King's Sacrifice (69 page)

"Perhaps I
am," Dion answered softly. "Perhaps that's why I came,
after all. Far easier to die." He shook his head, then raised
his eyes, looked directly at the mind-seizer. "But, no, I won't
sacrifice them or anyone else. We will talk, if that's what yon want"

Abdiel smiled at
him. Reaching out, he took hold of Dion's hand, caressed it, then
pressed the needles into the five scars on Dion's palm.

His muscles
jerked. The virus flowed into his body, warming, burning, like dark
lightning. Dion sighed and relaxed.

The mind-seizer
put his arm around the young man, drew him near.

"The time
has come," the Walrus said,

"To talk of
many things:

Of shoes—and
ships—and sealing-wax— Of cabbages—and kings ..."

Lewis Carroll,
Through the Looking Glass

The virus and
micromachines flowed from Abdiel's body into Dion's. Their minds
joined together and Dion was once again in the mind-seizer's dwelling
he had first entered on Laskar.

Dion gazed
around, wondering at the change, but not terribly astonished by it.
The house was enormous, filled with rooms and in each room were
valuable treasures, waiting to be explored, discovered. Treasures of
ancient wisdom and vast knowledge stood next to treasures of cunning
tricks, deceits, machinations.

I could roam
among them freely, pick, choose. . . .

Abdiel sat on a
sofa in the sweltering hot room. He held the long-stemmed pipe of a
hookah in his shriveled hand. A puff of smoke wafted occasionally in
the air, coming from his lips. The hookah made a gurgling sound.

"Please be
seated, my king," Abdiel said.

Dion accepted
the invitation, made himself comfortable. On the table, in front of
the mind-seizer, were a handful of pills— Abdiel's
dinner—Dion's bloodsword, and another weapon, a sort of scythe,
he supposed, though it was unlike any he'd ever seen before. Made of
crystal, it looked fragile and insubstantial, harmless, liable to
shatter if one grasped it too tightly— almost like Abdiel
himself.

"How nice
to see you again, my king," continued Abdiel, as if they had
just recently bumped into each other. "You are looking well. The
royal bowings and scrapings suit you. You were born to it.

"Forgive
the beat." Abdiel waved his hand vaguely. Dion could not see
them but he had the impression of leaping flames, burning not too
distantly beneath them. "You remember my infirmity. I live here,
sleep here, eat here. A virtual prisoner. No other room in this
blasted warren is warm enough. But then, we all make sacrifices . .
."

The lidless eyes
gazed fixedly into Dion's, probed and prodded their way into his
mind.

"Open up to
me, my king. Don't fight me. We have much to discuss and little time.
That ill-advised marriage you've agreed to, for example. Disastrous."
The mind-seizer shook his head, sucked on die pipe. "Mark my
words," he said, the stem clenched between his rotting teeth,
"DiLuna means to rule, through her daughter, of course. She
means to bring back the worship of the Goddess. Those women have
ways, you know, of enticing men to do their bidding, of enslaving
them.

"Or perhaps
you don't know," added the old man, eyeing Dion shrewdly. "You
haven't slept with the girl yet. But the contract hasn't been made
that cannot be broken, my king. Acting on my advice, with my help,
you should be able—"

"Your
help!" Dion almost laughed. "Why should I invite your help?
The last time you offered it, you betrayed me, tried to kill me."

"Yes,"
said Abdiel, nodding complacently.

"You have
the effrontery to admit it?" Dion marveled.

"Of
course," said the mind-seizer dryly. "I could hardly do
otherwise. I was afraid of you, my king! Fear? Is that such a
grievous fault in a minister? The great Machiavelli himself advised
that 'it is better to be feared than loved.'

"With fear
comes admiration, respect. You have humbled me, my king. Set me in my
place. Allow me to serve you, then, as only I can. You have seen what
doors I can unlock to your mind. And that was only a few, so very
few. This is, after all, why you came to me, isn't it?"

"And what
must I give you in return?"

"Give!"
Abdiel chuckled, but he seemed irritated, put out. "What is all
this talk of giving, of sacrifice? You are king, Dion Starfire! Kings
take what they want. If you want that daughter of Olefsky's, take
her. If you want Sagan's wealth and power, take it! If you
don't
want DiLuna, use her and cast her aside. I can show you how."

"And what
is the difference between you and DiLuna?

Between you and
Sagan? You want to use me, just as they do. You tried, once, and you
failed, Abdiel. Remember?"

"I admit it
freely, my king. I made a mistake. I underestimated you. I thought
you were like those of the Blood Royal who produced you: your
uncle—poor weak king. Your father, that giggling sycophant.
Peter Robes, Derek Sagan, Platus Morianna, and his sister, Maigrey.
Weak, all of them weak. And flawed. How could I suppose that you
would be otherwise?

"But I
discovered my mistake. You are far stronger than any of them, Dion.
Far stronger than even you know. You have no need to fear me. I could
never gain ascendancy over you, just as they've never been able to.
I'm not flattering you. I'm speaking the truth, and you know it, my
king. You are just beginning to understand, to feel your power. I can
enhance that power, teach you the ways to use it to best advantage,
as I taught Peter Robes."

"And in the
end, you abandon him for me?" Dion looked at the bloodsword,
lying on the table, near the crystal scythe.

Abdiel sniffed,
took the pipe from his lips, coiled the tube around the hookah's
base.

"Peter
Robes! Weak like all the rest. Weak and shallow. I poured into him
what I could. I had more to give—much more—but he lacked
the capacity to hold it.

"You,
Dion!" Abdiel sighed, closed his eyes in a kind of ecstasy. "I
could empty my being into yours. Together, we would create a young
and vital king, yet one who possesses the subtle knowledge and wisdom
of my years."

Dion trembled,
not with fear, but with desire. He knew, as Abdiel had said, that the
mind-seizer was telling him the truth. This time, Abdiel had no
intention of killing his king. This time, the mind-seizer meant what
he said. He would deliver as promised.

The sacrifice?
Myself. But then, I came prepared to make that sacrifice anyway.

"And what
would become of me when you are gone?" Dion asked. "For you
are mortal. Not all the biochemistry in the galaxy can keep you alive
much longer."

"Sadly
true, my king. But I foresee that a bond such as we will forge
between ourselves will not be broken, even by death. You are still
resisting me, my king. Open yourself to me completely. You will
understand then what I mean. We have much to talk over."

Talk. Always
that voice inside me. I'd hear it and no other. Never my own.

His voice, a
voice he only recently learned to hear, one he had yet to learn to
trust, to rely on. He had no doubt it would advise him wrongly,
sometimes. It would make mistakes. It was young, inexperienced,
flawed.

Dion smiled
sadly. Perhaps this was one of those times. If so, it would likely be
the final time. But when he died, the last voice he heard would be
his own, not the voice of any others.

"Thank you,
Abdiel," said Dion clearly. He stood tall and straight. "I
know what you want to give me and I reject it. After all, I came only
to get my sword."

He withdrew his
hand from the mind-seizer's.

Abdiel did not
try to stop him.

The lidless eyes
stared at him. "Is that your final decision, my king?"

The vision of
the dwelling lingered before Dion's eyes. He was filled with a deep
sense of regret, suddenly, a sense of loss. All those rooms, all the
knowledge held within, so much to have gained.

"It is,"
said Dion.

The vision began
to fade.

"A poor
one."

Abdiel lifted
his hand, started to slide it into his robes. Patches of decaying
skin flaked off, fell on the table, near the fragile-looking crystal
scythe.

Dion was once
more back in the chamber of burning water. His bloodsword lay before
him on the tomb. The crystal scythe was nowhere in sight. Deeming the
scythe unimportant, having more urgent matters on his mind, Dion
forgot about it, forgot to wonder what it was or why it had been
there.

He saw, out of
the corner of his eyes, Mikael turn in his direction, aim the beam
rifle at him. The disciple moved slowly, time moved slowly. It seemed
to Dion he had all the time in the universe, time to notice small
things, like the five glistening spots of blood in the palm of the
hand that reached for the sword, time to search within himself and
know that what he was doing was right and that he wasn't afraid.

The last fight
of the last of the Guardians, the last fight of the last king. We
will fall, but we will be victorious. And the people will come to
hear of pur sacrifice and it will touch them and out of the ashes
will rise a new order . . . like a phoenix. . . .

Dion's hand
closed over the hilt of the bloodsword.

Abdiel's hand,
hidden within the magenta robes, closed over the hilt of the
serpent's tooth.

"Take the
Long Way Home."

Supertramp

Tusk groped his
way through the dark spaceplane, making a mental note to duck to
avoid hitting his head on the same metal beam on which he always hit
his head and promptly rammed his knee painfully into the corner of a
storage compartment. He swore briefly, bitterly. For once, XJ said
nothing in reproach. The lights and life-support systems switched
back on.

"You all
right?" Nola called down anxiously.

"Yeah, I'm
okay. You see anything of the kid?"

"He just
walked into the cave or whatever it is."

"Nobody
tried to stop him?"

"No,
there's no one around."

"I don't
like it. It's too damn quiet. You're positive you don't see anything?
Maybe I should come up there, have a look myself."

"Sure,
Tusk. If that's what you thinks best." Her voice was too soft,
too understanding.

Tusk knew he was
behaving irrationally, knew Nola was dependable. Hell, he could
depend on her more than he could on himself.

"I'll . . .
be up in a minute," he muttered.

Sliding down the
ladder into the cockpit, he subsided into the pilot's chair, moodily
rubbed his bruised knee.

"So what
was that little emotional outburst you treated us to," he
remarked to the computer. "Jeez, you'd think you actually felt
something for the kid."

"Emotional
outburst!" XJ's lights flared indignantly. "Feelings! How
dare you accuse me of such a thing! That was an electrical
malfunction, occasioned by—"

"Yeah,
yeah." Tusk eyed the space-rotation bomb gloomily. "Just
how unstable is this thing?"

"You have
insulted me for the last time!" XJ seethed, ignoring the
question. "I've put up with a great deal from you, Mendaharin
Tusca. Your juicing and your swearing and your refusal to pick up wet
towels off the deck when you know how that irritates me, to say
nothing of dragging me to an alien galaxy, putting our investment in
extreme peril, with no hope of recouping our expenses. I—I—"

XJ was forced to
pause, wait for its overloaded systems to cool down. 'This is the end
of our relationship! I've spoken with Captain Link. He's looking for
a new partner. I believe—"

"Sure,
yeah, fine."

Tusk wasn't
listening. He fidgeted, stood up, sat down again. Something was
wrong. Every nerve in his body was jumping and twitching. He felt
like a guy who'd been on the juice for a week straight and was trying
to come off.

"What are
your scanners picking up?"

"Nothing,"
stated XJ. "I turned them off. The energy levels were beginning
to—"

"Turned
them off!"

"Tusk!"
Nola shouted warningly.

He leapt to his
feet, started for the ladder leading up to the gun turret.

The deck slid
sideways, out from under him. Tusk grabbed onto the back of the
pilot's chair. The plane jolted and rocked, settled back down.

"What the—"

"Tusk!
There's a whole army out here!"

"Shit!"
Tusk swore. "I knew it. XJ, take us up! Now, XJ!"

He swung himself
back into the pilot's seat, began flipping switches. The lights
flickered, but nothing happened. The plane remained sitting stolidly
on the ground. Another shot rocketed into it.

"Tusk!"
Nola shrieked.

"XJ!"
Tusk said through clenched teeth. "This is no time to screw
around! Get us the hell outta here!"

"Sorry,"
said the computer.

"What do
you mean 'sorry'?"

"We can't
take off!" XJ's audio crackled. "The anti-grav. That first
shot—"

"Hit it?
That's not possible. The shielding—" Tusk could hear, up
above him, Nola open fire.

"It didn't
hit it!" the computer shouted above the noise. "It's
jammed, stuck! You remember? We had this same problem on Alpha Phi
Delta Twenty-seven—"

"Fuck it!"
Tusk slammed his fist into the console, then kicked it. He had some
wild, irrational idea of jarring the anti-grav—located on the
plane's underbelly—loose.

"Tusk!"
Nola called.

He jumped out of
the chair, climbed the ladder, stuck his head up into the bubble.
"What's out there?"

"About
seventy or so humans and God knows how many Corasians! It's the
humans who're attacking. They've got some sort of lascannon. That's
what hit us the first time."