King's Test (54 page)

The major media
networks, the only ones allowed, vied with the competition to gain
interviews. 'Droid reporters lurked about near the gate, shooting out
of the most unexpected places, hanging on to their prey tenaciously
until either they were appeased with a "few well-chosen words"
or otherwise dealt with. One 'droid made the mistake of attempting to
interview Bear Olefsky. Ohme's people had to halt the proceedings for
ten minutes to sweep up the pieces.

Lord Derek Sagan
emerged from the limo-jet into the blinding glare of light and a roar
from the crowd. The Warlord, as he was now being hailed by the press,
was a hero and the crowd behind the force field went wild when he
appeared.

Maigrey gave her
hand to Sagan, who, with dignified, courtly courtesy, assisted her
from the car and led her up the walkway to the gate. No one knew who
she was and this mystery created an instant sensation. Droid
reporters, smelling blood, left other victims in mid-sentence and
sped toward the fresh meat. The Honor Guard was accustomed to
handling the press, however, and kept the droids at bay.

The adulation
ran through Maigrey's veins, sweet, intoxicating. To this, she had
been born. She drank huge gulps of it, enjoying every drop, the
persistent 'droids, the swooning teenagers, the plastic phoenixes
being waved in the air, the news commentators whose voices could be
overheard, speaking into their camcorders.

"Citizens
of the galaxy! This is indeed history in the making. You've all heard
the rumors that one of the former Guardians, Maigrey Morianna, was
discovered alive and was to be brought to trial. You've heard how she
turned out to be one of the heroes in the recent battle against the
Corasians. We don't know for certain that this woman with Warlord
Sagan is, indeed, Maigrey Morianna, but a reliable source close to
the citizen general indicates she very well could be. Some of our
older viewers may recall that, at one time, the names of Derek Sagan
and Maigrey Morianna were linked romantically—"

The Honor Guard
forged a path. The crowd screamed for one look, one wave. Proud and
majestic, Sagan strolled past them all, glancing neither left nor
right, accepting the homage as his due. Maigrey, her hand resting
lightly in his, accompanied him, demurely ignoring the vidcams
attempting desperately to get a close-up of her face.

Snaga Ohme's
remotes guarded the gate. Lord and lady entered, accompanied by the
Honor Guard. The excited crowd settled down to await the arrival of
their next hero.

Inside the gate,
the deadly garden had been romantically lit by a simulated moon
suspended inside the Adonian's protective force field. Maigrey
paused, feeling buoyant, almost dizzy with excitement and elation.
Spreading her arms, lifting her face to the artificial moon, she
embraced it and the deadly garden and cheering mobs who had also
cheered the day they heard she and her kind were dead.

Maigrey threw
back her head and laughed.

The Warlord
turned to stare at her in astonishment. Maigrey embraced him, her
hands clasping hold of his arms. "It's been a long time, Derek!"
she said, laughing up into his eyes. "And I've missed it! Oh,
how I've missed it!"

She could see
her reflection in the golden helm covering his face, see
it—smaller—in the eyes shadowed by the helm. She was
beautiful in the silver armor in the moonlight. And he was handsome,
proud and burning as the sun. His grip on her tightened. He drew her
closer . . .

And then his
eyes darkened; her reflection flared in them with silver flame, and
was gone. He averted his face, shoved her almost roughly away.

Their minds had
touched with their hands and Maigrey had shared with him, in one
brief and terrifying moment, the vision of her own death.

The wild
intoxicating joy ebbed away, leaving her—for the moment—cold
sober. "So," she said quietly to herself, sighing, "not
only has the past come between us, but now the future."

The tram car
stood waiting to carry them through the garden to the house of the
Adonian.

Perhaps there's
never been a time for us, she said to herself silently, bleakly,
entering the car that had been transformed into a luxurious traveling
salon.

A robot,
officious and servile, offered champagne to ease the boredom of the
trip. Maigrey took a glass, lifted it to her lips, caught Sagan's
stern and disapproving eye. Joy bubbled back up inside her, like the
bubbles rising up in the hollow stem of the crystal glass.

"There is a
time for us, just what it had always been, perhaps what it will
always be: now."

The crowd
outside the gate cheered more of the glittering fortunate, cheered
other limos gliding up to the gate, disgorging their contents,
spewing forth princes and chairmen of boards and kings and governors
and generals and whatever other titles crowned money and success.
Later, when the line of limos was drawing near its end and the last
of the 'copters were being given clearance to land, a boy with
flaming red-gold hair walked past the crowd, whose cheering had about
ended for the night.

Some glanced at
him curiously, but no one knew him. Bored, they turned away and began
to think of going home.

The Adonian's
stately mansion was lit from without and within. Every one of a
thousand windows blazed with light; search beams played over the
white marble-columned and frescoed walls. The effect was dazzling,
and Maigrey resisted strongly the temptation to shield her eyes while
walking up the steps that led to the grand ballroom.

A hundred
footmen were drawn up in a line on the stairs. Each one bowed from
the waist as the guests filed past.

"They're
scanning us for weapons," Sagan commented.

"Nice to
think we'll provide them with some recompense for their pains,"
Maigrey returned. Her hand in his, they walked together up the
stairs, the Honor Guard following behind.

Sagan glanced at
her; the dark eyes smiled. "I am glad you are enjoying this, my
lady."

Maigrey smiled
back. "I must admit, my lord, I am."

The Warlord's
grip on her hand tightened. His expression grew serious. "Maigrey,
I—" He paused.

"What, my
lord?"

It had been in
Sagan's mind to warn her, to remind her of the danger she faced, but
looking at her—calm, cool, radiant as the moon on Oha-Lau—he
realized that she was well aware of it. She did not walk blindly to
her fate. She tread her path with courage, eyes open not only to the
light, but to the darkness.

"Nothing."
He shook his head. "It wasn't important."

Footmen at the
head of the stairs bowed as they entered a perfectly round hall.
Armor—silver and gold—gleamed in the lights of a huge
glittering chandelier hung not with crystals, but with diamonds. The
other guests were being funneled toward a double spiraling staircase
carved of rare, highly polished onyx wood. Twisting in upon itself,
the two spiraling arms of the staircase swept the guests upward to
the second floor, where they stood in line, waiting to be formally
announced to those inside the ballroom.

"Pardon me,
Lord Sagan, but would you mind stepping this way?"

Raoul, splendid
in velvet and lace, and the Little One, who had apparently exchanged
his muffling raincoat for a bathrobe which served the same function,
insinuated themselves into the Warlord's path. Other guests flowed
around them with curious glances, some of the more knowing divining
what was going on and grinning at each other.

"My
lady"—the Warlord turned to Maigrey—"would you
excuse me for a moment?"

"No, no,"
Raoul said, bowing, "her ladyship must not be inconvenienced by
your absence, my lord. Therefore, if she could come as well ..."

The Little One
didn't speak a word, but watched them both with glittering,
ever-shifting eyes, peering out over the folds of the bathrobe.

"I will be
pleased to accompany you," Maigrey said gravely.

Raoul led them
to a doorway just off the hall, the Little One shuffling along beside
them, his eyes never leaving them. Maigrey, mental barriers in place,
was amused to witness the empath's mounting level of frustration.

Lord and lady
were escorted to a small room, comfortably furnished, tastefully
decorated, and adorned—they both noted—with the very
latest in hidden weaponry.

A footman shut
the door behind them.

Raoul turned to
face them, a blush mantling his cheeks.

"I am
deeply mortified. This has all been a terrible mistake and the fault
is mine. But, pardon me, I have been remiss in my duties. May I offer
you some champagne? Your ladyship—?"

"I wouldn't
drink anything
he
offers you, my lady," Sagan remarked
coolly.

"Thank you,
my lord. I never cared much for that particular brand."

Raoul shrugged
delicate shoulders, waved a perfumed hand. "As I was saying, I
am deeply mortified. I was supposed to have told you that no weapons
were allowed. Apparently I was derelict in my responsibility. My
employer, Snaga Ohme, is most displeased with me and hopes you will
accept his humble apologies for the deficiencies of his servant. I
assure you, I will be most thoroughly punished for occasioning you
such embarrassment, my lord, my lady."

"I trust
your master will not be too severe on you," Sagan replied. "You
made no mistake in regard to your invitation. You did, in fact, tell
us that no weapons were to be allowed and therefore we have not worn
weapons. Guards, present yourselves to be searched."

The Honor Guard
stepped forward with alacrity. Raoul, blush deepening, didn't even
glance at them. "My lord, I beg to differ with you. You . . .
and the lady . . . wear the bloodsword."

"The
bloodsword is ceremonial, as everyone knows."

"My lord,
it was not worn in the presence of the king—"

"When the
king arrives, I'll take it off," Sagan said dryly.

Raoul glanced
questioningly at the Little One, who scowled ferociously and shook
his head.

"My ford,"
Raoul began, with a flutter of his long, thick eyelashes, "I
trust there will be no cause for unpleasantness. ..."

"None
whatsoever," Sagan assured him. "You want the bloodsword,
you remove it." The Warlord tossed back the red cape he wore to
reveal the bloodsword hanging in its scabbard at his waist.

Raoul started
forward, hand outstretched.

"Mind you
don't prick yourself on the needles," Sagan continued, speaking
in solicitous tones. "The virus injected into the bloodstream is
of a particularly nasty strain. It kills, if one is lucky, in a
matter of days."

Raoul's
lace-cuffed hand halted; the fingers twitched. He darted a swift
glance at a mirror hung on the wall. Maigrey followed the line of his
gaze, concentrated her thoughts. The lights in the room dimmed
momentarily.

The Loti cast
another, more urgent glance at the mirror. Nothing happened, and a
tiny frown line marred the unblemished surface of his forehead.
Apparently some type of negative emotion was able to filter through
the drugs.

"There
seems to be a problem with the electrical wiring in this house, my
lord," Maigrey said. The lights flickered and dimmed again. "I
noticed it the last time I was here."

Raoul's hand
dropped gracefully to his side. "My apologies for detaining you.
Please, continue on into the ballroom."

"We may
keep our swords?" Sagan inquired.

"The devil
take you both and your swords!" the Loti said, smiling at them
both with charming politeness. He opened the door, bowed them out.
Maigrey, glancing behind, saw the Little One practically writhing on
the floor in fury.

Lord and lady
walked to the grand staircase. Couples separated at the bottom of the
stairs, each ascending one side of the double spiraling arms,
revolving around each other as the stairs carried them upward to
jewel-studded doors. An orchestra inside the ballroom struck up a
march at just the moment Maigrey set her foot upon the stair. She
recognized it.

A pulsing
heartbeat of sound. She began climbing the stairs, her eyes on the
Warlord opposite. He, too, would know the music. It had been theirs,
the squadron's. What coincidence, what chance played it for them now?
The melody carried her on a quest, a search for an ultimate truth,
tempered by a current of underlying sorrow, knowledge that the answer
would never be found. A single trumpet's clear note called her
higher. And with the searing note, the drums, a pounding counterpoint
to her heartbeat. The trumpet call was stronger, louder, triumphant.
She reached the top, the search was ended, sorrow vanquished in hope.

Perhaps some
Immortal hand held the baton that had led that music.

Maigrey stood
before the jeweled doors. Sagan met her at the same moment. They had
ascended step by step, in perfect time, in perfect harmony.

The two of them
took their places. The doors swung open, bright light illuminated
them, the music swelled louder, and with it rose a hum of voices
lifted in laughter and talk, the scent of fragrant candles, perfume.

The herald stood
forward. "I present to you the Guardians ..."

Guardians. The
last of the Guardians.

The Immortal
hand beckoned them on.

The two stood at
the top of the stairs, looked down the vast marble cascade that would
carry them into the room, looked down upon a veritable sea of life
that had turned and was looking up at them. Silence rose like a wave,
drowning even the musicians. Awe, respect, hatred, envy, malice,
love, admiration—the silence rose to meet them, the flotsam it
had acquired floating upon the top.

The Warlord held
out his hand; golden armor flared in the brilliant lights. Maigrey
laid her hand in his, preparing to walk down the stairs, preparing—it
seemed to her—to walk into destiny.