King's Test (44 page)

Sagan was not
angry at himself, nor was he angry at Robes, who after all had proved
to be weak and fallible and, as such, would be easily used. Derek's
anger had now one focus, one object—those who had betrayed him.

"Your
report, Captain," Sagan said to an advancing soldier.

"The
computer rooms and files and all personnel are secure,-sir, as are
the elevators to the upper levels. We have also secured the power
generator. We were forced to shoot several of the mob—"

Sagan waved this
aside as unimportant. "Has anyone tried to reach the upper
levels?"

"No one,
sir. Except, of course, Major Morianna—"

"What?"
Sagan glared at the man so fiercely the soldier felt his skin
scorched beneath the burning gaze.

"M-Major
Morianna, sir. The men recognized her. She said she was acting by
your orders—"

Sagan saw
everything, then, saw it through her eyes. He saw the mind-dead in
the hallway, saw them raise their rifles, saw fire, blood, struggle,
death. And he saw the new life, saw the child, and he saw, suddenly,
how it all could work for him . . .

Or maybe not.
The royal ship! The one way they could escape! He cursed himself. Why
hadn't he foreseen this?

Because he
hadn't expected all hell to break loose. Because he hadn't expected
chaos. Because he hadn't expected betrayal!

Sagan glanced
toward the computer room. He could bypass the security codes, obtain
access to the launching bay, but that would take time. He knew from
his mind-link with Maigrey that the Guardians were attempting to
reach the ship via the secret passages. It was a long way down from
the thirtieth level. They were tired, hampered by the need to move
slowly and carefully for the sake of the baby. . . .

One obstacle
only blocked his path.

Sagan left the
stammering captain standing in the hallway and ran through the
corridors that were hazy with smoke, littered with bodies and
wreckage. He fumed impatiently in the elevator that, had it traveled
at light speed, would have traveled too slowly.

She had betrayed
him. They had all betrayed him, but hers was the treachery that had
entered his body with the force and rending pain of a thrown spear.
He had yanked it out, cauterized the wound with the flame of his
anger, but he could still feel the bitter pain and would feel it
until he had the satisfaction of revenge.

The elevator
reached the floor of the royal family's private chambers. The door
slid aside, letting him out into the hall of death. He paid scant
attention to the bodies, though his gaze was drawn for a brief
instant to that of Semele, lying in her husband's blood.

Sagan continued
on.

Maigrey was
waiting, the only living being in the hall. He bore down upon her,
stoking the fire of his rage, feeling it burn hot and satisfying
within him. But when he saw her, the flames wavered.

She seemed more
dead than the corpses.

The only light
that shone anywhere around her was the light of the sword, glowing in
her hand, and the light of the jewel on her breast. All else was
dark, black as the blood on her gown and in her pale hair.

Sagan activated
the bloodsword, raised it. "Stand aside, Maigrey. Let me pass."

She did not
answer, did not move. The folds of her gown were not even stirred by
her breath—a cold, marble angel with a flaming sword. Sagan
moved ahead, muscles tensed to feint, dodge around her.

Her bloodsword,
with a quick, deft stroke, was there to block him. And though the
gray eyes were dark and lifeless and did not look directly at him, he
saw blood flow warm, staining the translucent skin, sensed her mind
alert and active.

She did not
attack him, but merely blocked his way. He understood her. Getting
killed too quickly would thwart her plan. She was buying time.

He hesitated to
fight her. Maigrey was a skilled opponent, quick, intelligent,
resourceful. They had fought together often for the fun of it and for
the practice. Often, she had bested him. Now, she had no care for her
own life, which put him at a disadvantage, for he suddenly had a
great care for his. Vast vistas of power and glory were opening up
before him. And it occurred to him that, without her, he would walk
them alone.

"Maigrey"—he
lowered his weapon—"don't do this. Come with me."

She made no
reply, did not move from her guarded stance.

Sagan’s
voice softened; he was speaking his heart. "Robes is a fool,
Maigrey. The rabble that brought him to power will tire of him
quickly. We have but to bide our time and then we can step in and
take over. And, in the meantime, together we can raise Semele's
child, raise the king."

Maigrey still
made no move. But she was listening. He knew. He could tell by the
flicker of the long eyelashes, a pulsing of warmth in her cheek.

"Come with
me, Maigrey, and I will forgive you."

The eyelashes
flickered again, and tears glistened in them. The gray eyes shifted
their gaze, sought him, found him.

"But I will
never forgive you, Derek," she said, her voice remote and low.
"Or myself. "

The fire of his
anger flared and scorched and consumed him, blinding him with its
dark, choking smoke. He struck at her with all the force of his
impassioned rage, struck swiftly and savagely. He couldn't see where
he struck; he couldn't see her. His eyes burned from the glare of his
fury.

He came to
himself; the black, blood-tinged mists cleared from his vision. He
found her lying at his feet. She had fallen without a sound. He
looked to the door, started to enter, but checked himself. He knew he
was too late. The child was gone.

Maigrey lay
face-down, a pool of blood forming beneath her head mingled with the
other blood—the blood of her enemies—on the floor. Sagan
stooped down beside her, balancing himself on one knee. She was still
alive. He didn't touch her, feel the limp wrist for a pulse, put his
hand to her neck. He had no need. He knew she was alive and, in that
moment, he knew she was dead to him. The mind-link was broken except
for a tiny flickering spark.

Derek Sagan
reached down and lifted a lock of the pale, fine hair in his hand. He
felt no remorse, no regret. She had betrayed her oath of allegiance;
she had betrayed their friend-ship, their love. She had merited
death. And for what? For an aging, inept king whom even God Himself
had abandoned.

Sagan felt
nothing. His soul was dark and silent as the hall of the dead in
which he stood. From now on, he would hear only the echo of his own
footsteps walking empty corridors— corridors of power,
corridors of glory, but all empty, barren, dark, and chill.

He should kill
her, he supposed, his thumb gently caressing the sea-foam-colored
strands that lay in the palm of his left hand. The coup de grace, the
stroke of grace in which one mortally wounded is put out of his
misery. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. To strike her thus,
defenseless, unconscious, would be tantamount to murder. Justice had
been served. He would place her in the hands of God.

Sagan lifted the
strands of pale hair to his lips. "My lady," he murmured,
and kissed them, then let them fall. Rising to his feet, he walked
away, leaving the empty hall to the dead and to the dying.

Thirty floors
below, Derek Sagan emerged from the dark shadows into the light of
flame and battle. Entire sections of the city were ablaze. The
hallway was lit by the lurid flare. Looking up, he could see bursts
of tracer fire in the skies—perhaps some of the Guardians
attempting to escape, or battles between those loyal to the crown
against their own comrades turned rebel.

Chaos,
confusion. And up there, somewhere, was the royal ship, carrying the
tiny king. Sagan considered what it would take to stop them. The Air
Corps was under the revolutionary army's jurisdiction. If he could
even get through to anyone in command, which he highly doubted, it
would be hopeless to try to set them on the trail of the royal
spaceship. Danha would be piloting it, and Danha was one of the best,
as his former commander had good reason to know.

"Never
mind. I'll find them." Sagan swore the oath aloud, to himself
and to God. "If it takes years, I will track down those who
betrayed me and mete out justice. And, through them, I will find the
boy."

A captain,
searching the halls for his superior officer, caught sight of Sagan
and hurried toward him. Seeing his commander's face, however, the
captain paused, hesitated, and appeared reluctant to approach.

Sagan made an
abrupt, peremptory gesture, and the captain came forward.-

"Pardon me,
sir," the captain said, eyeing his commander with concern.
"You're not wounded—"

"What is
the current status?" Sagan demanded coldly.

"All
secure, sir. The fighting in the banquet hall has ended. As you
instructed, we are identifying the bodies and entering the names into
the computer files. It is certain that several managed to escape."

"We will
know who they are. What of the mind-seizer and his . . . troops?"

"They've
left the palace, sir. We had a report that they invaded the
cathedral. The priests are reportedly defending it." The captain
spoke in subdued tones. Perhaps he knew of his commander's
background.

Sagan's lips
tightened. He could imagine what was transpiring in the sacred
precincts. The priests were defending it. Yes, but without weapons
other than the Holy Power. And they were forbidden to use that to
take life.

Another massacre
in the name of the people. Sagan absently rubbed the scars on his
left arm, scars inflicted by himself upon himself in the name of God,
scars borne only by priests of the Order of Adamant. Abdiel was
taking no chances, destroying all opposition. Sagan could do nothing
about it now, but the day would come when these dead priests would be
avenged.

"What of
the city?" he asked, keeping his mind on the business at hand.

"The Army
of the Revolution has seized control. We've had reports of looting,
rioting, burning. ..."

Yes, he could
see that from where he stood. "The media?"

"They've
been escorted off-planet, sir, along with the President."

Good. The
holocaust could be glossed over, the truth distorted. In the name of
the people.

All was going
well—as well as could be expected, considering the chaos.

"Anything
further?" Sagan asked wearily. It had been a long night.

"No, sir."

"Then carry
on with your duties, Captain."

"Yes, sir."
The man saluted, the new Roman-fashioned salute Sagan had instituted
among his own command.

His own command.
Finally. A fleet of ships, a galaxy to rule. In the name of the
people, of course.

Of course.

Turning on his
heel, he walked over to a window and stared out into the turmoil and
destruction of a city in the throes of revolution. Smoke hung in the
air; its acrid smell was in his nostrils and with it the faint,
iron-tinged smell of blood.

He watched the
flames leap high and saw himself rising up with them on golden wings
. . .

Alone.

Death Is the Door Prize

O fortuna,

velut luna

statu
variabilis, semper crecis,

aut decrescis
. . .

O, fortune!

Like the moon

ever-changing,

rising first,

then declining .
. .

Carl Orff,
Carmina Burana

Nor heaven nor
earth have been at peace tonight . . .

William
Shakespeare,
Julius Caesar,
Act II, Scene 2

Thick clouds,
dark and sullen and charged with lightning, blanketed Laskar's
horizon the next morning. The green sun made no appearance, keeping
beneath the covers as if it, too, had slept badly during the night
and was loath to rise. Distant thunder rumbled, shaking the ground,
stalking the land like vengeful titans.

The rumblings
shook Abdiel's prefab house, disturbed the soothing gurgling of the
hookah, interrupted his morning's meditations. Just as well to
proceed with the day's activities, he decided, removing the pipestem
from his cracked, chapped lips and coiling the tube neatly in place.

The door opened
noiselessly. Mikael appeared in response to his master's thoughts
that had been bent his direction. Abdiel sensed Dion stirring
restlessly as well. The thunder had jolted the boy awake from
disturbing dreams of a castle in flames. Abdiel sent thoughts that
direction, and Dion's subconscious dragged him back down into
darkness. Abdiel had arrangements to make, which the boy's presence
would render exceedingly awkward.

"The young
need their sleep," he told Mikael, who nodded silently in
agreement. Drawing up a small table to the sofa on which the
mind-seizer lounged, Mikael placed in front of Abdiel the handful of
various-colored pills that were his breakfast.

"Sit down,
my dear," Abdiel instructed, gesturing with his needle-pronged
hand, patting the cushions beside him.

Mikael did as he
was told, not lounging, but keeping his body bolt upright, his empty
eyes fixed upon the man who gave him inner life.

Abdiel, as was
his custom, lifted the first pill, sniffed it, studied its purple
hue, licked it, then bit it open to taste the granules inside before
swallowing it. He did this with every pill he ingested, treating each
as if it were the most rare wine or the most flavorful food. His
breakfast, eaten in this fashion, often lasted thirty minutes or
more. Dinner could stretch into hours.

The mind-seizer
was fond of talking during his meals, which meant that one or more of
the mind-dead were often invited to join him. The mind-dead were not
noted for their conversational flair. Discoursing with them was, in
essence, tantamount to discoursing with himself, since Abdiel put any
thoughts they might have into their heads. But it was occasionally
useful to him to hear his words come out of another's mouth, just as
the text read aloud is often imprinted more deeply in the memory than
that absorbed by sight alone.