Authors: Margaret Weis
I had planned to
tell her, Derek Sagan considered to himself silently. She agrees with
me that Starfire is an inept, blind, bumbling old fool. And though
she doesn't say so, because he's Semele's husband, she knows the
crown prince isn't any better. Once I explain to her our places in
the new revolutionary government, once I show her the power we can
gain in the future of the new democracy, she will concede that the
change is for the best.
Maigrey wouldn't
betray me; I have no fear of that. But if she thought her friend was
in danger, she'd find a way to alert him. Sagan's frown darkened. He
tapped his hand on the armrest irritably. It's an unfortunate
relationship, one that continually drags her down from the high
pinnacle on which she should stand. Dixter was nothing but a nuisance
to me before, but now I can see that, conceivably, he could be a
threat. Tonight, however . . . tonight should end that. But it means
that I can't tell her. No, I can't tell her.
The sun was
setting when Derek Sagan arrived at the palace. The sky was streaked
with bands of flame and gold, deepening to purple, and at its heart,
a lurid splash of red. Night darkened the opposite horizon, darkened
the palace except for the towers facing the west. The staff car
landed, floating on cushions of air. A palace footman hastened
forward to open the door.
Derek beat him
to it, nearly knocking the man over in his haste. Climbing out of the
car, he stared upward at the massive palace walls. Though thronged
with life and light and gaiety within, they were dark and empty as
the night without. One tower, spiraling taller than all the rest, one
tower alone caught the last rays of the dying sun.
Sagan slowed his
fevered pace to watch. The sun sank lower; the darkness rose up
higher around the tower, a tide that could not be stopped. Still the
light gleamed—a red-golden fire that burned brighter as the
night grew blacker. He'd seen sunsets before, he'd viewed the
palace's fabled glass walls at nearly every hour, day or night, yet
he'd never seen anything like this. He had been raised to believe in
portents, in signs from heaven. And right now, at this fated moment
when victory or ignominious defeat stood balanced on a dagger's edge,
he was extraordinarily sensitive to what God might be trying to tell
him.
The sun sank
lower and lower until only a fingernail s-breadth of fire shone above
the already night-dark horizon. The flame reflected in the tower
burned lower, like a guttering candle. The sun vanished. Night
claimed the palace; the flickering fire on the tower flared and died.
Darkness.
Sagan was
satisfied and began to climb the crystal steps— row after
endless row—sweeping upward to the palace's gigantic silver
doors. A footman went before him, lighting his way with a star-torch,
whose intense but small white beam would detract only minutely from
the splendor of the night's dark magnificence reflected in the palace
walls.
Reaching the
top, Sagan dismissed the footman. The doors swung open to receive
him. Warmth and light and noise spilled out, cascaded down the
stairs. Derek paused, looked up one last time at the tower.
Dark still,
but—shining above the battlements—a single star.
Lady Maigrey
Morianna attempted to fasten the silver chain around her neck. Her
impatient fingers fumbled at the clasp. She thought she had it,
turned from the mirror, and felt the starjewel slither down the front
of her indigo blue velvet robes. Catching hold of it before it fell
to the floor, swearing softly beneath her breath, she put the chain
around her neck and began, again, to wrestle with the clasp. This
time, it got caught in her hair.
A knock on the
door interrupted her. Her lady-in-waiting—an honorary position,
granted to women of the minor nobility—answered it. From the
shocked look on the older woman's face and the bright flush on the
woman's cheeks, Maigrey realized her swearing had increased in volume
and intensity. Sighing, she bit her lip and swallowed her words. Her
brother entered the room.
"Was that
you? I thought I'd wandered into the barracks by mistake,"
Platus said, mildly reproving.
"It's this
damn necklace. It won't stay on! I think the clasp's broken—"
Gentle hands
took the starjewel away from her, fastened the chain around her neck
with ease. "Calm down," he whispered, patting her on the
shoulders.
"Allow me
to do your hair, my lady," the older woman said, approaching.
"What's
there to do? Run a brush through it? I—" Maigrey caught
her brother's eye, subsided rebelliously into a chair in front of her
mirror.
"'You're no
longer on a troop ship. You're the daughter of a planetary ruler, in
the palace of her king,'" Maigrey muttered to herself, mimicking
Platus's voice.
The
lady-in-waiting, lifting the brush, began to try to untangle the
pale, fine hair. Maigrey gritted her teeth, held herself stiff and
rigid under the torment.
"Why are
you dressing so early?" Platus asked. "The banquet isn't
for hours yet."
"I'm going
to see Semele before the reception begins. I won't have time to
change afterward."
"I didn't
think she was allowed to have visitors."
"They'll
make an exception for me."
The gray eyes
reflected in the mirror were cool and resolute. "Yes, I guess
they probably will," her brother said dryly. "How is she?"
"Confined
to bed. They can't seem to stop the bleeding. And she's gone into
premature labor once already, two months ago. She almost lost her
baby then." Maigrey's hand clenched to a fist. "No one told
me, of course!"
The
lady-in-waiting was making clucking noises, presumably in an effort
to calm her charge.
"What could
you have done, Maigrey?" Platus asked. "You were in the
middle of a war zone."
"I could
have— Ouch! Damn it to hell and back! Give me that!"
Maigrey leapt to her feet, grabbed the brush from the startled woman,
and flung it into a corner of the room. "Get out!" she
cried in a fury.
"Well, I
never!" The lady-in-waiting sniffed, folded her hands across her
broad middle.
"I think
you had better leave," Platus said in mollifying tones. "My
sister's a bit overexcited."
"Your
sister, my lord, is a spoiled brat!" the lady-in-waiting
pronounced with feeling, and flounced out of the room.
Platus shut the
door on the woman, turned around to find his sister, in her best
robes of state, on her knees on the floor, peering under the bed.
"Maigrey!
You're covered with dust! What—"
"I've lost
my shoes!"
"Here, get
up. Go sit down. I'll look." Platus searched under the bed,
found three shoes, two of which—he counted to his great good
fortune—happened to match. He held them up. "Are these the
ones? They're black. What happened to the shoes made to match your
robes—"
"I tossed
them. Those will do. No one's going to be looking at my feet anyway.
Damn dress is so long, I'll be tripping over it half the night."
She snatched the shoes from him, attempted to put one on.
"That's the
wrong foot, dear," Platus said softly.
Maigrey hurled
the shoe under a chair. Turning away, she rested her elbows on the
vanity stand, let her head sink into her hands. "I think you
should go, Platus."
Instead of
leaving, he walked over, rested his hands on her shoulders. "He
hasn't returned yet."
Maigrey raised
her head, looked into the mirror at her brother's reflection. The two
didn't resemble each other. Platus, in his early thirties, took after
their mother. A gentle, sensitive woman who loved music and poetry,
she was given in marriage—by royal command—to the ruler
of a planet far distant from hers not only in light-years but in
every way possible.
Such marriages
were not uncommon among the Blood Royal, whose bloodlines the
scientists were always attempting to strengthen. In this instance,
the poor queen had the misfortune to be deemed a perfect mate for a
barbarian king of a warrior people. She had the further misfortune to
bear him a son as gentle and peace-loving as herself. The boy was a
comfort to her, an extreme disappointment to his father. Platus was
sent to the Royal Academy as soon as the king could decently rid
himself of the fragile, intellectual child. The queen's life was
unsupportable and, when her daughter Maigrey was born, the poor woman
gave it up with little regret.
The warrior king
had no use for a girl-child and ignored his daughter until one day,
passing by the nursery, he saw the four-year-old neatly skewer one of
her dolls with a small, handmade spear. From that day forward, his
daughter never left her father's side until King Starfire, hearing
rumors that a daughter of the Blood Royal was being raised in
military camps, caused her to be forcibly removed.
Although Platus
resembled their mother most closely, both children had inherited her
light hair, slender build, and love for music and poetry. Platus was
tall and lanky, his blond hair wispy and starting to thin on top. His
hands were the hands of a musician, with tapering, delicate fingers.
The blue eyes were mild and introspective. He was even-tempered,
rarely angry, and was attempting to resign the Guardians due to his
pacifist beliefs.
Maigrey's face
was her mother's, the fearless gray eyes her father's. A skilled
swordsman, a skilled pilot, she had made her warrior father proud of
his little girl. She was fond of her brother, but didn't understand
him. The two had never been particularly close and this decision of
his to leave the Guardians had precipitated more than one bitter
quarrel between them.
But there was a
family resemblance, no matter how remote. Maigrey saw it now, looking
into the mirror. The resemblance tended to be strongest when she was
weary, sad ... or afraid.
"No, he
hasn't returned," she said.
"Perhaps he
has, and you haven't seen him. His rooms are in the other wing—"
"I would
know," Maigrey interrupted. "I would know if he were here.
And he isn't."
The two didn't
pursue the issue. Platus didn't like Derek Sagan, and Maigrey knew
the feeling was mutual. She knew, too, that her brother was appalled
at the thought of the mind-link. Brother and sister never discussed
what Platus considered an unnatural bonding unless forced to by
circumstance.
"A month's
leave of absence isn't that remarkable. Where did he go, by the way?
Did you find out?" he asked.
Maigrey, looking
in the mirror, kept her expression impassive, her face immobile.
"No," she said, shaking her hair over her shoulders and
flinching away from her brother's solicitous and irritating touch.
She stood up, hand toying nervously with the starjewel around her
neck. "It's time I was going—"
"Maigrey"—Platus's
mild voice hardened, was unusually stern—"the rumors of
revolution fly thicker and grow darker by the hour. Do you know
something about it? Sagan has made friends with that troublemaking
professor, that Peter Robes. Derek has freely expressed admiration
for the man, he's openly criticized the monarchy—"
"I've
openly criticized the monarchy, brother. Does that make me a
traitor?" Maigrey demanded, turning to face him. "Derek
Sagan is our commanding officer. We owe him not only our loyalty but
our lives. It's not for us to question his . . . his"—she
faltered—"to question him," she concluded. She stood
up, started to move past her brother. "If you will excuse me,
I'm running late—"
Platus put his
hands on her arms. "Maigrey—"
"Leave me
alone!" she flashed.
"Maigrey!"
He was earnest, intense. "Maigrey, if you know something, you
have to tell it! Tell the king! Tell the captain of the guard! Tell
me, Danha! Tell someone!"
She wasn't
looking at him; she didn't struggle to break free of his grasp. She
held perfectly still, staring at the glittering jewel around her
neck.
Platus shook
her—not harshly, he could never be harsh, not even when he was
frightened. She raised her head, saw her face reflected in his eyes,
and was startled to see how pale she was.
"I have
faith in Derek," she said at last. "Whatever he's doing,
it's for the best."
"How can
you be so blind?" Platus lost his patience. Maigrey struck his
hands away from her. "I took an oath of loyalty to my
commander—"
"You took
an oath of allegiance to your king!"
"You can't
understand, Platus. You're not a soldier!" She cast him a cool,
disdainful glance. "Sometimes I wonder if you
are
my
father's son! I know Father wondered it often enough!"
Platus paled.
"Sometimes," he said, "I wish to God I wasn't."
Maigrey was
immediately remorseful, tried to draw back her verbal blade, but it
had already cut too deeply. Her brother forgave her readily, however,
was calm and soothing to her, and left her almost immediately. His
look, as he went, was grave and sorrowful. Almost pitying.
So superior,
Maigrey thought when he was gone. Always so damn superior! Just like
when we were kids in the Academy and he'd take it upon himself to try
to run my life. Her fingers itched to seize the door and slam it
after him, but she restrained herself. She was above that sort of
behavior now.
Maigrey buckled
the bloodsword around her waist. She would wear it until the banquet,
then she'd be required to take it off. She supposed it wasn't
necessary, going armed through the Glitter Palace, but she could no
more walk out without the sword than she could walk out without her
shoes. . . .
And where were
they anyway?
Finding them,
tripping over the long skirts as she irritably thrust the high heels
onto her feet, she hurried out the door. She decided she wasn't the
least bit sorry for what she'd said to her brother. It was the truth,
after all. She'd heard the whispers all her life. And she hoped he
would
resign from the Guardians.