King's Test (57 page)

"And look
where your reckless independence has brought you, my lady,"
Abdiel was continuing. "To the brink of the abyss. Lower and
lower you have sunk. Your starjewel is not only lost to you, it has
become an object cursed and defiled. But I see in your heart—for
I can see still into your heart, dear lady—that you want it
back. I have some influence over the Adonian. Allow me to intercede
for you. I will see to it that he returns the starjewel to you."

"And what
do you ask in return for this magnanimous offer?"

"Only that
you think of me as a friend, my lady," Abdiel replied humbly.
"As I have always tried to be, though you would not let me."

"I really
don't care to think of you at all, mind-seizer, if I can help it."
Maigrey bowed to him. "Thank you for your offer, but I will act
on my own."

The old man's
eyes were flat and empty as the eyes of a reptile. Abdiel bowed to
her silently; the eyes slid to Sagan. The mind-seizer bowed to him,
then Abdiel glided down the stairs to mingle with the admiring and
curious throng surrounding Dion.

"You
handled him well," the Warlord remarked.

Maigrey
shivered, as if she had just avoided treading on a poisonous snake.
She could not look at Sagan, attempted to banish the feelings of
panic and betrayal the mind-seizer had dredged up from the depths of
her being.

"Don't give
me too much credit, my lord. I allowed him entry into my mind! I
forgot how powerful he was. I let down my guard. ..." She shook
herself free of the memory. "But enough of that. I'll be more
careful next time. And now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to try
to talk to Dion."

She shifted her
gaze to him, smiled. "What you did for the boy was truly noble,
truly generous, Derek. I know how much it cost you!"

Sagan shrugged
it off coldly. "I did it for myself, my lady. If he had been
laughed out of the room, do you think I could ever have promoted him
as king? And I don't like the thought of you going off by yourself.
We shouldn't separate. "

"Don't be
ridiculous. We both agreed that I must talk to Dion, warn him of his
danger. Besides," Maigrey added with a mischievous grin, "I'm
dying of thirst and I'll never get a drink if I'm with you."

"You may
find yourself dying of something else, my lady," Sagan said
grimly, catching hold of her arm, detaining her. "Abdiel's
threat is only the beginning for you, Maigrey. He wants the bomb. He
needs the starjewel and he needs you in order to obtain it. I repeat:
It's dangerous for us to separate."

"What are
you worried about, my lord?" Maigrey leaned near him, suddenly
laughed. "If your vision is true, then I'm in danger from only
one person—you!"

Sagan released
his grip on her, and Maigrey, with a grave salute, left him, running
lightly down the stairs. He watched the blue cape flutter after her.
The silver armor, catching the light, flared brilliantly, then was
lost to sight, its flame almost extinguished by the milling crowd.
But here and there, among the multitude, he caught a flash of silver,
like moonbeams dancing on a night-dark lake.

"If anyone
could cheat destiny, my lady, it would be you. I almost hope ..."
Sagan paused, considering what he had been about to ask. He shook his
head. "No, for that would mean we were given over to chaos."

The Warlord cast
his gaze upward, to the high, vaulted ceiling adorned with paintings
telling the story of—what else—Adonis. The handsome youth
was portrayed stalking the wild boar that would be his death. Sagan
did not notice the mural, however. He sought higher, beyond mortal
boundaries.

"I tested
You. You gave me Your answer—with the back of Your hand!"
Sagan rubbed his jaw, as if he could almost feel the blow. "But
this may yet succeed ... to both our advantage! Now there is work to
be done. Work on behalf of . . ."he paused, shook his head in
bemused and wondering resignation, "my king."

In fortune
solio sederam elatus . . . nunc a sumo corrui . . .

Once on
fortune's throne I sat exalted ... I was struck down . . .

Carl Orff,
Carmina Burana

Freed of the
stern and disapproving eye of her commander, Maigrey was finally able
to enjoy a glass of champagne, taking care to pour one for herself
from a splashing fountain decorating the buffet table. She had seen
Raoul and his diminutive partner circulating among the guests and,
recalling Sagan's warning, wasn't about to drink from any glass
offered her by anyone. Sipping the wine—champagne went straight
to her head; she had learned to drink it slowly—she took time
to observe the room and the people in it.

No one disturbed
her solitude. The two formidable-appearing centurions warned the
media away; few others chose to come near her, though they stared at
her with morbid curiosity. Maigrey understood. Perhaps Lazarus, risen
himself from the dead, had undergone the same treatment. Not only was
she a ghost, she was— How had Abdiel put it—cursed,
defiled? Snaga Ohme must be spreading the story of the starjewel.
Maigrey downed her glass of champagne at a gulp, poured herself
another. Alcohol couldn't make one forget, but it made remembering a
damn sight easier.

She saw Sagan
descend the stairs, saw him almost immediately drawn into
conversation with the vapor-breather, Rykilth. The two moved off and
were eventually lost to her sight. Were they talking treason,
sedition? Almost assuredly. Ryltilth—an ally. Maigrey raised an
eyebrow, smiled at the bubbles rising from the glass's hollow stem,
remembering the time Rykilth had been an enemy, remembering the time
they'd captured and boarded his ship. Their squadron had stumbled
about blindly, unable to see in the thick, poisonous atmosphere,
afraid to fire for fear of hitting each other, easy targets for the
vapor-breathers. Frustrated, Maigrey had opened an air lock . . .

"My lady."
Her centurion, Marcus, drew her attention from the bubbles rising to
the top, breaking when they hit the surface, and vanishing. "The
young man is in trouble."

Maigrey turned
her attention to a knot of people near the foot of the stairs. It
looked more like a knot of snakes, writhing and twisting about a
central object. She could barely catch a glimpse of flame-red hair in
the center.

"Go to him,
Marcus. Bring him to me. Alone."

"Yes, my
lady."

The centurion
left upon his errand, slicing through the knot like a steel-tipped
spear. Maigrey watched closely, more than half-expecting to see the
magenta robes with black lightning hanging over the boy like an evil
cloud. Marcus attained his objective, however, and managed to
extricate the young man. Maigrey couldn't tell by his expression if
Dion was thankful for the rescue or angered at the interruption of
his first press conference. At this moment, she didn't care. Despite
the champagne, she was in no very good mood herself. She had just
spotted Abdiel, conversing with Snaga Ohme. The Adonian was fingering
the starjewel. . . .

"You wanted
to talk to me, my lady?" Dion stood before her, speaking to her
distantly, coolly, as if they'd just been introduced.

Maigrey kept her
gaze fixed on Abdiel long enough for Dion to follow the line of her
vision, then shifted her gray eyes to him. "I don't much like
the company you keep, young man."

Dion flushed,
the pale face crimsoning. "I could say the same for you, my
lady." He glanced pointedly at the centurions, at the phoenix
crest upon their armor.

Maigrey
understood, chose to ignore him. "I warned you about the
mind-seizers, Dion. I told you how they perverted the power of the
Blood Royal." She saw the blue eyes ice over, saw him start to
retreat behind the frozen wall. She broke off the direct attack,
backed away, hoping to persuade him to come out from behind his
barricade. "I'm not blaming you. I'm blaming myself. I didn't
tell you enough about them, but that was because I thought they were
all dead. I thought Abdiel was dead! If I had known ..." Her
voice hardened, grew grim. She sighed, tried to dispel the darkness
of the past. "But I didn't."

Dion regarded
her impassively, looking out over the battlements of his chill
fortress.

"Perhaps it
was just as well you met him," Maigrey continued, trying to
sound positive. "He's obviously done you no lasting damage. I
saw his face when you revealed who you were. He was surprised,
displeased. You resisted him and now you understand the harm he can
do—"

"Like what?
Open my eyes? Let me see the truth?"

"What
truth?" Maigrey asked, feeling his chill steal over her.

"The truth
about the power you'd deny me, if you could! The truth about you and
Sagan. The truth about that phony magic show you two put on for me—"

"What?"
She stared at him, uncomprehending.

"That fake
rite of initiation or whatever you called it! Illusion, all illusion.
All except the power. And he's going to teach me to use it."
Dion lifted his chin proudly, hands fingering the belt buckle at his
waist. "He's taught me some already."

Maigrey saw the
belt buckle, saw the nervous fingers grasp at it, as if for
reassurance. A warning bell sounded in her mind, but its clang was
lost in the din of other concerns chiming their discordant notes.
Damage
had
been done, perhaps irreversible. Abdiel had probed,
discovered the boy's weak vein. He'd been able to inject the poison
without his victim feeling the smallest prick of the needle.

Logic. The
concrete. Believe only in that which you can see, hear, smell, touch.
Platus, her own brother, in his disbelief, his loss of faith, had
prepped the boy for the lethal dose. What could she use to counteract
it? How could she fight the logical with the mystical?

"And in
case you care, my lady"—Dion's cutting voice came to her
indistinctly; she could barely hear it through the ringing in her
ears—"Tusk is back on Vangelis, making plans to rescue
John Dixter. I'm going to join him there tomorrow. We'll be certain
to give the general your regards—"

"Tusk ..."
Maigrey heard the name, grasped at it frantically. She'd found, if
not an antidote, perhaps a way to slow the poison's effect. "Where
did you say Tusk was?"

Dion stared at
her coldly, perhaps thinking she was drunk. "I said he'd
returned to Vangelis—"

"No, he
didn't! He's still at Abdiel's!"

Dion shook his
head in disgust. Bowing, he started to turn away. Maigrey caught hold
of him, spun him around.

"You fool!
Tusk saw through the mind-seizer! He warned you what Abdiel was,
didn't he? I tell you, Dion, Tusk and Nola never left the
mind-seizer's house!"

"Let go of
me—"

"The
Warlord has a spy watching Abdiel! Sagan told me. Tusk and Nola are
still there. Or they were. Now they're expendable. . . . Dion, look
at me. Listen to me! Our minds have been joined through the
bloodsword. You
know
I'm telling the truth."

Dion didn't want
to look, didn't want to hear. But he couldn't turn doubt's
razor-edged blade. It slid inside him. The pain was excruciating, and
the boy lashed back.

"Sagan told
you that, did he?" he sneered. "When? While the two of you
were in bed together—"

Maigrey struck
him. A silver-gloved right fist to the jaw, delivered with skill and
precision, sent the boy reeling backward into the arms of a gigantic,
hairy warrior.

"Ah,
laddie," the man said coolly, catching Dion in a grip of iron,
"you asked for that one."

Dion's face hurt
abominably. He wiped blood from a split and swelling lip, spit blood
from his sore and cut mouth. He looked at Maigrey, saw her anger burn
in her like a clear bright flame. She smoothed the glove over the
knuckles of her right hand.

"Stand up,
laddie, and make your apology like a man." The giant hoisted
Dion to his feet with such alacrity that he nearly propelled the boy
headlong into Maigrey.

Dion stumbled,
caught himself, drew himself up stiffly. He put his hand to his jaw,
felt it starting to swell. He heard scattered laughter in the crowd,
saw people gathering around, felt his skin flush hot with shame. He
wanted to apologize, but he hurt too much. Not just the pain of her
blow, but the pain inside him. He was confused, furious, and
frightened. If what she said was true, he had abandoned Tusk and Nola
to imprisonment, perhaps death. Yet Abdiel had assured him they were
gone. Who was lying? Who was telling him the truth? Were any of them?

At that moment,
Dion hated them all and, above them all, he hated himself.

"If you
will, my lady," he said, words coming slowly and stiffly through
the swollen flesh, "tell my Lord Sagan that I want to talk to
him. Alone." Turning on his heel, he stalked off, his hand
nursing his bruised and bleeding cheek.

"Maigy,
Maigy," the giant rumbled, gazing at her in admiration, "you
haven't lost your touch!"

"But I
shouldn't have lost my temper. I shouldn't have hit him."
Maigrey sighed remorsefully, wrung her aching hand. "Hell never
forgive me, and I don't blame him."

"Nonsense,
Maigy." The giant's bearded face split into a wide grin. "You
did rightly. He deserved it."

Towering over
her, the warrior-king could easily have made three of her. He was
clad in hand-fashioned leather armor, decorated with the tails of
animals, dried body parts of various alien species, and long tufts of
human hair. His own hair was long and black and curly, trailing down
over his back and shoulders to his waist, mingling with a long,
black, and curly beard that cascaded down over a broad, well-fed
belly.

"A little
bloodletting is good for a young one. Releases the evil humors. I
should know," the giant added, winking. "You released them
from me!" He thumped himself on his round belly. "That
sword of yours sent me to bed for six phases! But by my spleen and
bowels, lass, it was worth it! That white hair of yours would have
made a show in my trophy collection!" He gazed at her helmed
head with such fierce admiration that Maigrey's guards took a step
nearer, faces set in grim warning.