Ghost Legion (43 page)

Only one obstacle blocks Flaim's path to the throne. The young man
currently sitting on it. Dion knows where the bomb is. And Flaim
doesn't.

They arrived in the clearing outside the large pavilion. The ground
where the bonfire had burned was a large circle of charred blackened
wood, soft gray ash. Heat continued to radiate from it. Some of the
large logs—not yet completely consumed—gave off thin
trails of pale smoke.

Flaim was, as Pantha had predicted, waiting for them impatiently.

Sagan paused to regard the younger man intently. "Pantha has
told me about the dark-matter creatures. You possess enormous power.
Why do you want this initiation? Why do you care?"

"I do this for you, my lord," replied Flaim at once. The
blue eyes narrowed, hardened, cooled. "And for him."

"Dion."

"Yes. He sees me now, but I am nothing but a shadow on his mind.
I want him to see me clearly. I want him to understand me and my
intentions. I want him to take me seriously."

"And me. What do you want of me?"

Flaim came to stand before him, laid both hands on Sagan's shoulders.

"You will give me the throne, my lord. You will place the crown
on my head."

Sagan made no response.

Flaim, thinking perhaps that none was needed, lowered his hands,
gestured. "The rite would be held inside the tent, if that suits
you, my lord? Pantha has everything prepared."

As well that place as any other. Sagan entered the tent by himself,
looked over preparations.

All was as it should be. Pantha had a good memory, for a rite he
himself had taken over seventy years ago. The pavilion had been
emptied of all furnishings: pillows, bolsters, blankets. In the
center stood a small table. Sagan placed his scrip on the floor.
Removing a black velvet cloth, he spread it over the table, then
opened the scrip and began laying out and arranging the other objects
he'd brought with him. He should have been offering up ritual
prayers, but the words drifted out of his mind, like the smoke and
the soft gray ash upon the wind.

Outside, he could hear Flaim pacing restlessly, impatiently.

"The rite will not necessarily grant you power, Prince Flaim,"
Sagan remarked, raising his voice to be heard. "It was never
intended to do so. Developed by those of my Order, the Order of
Adamant, the test was given to those of the Blood Royal on or near
their entry into puberty. The test not only marked the passage from
childhood to adulthood, but was a means of finding out if the person
tested was truly Blood Royal."

"I know." Flaim came to stand beside the closed tent flap.
"Pantha told me all about it. I am old to be taking it. But then
so were you, so was my cousin. Perhaps it runs in our family,"
he added mockingly.

Sagan made no reply.

"The rite does not enhance one's power," Flaim continued,
"but since it involves one's reactions under stress, it
indicates how strong or weak one is in the power."

"I have the feeling you know your own strength, Your Highness,"
Sagan commented dryly.

"Yes, but I want to prove it to others," Flaim returned.

"The early priests believed the rite provided an indication of
God's will," Sagan added after a pause.

"Yes, my lord. I am aware of that."

Sagan had completed arranging the objects on the black cloth. He
stepped back, regarded them.

Is all correct, my lady? Is it as you remember?
Words he'd
spoken to Maigrey aboard
Phoenix
, before they'd given Dion his
test.

No response. He walked out from the tent.

"Do you believe in God?" he asked Flaim.

The prince stared at him, startled by the question. A smile tugged at
his lips; he seemed about to laugh. Then he saw that the Warlord was
serious.

Flaim appeared uncomfortable. "How can I answer that, my lord?"
He gestured at Sagan's black cassock. "Seeing you dressed as you
are? A priest of the Order?"

"You can answer it truthfully," Sagan replied. "I
dress as I do for my own reasons. My habit may reflect my beliefs ...
or it may disguise them."

"I see," said Flaim, regarding the Warlord with new
understanding and respect. "Yes, what a perfect hiding place!
And all the while you—"

"I asked you a question, Prince Starfire," Sagan
interrupted.

"Forgive me, my lord. Here is my answer. I believe in myself. No
omnipotent, omniscient being controls my destiny. Life is chance,
coincidence. Thus we must always be ready to seize the moment"—he
grabbed the air, tainted with smoke, twisted it in his clenched
fist—"and turn it to our own advantage." He opened
his hand, which was empty. "I make my own luck. If there is a
cosmic power, my lord, it is within me."

Sagan inclined his head to acknowledge the answer. "We are ready
for the rite of initiation."

Flaim smiled, excited, exhilarated.

"May Pantha come with me?"

Sagan glanced at the old man, who stood—silent, keen-eyed—near
the dying fire.

"No. I am sorry. It is not permitted. Your will is too strong,
sir," he said to Pantha. "You might inadvertently influence
your prince."

Garth Pantha bowed, nodded.

"And I trust the strange dark-matter creatures will not
interfere," Sagan added, casting his gaze around the pavilion,
the hillside, the trees, the mists.

"Pantha has spoken to them," Flaim replied. "They do
not, of course, understand, but they have agreed to leave the
vicinity in order that their energies do not unduly influence the
proceedings."

"How very gracious of them," Sagan remarked wryly.

He realized, suddenly, what was wrong, why he was irritable and out
of temper. Others were in control here. He was not—a new
circumstance for the Warlord. Flaim might treat him as an honored
guest, the prince might even look up to Sagan, admire him, accord him
respect. But a turn of a key in the cell door makes the honored guest
a prisoner. And even less effort makes the prisoner a corpse.

Sagan held open the tent flap. Flaim walked confidently inside; the
Warlord followed. Pulling the flap down, he secured it carefully,
shutting out all traces of gray light that seeped inside. The
interior of the pavilion was suddenly extremely dark. Flaim couldn't
see and came to a standstill, not wanting to bump into anything.

The Warlord took hold of the prince's arm, guided his steps to the
table that stood in the center of the tent.

"At your feet," said Sagan, "you will find a robe.
Take off your clothes and put it on. Take off your weapon, as well,"
he added, aware that Flaim wore the bloodsword at his side.

Flaim knelt down, felt for the robe. "Ah, the customary hair
shirt," he said, grimacing at the feel of the rough cloth.

"It is not permissible for you to speak unless I ask you a
direct question," Sagan reprimanded.

"Sorry," said Flaim in a low tone, a hint of a laugh in his
voice By the rustling sounds, he was changing his clothes.

Sagan made his way around the table, feeling the edges with his hand.
Finding what he needed by touch, he lifted a white beeswax candle,
lit it, placed it in a silver candleholder that stood at the end of
the table. The other objects on the table remained hidden beneath a
black cloth.

Flaim's head emerged from the crude, slit neckline of the garment.
His face was flushed; the candle flame burned in the Starfire-blue
eyes. His shining raven hair was tousled. He shook it back out of his
face, squared his shoulders, smiled.

Looking into those eyes, Sagan saw another young man, saw Dion
standing in precisely the same place. His face livid, his body
shaking in uncontrollable fear, the boy had very nearly been sick.

I'm going to die
, Dion had said.

Sagan lifted the cowl of his habit up over his head. He lit another
candle, placed it at the opposite end of the table.

A white circle on the floor glistened in the light.

"Stand in the center of the circle," Sagan instructed. "Do
not break the line."

Flaim did as he was instructed, moving forward into the circle of
salt confidently, still smiling. He was enjoying this.

Dion had walked into the circle with trepidation, certain he was
going to his death.

Sagan began to speak the ritual words. "Creator, one comes
before you
who is on the verge of manhood
[No, that is
ridiculous! leave it out]—who seeks to understand the mystery
of his life [and that is not true, my lady. Look at his face. He
understands all too well].... We of the Blood Royal have been granted
talents beyond those of other men ... use our mental and physical
prowess to protect and defend ... [I didn't, as you, my lady,
reminded me. I used it to conquer. And so will this one]."

The rite continued. The four elements: earth, air, fire, water. "Man
seeks control over each," Sagan intoned.

Flaim stood in the center of the circle, eager and expectant as a
child about to receive a longed-for gift.

"This night, Flaim Starfire, you come to me . . ." Sagan
paused. "To
us,"
he amended softly, grimly, acutely
aware that he wasn't alone. "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. [
And if He doesn't, I'll take it,
that's what you're
thinking, Flaim, isn't it? Yes, I know. I remember thinking the
same.]"

Reaching out his hand, Sagan removed the black cloth that covered the
objects on the table. Candlelight gleamed off a silver wand, a silver
pitcher filled with water, a silver dish filled with oil, a silver
ball.

Flaim's hands flexed beneath the sleeves of the robe, his fingers
twitched. He licked his lips, his breath came quick and hard.

Sagan reached for the silver wand. Maigrey had performed this part of
the rite. Her hand had been the last to touch it. He picked it up.

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

He moved the wand in a slow circle. The air around them began to
stir, a wafting breeze that caused the candle flames to flicker. The
wind strengthened, the candles began to smoke, the flames whipped
around the wick. And then they were blown out.

Dion was suffocating. The boy, clutching his throat, was gasping
for air and not finding any. There was terror in his eyes, which were
bulging from, his head. His lips were turning blue, his chest jerked,
the muscles fighting frantically to sustain life.... The boy dropped
to his knees. . . .

The prince laughed exultantly in the darkness and gulped in a deep
breath.

The wind died. The candles flared back to life. Sagan placed the
silver wand down upon the table.

"Earth," said Sagan. "Matter. You can control matter."

Lifting the silver globe from the table, he tossed it into the air.
He exerted his will upon it. The metal globe hung suspended in the
air above his head. Its appearance began to change. Razor-sharp
spikes protruded from its surface.

"Place your hands beneath it," Sagan instructed.

Flaim did as he was commanded, extending both hands beneath the ball,
which was studded with flesh-piercing spikes.

The globe began to drop.

"Hold," ordered Flaim, and the globe halted, hung above his
hands.

"Fall," commanded Sagan, and the ball dropped.

A look of anger marred Flaim's face; the blue eyes flared as the
candle flames had flared. He cast a glance at Sagan, a fiance of
enmity from one who does not like his will thwarted, bested. But
Flaim did not move his hands. He held them steady, ready to catch the
spiked ball.

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.

The spikes withdrew an instant before they touched the prince's
flesh. Flaim caught the ball with ease. He smiled at Sagan—a
grim smile, a smile of triumph.

Sagan reached out to take hold of the silver ball.

Flaim clasped both hands around it, crushed it. He tossed the pieces,
like bits of broken eggshell, on the black cloth.

"Water." Sagan lifted the pitcher. "From which comes
life. Cup your palms." He poured water into Flaim's hands.
"Drink."

The prince lifted his hands to his mouth, drank deeply.

"What did you taste?" Sagan asked.

"Blood," Flaim answered.

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

"Fire. Sustainer. Destroyer."

The oil lamp burst into flame. Before Sagan could say a word, Flaim
placed his hand over the fire, brought his hand down on top of the
flames. The fire licked his flesh. He covered the lamp with his palm,
smothering the flame, then lifted his palm, his right palm. It was
red, already starting to blister from the self-inflicted burn. The
five scars made by the needles of the bloodsword oozed a darkish
liquid.

The expression on Flaim's face had not altered, not changed.

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.

"My lord," said Flaim, holding out his burned hand, "have
I proven myself to you? Will you grant me your support?"

Sagan smoothed the black velvet cloth with his fingertips. He stared
into the candle flame, which glowed steadfast, unwavering in the
still air. His fingers brushed over a cool spot of water, splashed on
the cloth. He cut himself on a jagged piece of metal—all that
was left of the silver ball. He remained standing, unmoving, silent.