The Lost King (6 page)

"And if that time
never comes?" Dion asked impatiently.

"Then you will not
know and you must accept it. What does it matter, anyway, who your
parents were? It is who
you
are that is important in this
life."

Maybe that answer had
been good enough for Dion once. But not now. Not when he was being
sent off who knew where. Seeing the lights of his home gleaming
softly in the distance, Dion couldn't believe that Platus had
actually expected him to go meekly away with that crazy mercenary and
his uncouth computer. It just didn't make sense! Platus never did
anything on impulse. He always planned everything. Why, only the
first of this week, he and Dion had gone over what they intended to
study in the upcoming months. They'd laid out the garden, even argued
as usual over whether to put in radishes, which the boy loved and
Platus detested. And, as usual, the radishes had won.

Then, two days ago,
Platus had been called to town to receive an interplanetary space
transmission. He refused to let Dion accompany him, though it was the
first time the boy had known his master to receive such a message.
When Platus returned, his face was ashen, he had aged years. He would
not discuss the matter but was silent and withdrawn. That afternoon,
he told Dion to begin packing—the boy was leaving Syrac Seven.

Dion was now so close
to the house he could begin to pick out the details of the simple
dwelling. Suddenly the boy stopped running, a curse on his lips that
would have done Tusk proud. Of course! Platus was in danger!

"That's why I'm
being sent off!" he said aloud. "I've been a fool, thinking
only of myself! I saw it in his face when he said good-bye. Only I
was wallowing so deep in self-pity I couldn't get my head out of the
muck long enough to think."

The boy started running
again, fear lending impetus to his stride. Why his gentle master, who
revered life so highly he wouldn't even use mousetraps, would be in
danger was beyond Dion's comprehension. But then he began to
consider. How much did he know about Platus? Nothing—as little
as he knew about himself. The man hadn't an enemy in the world. He
didn't have any friends in this world, either.

In
this
world.
The space transmission. It wasn't an enemy in this world. It was
coming from somewhere beyond.

Dion glanced up into
the heavens and stumbled, nearly falling. He'd never seen a real
space shuttle before. He'd seen only photographs in textbooks that
were more than twenty years old. He was seeing one now, he knew, and
it was bigger and more beautiful than anything he could have
imagined.

The moonlight glinted
off a beaked prow painted red and gold and resembling the mythical
phoenix. Decorated with images of fire and feathers, its sleek wings
extended out from its body. Traces of flame flared in the air, its
engines having just been shut down. The shuttle was gliding to a
soft, air-cushioned landing—a landing that would take it within
a kilometer of Dion's house.

An oppressive sense of
uneasiness that grew stronger the nearer the shuttlecraft crept
toward the ground swept over Dion. Mingled with this unease was an
overwhelming curiosity. Slowly, the young man moved forward, keeping
instinctively to the shadows of a huge spike-cactus.

The boy longed to rush
ahead and confront this mystery directly, but Platus's training made
him stop and carefully consider his next action. No, it was far
better to keep hidden, at least for the time being. Should his help
be required, an element of surprise was always good. And besides,
Dion told himself grimly, his excitement starting to mount, it would
give him a better chance of learning something about his master . . .
and perhaps about himself.

A gully—the
remnant of a dried-up creek bed—ran beneath the house. Dion
scrambled down the bank, treading silently over the flat, rock-strewn
ground. The gully led him into his own backyard. He'd lost sight of
the shuttlecraft; the gully's sides were steep. But he could see the
craft's lights shining, bathing the land for miles around in a garish
red and orange glow.

Dion kept to the ditch
until he judged he must be almost parallel to the garden. It would be
easy to pad through the soft, newly tilled soil without anyone
hearing him. Catching hold of the weedy bushes and tree roots that
stuck out from the dirt sides, he pulled himself up the bank and
peered cautiously over the lip of the gully.

He could now see the
front half of the shuttlecraft clearly. The back part was being
blocked by the house, standing between him and the craft. Watching,
he saw a hatch open. Bright white light streamed out, broken by
silhouetted figures of men. These parted, and one taller than the
rest—wearing a feather-crested helmet and a long, flowing
cloak—emerged from the lighted hatchway and walked down the
gangplank that extended from the hatch to the ground.

Although he couldn't
see the figure clearly, Dion could see light gleaming off the man's
helmet. The man was moving toward the house. He was apparently alone.
No one was with him. This man was coming to see Platus. A meeting.
Platus was meeting with this man! That was the reason Dion had been
sent away. Like a child told to leave the room so that the grown-ups
could talk!

Anger burned away
Dion's uneasiness. I'll find out what's going on, and then I'll—I'll—
Well, I'm not certain what I'll do but I'll do something!

The man emerged from
the dark shadow cast by the shuttle's wing. The bright running lights
of the spacecraft illuminated him. Curious, Dion studied the man
approaching the house, wondering who he was. The boy caught his
breath at the magnificence of the sight. The man's armor reflected
the red and golden light. He himself might have been rising out of
the flames like the phoenix. He was tall; Dion had never seen a man
quite so tall or so muscular. His helmet was burnished gold, as was
his breastplate—all done in the style the boy recognized as
being copied from the days of ancient Rome. A red plume ornamented
the helm, the feathers glistened in the light. The red matched the
flame red of his cloak, the cloth sparkling here and there with
golden trim. The boy couldn't see the man's face—it was lost in
shadow. The man walked with long, swift strides, moving so rapidly
his cape floated out behind him in the still evening air. There was
intense, serious purpose in every line of his body.

The man drew nearer to
the house, and was lost to Dion's view. This was the boy's chance,
for the house would prevent the man from seeing him. Crawling up over
the edge of the bank, Dion dashed through the garden, heedlessly
trampling the neat rows of newly planted seeds, dodging the stakes
that carefully labeled each one.

A light shone in the
window of the living room. The night was warm, the window was open,
the bamboo shades raised. Dion crept close. A twinge of guilt pricked
his conscience at the thought of spying on Platus, but he swiftly
rationalized it. His master might be in danger, after all. Dion could
help best by remaining hidden.

Sneaking silently
across a lawn carpeted with smooth prairie grass, the boy reached the
house and crouched below the window. He listened but couldn't hear
anything. Cautiously he rose halfway and peered over the windowsill.

What he saw made him
gasp in astonishment. He clapped his hand over his mouth, fearing he
might be heard.

Platus stood alone in
the room. His back was to Dion; he faced the front door. But this
wasn't a Platus Dion knew. This wasn't his teacher, the poet, the
musician. The long blond hair fell over shoulders encased in shining
silver armor—armor that appeared old-fashioned and outmoded.
Armor that dated back before the revolution, armor that was marked
with the emblem of the late king.

But it wasn't the sight
of the armor that made Dion gasp—although the sudden, confusing
knowledge that Platus had perhaps been a member of the murdered
king's own elite guard made the boy's mind reel in confusion. What
took Dion's breath was the sight of a silver scabbard lying on a
table before him, lying within easy reach of his gentle master's
hand.

Three knocks fell
heavily upon the door.

Fear convulsed Dion. He
didn't know why, he didn't know what he feared. Perhaps it was the
sight of Platus, dressed so strangely, so unlike himself. Perhaps it
was the sound of those knocks, falling upon the door like the three
dread notes representing the hammer-blows of Fate that opened Verdi's
opera,
La Forza del Destino
.

The forces of destiny.
Dion, for the first time, felt their power. If he could have been
granted any gift in the universe, he would have frozen that moment
and lived this one single instant into forever. But he could no more
stop this minute, those forces, than he could stop the sun in its
orbit. What would follow was as inevitable as the coming of night
after a bright and beautiful day.

"Enter,"
Platus said, and Dion saw the door flung open.

Flashing golden armor,
and the great bulk of the man from the shuttle was framed in the
doorway. The man's eyes beneath the shadow of his helmet widened in
astonishment no less than the boy's at the sight before him.

The two men stood
regarding each other, one from the doorway, one from the center of
the room. The boy watched from his hiding place at the window. No one
spoke; not an indrawn breath broke the silence.

Then Platus smiled
slightly. Taking off his glasses, he wiped them—a habitual
movement that made Dion's throat hurt with unshed tears. "You
come upon me like Lucifer, Derek . . . his face, deep scars of
thunder had intrenched . . . ? Do you remember your Milton?"

"Still the poet,"
the man in the doorway commented in a deep baritone that was
passionless, grave, and quiet. Removing his helmet, he placed it
under his left arm in military fashion, then—ducking his
head—he walked through the doorway and stepped into the simple
living room. Dion could see him quite clearly; the light of a lamp
shone directly on his face.

The man called Derek
appeared older without the helmet. Though he had the muscular build
of a young man, Dion guessed that he was in his late forties, about
the same age as Platus. It was the face that aged him. It might have
been carved of granite, each stroke of the sculptor's blade bearing
downward in grim, stern resolve. Black hair, damp from perspiration,
was worn long and was tied at the back erf his neck with a leather
thong. His skin color was the rich, even bronze of those who live in
space and must depend on artificial suns for their health. The eyes
that glanced about the room were dark and narrow, cold and forbidding
as a grave.

Dion shivered in the
warm darkness.

"I remember my
Milton, poet. I'll finish the line: \ . . waiting revenge.' You were
warned of my arrival. Stavros, of course. I thought I had shut down
his transmission in time."

"You did. You were
as efficient as always, Sagan. It was only a simple, mathematical
sequence sent out by a friend of his when Stavros knew it was too
late to escape. Easily overlooked by your monitoring devices, yet it
told me . . . all."

Sagan glanced about the
room, taking in the shelves and shelves of books; the few, fine
paintings hanging on the wall; the simply, homely luxuries. Dion saw
them, too, with new eyes, eyes blurred by tears. How precious they
seemed suddenly. When the man reached down and picked up a small lap
harp—Platus's harp—with his gauntleted hand, the boy
would have given anything for the strength to rush inside and snatch
it from him. But Dion barely had strength enough to hang on to the
windowsill. He could still give no reason for his fear, but it was
very real and it was eating him alive.

"It has been a
long time, poet," Sagan said, returning the harp carefully and
respectfully to its place. "I have sought you many years."

He walked across the
room toward the window and Dions chest almost burst from the
suffocating fear that he'd been seen. But the man turned his back to
Dion, to face Platus. A magnificent phoenix, embroidered in gold, had
been stitched on the man's cloak. "The boy is gone."

"Yes, I sent him
away."

"Why didn't you go
with him?"

Platus shrugged, the
silver armor glistened in the fight. He turned to face his visitor
and Dion saw a marvelous jewel, hanging from a silver chain around
his master's neck.

"I am easy to
find, Sagan. You have me on file, everything from my blood type to my
hand print to the pattern of my brain waves. Witness how easily you
traced me to this house, once you knew the name of the planet on
which I lived! How much longer could I hide from you, Derek? Yet, the
boy. That is different. He is anonymous—"

"Anonymous!"
Sagan sneered. "Bah! Whatever else that family of his may have
been, they were never anonymous. Surely, he must have all the traits!
Unless ..." The man stared at Platus in disbelief. "He
doesn't know!"

"No. He knows
nothing, not even his real name."

"Creator!"
Sagan breathed. His face darkened and it seemed to the boy that the
man was not swearing but calling upon God in reverence. "And I
can imagine how you have raised him, you weak, sniveling worm!"
The narrow-eyed gaze swept the room. "Poetry! Music!" His
booted foot shoved contemptuously at the harp. It fell over, its
strings quivering in a discordant cry. "Why she left him in your
care, I will never understand!"

Sagan pondered silently
for a moment. "This makes it difficult, Platus, I admit.
Difficult, but not impossible Stavros did you no favor. Your death
would have been quite easy and painless—a simple execution as
proscribed by the law of the Galactic Democratic Republic for those
royalists once known as the Guardians. Now, of course, it will be
different. I must find the boy, and you will tell me where he has
gone. Stavros held out only three days against me, Platus. Three
days. And he was far stronger than you."