The Lost King (42 page)

A strange scent made
Dion's nose tickle. Incense. He was afraid for one panicked moment
that he might sneeze. Rubbing his nose with his hand, he prevented
it.

A candle flared. Above
it, Dion saw Sagan's face clearly for the first time. Queasy fear
gripped the young man's bowels. The metal mask of the helmet had been
cold and impersonal and unfeeling, but that was natural. He had
assumed that the face beneath it was warm and alive.

He had assumed wrong.

Holding the candle in
one hand, the Warlord lifted the cowl and covered his head. His face
vanished beneath the fabric that seemed made of woven night.

Dion started to speak,
to stammer out some sort of greeting, but Maigrey, moving into the
candlelight so that she might be seen, made a slight negating gesture
with her hand and shook her head.

"Do not speak,
Dion." Her voice was soft and low. The pale hair, lying on her
shoulders, was white and cold as moonlight. "Your thoughts turn
inward"—her hands moved to her heart— "and
outward." Her hands extended to the open air. "You look
within, to yourself. Without, to the Creator."

Fear wrung Dion. His
flesh was soggy pulp, his blood water. He was shivering with terror;
he was desperately, horribly afraid. Think of himself? the Creator?
The young man could visualize only fearful pain and death and
oblivion.

"Come this way,"
Sagan ordered, gesturing.

Dion willed himself to
obey but his feet wouldn't move. He ducked his head, covered his lips
with his hand, and prayed to a God he had never believed in that he
wouldn't spew out the bile filling his mouth.

He was dimly aware of
Maigrey whispering, "What have you told him would happen? He
looks as if he's going to his death!"

And he had to suffer
the Warlord's stem, frowning displeasure. "Nothing. I've told
him nothing."

Then Maigrey was beside
Dion, her hands on his arms. Her touch was cool and soothing.

"Dion, it's a
religious rite, a ceremony, nothing more. "

"No!" He
gasped the word, almost choking, staring wildly at the black screen
behind which lurked some unknown horror. "I'm going to die!"
When he spoke the fear aloud, he was filled with a sudden peace and
the shivering stopped, the sickness eased. Dion gently put aside the
woman's hands.

"I'm going to
die," he repeated and looked into her eyes to see reflected
there a ghastly, livid face—his own.

Imbued with a terrible
calm, almost light-headed, Dion moved without hesitation to the
screen and, at Sagan's gesture, stepped around it and saw before him
the table covered with the black cloth.

Maigrey cast a swift,
questioning, fearful glance at the Warlord, but if he answered her,
it was an answer given in silence, for he did not meet her eyes. She
stood a moment, irresolute, staring intently at Dion, trying, it
seemed, to penetrate to his soul. The young man gave back nothing; he
had nothing to give. The Warlord placed his candle in one of the
silver candle holders and, moving to the opposite end of the table,
lit the other. Now he looked at Maigrey, and the look was one of
irritation.

Sighing, she lifted the
hood of her gown and covered her fair hair. Her face was hidden in
shadow and Dion knew, suddenly, that he was alone.

"Stand in the
center of the circle," Lord Sagan said, indicating a white line
on the floor. "Step over—not on—the edge."

The circle was made of
some sort of powdery, crystalline substance. Dion did as he was told,
lifting his feet gingerly, one after the other, careful not to break
the line.

Sagan took his place
behind the table, behind the objects that were concealed beneath
black cloth. Maigrey drew near him, standing at the Warlord's left.

Clasping her hands
before her, Maigrey bowed her head. Sagan raised his, lifting his
eyes and arms to the heavens. Neither gave any indication to Dion of
what he was supposed to do, but he knew that it didn't matter.
Nothing mattered, for soon he was going to die. Calm, uncaring, empty
of thought and feeling, he stood alone in the center of the circle of
salt and waited.

"Creator, one
comes before you who is on the verge of manhood and who seeks to
understand the mystery of his life."

Maigrey tried to
concentrate, tried to keep her thoughts on the words of Sagan's
prayer; she couldn't help but dart swift, furtive glances at Dion.
What had come over the boy? She might have suspected the Warlord of
deliberately terrorizing him, except she sensed Sagan was equally
perplexed by this strange behavior. Maigrey wondered, somewhat
guiltily, if she could have been responsible. She had meant for Dion
to take this seriously, but surely recommending that he read
Nietzsche could not account for a reaction like this!

Dion's face glimmered
white; his eyes were wide and stared ahead at the candle flame. His
hands clenched tightly, gripping his courage. His breathing was quick
and shallow. The red-golden mane of hair clung damply to his forehead
and neck. Sweat trickled down his temple. He looked like a man going
to his own execution.

"... we of the
Blood Royal have been granted talents beyond those of other men. In
return for your blessings, Creator, you have given us additional
responsibility. You have given us responsibility for the lives of
other men. ..."

And you, Sagan,
abrogated that responsibility, Maigrey silently added. You threw it
away. You're mouthing the ritual. In your heart, you don't truly
believe the words you speak. God exists for you and you alone, exists
for the sole purpose of putting the universe within your grasp.

"... use our
mental and physical prowess to protect and defend—"

"And to conquer."
Maigrey didn't realize, until she felt the sudden stiffening of the
man's body beside her, that she had accidentally spoken her thoughts
aloud.

"Use it to
create—"

"To destroy!"

Sagan paused, drew a
deep breath, then said in a voice that was low and shook with the
effort of his self-control, "My lady, you blaspheme!"

"I blaspheme!"
Maigrey forgot where she was, forgot her purpose, forgot everything
but where she had first heard those words he spoke. "You're the
one who's making this ceremony a mockery!"

"Stop it!"
Dion's eyes went from one to the other of them, from Maigrey to
Sagan, his gaze wild and staring. His face was covered with a sheen
of perspiration; the words burst from him in agony. "Stop it'"
His hand closed spasmodically over his chest, as if he were trying to
hold himself together, trying to keep from being torn apart.

Maigrey pressed her
shaking hands to her temples to calm the blood throbbing in her
veins. What had come over her? What had made her say such things? Her
fury subsided quickly, leaving her weak and shivering with cold and a
numbing awe.

"This is all
wrong, Sagan! We should stop—"

His hand closed over
hers, nearly crushing the bones.

"We've gone too
far. The Creator is with us. Can't you feel His presence?"

Yes, God was with them.
He was in the darkness and the light, within them and without. He was
too far, too near. Maigrey's chill fingers clasped tightly around
Sagan's. For a moment he held on to her, she held on to him, neither
knowing what they did, both knowing that they needed to cling to
something real and solid.

Before them stood the
boy, alone, waiting.

Waiting to die.

Sagan let go of her
hand. He stepped back, behind her. This she must do on her own.

God. God is with us.
His will be done.

Calm. Calmly, Maigrey,
she told herself. The boy is watching. He'll need your strength, your
support. It won't help if you crumble to the floor and curl up in a
ball and wail like a terrified child. You can do that on the inside.

Maigrey lifted the
black cloth. Beneath it were four objects—a silver pitcher
filled with water, a silver dish filled with oil, a silver globe, and
a silver wand.

Facing Dion, Maigrey
forced the boy to fix his wild-eyed gaze on her, using the strength
of her will to keep it there.

Waves, waves washing
upon the shore. Eternal, unending, one after the other. Receding,
gathering, surging forward, receding. The sand, smoothed by the
water's endless caress, is cool beneath your body. The water over
your skin is warm.

Dion's locked jaws
relaxed; his limbs ceased to tremble. He brushed the red-golden hair
back from his forehead and watched her expectantly, anxiously.

Maigrey drew a breath,
let it out, and was about to begin when she realized the words had
gone clean out of her head. She stammered. Sagan moved up, standing
right behind her, their bodies almost—but not quite—touching,
and Maigrey remembered.

"In the time of
the Ascendancy of Man, on a distant planet chosen by the Creator as
one to cradle life, it was written that four elements bound the
universe together. These were called"—she spoke in the
ancient tongue "—earth, air, fire, and water.

"From the dawn of
time, man sought ways and means to control these elements. He
discovered he could control them physically, by inventing devices
that would serve him, devices to rule the elements. Centuries later,
man discovered that, if he were made strong enough, he could rule the
elements with his mind and his soul.

"This night, Dion
Starfire, you come to us to be initiated into the mystery. You seek
control of that which is beyond the control of most. If the Creator
deems you worthy, you will be granted that control. That is what we
are here tonight to learn. Pray to the Creator, Dion," Maigrey
added softly. That wasn't part of the ritual, but she felt a
desperate need to communicate to the boy the presence of God. "Pray
to Him for guidance."

Dion continued to stare
at her. What was transpiring in his heart and in his soul was known
to two alone—himself and God.

"We bring to you
now the four elements. Concentrate on each, come to understand and
realize that you are one with each. Only through understanding can
you gain ascendancy."

Reaching out her hand,
Maigrey picked up the silver wand and held it above the table, level
with her own heart.

"Air. The breath
of life. The wind of destruction."

She moved the wand in a
slow circle and the air around them began to stir and whisper. The
wind she summoned grew stronger, swirled around them, rustling her
robes, setting the candle flames flickering. The breeze lifted Dion's
red-golden hair and stirred it with gentle hands. The wind began to
die down. The first part of the rite was nearing its end. Maigrey,
relieved, was about to return the wand to its place on the table when
she saw that Dion was suffocating.

The boy, clutching his
throat, was gasping for air and not finding any. There was terror in
the eyes that were bulging from his head. His lips were turning blue,
his chest jerked, the muscles fighting frantically to sustain life.
Dion staggered, reaching out a hand to her for help.

Maigrey started to move
around the table, started to go to him, but she felt firm hands grip
her shoulders. A voice breathed into her ear, "Wait!"

The boy dropped to his
knees. Crouched on the floor, he sucked in a breath. Panting, he
gasped in another and another. Sitting back on his heels, closing his
eyes, he threw back his head and just breathed.

"Derek, what—"

"I don't know,
lady." Sagan's hands, tense and rigid, gripped her shoulders. "I
don't know. Keep on. We must keep on."

Then let go of me, she
knew she should say, but she didn't, she didn't want him to let go.
Once again, lost in darkness, they were each other's strength.

Dion rose unsteadily to
his feet and came back to stand in front of the table. There were
dark smudges beneath his eyes; his skin was so pale the blue and
purple lines of the veins stood out clearly. It took Maigrey several
tries—looking into that frightened face—to speak the next
words.

"Earth." She
cleared her throat. Sagan stood close behind her, their bodies warm
together, pressed near each other for comfort. "Matter. You can
control matter."

Maigrey lifted the
smooth silver globe from the table. Tossing it lightly up into the
air, she exerted her will upon it. The globe hung suspended, inches
above her hands. Its appearance began to change. Razor sharp metal
spikes, several centimeters long, emerged from the sides until the
ball was studded with them.

Withdrawing her hands
from beneath the globe, Maigrey commanded, "Place your hands
beneath it."

Dion, after a moment's
hesitation, stretched out his hands. The globe started to fall and,
by frightened instinct more than conscious thought, he controlled it,
caused it to remain suspended in the air.

Dion gasped in elation,
his eyes—glistening with triumph— went to Maigrey. His
lips parted.

She shook her head
slightly, warning him not to speak.

"You can control
matter with your mind, but there are forces in this universe over
which you will have no control. Then you will be required to
withstand pain—mental and physical. Such a force you will face
now. The globe will drop. I cannot stop it. Neither can you. Will you
have the courage to catch it?"

This was the most
difficult part of the rite. Maigrey could remember quite clearly
staring up at those flesh-rending spikes, her imagination portraying
with vivid clarity what would happen if those spikes tore through her
palms. It took every measure of courage she possessed to stand and
let that globe drop and not snatch away her hands at the last
instant. And, even then, she admitted to herself later, if it hadn't
been for Sagan standing there, prepared to catch the ball without
hesitation, she would have failed. The thought that she might fail
where he would succeed had goaded her beyond what she had known to be
her limits.