The Lost King (18 page)

In contrast to the
light, the darkness around them became complete, impenetrable. To
step into the shadows was to step into black depths that were not the
purient, sterile voids of space but a smothering, unfathomable
miasma.

The Warlord's footsteps
slowed. His breathing was heavy and measured, as one who makes a
conscious effort to draw every breath. With a gesture, he brought his
guards up around him. The jungle ended. With the next step, they
would walk out into an area open and unprotected.

Here was the source of
the light.

The centurions, each
and every one, were men proven and tested in battle. Each had
performed some act of heroism, daring, and courage that had brought
him to the attention of the Warlord. They sacrificed everything to
serve him— country, home, family. Sagan allowed no loves, no
other loyalties that might distract or interfere with their duties.
They led grueling, Spartan lives, for their commander denied himself
comforts and they lived as he did. Outwardly they were cold and hard
and emotionless as their lord. Midas, it was said, had a touch that
turned all to gold. Sagan, it seemed, turned all he touched to iron.

Yet more than one
centurion, staring at the sight before him, saw it through a sheen of
tears.

They gazed on the Hall
of Moonrith, one of the wonders of the universe. And the universe did
not even know it existed.

Moonrith, the
semiprecious gem, was thought to be so-called because of its moonlike
whiteness. In reality, moonrith gained its name through the gem's
ability—unnoticed by those who imprisoned it in metal
settings—to diffuse and radiate moonlight.

Standing in a large,
open area of the jungle, on the top of a small hill that rose up out
of the vegetation, was a large, natural formation of moonrith. The
natives held it to be a sacred place and had done it honor by
smoothing the rough edges of the stone, rounding and shaping the
pillars nature had carved with tools of wind and rain.

By day, the
building—formed out of a huge slab of rock supported by as many
as sixty irregularly shaped, crude pillarlike columns—was
nothing more than a geological curiosity. On a moonlit night, the
beauty of the Hall of Moonrith pierced the heart.

The stone absorbed the
moonlight, diffused it, radiated it forth. The templelike structure
glowed with a white luminescence that shone from within the stone.
The hill leading up to it had been terraced, carved into steps. At
the foot of these, some meters back, stood the trees of the
jungle—whispering guardians, who worshiped at a distance.

The Warlord, after a
long look, turned to see the reaction of his men and, immediately,
faces softened by the miraculous loveliness hardened. Eyes blinked
back tears, sighs of awe were swiftly checked. He saw that they had
been touched, however. Even as he, who had thought himself immune to
beauty, had been touched. Sagan's face grew grimmer still.

He should have come
alone.

Turning his back upon
his guard, the Warlord climbed the stairs that had been delved into
the hillside. His red cape— drenched black by the eerie
light—billowed out behind him. His men, ashamed, hurried after
him, attempting to keep their eyes on their lord but finding their
gaze drawn irresistibly to the glowing temple.

The centurions hastened
up the stairs and reached the pillars that formed a colonnade around
a vast, rectangular hall. Above them, the moonrith ceiling shed a
silvery light, bright enough that each man could see clearly the
lines fate had etched upon his palm, the scars of battle and of death
man had etched upon his flesh.

"Wait here,"
the Warlord commanded. Leaving them, he passed in between the glowing
columns and entered the hall.

At the far end stood a
woman. She was dressed in white; the folds of her long gown hung in
smooth, flowing lines, broken only by a silver belt around her waist.
Pale fine hair, the color of moonlight, was worn loose, falling over
her shoulders in a glistening stream. Her back was to them; she did
not seem to notice them but stared up into the night. Thin clouds,
gliding before the moon, dappled the dark sky with silver.

The virgin goddess of
the silver orb, discovered alone in her temple. Sagan, glancing back,
thought it likely his men might fall down and worship her.

She was good. Very
good. And how well she knew him. She had played into his myth.
Diana
to his Mars.

And what was Mars but a
bumbling, stupid, bloodthirsty oaf?

Sagan's lips twisted to
a bitter smile. Peter Robes, he thought, former professor of
political science, this woman will chop you up and feed you to the
public with a silver spoon.

The Warlord crossed the
floor. His booted footsteps rang on the stone, the hollow sound
echoing gratingly through the quiet, peaceful air.

Paler, colder than the
moonlight, the woman did not move, not even when he came to a halt
directly behind her. A slight breeze, whispering through the jungle,
stirred the gold-trimmed hem of his robe, reverently lifted wisps of
the woman's pale hair.

"Lady Maigrey
Morianna," spoke Derek Sagan.

His voice, harsh and
discordant, caused a stir among the jungle animals. Infuriated
shrieks and cries answered him, wings flapped angrily, trees shook
and rustled. His guard started in alarm and drew their weapons. Sagan
raised a warning hand, and they relaxed. Gradually, peace and calm
returned.

The woman answered
softly, without turning her head or looking at him. "I am Lady
Maigrey Morianna."

"Then, Lady
Maigrey Morianna, by order and decree of the Revolutionary Congress
of the Galactic Democratic Republic, I hereby place you under
arrest."

She faced him now.
Perhaps it had taken her this long to steel herself. Gray as the sea
beneath a leaden sky, her eyes confronted him. Like a prisoner who
knows the blow is coming and can't avoid it, Sagan braced himself and
absorbed the pain without flinching. It passed swiftly, burned away
by an anger whose flames he had fed daily for seventeen years.

"What is the
charge against me, my lord?"

"The charges are
numerous, my lady—and all punishable by death. The most notable
is aiding and abetting the smuggling to safety of an offshoot of a
family whose crimes against the people are legion."

"A newborn baby!"
Maigrey's face was colorless, pale as the moonlight except for the
gray eyes that had darkened as in a storm. "You would have
murdered him that night as you murdered his mother. As you murdered
my king."

"I did not make
war on children! You know the truth of my actions that night—"

Her lashes flickered,
her gaze faltered beneath his. Sagan noted this weakness in her
defenses, he read the doubt in her mind, but he was too caught up in
his own anger, too intent on keeping his own walls manned to take
advantage of this lapse on the part of his enemy. It would be a long
time before he remembered the crack in the fortress and came to
realize its import.

"I had no
intention of killing the child. He would have been raised a citizen
of the Republic—"

"—taught to
believe his parents were criminals! Taught to be ashamed of what he
is! Taught to denounce his own heritage—"

"At least it would
have been the truth, my lady," Sagan said. "Better than
what your brother taught him!"

He saw the scar on her
face. The moonlight had masked it, the white line blending with the
pallor of her complexion. Now it leapt out. Her heart pulsed in it,
blood stained it, and it seemed almost as if the wound had been
reopened.

Seeing his gaze fix
upon the right side of her face, Maigrey felt the pain again and
consciously put her hand to her cheek to cover it. Sagan shifted his
eyes to meet hers.

Looking into them
intently, Maigrey saw no pity, no remorse, no disgust, no compassion.
Nothing.

"I lack time to
argue irrelevancies, my lady. We will be off-planet within the hour.
I must ask you to surrender your weapon."

A silver scabbard,
decorated with an eight-pointed star hung from her waist. Wordlessly,
she nodded. Her hands moved to unfasten the buckle.

"The people of
this planet know nothing about me," she said, inwardly cursing
her trembling fingers that fumbled at their task. "They are a
primitive race. They live peacefully. They have hurt no one."
Slowly, she drew the belt from around her slender waist. Putting the
ends together, she folded the leather as was proper, the scabbard
resting on top. Maigrey held it out. "Don't vent your anger on
them, Sagan!"

It was the first time
she had called him by name. He was caught off guard, the point of the
bloodsword she held might have slipped beneath his armor and touched
flesh.

"It's not anger,
my lady," he said evenly, accepting the weapon. "It is
justice."

Maigrey saw that it
would be useless and undignified to plead. Tears filled her eyes, and
she lowered her head, allowing the long hair to slide forward and
hide her face.

The Warlord was
familiar with this trick and ignored it. "My guards will carry
what other possessions you have to the ship. "

"There is no need.
I have only the sword and this." From a pocket in the
loose-fitting white gown, Maigrey produced a rosewood box. "And
you will not take this from me."

Sagan knew what the box
contained. "No, my lady," he said, after a pause, "that
you may keep."

For long moments, he
stared at her in silence. She lifted her head, her tears burned dry,
and steadily returned his gaze. Though neither moved, a battle raged.
Their minds probed and touched in a mental fencing match, seeking out
weaknesses, learning once again to respect strengths.

His gaze broke first,
but it was not defeat, merely drawing back to consider a new angle of
attack. When it came, it was unexpected and effective.

He held her sword
across his forearm and presented it back to her. "Give me your
word, Lady Maigrey Morianna—your word, as a Guardian—that
you will not attempt to escape from custody, and you may wear the
bloodsword."

Maigrey stared at him,
confounded.

"Well?" he
said impatiently.

"You have my word,
my lord." She accepted the weapon in its silver scabbard, and
stood clutching it awkwardly, fumbling not to drop it or the rosewood
box.

"My lady."

Bowing, Lord Derek
Sagan turned on his heel and left her, crossing the stone floor to
where his men waited in the shadows of the columns. "Bring her,"
he instructed as he passed them.

The centurions hurried
to obey. A cloud passed over the moon, obscuring it completely. The
Hall of Moonrith, bereft of its source of light, was suddenly nothing
but crudely carved rock. The centurions were forced to switch on
their hand-held nuke lights. Seen by the harsh, sterile beams, the
goddess dwindled to a woman in her early forties with a scarred face,
holding a sword and a wooden box.

The centurions
surrounded her—one at her right, one at her left, two behind
her. They did not touch her but waited respectfully for her to
proceed. They would give her a few moments to move on her own. If she
did not, they would most certainly drag her. Lifting her chin,
Maigrey moved resolutely forward, the sound of her slippered
footfalls obliterated by the guards' heavy tread.

Ahead of her, the
Warlord had disappeared into the darkness.

She would be taken onto
a ship of war, a ship populated by hundreds, and every man
loyal—ostensibly—to whatever this bloodstained government
of the revolution was calling itself. In reality, however, Maigrey
knew they were loyal to one lord. One lord who might fight against
the heritage within himself but who would never fail to use it.

He had been very clever
in returning the sword, playing to her honor. He must know that now,
at the end, it was all she had left.

Leaving the Hall of
Moonrith, Maigrey heard the dry and broken sobbing of an old man.

Not all the water in
the rough, rude sea can wash the balm from an anointed king.

William Shakespeare,
The Tragedy of Richard II
, Act III, Scene 2.

"We're coming into
their instrument range. You been monitoring public transmissions?"

"Yes," XJ
answered in a preoccupied tone.

"And?" Tusk
pursued, his hand on switches, his eyes on a reddish planet that
during the last four hours had been growing increasingly larger in
the viewscreen.

"Nothing. You sure
there's a war down there?"

Tusk grunted.
"Corporate battle. They'll be controlling the official
broadcasts. Civilian population probably doesn't even know the war's
going on—outside of the few hundred or so who get in the way
and get hurt, of course. The corporations try to seize control of
mines and factories, maybe lay siege to a corporate town. That sort
of thing. If anyone asks questions, it's put down to union violence,
terrorist bombings, or a new p.r. campaign. But, if Dixter's running
the show, it'll be a clean fight—on our side, at least."

"I thought you
didn't enlist in corporate wars," Dion said, remembering one of
Tusk's lectures on how to enjoy a long and profitable career as a
soldier of fortune.

"I don't usually,"
Tusk admitted. "Corporations hold grudges longer than the
Warlords. Once they hand over money, they figure they own you body
and soul and you better be ready to lay down both in their cause.
Show a natural reluctance to get yourself killed, and they take it as
a personal affront. Only blood feuds are worse. Never get involved in
a blood feud, kid."

"So why are we
here?"

"Because of
Dixter. Like I said, if he's in charge, it'll be a fair fight. He
doesn't like corporate wars any more than I do. Must be something
different about this one," Tusk muttered, frowning intently at
the numbers that were flashing in front of him. "What's the
problem?"