The Lost King (30 page)

This evening, the
gentlemen had gathered by the time Maigrey arrived. Admiral Aks and
Captain Nada were in attendance, as well as the captain in charge of
the centurions and several wretched lieutenants, sweating in their
tight-collared dress uniforms and wishing heartily that they were
somewhere else. Derek Sagan was clad in the Roman costume he admired,
this particular breastplate and armor having been copied from those
said to have been worn by Julius Caesar. The Warlord's gold-trimmed
red cape swept the deck. At his side, he wore the bloodsword.

Nada's eyes flickered
when he saw the sword. A remnant of the old royalist days, its use
was outlawed by the Republic. To even own one was to court charges of
treason. Sagan not only retained the sword that was his by right of
birth but he flaunted it openly. Nada made a mental note for his
secret report. Derek Sagan, watching the captain's swift change of
expression, made a mental note of Nada.

An orderly entered the
room. All eyes turned toward him as he announced the honored guest
waiting in the antechamber to make a formal entrance.

"Citizen
Morianna," the orderly said, standing stiff and rigid, his back
to the door.

The expectant silence
was broken by a few coughs and clearings of throats. This and a swift
exchange of glances between the men informed the orderly that no one
had appeared to lay claim to that name.

The orderly maintained
his stance but darted a look behind him. He saw the woman standing
calmly outside the door, gazing around her with interest, obviously
waiting to hear her name announced. Perhaps his voice hadn't carried.

Swallowing, endeavoring
to moisten his dry throat, the orderly tried again.

"Citizen
Morianna."

The officers stirred
uncomfortably. Derek Sagan put his hand to his twitching lips.
Walking over, he leaned down and spoke a word into the orderly's ear,
then returned to his place in the shadows.

Flustered, the orderly
said in low tones, "Lady Maigrey Morianna."

Maigrey stepped forward
into the room, into the light.

It was well that Sagan
had retreated to the shadows, for not even his iron will could
control the tremor that sent tiny cracks through his stone facade. It
was not the sight of the indigo blue robes of ceremony which Maigrey
wore; he had already steeled himself to that and had taken a
vicarious pleasure in knowing the anguish the sight of those robes
must have cost her. It was all part of his design, his intent to
weaken her and wear her down. He had been rather hoping she might
refuse to wear them, perhaps refuse to come to him at all.

Maigrey wore the blue
robes—he had forgotten how well that color suited her. But her
return attack had not only parried his blow, but it managed to slide
beneath his blade, touch his soul, and draw blood. Sparkling on her
breast was the Star of the Guardian.

An eight-pointed star,
carved of the precious gem known as adamant, the jewel's value was
calculated in terms of planets. Indeed, the wealth of entire solar
systems might not purchase it. Not only was adamant extremely rare,
but it had, by royal decree, been used only in the making of these
jewels—the Stars of the Guardians. In addition, the gems had
supposedly been granted mystical properties by the High Priests of
those days, priests who had long since been put to death by orders of
the President.

No force in the galaxy
existed that could harm a starjewel; the gemstone would submit to
being carved only after it had been blessed by the priests. A
starjewel possessed its own inherent light that was quenched only
upon the death of the wearer. The starjewel was either buried or
cremated with the body of the Guardian who possessed it. There was a
curse on any who robbed the dead of the jewel—as many looters
had discovered to their intense horror following the carnage in the
palace the night of the revolution. Yet such is the perverse nature
of humanity that the demand for these rare jewels was high, the
supply practically nonexistent, their value enhanced by the knowledge
that the illicit possession of one was— according to the law of
the Republic—a capital offense.

Two were known to Derek
Sagan to exist. One was locked away in a vault whose access code were
words he had spoken long ago and had long ago told himself to forget.
He was staring at the other.

Sagan knew Maigrey had
brought it with her. He had recognized the rosewood box when she
showed it to him on Oha-Lau and he had given her permission to bring
it on board. He could have done nothing else. The jewel did not
permit itself to be lost or left behind. It would have found its way
back to her. Sagan had not suspected, however, that the lady would
have the audacity to wear it.

So strict was the law
on the wearing of the starjewels that Derek Sagan had not only the
legal right but the obligation to terminate the life of the woman
where she stood. Maigrey knew it. She was not only courting death,
she was flirting with it shamelessly. Death was the one way she could
defeat him.

From the rigid,
lockjawed expressions on the feces of his officers, Sagan knew they
expected him to carry out the sentence on the spot. If he didn't,
they would say nothing, of course, but they would be amazed, they
would start to wonder, their faith in him would be shaken. Nada was
watching him closely. Aks, who knew that the lady's value was in her
life, not her execution, was casting his lord swift, worried glances.

Sagan stepped forward,
his left hand resting on the hilt of the bloodsword. The officers
fell back before him, some of the lieutenants so hurriedly that they
tripped over their own feet. At the sound of his footsteps, Maigrey
turned to fece him.

Her eyes were gray as a
storm-darkened sea and sparkled more brilliantly than the jewel. Her
lips parted in a smile. The scar on her cheek was a livid streak
against her flushed skin. Sagan was forced to admit to himself
pleasure in confronting, for the first time in many years, a foe he
deemed worthy of him.

"Lady Maigrey,"
he said, emerging from the shadows. "The wearing of that jewel
is against the law of the Republic, punishable by death."

"I am well aware
of that, my lord. All of the crimes of which I have been accused and
which amount to nothing more nor less than remaining faithful to a
vow I took to serve my king are now punishable by death. Many crimes,
yet I can die only once."

"'It is not death,
but dying, which is terrible,' according to the poet."

"The Guardians met
death with courage. I won't disgrace their memories. It is for them
that I wear the Star this night, my lord."

Sagan fell back to bind
up his wounds. Due to the circumstances, his opponent was incapable
of following up her advantage and he was able to return and strike
back.

"Yes, my lady. The
Guardians died bravely . . . most of them."

He had not meant to
score a direct hit, and even now he wondered what it was that so
affected her. Maigrey's eyes dilated; her face paled so that the scar
nearly vanished. For a moment Sagan thought she was going to retreat,
which wouldn't have suited his purposes at all. Fortunately the
Warlord could always count on Captain Nada to stumble out onto the
field of combat and commit verbal mayhem.

"My lord, it is my
duty as a citizen of the Republic to point out that this citizen is
wearing a piece of royalist trumpery expressly forbidden by law. It
is an offense against us all that she be allowed to wear it and I
insist that it be removed and confiscated."

"Thank you,
Captain Nada, for bringing this infraction to my attention."
Lord Sagan stepped back, away from Maigrey. "You, Captain, may
remove the 'trumpery.'"

Captain Nada took a
step forward and raised his hand. Maigrey, facing him, neither moved
nor spoke. The starjewel lying on her breast burned with a brilliant,
white-blue glow that grew brighter as it captured and held the
attention and imagination of all in the room.

Captain Nada hesitated,
his hand in mid-air.

"What's the
matter, Captain?" the Warlord inquired. "Surely you don't
believe those nonsensical stories about the curse? Or about the Blood
Royal—that they had powers far above those of ordinary men? We
are equal, aren't we, Captain? All citizens of the Republic."

Captain Nada stretched
out his hand, the fingers trembling. The Star's light was blinding.
It might have been pure flame he was about to grasp. Sweat beaded on
his upper lip and glistened on his face. Suddenly, he snatched his
hand back. Nada's skin flushed a deep, ugly red. He flashed his
Warlord a look of hatred and enmity. Turning on his heel, the captain
stalked off to the opposite end of the room.

A collective sigh
breathed among those assembled. An alert steward hastened in with
glasses of champagne. The Warlord abstained, as was his custom.
Maigrey took a glass. She decided she deserved it. The officers, by
silent accord, moved away from their Warlord and the woman, leaving
them standing together near the door.

That man hates you,
Sagan
. There was no need for the two of them to speak. Their
thoughts—those that they wanted to share—came to each
other clearly.

As much as he hates
me, he fears me more, my lady.

And, as Machiavelli
says, "It is much safer to be feared than loved." Is that
what you believe, my lord?

I have always found
it to be so. Haven't you, my lady?

The blade of his
thoughts whistled past her too closely. Maigrey was forced to fall
back and give herself a moment to catch her breath before she essayed
her next attempt. No one approached them; the other officers mingled
among themselves. She and Sagan were alone together. All their lives,
it seemed, they had been alone together. She felt a sense of shared
intimacy with the Warlord, much as they had known before, only now it
bothered her, it was different because beneath it was hatred. Why?
Why was he doing this? Sipping her champagne, she spoke aloud to make
it seem that they were guests thrown together at a dull party.
Nothing more.

"The remarks you
made to Captain Nada, my lord, come rather strangely from one who was
willing to sacrifice everything, even his own honor, for the sake of
the revolution."

"The subject of
honor will never be discussed between us, my lady. As for Nada, I
merely pointed out to him the fallacy of his beliefs."

"Beliefs that were
once yours, my lord. Or should I say, citizen?"

"You agreed with
me, Lady Maigrey, that Starfire was an inept ruler and that we could
expect little better from his younger brother. Come, it's no use
turning away. You can avert your face but not your thoughts. I know
the truth."

"He was your king.
If you didn't like the man, then you should at least have believed in
what he stood for and honored that."

"What? Divine
right? That he was intended by the Creator to rule? I have more
respect for our God than that."

"So much respect,
my lord, that you murdered his priests!"

"That was not my
doing."

The room had been
filled with quiet talk and muted laughter, but the tone of the
Warlord's last words cast a pall of silence over the assembly. Deftly
Maigrey slid the verbal blade from his flesh, wiped off the blood,
and sipped her champagne. The Warlord stood silently, his face once
more hidden in the shadows. Maigrey could feel the tense rigidity in
the body so near hers. He had not once looked directly at her during
their conversation. Perhaps the Star's light hurt his eyes.

Moving slightly nearer
the Warlord, Maigrey smiled like a good hostess at the officers to
encourage a return to gaiety. Her conversation with Sagan continued,
but silently.

If what you say is
true and you don't believe the Starfires were given a mandate from
heaven, then why do you want the boy?

I should think the
answer to that would be obvious, my lady. He will be the marionette
at the end of my strings. If he is as spineless as the rest of his
family, he will need my help simply to stand up straight.

So you intend to use
him to put yourself in control, Maigrey replied. Then why bother to
search for the true heir? Why not just snatch up some kid off the
streets?

Only the true heir
will start the stampede that will soon sweep away this mockery of a
government. The genetic tests, all must be in order. There must be no
doubt in anyone's mind that this young man is a Starfire.

And that's where I
come in, my lord?

That's where you
come in, my lady. Your cue. Enter, stage left—the only one who
can recognize and verify for me that this boy is truly the king.

After so many years?
I only saw him when he was a baby—newborn, at that.

Maigrey set the glass
down on a chrome table behind her. She was trying to behave calmly,
but her shaking hand betrayed her. She tipped the glass, dropped it.
The goblet bounced on the thick-carpeted deck and bounded away under
a table, from where it was retrieved by a watchful steward.

That's true, my
lady, but you would have given him something to know him by, years
later. And even your brother would not have been so foolish as to
have done away with it. The boy doesn't know who he is. Therefore I
assume he knows nothing of his gifts of the Blood Royal.

"The curse,"
Maigrey murmured aloud.

The steward announced
dinner. The Warlord extended his arm with courtesy. Maigrey accepted
it with dignity, and they walked together to the head of the table,
past the officers who were faceless nonentities.

And what of me? she
asked him silently.

Can't you guess
that, as well?