possession of the space-rotation bomb. She
deceived both me and His Majesty into believing she had armed and was
prepared to detonate it. Maigrey gave Dion the code needed to disarm
it, but refused to tell either of us how much time was left ticking
away before it blew up. She wanted to find out if His Majesty would
be willing to sacrifice his life to obtain it. Dion was, of course.
He is Blood Royal. He was willing to die, and to take us with him,
unless I promised to turn the bomb over to him. I did so. He gave me
the code and I disarmed a bomb that had, as it turned out, never
truly been armed."
Sagan shook his
head ruefully.
"But I
didn't know that, then. I left the spaceplane, Aks, left Dion, left
Maigrey with him. I had work to do. Snaga Ohme was dead and all he
owned, all his vast store of weapons and wealth, was up for grabs. I
had made arrangements. General Haupt's forces were engaged in
securing Ohme's estate—an easy task, but the army was
encountering stubborn pockets of resistance from Ohme's men. I needed
to be there in person. His Majesty was wounded, on the verge of
exhaustion. I expected Maigrey to stay with him, kiss his hurts, make
him feel better, tuck him in bed, and keep an eye on the bomb."
Sagan's tone was
biting, sardonic. "Instead, Aks, she walked out on him."
Walked out on
you,
my lord, Aks amended silently. But he was immediately so
uncomfortable even thinking such a thing—in case Sagan might
somehow see inside his head—that the admiral was seized by a
sudden fit of coughing, forced to cover his face with his
handkerchief.
Fortunately,
Sagan was brooding over bitter memory, paying his admiral little
attention. "That morning, I came back from Ohme's to discover
that my lady had not returned to her quarters. I sent the guard to
search for her. She had managed, by faking a message from me, to
convince those left behind in command on the base that she was to be
given a spaceplane in order to join the fighting at Ohme's. Of
course, she never came anywhere near the Adonian's."
"But you
could have gone after her, my lord," ventured Aks, recovered and
greatly daring. "You knew where she was."
"Yes, I
knew where she was," Sagan snapped. "I know where she is.
And she can stay there. Maigrey abandoned her duty to her king. She
obviously has no interest in him or his welfare. She prefers to hide,
lick her wounds. Let her. Let her rot!"
The Warlord
poured himself a glass of cool water, drank it. Eyes closed, he
breathed deeply, concentrated on his breathing, on cleansing body and
mind of the debilitating anger.
At least that's
what he thinks he's doing. Aks watched his lord in concern. The flame
remains, it will never die, never be tamped down, never snuffed out.
His anger was not directed at Maigrey, but at fate. And it was
burning him alive.
These past few
months had aged Sagan. He was only forty-eight (almost forty-nine,
his natal day was approaching, a day Aks dreaded). The Warlord was in
life's prime for one of the Blood Royal, whose life span exceeded
that of ordinary mortals. But the fire within Sagan was consuming
those extra, genetically manufactured years. The gray at the temples
had lengthened to streaks through the thick black hair. The lines on
the granite face and brow were darker, deeper.
He walked with a
slight limp, nothing serious. He had pulled a muscle exercising. But
the injury itself was significant. The exercise routines that had
once been enjoyable, had once been performed for relaxation, were now
done in grim earnest, as if he could outrun time . . . and destiny.
"My
lord"—Aks tread delicately—"why not allow young
Starfire the chance to test his healing power? We could set up a
controlled experiment. Dr. Giesk has suggested how it could be done."
"Bah!"
The Warlord's calm had returned, at least on the surface. '"God
works in mysterious ways,' not through the mechanical fingers of
Giesk's medicbots."
"But if we
could prove to His Majesty one way or the other—"
Sagan broke in
irritably. "The fact that he needs proof that be can perform
miracles. Admiral is the surest possible sign that he can't. And
according to the rite, to the ritual of initiation, God has granted
him the powers of the Blood Royal but not the ability to use them.
The ultimate sacrifice. Although"—the Warlord's voice grew
bitter again—"I could be wrong about what God intends.
I've been wrong about His plans before now."
Aks backed off,
detoured around this path in haste. Loyal as he was to Sagan, the
admiral refused to follow his lord into the deep, dark, and tangled
bog of religion.
"Your
orders, my lord?"
"Maintain
our current position, Admiral. And prepare for guests. Open up the
diplomatic suites."
"Very good,
my lord. May I inquire the names?" Aks was trying to remain
nonchalant, but he had the feeling he knew what was coming.
The Warlord
glanced at his admiral, smiled the rare, dark smile so few ever saw.
"You know them, Aks. Olefsky, Rykilth, Baroness DiLuna ..."
"It's war,
then." Aks rubbed his hands together with pleasure. If anything
could blow away the clouds hanging over his lord, it would be the
winds of war.
"We have no
choice. President Robes—or whoever's behind him, advising
him—is good." Sagan's brow furrowed. "Very good. We
came near losing without a shot being fired. I dare not take the
chance any longer."
The Warlord's
darkness threw a shadow over Aks. The admiral was ready for
aggressive action. In his mind, war was long overdue. But he scented
the gangrenous whiff of fear and desperation, and that unnerved him.
What did his lord mean by the statement
Robes—or whoever's
behind him?
Derek Sagan was
afraid. The sudden realization appalled Aks, alarmed him beyond the
power of speech. He had never known his lord to fear anything. Sagan
had faced down Death so many times the two must be bored by the sight
of each other by now. What had really happened that night at Snaga
Ohme's? What were these "certain circumstances"?
"Aks?"
An impatient snap.
The admiral
started guiltily. "My lord?"
"Did you
hear what I just said?"
"I—I'm
afraid, not, my lord. I was thinking of . . . arrangements—"
"I realize
that thinking does require an extraordinary amount of effort for you,
Aks. Perhaps you could pay attention to me now and think later."
"Yes, my
lord," replied the admiral gravely.
"I was
saying that we should start making preparations fin-war, although
these need not be mentioned to His Majesty. The king will believe
himself to be in command, of course."
"Will His
Majesty go along with it?"
"He will,"
Sagan said, his tone ominous, "when I fully explain the
circumstances. That is all, Admiral. You have leave to return to your
duties."
Aks bowed
silently, crossed the room, was near the door, when he paused,
turned, and noiselessly crossed the thick heavy carpet that covered
the deck in the Warlord's sparsely furnished, Spartan quarters.
Sagan, thinking
he was alone, had relaxed his rigid posture. His shoulders slumped in
weariness, he ran his hand through sweat-dampened hair.
The admiral was
not a brilliant man. He knew this feet about himself, the knowledge
had never bothered him. He knew his value to Sagan, knew himself to
be an ally who was trusted because he wasn't cunning enough to be
feared. Older than Sagan, Aks had known the Warlord over twenty
years. They had met after Sagan had left the Academy to begin his
career in the now-defunct Royal Air Corps. Aks had long admired his
lord, holding him in awe, in mortal dread. Aks had never, until
now—the ache of fear and pity in his heart—realized that
he loved him.
"Derek,"
he said, greatly daring, placing his hand upon the Warlords bare
shoulder. "Who is the true enemy? I think I have the right to
know."
The muscles
beneath Aks's hand tensed, bunched, anger at the liberty, anger at
the invasion of the private self that Sagan worked so hard to keep
hidden nearly unleashing a storm off outrage upon the admiral. Aks
had known the risk, braced himself to face the onslaught. He kept his
hand on the battle-scarred flesh, fingers firm, grip steady.
The taut muscles
relaxed. Black eyes, dark with the smoke of smoldering fire, looked
up, regarded Aks with wry intensity.
"Is it that
obvious?"
"To me,"
Aks reassured gently. "Only to me. I've known you a long time,
Derek." And I deserve better than this, the admiral added, but
he added it silently.
Sagan heard the
unspoken words, however. For long moments he was quiet, sat unmoving.
Finally, he stirred restlessly beneath the admiral's touch.
Aks, taking the
hint, removed his hand.
"Abdiel.
Does the name mean anything to you also?"
"Good God!"
The Warlord's
lips tightened to a dark slash across his face. "I see it does."
"But he's .
. . he's dead! You yourself had him assassinated."
"One of my
many blunders, Aks, and one for which I am paying dearly. I neglected
to drive the stake through his heart, so to speak. And now he has
come back to haunt me. He is the one behind Robes, my friend. No, not
behind him. He is
inside
him!"