The Lost King (68 page)

"You take the
controls," Maigrey ordered.

Dion nodded and hastily
sat down in the pilot's seat. The Scimitar's cockpit was cramped and
crowded with three of them. Maigrey stretched Sagan out on the deck;
she was too tired to try to lift him into a seat. Hastily, she sat
down in the co-pilot's chair next to Dion.

75 seconds.

The plane's engines
roared.

"We can't get
out!" Dion cried hoarsely. He pointed. "The hangar bay
door's shut!"

70 seconds.

"It'll open.
Automatically, when the plane's engines switch on. A safety
precaution. That's how they're designed.'

That's how
we
design them, Maigrey said to herself. That didn't mean the Corasians
designed them that way. Or maybe they've had time to realize their
booby trap didn't work. Maybe they've sealed us inside the hangar. .
. .

65 seconds.

The plane lifted with a
slamming blast from behind, the thrust of the engines propelling them
forward. Slowly the steel doors shivered and began to open, then
stopped. The Corasians, realizing their prize was slipping away, had
shut them down.

"You can do it,"
Maigrey said, her hand closing over Dion's. "The opening's wide
enough. Fly through the crack."

53 seconds.

If it wobbles, if he
can't hold it steady, we'll crash.

Hold it . . . hold it .
. .

The plane scraped
through the opening, metal screeching, and then they were frantically
clawing into open space. Traveling this fast this soon after starting
up the engines was extremely dangerous—the computer was
reminding them loudly of this fact in no uncertain terms. But it
would be extremely dangerous not to. Maigrey glanced back, behind
them.

2.

An explosion—a
single explosion—tore apart the Corasian mothership. For one
plane to blow up, it had done an incredible amount of damage. Maigrey
waited for the second explosion, but it didn't come. Then she
understood. She and Sagan had matched each other to the nth second.
Their planes had blown up simultaneously.

Maigrey began to shake.
It seemed her body was going to fell apart. Once again the flesh and
sinew and muscles of his arms were around her, holding her close; his
lips brushed against the scar on her cheek. Tears burned her eyes,
seeped beneath the closed lids.

A sound came from
behind her. Maigrey turned, fearfully, her hand on her bloodsword.

The Warlord was sitting
up, rubbing the back of his neck. Glancing up at her, he said
irritably, "For God's sake, my lady, stop sniveling!"

The ceremony of
innocence is drowned.

William Butler Yeats,
"The Second Coming"

"I'll take the
controls."

His great height bent
in the small spaceplane, the Warlord came up behind the pilot's
chair.

Dion glanced at
Maigrey.

"I'll take the
controls," Sagan repeated, "or we'll stay out here in space
and rot."

Maigrey shrugged. She
was tired, very tired and thirsty, and she didn't care anymore. Dion
rose. He and Sagan shifted positions, squeezing past each other in
the cramped space, the Warlord sliding into the pilot's seat.
Grimacing in pain, he reached to massage his aching neck and shoulder
muscles.

"As I remember,
you killed a man like that once, my lady."

"As I remember, my
lord, I did so because he was about to kill you."

The Warlord said
nothing; the memory she'd summoned like a specter from the grave was
a disturbing one to him, bringing with it vivid images of magenta
robes and dark Hghtning. He looked behind her, saw Dion slump over in
his seat. Beneath the grime of battle, the young man's skin was pale.
Sagan saw a tremor convulse the boy's body. The Warlord was expert in
forms of torture. He had watched other men suffer it and he had
endured his share, as had Lady Maigrey, once, long ago, when they'd
been captured by the mind-seizers. That was when she had killed the
man who had been about to . . .

Sagan shook his head in
angry dispersal of the thought, and almost immediately regretted the
move. A flash of hot pain shot through his neck. He glanced at
Maigrey. Her eyes were closed; she might have been asleep. Sagan's
hands and part of his brain concentrated on flying the spaceplane,
another part sorted thoughts.

Dion was growing to
look increasingly like a Starfire. His lips didn't tighten, they
tended to pout. He brooded, lived too much in the mind. Dion's
father—the crown prince—had been, in Sagan's estimation,
a fop, an affected dandy, a pseudointellectual. Starfire had managed
to marry one of the most beautiful and spirited women in the galaxy,
but Sagan didn't give him credit for that—the wedding had been
arranged, as was usual with the Blood Royal. Admittedly, from what
Sagan's heard, Starfire had died bravely, fighting overwhelming odds,
trying to save his wife and newborn son.

The Warlord's fist
clenched over the controls. To this day, seventeen years later, their
deaths still galled him. He hadn't meant that tragedy to happen. It
shouldn't
have happened, as Robes realized soon after, when
the Guardians had managed to escape with the boy. The President would
have been much better advised to have followed Sagan's
suggestion—keep the Royal Family alive, use them for propaganda
purposes, allow them to sink into the mire of parties and dinner
balls given by elderly and infirm duchesses.

But Robes hadn't
listened to Sagan's advice. And now Sagan had a good idea of who had
made the decision to kill the king. This Other—as the Warlord
was wont to think of him, preferring not to give him a name—had
taken control of the minds of the mob. He had driven them to murder
and to mayhem. The king and crown prince had been made martyrs, the
vanished heir a subject of romantic speculation and fomenting
royalist revolt.

The Other. The
Warlord's clenched fist trembled. His arm ached with the tension and
he forced himself to end this dark and unnerving train of thought. He
glanced, out of the comer of his eye, at Maigrey. His thoughts had
not been well guarded. She might have read them, discovered his
weakness, his one real fear.

The lady leaned back in
her chair, her eyes open now and staring out into space. Her face was
covered with soot and black ash, her tears had made tracks through
the grime—a mockery of the scar on her skin. Who had she been
crying for—herself ... or for him?

The pale hair, damp
with sweat, had come undone from its braid; it clung to her forehead
and hung limply, lifelessly around her shoulders. He remembered—with
a deep, wenching pain—the fine strands of hair tangled in his
fingers. The pain was lust, desire, but not necessarily for a brief
moment of sexual gratification. The enhancement of their mental
powers, of his own powers, magnified by hers— that was his true
desire. He must find a way to make that happen . . . permanently.

The Star of the
Guardians, untouched by blood or the soot of battle, rested lightly
on her breast. It rose and fell with her even breathing, sparkling
brilliantly in the dim lights of the plane's interior. Maigrey's
thoughts, he sensed, were turned inward, on herself, wrestling with
her own fears—or her own desires.

The Star of the
Guardians.

Sagan cast a final
glance back at the boy. He'd succeeded in one goal, at least. He'd
broken Dion's spirit. The Warlord had now, if he wanted, a limp doll,
a spineless puppet that would dance at his bidding.

I should be pleased.
Derek Sagan cursed himself. What damning weakness within him always
shriveled the sweet fruit of victory every time he brought it to his
mouth?

It was bitterly cold in
the plane. Maigrey, shivering, missing her flight suit, huddled into
the seat for warmth. She should have been watching Sagan, should have
been probing, touching his mind, trying to discover and forestall
whatever might be his next design. But she didn't dare come near him.
She felt his lips on her cheek, more painful than when he'd inflicted
that first wound. She banished the feeling, banished the pain and
tried to banish the memory of the power, the knowledge that—for
a moment—they'd been invincible.

Maigrey shifted to look
back at Dion. His head drooped. He was shaking so, it seemed as if he
must crumble into pieces. For a moment he'd been king. Now he was . .
. ordinary. Maigrey turned away in dull despair. It was hopeless. Why
keep fighting?

Her gaze shifted to the
viewport and she saw, reflected back to her, shining brighter against
the blackness than a real sun, the light of the starjewel. White,
glistening, pure.

Only the dead are
without hope
.

Maybe, she thought. But
they have other benefits.

Sighing, Maigrey
crossed her arms and tucked her hands beneath them for warmth.

The enemy," Sagan
said.

Maigrey jumped, and
refoeused her gaze. The Corasian fighters had ceased their attack.
Confused, lacking direction, they drifted aimlessly—easy
targets for the Warlord's men. It was only a matter now of picking
them off.

"It seems you have
won, my lord," Maigrey said.

"Try not to let
your elation overwhelm you, my lady."

The Warlord turned to
face her, his eyes fixed on her, drawing her eyes to his, and she
shuddered, for all within him was dark and empty and, like a black
hole, seemed to suck her inside.

You should have left
me to die, my lady
. He spoke those words to her mind. The next,
he spoke aloud. "Computer, transmit this message to
Defiant
:
Lord Derek Sagan to Captain Michael Williams. Battle won. You may
proceed with the extermination of the mercenaries as planned. Take no
prisoners."

"What?"

Perhaps nothing else
would have jolted Dion to life. The young man was on his feet,
gripping the back of the Warlord's chair with white-knuckled hands.

"You can't! You
promised! You gave them a pardon!"

"So I did, boy
They'll face their God—if they have one— free of sin."

"They trusted you!
T—the boy's voice rattled in his throat— "7 trusted
you!"

"That's your
misfortune and theirs. Computer! Where's the verification of the
transmission?"

"Do something,
Lady Maigrey!" Dion turned to her, his blue eyes glittering,
hard and piercing. "Stop him!"

Maigrey did not look at
the boy. Her face was empty of expression, devoid of warmth, of life.
But her arms uncrossed, her hand moved slowly and stealthily to the
bloodsword.

Transmission failed,
sir," the computer reported.

"Check for
damage!"

"Checking, sir."

"And try to raise
Phoenix
l"

Fuming, Sagan ran his
hand rapidly over the control panel, his attention focused on the
dials, activating, shutting down, reactivating, and once giving
something a sharp rap with his thumb and forefinger.

Maigrey's hand closed
over the hilt of the bloodsword, driving the needles into her flesh.
She waited, hoping Dion would take the hint.

"No damage, sir."

Then transmit!"
Sagan snarled.

What was the boy
waiting for? Maigrey wondered impatiently. Did he expect her to rise
up and attack, start a fight to the death in this small, cramped
space? They'd all three end up dead, and while that might solve her
problems, it certainly wouldn't do much for Dion's.

"Verify
transmission of message to
Defiant
."

Transmission failed,
sir. Damage recheck negative—"

Maybe it was her
imagination, but Maigrey thought the computer was beginning to sound
panicked. She gripped the sword tightly, keeping it hidden by her
thigh, and concentrated her thoughts on Dion. To her relief, she
heard a rustle of fabric behind her and the very slight gasp of pain
when the boy closed his sore palm over the needles.

Maigrey7 spoke to him
silently, through the bloodsword, keeping her thoughts carefully
shielded from Sagan.

Dion, can you
understand me?

Yes
! He was
nervous, excited, angry, and hurt. His emotions were a jumble and
tangling up his thoughts.

Calm yourself, Dion.
Sagan can't get his order through. Theres still a chance to warn
Dixter. Count backward. Do something to clear your mind. Don't take a
deep breath, though; Sagan would hear you.

Ten. Seven. Six ...
six .. . fourthreetwoone. There. Tm all right.

Well, Maigrey thought,
it will have to do.

When we reach
Phoenix
, steal a plane and fly to
Defiant
and
—

Steal . . . How?

You have clearance.
You can go anywhere. You know the codes; they'll let you fly out
without saying a word.

Fear Terrible,
debilitating fear flowed from the boy like a cold and sickening wave.
Whatever had happened to Dion in that spaceplane out there must have
been horrible.

You go, Lady
Maigrey. I ... I can't fly, ever again. I'll help you
—

Maigrey understood. She
pitied the boy. And she hardened her heart against him. It had to be
done. This plan might not save tlie mercenaries. But it could save
her king.

No, Dion. I must
stay behind. Sagan will try to stop you. And I'm the only one who can
stop him.

"Computer!"
The Warlord's harsh voice. "Activate emergency landing distress
code, since we can do nothing else."

Phoenix
loomed
large in the viewport. They would be landing in minutes. Maigrey
released her hand from the bloodsword. Sagan's attention might return
to them at any moment, but it wasn't that danger which caused her to
break the connection. She didn't want to cajole or urge Dion or force
him. That wouldn't help. He had to decide to take this risk on his
own. He would never do it to save himself; he was thinking too little
of himself right now. But a threat to others, to people he loved,
might impel him to act. The urge to protect and defend. It was in his
blood—the Blood Royal.