The Lost King (43 page)

Illusion, Dion
.
She attempted to give the boy a telepathic message.
It's all
illusion. The spikes aren't really there. They're illusions
—

Only they weren't.

The globe fell; the
knife-sharp spikes made an eerie whistling sound in the air and a
dull, soggy, plopping sound as they drove through flesh and muscle,
tendon and bone. Blood spurted. Dion screamed. His hands were impaled
on the silver globe.

"My God!"

Maigrey could only
stare. Sagan flung his arm around her, holding her tightly, keeping
her from going to the boy. His precaution was needless; she couldn't
move.

The spikes suddenly
withdrew; the globe rolled from the boy's torn hands, fell to the
floor, and bounded into the darkness.

Dion raised his head
and looked at Maigrey. Slowly, he held out his hands. Blood oozed
from the palms, severed fingers dangled by strips of skin. He had
ceased to scream, he was in shock.

Sagan withdrew his arm,
shoved her forward.

"Continue!"
His voice was harsh and unrecognizable.

"I can't, Derek! I
don't know what's happening!"

"Continue, lady!
Or the boy will die!"

"Water."

Maigrey wondered if she
had strength to lift the pitcher and was not surprised when she very
nearly dropped it.
The boy will die
. The words she spoke next
came from a place inside her that was acting completely on its own,
of its own volition. She no longer had any conscious idea what she
was saying. "Water—from which comes life."

Upending the pitcher,
Maigrey poured the water on Dion's injured hands. The cool liquid
flowed over the palms, bringing relief to the pain, seemingly, for he
closed his eyes, tears sprang from beneath the lids. The water
mingled with the blood, washing it away.

"Fire. Sustainer.
Destroyer." The oil lamp burst into bright flame.

Maigrey lifted the oil
lamp, uncertain what to do, for in this part of the ritual the
initiate passed his or her hand through the top of the fire. Sagan
reached out, snatched the lamp from her grasp. Grabbing hold of the
boy's hands, he thrust them into the flames.

Maigrey caught hold of
the Warlord's arm, trying to stop him, but he flung her aside and
poured the burning oil directly onto the flesh.

The smell was
nauseating. Dion never made a sound, but stared with a calm, terrible
fascination at the flame covering his hands. The fire blazed, finally
died. When it was out, the flesh of his hands was left whole,
untouched, unblemished, healed.

Dion looked up at them,
at each of them, smiled brilliantly, radiantly, and dropped,
lifeless, to the floor.

"Is he—"
Maigrey couldn't find breath enough to speak the word.

Sagan walked around the
table. Standing over the boy, he stared at him a moment, then leaned
down and put a hand on Dion's neck.

"No. He's
fainted." The Warlord straightened. "He'll be all right ...
in time."

Maigrey walked slowly
around the table. The cloth was wet with water. The pitcher lay where
she'd dropped it when Sagan knocked her aside. The silver globe had
disappeared; she doubted they'd ever find it. The One who had made
use of it was gone and had probably taken His tools with him. If
there was blood on the cloth, she couldn't see it, couldn't
distinguish it in the darkness from the oil and the water.

This wasn't what the
script called for. This hadn't been the way the scene was supposed to
be shot. No one had requested these special effects. What did it
mean? Pain, suffering. Yes, that was to be expected of those who
lived to serve, that was the rite's lesson. But initiates were given
the power to compensate, to turn the pain into illusion, to prove
that the mind could overcome outside forces. Dion was given the
power, but apparently he wouldn't be allowed to use it, just as he
had not been allowed to use it during the rite. Or, if he did use it,
it would be turned against him. He would be expected to sacrifice . .
. everything? For nothing in return?

Sagan's thoughts were
turmoil, darkness, confusion. He was staring into the stars, into the
night, into nothing. Maigrey looked at the young man lying at her
feet.

"What was that
ritual, my lord? The rite for a king?" Sagan stirred, returning
from whatever dark realm he'd been traveling. "A king? Yes."

His lips tightened. The
struggle was bitter indeed. "And more. A savior."

I am born.

Charles Dickens,
David
Copperfield

The guards knew that
today she would die. Maigrey saw the knowledge, saw respect mingled
with sorrow, in their eyes when they met her that morning for her
customary walk. There was no shame, no guilt, however. They were
devoutly loyal; they believed implicitly in their lord. They would
die themselves if he ordered it. They would see her put to death with
equal equanimity.

"Please take me to
the sick bay," she requested.

"Yes, my lady,"
the centurion answered, and she heard a softness in his voice. Yes,
they knew. It was to be today.

Dion was still
unconscious. Dr. Giesk, flitting around her like a bat, assured her
that the boy would sleep for days. Good. Whatever happened, however
this encounter ended, it would be hard on Dion. Maigrey had seen,
last night, the darkness and the light enter his soul. All his life,
the two would fight within him, each striving for dominance, each
bringing its own strengths, its own weaknesses. He would never be
free of the conflict. Never, from this moment, be truly happy.

Leaning over the bed,
Maigrey brushed back the red-golden hair from the white forehead. A
sudden, vivid, flashing memory came to her. Semele, lying in my arms,
dark hair tousled. Her face is deathly white, streaked with tears and
blood. So much blood, and the flames are getting nearer. . . .

Maigrey's soul shrank
back, appalled. The memory sank and she did not try to dredge it back
up.

The young man stirred
and cried out in his sleep. Maigrey clasped his hand and held it
fast. Her touch seemed to bring him ease, and he sighed and slept.
Leaning down, she kissed him on the cheek.

Rising suddenly,
briskly, she turned and saw one of the centurions blinking his eyes
with unusual rapidity. Maigrey carefully kept from observing him and
laid the book she had brought with her down upon the bedstand.

"Please see that
the boy is given this," she said to Dr. Giesk.

The doctor's eyes were
fixed not on her but on the scar on her face. When Giesk realized she
had spoken to him, he started and gave her a deprecating, guilty
smile.

"Oh, yes, my lady.
Certainly."

Firmly resisting the
impulse to grab the man's necktie and knot it around his scrawny
neck, Maigrey brushed past him. She saw his glance go from her to a
set of double swinging doors at the far end of the sick bay. Maigrey
knew what was behind those doors—a shining steel table standing
on a tile floor with a drain beneath it; instruments to cut and
remove and slice; shining steel basins. This night, her body might be
lying there. This man, gloating over his prize. . . .

"Come away from
here, my lady."

One of the centurions
had hold of her arm and was guiding her firmly away from the autopsy
room, out of Giesk's odious presence.

"The stench in
here is enough to make anyone feel giddy," added the centurion.

Well, well, Maigrey
thought, gratefully accepting the man's assistance, perhaps they
wouldn't watch her die with equanimity after all.

"How are you
feeling, young man?"

The pinched,
weasel-like face of Dr. Giesk loomed over the boy. A scrap of necktie
escaped from beneath the doctor's white coat and flopped onto the
blanket. Giesk rescued the tie, tucked it neatly back, and continued
to peer into the boy's face. Dion blinked, involuntarily moving away.

"I'm fine."

Dion tried to push
himself up to a sitting position in the bed, only to discover wires
attached to his wrists, leading to a winking, blinking machine that
stood nearby. The young man glanced around, saw sterile beds standing
in orderly, well-dressed rows, their blankets folded and tucked to
exact specifications, their crisp, smooth, white sheets overlapping
by just the proper width, no more and no less. Even with a patient
between them, the sheets did not relax. Dion had to squirm to ease
himself out from beneath his sheet's rigid grasp. He was, he
realized, in a sick bay.

"What happened to
me?"

"You suffered a
shock to your nervous system. A thing not uncommon for those who are
guests of the Warlord." Giesk giggled and peered intently at the
readings on his machine.

Dion remembered.
Fearfully, he lifted his hands and stared at them, turning them over
and over. There was not a mark on them. But the pain had been real,
the tearing flesh, shattered bones, severed tendons. And then the
horrible moment when he saw his flesh withering and burning in the
fire. The memory of the horror overwhelmed him and he began to shake.
Cold sweat covered his forehead.

"Mmmmm,"
Giesk murmured, frowning. "I think you had better keep to your
bed today. I'll give you a sedative."

"No, wait!"
Dion reached out a hand to grasp the doctor's lab coat. "Who
brought me here? Did they say anything?"

"The Warlord
brought you himself," Dr. Giesk said, giving Dion a shrewd,
penetrating look. "Carried you in his arms and you're no
lightweight. He's kept his strength up remarkably for a man of his
age. Comes from exercise and the proper diet. I limit his intake of
red meat, you know. And he has never in his entire life touched a
drop of alcohol. The priests don't, or perhaps I should say
didn't
. . . but we're among friends."

One half of the
doctor's face suddenly performed the most grotesque contortions. Dion
was considerably alarmed until he realized Giesk was winking at him.

Shivering, the boy
pulled the blanket up around him. Every object in the room was either
metallic or white; the place even smelled cold. "But didn't he
say anything? What about Lady Maigrey? Was she with him? Didn't she
say anything?"

"Lady Maigrey?
Now, there's a fascinating woman. Have you noticed that scar on her
face?" Giesk perched his thin behind on the edge of the bed.
"Remarkable. Quite remarkable. She came to see you shortly after
the Warlord brought you in for treatment. The lady didn't say
anything, but she left that for you." Giesk pointed at a book
lying on the bedstand.

Dion snaked an arm out
from under his blanket and grabbed it. Lying propped up on his elbow,
moving awkwardly so as to keep from tangling himself in the wires, he
opened the cover.

"There's some
writing on the inside and a few lines marked. I couldn't read the
inscription. It's in one of those old languages." Giesk turned
and motioned to a medicbot that was filing charts. "QUAC, over
here, please."

Casting the doctor an
angry glance, which went right past Giesk, Dion carefully brushed the
cover of the leatherbound book to rid it of the man's touch. The
medicbot trundled across the floor. Giesk punched several buttons on
its chest. A mechanized arm moved over a tray, selected an item, and
stuck what looked to be a wet dot on Dion's arm. The young man,
absorbed in studying the book, paid little attention to it.

The book was
David
Copperfield
. Hurriedly he flipped the pages to find Maigrey's
inscription, for he guessed it must be some sort of message. He hoped
it would let him know how he'd fared with the test. He wondered
uneasily if he'd disgraced himself by passing out. He couldn't
imagine Sagan flopping down on the floor like a dead fish.

Dead . . . The memory
of his ordeal became suddenly cloudy and hazy, not nearly as
frightening. Dion felt his muscles relax and he stopped shivering.

Preface. Introduction.
A long introduction, written by some scholar. Table of Contents.
Chapter One. "I Am Born." And there, lines marked. First
lines. Dion read them carefully.

Whether I shall turn
out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be
held by anybody else, these pages must show.

Written in feminine
handwriting on the margin were the words, "My love and prayers
are with you always.
Dominus tecum
, Dion Starfire." It
was signed with Maigrey's name.

Dr. Giesk, still
sitting on the edge of the bed, was rattling on.

"That scar of
hers. I think it was made by the blade of a bloodsword. Whoever
handled it was extremely skilled or she was extremely lucky, since a
blow like that should have split open her head. I haven't had a
chance to examine the scar closely—not yet, anyway."

Dion puzzled over the
inscription. It seemed as if she were saying good-bye. He rubbed his
eyes; he was drowsy. He couldn't think. Giesk rambled on. There were,
at present, no other patients in the ward, so the boy was in for the
full brunt of the doctor's bedside manner.

"They'll bring the
body to me afterward, however. I've specifically requested it. I'll
be able to study it quite closely, see just how they managed to close
the wound so that the skin grew back so smoothly. I think it was
probably glued—"

"Body?" Dion
raised his head. It took an effort. Someone seemed to have filled his
skull with rock. "What do you mean—body?"

"She's to be
executed today," Dr. Giesk said. "There's nothing you can
do to stop it, young man, so you might as well lie back down and let
the drug take effect. When you wake up, it will be long over."

"Wake up . . ."
The rocks were tumbling around and around, crashing into each other.
"That . . . wasn't . . . sedative." Dion fumbled his way
out of the sheet, ripping off the wires attached to his hands.
Slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The rocks left
his head, tumbled down his body, and landed in his feet.