The Lost King (37 page)

"What was that
token, my lady?"

The hand holding the
jewel tightened visibly, the knuckles white. Dion, thinking of the
sharp points of the star, knew they must be driving into the woman's
flesh. He felt them pierce his own flesh as well. Her words, these
next few seconds, must irrevocably decide his fate.

Be careful what you
wish for.

"A ring of . . .
his mother's. There was no other like it, because I'd had it made
especially for her ... on her wedding."

The Warlord stepped
down from the dais and approached the young man. Dion gritted his
teeth and concentrated every nerve in his being to hold himself
perfectly still. He had forgotten how tall the man was, how massive
the body. The golden armor radiated heat and it was truly as if the
sun had left the sky. Dion was scorched and dazed and almost sick.

"Do you own a ring
that might be this token?"

The baritone voice
boomed next to him, coming from the chest, resonating through the
golden armor. Dion glanced up once at the face but couldn't keep his
gaze on the gleaming helmet and immediately lowered his watering
eyes. His hand fumbled inside the collar of his shirt; he scratched
himself on the little Scimitar pin that Tusk had given him a lifetime
ago. Dion hadn't remembered that he was still wearing it.

The boy drew out the
ring, hanging from its silver chain.

Sagan's hand took it
and he held it in his palm. Dion flinched away from his touch and
involuntarily drew back as much as possible, with the result that he
nearly strangled himself.

"Describe the
ring, my lady."

"You know what it
looks like, Sagan." Maigrey's voice had changed; it was
grinding.

"Describe it."
His ground against hers. Rock against stone.

"A Qirclet of
flames, done in fire opals and rubies, banded with gold."

Sagan's hand let the
ring drop. It struck Dion's chest with a thud and the boy drew a deep
and shuddering breath.

The Warlord walked back
to the dais, his eyes fixed on the lady. It seemed Dion was
forgotten.

Sweat poured off the
boy, rolling down his face, obliterating the traces of his tears. His
legs were weak and there was a twisting in his bowels. The room
tilted, sending him sliding across the floor.

"Sagan!"

The man turned with
incredible swiftness and agility. A strong hand gripped Dion by the
back of the neck and shoved his head down.

"Take a deep
breath. No, keep your head lowered."

Those were the only
words Dion heard clearly, but he thought there was something added
about "typical" and "fine choice for a king."

Then soft, cool hands
were holding him and comforting him.

"He's had a shock.
My God, Sagan, how would you have reacted? He's only seventeen."

"When I was
seventeen I was commanding a flight squadron. When you were seventeen
you fought in the bloody Battle of Shiloh's Sun.
This
one
nearly faints in my presence. Your brother has raised us a poet for a
king!"

Dion raised his head,
he could breathe again. The star's light shone clean and bright in
his vision.

A pale and slender hand
reached up to touch the ring he wore around his neck. He saw, on the
palm, five tiny spots of blood. Maigrey was tall; her gaze was level
with his.

"Are you feeling
better, Dion?"

"Yes," he
managed. "Thank you, my lady."

They stood together in
silence, each glancing at the other, and Dion was suddenly aware of a
shared consciousness among the three of them, of an unspoken
question:
What do we do now?

Suddenly, Sagan
stirred. "I asked you to make a decision, Lady Maigrey, before
the young man entered. Do you have an answer for me?"

Her hand lingered on
the ring. The opals flashed their blue-orange fire, the rubies their
blood-red flame. It was reflected in her eyes—the fire of the
ring and the cold light of the starjewel. Maigrey looked into
Dion—far, far into him—and once again he felt her
approbation and her pity . . . yearning, heart-rending pity.

"Yes, my lord. I
have made my decision."

Maigrey let go of the
ring gently. She took a step back from the young man, facing him. Her
hand went to the scabbard of the bloodsword she wore at her side.
With an easy, graceful motion she drew the scabbard from around her
waist and, holding it out hilt first toward Dion, she sank to her
knees on the metal deck at his feet.

"You are my liege
lord. From this day forward, I live only to serve you and those you
take under your protection. Accept my sword, that it may defend the
innocent in time of war. Accept my sword, that it may stand as a
symbol of your strength in time of peace. Accept my sword, my king,
and with it accept my honor and my life."

Dion stared, dazed and
uncomprehending. He hadn't expected to become a sun quite so soon.

"What do I do?"
he whispered.

"Take the damn
sword." Sagan was angry, bitterly, lethally angry. Not at Dion,
but at the woman who knelt at Dion's feet. "She's a Guardian,
after all."

Maigrey kept her eyes
on Dion. Her face was solemn and ethereal; the pale hair flowed over
her shoulders like the sea he had never seen, it stirred about her in
the whispering air. And she knelt before him, at his feet, pledging
her protection, her love, her loyalty. Slowly, with a trembling hand,
Dion reached to grasp the strange-looking weapon.

"It will not harm
you," Lady Maigrey said, thinking, perhaps, that was why he
hesitated. "Not while it is sheathed. Be careful, and do not
remove the hilt from its scabbard. Do not touch the needles."

Dion didn't understand,
but he couldn't ask questions. This wasn't the time to reveal
ignorance. He wasn't afraid of the sword. He was reluctant to take it
because doing so meant taking the responsibility.

But wasn't that why
he'd come?

Dion's fingers closed
gingerly around the hilt, carefully avoiding the five razor-sharp
needles protruding from it. He nearly dropped the blade. Not from
pain. He'd expected it to be heavier and was surprised at its light
weight.

Neither of the two
watching him said a word, though he saw Maigrey cringe, just
slightly, and make a swift movement with her hand that she checked,
holding herself back, letting him learn.

Dion fumbled with the
weapon and finally managed to get a firm grip with his sweating
hands. He remembered hearing stories from Platus about kings of
ancient days who knighted subjects by tapping them on each shoulder
with the sword's blade. The young man wondered if this ceremony was
still appropriate, but he didn't know what else to do and he had to
do something. Was it right shoulder first or left, and did it matter?
What was he supposed to say? Something resounding and memorable; but
all he could think of, as he clumsily and fearfully brought the blade
down upon the blue indigo velvet, was, "Thank you, my lady."

Maigrey rose to her
feet and took her weapon back, somewhat hurriedly, Dion noticed. She
was probably afraid he'd cut off his hand.

"Kings are made,
not born," Derek Sagan said. "You will note, young man,
that my sword stays at my side."

Dion was stunned,
fearful. "Then you don't believe I'm . . . I'm the heir?"

"I believe you're
the son of the crown prince, let's put it that way. The lady and I,
by the way, are both your cousins— though just what the
relationship is I can't begin to explain to you. Had those I trusted
long ago not betrayed me, I might have raised you, young man, and
then you would truly have been prince of a galaxy. But now—"
Sagan shrugged and turned on his heel to leave.

"What are you
going to do to me?" Dion knew he sounded like a frightened
child, but he couldn't help himself.

Sagan paused and
glanced back over his shoulder. "I'm not going to do anything
to
you. I might do something
with
you or for you. I haven't
decided yet."

He continued walking,
his cape billowing out behind him, his anger whipping like a storm
wind around him.

Dion felt Maigrey,
standing near him, breathe a small sigh.

Sagan halted. Golden
flame and red fire, he faced her.

"Enjoy the final
set, my lady. For you, the dance is drawing to an end."

He bowed and turned. By
some unseen, unspoken command, the doors rumbled open and the Warlord
walked through them. The doors did not, however, close after him.
They saw him say a word to the guards and gesture toward them with a
gloved hand. Then he was gone. The guards took up positions outside
the door.

Dion shivered and
glanced around, feeling helpless and disheartened. This hadn't turned
out as he'd planned. What had he expected? Anything from immediate
arrest and execution, he supposed, to sudden adulation and success.
What he had was nothing. He hadn't expected nothing.

Oh, sure, now Dion knew
who he was, but then he'd known that for a long time, anyway. His one
small bit of comfort was Platus's message to him from the grave. But
even that was bittersweet. Hope. Hope for what? Hope for a wise,
compassionate ruler? Hope for a king who ruled by justice tempered by
mercy? Hope for the millions being kicked in the faces by heavy
boots? Hope for those ground beneath the wheel of corruption? Yeah,
hope—brought to you by a seventeen-year-old orphan who couldn't
hold a sword without dropping it.

"What a fool I was
to come here! I should have done what Platus wanted, what he gave his
life for. I should have lived my life an ordinary person. That's all
I am or ever will be."

Dion spoke bitterly. It
was only when the lady answered him that he realized he'd spoken
aloud.

"No life is
ordinary. Each, no matter how small or insignificant, is a tiny spark
of divinity."

Maigrey drew nearer to
him. He saw himself suddenly as protected and protector all in one,
and felt warmer, better.

"If it is any
comfort to you, Dion," she continued, looking at him with grave
intensity, "you were drawn here, not by him or by me, but by
what you are."

"You mean fate? A
Higher Being? Destiny?" Dion shook his head. "I don't
believe in that. Platus taught that man is his own destiny, he is
free to choose his own path in life."

"My brother was an
idealist. We can never have complete freedom to choose what we are or
become. We aren't born into a void. We are born to parents in a city
in a world on a planet and each of those are links in a chain
dragging us through life."

"But the chain can
be broken."

"By some, perhaps,
but not by us. Not by those known as the Blood Boyal. How do you
think you came to be, Dion? Did your parents meet and fall in love?
No, their DNA met. It was a match discovered beneath a microscope.
The matchmaker was a computer. It's how all of us were 'produced.'
Almost all
," Maigrey amended, glancing toward the door.
Though Sagan had left them, his presence lingered around them still.

Dion's head throbbed
and he put his hands to his aching temples. "Why the hell didn't
they just build androids? It would have saved them all a lot of
trouble!"

"The spark of
divinity, Dion. The spark that can burst into the flame of greatness
... or a devouring fire. But I shouldn't keep you talking. You're
tired and it's cold in here. I'll call the guards, they'll escort you
to your quarters."

"Wait! What if I
don't want to stay on this ship, my lady? What if I want to go back?"

She looked at him and
he saw again the cool pity in her eyes. "It's too late for that
now, Dion. Don't blame yourself. I think it was too late from the
moment you were born."

"I'm a prisoner,
you mean." But if she was right, who was his jailer?

"For a time.
You're not what Lord Sagan expected, Dion. I can tell you that much.
The reason I know is that he and I . . . our minds are linked. It's
difficult to explain—"

Dion nodded. "I
know, my lady. The general told me about you, about both of you.
General Dixter. John Dixter."

The young man watched
the woman out of the corner of his eye, hoping for a reaction,
although he had decided that the rumpled, brandy-soaked old man
wasn't worthy of her.

No blush crimsoned the
lady's pale cheek, no smile touched her lips. She gave no indication
that the name held any meaning for her at all. Ice. Flaming ice.
Dixter had been right. The warmth Dion'd first felt around her began
to seep away.

Maigrey turned from him
and gestured. The centurions had left their posts and were marching
into the chamber toward them.

"You're his
prisoner, too," Dion said, edging near her. "What he said
about the dance—that means he's going to execute you, doesn't
it, my lady?"

"He can try,"
Maigrey answered, her gaze on the guards.

Dion was somewhat
nonplussed at her coolness, but he forged ahead, lowering his voice.
"We could escape ..."

Maigrey turned, looked
at him, the gray eyes smooth and placid and fathoms deep. "We
could, Dion. Would you come?"

He started to answer
"Yes, of course," but she'd seen inside him, seen his
secrets. She held them up before him, one by one, illuminating them
in the harsh, brilliant light of the starjewel.

The "yes"
wouldn't be spoken; he was ashamed to say the "no" aloud.
And so he averted his face from the gray-eyed gaze and said nothing.

"God be with you,
Dion."

Coolly bowing her head,
Lady Maigrey left him. Her guards fell into step behind her and with
her dignity, her regal posture, and the respect the men accorded her,
she gave the impression that she was their commander, not their
prisoner.

Alone with his own
guards—and that was tantamount to being alone, for they didn't
even look at him, much less attempt any form of conversation—Dion
stood in the huge, round, empty hall.