The Lost King (40 page)

There was, in the
Warlord's quarters, a secret chamber that, if Captain Nada had known
of its existence, would have gained him enormous credit with
President Robes and ended the career and undoubtedly the life of
Warlord Derek Sagan. It was a small, private chapel, and no one, not
even Admiral Aks, was aware of its existence. Those who had
supervised its construction believed they were building a vault to
hold the wealth of solar systems. So it did, but it was a wealth that
had been collected over the centuries and had nothing to do with
gold.

His body stripped
naked, Sagan entered the chamber through a door that was activated by
a security device which functioned similarly to the bloodsword. When
the palm was placed on five needles protruding from the pad, a virus
identical to the one in the sword was injected into the bloodstream.
It flowed harmlessly through Sagan's body. Had it entered any other
body—Captain Nada's body, for example—the captain would
have been writhing on the deck in extreme agony.

Entering the vault,
Sagan caused the door to shut and seal behind him. Certain it was
secure, he approached an altar made of a block of obsidian that had
been left rough on the sides and was ground smooth to a polished
finish on top. It was pitch dark inside the vault; no artificial
light was permitted to shine on the sacrosanct. Sagan needed no light
to see what was before him. A small dish holding rare and costly
perfumed oil, a silver chalice decorated with eight-pointed stars,
and a silver dagger whose hilt was an eight-pointed star were
arranged on top of the altar. Folded neatly beneath it were robes
made of the finest black velvet—a priest-father's only legacy
to his bastard son.

Standing before the
altar, Sagan raised his hands and invoked God. He dressed himself in
the robes, kissing the cloth reverently before he put them on as he
had been taught. Kneeling upon a black silken cushion fringed with
gold, the emblem of the phoenix embroidered on it in threads of gold
and crimson, he struck a match and lit the oil. A blue and yellow
flame illuminated the dark chapel, filling the air with the heady
fragrance of incense.

Sagan stared into the
flame long moments, composing his mind. Then he shoved back the
sleeve of his left arm, revealing the muscular, sinew-lined wrist and
forearm. The smooth skin, always hidden by gauntlets, was marked with
numerous ugly scars, all of the same peculiar nature. Long ago, these
scars had been the marks of the priests and priestesses of the Order
of Adamant. Now they were marks of death, for that order was outlawed
and anyone found with these telltale scars was swiftly and summarily
executed.

Sliding his fingers
through the openings left between the points of the star that was its
hilt, Sagan grasped the dagger with his right hand and, with a swift,
deft motion, slashed open the flesh of his left arm. Blood flowed,
pumped from the heart. The Warlord held his arm over the chalice. The
flame's unwavering light glistened off the pulsating liquid dripping
into the cup. When the chalice was full, Derek placed his wounded arm
in the fire and whispered a prayer, his lips pressed tightly together
to keep from crying out with the pain. The fire seared the flesh,
sealing the cut; the bleeding ceased.

Light-headed from blood
loss and the agony of the burn, Derek leaned his elbows on the altar
for support, lifted his head, and commenced his argument with God.

Dion was confined to
his quarters, not by any orders of the Warlord's, but on Maigrey's
recommendation that he take this time to meditate and think and try
to resolve the turmoil in his soul. The young man lay on his bed and
stared up at the underside of the metal deck above his head.

He wished he had his
syntharp, but it was aboard Tusk's spaceplane. The young man'd had no
choice but to leave it behind. Dion tried to listen to the ship's
music, but it was Platus's music he heard, and that made him feel
angry and then guilty because he felt angry. He finally shut it off
and listened to the silence that wasn't silence in the gigantic
battle cruiser but a composite of sounds blended together into white
noise which was, he discovered, oddly soothing.

Lying on the bed, Dion
wrestled with questions: Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going?
Does Someone know for certain or I am drifting in chaos?

"Mankind has
pondered these questions for centuries. I'm supposed to answer them
in three days?" Dion asked a light fixture.

The light fixture
provided only its own brand of illumination, nothing beyond. Lady
Maigrey had been no help either.

"You have to find
the answer yourself, Dion. I can't tell you what to believe."

"Platus told me
what
not
to believe," the boy countered.

"Did he? Or did he
ask you to study, to question, to seek the truth? Instead of seeking
it, perhaps you decided that it didn't exist."

Dion recalled the hours
he and Platus had spent reading the Koran, the Bible, the writings of
Buddha. And then there'd been Thomas Aquinas, Jean-Paul Sartre,
Descartes, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche. Yes, he realized, they'd been
searching for truth—the teacher as much as the pupil.

Alone in the humming
silence, Dion thought he was beginning at last to come to know Platus
and, as he did so, his anger started to die. The Guardian had done
what he'd thought was right. After all the horror he'd seen, after
the tragedy he'd faced, could Platus be blamed for losing his faith?
Dion wondered if now, after death, Platus had discovered that for
which he was searching.

The days passed. Sagan
struggled with God, Dion searched for God. Maigrey pointedly ignored
Him. He'd brought her here for do purpose other than to torment her.
He was allowing the kind and innocent people of Oha-Lau to suffer
beneath the lash. He'd dropped the boy right into the palm of Sagan's
hand.

She possessed all the
touted mystical powers of the Blood Royal—the mental gifts that
made locked doors a mockery, guards laughable. She could walk out
that door—hell, she could walk
through
that door—this
instant and no one except Derek Sagan could stop her. And he was, she
knew, completely preoccupied, locked in battle with a redoubtable
foe—her foe. The Foe that had given her the means to escape a
prison of steel and then chained her to the walls with a silken
thread. She could batter down the steel doors, she could flee
Phoenix
, flee this solar system, flee the galaxy, but the
thread would be impossible to break. It was wound around her soul.

Maigrey continued
reading
Little Dorrit
.

For others do I wait
... for higher ones, stronger ones: . . . laughing lions must come!

The words were
disjointed, no longer made sense. Laughing lions. Dion flung
Nietzsche across the room. He'd had enough He showered and dressed
himself in an Air Corps pilot's uniform Sagan had sent to him to
replace his faded blue jeans. The young man dragged a comb through
the tangled mane of flamming red-golden hair; having no patience with
the snarls, he yanked them out, though it brought tears to his eyes.
He smoothed minute wrinkles from the high-collared, black,
red-trimmed uniform. Its impeccable tailoring accentuated his height
and his lithe, muscular form. Dion studied himself in the mirror and
decided that, when all was said and done, he looked like a king.
Going to the door, he slammed his hand hard on the control. The panel
slid open and he sprang out swiftly, hoping to startle the guards who
were standing at relaxed attention on either side.

Beyond a flicker of the
eyelid and the glance of the eyeball his direction, neither man moved
a muscle. Dion wondered what
would
make them respond. The
detonation of a nuclear warhead right in front of them, he decided,
or the sudden appearance of the Warlord.

"I suppose,"
the young man said, shaking back the flame-red hair out of his face,
"that there is some sort of recreation lounge on board?"

"Several,"
the guard answered. He did not, Dion noticed, say "my lord"
or "sir" or even "young sir." The young man might
have put such a lack of respect down to the fact that he was a
prisoner, except that Lady Maigrey was always "my lady,"
spoken with almost the same inflection of near reverence that the men
accorded to Lord Sagan.

Dion chafed against his
youth and inexperience, but Platus's teaching had taught him enough
to realize that such respect must be earned and could not be
dictated. Swallowing his resentment, he clarified. "A bar?"

The guard raised an
eyebrow and glanced at his fellow. Dion felt a moment's elation. At
last he'd gained a response—even if it was only surprise.

"I want to go
there," he said before the surprise wore off. "I believe
Lord Sagan gave orders that I am to have complete freedom of the
ship, provided, of course, that you accompany me."

One of the guards spoke
into a commlink. The answer came back almost instantly. "Lord
Sagan has left orders not to be disturbed."

"Come on,"
Dion urged. "What can it hurt? It's not like I want to visit
some classified or restricted area. I'm seventeen. I've been to bars
before."

Well, he'd been to
one
bar. Link had taken him (making him swear never to tell Tusk). The
place was noisy and smoky, dark, confusing, and exciting—all of
which sounded quite soothing to Dion now.

"The Warlord did
say the kid could go where he chose."

"I can't see any
harm in it. You stay with him. I'll go file our daily."

"Okay, kid. This
way." The centurion indicated that Dion was to turn to his left,
and the two proceeded down the corridor.

"What's your
name?" Dion asked the guard.

The centurion appeared
reluctant to answer.

"You can at least
tell me your name. It gets . . . lonely . . . sometimes." Dion
hadn't meant to admit to that, felt his cheeks burn.

"Marcus. My name
is Marcus."

Pleased that he'd made
a dent in the armor, Dion glanced around at the man. "That
name's Roman, isn't it?"

"All of those
chosen to be centurions have names of Roman origin. Lord Sagan awards
them to us when we are accepted into the Honor Guard."

"I notice you're
wearing a Scimitar pin. Were you a pilot?"

"I still am."
Marcus appeared amazed that Dion could ask such an inane question.
"All Lord Sagan's personal guard are seasoned pilots. The best
in the fleet." He spoke with the quiet, unconscious pride of men
who know they don't have to boast about their achievements.

Dion began to realize
that these men performed menial tasks—such as escorting a
prisoner to a bar—without complaint because they knew that at a
moment's notice they might be called to escort their commander to
glorious victory.

The full implication of
what Sagan had accomplished struck Dion with such force he nearly
stumbled over his feet. The Warlord had provided himself with his own
personal army—an army that was intensely loyal to him and him
alone. The hell with the President. Damn the Congress. To the devil
with the Republic. These men were Sagan's, body and soul.

"In here."
The centurion touched the young man's arm. Dion had been walking
along in a dazed fog.

Numerous recreation
lounges on board the
Phoenix
helped combat the long hours of
boredom when off-duty—the quiet hours that were more deadly to
a soldier's morale than the most terrifying bombardment. Gaming
lounges, vid lounges, and gymnasiums with swimming pools provided
recreation for the body and the senses. The library and
classrooms—where qualified professors taught everything from
alien thought and philosophy to military history to playing the
synthesizer to transferring the magnificent panoramas of space to
canvas using paint and brush—provided recreation for the mind.

All these were
popular—mainly because they were places where a man didn't
have
to be. in addition, there were the bars. Ever since the days of
Admiral Nelson, the "rum ration" had been considered
essential to the morale of the naval fleet. These days rum had been
replaced by hundreds of other far more exotic concoctions. A computer
kept track of what each man drank and how much. Any hint of alcohol
addiction and the crew member found himself under the none too gentle
care of Dr. Giesk.

Dion entered the bar,
pausing a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting
after the glare of the corridor. All noises of the ship were suddenly
left behind, replaced by soft, nerve-soothing music.

The bar was
comfortable, inviting, designed for talking and relaxing. Stuffed
couches arranged in semicircles undulated in mauve waves throughout
the room. Indistinct and shadowy forms talked quietly, erupted into
sudden laughter. Glasses clinked on the tables, cool air fragrant
with artificial smells of anything but the antiseptic smell of the
working part of the ship wafted from unseen vents. Dion stood in the
doorway, looking around and feeling suddenly homesick for Tusk and
Link and his other friends. He was unaware that he was beginning to
attract attention until the talking and the laughter and the glass
clinking ceased.

The bar suddenly grew
quiet, except for the soft whoosh of air, and everyone in the place
stared at him.

Dion had been the
subject of rumor for a week: the search for him, his eventual
surrender, his dramatic meeting with the Warlord and the Lady
Maigrey. The young man should have felt intimidated by the staring
eyes—the eyes that met his, then slid away to look knowingly
into other eyes, the eyes that were skeptical or curious or laughing.
The young man should have felt shy, awkward, embarrassed, perhaps
even angry. Dion didn't feel any of this. A tingling sensation spread
from his fingertips through his arms, pulsed from his heart to the
rest of his body. He could scarcely breathe for the excitement.