King's Test (56 page)

And then there
were those who saw him as a threat, a danger. Certain men exchanged
in their glances the knowledge that this king must die as had his
father and uncle before him. Die before word reached the populace,
die before the royalists could take him to heart, make him a martyr,
and that must be soon because already the media commentators were
edging their way forward . . . and so these shadowy men began to edge
their way forward. . . .

The sound of
clapping brought them all to a halt. Abdiel was clapping his hands.
The single applause from an audience of one echoed through the hushed
and whispering room like the crack of a whip.

"Bravo!"
he shouted, his applause increasing in speed and vigor. "A
magnificent performance, boy. Don't you agree, honored guests?"

The honored
guests weren't so certain. They looked at each other dubiously. Many
turned to confront their host.

Snaga Ohme had
no idea what was going on, but was happy to take credit for it,
whatever it was. He was always pleased when his Events created a
sensation, and this one could hardly be topped. He would make vid
headlines the galaxy over, royal impersonator crashes party . . .

Ohme began to
laugh, clapping his hands and glancing around at the crowd to make
certain all credited him for providing such a spectacular show.
People breathed easier, many joined in the laughter, more than a few
looked a little foolish, perhaps ashamed for having, momentarily,
believed.

Bear Olefsky
burst into a roar, caught sight of Sagan and Maigrey. The Bear's
laughter died. "Mmmmm," he rumbled deep in his chest.
Scratching his bearded chin, he watched and waited.

The room rocked
with laughter and applause. Shrill whistles split the air. Many
shouted for Dion to repeat his performance. The noted actress
Holoscova remarked confidentially that she knew the boy's agent. Bosk
was telling the media commentators that Snaga Ohme had discovered the
young man acting in a performance of
Henry
V on a cruise liner
bound for Star's End.

Dion stood
motionless at the head of the stairs. His face was white, drained of
life. His eyes had the fixed and glassy stare of a corpse. Every
mocking laugh, every shout for an encore seemed a nail driven into
his body.

His dream was
ending, ending not with a bang but a snicker. Ridicule: the wooden
stake through the heart, guaranteed to kill and make certain the
victim stays dead. Dion would never rise from this. He was trapped,
sealed inside the tomb unless some angel would come and roll away the
stone.

"Sagan!"
Maigrey turned to the Warlord, grasped his right hand in her right
hand, and was amazed and frightened to feel it burning hot and
trembling. "Abdiel didn't know anything about this. I felt his
fear, for just a moment, and then he devised this means of
discrediting Dion. Of discrediting you! The boy is strong, Sagan.
He's defied Abdiel. But he's dying now. We have to help him!"

She wasn't
certain he heard her. He wasn't looking at her; the dark and shadowed
eyes stared straight at Dion, stared at him, through him, beyond him.
She caught a glimpse inside her lord's soul, saw the bitter struggle,
the most desperate battle he'd fought in his life, and she longed to
help him but knew—against this Opponent—her aid was
impossible.

Maigrey let go
of his hand, fell back a pace as if to give him room to swing his
sword arm. She could only stand outside the ring, prepared to go on
and battle alone if he should fall. Prepared to take her place at his
side if he should win.

The fight was
mercifully swift, soon ended. The hand slowly unclenched. The
shoulders beneath the golden armor sagged, the muscles of the arm
went flaccid, the face beneath the helm aged. "Thy will be
done!" He ground the words, spit them out as if they were
choking bile in his mouth.

His body
straightened, tall and strong. He drew the bloodsword, inserted the
prongs into his hand. For the first time, he looked at her.

Draw your
weapon, Guardian
, he said without speaking.
We must defend our
king.

Sagan activated
the sword; Maigrey activated hers. The weapons hummed and blazed with
fire. Those standing near them fell back, shouting in alarm. The
Warlord stalked forward, the lady at his side. The crowd, murmuring
with delighted, horrified anticipation, fell back before them. The
two reached the staircase.

Cover me,
Sagan ordered silently, and began to climb the stairs.

Dion remained
standing perfectly still, but the corpselike eyes had come to life.
He watched the Warlord's approach warily, but unafraid. And then his
hand moved, moved slowly to the buckle of his belt.

Maigrey turned,
ascended the stairs backward, her sword functioning as a shield to
guard her partner's back. The Honor Guard, though weaponless,
deployed around her and around their lord. Maigrey wasn't really
expecting an attack from the crowd, however. She knew, as did Sagan,
that their true enemy stood near the top of the stairs. She managed
to shift her gaze slightly, dividing her attention between the people
below and the mind-seizer above. Abdiel was watching them, a pleasant
smile, a knowing smile on the thin, chapped lips.

Sagan reached a
wide landing on the staircase directly beneath where Dion stood. The
young man had his hand clasped over the buckle of his belt. The blue
eyes regarded the Warlord without recognition, without feeling,
without emotion. The Warlord's golden armor flared in his eyes like
the sun on hard blue ice.

Slowly,
gracefully, Sagan bent his great height, knelt down on one knee. The
bloodsword's fire flickered and died. Leaning forward, the Warlord
laid the hilt at Dion's feet.

"My liege,"
he said, and bowed his head.

Hell at last . .
.

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

Dion's hand
twitched on the belt buckle, then dropped. He stared at Sagan
dazedly, unable to understand or comprehend. It slowly dawned on the
boy, however, that no one was laughing at him now. The crowd was
silent, stunned, fumbling to grasp the amazing ramifications of what
they had just witnessed.

"Pick it
up!" Maigrey's voice jolted Dion from his stupefaction.

"What?"
he said, staring at the sword at his feet.

Maigrey glided
up the stairs, came to stand on the landing just beneath him. "The
most powerful Warlord in the galaxy has just made you king! Pick up
the damn sword!" Her eyes were still on the crowd, still darting
toward Abdiel. "My liege," she added.

Dion reached
down.

"Young man,
take care!" Abdiel hastened forward, paused when he felt the
heat of Maigrey's blade as she turned to face him, keeping her body
between him and the boy. "Think what you are doing! You don't
know Sagan's motive!"

"I know he
didn't laugh at me," Dion returned.

Abdiel's gnarled
hands fluttered in deprecation. The lidless eyes narrowed. "I
was trying to save your life, Your Majesty! You unwittingly put
yourself in dreadful danger. And you'll do so again if you go along
with him. He wants you only for his own purposes. He'll make you
king, all right! King of puppets!"

Reaching down,
Dion carefully lifted the bloodsword and held it in his shaking
hands.

This was the
weapon that killed Platus. For all I know, it was the weapon that
killed my parents. Perhaps Abdiel is right. What are Sagan's motives?
Should I trust him?

No, I can't
trust him, Dion decided. But, for now, I can use him. Perhaps that's
what it means to be a king.

"My lord,
I— We . . ."he amended, using the royal "we,"
for a king is not one but many, "we accept your service. Take
back your sword and use it to defend our cause."

"Whatever
that
is," Sagan muttered, accepting the blood-sword and
rising heavily to his feet.

Dion flushed.
He'd sounded ridiculous. He didn't have a cause, didn't really have
anything. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask "What now?"
but he bit the words and bit his tongue, tasted the blood in his
mouth.

"And now,
my liege lord," the Warlord began, and Dion heard—or
thought he did—the sarcasm, and smarted beneath its lash, "I
have done for you what I can for the time being. All those present,
whether they think you king or madman, know you are under my
protection. But don't deceive yourself. Abdiel is right. You've made
many enemies. Hasn't he, mind-seizer?"

Sagan's shadowed
gaze flicked to Abdiel, who merely bowed disdainfully and did not
respond. Dion, hearing the warning in the Warlord's tone, looked to
the old man and found Abdiel looking intently at him, as if to say,
Heed
my
warning!

Frustrated,
confused, Dion looked to Maigrey, saw in her eyes, barely visible
behind the silver helm, compassion, pity, admiration. But her eyes
weren't on him. The gray eyes were on Sagan.

Dion was
suddenly angry and glad of his anger; it neatly covered his fear and
confusion.

Abdiel
approached him. "And now, my king, if you will come with me—"

"I'm not
going with you or anybody," Dion cut the old man off. He felt
smothered, as if these people surrounding him were using up all the
air. "Just leave me alone, all of you! I need to be ... be by
myself. I need to think."

The Warlord said
nothing, but remained standing where he was. Abdiel remained standing
where he was, appearing to think Dion had meant everyone leave except
him. Maigrey's eyes were on the young man now, and they were dark
with concern and, oddly, sadness.

It was obvious
none of the three was going to budge without seeing the other two
leave first. Dion, exasperated, frustrated, marched off, angrily
tromping down the stairs.

"Keep near
him," Maigrey ordered Marcus.

The centurion
bowed and immediately followed Dion.

"What do
you want?" the boy demanded, seeing the guard loom suddenly at
his shoulder. "I'm not going back, if that's why Sagan sent
you."

"The Lady
Maigrey sent me, my liege," Marcus said respectfully. "I am
to act as your bodyguard."

Dion turned to
look back up the stairs where Maigrey stood, her silver armor shining
bright, glittering, cold as the stars. He wanted to talk to her,
needed to talk to her, but not around that man. Not around Sagan. And
not around Abdiel, either. It seemed she understood, for she smiled
at him and nodded.

Drawing a deep
breath, trying to ease the tight sensation in his chest, Dion turned
to face the staring, whispering multitude. He wished, suddenly, that
he was billions of light-years away from this hateful place, from
these vampirelike people, who seemed intent on sucking the life from
him, feeding off his body. He saw his old home, the drab little house
in the outback of Syrac Seven. He pictured himself sitting at his
desk, studying with Platus, or playing the syntharp, or digging in
the garden. A wistful longing came over him to return to that former
life, to go back and be . . . ordinary.

The feeling was
overpowering, overwhelming. These people would devour him, take from
him everything he had to give, and despise him for giving it.
I
will always be alone.
He'd said the words, but only now did he
truly understand their veracity and it terrified him. He would
always, always, always be alone.

He half-turned,
deciding to run away and save himself, but in doing so he lifted his
eyes and his gaze caught Sagan's. The golden and adamantine armor
flared bright as flame; the red cape flowed like blood. He saw the
Warlord standing in the doorway of that small house, saw the
expression of contempt twist the mouth, visible beneath the helm,
remembered the contempt in the man's voice.

He made you a
king!
Maigrey's words.

Did he? Did God?
Did anyone? Or did you take this on yourself? And if you did take
this, do you have the guts to see it through?

"He's
afraid," Maigrey said.

"He better
be," Sagan returned.

Dion heard them,
not in his head, but in his heart.

"Go back to
her ladyship, Marcus," Dion ordered. "Tell her, thank you,
but I need no one."

He squared his
shoulders, shook back the mane of red-gold hair, and walked slowly
and proudly down the stairs, walked into the crowd, alone.

"You've
lost him, Abdiel," Sagan said.

"On the
contrary," the mind-seizer returned pleasantly, "I've lost
nothing . . . unlike her ladyship." He turned to Maigrey. "Is
that your starjewel the Adonian is sporting on his breast?"

"If it is
or it isn't, it's no concern of yours."

"But I am
concerned, Lady Maigrey. I've always had your best interests at
heart, my dear. Haven't I, my lord? Sagan and I spoke of you often,
dear lady, in those weeks before the revolution. When he and I were
such good friends. . . ."

Everything
around Maigrey darkened; a shadow stole over her. Sagan had lied to
her in the dream! He'd known what Abdiel had intended. He had planned
it with him! She could almost see the two of them together, the
mind-seizer's hand pressing Sagan's. Perhaps, even now, they were in
this together, conspiring against her. . . .

She forced a
smile and, with her words, the shadow over her heart lifted. "Long
ago you tried to divide us, mind-seizer. You failed then. You fail
now."

Abdiel regarded
her with grieved sadness. "You persist in willfully
misunderstanding me, my dear. My only aim during that unfortunate
time to which you refer was to serve you, to open the doors of power
to you, as I have opened them for Dion. Yes, I've bonded with the
boy. Didn't you know? Couldn't you tell?"

Maigrey could
not forbear flashing a startled glance at Sagan. The Warlord gazed at
Abdiel coolly, calmly.