King's Test (55 page)

Sagan turned to
her suddenly, the dark eyes seeking, finding, holding her. He brought
her hand to his lips.

You are and
will ever be my lady.

And you are,
she answered him,
and will ever be my lord!

Nimis
exalatus rex sedet in vertice—caveat ruinam!

Raised to dizzy
heights of power, the king sits in majesty— but let him beware
his downfall!

Carl Orff,
Carmina Burana

Looming head,
shoulders, and most of his hairy upper body above the crowd, the
barbarian warrior-king Bear Olefsky paused in the commission of
ravages upon the buffet table to watch the entrance of Maigrey and
Sagan. The Bear's eyes glinted; a chuckle rumbled deep in his massive
chest. Turning to his two sons, who were both taller and wider than
their father by a good meter each way and who both went in mortal
dread of him, Bear poked one in his ribs.

"Old
Sagan's here, boys," he said in a roaring whisper that could be
heard by at least half the people in the room,
"and
the
Lady Maigrey! By my lungs and liver, I never thought to see her alive
again! I'm glad we came," added Bear, who generally-objected to
attending parties such as this, where he wasn't permitted to grab the
women and was forced to drink weak wine from tiny crystal glasses
that always seemed to shatter in his huge, engulfing hand. "This
may turn out to be more fun than I'd expected!"

Snaga Ohme, by
contrast to his barbaric guest, was resplendent in gleaming white
satin formal dress with ermine-lined cape, white velvet lapels, and
white snakeskin shoes. Standing alone, he formed his own reception
line, greeting his arriving guests. This was his Event, his grand
moment, and he saw no need to share it with anyone.

The Warlord,
descending the stairs, sent his gaze sweeping over the crowd, brought
it back repeatedly to one fixed point—the Adonian. He attempted
to keep his mind fixed upon that point as well, but it was difficult.
Turbulent inner emotions were robbing Sagan of his concentration. He
knew he was in God's eye. It was not a new experience; the Warlord
had known he was in God's eye from the moment he was truly capable of
understanding the concept of a force, a will greater than his own.
But he had never experienced, until now, the feeling that God's eye
was intent upon him, watching him with a stern attention that was
unnerving and frustrating. It was as if God expected him to do
something, and Sagan had no idea what.

Maigrey's hand
locked suddenly onto his with a grip like death, brought him back to
awareness of his surroundings with a jolting start. Sagan had noted
that Ohme, of all the guests present, had not ceased his conversation
long enough to pay homage to the Warlord, to a man who was—at
this moment— probably the most powerful person in the galaxy.
Snaga Ohme had laughed and chatted, eyes flicking briefly to the
stairs, to the awestruck crowd. Ohme was aware of Sagan's arrival,
obviously, but intended to indicate that he wasn't impressed.

The Adonian
turned, finally, to greet the arriving Warlord and his lady and now
Sagan understood Maigrey's reaction. Snaga Ohme wore, on a silver
chain around his neck, the Star of the Guardians.

Sagan moved his
hand swiftly to block her sword arm. "No, my lady!" His
fingers closed like a steel vise over her wrist.

"I'll kill
him!" Her words seemed wrenched from her. There was no doubting
her resolve. "Let go of me—"

"Maigrey!
Stop! Think! Not here! Not now!" He wrestled her hand from the
hilt of the bloodsword.

Maigrey jerked
her arm from his grasp and he tensed, but she was calm again, though
her breath came fast and deep, and her eyes, a storm-ridden gray,
never left the Adonian.

He was watching
them, watching her, saw her struggle, and he grinned appreciatively.
Bosk, standing near, had hastened forward, hand darting into the
bosom of his formal evening coat. The guests may not have been
allowed to bring weapons, but their hosts were apparently under no
such stricture.

"Greetings,
Sagan, darling," Snaga Ohme said, languidly bowing. "So
glad you could come."

"Greetings,
Ohme," Sagan replied, standing straight. "Tell your
associate to keep his hand where I can see it or he's going to go
looking for it in a moment and find it isn't there."

"Bosk, my
pet, don't be rude," Snaga Ohme said, perfect teeth gleaming.
Bosk removed his hand from the interior of his jacket, opened it,
palm out, to show it was empty.

"Lovely
lady." Ohme was bowing again. "Delighted you could attend.
What a charming game you played with me the other day. I quite
enjoyed it, though I will never forgive myself for not deducing your
true identity. Ah, you've noticed the jewel." The Adonian placed
his hand carelessly on the chain holding the starjewel, flipped it
casually up and down.

Sagan noted that
the man didn't look at it directly, however. The Warlord found
himself unable to look at it without feeling a vague horror creep
through his body.

"A
remarkable transformation," Ohme was continuing. "My
lapidary has studied it and can't explain how it occurred. Sadly,
though, there appears to be no reversal to the process. It's quite
worthless now, except perhaps as an oddity."

"Then give
it back to me," Maigrey said, cold and pale.

The conversation
was being carried on in low tones, not meant to be overheard. Most of
the crowd—some of whom had witnessed with eager anticipation
the small altercation at the foot of the stairs—saw that
nothing was likely to come of it and turned back, disappointed, to
talk or eat, dance or wait to see who would be announced next.
Several, however, continued to observe the Warlord's conversation and
a few moved nearer, hovering on the edge of the circle, hoping to
catch his attention.

Sagan was aware
of them, as he was aware of everything transpiring around him. He
knew who they were, what they wanted. And he was prepared to meet
them. But not yet, not now.

"Give
the starjewel back!" Snaga Ohme appeared highly amused, then
deeply put-upon. "And I end up with nothing, I suppose," he
said, frowning.

"Wrinkles,
wrinkles, darling," Bosk scolded, laying a soothing hand upon
Ohme's arm.

"I'll pay
you our original, agreed-upon price," the Warlord stated,
"though I shouldn't. You were the one broke faith with my lady
when you attacked her and tried to steal back the . . . property in
question. And don't give me that tale about rampaging drug addicts. A
man in my employ was there. He saw it all. Your men were recognized.
Give my lady her starjewel, Ohme, and I'll transfer the amount I owe
you to your account tonight."

"The price
has gone up since then, Sagan," Ohme returned, his face
smoothing. He glanced at himself in one of the thousand mirrors
adorning the walls of the ballroom, perhaps to ascertain if permanent
damage had been done. "Doubled, in fact. Your lady put me
through considerable mental anguish—"

"—and
there's another buyer, isn't there?" Sagan interrupted with
imperturbable, terrible calm. "You dared offer what I designed
and invented to someone else—"

"Only when
it seemed likely I wasn't going to get my money," Ohme returned.
"But we shouldn't be discussing business. Everyone's here to
have fun!" The charming smile switched on, the Adonian turned
away. "If you will excuse me, I must see to my other guests."

"It's
cursed, Ohme," Sagan said. And though he spoke softly, some
quality in his voice carried, sending a thrill through those nearby
who overheard it. Everyone in the vicinity ceased talking, began to
watch and listen.

The Adonian
paused, glanced back over an elegant shoulder. "What's that you
say, Sagan?"

"The
starjewel is cursed, Snaga Ohme. Just as if you had taken it from a
corpse," the Warlord told him. "It brings death to the one
who steals it—a horrible death."

The people on
the fringes of the conversation couldn't quite understand, but the
Warlord's sternness and grim tone touched them. The gaiety faded; a
pall seemed to settle over the crowd.

Snaga Ohme
flashed a radiant smile. "The nursery's down the corridor,
Sagan. Third door to your left. Go frighten the children."

The Adonian
sauntered away, laughing. The crowd, seeing it must have all been
some elaborate joke, began to laugh as well. Waiters hurried up,
distributing champagne.

"You're
right," Maigrey said. "It
is
cursed, and so am I.
What have I done?" She shook her head, sighing. The silver flame
of her armor seemed to darken, as if a cloud drifted over the moon.

"You did
what you had to do, my lady. And if you had not done it, who knows?
Abdiel might have the 'property' now."

"Might-have-beens
are no comfort. For me, there is no comfort. I did wrong. But,"
she added, lifting her head, removing her hand from his and placing
it on the hilt of the bloodsword, "I will have the jewel back
again. And fairly,
not
by murdering the wretch. I'll watch my
chance and talk to him. He'll agree to your bargain, my lord."

Sagan's eyes
were on the Adonian. "He wears his doom around his neck, my
lady. So it will prove."

The Warlord
caught sight of those who hovered near, waiting to speak to him. He
made a slight gesture with one hand, discernible only to those
watching for it. They understood, nodded, and melted back into the
crowd.

"Is that
Rykilth?" Maigrey inquired.

Sagan looked at
her in some surprise, not entirely pleased. "You have sharp
eyes, my lady."

"Especially
for an old enemy," she said dryly. "I couldn't tell if it
was him or not. It's difficult with vapor-breathers, their heads
encased in those bubbles, shrouded in that poisonous fog of theirs.
He appears quite eager to talk to you."

"He is . .
. and I to him. Rykilth's a Warlord himself, now. Quite a powerful
one."

"I remember
a time when you two— My God, Derek!" Maigrey directed his
attention to the jeweled doors, to the top of the staircase. "Look!"

"Abdiel
..."

The lord and
lady were the only people in the room who had noticed the arrival of
the new guest. Those who had been paying attention saw only an old
man in flashy-colored robes and, not recognizing him as anyone of
importance, reached for another glass of champagne. Almost everyone
in the room, therefore, missed the first scene of the act that was
going to, literally, bring down the house.

Abdiel was
announced, using his name and the Order of Dark Lightning. Few in the
room knew or remembered what that dread title meant. They paid him no
heed. Two people knew and remembered, however. Abdiel sensed their
presence immediately. They saw his gaze sweep over the thousand who
interested him not at all and focus on the two who interested him a
great deal.

Maigrey shivered
and rubbed the palm of her right hand. "Where's Dion?"

"There,
behind him." The Warlord's voice was grim.

"Why
doesn't he come in?" Maigrey asked impatiently, after waiting
several moments. "I can't see him! What's going on?"

"It appears
that the boy is arguing with the herald. What-ever is happening,"
Sagan added in some concern, "Abdiel doesn't like it."

Maigrey's gaze
shifted to the mind-seizer, who—waiting for his companion—was
forced to stand, fidgeting, on the staircase.

"Oh, God!"
Maigrey gasped, pressing her hand to her chest as if suffocating.
"Oh, God, Derek! I know what Dion's going to do!"

"Yes,"
the Warlord replied, "the question is now what are
we
going to do?" Bound by the bloodsword to Dion, Sagan knew, too,
what the boy intended. The Warlord knew, as well, what God intended.
Sagan stood unmoving, the bitter water crashing up against him,
pounding on him, sweeping over him in wave after wave of
chastisement, retribution.

The herald
stepped forward, ignoring the boy. Raising his staff, preparatory to
pounding it on the floor to gain attention, the herald was suddenly
knocked violently to one side. The staff fell from his hands,
clattered down the stairs. The noise and commotion drew the notice of
everyone in the room.

Dion stepped
forward, his hair a fiery halo, the jewels and beadwork on his vest
dazzling in the bright lights. Pale as marble, his hands clenched at
his sides, he spoke in a loud, clear, carrying voice that at first
crackled with nervous tension but gained in confidence and resolve
when he heard his words come echoing back to him.

"I look out
on this assembly," he said, "and I see kings and queens,
princes and presidents, governors and emperors and rulers of every
description. Permit me to introduce myself, since no one, it
seems"—with a cool glance at the indignant herald, picking
himself up off the floor—"will do it for me. I am Dion
Starfire. My parents were Augustus and Semele Starfire, your murdered
king and queen. I am their son. I am your ruler. I am your king. I am
the king of kings, and this night I claim my throne."

In the first
moment following the boy's speech, no one moved or spoke, with the
exception of a few, here and there around the room, who were tapping
translators, wondering if they'd malfunctioned, wondering if they'd
heard correctly.

In the second
moment, when everyone decided that they had heard correctly, heads
turned, eyes met, gazes crossed, plotting, calculating, speculating.
The rightful heir. Found at last. Claiming his own. There was no
doubting him. His presence, his looks, the charisma of the Blood
Royal. And now what?

A weak and
ineffective Congress. A President chafing with ambition. A political
system falling apart. It was as if someone had scattered priceless
pearls onto the floor. There were those already mentally preparing to
grab what they could. . . . They began to edge their way forward.