The Lost King (39 page)

You speak easily of
betrayal, my lady. It seems to be the one unresolved question between
us. Who betrayed whom?

Did I betray you, my
lord? Or did I betray my king? Did I know what you planned and keep
silent until it was too late? Maigrey sighed and pressed the face
cloth to her eyes.

I refuse to help
you, Sagan.

I will need three
days to prepare myself. You may have that time to prepare the boy for
the ceremony. If you ve forgotten it
—

"Not likely,"
she said aloud.

—
you'll find
it on the computer, in my private files. I'll give you access.

I won't
—

You will, my lady.
Because you're wondering, too.

He was gone.

Maigrey returned to her
chair, picked up the book, and opened it. The computer on her desk
beeped to life with a message, and she glanced over at it.

"File: Rite. Type
code and enter."

Resolutely, Maigrey
ignored it and returned to her book.

". . . 'you may be
sure that there are men and women already on their road, who have
their business to do with you, and who will do it. Of a certainty
they will do it. . . .'"

Yes, they would.
Maigrey couldn't stop that. And the boy had better be prepared, he
had better know what he could do.
If
he could do it. Besides,
she
was
wondering, she had to admit it. Sagan knew her, knew
her very well.

Maigrey started to
dog-ear the page, thought of the grim and sour-faced ship's librarian
who would glare at her, and dog-eared it anyway. Very few people ever
checked out the ancient English language texts. She and Sagan were
probably the only ones, and then he wasn't very likely to read
Little
Dorrit
. It was a long book.

I wonder if I'll live
to finish it.

Three days. The words
came from her subconscious as if in answer to her question. Why? Why
that time? Maigrey paused, considering. Three days. Sagan didn't need
three days to prepare himself! Certain ceremonies required a priest
to spend hours in fasting and in prayer—especially if one was
going from warrior to cleric—but not this one. He was waiting
for something, something that would happen in three days. And he was
keeping it hidden from her in the very darkest part of his mind.

Going to the computer,
Maigrey stared at the screen and then, sighing, reached out and
experimentally hit a key and then enter. Nothing happened. A true
code was required, and it was like Sagan not to tell her what the
code was. Of course, it would be something she knew, something only
the two of them knew, for it was forbidden that anyone outside the
Blood Royal should have knowledge of the mysteries.

It needed little
prompting for her to remember the words, but a great measure of
strength to type them, to give them life. She could have said them
aloud. That, however, would have been to give them a soul. Her
fingers were stiff and fumbled at the keys.

"Two togeher must
walk the paths of darkness before they reach the light."

She hit enter
hurriedly, wanting to see them vanish. Nothing happened.

Maigrey bit her lip and
forced herself to reread them carefully. This
had
to be the
code he would select.

There it was, a stupid
mistake.

She added the '
t
'
in
together
. Hit enter.

The screen blanked out
and then filled with words. She assumed they were words. All she
could see, for long moments, was a shining blur.

"An initiation
rite, my lady?" Dion appeared dubious. "Isn't that sort of
. . . silly?"

Maigrey shook her head.
"Lord Sagan isn't talking about a frat party. This is serious.
Deadly serious."

Dion looked alarmed at
her tone, but Maigrey did nothing to soften it. She wanted him to be
scared. Scared as hell.

The two were together
in the empty diplomat lounge. Maigrey had gone back to watching the
ever-shifting, ever-same magnificence of the universe and she had
brought Dion with her. The lounge was cold and almost devoid of
furniture—just a few chairs that looked as if they'd been cut
out of a circle, then the halves turned upside down and stacked on
top of each other. Sitting in one of these, her arms resting on the
high sides, Maigrey stared at the stars glittering in the deep
blackness and pondered her words.

Dion, sitting in a
chair across from her, found his gaze drawn irresistibly to the scar
on her face. It seemed to him that when the flesh had knit to close
the wound, it had caught up the soul and bound it in as well. The
face might try to hide her thoughts, her emotions, but they were
clearly visible in the scar. He could see her blood rise and fall in
it, see the pulse of her heartbeat. He knew he shouldn't be staring.
It was impolite. But he couldn't help it. When she turned her eyes
upon him, suddenly, he flushed and made believe he had been looking
with intense interest at one of the centurions, standing in the
doorway.

Maigrey's hand moved
unconsciously to touch the scar that sometimes ached with an
unbearable pain.

"The initiation
rites began years ago as a test—"

"A test?"
Dion bounded to his feet. "Lord Sagan doesn't believe me, does
he, my lady? He doesn't believe who I am—"

"Sit down, Dion.
And allow me to finish."

Flushing more hotly,
shamed by the cool rebuke in her tone, the young man subsided,
sitting back in his chair.

"During the second
Dark Ages that occurred in the early twenty-first century, the
intelligentsia saw only two beacons of light in the future of
mankind—space travel, whereby they could escape the repressive
governments, and genetic tampering, whereby they could create their
own superhuman leaders to come back and take control. Over future
generations, they proved successful in achieving both goals.

"But when the
process of genetic improvements began, the repressors tried to
imitate it, tried to create their own superhumans for their own
purposes. The scientists had foreseen this and reacted to keep the
process under control. They developed tests that enabled them to
determine who was one of the Blood Royal and who was, so to speak, a
cheap imitation."

Dion stirred
restlessly, scowling, and Maigrey paused a moment to study him. She
knew well enough what he was thinking and he would have his answer.
He had to learn to be patient. But it wasn't that which drew her
notice. It was the cobalt blue eyes, the flaming red-golden hair that
tumbled about the face like a lion's mane, the crease between the
feathery reddish brown brows, the high forehead and cheekbones, the
sensually curving lips. Looking into his face was to look into the
face of another, the face of her one, dear, true friend. Maigrey
seemed to see that face against a backdrop of flame and horror. . . .

Swiftly, she looked
away.

"As time went by,
and the process of genetic altering evolved, the Blood Royal began to
control itself. They wanted to keep their line pure. Marriages were
arranged only after the most rigorous computer searches. A man who
was weak in certain areas sought a woman who made up for them.
Occasionally, of course, this didn't work. The divine spark, as I
said.

"By this time, the
test had become a part of the culture of the Blood Royal, getting
mixed up along the way with rites of passage and bar mitzvahs and
eventually, in some parts of the galaxy, the test lost all of its
original intent. About this time, the Order of Adamant began its rise
to power.

"The Blood Royal
were designed to be rulers, but no one foresaw that they would become
rulers of the soul as well as the body. Charismatic, strong, and
powerful, the priests and priestesses of the Order of Adamant spread
the worship of the Creator throughout the galaxy.

"They brought
continuity and conformity into the lives of people of varying
cultures, particularly into the lives of the Blood Royal, who were
often called upon to leave one world and marry into another that was
vastly different. Religion was often the only thing the wedded couple
had in common.

The old test became one
of the first rituals to be taken over by the Order. They standardized
it and added their own touches, so that, in the time of your uncle,
the king"—Maigrey added that little touch to calm the boy
and subtly remind him again of the serious nature of what she was
saying—"the test had become a true rite of passage, a
solemn ceremony that was often attended by prophecies and . . . and
such like."

Maigrey coughed and
cleared her throat. One of the guards, with quiet efficiency, brought
her a glass of water.

"Thank you,"
she said, smiling at the guard.

The centurion, from his
expression, took that smile as a gift. Dion knew how he felt. Cold
and proud and strong, the woman seemed at the same time vulnerable
and fragile. The boy longed with every fiber of his being to comfort
her sorrow, protect her from danger. Yet the idea of putting his arm
around her, of touching her seemed appalling, irreverent. He would
have as soon embraced a . . . comet. The young man was consumed more
by the impulse to offer his body to her as a living shield, to throw
himself between her and whatever threatened her. Dion saw on the face
of the centurion that same desire. And Maigrey had probably never
spoken five words altogether to the man.

Before Dion knew quite
what he was doing, he was out of his chair and down on his knees
beside her.

"My lady, you're
so unhappy! Let me— Tell me what I can do—"

Maigrey smiled at him.
Then her lips tightened, the scar flamed red. Reaching out, she took
hold of his jaw in her hand and gripped it tightly. Her nails cut his
flesh. She turned his face to hers.

"Look within
yourself, Dion! What you are experiencing is the power of the Blood
Royal. Someday, the way you feel about me is the way other people
will feel about you."

She shoved him
backward, away from her, and curled up in her chair, brooding.

Catching his balance,
Dion rubbed his stinging skin and stared at her. He was half-angry.
He'd been brutally rebuffed, his pride had been hurt. He wasn't
certain he understood her words. Maigrey didn't glance at him, but
sat wrapped in a shroud of dark and bitter silence. Slowly, Dion rose
to his feet and made his way back to his chair. He sat down and,
drawing back his hand from his chin, saw blood on his fingers.

"So," Maigrey
said abruptly, "that is why Sagan wants you to undergo the
rite."

"What's it like?
What happens?"

"I can't tell you.
It's a secret, sacred to God. A curse is said to fall on those who
reveal it." Noticing his exasperated frown, Maigrey added, "I
can tell you this much: Often the Creator will speak to the priest or
give some sign of His will and intent for the life that comes before
Him. This is what Sagan's hoping for, I believe."

"The Creator's
will," Dion muttered, wiping the blood on his pant leg, hoping
she didn't notice. "I can't believe in some myth." He kept
his face averted from her, rubbing his hand back and forth along his
jaw where he could feel the scraping stubble of a beard whose golden
color rendered it invisible to all eyes but his. "What about me?
What about what I want? My own will? You and Sagan seem to think I
haven't got one."

"You have a will
of your own, Dion. But that doesn't negate the fact that there is
another Will, a Higher Power which says 'You can be more than you
are. I know, for I made you.' Often the two struggle together—every
child rebels against his parent and the struggle is good, for it's
only in questioning and pushing and testing our own limits that we
come to know ourselves, that we become strong. And we can fight
against it all we want, but there comes a time when man must bow his
head and say to God, 'Not my will, but thine, be done. "

"So how do you
know which is which?"

"I think,
eventually, we come to know." Maigrey sighed and looked far
away, into another part of the ship, into another heart. "It is
for those who know and who continue the fight that the struggle
becomes bitter.

"We like to see
ourselves as suns," she added, speaking almost to herself. "We
want to be worshiped as life-givers, feared as destroyers. But though
each sun possesses an immense, fiery radiance, its light eventually
fades over distance and time, and all of the stars together are
powerless to illuminate the vast and empty darkness."

Nevertheless
,
whispered like an echo in Dion's ears,
not my will, but thine, be
done.

Lachende Lowen
miissen kommen.

Friedrich Nietzsche,
Die Bergrussung

As Maigrey had told
Dion, the struggle between knowing the will of God and submitting to
the will of God was a bitter one. Sagan had followed his Lord's
commands because they coincided with his own desires. Now, he was
beginning to see that there might be a clash of wills. The Warlord
claimed to want to know the mind of God. In reality, he feared he
knew and sought to change it.

When Derek Sagan had
completed his mental conversation with the lady, he summoned the
captain of his personal guard.

"When I shut this
door"—the Warlord indicated the outer door that led to his
chambers—"no one is to pass. No one. For any reason."

"Very good, my
lord."

"Any messages, no
matter how urgent, are to be delivered to you. You will deliver them
to me when I ask for them."

"Yes, my lord."
The centurion saluted, fist over his heart.

Sagan caused the door
to slide closed and sealed it from the inside. He shut his computer
down, switched off all communications and signaling devices. He took
off his armor, packed the bloodsword away.