COMING IN SPRING 1991!
STAR OF
THE GUARDIANS
VOLUME 2
BY MARGARET WEIS
And don't: miss
THE DEATH GATE
CYCLE
A POWERFUL NEW EPIC
FANTASY SERIES BY MARGARET
WEIS & TlRACY HICKMAN
VOLUME 1
DRAGON
WING
Coming in Bantam Spectra
paperback in November 1990
VOLUME 2
ELVEN
STAR
A Bantam Spectra Hardcover
Coming in October 1990

FINAL SACRIFICE
Suddenly Dion saw his master's intent—but only a
split second before Sagan saw it, too. Neither had
time to react. Lunging forward, Platus impaled him-
self upon the bloodsword's flaming blade.
Dion sprang to his feet, his fear riven by the same
blade that had pierced his master. A cry in his throat,
he reached for the windowsill.
A hand caught hold of him by the back of his neck;
a flash of pain shot through his head. . . .
"Listen to me, kid, and listen good!" Tusk shoved
Dion's head back into the dirt. "A man just gave up his
life for you. Are you gonna make that mean some-
thing?"
Dion struggled, but it was a struggle against fate,
against the forces of destiny. . . .

Ask your bookseller for the
Weis and Hickman books you have missed:
THE DARKSWORD TRILOGY by Margaret Weis
Tracy Hickman
Forging the Darksword
Doom of the Darksword
Triumph of the Darksword
Darksword Adventures by Margaret Weis and
Hickman
ROSE OF THE PROPHET by Margaret Weis and r
Hickman
The Will of the Wanderer
Paladin of the Night
The Prophet of Akhran
THE DEATH GATE CYCLE
Dragon Wing by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

STAR OF THE GUARDIANS
Volume One
THE LOST KING
BY
Margaret Weis
bantam books
new york • toronto • london • sydney • auckland

THE LOST KING
A Bantam Spectra Book / September 1990
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint lyrics from the following:
Truckin', words by Robert Hunter, copyright © 1971 Ice Nine Publishing Company,
Inc. and 'Me and Bobby McGee' by Kris Kristofferson and Fred Foster, copyright
© 1969 by Temi Combine Inc. All rights controlled by Combine Music Corporation
and administered by EMI Blackwood Music, Inc. All rights reserved. International
copyright secured. Used by permission.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1990 by Margaret Weis.
Cover art copyright © 1990 by Steve Youll.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic .or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from
the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
ISBN 0-553-28600-5
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell
Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books' and
the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in
other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York,
New York 10103.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
RAD 098765432 1

In memory of my agent and friend,
Ray Puechner
You always had faith in Maigrey and in me.
I think you'd be proud of both of us. We miss you.

And as we are to have the best of guardians for
our city, must they not be those who have most the
character of guardians?
Yes.
And to this end they ought to be wise and
efficient, and to have a special care of the State?
True. . . .
Then there must be a selection. Let us note
among the guardians those who in their whole life
show the greatest eagerness to do what is for the
good of their country, and the greatest repugnance
to do what is against her interests. . . .
And they will be watched at every age, in order
that we may see whether they preserve their
resolution, and never, under the influence either of
force or enchantment, forget or cast off their sense
of duty to the State.
Plato, The Republic

Introduction
If Fantasy is a romance of our dreams, then Galactic
Fantasy is a romance of our future.
It has always seemed to me that the heart of any truly
good and memorable story is the romance of its characters
and their environment. It's a viewpoint which Margaret
and I both share and which has always and continues still to
bring us together telling tale after tale. The emotions and
perspectives of the story 's characters are shared by us as we
read. It is their thoughts which concern us; their fulfillment
that we long for; and their pain that we share. Galactic
Fantasy is about people of the stars—but it is also about
people we feel we could know.
Galactic Fantasy is certainly not science-fiction. Sci-fi
often deals with the romance of plastic and chrysteel; our
love and worship of technology. The Gods of Science,
rising from the crucible of the industrial age, sought to
bring its own order into romance and, somehow, dehu-
manized us. Now, in the closing decade of the twentieth
century, we find that our century of technology has nearly
overwhelmed us with capability, but has done little to
increase our wisdom in using it—we are still children with
the tools of giants. Inevitably, technology has failed man-
kind as a god.
I believe that man will reach the stars. When he does,
the 'science' of how our spaceship gets from place to place
will ultimately be less important than how we, as people,
act when we get there. Galactic Fantasy explores how we
deal with our own fears, ambitions and passions as we soar
among the heavens—not the technicalities of getting there.
Both Margaret and I are patrons of Galactic Fantasy; so
much so that each of us is writing our own series in this
genre. I've rolled up my sleeves and parked myself in front
of my Macintosh to spin my own yarn in the time between
books with Margaret. But don't wait for me. Here is a story
which is about all of us in another, future time. It's a story
which Margaret has wanted to tell for years—I am de-
lighted now that she has the chance to tell it.
Tracy Raye Hickman

THE LOST KING

Book I
Rebel Angel
. . . his face
Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care
Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows
Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride
Waiting revenge. . . .
John Milton, Paradise Lost

Chapter	One
"I shall be as secret as the grave."
Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote
The man in the white coat watched a bright line of blips
scitter across his portable monitor's screen in irregular bursts
and pulses.
"Finally!" he muttered, mopping his sweating brow with the
starched sleeve of his coat. He glanced around distractedly,
having been so intent upon his work that he had forgotten,
momentarily, where he was. "You"—he motioned to a guard,
faceless in a gleaming, feather-crested helmet, who stood at
rigid attention in the doorway—"inform his lordship that the
subject is ready."
"Yes, Dr. Giesk."
The centurion turned immediately. He did not run down
the glistening corridors of the deserted university building in
search of his supreme commander. Running would have been
a serious breach of discipline. The soldier certainly marched
double-quick time, however, while two of his comrades, left
behind standing duty in the doorway, exchanged relieved
glances beneath the visors of their crested, Romanesque
helmets. The Roman touch was a whim of their lord, a fancy.
The uniforms were designed to dazzle, to intimidate, to look
well on the vids. Going into battle, they would have worn the
standard plastisteel armor. This wasn't battle, however. This
was a torturing—formal, ceremonial. And their lord had been
growing impatient.
Heavy, measured footsteps could be heard advancing down
the corridor. The centurions snapped to attention, their
already stiff bodies achieving a state of rigidity normally
approached successfully only by rigor mortis. The clenched
fists of their right hands thudded against their armor-plated
3

4
MARGARET WEIS	1
chests—over their hearts—in salute as a tall man entered the
room that had been, only a few days before, a chemistry lab.
"Ah, Dr. Giesk. I was beginning to think you might fail me."
The deep baritone voice was emotionless, almost pleasant
and conversational. But Dr. Giesk shuddered. Failure was a
word the Warlord never spoke twice to any man. The doctor
could not remove his hands from the controls of his delicate
equipment, but he managed to give the Warlord a beseeching
look.
"The subject proved unusually resistant," Giesk quavered.
"Three days, my lord! I realize he was a Guardian, but none of
the others held out that long. I can't understand—"
"Of course you can't understand."
The Warlord's voice was dispassionate, but Giesk could have
sworn he heard the man sigh. Stepping around overturned
desks, his boots crunching broken glass beakers and tubes, the
Warlord approached a steel table that had been hastily
wheeled into the lab—now deemed "interrogation chamber."
Upon that table lay a human. Small white dots of a plastic-like
substance had been placed upon the man's head and chest.
Thin beams of light ran from the dots to the doctor's machine,
holding their victim in their grasp like the delicate legs of a
spider. The man's naked body twitched and jerked spasmodi-
cally. Traces of blood stained his mouth, nose, and chest. No
blood marred the floor or the gleaming steel of the table. The
centurions had made certain all was clean. Their lord de-
manded things be neat.
The Warlord stared down impassively at the man on the
table. The lord's stern face was visible only from the nose down
beneath his gleaming crested helmet that, like those of his
guards, had been copied from the early Romans. The face
might have been made of the same metal as the helmet, for it
registered no emotion of any type—no elation, no triumph, no
pity. The Warlord laid a guantleted hand upon the quivering
chest of the man with as little regard as he would have laid that
same hand upon the man's coffin. Yet, when the Warlord
spoke, his voice was soft, tinged with a sadness and, it seemed,
regret.
"Who is there left now who understands, Stavros?"
The gloved fingers touched a jewel the man wore around his
neck. Hanging from a silver chain, the jewel was extraordi-
narily beautiful. Giesk had been eyeing it greedily during the
last three days, and the doctor could not refrain from casting a

THE LOST KING
5
jealous glance at the Warlord when he fingered it. Carved into
the shape of an eight-pointed star, the gleaming jewel was the
only object worn by the naked man, and it had been left
around his neck by the Warlord's express command.
"Who knows of the training, the discipline, Stavros? Who
remembers?"
Again, Giesk thought he heard the Warlord sigh.
"And you. One of my best."
The man on the table moaned. His head moved feverishly
from side to side. The Warlord watched a moment in silence,
then bent close to speak softly into the man's ear.
"I saved your life once, Stavros. Do you remember? It was
at the Royal Academy. On a dare, you had climbed that
ridiculous thirty-foot statue of the king. You were what—nine?
I was fifteen and she ..." the Warlord paused, "she would
have been six. Yes, it was soon after she came to the Academy.
Only six. All eyes and hair, wild and lonely as a catamount."
His voice softened further, almost to a whisper. The man on
the table began to shiver uncontrollably.
"Frozen with fear, Stavros, you hung onto the statue's arm.
It would not bear my weight, and so it was she who crawled
out to you, carrying the rope that would save your life. Can
you see her, reaching out her hand to you? Can you see me,
Holding the ropes, holding the lives of both of you in my
hands?"
The man's body convulsed.
"Fascinating," murmured Giesk with professional interest,
monitoring his instruments. "I haven't been able to elicit a
response that strong in three days."
The Warlord moved his hand up to the man's head, the
gauntleted fingers stroking back the graying hair almost ca-
ressingly. "Stavros," commanded the Warlord, his helmeted
visage bending over the man. "Stavros, can you hear me?"
With what appeared to be a violent effort, the man
benched his head back and forth. He wasn't, it seemed,
negating the fact that he could hear the voice from his past. He
was negating the horror.
"That was the night we discovered, she and I, that we were
mind-linked. None of you could understand. I could not
Understand myself, then, and thought bitterly it was a cruel
Joke played upon me by the Creator, who seemed to have
P'ayed cruel jokes upon me from my birth."
It occurred to Giesk that he was hearing the story of the

6
MARGARET WEIS	1
Warlord's childhood. The subject of many rumors among
the men under the Warlord's command, his past had becomi (
legend. Giesk foresaw nights of numerous rounds of frei
drinks in the officer's club, all present calling on him to repea
what he was hearing this day in this strange situation.
"The bastard son of a High Priest, a man whose inability t<
control his passions caused him to break his vow of chastity. I
was his penance—a daily reminder to him of his sin. He
accepted it, never shirked it, but from that day I was left in his
care to the day of his death he never spoke. By the king's
command, I was sent to the Academy. You hated me, didn't
you, Stavros? Hated me because I was smarter, stronger,
better than all the rest of you. You hated me, and feared me,'
and respected me."
The man on the table made a gasping sound. Giesk,'
monitoring his instruments, saw the need for haste but
hesitated to interrupt the Warlord, who seemed to havej
forgotten the presence of anyone else in the room except the
naked man.
"But as much as you hated me, you loved her. Barbarian
child of a barbarian king, she came to the Academy—the first
female student ever admitted, and that only because she'd
been thrown out of the girl's Academy. Rescuing you, saving
your life, Stavros—it was then that she and I discovered that
we could speak to each other without words—our minds, our
hearts, our souls were one. " The Warlord fell silent, perhaps
walking the paths of the past.
Were those paths dark and twisted? wondered the doctor.
Or did they run straight and true, leading those two children
inexorably to their fate?
"My lord," ventured Giesk, "his heartbeat grows increas-
ingly erratic—"
The past slammed down its iron gate of no return.
"Stavros," said the Warlord, "you have held out long against
the torture—as you were taught. Our masters would have
been proud of you. None of the others were able to withstand
half so much, as you must surely know since it was they who
betrayed you. But resistance is useless now, my old friend.
You have no will of your own. You must do whatever I ask. And
I am going to ask you only one question. One question. You
will answer. And then I will release you from this torment. Do
you understand?"

THE LOST KING
7
The man on the table made a slight moaning sound. A froth
jf blood appeared on his ashen lips.
"Be quick, my lord!" cried Dr. Giesk, "or you will lose him!"
The Warlord brought his face so near to that of his victim
that his breath touched the man's skin, displacing the bubbles
of blood and saliva on the gaping mouth.
"Where is the boy?"
The man shivered, fighting with himself. But it was useless.
The Warlord regarded him intently. The gauntleted hand
moved to rest upon the cold white forehead.
"Stavros?"
In a wild, tortured shriek, the man screamed out words that
made no sense to Giesk. He glanced at the Warlord uncer-
tainly.
The Warlord slowly rose and straightened. "Well done, Dr.
Giesk. You may now terminate."
Giesk closed his eyes a moment in intense relief. His shirt,
beneath his lab coat, was wringing wet with sweat.
"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."
Giesk reached out, flipped a switch. The light beams
attached to the man's body flared to a brightness that made all
in the room avert their eyes. The limbs strapped to the table
jerked. The man gave one last, hollow cry. The body stiffened
and then, horribly, relaxed. The lights blinked out, and it was
all over.
The Warlord had remained to watch the end. He stood
beside the body, his hands clasped behind his back beneath
the long, flowing red cloak that hung from golden clasps upon
his shoulders—clasps carved in the shape of a phoenix. His
lips—a thin, dark line beneath the visor of his helm—parted to
speak the dead man's eulogy.
"Three days, yet at the end you broke."
Turning on his booted heel, the Warlord nearly collided
with Dr. Giesk, who was coming to remove his monitoring
instruments from the corpse. Dr. Giesk shrank back, the
Warlord swept around him. The centurions sprang to atten-
tion. Giesk once more approached the body, his hand out-
stretched.
Pausing in the doorway, slightly turning his head, the
Warlord remarked, "Don't touch it, Giesk."
The doctor snatched back his hand. "But, my lord," he
Protested, his eyes on the jewel that no longer gleamed, but
seemed as devoid of life as the still, cold chest on which it

6
MARGARET WEIS	1
Warlord's childhood. The subject of many rumors among
the men under the Warlord's command, his past had become
legend. Giesk foresaw nights of numerous rounds of free
drinks in the officer's club, all present calling on him to repeat
what he was hearing this day in this strange situation.
"The bastard son of a High Priest, a man whose inability to
control his passions caused him to break his vow of chastity. I
was his penance—a daily reminder to him of his sin. He
accepted it, never shirked it, but from that day I was left in his
care to the day of his death he never spoke. By the king's
command, I was sent to the Academy. You hated me, didn't
you, Stavros? Hated me because I was smarter, stronger,
better than all the rest of you. You hated me, and feared me,
and respected me."
The man on the table made a gasping sound. Giesk,
monitoring his instruments, saw the need for haste but
hesitated to interrupt the Warlord, who seemed to have
forgotten the presence of anyone else in the room except the
naked man.
"But as much as you hated me, you loved her. Barbarian
child of a barbarian king, she came to the Academy—the first
female student ever admitted, and that only because she'd
been thrown out of the girl's Academy. Rescuing you, saving
your life, Stavros—it was then that she and I discovered that
we could speak to each other without words—our minds, our
hearts, our souls were one." The Warlord fell silent, perhaps
walking the paths of the past.
Were those paths dark and twisted? wondered the doctor.
Or did they run straight and true, leading those two children
inexorably to their fate?
"My lord," ventured Giesk, "his heartbeat grows increas-
ingly erratic—"
The past slammed down its iron gate of no return.
"Stavros," said the Warlord, "you have held out long against
the torture—as you were taught. Our masters would have
been proud of you. None of the others were able to withstand
half so much, as you must surely know since it was they who
betrayed you. But resistance is useless now, my old friend.
You have no will of your own. You must do whatever I ask. And
I am going to ask you only one question. One question. You
will answer. And then I will release you from this torment. Do
you understand?"

THE LOST KING
7
The man on the table made a slight moaning sound. A froth
of blood appeared on his ashen lips.
"Be quick, my lord!" cried Dr. Giesk, "or you will lose him!"
The Warlord brought his face so near to that of his victim
that his breath touched the man's skin, displacing the bubbles
of blood and saliva on the gaping mouth.
"Where is the boy?"
The man shivered, fighting with himself. But it was useless.
The Warlord regarded him intently. The gauntleted hand
moved to rest upon the cold white forehead.
"Stavros?"
In a wild, tortured shriek, the man screamed out words that
made no sense to Giesk. He glanced at the Warlord uncer-
tainly.
The Warlord slowly rose and straightened. "Well done, Dr.
Giesk. You may now terminate."
Giesk closed his eyes a moment in intense relief. His shirt,
beneath his lab coat, was wringing wet with sweat.
"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."
Giesk reached out, flipped a switch. The light beams
attached to the man's body flared to a brightness that made all
in the room avert their eyes. The limbs strapped to the table
jerked. The man gave one last, hollow cry. The body stiffened
and then, horribly, relaxed. The lights blinked out, and it was
all over.
The Warlord had remained to watch the end. He stood
beside the body, his hands clasped behind his back beneath
the long, flowing red cloak that hung from golden clasps upon
his shoulders—clasps carved in the shape of a phoenix. His
lips—a thin, dark line beneath the visor of his helm—parted to
speak the dead man's eulogy.
"Three days, yet at the end you broke."
Turning on his booted heel, the Warlord nearly collided
with Dr. Giesk, who was coming to remove his monitoring
instruments from the corpse. Dr. Giesk shrank back, the
Warlord swept around him. The centurions sprang to atten-
tion. Giesk once more approached the body, his hand out-
stretched.
Pausing in the doorway, slightly turning his head, the
Warlord remarked, "Don't touch it, Giesk."
The doctor snatched back his hand. "But, my lord," he
protested, his eyes on the jewel that no longer gleamed, but
seemed as devoid of life as the still, cold chest on which it

8
MARGARET WEIS	1
rested, "the gem's value is measured in planets! Surely, you
can't mean to—"
"The starjewel is buried with its possessor," said the War-
lord. "The curse of God on any who steal it."
A patriotic member of the Republic, Giesk had no fear of the
wrath of some mythical eternal being. The doctor did, how-
ever, have a healthy fear of the wrath of the Warlord. Giesk
began peeling plastic off the corpse's gray skin.
The Warlord, with a smile that was only a deepening of the
dark slit of his lips beneath the helm, left the room, detailing
a centurion to stay behind.
"You had better hurry, Giesk," the Warlord remarked from
the hallway. "We leave within the hour."
The doctor was packing his equipment away with the
practiced ease of a man who had done this sort of thing often.
"Five minutes, my lord, not longer," Dr. Giesk promised,
slamming lids, locking latches, and coiling power cords most
industriously.
There was no reply. The Warlord was already halfway down
the corridor. He walked swiftly, as he tended to do when
thinking, his pace dictated by the rapidity of his thought.
Almost running behind him, his guard of honor was hard-
pressed to keep up.
"Prepare the shuttle to lift off, Lieutenant." The Warlord
spoke into a communications linkage inside his helmet. "And
patch me through to Admiral Aks."
"Yes, my lord," a voice crackled in response, and within
seconds another voice sounded in the Warlord's ear.
"Aks, here, my lord."
"We will not rejoin the fleet. Determine the location of a
planet known as Syrac Seven and plot a course for it. I want the
ship ready to leave within the hour."
"Yes, my lord."
"One thing more."
The Warlord paused reflectively, both in thought and in his
strides. Stopping before a window, he glanced down the
empty hall where only days before students from this planet's
solar system had been hurrying to classes, discussing the
problems of the ages in solemn, youthful voices. The univer-
sity had been closed by the Warlord's command when he had
arrived to take Stavros prisoner. The half-million students and
other members of the faculty had been ordered to leave.
Where did they go? the Warlord wondered idly, his gaze

THE LOST KING
9
flicking over the ancient brick buildings. Six white columns—
remnants of a bygone era—gleamed in the system's white-
yellow sun. Were the students crowded into one of the small
cities on this planet or had they taken this opportunity to
return to their homes? Had this been an unexpected holiday or
a major annoyance? The Warlord inspected the new, modem
buildings with their sleek, windowless design. His gaze went
to the smooth, well-kept lawns, the flower beds cultivated in
letters that stood for an abbreviation of the university's name.
What was the name? He couldn't remember. Not that it
mattered.
I wonder, he thought, resuming his walk just as the
centurions behind him had managed to catch their collective
breath, if Stavros had been a good professor.
"Admiral Aks," he spoke into the commlink, "I want every
object within a one-hundred-kilometer radius of where I am
standing destroyed."
"My lord?" The admiral's tone indicated he did not believe
he had heard correctly.
"Destroyed," the Warlord repeated slowly and distinctly. "I
trust we are not experiencing a communications malfunction,
Admiral Aks?"
"N-no, my lord." Aks ventured a protest. "The university is
extremely popular, my lord. This will create a most unpleasant
incident in the solar system."
"Then it will give our diplomats something to do besides
shuttling from one pleasure spa to another. Inform the ruler of
this world—"
"Governor, my lord."
"Governor, then! Inform him that no one, not even the
so-called intelligentsia, is above the law. These people knew
what Stavros was, yet they harbored him. I will show them, as
I have shown others, what happens to those who shelter the
Guardians. If the governor has any complaints, he may send
them to the Congress through the official channels."
"As you command, my lord." The Admiral's voice crackled
and went out.
Dr. Giesk was the last to board the shuttle, arriving in a
flurry of white lab coat, clanking instruments, trailing wires,
and fluttering necktie. The hatch slammed shut behind him,
the airlock sealed. Fancifully designed and painted to resem-

10
MARGARET WEIS	1
ble a phoenix, the red and gold shuttlecraft tucked its landing
gear neatly up into its sleek body and lifted off-planet swiftly,
spiraling up into the sky.
Out on the fringes of the solar system, waiting to receive its
commander, was the Warlord's flagship. When it had been
determined that the shuttle had broken free of the planet's
gravitational pull and was safely away, a beam of laser light shot
from a lascannon to the surface of the planet below. The
bombardment lasted only seconds, then ceased. The Warlord
arrived aboard his ship to find the course to Syrac Seven
already plotted. The flagship, Phoenix, sailed into the char-
tered paths of hyperspace and vanished from sight.
On the planet below, searing flames reduced to ash the
university and the beautiful countryside surrounding it, cre-
ating a ghastly, gigantic funeral pyre for one corpse.

Chapter	Two
Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene IV
The dock foreman snarled impatiently when a shadow fell
across his clipboard. The shadow was not caused by clouds
obscuring the sun—a rare occurrence on the desertlike Syrac
Seven. The shadow was caused by a human body coming to
stand between the dock foreman and the sun. And thus the
foreman snarled. He was a harassed and busy man. If the day
had been a year long on Syrac Seven—as it was, by report, on
Syrac Nine—he would not have had time enough to get
everything done.
Syrac Seven was at the cross-routes of one of the most
heavily traveled shipping lanes in the galaxy. Huge space
freighters were either in orbit waiting to dock, on land waiting
to be loaded, on land waiting to be unloaded, or on land
awaiting permission to get off. Their captains, ever conscious
that time is money, were invariably furious over delays—real
and imagined. Their crews were always undisciplined—what
could you expect of merchant seamen?—and picked fights
with the foreman's longshoremen, And, as if the foreman
needed any more trouble, the Syracusian government sent
officials by on a regular basis to throw everything into confu-
sion.
One such personage had been around that morning, accus-
ing the dock foreman of turning a blind eye to the theft of
computer parts shipments en route to underdeveloped plan-
ets; planets who were trying desperately to take their places
in the Republic, and who had been assured that computers
were the answer—provided the planet had electricity, of
course. The dock foreman recalled with pleasure his conver-
sation with the government official in which he'd described in
11

12
MARGARET WEIS	1
graphic terms just what the official could do with his comput-
ers. And it hadn't involved plugging them in—at least not
where one would normally plug one in.
"Now why would anyone on this blasted rock steal computer
parts?" the dock foreman bellowed, raising his head to glare at
the person whose shadow fell across his clipboard.
"They wouldn't," stated this person, although he appeared
considerably astonished at being thus addressed. "There's no
market on this planet for stolen computer parts."
The dock foreman regarded the stranger with more interest
and less irritation.
"You can see it. I can see it. Why can't the friggin'
government see it?" The dock foreman shoved a large finger
into the stranger's chest. "Drugs, landcruisers, spacecraft
parts—those get stolen so fast that all you'll find left is the
smell. But computer parts?" He snorted.
A captain of one of the lumbering, elephantine freighters
leaned over a railing and yelled that he was six days behind
schedule and what was the dock foreman going to do about it.
The dock foreman yelled back that his men were working as
fast as they could, remarking that he (the captain) would wait
his turn like everyone else. The dock foreman then added
what he (the captain) could do if he didn't feel like waiting.
The captain issue a threat.
The dock foreman made an obscene gesture.
The captain stomped over the metal deck in a rage, and the
dock foreman turned back to discover that the shadow re-
mained across his clipboard. Apparently this stranger hadn't
dropped by to commiserate about the government.
"You still here?" the dock foreman growled.
"Yes, I am still here," the man said in a mild voice.
"Why?" the dock foreman snapped, eyeing the stranger
irritably.
The man might have been considered tall, but he was
thin-boned and stooped and his height—which must have
been beyond the ordinary—was considerably reduced. Long
wispy hair straggled over his shoulders and hung down his
back. Probably in his late forties, he was dressed in faded blue
jeans and a blue denim work shirt and appeared at first glance
to be a down-and-outer looking for work. But those soft,
delicate hands had never done manual labor, the dock foreman
noted shrewdly. And there was something about the faded
blue eyes—set in a pale, careworn face—which suggested that
the stranger's quick appraisal of the computer parts theft had

THE LOST KING
13
not been casual. This man was accustomed to giving serious,
respectful consideration to all matters, and the dock foreman
appreciated being taken seriously for once.
"Well, what do you want?" he found himself asking grudg-
ingly.
"I am looking for a man I was told worked here," the man
said, speaking almost shyly, as if he weren't used to talking to
strange people. His voice matched his hands—refined, deli-
cate, with an off-planet accent. "His name is Mendaharin
Tusca."
"You're in the wrong place, mister!" The dock foreman
laughed. "I ain't got anyone working here with a silly-ass name
like Men Da Ha Rin Toosca!"
The stranger seemed to wilt. A flicker of desperation
kindled the faded eyes.
"Wait, please do not go! This is quite urgent. Would there
be anyone with a name similar to that?"
The dock foreman, who had started to walk away, turned
back. "Well, there's a guy works for me calls himself Tusk.
That's close, I guess. You can see him. He's right over there.
Black-skinned human." He jerked his thumb in the direction
of a group of men and aliens who were loading crates onto a
skid. "That him?"
"I do not know." The man sounded embarrassed. "It might
be him. You see, I've never met him before. Could I talk to,
uh . . . Tusk . •. . for just a few moments? The matter is
serious, or I would not take him away from his work."
The dock foreman scowled, then sighed and shook his head,
wondering why he was even wasting his time with this bum,
much less calling off one of his men to come chat with him. The
stranger stood looking at him apologetically, implying he
understood and appreciated the dock foreman's problems and
would do his best not to add to them.
"Hey, Tusk!" The foreman's breath exploded in a rumbling
roar that bounced over the noise of the forklifts and cranes and
the wind that swept across the flat surface of the docks.
The black-skinned human straightened up from cinching a
rope around a crate. Staring across the sun-baked cement, his
eyes squinting in the bright light, he looked to see who was
calling.
The dock foreman made a motion with his arm.
The man called Tusk gave the alien standing next to him a
pat on its bony back, then pointed at the foreman. The alien

14
MARGARET WEIS	1
nodded one of its heads, and Tusk sauntered toward the
stranger with lazy, easy strides. He was dressed in the working
clothes of the dock which—in the heat of Syrac Seven—was
practically nothing, and his ebony skin glistened with sweat in
the bright sunlight. About average height for a human, Tusk
was muscular and well built. His short hair was tightly curled
and, when he turned his head, a glint of silver caught the light,
sparkling from his left earlobe.
As the young man approached them, the dock foreman
glanced curiously at the stranger. Tusk was a rough-looking
character—one who easily held his own in the occasional
brawls that broke out among the dock workers and the sailors.
The ordinary citizenry of Syrac Seven generally crossed over
and walked on the other side of the street to avoid the likes of
Tusk, and the dock foreman wondered if this gentle stranger
wouldn't suddenly remember that he had an appointment
elsewhere.
The dock foreman was surprised. The stranger's face under-
went a subtle change, but it did not register fear or nervous-
ness. It reflected only the quiet sorrow of the faded blue eyes.
"Yeah?" Tusk slouched, hands on his hips, in front of the
foreman.
"Visitor." The foreman jerked his head.
Tusk glared at the stranger.
"You're not from the collection agency, are you? Look, man,
you guys can't hassle me at my place of employment! That's the
law—"
"N-no," the stranger stammered, obviously taken aback. "I
am not from a . . . um . . . collection agency." The blue
eyes went from Tusk to the foreman and back to Tusk again. "Is
there someplace private where we can talk?"
The foreman waved his hand at a nearby empty warehouse.
Why am I being such a nice guy? he wondered. I've been
standing in the sun too long. It's affecting my brain.
He watched as the two walked away, heading for the
warehouse, and tried for the life of him to figure out what was
going on. The sadness on the stranger's face, the flicker of
desperation in his eyes, fell across the foreman's thoughts like
the shadow that had fallen across his clipboard. The foreman
didn't sympathize with others; his own problems were a
full-time occupation. But it occurred to him that life was really
tough sometimes.
A bellow from the catwalk above broke into the foreman's

THE LOST KING
15
musing. Looking up, he saw that the ship's captain had
returned.
"Ah, blow it out your porthole," the dock foreman muttered
dispiritedly. Casting a final glance at Tusk and the stranger, he
turned and walked away.
Trudging along beside the stranger, studying him suspi-
ciously, Tusk saw the sadness, but not the desperation. Not
yet. The man walked with his eyes averted, his head bowed.
The long blond hair was blown back from his face by the wind
and it was easy to see from his expression that whatever the
strange's thoughts were, they weren't happy.
And whatever this has to do with me can't be good, Tusk
concluded, feeling his stomach muscles tense and a tiny shiver
prickle the back of his neck.
The two men entered the warehouse. Cool shadows washed
over them; the noise of the dock was swallowed by the silence
of the huge, empty building. Grimly, Tusk turned to confront
the stranger.
"We're here. So talk."
The man did not reply, but gazed intently into the shadows,
his head cocked as though he were listening.
"If you're looking for rats, you've come to the right place,"
Tusk said. "That's all you'll find here."
To Tusk's surprise, the stranger smiled wanly. "I am not
looking for rats." He unsnapped the collar of his blue work
shirt.
Sunlight streamed through an open doorway. Beckoning
Tusk to step into the shadows, his blue eyes on the door, the
stranger drew forth an object that hung from his neck on a
silver chain and had been hidden by the shirt. No light
touched it, yet the jewel—carved in the shape of an eight-
pointed star—burned with a radiance that might have come
from the flames of a thousand suns.
Tusk stared at it, his hand moving reflexively to touch the
small silver object he wore in his earlobe. It, too, was an
eight-pointed star. Sighing, he shook his head.
"Damn!"
"You recognize it?"
"Hell, yes, I recognize it. What do you want?"
"Pardon me." The man's voice was gentle but earnest. "I

16
MARGARET WEIS	1
must know for certain. What is your real name? From where
do you come?"
"Mendaharin Tusca. I'm from the planet Zanzi where my
late father was a member of the Senate. Highly respected, my
father. Unlike his son. He was once a Guardian, whereas I'm
»
a—
"Hush!" The stranger grasped Tusk's swarthy arm with a
strength the young man found impressive. "That word should
not be spoken!"
Glaring at the stranger, Tusk jerked free of his grip. "What?
Guardian? Why? Because it tends to lead to nasty conse-
quences?"
The man lowered his eyes. "I heard about your father. I am
sorry."
"Yeah, well, he asked for it." Tusk glanced out to where the
dock foreman was involved in a heated altercation with a ship's
captain. "Look, man. I need this job. Don't get me fired. What
do you want? Make it quick!"
The man smiled again at this. "You won't be needing this
job, Mendaharin Tusca. My name is Platus. Platus Morianna.
How much did your father tell you?"
Tusk frowned. Like the dock foreman, he found himself
drawn by this man into doing things he wasn't accustomed to
doing. Things like talking about his father ... or even
thinking about him.
"Not much. He was in pretty bad shape at the end."
"I understand," Platus said with a sigh.
"Do you? Well, I wish you'd explain it to me!" Tusk rounded
on the man and had the satisfaction of seeing him fall back a
pace. "By the time I reached home, the Warlord's men had
already taken him away. They brought him back a day
later—or what was left of him. Name of the Creator!" Tusk
swore, his fist clenched. "I wish I'd been there when they
came for him!"
"Be thankful you weren't! There was nothing you could have
done."
"At least I'd have given them a fight. I had to sit . . . sit
there and watch him die!" Angrily, Tusk turned his head from
the stranger's sympathetic gaze.
"I know, and I am truly sorry." Platus reached out a hesitant
hand that Tusk ignored. "I realize this is painful, but I must
know what your father said to you about— That is, I received
a message from him—"

THE LOST KING
17
"I followed his death promise, if that's what you mean."
"And that was?"
"To use this planet as my base. Check in, every few weeks
no matter where I was, to see if there were any messages.
Messages! Who from? Who to? What about? I never knew.
And for the last five years I've either lived on this hell-blasted
planet or, when my line of work took me off it, I've left word
how I could be reached. Which hasn't been exactly safe, since
I'm a wanted man."
"Yes. I know." Again the wan smile. "I've known, these last
five years. You see, I am the one from whom you've been
waiting to hear. But now, Tusk, you must vanish. Disappear
completely. Obliterate all trace of your ever having been here
before you leave."
"Leave? Look, man. I haven't said I was going anywhere!"
Tusk pointed out, crossing his arms across his chest.
"No, you haven't." Platus ran a fine-boned hand through his
long hair. "I apologize. My mind— I cannot think. I cannot
function. Bear with me, Tusca, please."
The blue eyes fixed on Tusk with a pleading look, and the
young man saw the desperation. He turned, seemed about to
walk off; exasperated, he turned back. Platus reached out his
hand. Tusk inched away. "Go on," he said.
"For your protection as well as mine, I cannot tell you why
you are doing what I am going to ask you to do. I can only ask
you to do it. If you agree, it will fulfill the death promise. You
need never come back to this planet again. In fact, it would be
better if you did not."
Tusk waited without speaking, his face impassive.
Drawing a deep breath, Platus continued. "I need you to
take a young man, my ward, off this planet. Immediately. You
must leave tonight, if possible."
"It isn't. I damaged my spaceplane landing on Rinos in the
middle of a civil war. I'm not working out here on the dock for
the exercise. I need money for parts—"
"That can be supplied!" The desperation was creeping from
the eyes into the refined voice. "If you have the parts, how
long?"
"A few hours, I guess." Tusk shrugged, squinting out at
Syrac's sun. "Working all night, I could leave by morning."
Platus was silent, his face drawn and pale. Tusk kept his
expression hard, although he couldn't help but feel sorry for
this guy, who was obviously in deep trouble.

18
MARGARET WEIS	1
Trouble that's being passed right along to me, Tusk realized
gloomily.
"I guess that will have to do. But I will bring the boy to you
tonight. He will be safer with you than with me."
"Uh-huh. Danger just follows you guys around, doesn't it? A
fact I pointed out to my father when he tried to hang that jewel
around my neck."
"But you are a mercenary, or so I understand," Platus
remarked, the slight smile returning at the young man's
vehemence. "You seek out danger—"
"And get paid for it! Well paid. Look, Platos, or whatever
your name is, let's get one thing straight." Tusk jabbed a finger
warningly. "I'm doing this for one reason only—to get rid of a
ghost that's been hounding me. You see, I was a disappoint-
ment to my father. Why? I joined the Galactic Democratic
Republic's Naval Air Corps. The old man blew up. Accused me
of siding with the enemy. As if there was an enemy anymore!
Or there wouldn't be if guys like him didn't keep waving
around a bloodstained crown. The revolution was seventeen
years ago! It's all over now. Or it should be.
"Like I said"—Tusk drew an angry breath—"the old man
couldn't forgive me for that. And then they murdered him.
Then I murdered him, I guess. No, wait a minute"—this as
Platus attempted to interrupt—"I don't want to go into it. Let's
just say that I'm not doing this for your precious jewel or the
Guardians or your dead king or any of the rest of that romantic
crap. I'm doing this because maybe it'll square me with him.
You understand?"
"Yes," Platus answered.
"Yeah, well. Just so you don't expect too much from me.
There's a bar in town called the Screamin' Meemie. We'll meet
there—"
"No!" Platus shook his head. "Too open. Too many people."
Tusk could have cheerfully throttled this bastard. He shoved
his itching hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. "Well,
how about here? The docks'll be empty. The night man stays
down near the ships. No one comes after hours."
Platus cast a considering look around the warehouse. "Very
well."
"Good. Now where am I supposed to take this kid?"
The man's blue eyes widened. A slow flush spread over his
pale face. "I . . . really do not . . . know." Platus sounded
helpless. "I never thought— You see, I did not expect things

THE LOST KING
19
to take such a drastic turn this suddenly. I thought at least I
would have time to—to make arrangements. But I haven't. I
was caught unprepared." He ran his hand through his hair
again, combing it back with trembling fingers. "Why did they
give this to me? Of all of them, I was most unsuitable!"
Tusk sat down on a crate, staring at Platus in blank
astonishment.
"Man! No wonder there was a revolution. You're just like my
father. Idealistic. Impractical. I'm a fighter! What the devil am
I supposed to do with a kid?"
Platus sighed. "I do not know." He twisted his thin hands in
distraction. "I do not know."
"Hell! I'll think about it. Wait here. I gotta go take care of
business."
Figuring he might do something he'd be sorry for—like slug
this fool in the mouth—Tusk loped off in search of the dock
foreman.
Alone, Platus stood in the shadows of the warehouse,
watching the sun sink lower in the sky. He felt time creeping
up on him, its hands reaching for his neck.
"The young man is right," Platus murmured. "We were ideal-
istic, impractical. Some of us, at least. I was, I know. I wanted
only to be left alone with my music, my books. Why couldn't they
understand? I wasn't a warrior. I wasn't like my father. Maigrey
took after him. She was most suited for this responsibility. But
that was impossible. At the end, I was the only one left.
"I could send the boy to her." Platus began gnawing on the
knuckles of one hand. "I know she is still alive. But if I know
that, then so does he! So I cannot send the boy to her!" Platus
clutched his head. His thoughts were running in circles, like a
mouse on a wheel. "She was the one who told me to do this.
And then she left me! Left me alone to bear the burden!" He
sighed wearily and wiped chill sweat from his forehead. "She
fled to protect us. She could have put us all in deadly peril. Yet
the peril has come anyway, and now who is left?"
Platus called the roll of that famed elite corps. Maigrey—
vanished. Danha Tusca—dead. Anatole Stavros—dead.
Derek Sagan—
Softly, unconsciously, Platus began to sing in a tenor that
was thin and reedy yet perfectly ki tune. "'Libra me, Domine,
de morte aeterna in die iUa tremenda—' Deliver me, O Lord,
from everlasting death on that dread day." Abruptly, he cut

20
MARGARET WEIS	1
himself off. "That music's in my head! I mustn't keep singing it
aloud, though. Dion will recognize it, suspect—"
"Hey, man, I could hear you clear outside! Jeez, what a
weird song." It was Tusk. "Gave me the creeps, echoing
around in here like that. What was it, anyway?"
"A requiem. A mass for the dead."
"Jeez, you're a creepy guy!" Tusk felt a shiver crawl over him
and hurried on to business. The sooner he was rid of this
character, the better. "Listen, I had an idea. How old is the
kid?"
"Seventeen."
"Hot damn! What about a military school? I got a friend who
runs one. He owes me a favor. I could get the kid in easy."
"A military school," Platus repeated, swallowing hard.
"What irony! What bitter irony—"
"Look-" Tusk's dark eyes narrowed.
"I know!" Platus wiped his hand across his mouth. "Time
grows short." The blue eyes looked intently into the young
man's face. "Very well. I trust you, Mendaharin Tusca."
"Trust me? I'm a deserter! A thief—"
"Why did you leave the service?" Platus interrupted.
"Let's say I didn't like what it paid."
"Didn't like what it paid, or didn't like what you had to do to
earn that pay? You have a great deal of your father in you,
Tusca. More than you will admit. Danha Tusca was a man of
honor and courage and—what is more important—
compassion. I turn the boy over to you. The boy . . . and
much more, perhaps," Platus added, but only to himself.
"Yeah? Whatever." Tusk was obviously anxious to end the
conversation. "I'll meet you here—"
"Remember—tell no one of your plans. Let as few see you
or know what you are doing as possible. We will be waiting.
Tonight. 1800." Pulling an old leather pouch out of a torn
pocket of his blue jeans, Platus handed it to the mercenary.
"Here. That should take care of everything, I believe."
Tusk took the pouch, hefted it, heard the chink of coin, and
stood balancing it in his hand irresolutely as Platus began to
walk rapidly for the warehouse door.
"Say, wait a minute," Tusk called out. "My father said that if
you guys ever did need me, things would be pretty bad.
Desperate, in fact. I got a feeling that describes the situation?"
Platus stopped and glanced around. "It does."
Tusk sauntered up to him. "One question."

THE LOST KING
21
"I do not promise to answer."
"Who's after the kid? I mean, it's obvious. You're getting
him off Syrac Seven 'cause he's hot. And it might help if I knew
who it is we're running from."
"Yes, it would." Platus smiled his sad smile. "I planned to
tell you tonight. A Warlord wants the boy."
"A Warlord! You guys don't make small enemies. I figured as
much, though. It's all tied in with my father somehow, isn't it?"
Platus did not reply.
Tusk tried again. "All the Warlords, or one in particular?"
"There is one who is most dangerous. You know who he is,
I do not think I need speak his name. But avoid them all."
"Okay. Now. Why do the Warlords want the kid? What
could a seventeen-year-old—
Platus's face went ashen. "Ask no more! For your own pro-
tection! Just . . . take the boy where you will and leave him!
I wish I could believe Someone will be watching over him, but
my faith died long ago. Now I must go and prepare him for his
journey. Good-bye, Mendaharin Tusca."
Platus fled, almost running.
"Hey, you!" Tusk yelled angrily after the man. "Quit calling
me by that name!"
Standing in the shadows of the warehouse long after Platus
had gone, Tusk stared after him, pondering everything he'd
said—and what he hadn't. All the Warlords chasing one
pimply-faced kid. Which meant, of course, that Congress
wanted the teenager. Which meant—what? Nothing that
made sense to Tusk. Scowling, the mercenary's hand went to
the silver ornament in his earlobe, the ornament that matched
the shape of the jewel Platus wore around his neck.
Swearing bitterly, Tusk kicked an empty wooden crate with
such force that it split apart.
"You're still here, ain't you, Danha Tusca?" he shouted into
the empty, echoing darkness. "Dead and buried, you're still
reaching out, still trying to run my goddam life!"

Chapter -w*- Three
Tears were for Hekabe, friend, and for Ilion's women,
Spun into the dark Web on the day of their birth,
But for you our hopes were great . . .
—	Plato
Twilight came to the docks earlier than to the rest of the
town. The huge freighters swallowed up the sun, casting their
shadows over the dockyards. The afterglow of sunset lit the
sky, the docks became intense patches of extremely bright
light alternated by pools of sharp-edged darkness. Every few
hundred meters, a security lamp shed its harsh white radiance
over the ugly gunmetal-gray paint of the ships' hulls; some of
the more recent arrivals were still splotched black with the
so-called space barnacles that would take work crews days to
remove. Outside the circle of light, the shadows were thicker
by contrast.
The dock crews had gone home for the day, the sailors—
those who had shore leave—were in the bars, and the docks
were relatively quiet. The footsteps of the watchman making
his rounds rapped against the cement, his voice occasionally
called out a greeting or a question to one of the guards on
board the freighters. The wind that shrieked incessantly on
Syrac Seven during the day was nothing but a teasing breeze
by night. Faint sounds of raucous laughter drifted from the
bars along the wharf. Those unfortunates burdened with guard
duty glanced longingly in that direction and muttered beneath
their breaths.
"I hope that Platus fellow didn't get himself lost!" Tusk
looked impatiently, for the sixth time, at the glowing digits of
his watch. Dressed in a dark fatigue suit, the mercenary was
little more than a shadow himself in the early night. He had
taken up a position just inside the warehouse door, being
22

THE LOST KING
23
careful to keep out of a circle of light cast by a lamp above the
entrance. Every now and then he poked his head around the
huge corrugated iron wall, keeping vigil, being certain of
seeing before he was seen.
The watchman rarely came this direction. He was more
concerned about the freighters and the goods that stood on the
docks than an empty warehouse. Still, he might take it into his
head to glance this way, and Tusk was worried about the
middle-aged tenor and the kid. The mercenary supposed
they'd have sense enough to keep to the shadows, but the
more he thought about the refined voice, the desperate eyes,
the trembling fingers— Tusk shook his head, gritted his teeth,
and made ready to leap out and grab them at first sight.
Tusk leapt all right, but it wasn't out. It was tip. A touch on
his shoulder nearly sent him straight into the rafters of the
warehouse. His lasgun was in his hand in a split second, his
body twisting, elbow ready, to debilitate his assailant with a
blow to the gut. A deft block countered his elbow jab, and a
firm hand closed over his, relieving him of his weapon.
"It is Platus," said a voice as Tusk's body tensed and he
prepared to fight for his life. "Forgive me. It was not that I did
not trust you, but I had to make certain you were not followed.
Here is your weapon."
Tusk's heart slid from his throat back down to his chest. His
breathing began to return to near normal. Snatching back his
lasgun, he jammed the weapon in its holster. He was shaking
all over.
Platus's hand patted his shoulder "Excellent reflex time. I
almost could not disarm you. Of course, it has been a long
while since I—"
"Where's the kid?" Tusk growled. He wasn't in the mood for
a discussion of his reflex time.
"Dion. Come forward. I want you to meet Mendaharin
Tusca. He will be taking you on . . . on your journey."
A young man, barely visible in the shadows, stepped into a
circle of light that streamed from a lamp outside the warehouse
door. The harsh light illuminated the boy's face and body with
an eerie, otherworldly glow that seemed, by a trick of the eye,
to come from some enchanted source within him rather than
from any mundane source without. Expecting a typical teen-
ager—gangly, awkward, maybe a little sullen—Tusk experi-
enced a shock almost as great as when Platus touched him from
the darkness.

24
MARGARET WEIS	1
The boy was tall and walked with head held high, his
well-muscled body moved with an athlete's grace. His skin was
fair, his eyes were a deep, clear blue. Red-golden hair—
blazing like Syrac's sun—sprang from a peak on the boy's
forehead, and fell to his shoulders, framing the finely chiseled
face in a wild, glistening mane.
The boy's gaze met Tusk's with unwavering steadiness. Tusk
noted the strong chin, the proud stance, the slightly parted
lips. If the kid was frightened by this strange and sudden
journey into the night, he was keeping that fear to himself.
Tusk let out his breath in an unheard whistle.
He'd been scoffing at this whole business. After all, what
possible interest could the Congress kave in a scrawny
seventeen-year-old kid? This Platus was paranoid, jumping at
shadows. Now, after seeing this boy, Tusk was beginning to
revise his opinion. There was something unusual about this
young man; something fascinating and compelling, something
dangerous. It was the eyes, he decided. They were too
thoughtful, too grave, too knowing for seventeen.
Who the devil was this kid? He didn't belong to Platus, that
was certain.
"I've lived as long as I have because I've followed my gut
feelings," Tusk said to himself. "And now I've got a gut feeling
I should bid everyone good night, sweet dreams, and get the
hell out of here."
But just as he was starting to speak those words, Platus
moved to stand beside the boy. The light beamed off the
glittering jewel he wore around his neck and, for a brief
instant, it shone like a small star in the darkness of the
warehouse. Tusk's hand moved to tug at his earlobe, then
stopped hallway. Growling, he glanced about in the darkness.
"All right, Father, back off!"
"What?" Platus glanced about in alarm. "To whom are you
talking?"
"The kid. I said, 'Better keep out of the light.'"
Catching hold of the boy's sleeve, Tusk pulled him into the
shadows. He could feel the boy's body tense like a cat's, coiled,
ready to spring.
"So, Dion," Tusk continued, feeling jittery. "You got a last
name?"
It seemed a natural enough question, but the boy went stiff
and rigid as if he'd been stabbed. Dion turned to confront

THE LOST KING
25
Platus. The blue eyes caught the light, glittered cold and clear
as the starjewel. Platus shook his head. The expression on his
face was faintly apologetic, faintly stern, wholly uncomfort-
able. Dion smiled a thin, bitter smile and turned his back on
them, folding his arms across his chest.
What the hell was that all about? Tusk wondered irritably,
liking this less and less.
"Right, skip it. Most places I go, I don't use a last name
either. Everyone calls me Tusk." He held out his hand.
The boy turned, his face a struggle, seeking self-control. He
achieved it, after a moment; his handshake was strong and
firm. Tusk saw a brief, strained smile and a flicker of warmth
in the eyes—gratitude, he knew, for not asking any more
questions.
After the introduction, the three stood staring at one
another in the dark shadows of the warehouse.
Tusk fidgeted. It was an awkward moment. Should he leave
the two alone for a last good-bye, or would it be easier on
everyone to just get the kid out of here? He had a decided
preference for the latter. He'd left XJ in charge of the repairs
while he came to pick up the kid and, though Tusk knew the
computer could do a better job than he could of rewiring
the complex electrical circuitry that had been damaged in the
battle on Rinos, he still felt better keeping an eye on things.
The silence was deafening. Tusk could hear it roar in his
ears, and he started to say something that would probably be
wrong but would at least get everyone moving when Platus
stepped up to Dion. Reaching out, the man laid his hands on
the boy's shoulders, holding him at arm's length.
"You have given me so much. And I have given so very little
in return. I cannot even give you a name, and you may never
understand why. But, oh, Dion, I have loved you!" Platus
drew the boy near.
Dion's lips tightened, his blue eyes flashed, and he seemed
about to break free of the man's hold. Suddenly the boy
crumbled. His head sank down, his shoulders slumped. Platus
gathered Dion into his arms, embracing him tightly. The
young man threw his arms around Platus and buried his face in
the man's shoulder with a sob.
Tusk, watching, turned away. It wasn't the sight of the boy's
tears that brought the sudden, bitter taste to his mouth. It was
the sight of Platus's face—a pale mask in the reflected light.

26
MARGARET WEIS	1
On that face, Tusk saw death.
The mercenary had seen that look before. He had known
those who had a premonition or whatever it was that they were
going to die. And they'd gone into battle . . . and they'd
died.
Tusk felt an urgent need to get off this planet. He touched
the boy on the shoulder.
"Uh, kid. We better get moving. I still got a lot of work to do
on the plane before morning."
"Yes. He's right, Dion. You must go."
Platus ran his hand lovingly through the boy's mane of
red-gold hair, then pushed Dion away from him. Leaning
down, he picked up a large duffel bag and silently handed it to
the young man. Tusk walked over to the warehouse door,
pretending to check around outside. In reality he was giving
the kid time to wipe his eyes, blow his nose, and pull himself
together.
"Here are your clothes, some books—your favorites, plus a
few you will need to continue your studies. I've included
several lesson plans so that you can keep on as if I were—"
Flatus's voice sank, nearly failing him. "Your syntharp and your
music is in there as well," he added with a tremendous effort
of will.
"I'll continue my work. And I'll let you know where I am,
how I'm doing." Dion must have seen the look on Platus's face,
too, though probably he didn't understand it. "You'll be all
right?" the boy continued, speaking firmly, as if his words
could make it so. "You'll let me know when I can come home?"
"Yes."
Tusk heard the lie in the older man's tone, he heard the
love, the anguish. Turning from the doorway, the mercenary
walked over and took hold of Dion's arm.
"C'mon, kid. Back to the plane. We got a lot to do before
sunrise."
"So this is the passenger," a synthesized voice commented
tinnily as Tusk and Dion lowered themselves through the
hatch into Tusk's spaceplane. Ignoring the ladder, Tusk
dropped lightly onto the deck below. Dion was forced to climb
slowly and awkwardly down the narrow steel rungs.
"C'mon, for'ard," Tusk said, motioning. "I'll show you where
to stow your gear. Watch out," he cautioned, pointing to a

THE LOST KING
27
maze of tubing and steel beams and gauges overhead. "Low
clearance."
Crouching, trying to get a close look at the complicated
instruments he'd read about only in his books, Dion took a step
forward and stumbled headlong over a toolbox.
"Sorry," Tusk muttered, moving hurriedly to pick it up.
He juggled the box uncertainly for a moment, glancing
around for a place to stash it. Every square centimeter already
had something in it or on it. Long coils of electrical wire lurked
like snakes in the corners. A pile of clean clothes had been
dumped in the center of the small circular chamber that was
the spaceplane's living area. Tusk shrugged and set the box
back down where it had been before. Dion stepped over it,
this time watching carefully where he put his feet.
Pulp mags, their lurid covers spread out like the wings of
exotic birds, roosted everywhere—on the deck, piled in a
hammock, their pages fluttering in the soft whoosh of cool air
blowing from the vents.
Following Dion's gaze, Tusk picked up a mag whose cover
portrayed in graphic detail an alien love ritual and flipped
through it. "Interesting articles in this issue," the mercenary
said, grinning, "on sociology. You interested in sociology?" he
asked, holding the mag out to the kid. "You could take a look
at it while I work."
Dion made no move to touch it, but stood regarding Tusk
with cool, unblinking blue eyes.
"Guess not," Tusk muttered, tossing the mag back onto the
deck. "Uh, I'll try to make you as comfortable as possible."
The mercenary was starting to grow warm about the ears and
neck. "These fighters"-—he gestured around him—"weren't
really meant to be lived in, at least not for more than a few
weeks at a time. Know anything about spaceplanes?"
The boy didn't answer.
Tusk drew a deep breath. "This is what's known as a
long-range fighter. It's called a Scimitar—that's from the way
the bow's shaped, like the blade of one of those fancy swords
the guys in baggy pants were always using back in the old days.
This type of fighter's generally based off a mothership, but they
carry enough fuel to survive on their own for up to a month if
they have to. Not like short-range fighters, which are faster,
but have to refuel oftener. The Navy uses these for convoy
detail and scouting, mostly. Guarding the uranium shipments,
that sort of thing. "

28
MARGARET WEIS	1
As Tusk talked, he began quickly and efficiently stringing up
another hammock next to his. "The Scimitar normally carries a
two-man crew."
Glancing at Dion, Tusk had the uneasy feeling that he was
not being heard so much as absorbed. "Uh . . . what was I—
Oh, yeah. Two-man crew. Pilot and gunner. Gunner sits up
top in the bubble during a fight." Tusk gestured with his
thumb. "XJ and I generally prefer to handle this bird our-
selves. XJ figured out how to reroute the gun controls through
its systems if we need to. But the guns can still operate
independently. Better that way, in fact. Leaves the computer
free to take care of emergencies. Sometimes I hire on a
gunner. Maybe I'll teach you, kid."
Tusk was babbling and he knew it. He turned away from the
scrutiny of those eyes. The kid gave him the willies!
"Stow your gear under there." The mercenary pointed to a
row of metal storage units covered with cushions, apparently
serving double duty as a couch. "There's the galley, the head,
a shower." Tusk began stuffing the mags, one by one, into the
trash liquidator. "There's a vid machine in the cockpit and—"
"Me," said the voice they had heard when they had come on
board. "I'm also located in the cockpit, and I expect to be
introduced!"
"Give the kid a break, will you?" Tusk glared down another
ladder that led below the deck on which they were standing.
"We had a long walk from the warehouse. Go ahead and
unpack, kid. Underneath where you're sitting is—"
"I don't have to put up with this," the voice snapped.
Everything went dark.
"Damn!" Tusk stood up and cracked his head smartly on an
overhead pipe. It was dark as hyperspace and so quiet he could
hear the boy breathing. Too quiet. "Turn the air back on!"
"Not until I get some respect," the voice answered. "And
that's sealed shut, too," it added smugly as Tusk made a move
toward the hatch.
"All right! We're coming for'ard. But not until you turn on
the lights, you son of a—"
The lights flared, nearly blinding them. Life-support began
its comforting, purring hum. Heaving a long-suffering sigh,
Tusk motioned Dion to follow him—warning the boy about the
same overhead pipe—and slid expertly down another, shorter
ladder. Dion came after him, descending one rung at a time,
unable to slither down it like Tusk.

THE LOST KING
29
The boy looked around for the source of the voice, but the
cockpit was empty except for a fascinating array of dials,
controls, and flashing lights.
"Dion, XJ-27," Tusk said, pointing to what looked like a
large blue box perched on the side of a control panel. The box's
blinking lights, buttons, and audio grid gave it the facial
expression of a startled monkey. "XJ-27, meet Dion."
"Kid got a last name?" the computer asked.
Tusk glanced sharply at Dion, saw the blood drain from the
boy's face.
"No. And leave it at that, okay?"
"Hah!, I will not! What if the kid croaks and we have to
notify next of kin?"
Tusk sucked in his breath.
"Sit down, kid," the computer ordered hastily, before Tusk
could explode. "Punch in your vital stats for my records.
Follow the instructions on the screen. I won't be here. I got
work to do. I don't suppose you know, offhand, how many
respirations you take per minute?"
"I don't. I'm sorry."
They were the first words Dion had spoken since he and
Tusk had left the warehouse. The boy stood behind a chair,
staring at the computer.
"That figures!" XJ's lights flashed irritably. "How'm I sup-
posed to reprogram life-support if you stupid humans don't
know—"
"Uh, I'm going to go finish that welding, XJ," Tusk said,
climbing back up the ladder. "Fix yourself whatever you want
to eat, kid, if you're hungry. If you're sleepy, lie down, take a
nap. Watch a vid, read a mag—"
Dion heard the man continuing to talk his way up the
ladder, onto the living deck, up the other ladder, and outside
the hatch. And then it was quiet.
Slowly, the boy sat down before the computer screen. A
keyboard slid out of nowhere, appearing at his fingertips.
Words flashed on the screen, scrolling past Dion's eyes.
NAME. LAST NAME FIRST. FIRST NAME LAST:
MOTHERS FULL NAME:
FATHERS FULL NAME:
DATE OF BIRTH:
PLANET OF ORIGIN:

30
MARGARET WEIS	1
Dion stared at the screen, his fingers resting, unmoving, on
the keys.
Name. Last name first. First name last.
Tusk tightened the loose bolt, his jet wrench whirring it into
place, practically fusing it to the metal. He thought briefly of
what it would take to get the bolt off again, then put it out of
his mind. At least it was on, that's all that mattered for the time
being. Lying in the darkness beneath his fighter, Tusk yawned
and considered stealing a short nap under the belly of the
plane, where XJ couldn't see him.
"Ouch!" A mild electrical jolt tingled through Tusk's body.
"What the— Ouch! Stop that!"
Sliding out from beneath the spaceplane, he blinked in the
bright beam of light being aimed at him. XJ fired another tiny
probe, hitting Tusk in the knee.
"I'm out, damn it!" Glaring at the holes burned into his
pants, Tusk made an angry swipe at the computer's remote
unit. It bobbed nonchalantly out of his reach. "What is it? The
circuitry ready to test?"
"Forget the circuitry," the computer replied. "The kid's
gone."
"Kid?" Tusk's mind, intent upon his damaged deflector
shields, couldn't recall for an instant what kid was gone or why
he should be worried if one was. Then he remembered and
swore earnestly and with feeling.
"Colorful, but does nothing to alleviate the situation," XJ
commented. "And may I point out that the use of foul language
is the typical response of the uneducated and unimaginative
human, who has a limited vocabulary—"
"You were supposed to be looking after him!"
"Who the hell died and made me his mother?" The com-
puter beeped in indignation. "I had that blasted circuitry you
fried to reroute! Besides, I was watching him-—sort of. One
minute the kid's sitting at the keyboard and the next he flies
into a rage and storms out. Right when I got life-support
reprogrammed, too. I— What in the—"
A brilliant flare of light, blazing like a comet, streaked across
the night sky.
Only there were no comets due in this solar system for the
next hundred years.
"Name of the Creator!" Tusk breathed, staring up at the

THE LOST KING
31
fiery arcs of blue-white flame. "The Warlord!" The mercenary
broke into a run, dashing around to the front of the spaceplane.
"Where are you going?" XJ demanded, floating after him.
"The kid."
The remote's lights blinked wildly. "Now your brain's fried
as well as your circuits! We're deserters! We got a hot
spaceplane! We'll be doing good to get off this rock ourselves!"
"Not without the kid." Tusk clambered up the ladder and
dropped down through the hatch of the spaceplane, XJ
whirring angrily behind.
"Forget the kid! We got the money. And not much at that,
mind you. Barely enough for the parts and the fuel. I had to—"
"It isn't the money." Flinging clothes around the cabin, Tusk
found the pants he'd been wearing that afternoon and, after a
rapid search of his pockets, came up with the battered leather
pouch. He opened it feverishly.
"There's no money left in there," the remote said, its tiny
arms wiggling. "I already checked."
"I know there's no money left!" Tusk shook his fist at the
computer. "And I've told you to keep your metal hands out of
my pants!" He found a scrap of paper, pulled it out, and read
it. Stuffing the paper into his shirt pocket, he grabbed his
lasgun and started back up the ladder.
"I've caught you trying to hold out on me before! This is an
equal partnership, remember thatl" The remote bobbed along
after Tusk as he pulled himself up through the hatch and
dropped over the side of the spaceplane onto the ground. "You
never should have accepted this job without consulting me.
It's a breach of our contract. I'll see you in court!
"And what do you mean it isn't the money?" XJ yelled.
"Since when has it ever been anything else?"
But Tusk had disappeared into the night.
XJ-27 went out as far as the remote's limited range allowed
it to go.
"Maybe his brain'll kick in." XJ peered into the darkness,
waited several minutes for Tusk to return. But, probing as far
as its sensors ranged, the computer picked up no trace of the
mercenary.
Gleeping to itself irritably, XJ returned to the spaceplane,
where it relieved its frustration by tying all of Tusk's clean
underwear into knots.

Chapter -fw- Four
Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.
Requiem Mass
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.
Though Dion had been to town rarely, he reached the
outskirts of the small port city without getting himself lost.
Platus taught that all of life is a great chain, the nature of which
can be known from only a single link. Thus he had trained
Dion to be observant of everything around him, no matter how
small or insignificant. Recognizing the various landmarks he
had unconsciously imprinted upon his mind, the boy was able
to retrace his steps with ease. He jogged through the empty
streets, pausing occasionally to get his bearings, and soon
reached the city limits. Once outside the town, he was in the
broad, flat plains and he relaxed. Dion had explored this land
since boyhood and knew every tree and bush.
The young man increased his speed, running over the
sun-baked terrain at a smooth, easy pace. He was enjoying the
exercise, letting it slowly unwind the coiled spring of his
emotions. One of Syrac's two moons had risen and shone
brightly in the sky, lighting his way. There was no clearly
marked trail through the outback, but the land was flat, with
only a few scrubby bushes, stunted trees, and ravines to avoid.
Within an hour, he came within sight of the isolated dwelling
where he and Platus lived.
Light shone from one of the windows. That was not unusual.
Platus often stayed up reading until late into the night. He
heard music—a boy soprano's clear voice cut achingly through
Dion's heart.
"Dona eis requiem." Grant them rest.
Dion increased his speed. He glanced behind him, but only
32

THE LOST KING
33
out of instinct, not because he was truly afraid of being
followed. The mercenary had his money, that was probably all
he cared about.
Nearing his home, Dion noticed the blazing blue-white flash
of light streak across the sky. It intrigued him but didn't even
cause him to break stride. Never having seen one of the
Warlord's massive ships before, Dion had no idea what it was,
and assumed it must be an unusually large meteor. At any
other time, such a phenomenon would have fascinated him.
He and Platus would have marked where it landed and gone
out the next day in search of it. But tonight Dion had no
interest in the heavens. Platus had some explaining to do.
The boy's earliest memories were of this small house and the
quiet, gentle man who had been not only father and mother to
Dion, but teacher as well. The two had lived a secluded life,
shunning contact with the outside world. Dion had not missed
the world particularly. He'd been around children his own age
a few times and thought them silly and stupid. The boy was
perfectly content with his life—or would have been but for one
thing.
He had no idea who he was or, still more important, why he
was.
"You must be patient, Dion," Platus told him, time and
again, in the mild voice that grew strained and tense whenever
the boy brought up the subject. "There are reasons for what I
do, though I cannot explain them. When and if the time comes
for you to know, then it will be revealed to you."
"And if that time never comes?" Dion asked impatiently.
"Then you will not know and you must accept it. What does
it matter, anyway, who your parents were? It is who you are
that is important in this life."
Maybe that answer had been good enough for Dion once.
But not now. Not when he was being sent off who knew where.
Seeing the lights of his home gleaming softly in the distance,
Dion couldn't believe that Platus had actually expected him to
go meekly away with that crazy mercenary and his uncouth
computer. It just didn't make sense! Platus never did anything
on impulse. He always planned everything. Why, only the first
of this week, he and Dion had gone over what they intended
to study in the upcoming months. They'd laid out the garden,
even argued as usual over whether to put in radishes, which
the boy loved and Platus detested. And, as usual, the radishes
had won.

34
MARGARET WEIS	1
Then, two days ago, Platus had been called to town to
receive an interplanetary space transmission. He refused to let
Dion accompany him, though it was the first time the boy had
known his master to receive such a message. When Platus
returned, his face was ashen, he had aged years. He would not
discuss the matter but was silent and withdrawn. That after-
noon, he told Dion to begin packing—the boy was leaving
Syrac Seven.
Dion was now so close to the house he could begin to pick
out the details of the simple dwelling. Suddenly the boy
stopped running, a curse on his lips that would have done Tusk
proud. Of course! Platus was in danger!
"That's why I'm being sent off!" he said aloud. "I've been a
fool, thinking only of myself! I saw it in his face when he said
good-bye. Only I was wallowing so deep in self-pity I couldn't
get my head out of the muck long enough to think."
The boy started running again, fear lending impetus to his
stride. Why his gentle master, who revered life so highly he
wouldn't even use mousetraps, would be in danger was
beyond Dion's comprehension. But then he began to consider.
How much did he know about Platus? Nothing—as little as he
knew about himself. The man hadn't an enemy in the world.
He didn't have any friends in this world, either.
In this world. The space transmission. It wasn't an enemy in
this world. It was coming from somewhere beyond.
Dion glanced up into the heavens and stumbled, nearly
falling. He'd never seen a real space shuttle before. He'd seen
only photographs in textbooks that were more than twenty
years old. He was seeing one now, he knew, and it was bigger
and more beautiful than anything he could have imagined.
The moonlight glinted off a beaked prow painted red and
gold and resembling the mythical phoenix. Decorated with
images of fire and feathers, its sleek wings extended out from
its body. Traces of flame flared in the air, its engines having
just been shut down. The shuttle was gliding to a soft,
air-cushioned landing—a landing that would take it within a
kilometer of Dion's house.
An oppressive sense of uneasiness that grew stronger the
nearer the shuttlecraft crept toward the ground swept over
Dion. Mingled with this unease was an overwhelming curios-
ity. Slowly, the young man moved forward, keeping instinc-
tively to the shadows of a huge spike-cactus.

THE LOST KING
35
The boy longed to rush ahead and confront this mystery
directly, but Platus's training made him stop and carefully
consider his next action. No, it was far better to keep hidden,
at least for the time being. Should his help be required, an
element of surprise was always good. And besides, Dion told
himself grimly, his excitement starting to mount, it would
give him a better chance of learning something about his
master . . . and perhaps about himself.
A gully—the remnant of a dried-up creek bed—ran beneath
the house. Dion scrambled down the bank, treading silently
over the flat, rock-strewn ground. The gully led him into his
own backyard. He'd lost sight of the shuttlecraft; the gully's
sides were steep. But he could see the craft's lights shining,
bathing the land for miles around in a garish red and orange
glow.
Dion kept to the ditch until he judged he must be almost
parallel to the garden. It would be easy to pad through the soft,
newly tilled soil without anyone hearing him. Catching hold of
the weedy bushes and tree roots that stuck out from the dirt
sides, he pulled himself up the bank and peered cautiously
over the lip of the gully.
He could now see the front half of the shuttlecraft clearly.
The back part was being blocked by the house, standing
between him and the craft. Watching, he saw a hatch open.
Bright white light streamed out, broken by silhouetted figures
of men. These parted, and one taller than the rest—wearing a
feather-crested helmet and a long, flowing cloak—emerged
from the lighted hatchway and walked down the gangplank
that extended from the hatch to the ground.
Although he couldn't see the figure clearly, Dion could see
light gleaming off the man's helmet. The man was moving
toward the house. He was apparently alone. No one was with
him. This man was coming to see Platus. A meeting. Platus
was meeting with this man! That was the reason Dion had been
sent away. Like a child told to leave the room so that the
grown-ups could talk!
Anger burned away Dion's uneasiness. I'll find out what's
going on, and then I'll—I'll— Well, I'm not certain what I'll do
but I'll do something!
The man emerged from the dark shadow cast by the shuttle's
wing. The bright running lights of the spacecraft illuminated
him. Curious, Dion studied the man approaching the house,

36
MARGARET WEIS	1
wondering who he was. The boy caught his breath at the
magnificence of the sight. The man's armor reflected the red
and golden light. He himself might have been rising out of the
flames like the phoenix. He was tall; Dion had never seen a
man quite so tall or so muscular. His helmet was burnished
gold, as was his breastplate—all done in the style the boy
recognized as being copied from the days of ancient Rome. A
red plume ornamented the helm, the feathers glistened in the
light. The red matched the flame red of his cloak, the cloth
sparkling here and there with golden trim. The boy couldn't
see the man's face—it was lost in shadow. The man walked
with long, swift strides, moving so rapidly his cape floated out
behind him in the still evening air. There was intense, serious
purpose in every line of his body.
The man drew nearer to the house, and was lost to Dion's
view. This was the boy's chance, for the house would prevent
the man from seeing him. Crawling up over the edge of the
bank, Dion dashed through the garden, heedlessly trampling
the neat rows of newly planted seeds, dodging the stakes that
carefully labeled each one.
A light shone in the window of the living room. The night
was warm, the window was open, the bamboo shades raised.
Dion crept close. A twinge of guilt pricked his conscience at
the thought of spying on Platus, but he swiftly rationalized it.
His master might be in danger, after all. Dion could help best
by remaining hidden.
Sneaking silently across a lawn carpeted with smooth prairie
grass, the boy reached the house and crouched below the
window. He listened but couldn't hear anything. Cautiously
he rose halfway and peered over the windowsill.
What he saw made him gasp in astonishment. He clapped
his hand over his mouth, fearing he might be heard.
Platus stood alone in the room. His back was to Dion; he
faced the front door. But this wasn't a Platus Dion knew. This
wasn't his teacher, the poet, the musician. The long blond hair
fell over shoulders encased in shining silver armor—armor
that appeared old-fashioned and outmoded. Armor that dated
back before the revolution, armor that was marked with the
emblem of the late king.
But it wasn't the sight of the armor that made Dion
gasp—although the sudden, confusing knowledge that Platus

THE LOST KING
37
had perhaps been a member of the murdered king's own elite
guard made the boy's mind reel in confusion. What took Dion's
breath was the sight of a silver scabbard lying on a table before
him, lying within easy reach of his gentle master's hand.
Three knocks fell heavily upon the door.
Fear convulsed Dion. He didn't know why, he didn't know
what he feared. Perhaps it was the sight of Platus, dressed so
strangely, so unlike himself. Perhaps it was the sound of those
knocks, falling upon the door like the three dread notes
representing the hammer-blows of Fate that opened Verdi's
opera, La Forza del Destino.
The forces of destiny. Dion, for the first time, felt their
power. If he could have been granted any gift in the universe,
he would have frozen that moment and lived this one single
instant into forever. But he could no more stop this minute,
those forces, than he could stop the sun in its orbit. What
would follow was as inevitable as the coming of night after a
bright and beautiful day.
"Enter," Platus said, and Dion saw the door flung open.
Flashing golden armor, and the great bulk of the man from
the shuttle was framed in the doorway. The man's eyes
beneath the shadow of his helmet widened in astonishment no
less than the boy's at the sight before him.
The two men stood regarding each other, one from the
doorway, one from the center of the room. The boy watched
from his hiding place at the window. No one spoke; not an
indrawn breath broke the silence.
Then Platus smiled slightly. Taking off his glasses, he wiped
them—a habitual movement that made Dion's throat hurt with
unshed tears. "You come upon me like Lucifer, Derek . . .
his face, deep scars of thunder had intrenched . . . ? Do you
remember your Milton?"
"Still the poet," the man in the doorway commented in a
deep baritone that was passionless, grave, and quiet. Remov-
ing his helmet, he placed it under his left arm in military
fashion, then—ducking his head—he walked through the
doorway and stepped into the simple living room. Dion could
see him quite clearly; the light of a lamp shone directly on his
face.
The man called Derek appeared older without the helmet.
Though he had the muscular build of a young man, Dion
guessed that he was in his late forties, about the same age as
Platus. It was the face that aged him. It might have been

38	MARGARET WEIS	1
carved of granite, each stroke of the sculptor's blade bearing
downward in grim, stern resolve. Black hair, damp from!
perspiration, was worn long and was tied at the back of his;
neck with a leather thong. His skin color was the rich, even,
bronze of those who live in space and must depend on artificial!
suns for their health. The eyes that glanced about the room
were dark and narrow, cold and forbidding as a grave.
Dion shivered in the warm darkness.
"I remember my Milton, poet. I'll finish the line:
'. . . waiting revenge.' You were warned of my arrival.,
Stavros, of course. I thought I had shut down his transmission
in time."
"You did. You were as efficient as always, Sagan. It was only
a simple, mathematical sequence sent out by a friend of his
when Stavros knew it was too late to escape. Easily overlooked
by your monitoring devices, yet it told me . . . all."
Sagan glanced about the room, taking in the shelves and
shelves of books; the few, fine paintings hanging on the wall;
the simply, homely luxuries. Dion saw them, too, with new
eyes, eyes blurred by tears. How precious they seemed
suddenly. When the man reached down and picked up a small
lap harp—Platus's harp—with his gauntleted hand, the boy
would have given anything for the strength to rush inside and
snatch it from him. But Dion barely had strength enough to
hang on to the windowsill. He could still give no reason for his
fear, but it was very real and it was eating him alive.
"It has been a long time, poet," Sagan said, returning the
harp carefully and respectfully to its place. "I have sought you
many years."
He walked across the room toward the window and Dion's
chest almost burst from the suffocating fear that he'd been
seen. But the man turned his back to Dion, to face Platus. A
magnificent phoenix, embroidered in gold, had been stitched
on the man's cloak. "The boy is gone."
"Yes, I sent him away."
"Why didn't you go with him?"
Platus shrugged, the silver armor glistened in the light. He
turned to face his visitor and Dion saw a marvelous jewel,
hanging from a silver chain around his master's neck.
"I am easy to find, Sagan. You have me on file, everything
from my blood type to my hand print to the pattern of my brain
waves. Witness how easily you traced me to this house, once
you knew the name of the planet on which I lived! How much

THE LOST KING
39
longer could I hide from you, Derek? Yet, the boy. That is
different. He is anonymous—"	,
"Anonymous!" Sagan sneered. "Bah! Whatever else that
family of his may have been, they were never anonymous.
Surely, he must have all the traits! Unless ..." The man
stared at Platus in disbelief. "He doesn't know!"
"No. He knows nothing, not even his real name."
"Creator!" Sagan breathed. His face darkened and it seemed
to the boy that the man was not swearing but calling upon God
in reverence. "And I can imagine how you have raised him,
you weak, sniveling worm!" The narrow-eyed gaze swept the
room. "Poetry! Music!" His booted foot shoved contemptu-
ously at the harp. It fell over, its strings quivering in a
discordant cry. "Why she left him in your care, I will never
understand!"
Sagan pondered silently for a moment. "This makes it
difficult, Platus, I admit. Difficult, but not impossible. Stavros
did you no favor. Your death would have been quite easy and
painless—a simple execution as proscribed by the law of the
Galactic Democratic Republic for those royalists once known
as the Guardians. Now, of course, it will be different. I must
find the boy, and you will tell me where he has gone. Stavros
held out only three days against me, Platus. Three days. And
he was far stronger than you."
Dion gripped the windowsill with hands that were white
and slowly losing all feeling. He wanted to scream, yell, rush
inside. But he could do nothing. Fear had stolen his voice, his
reason, his strength. None of the words the two men spoke
made sense to him. It would only be later that he would recall
them.
"I must say, Platus"—Derek Sagan regarded the slender
man with a cool, grave expression of contempt—"that I am
amazed to find you still alive. Surely you knew what you faced
at my hands?"
"You are right, Sagan. I—I am not strong." Platus drew a
deep breath. "Nonetheless, I am of the Blood Royal. You will
not take me alive."
Reaching out his hand, Platus grasped hold of the silver
scabbard that lay upon the table, lifted it unsteadily and
appeared—to Dion—to remove the scabbard's handle. Five
needles projected from a short, stubby hilt. Platus, somewhat
clumsily and with a wince of pain, pressed his palm over the

40
MARGARET WEIS	1
needles, driving them into his skin. "I will fight . . . for my
life."
Sagan stared at him a moment, completely confounded.
Then he began to laugh—rich, deep laughter that sprang from
some dark well deep inside.
Platus stood before him, unmoving, holding the sword's hilt
awkwardly in his hand.
"So, pacifist," Sagan said, when his laughter had subsided,
"you have found something worth fighting for at last. Put the
bloodsword down, fool!" He made a contemptuous gesture. "It
is of no use against this armor."
"I know better than that, Derek," Platus answered with
quiet dignity. "Though I was not a swordsman, my sister was.
One of the best, in fact, as you well know, for you were her
teacher. Forged by the High Priests, guided by my mental
powers, its blade will cut through your armor as if it were so
much feeble flesh. You want to take me? You must fight me."
"This is ridiculous, pacifist!" Sagan's lips twitched in a smile.
It was almost funny, the gentle Platus holding at bay a man
who wore his own sword with the casual ease of long familiar-
ity, a man whose bare, muscular arms were seamed with the
scars of his battles. Dion felt wild laughter of his own surge up
inside him and he buried his face in his hands, choked it down,
then again lifted his head.
The smile on Sagan's face had vanished, the dark eyes grown
narrower still. Moving slowly, he raised his hand. "Give me
the weapon, Platus. You can't fight me. You can't win. You
know that. This is a waste ..." Continuing to talk in a
hypnotic monotone, the man took a step toward Platus, his
gloved hand reaching for the bloodsword. "You are an avowed
pacifist, poet. You believe in peaceful means to settle conten-
tions between men. Life is sacred, so you have often said.
Hand me the sword. Then tell me where to find the boy."
It seemed the man's spell was working, if spell it was.
Platus's sword arm began to droop, his body trembled. Sagan
drew another step closer.
There was a blur of movement. Dion heard a wild cry and
saw flame burst from the sword's hilt, swinging in a deadly arc.
The blow would have cut Sagan in two if the warrior had not
saved himself by an experienced, reflexive dive backward.
Leaping after his enemy, Platus pressed his advantage, attack-
ing with such violence that Sagan—unable to take time to draw
his own sword—was forced to block one savage blow with his

THE LOST KING
41
left forearm. The fiery blade of the bloodsword cut through the
metal bracer Sagan wore, cut painfully into his wrist. He
kicked Platus in the leg, knocking his feet out from under him,
throwing him off balance.
Recovering himself, Platus was up, slashing out again. Sagan
flung his helm to the floor and drew his own sword—a weapon
similar in design to the one Platus held. Blood streamed down
the man's left hand, pulsing from his wound. He appeared to
ignore it.
Sagan held his sword in a defensive attitude, prepared to
block his opponent's jabs and swipes, seemingly looking for an
opportunity to disarm or wound him. Platus continued to
attack, but it was obvious he was rapidly weakening.
This man would take his master prisoner. Dion would come
out of hiding and reveal himself and then there would be no
reason for this Sagan to hurt Platus. The boy tensed, ready to
pull himself up through the open window, when he saw
Platus's lips part in a smile, a strange smile in such a hopeless
situation—a smile of triumph.
And suddenly Dion saw his master's intent. He saw it only
a split second before Sagan saw it, too. Neither had time to
react. Lunging forward, Platus impaled himself up the blood-
sword's flaming blade.
With a bitter oath, Sagan instantly shut off the sword. The
blade disappeared, but it was too late. Blood spurted from the
silver armor. Platus sank to the floor. Dion sprang to his feet,
his fear riven by the same blade that had pierced his master. A
cry in his throat, he reached for the windowsill.
A hand caught hold of him by the back of his neck; a flash of
pain shot through his head . . .
Derek Sagan heard a noise outside the window, a muffled
thud. But he couldn't turn his attention from the dying man
long enough to investigate. Kneeling, he lifted the bleeding
body in his arms.
"Platus," he said urgently, turning the head, forcing the
fast-dimming eyes to look into his. "You fool! Killing yourself is
a mortal sin! You've doomed your soul to endless torment!"
Platus smiled wearily. "I don't . . . believe in your god . . .
Derek. It is fitting this way, after all." He gasped for breath. "My
blood is on your hands ... as was the blood of my king."
"Tell me where to find the boy!" Sagan urged.

42
MARGARET WEIS	1
With his last strength, Platus raised his hand, the fingers
closed over the jewel that hung around his neck. "The boy is
safe!"
Sagan, in his rage and frustration, shook the dying man.
"You have damned yourself eternally! I alone still have the
power of the High Priests to intercede with God! I can—"
The eyes fixed in the head, gazing unseeing at the ceiling of
the small house. The body, encased in silver armor, shuddered
and was still. The hand holding the jewel went limp.
Cursing, the Warlord dumped the lifeless corpse to the floor
and stood up, staring in fury at the wretched husk at his feet.
His men would search the house, as a matter of course, but
Sagan knew Platus well enough to know that they would find
nothing. No trace of the boy, nothing to tell what he looked
like, no clue as to where he had gone.
Reaching down, the Warlord picked up the hilt of the
sword, now as lifeless as the body. Once again the Guardians
had defeated him. Once again they had been just one step
ahead of him!
"Why, Creator? You have given them to me, as I prayed. Yet
still you thwart me! What is the reason?" He waited a moment
for the answer to his prayer. None was forthcoming and he
irritably thrust the bloodsword back into its silver scabbard.
He spoke into the commlink in his helmet, calling his men.
Remembering the noise he had heard outside, he took a step
toward the window to investigate when suddenly he stopped,
his attention arrested.
A sound had caught his ear. It was not a sound from his ship,
it was not a sound from outside the dwelling. Indeed, it was
not a sound that emanated from this world, and he heard it not
with his physical ear but with the ear of his soul. A voice! A
well-remembered voice ... a voice that had not spoken in
seventeen years.
Sagan closed his eyes, shutting out his surroundings, with-
drawing deep into himself as he had been taught as a child
until he was aware of nothing around him or even within him.
His soul left his body, floating into the night, and there it
listened, free from the noise of heartbeat and rushing blood.
And he heard the sound, falling upon his burning spirit
like cool mist. A cry of grief and sorrow—the cry of a sister
mourning the death of a brother.

THE LOST KING
43
The answer to Sagan's prayer. God's plan became clear to
him. "Forgive me for my doubts, Creator. I understand!"
"My lord."
This voice was coporeal and it grabbed hold of Sagan and
snatched him back to the world, forcing him to meld the two
separate halves of his being together again. Opening his eyes,
the Warlord stared without recognition at the centurion
standing before him.
"My lord, forgive me for disturbing you, but the men have
been deployed and I'm reporting to you as ordered—"
"Yes, Captain. You have done well." Sagan glanced around
the house, remembering. "I heard a sound outside the win-
dow. Have your men investigate."
"Yes, my lord." The captain made a motion and two
centurions standing inside the door departed with alacrity, two
others moving to take their places. "Further orders, my iord?"
"Secure the town immediately. Ground all spacecraft of
every type. No one is to leave the planet. Any spacecraft that
attempt to flee are to be captured, not shot down. Send
interrogators into the city. Begin a systematic roundup of the
town's population. I want to know everything, no matter how
insignificant, about this man"—the Warlord shoved the body
with the toe of his boot—"and a boy who lived here with him.
The dead man's name was Platus Morianna, though according
to our reports he used the alias Platus Moran. Search the
house. Bring me anything that looks like it might belong to a
teenager—anything! A picture of a girl, a model spacecraft, his
computer files. When you've finished, burn the house."
"Yes, my lord. And the body?" \
"He was an atheist and he died by his own hand. May God
have mercy on his soul." Sagan bent down on one knee.
"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine."1 Closing the staring
eyes, he lifted the limp hand and placed it over the starjewel,
whose bright light was fading into darkness. "Leave the body
in the house. Burn it over him."
"Very good, my lord." The captain gestured again, and the
two centurions, followed by two more, entered the house and
began to literally take it apart. Speaking into his helmet's
commlink, the captain relayed his orders, and soon hoverjeeps
loaded with men could be seen leaving the shuttlecraft,
sweeping over the plains, heading for the small port city.
1Rest eternal grant them, O Lord.—Requiem Mass

44
MARGARET WEIS	1
A centurion poked his head through the open window.
"Captain, the grass is so trampled out here, we can't make
out any definite tracks. Footprints all over—here and in the
garden. There're animal tracks, too. Wolves, looks like."
The captain glanced inquiringly at the Warlord, who
shrugged, no longer interested. "The tracks could have been
made days ago. This late at night, most likely it was the animal
I heard."
Stepping over the body, he walked across the living room
and out the door. Behind him, he heard the thud of books
hitting the floor, wood splintering, the jangling twang of a
broken harp string. The Warlord's gaze went to the stars
burning in the heavens, stars that to poets might be sparkling
gems but to him were pins upon a huge galactic map.
Mentally taking up one of those pins, he twirled it in the
fingers of his mind.
At long last, my lady. At long last!"

Chapter -ow- Five
Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose.
Kris Kristofferson, "Me and Bobbie McGee"
"Hey, kid, damn it! Can you hear me?"
A hand was over his mouth. A heavy weight was smashing
down on his chest, and burning pain seared his soul. Dion
opened his eyes. He didn't recognize the face of the mercenary
inches away from his. Or if he did, it didn't matter. Dion's
muscles leapt, he struggled desperately to free himself. He
had to get inside the house! He had to get to Platus!
"Shit, kid, that's a Warlord in there!" hissed the voice, not an
inch from his ear.
The pressure on his chest increased, the hand tightened
over his mouth. Dion glared furiously at the black face. Lit by
the red and golden lights of the shuttlecraft, it might have
been a demon's face gazing at him from the fires of hell. Beads
of sweat stood on Tusk's forehead; the shuttle's lights were tiny
pinpoints of flame in his dark eyes.
"Listen to me, kid, and listen good!" Tusk shoved Dion's
head back into the dirt. "A man just gave up his life for you.
Are you gonna make that mean something?"
Dion struggled, but it was a struggle against fate, against the
forces of destiny, and, after a moment, he ceased. Closing his
eyes, he relaxed and nodded.
"Good," Tusk muttered. Watching the boy warily, he let
loose his hand from Dion's mouth and lifted his knee from the
young man's chest. "We're in the bottom of some sort of ditch
in back of your house," Tusk breathed into Dion's ear. "The
Warlord's still inside. Any second this place is going to be lousy
with marines. We've got to make ourselves real scarce, real
fast! You understand?"
Dion nodded again, his hand reaching to rub his head.
45

46
MARGARET WEIS	1
"C'mon, kid!" Tusk grunted, hauling him to his feet. "I
didn't hit you that hard. Keep low."
Dion stood up cautiously, glancing around to get his bear-
ings. They were in the bottom of the deep ravine in back of the
house, safely concealed for the time being. But they wouldn't
be hidden long; he could hear voices coming from the house.
One voice he recognized, the voice of the man who had killed
Platus. Dion made a move toward the embankment.
"Wrong way, kid!" Tusk's hand closed over the boy's arm.
Dion's lips pressed together; his eyes burned with the ache
in his heart. Jerking his arm out of Tusk's grasp, the boy turned
and began to run down the dry creek bed, running as hard and
fast as he could, running away from the house, away from the
red and golden lights, away from the blood, spilling down
silver armor. . . .
Caught flat-footed by Dion's sudden movement, the merce-
nary scrambled to keep up with the boy. "Kid's a goddam
jackrabbit!" Tusk stopped once to risk a look back over his
shoulder, but he could see nothing except the lip of the
embankment and the flaring lights of the shuttlecraft.
"Just a matter of time, though. Hey, kid!" He panted,
catching up with Dion. "This ditch . . . take us . . . all the
way . . . into town?"
Dion shook his head, his only answer. Tears blown back by
the rushing wind in his face made dirt streaks across his
cheeks. He gestured abruptly and obscurely, never slowing his
pace over the uneven ground. Tusk had no idea what the boy
meant. The mercenary could only hope the kid knew where he
was going. Putting his head down, Tusk concentrated on
keeping his legs pumping, his breath coming.
"Down!" Tusk grabbed hold of Dion and pulled the boy into
the shadow of a sand-blasted sign that welcomed travelers to
the port city, advised them of the town's population, and
issued invitations to buy real estate.
Hoverjeeps roared past, their air blasts sending up choking
clouds of sand that rolled around the boy and the mercenary.
"What is it?" Dion asked, coughing. "What does it mean?"
"The Warlord's army." Tusk squinched his eyes shut against
the stinging sand. "He's declared martial law, gonna take over
the town. Ten to one he's lookin' for you, kid." The dust

THE LOST KING
47
settled. He gazed thoughtfully after the jeeps that were
speeding toward the lights of the port city.
"What are you smiling about, then?" Dion cast the merce-
nary a bitter glance. "This means I'm finished—"
"This means you've got a chance," Tusk corrected, his smile
broadening into a grin. "C'mon. You'll see."
Back in familiar territory once more, Tusk led Dion into the
outskirts of the town, the two keeping to back alleys and side
streets. Rounding a corner, they nearly walked into a hover-
jeepload of marines being deployed at one of the major
intersections. Sirens wailed, red lights flashed.
Pulling Dion back into an alley, Tusk whispered, "Watch!"
A local police squad car pulled to a screeching stop only
centimeters from the hoverjeep.
"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" the cop
demanded, climbing out of the squad car and confronting one
of the marines.
"Warlord Derek Sagan has declared martial law over this
planet. This city is now under our control." The centurion held
out his hand. "I'll need to see your identification."
"Identification?" the cop repeated in disbelief. He yelled
over his shoulder, "Charley, call for some backup! Look, you!"
The cop returned his attention to the marine and drew his
service revolver, an old projectile weapon. Syrac Seven had
entered the space age, but had not gone to extremes. "I think
you're the ones better fork over some I.D. Stop that right
there! Keep your hands where I can see 'em. Those're real
fancy clothes you're wearin'. I'd hate to blast a hole right
through the heart."
A gesture brought the centurion's men to back him up.
"I am certain, officer, that you recognize the insignia of
Warlord Sagan."
"Warlord again. You mean Citizen General Sagan, don't
you?" The policeman, seeing himself outnumbered, retreated
behind the open door of his squad car, but kept his gun trained
on the soldiers, his partner covering him. "We got rid of lords
seventeen years ago. And if he is here, he can just clear out.
We run our own affairs on Syrac Seven. Now drop those
weapons."
"The cooperation of the police has been requested." The
centurion was well trained; he was keeping his patience.
"Contact your superior—"
"Dispatch reports these guys are all over town!" the cop's

48
MARGARET WEIS	1
partner yelled. "They've started a fight in one of the bars by
the docks!"
Two more police cars, sirens wailing, came roaring around
the corner. The centurions looked to their lieutenant, who was
speaking into the commlink in his helmet.
Catching hold of Dion's arm, Tusk winked and pulled him
down the alley. "See what I mean? Keep walking, nobody's
gonna notice us." He was trying hard to ignore the pain of a
stitch in his side.
"Will there be a fight?" Dion asked.
They left the altercation behind them. Pausing to catch his
breath, Tusk leaned against a graffiti-covered brick wall,
keeping well out of the light of a nearby street lamp.
"Hell, no. In an hour, the police'll find out that there really
is a Warlord on this planet! Then the cops'll be crawling
around, licking his boots. But we got that hour. Tired?"
"No."
The boy's face, reflecting the nearby light, was white. The
long red-golden hair, damp with perspiration, clung to his
brow and his cheeks. Gray smudges beneath the lids darkened
the blue eyes. But the eyes themselves glittered hard as glare
ice.
"Well, I'm about done for!" Tusk mopped sweat from his
face. "And we still gotta get our balls out of this sand trap. You
play golf, kid?"
"Shouldn't we be going?" Dion said coldly.
"Just a sec." Bending over, hands on his knees, Tusk tried to
ease the pain in his side. With a groan, he straightened. "It's
not very far. And I'm not as young as I used to be—"
"How old are you? Twenty?" Dion snapped, his gaze flitting
up and down the dark alley.
"Twenty-six. Black skin doesn't age like that pasty white stuff
of yours. But I thought ... I was in shape!" Tusk finally
caught his breath. "Don't tell XJ. He'll blame it on the
jump-juice. Look, when we get to the RV parking lot where
the plane's stashed, we'll go in the back way. Climb the fence.
The Warlord probably won't have men there yet, but that'll be
one of the first places they'll search. With luck, we'll be long
gone by then."
Dion nodded and started to walk in the direction Tusk
indicated, when the mercenary caught hold of him.
"I sort of came in on the tail end of things with . . .
uh . . . your master and the Warlord. I don't suppose you

THE LOST KING
49
heard anything about why a Warlord as powerful as Derek
Sagan wants you bad enough to . . . uh"—Tusk was about to
say kill a man but the sight of Dion's rigid face made him
change his mind—"disrupt a planet."
Dion stared straight ahead. "Let go of me."
"I'm sorry." Tusk backed off. "I understand. I guess it doesn't
matter. Just one of those little pieces of information I can live
for a real long time without knowing."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the red and
golden hoverjeeps pull to a stop at the end of the street. "At
least I hope so!" he amended.
"XJ? You got the circuitry fixed?"
Tusk slid down the ladder into the body of the spaceplane.
Dion followed quickly, but almost not quickly enough. The
hatch was shutting while he still had his hand on the rim and
he just managed to snatch back his fingers in time to keep
them from being smashed to a pulp. Engines fired. A tremor
shook the plane, causing Dion to slip on the ladder, and land
heavily on the deck.
Tusk was already in the cockpit; Dion saw the top of his
curly-haired head disappear down the ladder and then every-
thing went dark.
"All systems shutting down for launch," the computer
announced. Dion stood crouched on the deck, afraid to move.
Red emergency lights flickered on, casting an eerie glow,
making everything in the plane seem strange, less real than a
dream. The boy groped his way forward, and had reached the
ladder leading into the cockpit when a black shape suddenly
loomed up in front of him.
"Kid? Oh, there you are."
Grabbing hold of him by the shirt collar, Tusk yanked the
boy down the ladder, literally tossing him into a chair.
"Sit and keep quiet!"
Bruised and shaken, more tired than he would admit, Dion
sat, nursing a cut on his hand inflicted by a sharp metal edge
on the ladder. Leaning over in front of the boy, Tusk hit a
button. Sturdy plastic arms swung up from below the chair and
clamped firmly over Dion's thighs and upper body. The boy
nearly jumped out of his skin, but realized after a moment that
the arms were only fastening him securely. He was not being
made a prisoner.

50
MARGARET WEIS	1
In the seat beside him, Tusk was busy flipping switches and
checking readings.
"Scared?" he asked, taking time to glance at his passenger
and noting the clenched jaw muscles, the hands curled over
the armrests of the chair.
"No." Dion forced himself to relax.
"Had any brains, you would be," XJ remarked.
"I asked you about the circuitry," Tusk said to the computer.
"Or has your audio gone bad?"
"I heard you."
"Well, why didn't you answer?"
"Ignorance is bliss."
"Look, dammit, can we launch, or is something going to
short out?"
"Tusk," XJ said, "have you ever reflected on the fact that life
is an endless series of questions? Why are we born? Where are
we bound? Can we launch, or is something going to short out?"
Tusk muttered beneath his breath.
"No swearing!" the computer snapped. "You know how it
irritates me. Here, you better listen to this. At least it will give
you something constructive to swear about if you must resort
to such—"
Words trailing off, the computer's voice was replaced by an
official-sounding human.
"General Grounding Order. Repeat. General Grounding
Order. Corasian vessels have been sighted near this quadrant.
The forces of the Galactic Democratic Republic have placed
the planet Syrac Seven under martial law by order of Warlord
Derek Sagan until the current emergency situation is allevi-
ated. Until such time as this report of enemy alien craft can be
confirmed, all spacecraft are hereby grounded for their own
protection—"
"Corasians?" Dion shouted over the drone of the official
voice. "Who are they?"
"A bunch of weird alien life-forms who live in the galaxy next
door," Tusk answered. "Real nasty types. Scary bastards. And
one hasn't been seen in this galaxy in eighteen years. Just an
excuse, kid. The Warlord always used it when we needed to
put some planet's government back on the straight and narrow.
Frightens the whatever out of the populace."
"In case your government should require your services," the
official voice continued, "all pilots of private spacecraft are

THE LOST KING
51
hereby ordered to report immediately to the nearest command
post with identification papers—"
"Yeah, yeah!" Tusk flicked a switch. "We see the picture.
Shut that twerp off, XJ, and let's get out of here before they get
organized. You got a fix on the Warlord's flagship?"
"Yes." Coordinates flashed across the computer screen. "You
think you can avoid something that big?"
Scowling, Tusk read the coordinates, made adjustments
accordingly, and barked instructions to the computer, who
barked right back. Both were absorbed in their work, leaving
Dion unnoticed, for which the boy was grateful.
Sitting back in his chair, he had time to think about what had
happened, and almost instantly he regretted it. Memory
returned, beating at him with dark wings. Closing his eyes, he
heard the voices, the conversation. He saw the swords flash,
silver and golden, he saw the flow of dark blood, Platus's body
sag to the floor.
Anger stirred in Dion. How could you do this to me? he
demanded of Platus silently, tears stinging his eyelids. How
could you die? How could you leave me like this, not knowing?
Why? Why? His fists clenched. Bitter bile flooded his mouth,
he thought he might be sick.
Pride made him swallow the hot liquid and choke back the
tears sliding down his throat. His fingernails dug into the
palms of his hands, and he opened his eyes. He would forget
everything, concentrate on the danger they were facing. Tusk's
words came back to him. A man just gave up his life for you.
You gonrui make that mean something?
It was suddenly very important to Dion to escape.
"Will they try to stop us?" He tried to speak casually.
"I don't think they'll line up and give us a rousing huzzah as
we leave. You ready, XJ?"
"Beginning system check."
"What will they do to us? Shoot us down?" Dion persisted.
"Well, now, that depends," Tusk said, glancing at the boy.
"That's why I asked you if you had any clue what the Warlord
wants with you. Might make a big difference."
^How?"
"Obvious, kid. If he wants you dead they'll shoot us down.
If he doesn't, they'll try to capture us alive. I really hope, kid,"
Tusk added fervently, "that you got some sort of sentimental
value!"
"System check complete," XJ reported.

52
MARGARET WEIS	1
"And?"
"Ignorance is—"
"Oh, stow it! Start launch sequence. You all set, kid?"
The deck began to vibrate beneath Dion's feet. Then
everything was vibrating—the chair, his teeth. . . . Blood
spilling over silver armor. . . . The garden trampled, its
neat, orderly rows destroyed. What would grow, now, without
care and nurturing? Left on its own . . .
"And go!"
The breath expelled itself from Dion's body; the force of
lift-off pushed him back into the seat, pulled his skin tight
across his bones, forced his lips into an unnatural grimace.
Looking at himself in the reflection in the steelglass opposite,
he saw his face grinning like a skull. For an instant he couldn't
breathe and he began to panic, fearing suffocation.
The frightening sensation was over in an instant. The lights
of the city fell away from him with dizzying swiftness. Every-
thing was falling away from him, too fast . . . too fast . . .
The garden, the house . . .
Falling out from under him.
The city, the world . . .
He wanted to reach out, grab hold, hang on. But there was
nothing to hold on to. He was caught, held, immobilized in
fate's grasp ... in the Scimitar's seat ... by the strong,
uncaring grip of the security arms.
And then all life was gone. He stared into black, vast space,
its stars shining bright and cold as the star Platus wore around
his neck. . . .
"Damnation!" Tusk swore.
A screen on the instrument panel had come to life, even as
everything around the boy had seemed to die.
"I knew Sagan made improvements since we left, XJ, but—
Damn!" Tusk swore again. "How the hell did he get his ships
deployed this fast?"
"What do you mean? What's wrong?" Dion sounded strange
to himself, as if his own voice had been left down below with
the rest of his life.
"Warlord's got the blockade going already. Blasted place is
crawling with planes!"
"Told you so!" XJ said in gloomy satisfaction.
"No you didn t, so don t start—"
"I have it on file!" the computer returned smugly. "Scimitar
closing, Mach thirty—"

THE LOST KING
53
"I see it."
"Where's the gun turret?" Dion asked eagerly. "I can shoot!"
It was a lie, but he wanted to kill something, anything. He
wanted to end the hurt, the anger, the fear. Blow it up in a
fiery ball that would take him, too.
The computer's lights flashed wildly.
"Calm down, XJ!" Tusk ordered. "Thanks for the offer, kid,
but . . . uh . . . that gun's kinda complicated equipment
and . . . well . . . to be honest, I'd rather face ten of those
characters out there than have one amateur sitting above me
with an itchy trigger finger. I mean, you shoot your foot up
there and we're nothing but a gleam in someone's eye—and
that only for about ten seconds."
"Besides," XJ added, "not even Tusk is dumb enough to try
to fight his way out of this one. Are you?"
From the irresolute expression on Tusk's face, Dion thought
that the question might be debatable, but the mercenary
glanced at the computer screen and grunted.
"Ten seconds and he'll be in range . . . and so will we,"
the computer reported.
A slow smile spread over Tusk's lips. "The drunken pilot!"
The computer's lights flickered in derision. "That old trick?
What is this—a nostalgia trip?"
"We got nothing to lose. I've flown blockade duty, so have
you. No matter how sharp they look there's bound to be the
normal amount of confusion. "
"I want to go on record that I am opposed—"
"Go on record as any damn thing you like, just do what
you're supposed to. There must be a Lane around here—"
"There is. Come to this heading—"
A series of number appeared on the computer screen.
"What—"
"Keep your mouth shut, kid," Tusk said, his slender fingers
flying over buttons. XJ hummed to itself industriously.
"Military channel?" Tusk asked, glancing up to see the other
Scimitar closing fast.
"Open. This is the latest code update. Cost us a bundle. It
better be right—"
The commlink crackled, announcing that the other pilot was
about to contact them.
"Halt and iden—" Tusk began, a split second ahead of the
other Scimitar pilot.
"Halt and—"

54
MARGARET WEIS	1
"—tify your shelf." Tusk slurred.
"—identify yourself," echoed the pilot, sounding slightly
confused. "I repeat, Scimitar. Identify yourself."
"I asked you first," Tusk roared belligerently.
"What's your number, Scimitar? I can't read your
markings—"
"I can't see yoursh either." Tusk belched. "They're all kinda
fuzzy."
"Give the password."
"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Tusk sneered. "Sell
that for a couple thousand gold eagles on the smuggler's
market."
"Who's your commanding officer, mister?"
"A sonuvabitch. Whose yours?"
"Excuse me, sir—" XJ cut in.
"Stay out of this!" Tusk smacked the computer on the side of
its box.
"You enjoyed that!" XJ stated accusingly in an undertone.
"Excuse me, sir!" The computer turned up its audio so that it
could be heard clearly by the other pilot. "Scimitar out there!
Don't shoot!"
"Who are you?"
"Shipboard computer, sir. I hereby report my pilot unfit for
duty."
"You filthy—" Tusk mumbled obscenities.
"I tried to alert the deck crew before we took off," XJ
continued in injured tones, shouting to be heard over Tusk's
swearing. "But they refused to listen to a mere computer. This
isn't the first time this has happened. He sucks up the
jump-juice before every flight, and frankly I'm getting sick and
tired—"
"Who's his commanding officer?"
"I have no idea because one night in a drunken fit—"
"Name, rank, and charge-card number," Tusk leered into
the commlink. "That's all yer gettin' outta me!"
—he erased the name from my memory banks," XJ contin-
ued loudly.
"I'll have to report this. Stand by."
"I've had about enough!" Tusk was yelling angrily. "You're
not gonna take me alive!"
"He won't shoot, will he?" the pilot asked nervously.
"No, sir. I have the guns under my control," XJ replied.
"I'm reporting this. Wait—"

THE LOST KING
55
Dion strained his ears. In the background, he could hear the
pilot talking. "I've got a Scimitar here, long-range, out of
position. Pilot appears to be inebriated. Yes, sir. Computer
confirms. No, I can't read the numbers. Covered by carbon
scoring." The voice faded, then returned. "Yes, sir."
While this conversation was ongoing, a series of numbers
flashed on XJ's screen. Looking at them intently, Tusk flicked
his hands over his control panel and nodded just as the pilot's
voice crackled back.
"I have been ordered to escort you to the docking bay where
a tractor beam will be locked on and you—"
"No, Commander, you idiot!" XJ screeched in such real-
sounding panic that Dion's heart lurched into his throat. "Not
that button!"
A brilliant flare of color seared the boy's eyes. His entire
body turned inside out—skin peeled back, living organs laid
bare, bones exposed.
He felt one last horrible moment of sickening fear. . . .
"You okay, kid?"
Dion opened his eyes to see Tusk's face hanging over him.
The boy was lying stretched out in one of the hammocks.
"I'm all right," he mumbled. His head ached and he put his
hand to it. "What happened? Were we hit?"
"Naw, just the Jump. Does that to people sometimes. Sorry
I couldn't warn you, but I didn't dare risk giving us away. Feels
like you're being turned inside out, doesn't it?"
Dion started to nod, but that only made his head hurt worse.
"Don't worry. You'll get over it. Each Jump gets a little
easier."
"Where are we?"
"A long way from home, kid. The Lanes. Know what those
are?"
Memories of lessons with Platus returned. The early morn-
ing breeze blowing through the open windows carried the
spicy smell of sage and wildflowers. The wind flipped the
pages of the books, ruffled the young pupil's red-golden hair,
stirred the thin blond hair of his teacher.
Dion closed his eyes, averting his head.
"Not feelin' so good, huh? Better get some sleep, kid. I'm
gonna take a shower."
A warm, firm hand closed over the boy's, giving it an

56
MARGARET WEIS	1
awkward squeeze. Then the hand was gone. Boots scraped
across the metal deck. Dion heard Tusk pull open one of the
storage containers and begin to rummage around in it. Burn-
ing tears crept from beneath the boy's eyelids. Rolling over, he
muffled his face in his pillow.
"Damn you, Platus!" he cried. He bit into the fabric, trying
to stop the sob that welled up in his throat. "Damn you!'
Across the small cabin, Tusk exploded in a barrage of
obscenity. "My shorts! They're all tied in fuckin' knots! XJ!
You . . ."
Darkness closed over Dion, and he wept.

Chapter	Six
But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, econo-
mists, and calculators, has succeeded . . .
Edmund Burke, Reflections on the Revolution in France
The Warlord's shuttle landed on Phoenix without
ceremony—no lines of troops drawn up to salute him, no
drums, bells, or whistles as was practiced on other ships of
other Warlords in the galaxy. Four of his Honor Guard
preceded him from the ship, lining up at the door two on
either side, clenched fists over their hearts. After he had
passed, they fell smartly into step behind him, following him
as he crossed the deck of the landing dock. No one else in the
dock or in any of the corridors of the ship into which the
Warlord walked appeared to take the least notice of the fact
that their commanding officer—military lord of one entire
sector of the galaxy—was walking past.
Derek Sagan had no patience with waste. Men concerned
with other duties stopping their work, snapping to attention,
and saluting every time he came into view was a waste of time
and energy not to be tolerated. It was a show of false respect.
He'd know men salute an officer to his face and shoot him in
the back at the first opportunity.
Sagan did not demand respect of his men. He commanded
it by example. Discipline on his ship was severe, but he was
hardest on himself. His word was law and when that law was
broken his judgment was swift and often harsh—as it had been
against the university he'd discovered harboring Stavros.
Those under his command feared him as they feared God.
(Perhaps more. The Creator, after all, was a nebulous being
spoken of by priests who were no longer around. Derek Sagan
was flesh and blood and in close proximity.) His men feared
him, yet the most honored and valued position that could be
57

58
MARGARET WEIS	1
held in this ship was to be selected as one of his own personal
guard.
Sagan strode rapidly through the corridors, appearing to
take little interest in his surroundings. Yet everyone knew that
the eyes hidden by the shadow of his helm saw everything,
noted every detail of shipboard operation from a scrap of food
bar wrapper littering the metal deck to a malfunction light
flashing its warning on a control panel. Men walked past him
with studiously averted eyes, jaw muscles clenched, their
bodies unconsciously straightening to achieve the stalwart
posture of their Warlord. Sagan was proud of his ship and his
men and he liked to see that pride reflected in both. Both—it
seemed—went out of their way to please him.
A gesture from his gloved hand brought one of the guard
forward. "Where is the admiral? He was informed of my
arrival?"
"Yes, my lord. He is on the bridge. He thought he should
remain there until the planet was secure."
"My compliments to the admiral, and request him and
Captain Nada to meet me in the committee room with their
reports."
"Yes, my lord."
The centurion fell back a pace behind the Warlord, relaying
the message via the communications linkage in his helmet.
Sagan continued walking. His boots rang on the metal deck,
the red cape that denoted his high rank swelled out behind
him.
The Warlord was essentially a guest on Phoenix, Admiral
Aks's flagship. Aks was in command of the fleet, Captain Nada
in command of the ship. Thus Sagan s polite usage of the word
request. Everyone on board Phoenix knew the true meaning of
the word, however. Both the admiral and the ship's captain
were awaiting Sagan when he entered the committee room.
Sagan's official rank in the Republic was actually Citizen
General. His title was Marshal. There were numerous mar-
shals scattered throughout the galaxy. Following the establish-
ment of the democracy, the President had placed these
commanders in charge of maintaining law and order—sort of
an interplanetary police force. However, during the years of
governmental confusion that naturally followed the revolution,
several of the marshals began acquiring more and more power.
(As Derek Sagan was once heard to observe, "If it's lying

THE LOST KING
59
around loose, someone will pick it up.") The news media
began referring to these generals as "Warlords."
The appellation was meant to be derogatory. Derek Sagan
took it as a compliment. Even after the political situation
stabilized and the Congress and President had gained control,
Sagan continued, despite howls from the liberal press, to refer
to himself as "Warlord." His men addressed him as "my lord. "
It sounded more suitable. Derek Sagan was, after all, of
noble—if slightly unorthodox—birth.
"No interruptions," the Warlord informed his guards, who
took their accustomed places outside the door.
The committee room was huge, one of the largest aboard
ship. Several hundred crewmen could stand within its round
walls and not feel the least cramped. It was empty of all
furnishings; no viewport broke the vast sweep of black walls.
The only object in the room was a large vidscreen located at
one end.
"My apologies for bringing you here, Admiral, Captain,"
Sagan said as the door slid shut behind him. "I know this has
been a long and tiring day for both of you. I must contact the
President, however, and I want to hear your reports first.
Then you may return to your duties or your rest, whichever I
have taken you from."
Numerous small lights located in the ceiling could illumi-
nate the room as brightly as day when necessary. The com-
mittee room was in relative darkness now, the need for
conserving energy always uppermost in every captain's mind.
Small pools of light shone at intervals, therefore, leaving the
rest of the room in deep shadow. The admiral and Captain
Nada stood in one pool of light in the center of the vast circular
floor. Sagan stepped from bright light into darkness, where he
was lost for several seconds, the sounds of his footsteps the
only indication of his presence. Both the admiral and captain
knew they were under his scrutiny. The admiral was relaxed.
Captain Nada was not. Sweat beaded on the captain's lip and
he swallowed several times. Nada was unhappily aware that
his report was not a good one.
"Captain, proceed." The voice resounded from the dark-
ness.
"Yes, my lord." Nada cleared his throat. "The planet Syrac
Seven is completely secure, my lord. Martial law is in effect.
Reports of the sighting of an enemy invasion force have been

60
MARGARET WEIS	1
transmitted to the heads of each of the governments of the
planet and all have given us their complete support."
"Yes, yes, Captain," Sagan responded with a touch of
impatience. "What of the blockade?"
Nada heard an unusual tenseness in the Warlord's voice and
the captain wondered what had happened down below. It was
known that one of the Guardians had been located and
executed on Syrac Seven, but Guardians had been executed
before without the need for sending the entire civilian popu-
lation of a planet into a state of panic. And now Sagan talking
of contacting the President! It didn't make the captain's news
any easier to deliver, particularly when he knew nothing about
what was transpiring.
Nada glanced at his admiral, but Aks remained staring
straight ahead, leaving his captain without support. There was
little love lost between these two. Aks was an old friend of
Sagan's, devotedly loyal to his lord. Nada was a staunch
democrat.
"The blockade was successful, my lord, with . . . um . . .
one exception. "
Nada paused, struggling to keep command of his voice. The
Warlord had not moved, but the captain knew his lordship was
displeased, knew it by the very fact that Sagan had not moved,
that not a finger twitched, not a fold of cape stirred.
"Several pilots attempted to fight, my lord. As you ordered,
we did not return fire but surrounded them and each was
forced to land. They were arrested and are being held as you
requested on the planet's surface for interrogation. First
reports indicate that most of them are ordinary criminals, my
lord, wanted for a variety of offenses."
"The one exception, Captain Nada."
"One of our pilots reported contact with a long-range
Scimitar—"
"Long-range!" Sagan broke in. "Why were those deployed?"
"They weren't, my lord, and that made our man suspicious.
Upon being requested to identify himself, the long-range pilot
was discovered to be intoxicated and was further reported
unfit for duty by his shipboard computer. The plane's markings
were obscured by heavy carbon scoring and so could not be
identified through usual channels. Our pilot informed the pilot
of the Scimitar that he would be escorted back to base when—"
The Warlord, hands behind his back beneath his cape,
stepped into a pool of light, "—when the Scimitar, having

THE LOST KING
61
maneuvered itself into position during the conversation, found
an open Lane and made the Jump."
"Why, yes, my lord!" Nada stared at his lordship in amaze-
ment. "That's exactly what happened."
"I assume the standard data on the plane was recorded?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Have photographs relayed to Syrac Seven and show them
to the inhabitants of the city closest to where the Guardian
lived—"
"Begging your lordship's pardon," Nada said, somewhat
stiffly, "but that has already been done. The plane was
identified by the owner of an RV lot where it had been parked.
It belonged to a young man known only as Tusk. The Scimitar
was one of ours—stolen, of course. The young man apparently
lived in the plane. He was a dock worker, but the lot owner
was under the impression that this was only a temporary job.
The young man dressed like a mercenary and would often
disappear for several months at a time, always returning to the
planet with money."
"Had he said anything about leaving?"
"No, my lord, apparently not. According to the lot owner,
this Tusk had rented the lot for several months and spoke of
spending the time making necessary repairs to his plane. The
lot owner stated that he was extremely surprised when Tusk
appeared yesterday afternoon, paid his overdue rent in gold,
and said he would be leaving the next morning before dawn.
The landlord was suspicious and stated that he had considered
reporting the matter to the police."
"Suspicious of what?"
"The gold, my lord. He had never seen coinage like it and he
thought they might be counterfeit."
"He didn't report it?"
"No, my lord. He knew the police had more important
matters to worry about."
"In other words, he found out the coins were genuine."
"Precisely, my lord."
Nada began to gain confidence. If it had not seemed too
impossible, the captain could have sworn he thought he saw
Sagan s tight-lipped mouth relax in a smile, just visible be-
neath the helmet.
"Do you have a description of this young man?"
"Yes, my lord. He is human, black-skinned, age approxi-
mately twenty-six, and he wears—"

62
MARGARET WEIS	1
"A silver earring in the shape of a star in his left earlobe."
Derek Sagan spoke softly, almost to himself.
"My God, my lord!"
Captain Nada looked stunned. He had heard rumors of the
Warlord's extrahuman mental abilities, but he had never seen
them displayed and truly believed they were no more than
rumor. But this . . . this was—
"Put out a report at once, Captain. To all sectors. The black
human known as Tusk—full name Mendaharin Tusca—
originally wanted for desertion from the Navy of the Galactic
Democratic Republic, is now wanted for questioning by the
Revolutionary Congress. Tusca is to be captured alive. Make
that understood—especially to those trigger-happy bounty
hunters. As a deserter, there must be a reward already offered
for him. Find out what it is and quadruple it. But no bounty
will be paid if he's brought in dead or in any condition that
renders him useless to us. The same applies to the passenger
he's carrying."
"Passenger?" Nada raised his eyebrows, then caught the
Warlords cold-eyed stare. "Yes, my lord. Is—is there a
description of the passenger as well?"
"A boy, about seventeen," Sagan said in low tones, one hand
tapping restlessly against his thigh. "He might possibly have—
No, belay that. Don't put out any description at all on the
passenger." He raised the gloved hand. "I want it emphasized.
Taken alive!"
"Yes, my lord."
"Thank you, Captain. You are dismissed."
"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."
Bowing, fist over his heart, Captain Nada left the committee
room. When the door had closed behind him, Sagan yanked ofi
the war helmet and ran his hand through his long, damp hair.
"The captain takes you for a phenomenon," Admiral Aks
remarked, the first words he had spoken since the Warlord
entered the room. "I must admit that I, too, am impressed—"
"Bah!" Sagan shrugged, then winced and began to tug
irritably at the tight bandages that had been hastily wrapped
around his left forearm. The movement brought the hem of his
red robe into the full light, and Aks noticed that the usually
glittering gold border was soaked in blood.
"The Guardian resisted," Aks said, his gaze on the stain and
on his lordship's wound.
"The fool impaled himself on my sword!" Sagan said with an

THE LOST KING
63
impatient gesture that brought another grimace of pain. "I'm
getting too old for this, Aks."
"Nonsense, my lord." At age sixty, the admiral was older
than his Warlord by twelve years and considered the subject of
old age an indelicate one, if not positively insulting. "You've
had no rest for twenty-four hours. You're tired, that's all."
"Twenty-four hours. The day was, Aks, when twenty-four
hours without sleep was nothing to me. But those times are
gone . . . like so much else." He fell silent, the tanned face
dark and brooding.
Aks shifted uncomfortably. His lordship invariably fell into
these dark moods after an encounter with one of the Guard-
ians. The slightest infraction brought a snarl of anger. Men
walked on tiptoe in his presence. Aks hoped devoutly that all
this would end soon.
"And so you believe the boy is traveling with this . . .
Mendaharin Tusca?" Aks brought the conversation back to
official business.
"Of course!" Sagan flexed the muscles in his shoulders and
upper arms. "Nada thinks I'm exhibiting my mystical powers
but it's a matter of simple deduction. A dock worker suddenly
pays his landlord off in golden coins of a type never seen before
on this planet. Not only that, but the mercenary escapes Syrac
Seven at the earliest opportunity. He has the boy, you may be
certain."
"That is understandable, my lord. But how did you recog-
nize the somewhat unusual method he used to effect his
escape?"
"The drunken pilot? I taught that little trick to his father."
Aks coughed uncomfortably. The conversation had gone full
circle, it seemed. Back to the Guardians again.
"Didn't you make the connection, Aks? Tusk. Who else but
Mendaharin Tusca—"
"The son of Danha Tusca!"
The Warlord's mouth twisted into a bitter smile that had a
trace of pride about it. "He taught his son well. One of my old
squadron. But then, they were the best. ..."
The faint sound of bells could be heard ringing throughout
the ship, keeping the time as they had for centuries. Impa-
tiently, Sagan shook his head. "This is getting us nowhere and
I must contact the President within the hour, while the
Cabinet's still in session. Admiral, I want you to make
preparations to transfer your flag to Eagle."

64
MARGARET WEIS	1
"My lord?" Aks looked startled.
"Relax, Aks, I'm taking this ship and breaking off from the
fleet. Have Nada set a course for Sector X-24."
"That's in General Ghia's sector, my lord."
"I am aware of that, Admiral. That's my I want you to remain
behind to handle this. It will involve skilled diplomacy. Ghia
will be angry no matter what you say, but he'll get over it. I'll
clear it through the President. You will tell Ghia that I am on
special assignment, sent to bring a political prisoner of the
highest importance to justice. You need say nothing more than
that. Ghia's no fool. He knows of my 'obsession,' of my
'bloodthirsty lust for revenge,' as the press puts it."
Aks regarded his lord with admiration. "So you have found
her."
"Yes, Aks, I have found her," Derek Sagan said quietly.
"And now, I believe you have a great deal of work with which
to occupy yourself?"
"Yes, my lord." Admiral Aks bowed and, taking the not too
subtle hint, left the committee room.
Alone, Sagan walked slowly to a control panel beneath the
huge screen. Removing his glove, he started to place his hand
on the grid that would scan his DNA and verify his identity,
allowing him to open the direct access channel to the Cabinet
Room. But Sagan paused, considering what he would say. Not
that words would much matter. He knew how the President
would react. Still, the Warlord would have his arguments on
record.
Abruptly he placed his hand upon the grid.
The screen began to glow faintly.
"Identification verified," came a synthesized female voice.
"Derek Sagan, marshal of Sector M-16. Do you desire access to
the President?"
"I do," Saga replied. "Priority One."
"One moment while your request is forwarded."
The screen's glow continued to brighten. Removing his
hand, Sagan again ran it through his hair. He was not
attempting to smarten his appearance before his commander.
ar trom it. The cool air felt good on his scalp. He rotated his
back ai,"?rnPt'nS to loosen the tight muscles bunched up in the
• | ° "is shoulders. Exercise in the gym, a hot bath, and a
ruDaown. He wished he'd been able to relax first, but the
T	111 session only once a day and he'd cut the timing
close as it was.

THE LOST KING
65
The blank screen came to life with a suddenness that never
failed to catch Sagan by surprise. Thirty humans and aliens
seated at a long oval table had their attention more or less
focused on a screen of their own.
"You stand now before the duly appointed members of the
Cabinet of the Galactic Democratic Republic, Citizen General
Derek Sagan," the female voice said. "You may proceed."
Sagan glanced along the length of the table, scanning the
thirty faces that stared back at him. Some he recognized,
others he did not. That wasn't unusual. He hadn't been in
contact with the cabinet for months and there was bound to
have been changes. The President liked fresh blood. Sagan's
gaze went to the thirty-first face—a face he knew well. The
President of the Republic. Wasn't Robes's about due to run for
reelection? Sagan did some hasty mental calculation. That
could have an effect on his actions.
"Greetings, Citizen General."
"Mr. President."
Robes sat in the center of the group gathered around the
table. His hands were clasped casually in front of him; his
friendly, open face was smiling. Blond and tan, Robes ap-
peared frank, honest, ingenuous. Sagan was among those who
knew the cold, calculating genius beneath the actor's mask.
"You must have important news for us, Derek," the Presi-
dent said, his words enhanced by the charming smile that had
won him so many elections. "Please, don't keep us in
suspense!"
Sagan cringed. As President, this man had the right to call
him by his given name, but this familiarity had always irritated
the Warlord and he found it grew more irritating as time
passed. What were you, Robes, before I put you into power?
A political science professor at a small university.
"I hereby inform the cabinet members and you, Mr. Pres-
ident, that the Guardian Platus Morianna is dead."
There was a murmur of disapproval from around the table.
Robes's expression changed with facile ease from charmed to
disappointed. Only Sagan saw the flicker of danger in the eyes.
"I am distressed to hear this, Derek," the President said
with a slight shrug of the shoulders beneath his expensive,
tailored business suit. "You are, of course, aware that this man
was wanted for public trial—"
"I was aware of that!" Sagan snapped. He was tired, his

66
MARGARET WEIS	1
control slipping. "Mr. President. As in the case of the Guard-
ian Stavros, I deemed this death necessary."
There, let them chew on that, he thought, watching with
grim satisfaction the quick range of emotions pass over the
President's face. Robes removed disappointment and tried on
anger, but immediately discarded it—one was rarely angry
with a general who controlled one-twentieth of your military
forces. The President settled upon mildly threatening.
"I trust you will make the reasons known in your full report,
Citizen General—a report which we will expect to be receiv-
ing from you immediately. Have you other news?"
"Not at this time, Mr. President."
Robes's bright blue eyes narrowed, regarding Sagan in-
tently. "Very well, Citizen General. Thank you."
"Mr. President."
The screen went dark, but Sagan remained standing before
it, waiting with as much patience as he ever waited for
anything. He knew it wouldn't be long. Robes was noted for
quick, decisive action.
Within moments—just as long as it would take to clear a
room of thirty people—-the screen came back to life.
"Sagan. Thank you for waiting."
The Warlord made no response. The President was alone,
the room empty. "Activate scrambler."
That was to be expected, considering the delicate nature of
the discussion. Reaching down, Sagan depressed a button.
The annoying buzzing in his ears told him that their conver-
sation could now be held in strictest security. The words
spoken by each man were being transmitted in coded audio
impulses that could be understood by only these two alone.
Although it was highly unlikely that anyone could be monitor-
ing their conversation from the tight security of the sealed
Cabinet Room or from the equally tight security aboard
Phoenix, this conversation was far too dangerous to take even
the tiniest fraction of a chance.
Continue," the President said. Now that they were alone,
« ® did not bother to control the eagerness of his expression.
Was he the one you suspected? Did he have the boy? Is the
boy with you?"
I regret to report that the boy escaped, Mr. President.
However —Derek raised his bandaged hand, seeing the look
of eagerness tighten to anger—"I know who has him. I have a
description of the craft in which they fled. The alert has gone

THE LOST KING
67
out to all sectors. But, more important, I have now another,
surer means to locate the boy. I have no doubt that he will soon
be within our grasp."
"I am glad that you have no doubts, Derek," Robes said in
a low voice. "As for leaving this in the hands of reckless bounty
hunters—-"
"If I may be permitted to continue, sir, I will elaborate."
Frowning, the President tapped a manicured fingernail on
the table. He had no choice but to listen, and both he and his
Warlord knew it. Sagan also knew he would be made to pay for
this insubordination at some later date, but he would worry
about that later.
' "I have discovered the whereabouts of Lady Maigrey Mori-
anna. "
The Presidential fingernail paused, the emotions on Robes's
face were unreadable as he absorbed this unforeseen informa-
tion, rapidly assimilating in his mind what it might mean to
him.
"Indeed? I had no idea she was still alive."
"I knew."
It was a flat answer, carefully delivered. But the President
was quick to catch it.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "you must have known. She
was . . . rather special to you once, wasn't she, Derek?"
Sagan disdainfully declined to answer such an impertinent
question. His face dispassionate, he regarded the President
with the cool gaze of one who waits patiently for a colleague to
have his little joke and then get on with the business at hand.
"No, no, my friend. I was not referring to thatl" Robes said
with a sly smile. "I refer to the fact that you two were . . .
what did they call it?" He made a graceful gesture with his
hand. "Mental . . . mental. . . ."
"Mind-linked, sir."
"Yes, mind-linked. That was it. Quite a fascinating phenom-
enon. It occurred, as I recall, only between those of the Blood
Royal, and infrequently at that. But tell me, Derek, if the
woman was not dead, how is it that she has escaped you all
these years? The mind-link is not affected by distance."
"No, sir." Sagan discovered he had to steel himself to discuss
the matter. He had not supposed it would be this difficult.
"The mind-link is not affected by distance or by anything else
in this universe except—"
He checked his words. "But I will not take up your time

68
MARGARET WEIS	1
with medical and parapsychological details, Mr. President.
Suffice it to say that seventeen years ago, the mind-link
between Lady Morianna and myself was severed. It has now
been reforged. She can no longer hide from me. I know where
she is."
"Then you must apprehend her at once, Derek," the
President said, placing his hands palms down upon the table.
"She is on a planet located somewhere in Sector X-24, sir.
General Ghia's sector. I will need some time to search out the
planet—"
"I will make the necessary arrangements with Ghia." The
President made a decisive gesture. His next words came
hesitantly; he was considering each carefully. "I assume that
since you are aware of her, she is also aware of you—"
"Yes, sir. But there is nothing to fear. She will not escape
me."
"I remind you, Derek, that her brother escaped you—
through death."
"I am aware of that, sir. You forget, my lord, I know this
woman. She is a Guardian. The last of the Guardians. As long
as the boy lives, her vow to protect him will bind her to this
life."
"You know this to be true? You are in contact?"
"No, Mr. President." Sagan was beginning to lose patience.
His body ached, he needed rest, and there was still work to be
done to prepare for his journey. Yet he had to put up with this.
"The mind-link is still very fragile. I sense her presence in this
universe, as she senses mine. It grows hourly, but she is
fighting against it. Only by direct and constant contact will I be
able to break down her strong mental barriers. We have time,
however. Should she try to take her life, there is one who will
stop her."
"And who is that?"
"God, Mr. President."
Sagan had the weary satisfaction of seeing Peter Robes shift
uncomfortably in his chair. The President adjusted the cuffs of
his shirtsleeves, straightened his tie, and cleared his throat. To
an avowed atheist, as were all good democrats, this bold
reference to a god who didn't exist was embarrassing.
The President abruptly changed the subject.
"You stated that Lady Maigrey will be of help to you in
finding the boy. I fail to understand how, if she is sworn to
protect him."

THE LOST KING
69
"She is a visionary, sir. She can visualize events as they are
transpiring. Once the mind-link is reforged, I will 'persuade'
her to contact the boy."
"She is not a woman who can be easily persuaded, if I
remember her correctly."
"There are ways. You forget, I know her. I know her well,"
Sagan repeated. The words left a bitter taste in his mouth, as
though he had drunk tainted water.
Perhaps the President heard this, even through the scram-
bler. Or perhaps he saw the grim, dark expression on the
already grim face, shadowed by a weariness that came from
struggling not so much with outer conflict as with inner.
1 "I congratulate you, Derek," Robes said, his hands coming
together on the tabletop, fingertips meeting. "It seems that at
last, after all these years, our long search is ended. It will be
a splendid day when we can bring this royalist to public trial
and remind the populace of the injustices they suffered under
the monarchy. Her execution should end once and for all this
talk of—"
"May I offer my advice, sir?" Sagan broke in.
"Since when have you ever felt the need to ask permission,
Derek?" Robes said acidly, irritated at having his flow of
thought stopped.
"Allow me to kill her swiftly and quietly when I am finished
with her. She is of the Blood Royal, bred to exert a power over
the minds and hearts of others. I warn you, if you give her
access to the public, she will turn your trial into a royalist
forum and make herself a martyr."
The President's face flushed in anger. The hands on the
table slowly clenched. "I have put up with a great deal from
you today, Derek. I have allowed you to interrupt me. I have
endured references to a religion now known by all to be
weak-minded superstition and the practicing of such by all"—
he emphasized the word—"considered a traitorous act. I
tolerate this in you, Derek, because of my gratitude for the
help you have given me in the past and because you are one of
the best of my military commanders. But you are only one,
Derek. You are one . . . and I am many. Remember that.
And never tell me again how I am to run my government."
"Yes, Mr. President."
"When you have gleaned the necessary information from
this woman, she is to be brought to the Congress, fit to stand

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trial. At such time, you will deliver the boy as well. I don't
suppose you have any advice for me concerning him?"
"No, Mr. President."
"Very well. Thank you, Citizen General." The President
raised his right hand, palm outward in a salute. "The People."
Sagan raised his right hand. The screen was dimming
rapidly. The scrambler carried his last words, but not the
image of the curled lip or the flare of contempt in the man's
eyes.
"The People."

Chapter ■■♦W" Seven
Whereto answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whisper'd me through the night, and very plainly before
daybreak,
Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word death . . .
Walt Whitman, "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking"
Oha-Lau was one of two planets belonging to a small star
located in Sector X-24 on the very fringes of the galaxy. The
star was noted on the great interstellar space maps by the
configuration of QWW31648XX, this indicating its position in
the galaxy, the number of planets with some type of life forms,
the type of the life forms, and so forth. In point of fact, this
number told anyone who knew how to interpret it that this was
a star of very little importance. Of its two planets, only one
contained life, and it had nothing that would benefit the galaxy
at large. The planet's climate was tropical, the land overrun
with flora and fauna so varied that botanists had given up
categorizing it once they discovered most of it was inedible.
(Some of it, in fact, had eaten the botanists.)
The natives of the planet of QWW31648XX, were human
and, so scientists believed, had arrived on the planet centuries
before during the second Dark Ages, one of Earth's early
colonization periods. That they had come here by accident was
almost certain, for why should anyone come on purpose? It
was presumed that, sick and tired of wandering among the
stars, they had landed their craft here and obliterated all traces
of the repressive civilization they had been fleeing.
In essence—as Sagan told Captain Nada, who did not
understand the literary reference—the sailors threw the
breadfruit trees overboard and went native. They named their
planet Oha-Lau, which means "Forgotten." It is presumed the
71

72
MARGARET WEIS	1
name did not apply so much to those early travelers them-
selves as to their attitude toward where they'd originated.
Safe from the ravages of galactic progress, the descendants
of those early immigrants led a peaceful existence. They lived
in harmony with the lush tropical environment, hunted
strange beasts with spears and bows, and dwelt in huts made
of woven grass. They danced and feasted and sought, always,
to appease the glittering lights in the night sky. For there was
a legend, ancient as the dimmest memory of their ancestors,
that out of the glittering lights would come doom for the
people of Oha-Lau.
Therefore, when anyone—man or alien, scientist, soldier, or
smuggler—landed on Oha-Lau in his fire-tailed bird, the
natives treated him with respect, fulfilled his every wish, and
hustled him off their planet as speedily as possible. There were
few extraterrestrial visitors to Oha-Lau, but on occasion the
outside universe did make its presence known. The scientists,
of course, spent time on Oha-Lau when its intelligent life-
forms were first discovered. Every type of -ologist known to
man arrived, confounding the innocent natives with their
light-blinking boxes and questions that seemed to mostly
concern the coming of age of young women. A military patrol
landed once, but promptly left upon ascertaining that these
people weren't interested in fighting each other, much less
anybody else. And no planet, no matter how insignificant, is
ever below the notice of—as they deemed themselves—
interplanetary entrepreneurs.
Oha-Lau did possess one thing of value—to the jewelers if
not to the scientists or the military. This was moonrith—a
semiprecious gem, much prized in the galaxy for its soft,
translucent beauty. Any daring, enterprising businessman who
happened to find his way to Oha-Lau generally left with
enough moonrith to grant him three months of high living.
Those who entertained ideas of returning with mining ma-
chines and geologists were invariably disappointed, however,
for the natives maintained stolidly that they had no idea where
the moonrith could be located. The entrepreneur who entered
the jungle in search of it never returned.
The small green planet might have continued to circle its
unassuming sun forever ignorant of the troubles and turmoil of
the worlds beyond. But Oha-Lau was doomed, and its doom
came out of the stars as legend foretold.
Doom fell, literally, on Oha-Lau in the form of a space-

THE LOST KING
73
plane—a small fighter, to be exact—that crash-landed among
the thick foliage near one of the principle villages. The natives
were accustomed to spaceplanes landing on their planet, but
not to one smashing into the trees, cutting a wide swath of
destruction through the vegetation. In vain they waited for
something or someone to come out of the wounded bird, but
it sat still and silent.
No one dared approach it. The natives had all seen these
strange birds shoot flame from their tails and roar into the
night sky, and everyone feared this might do the same without
warning. But, finally, curiosity got the better of them. The
crippled bird appeared to be near death; it was making the
most pathetic beeping sound, and some of the young warriors
approached it, spears ready.
The bird was, indeed, dead (or it was after a spear jab killed
the object that was beeping). Its pilot was not, however. She
was unconscious, suffering from severe dehydration and
starvation—a victim of space narcosis, though the natives did
not know this. The computer system had saved her life,
guiding the craft on controls she had set when she realized she
was losing her grip on consciousness.
There was one person in the tribe who cautioned against
helping this stranger from the stars, one wise and cynical being
who reminded them of the legend and protested taking the
woman into their midst. But the gentle people ignored the old
man and brought their doom upon themselves.
The warriors lifted the pilot from the spaceplane and carried
her to the hut of the tribal healer. He had no idea what was the
matter with the young woman, but thought the symptoms
appeared similar to those experienced by his people who lost
their way in the jungle and were later found, half-crazed and
wandering. He treated the young pilot accordingly with herbs
and potions and soothing music and—either because of his
medicine or in spite of it—the pilot made a complete and rapid
recovery.
And thus was the beginning of the end. The natives did not
notice, when they buried the bird, the black carbon streaks
down the sides of the spaceplane. They saw the wrecked
deflector shields but had no idea what they meant. They could
not know, in their innocence, that their guest had been
involved in some terrible conflict and had barely escaped with
her life. They could not know that she was going to bring that
conflict to them.

74
MARGARET WEIS	1
If the young pilot had foreseen the grief and destruction she
would inadvertently bring down upon the innocent people she
would grow to love, she would have fled to an even more re-
mote part of the galaxy. But her spaceplane was at the bottom
of a bog. She herself was wounded in mind and body. Oha-Lau
was a sanctuary of peace and beauty, kindness, compassion,
smiles, and laughter. She had almost forgotten such things
existed. So she stayed on Oha-Lau and let it heal—so she
supposed—the deep gash in her soul.
The natives, usually so eager to be rid of visitors, made an
exception in the case of the young pilot. She did not ask stupid
questions about virgins. She didn't want to know where to find
moonrith. She lived among them, yet apart. She learned their
language, respected their ways, and, unconsciously, began to
exert her influence upon them.
They didn't know why, except that she had, as the old man
said, ancient eyes. Certainly the eyes of the twenty-four-
year-old woman had seen more grief and suffering and horror
than most see in a lifetime. But behind the shadow of pain and
sorrow was a wisdom and power that came from centuries of
genetic research. She had been born and bred to shape men
and events, and she could no more deny this part of her nature
than she could deny the sea-gray eyes that came from her
barbarian father or the pale, sea-foam color hair that was the
gift of her unhappy mother.
The downed pilot began her quiet rule by solving small
problems and settling minor disputes. Impressed with her skill
and tact, the elders sought her out for advice, particularly on
the handling of other-world guests. She had as great a
reluctance to encourage these unwelcome visitors to Oha-Lau
as did the natives. Her regal presence caused even the most
arrogant smuggler to regard her with awe and, without quite
knowing how, within a few years, the downed pilot had
become the beloved ruler of the people of Oha-Lau.
The woman was content. Her past, with its bitter memories,
began to fade away for her as she hoped desperately it would
do for others. Everyone must believe her to be dead. She tried
to convince herself of that, although she knew in her soul that
this was impossible. One man, at least, was aware that she
lived. But if she was very, very careful, she might remain

THE LOST KING
75
hidden from him and be able to rest on this lovely, peaceful
planet forever. Like the natives, she avoided looking up into
the stars at night.
Doom did not fall swiftly.
The woman had a gift of vision—"longsight" the natives
called it. She could see in her mind a fearsome beast approach-
ing camp and send the warriors to kill it before it could harm
anyone. She could see unwelcome visitors approaching their
planet as well, and these often found an "honor guard" waiting
for them upon their arrival. What the natives did not know, of
course, was the true power of the woman or her gift. With it,
she could see to the ends of the universe. It could reveal, if she
chose to use it, the events transpiring in the galaxy. She did
not choose to use her gift, however, having made up her mind
to shun the worlds above. But the gift was not one she had
complete control over, and sometimes the visions came to her
unbidden.
This happened the first time seventeen years after she had
arrived on the planet. One evening, while walking with her
attendants to her simple hut, she frightened them all by crying
out in anger and fear for no reason whatsoever—no reason, at
least, that they could see. She covered her face with her
hands, but she could not blot out the sight that was transpiring
before her mind's eye.
"Stavros!" she cried through her tears, forced to watch as the
dear friend and companion of her childhood died in unspeak-
able agony.
And she knew, as he died, that he had revealed the secret.
Doom was poised, ready to fall.
Her people watched her in concern after that. The woman
was preoccupied, given to pacing the smooth grassy stretches
of the garden they had made for her. Muttering strange
names, her hands twisting together, she walked back and
forth, back and forth. Then she would begin to weep and,
shaking her head, run to her hut and hide like a child in the
darkness.
Hide from what? Her people grew terrified. Was there some
dread beast in the jungle coming to attack them? Something

76
MARGARET WEIS	1
more awful than anything they had ever previously encoun-
tered?
The woman tried to reassure them. "It has nothing /o do
with you," she told them.
But this time they were more gifted with foresight than she.
Doom fell.
A heartbroken scream shattered the tropical night—a
scream of such fury and hatred, such loss and grief, that the
people, after a moment of frozen fear, rushed to their ruler's
hut in terror, expecting to find her murdered, torn apart by
some savage creature. Instead, they found the woman, shaking
with sobs, crouched on her knees beside her cot. Her atten-
dants sought to comfort her, but she would not be comforted.
Seventeen years of peace and beauty and safety had ended.
Her piercing cry had awakened everyone in the village,
filling those who heard it with vague, unknown terror. But the
woman's cry had gone far beyond the village. It echoed beyond
the green planet into the stars, carrying its message of grief
and anguish out into the galaxy. And so it was that, even as the
sword pierced her brother's body, his killer heard that cry and
knew, deep in his soul, who it was that mourned. Her hatred
and sorrow and pain touched him as nothing had touched him
in seventeen years. And he knew, if not where she was, how to
find her. The mind-link between these two, broken seventeen
years ago, was reforged.
The fate of Oha-Lau was sealed. For the first time in the
planet's history, one man now began to actively search for it.
And that made it only a matter of time before his attention was
drawn to the speck of green, sparkling like a tiny jewel on the
fingertips of the great galactic arm.
Maigrey sat cross-legged on a rattan mat inside her hut. Her
eyes were closed. She leaned back wearily against the sturdy,
living walls formed by the mothering tree—so called because
this tree, with its strong trunk and sheltering branches, could
be uprooted from its home, replanted in new ground, take root
again, and flourish. Plant many mothering trees together, side
by side, and the trunks would fuse, forming walls, the leafy
branches intertwining to create a roof so thick that only

THE LOST KING
77
minimal thatching was added to protect the dweller from the
heavy jungle rains.
Once Maigrey had loved the thought of living within a living
tree. It spoke to her of the reverence and respect these people
held for life. She was touched and amused by the name—the
mothering tree. Often, when she had awakened in the night,
tormented by some dreadful dream she could never remem-
ber, she lay upon her bed, cowering in nameless fear, only to
hear the whispered lullaby of the leaves of the mothering tree.
Though she had never known her own mother, never heard
her own mother's voice, she thought she knew the words of
that lullaby, words that came only in fragments and could
never be recalled, words spoken in a language she only
vaguely remembered. Comforted, she would fall into sweet,
dreamless sleep.
Dreamless sleep. Maigrey squeezed her eyes tightly shut
against the sun's bright glare that shone through the open
doorway and filtered down among the leaves of the tree.
Dreamless sleep.
"Heavenly Creator, is this too much to ask?" she muttered,
pressing her hands against her burning forehead. "No!" She
stared defiantly up into the branches tangled above her head.
"It is not too much and I will have it." She glared at the
inoffensive leaves, which trembled in the jungle's slight
breeze, yet seemed to be trembling at her tone of bitter anger.
"I know Your law! I will argue my case before Your Heavenly
Tribunal! 'See!' I will cry. 'See what You have made me
endure! And I have borne it all—the pain, the suffering—
without complaint. I kept my vow. I did,'" she repeated
angrily. "'Did You keep Yours?' Ha!"
That vicious "Ha!" startled an old man entering the hut.
Cringing, he made as if to back away, but Maigrey—seeing
him—rose hastily to her feet.
"Please, Healer, please come in. I am sorry if I offended
you. I wasn't talking to you. I . . . was talking ... to
myself ..."
Nodding and shrugging, the old man hobbled into the hut.
He was a very old man, this ancient healer. So old that the
children of the companions of his youth were now dying of old
age.
"I am meant to see the end," he used to say, and he always
said it in the tone of voice of one who is cursed.
Shuffling across the dirt floor of the hut, he eyed Maigrey

78
MARGARET WEIS	1
with a shrewd, eager gaze in which there was a gleam of hope.
The woman spread a fresh mat upon the floor of her hut,
knowing that the old man would appreciate the gesture of
respect. He did so, lowering himself onto the mat awkwardly
and slowly with a great show of infirmity. Maigrey knew this
bone-creaking was show—the day the tiger wandered into the
village the spry old man outran most of the young warriors.
But the shaking legs and snapping bones gained him many
advantages—the best place by the campfire, the choicest bits
from the dinner pots, nubile young women to aid his feeble
steps.
Kneeling down on her own mat facing him, Maigrey smiled
at the old man nervously. "Have you brought it today?"
The old man glowered at her, as if wondering why she
should ask such a fool question, though he had been three days
before without bringing it. Of course he had brought it. He
made a major production of fumbling at the knot of a ragged
scrip hanging from a rope tied around his shriveled middle.
Maigrey's hands twitched to snatch it from him, but she dared
not anger him and could only sit and wait in impatience that
the old eyes were quick to note.
He drew it forth slowly and tossed it onto the mat between
them. "I have brought what you requested, Sea-Eyes," he said
in a quavering voice that was probably as phony as his creaking
legs.
"Will it work as they say?" Oddly she made no move to touch
it now that it lay within her reach.
"Yes, yes!" The old man waved a gnarled hand at the pouch.
"Boil the bark in water until the green foam rises. Drink it,
then—"
"Slowly? Swiftly?" Maigrey stared at the pouch in fascina-
tion.
"Oh, slowly. The taste is said to be quite exquisite and you
might as well enjoy it going down."
"And then?"
"You will begin to feel very tired. "
"No pain?"
"None. Lay yourself down. It would be of help to your
women," the old man hinted, "if you were to dress yourself in
the burial gown beforehand."
I understand," Maigrey said, swallowing a sudden wild
burst of laughter that welled up from her knotted stomach.
neacning out with a firm and steady hand, she lifted the
pouch and opened it casually, sniffing at the contents as if she

THE LOST KING
79
were buying spices in the market. The smell was pleasant,
even enticing. The old man watched her without expression.
"Will your death stop the grandfathers?" he asked suddenly.
"I—I don't know," Maigrey faltered, unable to meet his
eyes. "I hope so."
"We will hold the funeral many days," the old man promised
pathetically, spreading his hands. "Many days -we will cele-
brate and beat the drums. Surely they will hear and go away?"
Maigrey had a sudden vision of her corpse, lying for days in
the jungle heat. "Yes," she murmured. "Yes, they will hear and
they will leave." Rising to her feet, she was about to offer the
old man food and drink, as was customary.
Her eyes opened wide. The words caught in her throat; she
nearly strangled.
The old man, watching her closely, saw her pale face
become paler still, her eyes stare in disbelief. His back to the
door, he turned his head quickly to see what had terrified his
ruler.
It was a spirit.
The old man had never seen a spirit, but he wasn't
particularly surprised by this one's appearance in his camp. At
the old man's time of life, nothing much surprised him any-
more. He might have been frightened if the spirit had ap-
peared hostile. It didn't. It just looked tired, as though it
hadn't slept in a long, long time. It made no threatening move
or gesture, but stood in the doorway, staring inside with a
wistful expression.
And it suddenly occurred to the old man that no one had
greeted the spirit or asked it to enter.
The old man gathered himself together and rose to his feet.
"Welcome, spirit," he said with a bow that sounded—from
the cracking bones—as if he'd been snapped in two. As near as
he could recall, a spirit had to be invited inside a dwelling or
it couldn't pass beyond the threshold. He glanced at Maigrey.
It was her dwelling, after all. She said nothing, simply stared
at the spirit, the bag of lovepoison clutched tightly in her hand.
Edging over to the woman, the old man gave her a poke
with his finger. "Ask it in!"
"Platus!" Maigrey whispered.
The old man looked back at the spirit, thinking that perhaps
this was some sort of invitation, spoken in the strange language
that the woman spoke to herself sometimes. But apparently it

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wasn't. The spirit remained standing in the door, regarding the
woman with sad eyes.
Maigrey turned her back on the spirit.
"No, no!" screeched the old man, appalled. He'd never
visited with a spirit before, and, by the gods, he wasn't going
to lose this one. "Come in, honored spirit," he said, shoving his
own fresh mat across the floor with his foot. "I am not the
owner of this lodge"—a rebuking look at Maigrey—"but I am
the elder of the village"—a proud lifting of the head—"and as
such I invite you to be our guest."
The spirit looked from Maigrey to the old man and back to
Maigrey again with some astonishment.
"I don't know," Maigrey said in a helpless tone. "I don't
know why he can see you, Platus. Unless Whoever sent you
needs a witness."
"He needs no witness, sister," Platus said in the mild voice
Maigrey remembered so well, though she had not heard it in
seventeen years. "He is all-seeing, all-knowing. And all-
forgiving, as I have reason to know."
The old man had no idea what was being said, since the two
spoke in an unfamiliar language. He saw the spirit still
standing in the entrance to the hut and poked Maigrey again.
"Come in," she said dully, with a halfhearted, despairing
gesture. She pressed the knuckles of the hand that held the
bag into her mouth, but it did no good. She began to cry.
The spirit entered and came to stand beside the woman. Its
hands reached out to comfort her, but there is no comfort the
dead can offer the living. It must be a new spirit, the old man
thought, not to know that.
The spirit was kin to the woman, the old man realized:
slender build, pale hair, the features were similar though the
mold from which they had been cast seemed to have been
made stronger when it formed the woman. This was a family
matter, then. The old man knew he must leave. He did so, but
not before he had spoken his mind.
I mistrust you are from the grandfathers, spirit," he said.
"Perhaps you have been sent to lead your kin to her rest. I
hope she will not keep you waiting long." The old man cast a
meaningful glance at the bag Maigrey held in her hand. "Tell
the grandfathers they do not need to come. The funeral will be
a fine one, very fine." He repeated this several times, bobbing
in the entrance of the hut. Then, finally, he was gone.
The evening air, fragrant with the perfume of growing

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things, drifted into the hut. It was the wind's gentle touch that
Maigrey felt on her shoulders, not the hands of the spirit. But
the fingers grazed her soul, if not her flesh. Raising her head
and moving away from the spirit, she stared straight ahead
defiantly, blinking the tears from her eyes.
"It's good to see you, Platus. How have you been?" she
started to ask casually, then broke off with a hysterical giggle
that ended in a sob. God! What a stupid question!
"I meant, where are . . . were you living? What have
you . . . were you doing ... all this time?" she stam-
mered. Rubbing the heel of her hand in her eyes, she dragged
it across her nose, sniffing.
"Still the same as when you were young," Platus said,
smiling sadly, fondly. "Never a handkerchief. What was the
name of that captain friend of yours who used to carry a spare
for you in his uniform—"
"Don't start, brother!" Maigrey whispered, her eyes on the
ground at her feet. "I can't bear it. Not now."
"I lived on a planet named Syrac Seven. Stavros, Danha,
and I chose it because it was on a major trade route with good
channels of communication and there are large portions of it
that remain undeveloped. It was easy for me to lose myself
there—with him," he added in wistful tones. "Danha and
Stavros left me, and went their separate ways. You know, I
suppose, what happened?"
Maigrey glanced at him unhappily. "I know about Stavros,"
she said, a catch in her throat. "But . . . not Danha, too?"
"Five years ago. And others before. One by one, Maigrey,
Sagan tracked them down, broke them, forced them to betray
their fellows. And so the end came, inexorably."
"And so it will come to me. I've made my decision."
"Your decision is the wrong one. You know it, Maigrey.
Seventeen years ago you fought for your life—"
"Did I?" she demanded, turning suddenly to confront him.
"Did I? Or did I betray us? Seventeen years ago, did I betray
my king?"
"Maigrey"—Platus appeared confused—"I don't under-
stand! What do you mean, did you betray us? Of course, you
didn't! You led the fight against Sagan!"
"Perhaps that was all part of his plan! Don't you see? I must
have known!" Maigrey cried, twisting the leather bag in her
hands. "He must have told me in advance! He told me

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everything! I knew him, better than anyone! We were mind-
linked! How could I not have known?"
"Maigrey, this is . . . irrational! Because of you, we es-
caped him! Don't you remember?"
"No, I don't remember!" Her clenched fists pressed her
forehead. "I remember only fragments of what happened that
night! The doctors said I might never remember."
"Maigrey, I can tell you what happened—"
She shook her head impatiently. "I know what happened!
I've been told what happened! In the hospital, when f was
recovering, I saw them look at me. I saw them thinking, 'Why
you? Why did you survive when so many others died?' Don't
you see, Platus?" She stared at him, beseeching him to
understand. "He let me live! There had to be some reason!
That's why I ran away. I didn't want to hear him say, 'Let us
congratulate ourselves, my lady. Our plan worked. None of
them suspect. "
"No! No, I don't believe it, Maigrey. You were wild, willful.
But you were always honorable. A true daughter of our father.
My God," Platus continued in a low voice, "don't you remem-
ber that time our father made us watch when he tortured that
man? The one who had betrayed a friend—"
"And Sagan was my friend! No matter what choice I made,
I ended up betraying somebody!" Her laughter cracked and
she gritted her teeth, fighting not to lose control. "But that is
all past. The mind-link is reforged. He is coming to seize me
and you say that he should find me alive? You know the
danger. He will use me to locate the boy."
"No, sister. You will use him."
Maigrey looked at her brother, puzzled. He did not explain,
and she shook her head. "Riddles! You haven't changed," she
muttered, regarding Platus with the same impatience and
frustration she had felt around him seventeen years ago.
When his spirit had first appeared to her in the hut, she saw
him as she had known him earlier—the older brother, the
scholarly genius, whose sensitive, expressive face no amount
of armor or military training could mold into the hard, cold
face of a warrior. The spirit seemed to age, though, when he
spoke of his past, and Maigrey saw Platus as he must have
looked when he died—a man in his late forties with the mild
face and vacant eyes of one who had taken to gazing far away
in search of a reality that is close at hand.
You will use him. Suddenly, she understood.

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83
"Oh, no!" she protested.
"I am sorry, Maigrey," Platus answered, the thin, shimmer-
ing shoulders slumping in defeat. "I failed. You see, the boy
has no idea of ... of anything."
Maigrey regarded him silently, impassively. "Nothing?"
Platus shook his head. "I hoped they'd forget about him. I
hoped they would never find out. I love Dion, Maigrey. I love
him as I have loved nothing in this life! All I wanted was that
Dion be—" Platus drew a soft breath—-"ordinary."
If a spirit could have wept, this one would have. But tears
are a comfort the dead are denied.
"You still don't understand, do you, brother?" Maigrey said,
wearily dragging her sweat-damp hair back from her face.
Walking to the door of the hut, she stood there, letting the
evening breeze dry her fevered skin. Her gaze went to the
stars, burning coldly above. She hadn't looked at them for a
long, long time and now her heart ached with memories. "We
are born to be what we are. We can't escape it. The boy can't
escape it!" Turning to face her brother, she asked impatiently,
"Surely he must have wondered. Didn't he ever question?
Around other people, didn't he—"
"He was never around other people. I raised him . . .
isolated, alone. We didn't need other people. We had our
studies, our music. He was happy, Maigrey. He truly was! And
so was I. These last seventeen years of peace were the blessing
of my life."
"Yes, I can imagine," Maigrey answered, looking around at
her own peaceful surroundings. The two stood silently, their
thoughts on the boy—one recalling pleasant memories, one
trying desperately to recall any memories at all.
"Who does ... he look like, Platus?"
"He takes after his father's side. Anyone who knew the
Starfires will recognize him instantly—the cobalt blue eyes,
the red-golden hair that gave them their name."
"What is there of . . . Semele?" This question was so low,
the spirit could not have heard it spoken had he not heard it
first in his heart.
"Her spirit. The boy has strength, resolve, firmness of
purpose. In that, he is not like his father."
"Thank the Creator," Maigrey muttered.
"Thank Him? For what?" Platus retorted. "I did everything
possible to protect the boy, to save him . . . but it was all
wrong, it seems. Even my death was meaningless, since it

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revealed you to our enemy. Now Dion is out there alone, with
no knowledge of who he is, no understanding. You must find
him, Maigrey. You must try to warn him, to ... to tell him.
To ... to do something!"
"But if I find him, Sagan finds him! And how long do you
think Derek will let me live after that?"
'"Two must walk the paths of darkness to reach the
light . . ."' Platus murmured.
"Don't ever speak that, brother . . . ever! I fulfilled their
damned prophecy! I walked the paths of darkness! For seven-
teen years, I've walked them! How could you understand? You
were always weak, Platus. You wanted to save the boy, you
say. Save him from what? Himself? From being one of us?
Ordinary! Yes, you fought all your life to be ordinary! And
that's the reason you've been doomed to living death! Because
in life you refused to accept what you were!"
"And I would do it all over again," Platus returned with
quiet dignity. "I came because I thought you could help,
Maigrey. I hoped time had changed you. But now I wonder if
I did right. When you find Dion, sister, look at him, look at
him closely. You will see a gentle, sensitive, caring young man.
Hold that image of him in your heart, because it will not be
there long. You and Sagan, between you, will corrupt him."
The spirit's face became anguished, his voice broke with the
tears he could not shed. "May the Creator grant that my spirit
finds rest before I see that happen!"
The incorporeal body began to fade.
"Platus!" Maigrey stretched forth her hand as though she
could grasp the ephemeral being and hold it fast. "I'm sorry!
Don't leave me. I'm frightened! I can't face this alone!"
"Who is it that you fear, sister? 'Know your enemy.' Wasn't
that what our commander always told us? Do you know the
enemy, Maigrey? The true enemy?"
The voice died away on the fragrant winds; the presence of
the spirit died in Maigrey's heart. But the words remained,
rankling, like a barbed arrow that could not be removed
without drawing life's blood with it.
Know your enemy. . . . Who is it that you fear?
Slowly, the leather pouch slipped from Maigrey's hand and
fell, unnoticed, to the floor. Her gaze was focused on a metal
trunk that stood—had stood for seventeen years—at the foot of
her cot.

THE LOST KING
85
Seventeen years ago, she had hauled it from her damaged
plane. She had never, until now, opened it.
Kneeling down, she fumbled at the crude lock. The combi-
nation was easy to remember—the anniversary of her birth,
the anniversary of her mother's death. The hinges had rusted
in the damp tropical climate; they screeched shrilly as she
prized the lid open. Only two objects were inside the trunk.
One was a worn, green, canvas flight bag. The other, a
shapeless bundle of stained cloth. Her hand went to the cloth
bundle, her fingers gently touching the reddish brown
splotches. She started to draw back the cloth, uncover the
object wrapped in the blood-splattered shroud.
Maigrey hesitated, then dropped the bundle and picked up
the flight bag. She held it in her lap, running her hand over the
rough fabric, her fingers toying with the rusted buckles.
Undoing the straps with a trembling hand, Maigrey lifted the
flap and dumped the contents of the bag onto the dirt floor.
There wasn't much—just what she had been able to lay hold
of in the darkness the night she'd escaped. She hadn't been
thinking clearly. They'd given her drugs, but that hadn't eased
the pain. Nothing short of death itself could have eased that
pain!
A bar of hospital soap, still in its wrapper. A small bottle of
shampoo, a washrag, and a towel. Odd, how the mind will run
on little things, the small wheels keeping the larger turning.
She had packed as if going on weekend leave. A hairbrush,
strands of pale hair caught in it. A small rosewood box.
Maigrey's hand lingered on this box; the smooth wood always
seemed alive to her touch.
But, like the bloodstained bundle, she did not pick up the
box either. Her hand went instead to another object. She
raised it up and, for the first time in seventeen years, Maigrey
looked at herself in a mirror.
The face was older, more solemn than the face of the
twenty-four-year-old young woman who—in a half-drugged,
wholly despairing state—had thrown these random articles
into a flight bag. Long, pale hair fell from a center part down
around her face, cascaded over her shoulders. The pain
returned, burning, throbbing.
Raising her hand, Maigrey touched the terrible, disfiguring
scar—a jagged slash of white that ran from her right temple
down her cheek, brushed past the corner of her lip, and ended
at the chin

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A voice came to her, repeating the phrase. This time, it
wasn't her brother's. It was her commander's.
Know your enemy.
"I do, Sagan," Maigrey said, her hand tracing the scar,
flinching with pain as though the fingers were the blade of the
sword that inflicted it.
She lay down wearily on the floor of the hut, her head
pillowed on the flight bag. Reaching out, she touched the face
in the mirror.
"I know my enemy. And I fear her more than death!"

Chapter ^^ Eight
History—a distillation of rumor.
Thomas Carlyle, The French Revolution
Tusk awoke with a start. Rolling out of his chair, he cracked
his shin on something and groped about in the darkness,
cursing fluently beneath his breath.
"Lights!" he hissed, massaging his bruised leg.
The lights on the bridge flashed on with a brightness and
suddenness that caused Tusk to move his hand from his leg to
his eyes. "Damn!" he swore. "Turn 'em down!"
The lights dimmed. "Too much jump-juice," XJ com-
mented.
"Shut up. I did not. Now be quiet. Listen—"
The computer was silent.
Blinking his eyes, Tusk leaned forward, waiting for the
sound that had awakened him from his nap.
"I don't—"
"Shhhh!" Tusk gave the computer a thump that caused it to
whir in irritation. "There it is!" he said, cocking his head. His
brow furrowed. "What the deuce is it? I've heard this ship
make a lot of weird noises before, but I can't place that. Maybe
it's the coupling on the—"
A sound vaguely reminiscent of an asthmatic, laughing
monkey came from the computer.
"What's so funny?" Tusk growled. "If it is the coupling you
won't be laughing long because—"
"You're juiced. It's a syntharp."
"Sinwhat?"
"Harp. Syntharp. Definition: 'An electronic musical instru-
ment with beams of light spanning an open, triangular frame.
When the light beams are broken by the passage of the fingers
across them—'"
87

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"I know what it is," Tusk snapped, rubbing his injured leg
again. "Just why the hell is it?"
"Kid's got it. Go take a look. I was going to wake you,
anyway. We're coming to the end of the Lane in twenty-nine
minutes and fifteen seconds. I need to know what course to
set."
"Harp," Tusk repeated gloomily. Limping across the deck,
he caught hold of the ladder and cautiously and quietly pulled
himself up far enough so that he could see through the hatch
to the living quarters above.
It was dark, and Tusk could barely make out the kid, lying
propped up in his hammock, the glowing instrument in his
hands. Dion's blue eyes, glinting in light reflected from the
syntharp's "strings," stared out into a pain-filled landscape with
a fierce, rapt intensity that made the boy appear spellbound.
His music ached with the pain of his vision, and made Tusk feel
suddenly very much alone. Bitter memories came to mind: his
father's hand grasping his in agony, refusing the easeful drugs
until Danha had heard his son swear to fulfill his dying
request . . . the last, shuddering gasps for breath.
Mad at the boy and mad at himself for being mad, Tusk
swung back down the ladder, landing on the deck with a thud.
"Hush," XJ said. "You'll disturb the kid."
"Hell!" Tusk snorted, returning to his seat. "I could blow the
rivets out of this mother and the kid'd never miss a note. He's
off in some other universe, which is where he's going as soon
as we can find someplace to unload him."
Muttering to himself, Tusk glanced at the half-full bottle
sitting snugly in its compartment within arm's reach of his
chair. XJ saw the look. The lights on the bridge flickered.
"All right, lay off. I'm going to work," Tusk muttered, adding
a few other colorful phrases beneath his breath. "Course
change." Sitting forward, he began punching up star charts on
the computer screen and stared at them, bleary-eyed. "God,
I m half-asleep! Must be that blasted music. Give me our
location. How close are we to Dagot?" Tusk rubbed his eyes
and studied the coordinates. "That's good. Real good. Look up
the name of that city on Dagot where old Sykes has his military
academy, will you? We'll deposit the kid there. Sykes owes me
his life. He'll take good care of him."
Tusk leaned back comfortably in his seat and reached for the
bottle. The harp music had changed. Still sad, it was peaceful
now. Death was not the end. There was a greater good. Tusk

THE LOST KING
89
heard the prayer spoken over his father's body during the
funeral—a funeral that had been held in secret in the middle
of the night by a priest who had himself been in fear of his life.
The clamp that held the bottle in place during flight refused
to unlock.
"Hey, let go!" Tusk commanded the computer. He glared at
XJ. "Say, didn't I give you a course change? Let's see those
lights flash. Let's hear that disk whir—"
"I like the kid," XJ said.
"Son of the Creator!" Tusk swore in profound astonishment.
"That's impossible. You're not programmed to like anyone."
"Liking is an emotional state, therefore it is supposedly an
attribute of so-called intelligent life-forms. But you underesti-
mate me. I like the boy for logical, unemotional reasons based
solely on his future worth."
"Hah! A kid who doesn't even know his own name, and
you're talking future worth? Besides, from what I've seen,
people who hang around him don't have a future!"
Tusk gave the bottle another, surreptitious tug, just to see if
the computer had forgotten. It hadn't.
"I've been thinking about this," he continued, hoping to
distract XJ, "and there's a lot about this kid that doesn't add up.
At first, I figured he was the son of some Guardian, trying to
escape the Warlord. But I'm the son of a Guardian. They
tortured and murdered my father and you don't see Lord
Sagan taking any wild personal interest in me, do you?"
"Not up until now," returned the computer in ominous
tones.
Tusk grunted, scowling, and propped his feet up on the
control panel.
"Then I decided the kid must be Sagan's son. I discarded
that, though. I've seen custody fights over kids before and they
get pretty messy sometimes, but we're talking swords and
fancy armor here, not to mention the disruption of an entire
planet."
"Not to mention the rumors floating around the service to
the effect that Lord Sagan doesn't like women."
"He's not discriminatory. He doesn't like men either. He
doesn't like anyone, in fact. And quit interrupting me. Where
was I? Oh, yeah. I tell you, XJ, this kid is special to someone
or maybe a whole bunch of someones. And I don't even like to
think who they might be. The sooner we get rid of him, the
better. For all of us. The kid included."

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"I find that very interesting," XJ mused. "It never ceases to
amaze me how you humans come up with intelligent ideas
following the most chaotic thought processes. Kid special to
someone. We know who at least one someone is. I'll search my
files and see if there's anything that ties together the boy and
the Warlord. Despite what you say, Sagan's human, after all.
Although much superior to most, I might add. Still, in a
moment of weakness, he might have made a tiny little mistake.
How old is the boy? Seventeen? Born the year of the
revolution. That's interesting."
"Is it? Check on the couple of hundred million other kids
born that year while you're at it," Tusk commented, yawning.
XJ ignored him, its lights flashing in a subdued, studious
manner.
"Hey! What about the course change?" Tusk asked, thump-
ing the computer's terminal.
"The boy could be worth his weight in golden eagles," XJ
snapped. "And you want to hand him over to that pompous ass
Sykes? I suggest we make no decisions without having more
data. I'll bring us out of the Jump. Why don't you find us a nice
little war where we can pick up some quick cash and relax
while we decide what to do next?"
"Military academy!" Tusk reiterated, glaring at the com-
puter. Realizing that XJ was ignoring him—and that the
computer wouldn't release the bottle—Tusk flopped himself
back into his chair, activated the vid screen, and inserted a
new Mercenary Mag disk he'd picked up on Syrac Seven.
"Classified," he ordered.
"Personals? Spaceplanes? Weapons?" the mag inquired.
"Conflicts," Tusk said. He noticed that the harp music had
stopped. Dion must have fallen asleep. Tusk hoped the kid had
made peace with the demons who hounded a man after the
death of someone he loved . . . and hated.
"Blood feuds, corporate wars, interplanetary wars, intra-
planet wars, interstellar wars—"
"No blood feuds, mag. Those guys get carried away, never
know when to quit. Closest I ever got to being blown to cosmic
dust was in a blood feud. And no religious wars. Those bastards
are sore losers, sacrifice you on the spot if you retreat.
Fortunately"—Tusk adjusted himself more comfortably in his
chair—"there're enough planetary wars to go around. Give us
that list, will you?"
The mag complied. Tusk scanned the list, frowning. That

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91
one was too risky, he decided. Like siblings who have learned
to argue quietly lest it bring down the wrath of their parents,
conflicting groups were constantly mindful of the watchful eye
of the Warlords. There had been following the revolution, an
increase in the demand for mercenaries.
The revolution had been well planned. The night the king
met his death in the Glitter Palace, certain hand-picked rebel
officers in the Royal Armed Forces had stepped in to take
command, either killing or imprisoning those superiors loyal
to the king. The takeover occurred simultaneously in every
major system, on every planet, in every unit. But an operation
that big can't go unnoticed. Many commanders had known
something was up and—so it was rumored—had tried desper-
ately to convince their king of the danger. Amodius Starfire
had refused to heed their warnings. A devoutly religious man,
he believed that he ruled by divine right, that the Creator
would never allow the monarchy to fall.
Many soldiers in the Royal Armed Forces died in the coup
that night, but it was discovered the next day—the day that
became known among the revolutionaries as Coffin Run
because of the huge numbers of orders for coffins—that many
more royalists had escaped. At first the Revolutionary
Congress had ordered these soldiers hunted down and de-
stroyed. This grisly quest took up time, money, and man-
power, and eventually the Congress—concerned with holding
elections, placing their candidates in office, and a myriad other
functions—ordered that the search for those still misguidedly
loyal to a dead king be called off.
For many of these men and women, soldiering was the only
trade they knew, and they began to sell their services to the
highest bidder. And there were always plenty of bidders.
Although the Commonwealth preached peace and brother-
hood among the nations (and maintained, every election cycle,
that this goal was near fulfillment), the truth was that there
were just as many or possibly more conflicts under the new
regime as there had been under the old one.
The citizen generals were supposed to keep peace with their
sectors, but they protested to the Congress that they wasted
time and money putting out minor flare-ups. The Congress, in
response, established intervention guidelines. Cities, states,
corporations, and planets were allowed their bickerings and
squabbles as long as they posed no threat to the sector or the
galaxy at large. Mercenaries could find work in almost any of
these conflicts. Those soldiers of fortune who, like Tusk, were

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hot carefully avoided any conflict that might attract undue
attention.
The Warlords knew that the Congress was never likely to
bring peace to the quarreling systems. The Congress itself
rarely agreed on anything, although their press releases would
have people believe otherwise. There'd been no major system
wars, but that was due to the generals, not to the Congress or
the President. And now the generals were eyeing each other
askance—or so rumor had it. Rumor also had it that one or two
major systems were considering pulling their money and
support out of the Republic. Secession. Civil war. Tusk
immediately crossed these off his mental list. Step over the
Warlords' unseen boundaries and reprisal would be swift and
deadly.
"Nope." Tusk scanned the rows of code names and numbers
that every mercenary could easily translate. "Too small. No
money. And that one's too big. Four planets and a moon?
Nuclear bombs? Couldn't pay me enough." He continued to
read to the end of the column, thinking that the military
academy might win out by default. Then he whistled. There it
was.
"Here's something, XJ." Tusk read off the coordinates to the
computer. "Vangelis."
"Planetary war, right?"
"Intraplanet. Nothing likely to involve the big boys."
"Money?"
"You bet. Guess who's in charge? John Dixter."
"General Dixter? Excellent. Well, have you made up your
mind? Do I plot a course for Vangelis or Dagot?"
"Dixter'd be a good man for the kid to know. He taught me
a lot. We could always take Dion to Dagot later. It's the middle
of the semester, anyway," he added for the computer's benefit.
Blinking in triumph, XJ placed the spaceplane on a new
heading and returned to its studies.
Tusk sat back in his chair. Now that they were out of Jump,
he could watch the stars. He considered ordering XJ to make
the Jump again—there was a Lane to Vangelis from this
location, he was certain. But, after consideration, Tusk re-
jected the idea. Never wise to Jump into a war zone. Approach
cautiously, monitor the transmissions. Vangelis wasn't that far.
Traveling close to light speed, the trip would probably take
them a week or so.
"I've got a lot to teach the kid, anyway," Tusk reflected.

THE LOST KING
93
"Wouldn't do to land him cold in the middle of a war. Not that
he's gonna start shooting or anything," the mercenary added
hastily, going cold at the thought. "Still, he should know how
to use a lasgun. Maybe I'll give him some lessons on flying."
Tusk grinned. This might be fun. There was nothing more
boring than space flight. He and XJ got on each other's nerves.
It would be good to have someone else to talk to. Someone
human.
Tusk yawned again and stretched. He had another bottle
hidden in his locker. "I'm going to lie down," he said, heaving
himself out of his chair. But before he could reach the ladder,
XJ-27 began to flash and whir in as much excitement as the
computer was programmed to exhibit.
"Tusk"—it spoke in a subdued voice, pitched low, appar-
ently, so as not to wake the sleeping boy—"sit down in front of
the vid screen. You're not going to believe what I'm about to
show you!"
"Do I really want to know?"
"Why do humans fear knowledge?" XJ demanded irritably.
"Because we've seen what can happen when we get too
smart. We built computers, for one thing," Tusk said, pleased.
He rarely put one over on XJ, and he considered that he'd
scored a point. He thought longingly of the bottle. "Is this
gonna take long? I don't think I can stay awake."
"Oh, you'll stay awake all right."
Not liking XJ's tone, Tusk sat back down and cleared the mag
off the computer screen. At first the screen was blank, then
column after column of extremely fine print scrolled into view.
Tusk groaned. "Come off it, will you? What is this?" He
peered at it closely. "Why, it's a blasted government docu-
ment! You expect me to read that? Condense it!"
With a vicious bleep, XJ killed the image on the screen.
There was a momentary pause, then several short paragraphs
appeared.
"That's better." Tusk settled back. "Hey, where'd you get
this stuff?" He sat forward suddenly. "It's marked classified!"
"I was tied into Lord Sagan's central computer for updated
mechanical data before we . . . er . . . departed his ser-
vice, and while I was there I did some browsing around on my
own. Picked up a few things that interested me, mostly about
the revolution. Never know when that sort of stuff can come in
handy."
"Yeah? For what?"

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"Blackmail, for one," XJ said smugly.
Tusk said something beneath his breath.
"What was that?" XJ demanded.
"I said when you decide to blackmail Derek Sagan, let me
know so I can watch him rip your electronic guts out with his
bare hands. Now go on, before I fall asleep."
"This data you will find particularly interesting. Much about
what truly happened that night in the Glitter Palace was kept
secret for fear of adverse public reaction. When Robes siezed
control, he moved quickly to present his side of the story to the
general populace. One of the first orders of business, there-
fore, was to secure all palace records. Much was destroyed, or
at least so the people believe. I'll bet the press'd be real
interested to know how much Warlord Sagan retains in his
files."
"Uh-huh. And you found it all, right?"
"No, of course not! The Warlord's got it locked up so tight
that even he probably can't remember how to access it. But
there were a few things lying around that he apparently didn't
consider important. Like this. It's just a file that a data record
computer—"
"A what?"
"Data record computer. Lots of big corporations and all the
government offices have them. In this instance, small cameras
and tiny microphones located in all the rooms of the Glitter
Palace fed information to this central computer. It analyzed all
the data it received and noted down events by date and time.
The information recorded is pretty cryptic. It wasn't meant to
go into detail, after all. It was designed for use by historians
and those in charge of budgets. But you can read between the
lines. I've deleted what's not appropriate."
Tusk grunted. He could hear the boy stir in his hammock
and he suddenly realized how truly tired he was. Rubbing his
eyes again, he blinked at the screen. "T800 hours. Colonel
Derek Sagan, Golden Squadron, arrives at Palace. 1809 hours.
Colonel Derek Sagan, Golden Squadron, requests audience
with King Amodius Starfire. 1830 hours. King Amodius Star-
fire denies Colonel Sagan.' Hey, hold that a moment." Tusk's
interest quickened. "That's odd, isn't it? Why would Sagan
request an audience with the man he was going to betray and
murder?"
2 wondered that myself. Keep reading."
1831 hours. Cook removes one side of beef from freezing

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95
chamber. 1832. Cook requests following: one sack potatoes,
two sacks flour, two sacks sugar—' What the hell is this?"
"Sorry. Slipped by me. Supply list. I told you, this computer
recorded everything, including information on running the
household."
"'Salt, mousetraps . . .' Would you get rid of this? Thanks.
Here we go. '1900 hours. Changing of the guard. Arrival of the
Guardians. Guest list—'"
"They were coming to attend the banquet in honor of their
victory over the Corasians," XJ said.
"Yeah. Hey, don't roll that by so fast. There's my father's
name. You know, he never talked to anyone about what
happened that night. Not that I ever asked him. I was a stupid,
blaster-happy kid. What did I care about the old man and his
war stories? Now I wish I had. It might have helped me
understand why they did . . . what they did to him."
"The Guardians were all in attendance," XJ told him. "That
was why the rebels chose that night to attack."
"'2200 hours. Enemy forces launch assault against Glitter
Palace. 2229 hours. Enemy forces invade palace. "' Tusk shook
his head. "Read between the lines, you said. This is spooky.
Think about this machine, calmly recording all this while
hundreds of people fought for their lives."
"The battle was hopeless from the beginning," XJ said.
"Robes had everything under control. His plan was brilliant.
The only ones who could have possibly hoped to stop the
revolution were the Guardians. They alone had the influence
with the people to prevent the coup from succeeding—or at
least make it pretty tough. And here they were, locked in a
banquet chamber—weaponless as befitted a ceremony of
state. All but one of them, of course. He had his weapon—"
"'2230 hours. Death of Aladais Arocus Amodius Starfire.
2230.15 hours. General chaos.' This machine had a gift for
understatement, didn't it? How many of the Guardians died
that night?"
"Hundreds. The true count was never known, of course.
Robes put out orders to find any who escaped and bring them
to trial—the last of the supporters of the tyrannical monarchy.
The most famous of all those who escaped alive were the
members of the Golden Squadron. That included your
father—"
"I sometimes think he wished he hadn't. He was a changed
man when he came back. I was only nine, but I remember.

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MARGARET WEIS	1
That's when things started going wrong between us. Damn it!"
Tusk slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair. "I didn't
understand! Why didn't he take the time to tell me, to explain?
But no. He was so blasted proud—"
"All right, all right. You can spend the night kicking
yourself. We're coming up on what I want you to read. Where
was I? Oh, yeah. The Golden Squadron. You know the old
story that went around about them. How they had supposedly
agreed to go along with their commander, Derek Sagan, and
lead the revolt, but they betrayed him at the last moment.
Because of that, he's been making this notorious 'hunt' for
them for the past seventeen years—royalists, enemies of the
people, and all that."
"That was why he murdered my father."
"But why torture him?"
Tusk stood up. "This is stupid. I don't want to read any
more—"
"Listen to me!" XJ insisted. "If this search for the Guardians
was politically motivated, as the Congress keeps insisting,
then why take your father off and torture him? Why not a
public trial and execution? No, they're after something . . .
or someone."
"And you think we've found him? A seventeen-year-old kid?
Why?" '
"Read on!" XJ was triumphant. "I have the answer."
Tusk lowered himself back into the chair. "I'll give you five
minutes, then I'm gone. This better be good. Let's see, 2230
hours, death of Aladais Arocus Amodius Starfire and so
on . . . '2230.30 hours. Child born to Princess Semele Star-
fire. Son.'"
Tusk flexed his hands. His fingers had gone numb with cold,
though there were beads of sweat on his upper lip. "Did you
turn down the heat again?"
"Put on a sweater." XJ's screen went blank for a moment.
"We're conserving fuel. It costs, you know. Enough of the data
computer. Look at this."
"A genealogy!" Tusk wiped his hand over his mouth. "First
supply lists, now begats and begots."
"Shut up and read."
"Okay, so the lady had impressive relatives. So what?"
"Lady Semele Starfire. A direct descendant of the Royal
Family—on both sides. Father and mother were cousins. And

THE LOST KING
97
she was the king's sister-in-law. Her husband was the younger
brother. Now look at this."
"A death list. Oh, wonderful. We're going from bad to
worse."
"All those in the Glitter Palace whose deaths were recorded
during that night," XJ said. "I'll bet this is one of the only
accurate lists to have survived. You'll note the names of
Guardians. This is, of course, how Sagan knew who was alive
and who wasn't. One of his staff members must have made this
list before the palace was destroyed. Scan down. There you go.
'Semele Starfire.'"
"Poor woman. I can imagine—"
"Keep reading!"
"All right!" Tusk snarled. "There, I'm finished. So what?"
"What about her baby?"
"What about the baby?"
"It wasn't listed."
"So." Tusk heaved himself out of the chair. "It's too friggin'
cold in here. Something's wrong with the life-support sys-
tems—"
"Tusk—"
"Look, you could easily miss a dead baby in all that
confusion. I'm going to bed. You trash this stuff and work on
life-support—"
"The computer listed dead servants, janitors. Here's the
cook and her helpers. It wouldn't miss a baby, Tusk," XJ
continued relentlessly. "Especially a direct descendant of the
Royal Family. Especially a child who was, at that moment, heir
to the throne!"
The computer hummed to itself in satisfaction.
Snorting, Tusk slammed his hand down on the controls,
erasing the screen. "Not a word to the kid, understand?"
"Sure." The computer began shutting itself down for the
night.
Tusk climbed the ladder slowly. His legs felt heavy, his feet
were numb. Probably from the cold. Pulling himself up into
his living quarters, he started to activate the lights, then
remembered. The kid was asleep. Fumbling around in the
dark, Tusk found his locker, opened it, and retrieved the
bottle. He swung himself into his hammock, lay back and
swallowed a mouthful of the intoxicant known as jump-juice
because its effects were supposedly similar to those experi-
enced making the Jump to hyperspace. Tusk sighed as the

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MARGARET WEIS	1
soothing liquid slid down his throat, leaving a warm glow
behind.
The plane was night-silent, the only sounds being the
comforting whir and whoosh of life-support, the steady drone
of the engines, and the occasional clicks or muffled bleeps as
the computer continued its job of running the Scimitar. In the
hammock next to him, Tusk heard the boy talking to himself in
his sleep. A jarring, discordant note sounding from the
syntharp made Tusk start.
"Kid's fallen asleep with the damn thing in his hand," Tusk
muttered. Groaning, he fought his way out of the hammock
and stumbled through the semidarkness to the kid's berth.
Hidden beneath a blanket, the instrument was revealed by its
bright beams of light. Carefully and quietly, Tusk removed the
harp from the boy's sleep-limp hand and propped it up against
a locker.
Lying back down, the mercenary took another pull from the
bottle.
Heir to the throne. The kid might be the rightful ruler of the
whole blasted galaxy.
Fervently and with feeling, Tusk said, "Bullshit!"
"I heard that!" XJ snapped. "And if you think it's cold in here
now, just wait until morning!"
Sighing, Tusk grabbed a blanket, drew it over his head, and,
cradling the bottle in his arms, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Chapter	Nine
Who, or why, or which, or what . . .
Edward Lear, "The Akond of Swat"
Tusk woke, shivering. Calling down imprecations on the
computer's metal head, he pulled on his winter fatigues,
including his leather flight jacket. The kid's hammock was
empty and he could hear voices from below. He reached the
ladder just in time to hear the kid say, "That doesn't prove
anything."
"Damn!" Tusk said, sliding down the ladder. "I thought I
told you not to tell the kid."
"Why not?" Dion's blue eyes turned on Tusk, their expres-
sion cold and suspicious.
Tusk sighed. "Look, kid," he said, fumbling for words
beneath that intense, penetrating gaze, "it's all speculation.
Circumstantial evidence—"
"And I'm a word processor!" XJ flashed. "Circumstantial
evidence. We caught the kid standing over the body, the
smoking gun in his hand!"
"And the body's probably mine!" Tusk snapped. "You your-
self said it didn't prove anything. I wasn't going to tell you, kid,
until we had a little more to go on, that's all. And you promised
not to tell him either!" he shouted at XJ.
"I am not programmed to recognize a promise. Honor is
merely a word in my spell checker. And I say we have plenty
of information to go on! Look, this kid's mentor was a
Guardian. I found his name right here—Platus Morianna.
Platus's sister was also a Guardian, Maigrey Morianna. They
were both in Sagan's squadron, both survived the holocaust
that night. The Warlord, Derek Sagan, comes to this planet
and he kills—"
"XJ," Tusk warned, seeing Dion flinch.
99

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"Er, disrupts a planet to try to find you, kid. Your master,
this Platus, dies to keep your whereabouts secret. The Guard-
ians swore an oath to guard and defend the Royal Family with
their lives. It all makes sense. Didn't this Platus ever tell you
anything about himself, about the Guardians?"
"About the Guardians, yes," Dion answered. "I learned
their history. How they are all members of the Blood Royal,
those people specifically bred to be genetically superior to
others and therefore to have the ability to be good rulers.
The idea came from the ancient philosopher Plato. He spoke
about it in the Republic-. 'Then there must be a selection. Let
us note among the guardians those who in their whole life
show the greatest eagerness to do what is for the good of their
country—'"
"Uh, right. Plato," Tusk interrupted hastily. "Look, I'm
going to go pay a visit to the head. Why don't you find
something for breakfast, kid, and you"-—he glared at the
computer—"turn on the heat!"
"I'm conservation-minded," XJ said.
Tusk, with a muttered comment, clambered back up the
ladder.
"You know," Dion said, looking after him, "he'd be one, too,
wouldn't he? A Guardian. A member of the Blood Royal.
Genetically superior—"
"—to earthworms," XJ scoffed. "He's royal, all right. A royal
pain."
"But his father—"
"Just goes to show you, kid. Even science is fallible.
Hungry? Grab a couple of those frozen food trays and pop
them in the nuker."
Tusk came back to find food cooked and waiting for him.
Dion, sitting in the co-pilot's chair, was eating his meal slowly,
but he was eating—a fact that Tusk noted with relief. The kid
had gone all day yesterday without a mouthful. Because of
that, Tusk never mentioned that he wasn't accustomed to
starting his mornings with spaghetti and clam sauce. He'd
have to remember to tell the kid that the trays marked B were
for breakfast.
"So, what else did your . . . er . . . mentor tell you?"
Tusk asked, thinking that the spaghetti didn't taste half-bad.
"About himself, I mean, not Plato's Republic."
"Nothing," Dion answered, shoving the spaghetti around
with a plastic fork. "I didn't even know he had a sister. He
never mentioned her, he never mentioned friends, anyone.

THE LOST KING
101
You, Tusk"—the blue eyes nailed him—"were the first person
I've ever known him to talk to."
"Hey, come on, kid," Tusk said, trying not to look worried.
The more he heard about this, the less he liked it. "I
mean . . . you must've gone to the grocery store, the hard-
ware store, somewhere."
"No, we didn't. We grew our own food or ordered what we
needed over the computer. Supplies were delivered by heli-
copter."
"You never went to school, to the vids even?"
"No. I studied at home. And I've never heard of vids. What
are they?"
"They're . . . Well, never mind." Tusk scowled. This Pla-
tus had been scared, scared as hell. "So your mentor never
talked to anyone. What about you? Kids your own age?"
"I met some once, not too long ago. A group of scouts got
lost, hiking through the outback."
"And?" Tusk prompted.
"And what? I didn't like them," Dion said shortly, his eyes
on his plate.
"Uh-huh," Tusk said, munching garlic bread and exchanging
glances with the computer's electronic eye. He noticed that XJ
was being unusually quiet and that the computer was surrep-
titiously recording every word the boy said. "So, why didn't
you like them?"
"Look, what does it matter?" Dion tossed his half-empty
plate to one side on the control panel and stared out the
viewport at the stars, his arms folded tightly across his chest.
"I didn't like them, that's all."
"Just trying to be sociable, kid," Tusk said easily. "We're
going to be spending a lot of time cooped up together and
there's not much to do around here except sleep or talk. So,
these kids," he continued, seeing the boy's stiff shoulders
begin to relax, "what did they think of you?"
Dion shrugged. "They seemed . . . awed, I guess."
Tusk closed his eyes. Awed. Yes, that was the word. He
could understand, he could imagine. It explained the feeling
he got every time he looked at the kid. There was something
about Dion that made you want to step back away from him, to
think twice about touching him. It was the blue eyes, Tusk
decided. That intense, brilliant blue gaze that stared not at you
but clean through you. Tusk tossed his food tray in the trash

102
MARGARET WEIS	1
liquidator. From the taste in his mouth, he might have been
chewing the plastic plate.
Dion sighed suddenly, and ran his hand through the mane of
red-golden hair, brushing it back from his face with his fingers.
The brilliant red-gold color was the only warm spot in the
cabin. Huddling deeper into his down-lined flight jacket, Tusk
shot the computer a vicious glance.
"I can see what you're leading up to," Dion said suddenly.
"Platus told me we led the lives of solitary scholars, unspoiled
by contact with those who wouldn't understand us. But we
were really leading the lives of fugitives, weren't we? We were
hiding."
"It looks that way, kid. And with good reason, apparently. I
mean, after what happened and all."
"It fits." Dion stared out into the ever-changing star pat-
terns. "I knew I wasn't any relation to him. He always told me
the truth about everything and so I rarely asked him anything
about myself. It seemed to cause him pain and I never— He
was so good to me, I—"
Dion's voice faltered. Shaking his head, he forced back his
emotions, and when he spoke, his tone was steady. "But one
time, about a year ago, I pressed him. I don't know what made
me do it. I felt angry and tight inside and I didn't care if I hurt
him. I wanted to hurt him, in fact!" His hand clenched. "I
didn't know myself. I felt like some kind of monster—"
"Puberty," XJ remarked knowingly.
"That's what Platus said." Dion almost smiled. "Afterward, I
apologized. He apologized, too, for losing his patience."
"What did he say about you?"
"When we were arguing, he lost his temper and told me
never to bring up the subject of who I was again. You see this
necklace I wear—this ring?"
Dion pulled it out from beneath the collar of his shirt. Tusk
leaned over and looked at it. It was an unusual one. He didn't
think he'd ever seen anything like it. A circlet made of tongues
of carved flame opals, it burned with a bright red and orange
and purple fire. Tusk felt relieved; he'd half-expected to see
the royal crest or something.
"I've worn it ever since I can remember. Platus told me that
there'd been many times when he was tempted to rip this off
and throw it away. Something this insignificant shouldn't
signify what a man is or what he becomes. A man's past isn't

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103
important. What is important is who a man is now and what he
plans to become in the future."
"So, what are your plans?" Tusk asked, thinking he could
have argued with good old Platus over that one.
Dion gave a brief, bitter laugh. "Plans! I have no idea who
I am, where I come from, why I was born. All I know is that
a man I loved and honored and respected gave his life for me.
What can I give back?"
He swiveled in the seat, turned to stare directly at Tusk.
"Someone expects me to give something, that's obvious." Dion
paused. When he spoke next, his voice had an odd quality—a
coolness about it that startled the mercenary. "There's one
person who knows who I am—Derek Sagan."
The mercenary choked. "Sure," he said when he could talk.
"He'd probably be real glad to tell you, too! Right before he
stood you up against the wall and shot you."
"Incorrect data," XJ informed him. "They don't do that now,
not with vaporization chambers and other, more efficient—"
"Oh, dry up!"
"Do you think he'd do that?" Dion asked casually, staring
down at the instruments and idly running his hands over
them.
Tusk grunted. "I take it you never heard news reports,
never talked about politics?"
"I'd never heard of a Warlord until . . . until—" Dion
frowned and changed the subject. "I studied government, but
it was all abstract. Platus said he was inadequate to teach
anything else. Oh, I knew there were other planets out there
and that something governed them, but it never mattered
much what. It all seemed so far away, so far removed from us."
Tusk cleared his throat. "Government. Well, you see, kid—"
The mercenary scratched his head. "The monarchy was around
for a century or so. Each planet was ruled by a member of the
Blood Royal and all the Blood Royal swore allegiance to the
king—also a member of the Blood Royal. It was a good system,
I guess, for a while—"
"Benevolent monarchy." Dion nodded wisely. "The best
form of government, according to—"
"Yeah, yeah"—Tusk waved a hand—"benevolent whatever.
Anyway, what it comes down to, I guess, is that if the king's
good everything's fine, but if he isn't you're in a hell of a mess."
"And this Starfire wasn't a good king?"

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Tusk squirmed. Hell, they might be talking about the kid's
uncle! "Uh, he was okay, I guess—"
"He was weak, wishy-washy," XJ cut in. "Dumped every-
thing in the lap of the God. 'If the Creator wills it'—that sort
of philosophy. Without the Guardians to cover for him, Starfire
wouldn't have lasted as long as he did."
"So there was a revolt," Tusk said, taking over the lesson. "A
guy named Peter Robes—a professor of political science at
some university—got together with Derek Sagan and some of
the other high-level malcontents in the armed forces and
staged a coup. Now the galaxy's run by—ostensibly—a dem-
ocratically elected Congress. It's got some fancy name, but
everyone calls it just that—the Congress. When they call it
anything polite, that is. The Congress is so divided that the
President, Robes, is the real power. You see, following the
overthrow of the king and the Royal Family, Robes divided the
galactic empire up into one million sectors. Each sector elects
two members to sit on the Congress. Each has an equal vote in
how the government's run."
"Democracy," Dion said. "A democratic form of rule."
"Yeah, that's what they promised. And I guess that's what it
looks like, on the surface. As time went by and the Congress
couldn't get much done, what with half the members running
for reelection and the other half arguing among themselves,
Robes began to acquire more and more power just so that
someone could get something done.
"Now some people want the Congress abolished and all
power consolidated in the hands of the President. Others want
the President abolished and everything put in the hands of the
Congress. And you know what some others want?" Tusk
propped his feet up on the control panel, his gaze fixed on the
tangle of wires above his head.
["What?"
"They want the good old days. They want a king. They're
starting to think they made a mistake. Life was pretty great,
back then, when they didn't have to think about who to vote
for, didn't have to make all these decisions. There's a lot
more royalists around than you might think, kid. And their
numbers're growing. If the true heir was to turn up . . ."
"The Congress would kill him," Dion said, fiddling with a
dial.
"Or the President, or both at once. I know I would, if I were
in their shoes!"

THE LOST KING
105
"I wouldn't," XJ struck in. "And, hey, kid, don't mess with
the equipment. No, I wouldn't bump off the true heir. Not as
long as the true heir minded his manners, of course. Think
about it—what would be more impressive than the true heir
appearing on prime time, putting his arm around Peter
Robes's padded shoulders and swearing that there's nothing
like the good old democratic system, after all. Get out and vote
for the candidate of your choice. Throw in a few remarks about
how the king was a money-grubbing, power-hungry elitist and
how the Republic's made for life, liberty, and the—"
"Whose life?" Tusk demanded. "Certainly not the heir's if
one of the Warlords steps in and wipes out the Congress."
"Are there any powerful enough to do that?" Dion asked.
"Sagan, for one. At least that's the rumor."
"Mrrft!" XJ made a noise that the boy was later to learn was
the computer's approximation of a snort. "No way."
"Well, maybe not yet," Tusk amended. Sneakily, he shed
the leather flight jacket, hoping the computer wouldn't notice.
XJ had apparently become so interested in the conversation it
hadn't realized that Tusk had readjusted the thermostat.
"So what do I do? Rot in some military school?" Dion put his
finger on a button, then suddenly snatched it back. "Ouch!"
"Told you not to touch those, kid," the computer said.
"Small electrical charge. Won't hurt you. This time."
"Uh, well, you see, kid, we've decided not to take you to the
military school, after all—" Tusk began.
"You could be worth your weight in gold," XJ remarked.
"Oh, so that's it!" Dion said, flushing angrily. "You can sell
me to the highest bidder—"
"That's not it!" Tusk snapped. "I promised, remember? And
I may not be good for much else, but I keep promises." He
gave the computer a swift kick beneath the console. "I pro-
mised that Platus of yours that I'd take care of you. We ought
to try to find out for certain—if we can—who you are and . . .
and—" Tusk's eyes brightened. He sat forward excitedly in his
chair. "And, by the Creator, I know someone who might be
able to help us!"
, "Who?" Dion asked sullenly, sucking his injured fingers.
"Someone who was on Minas Tares the night of the revolu-
tion! John Dixter. He's fighting a war on Vangelis. We're
already on course for the planet, aren't we, XJ?"
The computer muttered something unintelligible.

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"You really think he can help?" Dion was still regarding the
mercenary suspiciously.
"Sure!" Tusk said with more confidence than he felt. "Dixter
was a general in the Royal Army. Barely escaped the revolu-
tion with his life and now he earns his living by selling his
military expertise to those who can afford him. And that's not
just anyone. He's good, kid. Real good. Fair and honest, too.
Besides, you'll probably see some combat. And what's military
school compared to the real thing?"
"I guess you're right." Dion relaxed. Sighing, he shook out
the mane of red-gold hair. "I'm sorry, Tusk. I shouldn't have
jumped to conclusions—"
"Think nothing of it, kid. Now, XJ and I got a lot of work to
do around here. Why don't you go up and . . . uh . . . play
some more of that harp stuff for us?"
"You like it?" Dion appeared pleased.
"You bet!"
Stuffing his plastic dish into the trash liquidator, Dion
climbed the ladder that led back up into the living quarters of
the Scimitar. Within moments, the weird music of the light
strings reverberated through the small cabin.
"Liar!" XJ said.
"Shut up," Tusk muttered, gritting his teeth.

Chapter ■•wo- Ten
One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.
John Milton, Paradise Lost
"My lord, we have landed."
"Yes. Thank you, Captain."
The information was unnecessary. The Warlord's shuttle did
not touch down with such smoothness that landings went
unnoticed. This landing had been a particularly rough one, the
shuttle having been forced to blast away a large portion of
jungle growth to create a clear area in which to set down the
craft. Despite that, branches splintered, trees cracked, vines
slithered past the steelglass windows before the shuttle came
to a bumpy, bone-jolting stop.
Why the Warlord had chosen to land in this overgrown
jungle when there was a large smooth area near a principal
village was a mystery to the shuttlecraft's commander. He had
obeyed orders, however, and hoped that Sagan would take
into account the difficulties of setting down by night in heavily
wooded terrain when it came time for the commander's next
review.
The captain of the centurions left the bridge and hastened to
post himself at the hatchway to await orders. He was consid-
erably startled to find no one there. Following landing, the
Warlord was invariably on his feet, standing by the hatch,
waiting with obvious impatience for pressure seals to release,
the hatch to slide open, the ramp to slide out. But now he was
not there. He was nowhere to be seen.
His uneasiness increasing, the captain waited a few nerve-
racking moments to see if the Warlord would make his
appearance. When he did not, the captain made his way to
Sagan s quarters aboard the shuttlecraft. It was the officer's
duty, after all, to inform his superior that they had arrived
107

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MARGARET WEIS	1
on-planet, in case the Warlord had not noticed that vine-
looped tree trunks now replaced the stars outside his view-
port.
The Honor Guard stood alert and rigid outside the entrance
to Sagan's quarters, and if the centurions had been exchanging
wondering glances between themselves before their captain's
arrival, they immediately assumed a formal impassivity in the
presence of the commander of the ring of steel they formed
around their lord. The captain could not forbear casting them
a questioning look. One raised an eyebrow and his left
shoulder. They didn't know what was going on either. The
captain entered the compartment.
The Warlord sat by himself in moonlit darkness. The
moonlight glistened off the moisture-slick boles of the trees
and their huge, dripping wet leaves outside Sagan's viewport,
shone brilliantly on the silver scabbard of a sword—one of the
legendary bloodswords-—lying across the Warlord's knees. His
hand rested on the hilt. Seen by moonlight, the Warlord's face
was a series of deep cleft marks scored into rock, all slanting
downward. The eyes were abstracted, staring intently at
nothing, and the captain realized that the Warlord's body may
have been in this compartment but his soul was not.
The captain was at a loss. He had been given strict orders to
attend the Warlord the moment they arrived on the planet. He
could do nothing but obey, although it was quite obvious to
him that his liege lord had gone into one of his mystical
trances. The captain knew that speech sometimes roused the
Warlord. Sometimes not. Having no idea what to do if it didn't
work, the captain decided to speak.
"My lord, we have landed," he said in the tone one uses to
waken a fast sleeper.
"Yes. Thank you, Captain." Sagan spoke quietly, without
turning his gaze on his officer.
The captain felt hot blood rush to his cheeks.
"I'm sorry, my lord, I didn't know— I thought you were—"
"We'll leave now, Captain."
Sword in hand, Sagan rose to his feet. He was clad in the
Romanesque military style he fancied. A golden phoenix
decorated a breastplate made of null-gravity steel. Light-
weight, comfortable, it could withstand the blast of a laser.
Projectiles—including those fired by gas-guns—bounced off
harmlessly. The only weapon that could penetrate it was

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reputedly the bloodsword, and then only one wielded by a
person whose mind was powerful enough to fully control it.
If the Warlord had been going into battle, he would have
worn full armor made of this material. He expected no danger
on this mission, apparently, for he was clad in a short tunic
protected by heavy leather strips, ornately decorated with
inlaid silver and gold. Leather sandals that laced to the knee
completed his costume. The Warlord had no adjutant. At his
gesture, one of the centurions brought forward the red cape
and draped it around the man's bare, well-muscled shoulders.
A golden chain, attached to two phoenix pins—one on either
shoulder—held the cape securely in place. The Honor Guard
reverently lifted the Warlord's golden helmet with the blood-
red feather crest and stood holding it patiently until his lord
should request it.
The captain was somewhat confused. He had been told they
were landing on this planet to apprehend a prisoner. From his
ceremonial dress, Lord Sagan might have been going to an
audience with the defunct king.
"Have the quarters adjacent to mine prepared to receive a
guest, Captain," the Warlord instructed, carefully attaching
the bloodsword to a belt girded about his waist.
The captain blinked. "My lord," he said hesitantly, "I was
told we were transporting a dangerous political prisoner. I
have made ready the hold—"
"She will be a prisoner, Captain. She is dangerous. You will
remember that. She is also the daughter of a planetary king,
Morianna—one of the most feared warriors of his time. Her
mother was a princess of the Leiah system. Of course, I
realize, Captain, that in our present society this noble lineage
is worth less than the cost of the microchip on which it is
recorded. Nevertheless, you will accord her the same respect
you accord me."
"Yes, my lord."
The captain heard something that sounded like a sigh. His
face as grim as if he were facing an army of ten thousand foes,
the Warlord covered his face with his golden helmet and
started for the hatch.
Accompanied by his Honor Guard, the Warlord moved
through the thick vegetation resolutely. The way seemed
impenetrable. The guards' weapons sliced through twisted,

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slimy vines as big around as a man's leg, chopped down giant
elephant-ear plants, and hacked the limbs off trees that
seemed—by acts of eerie intelligence—to be determined to
block their path.
It was hot work in the steaming, humid jungle air, and after
only a few yards had been cleared, the men were panting,
wiping sweat from their faces, and wondering how much
farther was their destination. A short distance from the
shuttle, however, the Warlord came upon a cleared path. He
did not arrive at it by accident. He had obviously been
expecting to find it, and chose his direction and began walking
along it without hesitation.
The Honor Guard followed close and with more caution
than their lord. His life, after all, was in their hands, and the
centurions knew this planet to be inhabited by natives—so it
was reported—who were fearful of them and hostile to their
intent. And although these natives were purportedly only a
step removed from the stone age in terms of weaponry, a spear
through the gut kills just as surely as a laser blast. Sensing
devices were useless. The life-form readings they would pick
up in this jungle environment would be too numerous to
count, more confusing than helpful. Their lord preferred
depending on God-given senses—saying that a man was safer
to rely on instincts bred over thousands of years of survival
rather than a machine that, no matter how sophisticated, had
never walked in fear of its life.
An army of thousands could have been hiding in that
moonlit mass of plant life and the centurions could never have
seen it. They could hear rustlings and growls, snufflings and
furtive slitherings among the undergrowth and in the branches
above their heads. Animals going about their nightly business,
said their lord.
The centurions did not relax their vigilance, but followed
closely behind their lord, who was forging his way ahead
without pause. Occasionally, the path split into two separate
trails, heading in diverging directions. Occasionally, another
path left the one on which they walked, wending its way into
another part of the jungle. Sagan never hesitated when it came
to a choice, but went to the right or to the left as whatever was
guiding him dictated.
What was guiding him? His guards had no idea. The
magnetic force that both drew him and repelled him was
invisible to them, though its effects on him were not. He had

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drawn his helmet over his head; his face was hidden. He
walked purposefully, determinedly, never wavering. Opposite
magnetic fields attracting. Yet every step seemed an effort.
The cords of his neck were taut, the muscles of his shoulders
twitched and bunched as though he were pushing against
something that was pushing back. Like magnetic fields repel-
ling.
His tension communicated itself to his men, who—after a
half-hour of watching him fight this internal battle—would
have welcomed a flight of arrows. Suddenly one guard touched
his captain's arm, pointing ahead in silent communication.
Through the breaks in the jungle's growth, a light could be
seen. It was a bright light, yet pale and eerie, with a bluish cast
to it, almost as if the moon had fallen from the sky and landed
on the ground before them.
The Warlord headed straight for the light, and no man
among his guard had any doubt that this was their destination.
The light grew brighter, illuminating the jungle with a stark,
white glow that sucked all color—and thereby seemingly all
life—out of any object it touched. The centurions' own flesh
appeared corpselike, luminescent, transparent. Trees seemed
carved of white marble; metal glistened like ice.
In contrast to the light, the darkness around them became
complete, impenetrable. To step into the shadows was to step
into black depths that were not the purient, sterile voids of
space but a smothering, unfathomable miasma.
The Warlord's footsteps slowed. His breathing was heavy
and measured, as one who makes a conscious effort to draw
every breath. With a gesture, he brought his guards up around
him. The jungle ended. With the next step, they would walk
out into an area open and unprotected.
Here was the source of the light.
The centurions, each and every one, were men proven and
tested in battle. Each had performed some act of heroism,
daring, and courage that had brought him to the attention of
the Warlord. They sacrificed everything to serve him—
country, home, family. Sagan allowed no loves, no other
loyalties that might distract or interfere with their duties. They
led grueling, Spartan lives, for their commander denied
himself comforts and they lived as he did. Outwardly they
were cold and hard and emotionless as their lord. Midas, it was
said, had a touch that turned all to gold. Sagan, it seemed,
turned all he touched to iron.

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Yet more than one centurion, staring at the sight before
him, saw it through a sheen of tears.
They gazed on the Hall of Moonrith, one of the wonders of
the universe. And the universe did not even know it existed.
Moonrith, the semiprecious gem, was thought to be so-
called because of its moonlike whiteness. In reality, moonrith
gained its name through the gem's ability—unnoticed by those
who imprisoned it in metal settings—to diffuse and radiate
moonlight.
Standing in a large, open area of the jungle, on the top of a
small hill that rose up out of the vegetation, was a large,
natural formation of moonrith. The natives held it to be a
sacred place and had done it honor by smoothing the rough
edges of the stone, rounding and shaping the pillars nature had
carved with tools of wind and rain.
By day, the building—formed out of a huge slab of rock
supported by as many as sixty irregularly shaped, crude
pillarlike columns—-was nothing more than a geological curi-
osity. On a moonlit night, the beauty of the Hall of Moonrith
pierced the heart.
The stone absorbed the moonlight, diffused it, radiated it
forth. The templelike structure glowed with a white lumines-
cence that shone from within the stone. The hill leading up to
it had been terraced, carved into steps. At the foot of these,
some meters back, stood the trees of the jungle—whispering
guardians, who worshiped at a distance.
The Warlord, after a long look, turned to see the reaction of
his men and, immediately, faces softened by the miraculous
loveliness hardened. Eyes blinked back tears, sighs of awe
were swiftly checked. He saw that they had been touched,
however. Even as he, who had thought himself immune to
beauty, had been touched. Sagan's face grew grimmer still.
He should have come alone.
Turning his back upon his guard, the Warlord climbed the
stairs that had been delved into the hillside. His red cape-
drenched black by the eerie light—billowed out behind him.
His men, ashamed, hurried after him, attempting to keep
their eyes on their lord but finding their gaze drawn irresist-
ibly to the glowing temple.
The centurions hastened up the stairs and reached the
pillars that formed a colonnade around a vast, rectangular hall.
Above them, the moonrith ceiling shed a silvery light, bright
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113
etched upon his palm, the scars of battle and of death man had
etched upon his flesh.
"Wait here," the Warlord commanded. Leaving them, he
passed in between the glowing columns and entered the hall.
At the far end stood a woman. She was dressed in white; the
folds of her long gown hung in smooth, flowing lines, broken
only by a silver belt around her waist. Pale fine hair, the color
of moonlight, was worn loose, falling over her shoulders in a
glistening stream. Her back was to them; she did not seem to
notice them but stared up into the night. Thin clouds, gliding
before the moon, dappled the dark sky with silver.
The virgin goddess of the silver orb, discovered alone in her
temple. Sagan, glancing back, thought it likely his men might
fall down and worship her.
She was good. Very good. And how well she knew him. She
had played into his myth. Diana to his Mars.
And what was Mars but a bumbling, stupid, bloodthirsty
oaf?
Sagan's lips twisted to a bitter smile. Peter Robes, he
thought, former professor of political science, this woman will
chop you up and feed you to the public with a silver spoon.
The Warlord crossed the floor. His booted footsteps rang on
the stone, the hollow sound echoing gratingly through the
quiet, peaceful air.
Paler, colder than the moonlight, the woman did not move,
not even when he came to a halt directly behind her. A slight
breeze, whispering through the jungle, stirred the gold-
trimmed hem of his robe, reverently lifted wisps of the
woman's pale hair.
"Lady Maigrey Morianna," spoke Derek Sagan.
His voice, harsh and discordant, caused a stir among the
jungle animals. Infuriated shrieks and cries answered him,
wings flapped angrily, trees shook and rustled. His guard
started in alarm and drew their weapons. Sagan raised a
warning hand, and they relaxed. Gradually, peace and calm
returned.
The woman answered softly, without turning her head or
looking at him. "I am Lady Maigrey Morianna."
"Then, Lady Maigrey Morianna, by order and decree of the
Revolutionary Congress of the Galactic Democratic Republic,
I hereby place you under arrest."
She faced him now. Perhaps it had taken her this long to

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steel herself. Gray as the sea beneath a leaden sky, her eyes
confronted him. Like a prisoner who knows the blow is coming
and can't avoid it, Sagan braced himself and absorbed the pain
without flinching. It passed swiftly, burned away by an anger
whose flames he had fed daily for seventeen years.
"What is the charge against me, my lord?"
"The charges are numerous, my lady—and all punishable by
death. The most notable is aiding and abetting the smuggling
to safety of an offshoot of a family whose crimes against the
people are legion."
"A newborn baby!" Maigrey's face was colorless, pale as the
moonlight except for the gray eyes that had darkened as in a
storm. "You would have murdered him that night as you
murdered his mother. As you murdered my king."
"I did not make war on children! You know the truth of my
actions that night—"
Her lashes flickered, her gaze faltered beneath his. Sagan
noted this weakness in her defenses, he read the doubt in her
mind, but he was too caught up in his own anger, too intent on
keeping his own walls manned to take advantage of this lapse
on the part of his enemy. It would be a long time before he
remembered the crack in the fortress and came to realize its
import.
"I had no intention of killing the child. He would have been
raised a citizen of the Republic—"
"—taught to believe his parents were criminals! Taught to
be ashamed of what he is! Taught to denounce his own
heritage—"
"At least it would have been the truth, my lady," Sagan said.
"Better than what your brother taught him!"
He saw the scar on her face. The moonlight had masked it,
the white line blending with the pallor of her complexion.
Now it leapt out. Her heart pulsed in it, blood stained it, and
it seemed almost as if the wound had been reopened.
Seeing his gaze fix upon the right side of her face, Maigrey
felt the pain again and consciously put her hand to her cheek
to cover it. Sagan shifted his eyes to meet hers.
Looking into them intently, Maigrey saw no pity, no re-
morse, no disgust, no compassion. Nothing.
"I lack time to argue irrelevancies, my lady. We will be
off-planet within the hour. I must ask you to surrender your
weapon."
A silver scabbard, decorated with an eight-pointed star,

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hung from her waist. Wordlessly, she nodded. Her hands
moved to unfasten the buckle.
"The people of this planet know nothing about me," she
said, inwardly cursing her trembling fingers that fumbled at
their task. "They are a primitive race. They live peacefully.
They have hurt no one." Slowly, she drew the belt from around
her slender waist. Putting the ends together, she folded the
leather as was proper, the scabbard resting on top. Maigrey
held it out. "Don't vent your anger on them, Sagan!"
It was the first time she had called him by name. He was
caught off guard, the point of the bloodsword she held might
have slipped beneath his armor and touched flesh.
"It's not anger, my lady," he said evenly, accepting the
weapon. "It is justice."
Maigrey saw that it would be useless and undignified to
plead. Tears filled her eyes, and she lowered her head,
allowing the long hair to slide forward and hide her face.
The Warlord was familiar with this trick and ignored it. "My
guards will carry what other possessions you have to the ship."
"There is no need. I have only the sword and this." From a
pocket in the loose-fitting white gown, Maigrey produced a
rosewood box. "And you will not take this from me."
Sagan knew what the box contained. "No, my lady," he said,
after a pause, "that you may keep."
For long moments, he stared at her in silence. She lifted her
head, her tears burned dry, and steadily returned his gaze.
Though neither moved, a battle raged. Their minds probed
and touched in a mental fencing match, seeking out weak-
nesses, learning once again to respect strengths.
His gaze broke first, but it was not defeat, merely drawing
back to consider a new angle of attack. When it came, it was
unexpected and effective.
He held her sword across his forearm and presented it back
to her. "Give me your word, Lady Maigrey Morianna—your
word, as a Guardian—that you will not attempt to escape from
custody, and you may wear the bloodsword."
Maigrey stared at him, confounded.
"Well?" he said impatiently.
"You have my word, my lord." She accepted the weapon in
its silver scabbard, and stood clutching it awkwardly, fumbling
not to drop it or the rosewood box.
"My lady."
Bowing, Lord Derek Sagan turned on his heel and left her,

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crossing the stone floor to where his men waited in the
shadows of the columns. "Bring her," he instructed as he
passed them.
The centurions hurried to obey. A cloud passed over the
moon, obscuring it completely. The Hall of Moonrith, bereft of
its source of light, was suddenly nothing but crudely carved
rock. The centurions were forced to switch on their hand-held
nuke lights. Seen by the harsh, sterile beams, the goddess
dwindled to a woman in her early forties with a scarred face,
holding a sword and a wooden box.
The centurions surrounded her—one at her right, one at her
left, two behind her. They did not touch her but waited
respectfully for her to proceed. They would give her a few
moments to move on her own. If she did not, they would most
certainly drag her. Lifting her chin, Maigrey moved resolutely
forward, the sound of her slippered footfalls obliterated by the
guards' heavy tread.
Ahead of her, the Warlord had disappeared into the dark-
ness.
She would be taken onto a ship of war, a ship populated by
hundreds, and every man loyal—ostensibly—to whatever this
bloodstained government of the revolution was calling itself.
In reality, however, Maigrey knew they were loyal to one lord.
One lord who might fight against the heritage within himself
but who would never fail to use it.
He had been very clever in returning the sword, playing to
her honor. He must know that now, at the end, it was all she
had left.
Leaving the Hall of Moonrith, Maigrey heard the dry and
broken sobbing of an old man.

Chapter -^©"o- Eleven
Not all the water in the rough, rude sea can wash the balm
from an anointed king.
William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of Richard II,
Act III, Scene 2.
"We're coming into their instrument range. You been
monitoring public transmissions?"
"Yes," XJ answered in a preoccupied tone.
"And?" Tusk pursued, his hand on switches, his eyes on a
reddish planet that during the last four hours had been
growing increasingly larger in the viewscreen.
"Nothing. You sure there's a war down there?"
Tusk grunted. "Corporate battle. They'll be controlling the
official broadcasts. Civilian population probably doesn't even
know the war's going on—outside of the few hundred or so
who get in the way and get hurt, of course. The corporations
try to seize control of mines and factories, maybe lay siege to
a corporate town. That sort of thing. If anyone asks questions,
it's put down to union violence, terrorist bombings, or a new
p.r. campaign. But, if Dixter's running the show, it'll be a clean
fight—on our side, at least."
"I thought you didn't enlist in corporate wars," Dion said,
remembering one of Tusk's lectures on how to enjoy a long and
profitable career as a soldier of fortune.
"I don't usually," Tusk admitted. "Corporations hold grudges
longer than the Warlords. Once they hand over money, they
figure they own you body and soul and you better be ready to
lay down both in their cause. Show a natural reluctance to get
yourself killed, and they take it as a personal affront. Only
blood feuds are worse. Never get involved in a blood feud,
kid."

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"So why are we here?"
"Because of Dixter. Like I said, if he's in charge, it'll be a fair
fight. He doesn't like corporate wars any more than I do. Must
be something different about this one," Tusk muttered, frown-
ing intently at the numbers that were flashing in front of him.
"What's the problem?"
"Somebody doesn't think we ought to land," XJ said.
"Missiles?"
"Maybe. You got those coordinates Dixter transmitted?"
"Yeah."
"Use 'em. No standard orbit entry. Come in like a ball of
fire."
"Which is what we may turn into. Better fasten yourself in
good, kid."
Having learned in the past week how to operate the safety
restraints on the co-pilot's chair, Dion did as he was told.
Despite Tusk's ominous prediction, the boy was looking
forward eagerly to the landing. As Tusk had said, space flight
was, for the most part, intensely boring. You could be in awe
of the grandeur and majesty of flying among the stars only so
long. Then, with the natural perversity of human nature, you
begin to dream of trees and air that hasn't been circulated
through your lungs a thousand times and water that—though
it was purified—made you think about the fact that it, too, had
been recycled.
The days in flight had actually passed relatively swiftly. Dion
had spent long, absorbed hours either with Tusk or XJ
studying space flight and learning how to operate the Scimitar.
Tusk had been both amazed and discomfited at how rapidly the
boy learned.
"Why are you throwin' that stuff at the kid?" Tusk had
demanded ofXJ one evening shortly after leaving Syrac Seven.
A three-dimensional image of one of the Scimitar's main
engines was slowly rotating on the computer's screen. "You'll
confuse him. He wants to fly the plane, not build it!"
"I asked to see it," Dion had said. "It's all right, isn't it?"
"Sure. But why bother? Most of the systems aboard these
craft are designed to repair themselves if anything breaks
down. If it's something that can't be fixed internally, then XJ
reports it to me and tells me what to do. You'll learn as you go
along. No need to study something that doesn't make sense to
you now."
"Oh, but it does make sense. Look." Calmly, Dion had

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explained the function of the myriad complex parts; the
computer responding by magnifying, colorizing, rotating,
simulating—whatever was needed.
"How did you do that? How did he do that?" Tusk had
rounded on the computer.
"He has the mind of a machine," XJ had answered, with an
electronic sigh of rapture.
"No kidding." Tusk had stared at Dion in awe tinged with
uneasiness.
"It's nothing, really," Dion had said, flushing red with
embarrassment. "I was just passing time. I didn t mean to show
off."
"Photographic memory?"
"More than that." XJ was enjoying showing off. "Humans or
aliens with the so-called photographic memory can call up
images of what they see in their minds—such as a page from a
book, a diagram of an engine—but sometimes that's as far as it
goes. Ask them to analyze it, explain how it works, relate the
meaning of what they've read, and they can't do it. The kid
here not only remembers everything he's ever seen but he can
tell you how it works or what it means. He has all of
Shakespeare memorized. Give Tusk the scene from Richard II
you were doing for me. The one about the king deposed—"
"Not now, XJ," Dion had mumbled, feeling his cheeks burn.
"A little culture would be—"
"He said not now!" Tusk had thumped the computer.
With a vicious bleep, XJ had killed not only the image on the
screen but the lights as well. It had refused to turn even the
emergency lights on, and Dion and Tusk had been forced to
grope and fumble their way to their hammocks and had spent
the rest of the day in bed.
Remembering the incident. Dion shifted uneasily in his
chair. He hadn't meant to expose his innermost thoughts to
Tusk like that. King deposed. Why had he ever brought that
up? The boy was startled to discover how easily the mercenary
saw through him, understood what he was thinking. Dion
realized that he had underestimated Tusk. The boy had
marked the mercenary down as a materialistic, restless adven-
turer. Quick to act and act intelligently, Dion had to admit, but
that was probably due to instinct and training. Limited
intellectual capacity.
Dion was forced to revise his opinion. The man was smarter

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than the boy had originally thought. Smarter—and therefore
more dangerous. Dion set increased guard upon himself.
The landing on Vangelis was uncomfortable, terrifying (for
Dion, though he took care not to admit it), and uneventful.
Nobody shot any missiles at them, although the commlink
with the planet threatened immediate destruction if they
didn't go into standard orbit until their credentials could be
properly cleared.
"They gotta keep up their image!" Tusk shouted as the small
plane rocketed through the atmosphere.
A fiery orange glow surrounded them, the heat in the cabin
increasing markedly, life-support doing its best to compensate
for the burning hot temperatures outside. Sweat poured down
Dion's face. He gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his
hands and fingers ached for an hour afterward. The jolting
caused him to bite down painfully on his tongue.
Once they had entered the atmosphere and were gliding
through sunlit wispy clouds, receiving landing instructions
from a base somewhere below, Dion was forced to leave his
seat hurriedly and race to the head. When he returned, he was
extremely pale. Tusk glanced at him but never said a word, for
which Dion thanked the man deep in his heart. XJ, fortu-
nately, was too occupied with the landing to comment on the
boy's weakness, though Dion thought he heard a synthesized
chuckle during a momentary interval in the conversation with
ground control.
The plane landed and was towed to a parking place in a
spaceport General Dixter had commandeered for his use,
according to whoever was manning the control tower. Staring
out the viewport as they trundled slowly to their position,
Dion saw the strangest and mottliest assortment of flying craft
gathered in one place outside of a museum. There were
several long-range Scimitars (Tusk wasn't the only one to
appreciate and "borrow" one of the Navy's renowned fighters),
their markings either cleverly changed or—like Tusk's—
completely obliterated.
"That's an old needle-nose!" Tusk said, peering out the port
excitedly, in search of old friends. "They used to fly those in
the days before the revolution. Yeah, they look real sleek," the
mercenary said in response to Dion's admiring gaze, "but the
Scimitars are ten times more maneuverable and practical.

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Should be. Derek Sagan designed them and—so I've heard—-
he was the best pilot to ever come out of the Royal Academy."
"Royal Academy? What's that?" Dion asked.
"There's Zebulon Hicks, that S.O.B.!" Tusk sat forward.
"Where?" XJ demanded.
"Isn't that his plane? Turn your scanner about ten more
degrees to the left. Now—"
"You're right! And stop swearing."
"How much does he owe us?"
"Sixty-seven Korelian mandats. I'll have to check on the
exchange rate, but it's somewhere close to eighty golden
eagles."
"The Royal Academy?" Dion persisted patiently. Derek
Sagan. The man who'd killed Platus. The man who was after
him. The Warlord held a strange fascination for the boy.
"Uh? Oh, that was a special school they used to run for kids
of the Blood Royal. There were two of them—one for boys and
one for girls, each established on uninhabited planets. The
kids were sent there at about eight or nine. Since these kids
were going to grow up to be kings or emperors or presidents
or whatever else form of government they had back on the
home planet, they were given a lot of advanced training in
politics and stuff. XJ, is that Reefer?"
"No, your eyes are going."
"It is! I'd swear it! How much cash we got on board?"
"Oh, no, you're not!" The computer's lights flared. "No
ante-up for you, mister! You lost one hundred and seventy-
two—"
"Tell me more about the Academy," Dion interrupted.
"What happened to it?"
Tusk shrugged. Releasing his safety restraints, he got to his
feet, stumbling slightly as the plane jolted over the cracks and
bumps of the cement runway. "The President did something
with it, I guess. Shut it down. Turned it into a retirement
village or low-income housing. How should I know?" He
staggered toward the ladder. Dion, fumbling at the safety
restraints, noticed his body felt unnaturally heavy and clumsy,
as if somebody had wrapped weights around his wrists and
ankles and stuffed his fingers full of lead.
"You should know more about it than I do, kid," Tusk said,
his voice floating down from the living quarters. "Open up, XJ.
I'm goin' out to make sure we get leveled off."

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"Don't pay any more than six gilders," the computer
warned. "I checked. That's the going rate. These crooks'll
charge you twenty if they think you're a tourist! Tusk always
gets taken," XJ said bitterly to no one in particular. "He won't
haggle. I've told him and told him—"
Dion was hurrying after the mercenary. "What do you
mean, I should know something about the Academy?"
"That master of yours must have attended that school. My
dad went there. All the Guardians did!"
The hatch whirred open. XJ's attention focused on shutting
down systems that wouldn't be needed once they were on the
ground. Dion, anxious to get outside and breathe fresh air,
climbed the ladder, his feet and hands feeling clumsy, as if
they'd grown too large during the night.
No, Platus hadn't said anything about a Royal Academy. Just
one more thing he'd never mentioned, kept secret. Why? Was
it just too painful to talk about, to remember? Or had he been
afraid it might give the boy ideas?
Emerging from the spaceplane, Dion drew in a lungful of air
and immediately began to cough. A couple more breaths and
he felt dizzy and light-headed and wondered if there were
some sort of deadly chemical in the air that the computer's
analysis had missed. He started to go back for his oxygen pack
but noticed that Tusk—though he was breathing rapidly and
heavily—hadn't keeled over yet and didn't seem to be afraid
that he might.
Real sunshine felt good on the boy's skin. Slowly he slid
down the ladder that ran along the hull of the spaceplane and
came to stand beside Tusk, who was peering beneath the craft,
yelling instructions to the man who had towed them and was
now preparing to detach his vehicle from theirs.
"What's wrong with the air?" Dion asked, panting.
"Nothin'," Tusk said, glancing at him with a grin. "You're
used to the healthy, pure stuff we breathe on board the plane.
You'll get used to this in a day or so. Just take things kinda easy
for a while. Do too much and you'll pass out cold."
Dion nodded. Tusk disappeared under the plane and the
boy—out of curiosity—was about to follow when he felt a
touch on his arm. A green tentacle had wrapped around his
wrist.
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barren desert, had ever met an alien life-form, and his heart
rate leapt so that he came near fainting, as Tusk had warned
him. The large blob of green regarded him with apparent
concern while another tentacle wrapped itself around his other
arm and held him upright.
"Xrmt!" Tusk cried, coming out from beneath the plane, or
at least that was the approximation of the sound he made.
Another tentacle snaked across and gripped Tusk's hand (the
other two still keeping firm hold of Dion) and a fourth tentacle
made what seemed to be a pointing gesture while a sound like
a buzz saw came from the blob's interior.
"What? Wait. I forgot my translator. No translator!" Tusk
shouted, pointing to his chest. The alien understood and
released Tusk. The mercenary scaled the ladder, disappeared
inside the spaceplane.
Dion tried to call to him, but Tusk was gone before he got
the chance. The boy thought about attempting to free himself
from the alien's apparently solicitous grip, then wondered if
that might not offend it. Dion's initial surprised fear had eased;
his mind was running through classifications of alien life,
attempting to place this one.
Tusk reappeared, a small black box hanging around his neck.
Placing a disk attached to a wire at the base of his skull, the
mercenary listened attentively to the alien's buzzings.
"Dixter's looking for me, huh? Yeah, I'll report right away.
The kid? Naw, he's all right. First time for him, that's all. He
just needs to get his land legs."
The tentacles released Dion gently, and the boy managed a
bow and gave the creature a greeting in its own language.
The blob appeared delighted, if tentacle waving indicated
delight, and Dion thought it did. The alien buzzed and
crackled loudly and excitedly.
"That's the only words I know—" Dion turned to Tusk. "Tell
the Jarun that I know only how to greet him, in his language."
Tusk was staring at the boy wide-eyed.
"I never learned to speak it," Dion said in apology, thinking
that this was why Tusk was looking at him strangely. "Platus
told me it could damage the human vocal cords."
"Uh, right." Tusk cut into the alien's torrent of words that
sounded vaguely like a lumber company removing half a
forest. He relayed Dion's message. The alien, listening on its
own translator, bobbed up and down.
"He understands and says that, anyway, it was a great

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pleasure to him to hear the words of the Jarun spoken by an
alien race and he hopes you will join him for dinner."
Dion bowed. The alien bobbed, waved several tentacles,
said something to Tusk, and went on its way.
"Reefer, huh? I knew I recognized his RV," the mercenary
said in satisfaction. "Ante-up game there tonight. Uh, don't
mention it to XJ, will you, kid? And say, how did you know that
stuff?"
"Know what?" Dion turned his attention to their next-door
neighbor—a recreational vehicle that had been converted into
a fighter and had evidently seen better days. "About the game?
I didn't, until you told me—"
"No, not the game. The Jarun. Who he was and what you
said to him. And what do you mean you don't speak his
language?"
"I don't. And I've studied the languages and habits of many
of the races in the galaxy."
"Just out of curiosity, kid. How many languages do you
speak?"
"About eighty, I guess. Only thirty or so fluently, though.
The others I have trouble with sometimes. Why? How many
do you speak?"
"Two—my native tongue and gruntspeak—what we're talk-
ing now. Didn't that master of yours ever hear of translators?"
"Of course. I know how to use one. But Platus said that a
person who could communicate directly with another being in
his own language was paying him a compliment that would
always be remembered and appreciated."
"Well, you've won the Jarun's heart—if it has a heart."
Shaking his head, Tusk laid a hand on Dion's shoulder. "Let's
go see the general."

Chapter	Twelve
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "The Lady of Shalott"
The sun's heat radiated off the concrete slab of the spaceport
in shimmering waves, creating mirages of pools of blue water
in the distance. Back inside the cockpit of the spaceplane,
Dion wiped sweat from his face and glanced enviously at
Tusk, who had changed into khaki shorts and a mesh weave,
sleeveless T-shirt.
"You want to borrow a pair of my shorts, kid?"
"Aren't we going to meet this general of yours?"
"Sure, but Dixter doesn't stand on formality," Tusk assured
him.
Dion's opinion of this general was being lowered every
moment. He climbed into the crew's quarters to change.
"Hurry up, kid."
Having completed the initial shutdown of all the important
systems, Tusk left the remainder of the work to XJ and pulled
himself up into the cramped living quarters.
Dion was standing near the metal storage chest where he
kept his clothes. He had put on a clean pair of blue jeans and
was holding what Tusk supposed was a shirt in his hands.
Staring at the fabric intently, Dion was smoothing it with his
fingers.
"What'd you find? Moths?" Tusk was in a good humor.
Damn, you've got white skin! Must come with the red hair.
You're gonna burn to a crisp on this planet. We'll have to get
you some sunblock. Come on— Hey, what's wrong?"
125

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"Nothing," Dion said. He seemed startled and irritated that
Tusk had interrupted him. Pulling the shirt over his head, he
turned to climb the ladder leading up to the hatch.
Tusk, coming up behind him, took the opportunity to stare
intently at the shirt, wondering what about it had attracted the
boy's attention.
Actually, it wasn't a shirt so much as tunic. It was loose-
fitting, obviously homemade, with a slit opening for the head
and raglan sleeves. Some sort of fanciful design had been
embroidered on the cloth with shiny silver thread. Beyond the
fact that the tunic was handmade—and a clumsy job of sewing
at that, thought Tusk, who was accustomed to mending his
own clothes on long flights—-there was nothing special about
it. . . .
The decorative embroidery.
Around the neck, around the hem of the sleeves and the
hem of the tunic itself glistened tiny symbols—eight-pointed
stars.
Tusk's good mood evaporated.
"Open up, XJ! And say, what about the air cooler? It's hotter
than hell's kitchen in here!"
"Do you realize how much fuel we use up running that
system? And have you seen the prices on this planet?" the
computer demanded. "Besides, the perfect temperature for a
human being, nude, with no wind, is eighty-six degrees
Fahrenheit. Which is the current interior temperature—"
"Fine. I'll hang around here nude!"
"Nude! You—!" XJ's circuits jammed, it was so outraged that
it momentarily lost its voice. "I run a respectable plane! What
would people think? Suppose General Dixter dropped in! And
do you have any idea what they're charging us for electricity on
this planet? It's criminal-—"
The hatch whirred open. Dion pulled himself up and out.
Tusk—his gaze fixed with a weird sort of fascination on the
boy's tunic—followed more slowly. What was it? A sign to
someone? Some sort of superstitious protective nonsense? I
wonder if lasbeams would bounce off . . .
Tusk grinned at himself. You're headed for the edge. And
you're letting the kid and that damn computer drive you there!
It's a pretty design. That's all. A pretty design.
The two walked swiftly across the burning hot pavement.
Tusk shot a glance at Dion's face, but he might have read more

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127
emotion in the concrete beneath his feet. Whatever the kid
knew or was thinking, he was keeping it to himself.
I should dump him, leave him here, Tusk decided. He's an
eighty-year-old man inside a seventeen-year-old body. And a
cold and calculating old man at that. That "stand off, don't
touch me" air of his sets my teeth on edge. To say nothing of
the fact that he now knows as much or more about that damn
spaceplane as I do! Speaks eighty languages, but only thirty
fluently! Ha! Why did I let that electronic nightmare of mine
talk me into this? I should have followed my instincts and
gotten rid of the kid like I planned. I should have—
"Hey!" Dion tugged on the sleeve of Tusk's shirt and
pointed. "Isn't that the direction you said the headquarters
was?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sorry, guess I wasn't watching where I was
going. I got a lot on my mind."
Quit kicking yourself. You didn't have to listen to XJ. Sure,
life on board the plane would have been hell for a while, but
the computer would've gotten over it eventually. It was your
own damn curiosity got you into this. You had to know.
Well, he thought gloomily, now maybe you're gonna find
out.
General Dixter's headquarters were easily visible once the
two got out beyond the jumble of planes parked in the
spaceport. Painted the same tan color as the arid, barren land
surrounding it, the mobile trailer appeared—by some trick of
the eye—to be close to the port. In actuality, it turned out to
be about five miles away, as Tusk realized wearily when he and
the boy set out walking. A hitched ride from a passing
hoverjeep took them to their destination.
Dion looked with disfavor on the hand-painted sign over the
door. He couldn't read the lettering but presumed it was
regulation military—the language taught to all those who
entered the Commonwealth's Armed Forces. Computer de-
vised, the language had been designed primarily to develop
manuals that could be read and understood by all races, but it
had degenerated into a spoken language that was a crude
mixture of military alpha—as it was called—and several major
languages in the galaxy. Translators were far better for daily
communication and were relied upon heavily, but this unoffi-

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cial language had gained favor among the troops—particularly
the mercenaries, who had modified it to their own sort of cant.
"What does that say?" Dion asked, pointing at the sign.
"Oh, so's there's something you can't understand?" Tusk
remarked, still preoccupied with his inner misgivings.
The boy's flashing blue eyes brought the mercenary up
short.
"Sorry, kid. Didn't mean to be sarcastic. Just in a bad mood."
Tusk felt his face grow warm and was thankful that his dusky
skin hid his embarrassed flush. "The sign's written in grunt-
speak. Says 'Army Headquarters.' It's no wonder your master
never taught this to you. For one thing, it isn't recorded
anywhere. For another, it's probably a lot different than what
it was years ago. And for third, the Guardians were above this
sort of thing. We grunts use it. That's where the name came
from."
"Will you teach it to me?"
"I'll try." Tusk was dubious. "Only it really just sort of grows
on you—"
"Like a virus?" Dion's voice was cool, but the mercenary—-
looking at the boy sharply—saw a smile in the blue eyes.
"Yeah." Tusk relaxed and grinned. Sometimes he had to
admit he kind of liked this kid. "Yeah, like a virus."
The mercenary climbed up several rickety stairs and shoved
open a screen door that had—from the smell—been recently
repainted. Strolling inside with easy nonchalance, Tusk turned
to say something to Dion and discovered he wasn't there. The
boy was holding back, outside the door, his lips stretched taut,
his face so pale the mercenary was half-convinced he could see
through the translucent skin. It was as if the kid thought his
life's fate were going to be decided in the next three minutes.
Catching hold of the sleeve of the boy's tunic, Tusk hauled
him inside.
"Hi, Bennett. I'm Tusk, remember? Here to see the gen-
eral," the mercenary said to a soldier seated at a desk.
Bennett's neatly pressed and immaculate uniform was in
marked contrast to what the boy had seen the other merce-
naries wearing—everything from loincloths to long, flowing
robes, to nothing but scaly skin.
"One moment, sir."
The aide stood up from his desk. After giving Tusk a sharp,
appraising glance and letting his eyes flick briefly and curi-

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129
ously over the boy standing tense and tight as a drawn
bowstring at the mercenary's side, Bennett vanished into an
adjoining room, carefully closing the door behind him.
Tusk strolled over to examine several maps that had been
Velcroed onto fuzzy boards and hung on the wall. Though
every window in the place was wide open, it was only slightly
cooler inside than out, he noted, mopping sweat from his
brow. The air-conditioning must have broken down again. An
ancient fan standing on top of a file cabinet near the aide's desk
whirled its blades industriously. The only apparent effect it
was having, however, was to require that every scrap of paper
be held down by a weight. The aide returned.
"The general will see you—" Bennett began formally, but
his words were run over by the man himself, who came out of
his office to meet them.
"Tusk! Where've you been?" Dixter grasped the mercenary's
hand and shook it warmly. "I was told you requested our
coordinates. But that was days ago! Didn't you Jump?"
"Into a war zone, sir?" Tusk shook his head.
Dixter grinned. "This isn't that much of a war. Still, it pays
the bills. Come in. Come in. And your friend, too. How did
you make out on Rinos 4? I heard from Ridion that you got
caught in that mess—
Dion—not expecting the general's sudden arrival—had
leaned over the desk to examine the aide's computer. His face
was averted when Dixter entered the room, and by the time
the boy stood up and turned toward him, the general had
started back into his office, his hand resting on Tusk's shoulder.
Tusk launched into a doleful account of flying his spaceplane
smack into the middle of a civil war. The general was listening
sympathetically, his eyes fixed on the mercenary. Dion slipped
in behind Tusk and stood with his back to the wall. While the
two soldiers discussed the civil war on Rinos—in which,
apparently, the general had considered taking part, then
rejected as being a no-win situation—the boy studied both his
surroundings and the man in charge.
The room in the general's trailer drew his attention first. Not
because as a room it was anything extraordinary—it wasn't,
being small and boxlike with two windows, a closet, and a large
fan. What captured the boy's attention was that the walls were
papered from ceiling to floor with antique maps and star
charts. Dion had never seen so many maps or imagined that so
many maps existed and could be gathered together in one

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space. Rolls of maps hung from hooks, maps were nailed to the
walls or had been stuck up with masking tape. And some of
the maps seemed—to Dion's fascinated gaze—to be clinging to
the wood of their own volition.
Maps of star systems vied for attention with maps of planets,
maps of countries, and—stuck up in a prominent place near
the general's desk—-a street map of some city. Hundreds more
maps stood rolled up in corners or arranged in bundles on the
floor. A whirring ceiling fan above the general's desk brought
the maps to life. They whispered and fluttered and rustled like
wild things.
Platus had never had access to maps like these. Dion's gaze
went hungrily to systems whose names he recognized yet had
never seen mapped out. He could live in this room for a year
and never grow bored, he thought. Wondering idly how many
of these worlds the general had visited, Dion turned from the
maps to study the man.
John Dixter's tanned face was seamed and lined, gray
streaked his hair at his temples and his receding hairline made
a high, lined forehead seem even higher. His rugged outdoor
life made it difficult to tell his age from his appearance, but
Dion guessed him to be in his early fifties. Of medium height,
the general's upper body was firm and muscular, with only a
hint of softening around the waistline. His brown eyes, caught
in a web of fine wrinkles, were clear and sharp and penetrating
and seemed accustomed to scanning great distances. His
uniform, unlike that of his aide's, was rumpled and creased and
looked vaguely as if it had been slept in. (Dion was to discover
later that this was precisely the case. When the general was too
busy to return to his own quarters, he often slept in the trailer,
on a cot stored in the closet.)
Dixter's voice was deep and resonant and when he
laughed—which he was doing now at the expense of Tusk—it
was hearty, infectious laughter. But though the laughter was
genuine, his mirth did not seem to reside within him perma-
nently but only visited from time to time. When the laughter
was gone, the man's face was grave and solemn, though with a
lingering smile in the brown eyes.
"Tusk," John Dixter said, clapping his hand on the merce-
nary's shoulder, "I think you were lucky to have escaped alive.
Next time, heed my warning."
"Yes, sir, Tusk said ruefully, shaking his head over his
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131
"And now, introduce me to your friend. I thought you
traveled alon—"
Dixter turned to the boy, his face set into a smile of
welcome.
Dion, facing the general, saw the smile slip. The hand the
general had raised to extend in greeting halted, the fingers
clenched involuntarily. A look of recognition came to the man's
eyes. Dion's heart leapt; the boy half-expected Dixter to greet
him by name.
Dion started eagerly forward, lips parted to speak, when he
saw himself once again a stranger in the general's eyes. Dixter's
expression grew cool. Although he did not continue his
sentence, he shook hands firmly, politely, and impassively.
Turning away from them, the general circled around to take a
seat behind his desk. He paused a moment, keeping his back
to them, to stare at a map, perhaps giving himself time to
regain his composure. When he sat down and faced them, he
looked directly at Tusk.
"Please." He gestured at the chairs.
Tusk glanced meaningfully at Dion, and the boy knew he
had not mistaken the general's reaction to him. Brief as it was
and now well covered, it had been too obvious to miss. Tusk
had noticed it, too. The mercenary took a chair opposite the
general's desk. Dion sat down but the next moment he was
standing up again without even knowing what he was doing.
"Sit, kid," Tusk shot out of the corner of his mouth and Dion
subsided back onto the edge of his seat.
"What did you say the young man's name was?" Dixter
asked, his eyes on Tusk, speaking of the boy as if he weren't in
the room.
"Dion, sir," the mercenary said. "No last name."
John Dixter nodded, not seeming surprised. With an effort
that was obvious, he kept his eyes leveled on Tusk.
"Is this young man a friend? Surely you haven't brought him
to fight. He's hardly old enough—"
"He's seventeen, sir," Tusk interjected.
"Seventeen." The general coughed. His eyes darted to
Dion, then shifted to a map.
"And, no, sir, the kid's not a friend. That is, he is a friend,
but that came later." Tusk was nervous and getting confused.
"I guess you could say I'm the boy's guard—" He stopped, his
tongue frozen to the roof of his mouth.
"Guardian," suggested General Dixter softly.

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"No!" Tusk slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair
with such force that he winced in pain. "No, sir," he amended
belatedly. "Chauffeur. That's more like it." Drawing a deep
breath, Tusk glanced at Dion and decided to plunge into the
atmosphere that had suddenly grown chill and dark. "The fact
is, sir, that I brought the kid here to meet you on purpose. I—
We, the kid and I, were hoping you could help us. We left
Syrac Seven about three parsecs ahead of Lord Sagan—"
John Dixter's eyebrows raised. He held up a warning hand
and Tusk fell instantly silent.
"Bennett!" the general called.
The aide appeared in the doorway.
"Drive into town and see if Mr. Marek has arrived. He
should have been in contact with me before this. He may be
having trouble finding transport."
"Yes, sir." Bennett turned to go.
"And lock the outside door when you leave. I don't want to
be disturbed."
"Yes, sir."
The aide left, shutting the door to the office behind him.
Tusk opened his mouth but Dixter frowned and shook his
head. No one said a word until they heard the front door close.
Rising to his feet, the general opened the office door a crack
and peered out. He motioned Tusk to check the windows.
Satisfied that they were alone, Dixter returned to his seat.
"A Warlord, Tusk," he said, shaking his head. "I thought you
had more sense!"
"It wasn't my fault, sir. This kid's . . . uh . . . mentor
needed to get the boy off-planet quick and he came to me."
"By accident? He chose you at random?"
"No." Tusk sighed. "Because of my father."
"I see." Dixter's expression was grave.
^Apparently, the Warlord is after the kid."
"How do you know?"
Briefly, concisely, Tusk related what happened the last night
on Syrac Seven. He told about Dion's return to his home, the
encounter the boy witnessed between Sagan and Platus, the
takeover of the planet by the Warlord's forces.
"We had to pull the drunken pilot routine to get past the
blockade."
Jfhev got a good look at your plane?"
"I'm afraid so, sir. Probably pictures, too."
John Dixter, for the first time since they'd sat down, turned

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his eyes directly on Dion. Troubled, perplexed, the general
stared intently at the young man, his penetrating gaze pinning
him to the wall like another map.
"Your mentor, Dion. What was his name?"
"Platus. Platus Morianna."
Dixter's expression didn't change, but he leaned his head on
his hand, slowly rubbed his forehead.
"You knew him-—Platus," Dion said.
"Yes, I knew him." Dixter placed his hands on the desk,
folded them, the fingers clasped tightly. "I knew them all. The
Golden Squadron."
"It seems everyone knew him except me!" the boy said
bitterly, "and I lived with him all my life!"
"So he never said anything—?"
"No. I didn't know he'd been a Guardian until Tusk told
me."
"And you don't know, then, if any of the others are still
alive?"
"One is, sir." Tusk inserted.
The unspoken name cast a palpable shadow over the
general's face. "Yes," he answered.
"Sagan. You mean Derek Sagan, don't you?" Dion said. "The
Warlord who killed my— Who—" Dion bit his lip, swallowed.
"But what about the others—-like Tusk's father—?"
Dixter lifted a cautionary finger. "Don't mention that aloud,
young man. I'm the only one who knows the truth about
him . . . that he is the son of a Guardian."
"Not the only one now," the mercenary muttered beneath
his breath.
"Stavros," Dion was saying. "The Warlord said something
about Stavros—"
"One of them." Dixter kept his hands folded. The knuckles
were turning white. "What did he say about Stavros?"
"Only that Sagan thought he had shut the man's transmis-
sion down in time. It was Stavros who warned Platus that the
Warlord was coming, I think. And the Warlord said something
about Stavros holding out three days. ..." The boy's voice
sank.
"He's dead," John Dixter said. "They're all dead now, I
suppose." The lines in his face grew deeper and more pro-
nounced. Finally, shaking his head, he unclasped his hands
and began to unroll a map that lay on his desk.
"So," he continued more briskly, "how can I help you, Tusk?

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I don't know what can I do against the Warlord. I try my best
to keep clear of his path. Sit down, boy. You're safe enough for
the time being." This to Dion who was jumping up out of his
chair again. "Sagan will take no interest in Vangelis. Not as
long as the uranium shipments keep going out, and I intend to
see that they do. But your time is short. As you say, Tusk, he
has pictures of your plane, descriptions of you from the
planet's surface. The Warlord is no fool. He's probably discov-
ered your real name, my friend."
"We didn't come for help, sir. Not exactly." Tusk shifted
uncomfortably in his seat. Lowering his voice, he glanced out
the open window, then sat forward, mistrusting—it seemed—
even the sand that blew in. "You see, sir, we've been trying to
figure out why Sagan wanted the kid enough to kill for him.
And we found a curious piece of information in some files that
XJ . . . er . . . appropriated from the Warlord's computer.
Nothing more than a history tape, but it recorded all the
events of the night of the coup."
Dixter's eyes narrowed, his lips tightened. His hands ceased
their task and lay flat and unmoving on top of the map. "Go
on."
"There was a child born that night, sir. To a Princess Semele
Starfire, wife of the king's younger brother. Seventeen years
ago. The kid, here, is seventeen. His master was a Guardian.
What we figure is—"
"Don't!" Dixter slammed his hands on the desk. The map
rolled up with a snap. The word exploded among them like a
grenade. Dion-—nerves taut and stretched—fell back, grab-
bing the arms of his chair. Tusk started and stared at the
general in astonishment.
Dixter licked his lips. "Don't speculate further, Tusk! Don't
ask me for information. I can't tell you anything, I wasn't at the
palace that night."
"Damn it!" Dion shot to his feet. Leaning over the desk, he
confronted the general. "You know who I am! Or you think you
do! Tell me!" His hands clenched to fists. "Tell me!"
Shocked, Tusk tried to grab hold of the boy, but Dion jerked
free.
General John Dixter was not, it seemed, to be intimidated
by flaring blue eyes. A smile twisted his lips, as if he were
reliving old memories. It was almost as if he had been under
such angry scrutiny before.
"Platus told you nothing?" Dixter asked.
"Not even my real name!"

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135
"Then, Dion," the general said regretfully, in a tone that left
nothing open to argument, "he must have had a good reason."
"You recognize me! I see it in your eyes."
Dixter's face hardened. "Don't try my patience, young
man." Emphasis on the word young made Dion flush in anger
and shame. "What I may know or guess is so minimal that it
would only confuse the issue. Besides, to speak of it would be
to betray a confidence. A confidence made to me by someone
very dear." The general began, once more, to unroll the map.
"Someone who was dying. "
"Sir," Tusk said, getting to his feet. "I apologize—"
"No," Dion interrupted, suddenly and uncannily calm. "Sir,
it is I who apologize. You are right, of course. I'm sorry, I
behaved like a child. And I'm sorry to have brought back
painful memories."
John Dixter smoothed out the map, holding it in place with
an ashtray, two dirty glasses, and a staple gun. "I accept your
apology, Dion. Pilot's briefing tonight at 2200, Tusk."
He bent his head, studying the map. The two were obvi-
ously dismissed. They left, Tusk careful to shut the door
behind them.
When they had gone, Dixter raised his head, the map
forgotten. Staring at the chair where the young man had been
sitting, the general seemed to see the afterimage of the boy on
his retina—as if Dion had been made of flame.

Chapter ••«*>©«<»•• Thirteen
So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is known
whenever we are shown a single link of it.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet
Derek Sagan sat before his computer, his gaze intent upon
the screen. He was alone in his private quarters aboard
Phoenix. Located on a level separate and apart from the rest of
the ship, his chambers could be accessed only by an elevator
whose controls were set to respond to his voice command. All
others, with the exception of Admiral Aks and the Warlord s
own personal guards, had to request the Warlord's permission
to enter.
Fear didn't keep the Warlord isolated, as it did some rulers
in the galaxy. He had fears—all men do-—but his fear was
nebulous, internal, buried deep like a piece of shrapnel in an
old wound. He never felt it—the sliver was never debilita-
ting—but he knew it was there and he knew that someday
something would jar it loose and it would do its damage. Sagan
was afraid of nothing and no one over which he could exert
control. His need for privacy, his need to be alone with his
thoughts, his work, and also his prayers and meditations to an
outlawed deity kept him aloof from the men under his
command.
He knew this did him no harm with them. He was of the
Blood Royal, he had been born knowing how to manipulate
people. He never appeared before them unless he was in full
dress armor. Not only did the shining metal look impressive,
but it concealed as well as protected. A face covered by a
helmet never shows fatigue or pain. A gleaming breastplate
hides the slight thickening of the waistline. Sagan could always
appear invincible—at least to the enemy without. As to the
enemy within . . .
136

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The Warlord waited patiently for the computer to complete
its search. The crisp notes of a Bach partita played in the
background, the intricate patterns aligning and altering and
realigning themselves in the portion of his mind attuned to
them. Bach was one of the few composers he admired, whose
music he enjoyed. The mathematical order and precision
appealed to him.
"Search complete, sir," came the mechanical voice.
"Reveal."
"Search linking one Mendaharin Tusca of Zanzi to persons
known as the Guardians revealed Danha Tusca, former senator
of the planet Zanzi, deceased in—"
"Next," ordered Sagan.
"Nothing further on Mendaharin Tusca."
"Match with the name Tusk."
"Searching." A pause. "Search complete."
"Reveal."
"Search of some seventy thousand subjects known as
Tusk—"
"Yes, yes."
"—discovered one whose birth date, planet of origin, and
DNA match with subject known as Mendaharin Tusca. Mili-
tary service—"
"Skip that. Match Tusk with Guardian."
"Searching." Almost immediate. "One match. Platus Mori-
anna, Guardian, met subject Tusk on Syrac Seven—"
"I entered that information myself."
The computer was not intimidated by its commandant's
growing ire. "Search concluded, sir."
"Very well." Sagan had expected as much, but he felt
annoyed all the same. "Next."
"Search linking subject called Tusk, known as Mendaharin
Tusca, to second circle—those people closely associated with
persons known to be Guardians. Search revealed—"
The computer paused in mid-report; some glitch in the
system caused it to hesitate two or three seconds on occasion
before continuing to function. The specialists aboard ship
blamed it on system overload and advised Sagan at least every
other ship's day that the problem had been solved. Tomorrow,
he would pay them another visit.
"—one match."
"Indeed?" The Warlord was surprised.
"Subject known as John Dixter. Age fifty-two. Deserter.

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MARGARET WEIS	1
Former general in the Royal Army. Youngest man ever
promoted to rank of general by personal authority of—"
"Enough." Sagan knew Dixter's history better than the
computer. His thoughts went to his prisoner aboard the
Phoenix. "This is how the poet says journeys end, isn't it, my
lady? Computer."
"Sir."
"Current location of John Dixter. Search files on mercenar-
ies and their activities, all sectors. I want that report priority
one."
A Bach fugue thundered around him. Sagan picked out the
central melody and followed it through the various convulu-
sions and diversions, keeping hold of it in his mind—one
silken thread woven into a harmonic tapestry.
"Search complete."
"Reveal."
"Current location of John Dixter is on Vangelis, planet
number—"
"I know it. Skip." He knew it very well, but why? Vangelis.
It was in his sector, but that didn't mean much. There were
hundreds of inhabited planets in his sector and he didn't know
the names and numbers of all of them. Vangelis was connected
with something, something important. Hastily he searched his
memory but couldn't find it.
"A recent war has developed between one Marek, Douglas,
Ph.D. Engineering—"
"Skip."
"—and the local planetary government over control of the
uranium mines."
"Policy."
"We are operating under the standard policy of noninter-
vention with the provision that if the uranium shipments are
interrupted we have the right to move in and place the planet
under martial law."
A mining planet. Why would he be familiar with a mining
planet?
"Search. Anything at all involved with Vangelis."
"Working." The answer was a long time coming. The
Warlord thought the computer had, in fact, ceased to function
and was about to give the specialists their fright for the day
when he heard, "Search complete."
"Reveal."
"Vangelis is the site of an experiment being conducted by

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139
Snaga Ohme, classification Red. Further information can be
obtained only by your voice command override—"
"End of need."
Sagan stared at the blank screen. Vangelis. Experiment.
Snaga Ohme.
Obsessions. That's what they did to you. His obsessive
search for the boy, his discovery of Maigrey had driven Ohme's
project completely from his mind. And he prided himself on
his discipline—physical and mental! Of course, there was no
particular reason why he should have kept it in his mind. All
was arranged; he assumed it was proceeding as planned.
Ohme wasn't particularly trustworthy, but the Adonian was
almost as fond of money as he was of himself. Ohme's last
report had been satisfactory and there wasn't another report
due for another half-cycle. Still, Sagan should have kept
informed. He certainly should have known that war on that
planet was imminent.
John Dixter. Deserter. Royalist. The night of the coup,
Dixter had fought with the Royal Army. He'd been captured
and held prisoner, but he'd managed to escape. Most thought
the general had slipped through Sagan's fingers. None knew
that the Warlord had deliberately opened his hand.
If there was anyone to whom Maigrey might have run after
her disappearance, it would have been John Dixter. Sagan
kept the man under close watch, but Maigrey never came to
him, never contacted him. Dixter turned to mercenary work
and was quite successful at it. The Warlord could have closed
his fist, crushed the mercenary leader anytime he wanted. But
he chose not to. John Dixter was a good commander. He and
his mercenaries performed a useful function, kept small fires
from flaring into major conflagrations.
And now, John Dixter might be even more useful.
Leaning back in the chair whose shape and contours had
been specially molded to fit his body, Sagan played the central
theme of his melody and heard the echoes of the expan-
sions.
If Tusca didn't know the identity of his young passenger,
surely he must suspect. Platus must have been forced to tell
him part of the truth, if not the whole, in order to get him to
accept the responsibility. And wasn't it likely that, saddled
with this burden, Tusca would turn to a friend? A friend who
knew the Guardians, a friend who might be able to answer any
unanswered questions?

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MARGARET WEIS	1
It was worth a try.
At his signal, the entry door to his room slid aside and one
of the Honor Guard appeared, fist over his heart.
"My lord?"
"Pass the word for Admiral Aks."
"Yes, my lord."
The centurion vanished, the door slid shut. Sagan could
have summoned the admiral over the ship's commlink, but he
preferred to keep this strictly confidential, especially with
Maigrey aboard. He intended to spring this on her like a land
mine, shatter her with the explosion.
The door slid aside and the guard appeared.
"Admiral Aks, my lord."
The admiral entered.
"That was quick," Sagan commented. He moved his hand
over a beam of light and the Bach ceased. The Warlord had
never been able to cultivate a taste for fine music in the
admiral.
"I was on my way to see you, my lord."
"What about?"
"The Lady Maigrey, sir."
"Lady Maigrey?"
"Yes, but it can wait. What was it you wanted of me, my
lord?"
"That can wait. What of the lady?"
Aks flushed and appeared slightly embarrassed. "I'm not
certain quite how to put this, my lord, but—"
"Just spit it out, Aks, and don't waste my time."
"Yes, my lord. The fact is, my lord, that the lady is . . .
er . . . damaging morale."
"Morale?"
This was not unexpected. Sagan was relieved to discover
it was nothing more serious. Then he was angry at himself
for being relieved. It meant that he was uneasy about her
and he should have taken precautions enough to have pre-
cluded uneasiness. Yet even as he told himself this he told
himself as well that he could never take enough precau-
tions.
"Well, what has she done, Aks? She's not making speeches
in the gym, calling the men to king and country?"
"Oh, no, my lord!" Aks looked shocked. "I would never
permit such a thing. Your own orders—"
"It was a joke, Admiral."

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141
"Ah, yes, my lord." Aks did not appear to consider the
subject one for levity.
"Well, what has she done?"
"She has been walking around the ship, my lord."
"I gave her permission to walk around. She's under guard at
all times and permitted to speak to no one."
"Yes, my lord. She doesn't need to speak."
"No, she wouldn't," Sagan muttered, but it was beneath his
breath and the admiral didn't hear.
"She has only to appear on deck and everyone quits
working. They can't help themselves. I've felt it myself, my
lord, and I'm not an imaginative man."
"One of your more endearing qualities, Aks."
"Thank you, my lord."
"It wasn't a compliment. Please continue your report. I was
not aware that the lady's beauty was so entrancing."
Aks was accustomed to such verbal barbs. His skin was
coated with his own self-worth; he lacked the imagination to
feel pain. "No, my lord. That isn't the problem. The men say
it's like a ghost walking the corridors. She freezes the blood.
No one can talk. No one can work. All the men seem to be able
to do is to look at her. That terrible scar—"
Aks could not repress a shudder, and consequently did not
see the darkness gather on Sagan's face. He heard it, however,
in the answer to his complaint.
"Nonetheless she will continue to be allowed the freedom of
the ship. It suits my purposes that she do so. As for the effect
she is having on the men, she is fighting me the only way she
has at her command. I admit that this is a different kind of
enemy from those we usually face, but she is an enemy and the
men must react accordingly. I presume that if the Corasians
boarded the ship the men would not stop working to stare at
them?"
"No, my lord. But—"
"Any work stoppage is a breach of discipline and is to be
punished as such. Is that understood, Aks?"
"Yes, my lord."
"I want you to set a course for the planet Vangelis. Routine.
I don't want any undue alarm. There's a war going on there,
Admiral. Put it out that we're concerned with the uranium
shipments getting through. The information's on the com-
puter. Read up on it."
"Yes, my lord." Aks waited for further orders, suspecting

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MARGARET WEIS	1
that this wasn't the real reason for the diversion from their
normal course.
"I want the description of that Scimitar of Tusca's and the
offer of the reward for information concerning it circulated in
the area."
"You have reason to believe it's there, my lord?"
"John Dixter's there, Aks. I think it highly likely that we will
find not only the Scimitar there but the boy as well. Such are
the results of my deductions." The Warlord glanced at the
admiral, who was regarding his lord in silence. "Now is the
proper moment, Aks, for you to say, 'Gad, Holmes, you're
brilliant!'"
"Holmes, my lord? I'm not certain who—"
"A literary allusion, Aks. Don't let it concern you."
The admiral didn't. It had been on his tongue to ask the
Warlord why he hadn't used the lady to locate the boy. After
all, that was one reason she'd been brought aboard. But Aks
had seen Sagan's face upon his return from the planet of
Oha-Lau. The admiral did not bring up the subject.
The Warlord leaned back in his chair, fixed his dark-eyed
gaze on his admiral.
"Have you ever considered the workings of the universe,
Aks?"
The admiral frowned. Aks disapproved of these philosophic
ramblings. They invariably led Sagan to a discussion of unlaw-
ful topics.
"Our illustrious leader, President Robes," Sagan con-
tinued, "would say, no doubt, that it is random chance which
seems to be bringing all these people together again. A
sociologist would figure up the stats and chart the proba-
bilities and see in it the herd instinct. But I believe it is the will
of the Creator, Aks. He is bringing us all together for a
purpose."
"Yes, my lord."
By merely agreeing to such a thing the admiral made
himself liable to treason. But Aks had seen long ago that the
Warlord's path was veering off the smooth, well-traveled road
and heading into a dark and dangerous wilderness. The
admiral was not a gambler but he knew the wisdom of the
saying "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," and a man does
not have to have to be imaginative to be ambitious. Aks never
thought about chance. He knew nothing about sociologists. He

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143
didn't believe in a higher purpose or this mystical god. He did,
however, believe in Derek Sagan.
The Warlord made a gesture. The music started—-Bach, The
Well-Tempered Clavier.
Aks knew that he was dismissed.

Chapter	Fourteen
I love my truck . . .
Glen Campbell, "I Love My Truck"
The hatch beneath Tusk's hand opened so quickly he nearly
fell inside head first.
"Where've you been?" demanded a voice from the darkness.
"Turn on the lights!" Tusk snapped, slithering down the
ladder.
Dim lights flickered on in a circle around the center of the
spaceplane's interior. Dion followed Tusk, the young man
repressing a strong desire to see if he could slide down the
ladder, heels on the rungs, as did the pilot. A fine sight he'd
look if he failed, tumbling in a heap on the deck.
"Do you know what time it is?" XJ said in a querulous voice.
"You've been gambling. I heard about the game—"
"We went to see Dixter," Tusk muttered, struggling to pull
a sweat-soaked shirt off over his head, "and then I took the kid
around to meet a few people and to show him some of the
other planes. Then we went to the briefing." He snapped his
lips shut on the word as if he'd like to bite it in two, hurled the
shirt in a corner. Tugging on a sandal, trying to yank it off, he
hopped about the cabin on one foot.
"Briefing?" XJ perked up. "Let's hear it. What's going on?"
Tusk's answer was a snarl and a sandal flung against the side
of the cabin wall.
"My, my, we're in a pet, aren't we? It isn't the money, is it?"
XJ was suddenly alarmed. "Not one of those die-now, pay-later
plans?"
"You know Dixter better'n that," Tusk grumbled. Sitting on
his bunk, he wrestled with the other sandal. "The money's
okay. Fact, it's damn good. It's what I got to do to earn it."
"Ah, then—" XJ sighed contentedly.
144

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145
"Drive a damn TRUC!" Tusk began to swear. "I'm a fighter
pilot, not a friggin' Teamster—"
The lights went out. Dion, having been prepared for this,
was safely stretched out in his hammock. He heard the other
sandal hit the wall.
"If you are quite through with your tantrum," XJ said,
peeved, "I would appreciate knowing what is going on. You've
left me stuck here for hours. Our only neighbor is an outdated
NICAR unit in that beat-up RV next pad over. It talks in
numbers, when it talks at all."
"The kid will fill you in." Tusk was fumbling around in the
darkness. "Where're the towels? I'm taking a shower."
"Not in here, you're not. All systems shut down except
lights and air. Saves money. Go use Dixter's water. The towels
are where you always stow them, in the third compartment
down, just below the dehydrated fruit. Remember to hang it
up on the line outside. I don't want to find a wet towel on the
deck in the morning!"
Snarling an obscene rejoinder, Tusk thumped and bumped
around the cabin. Dion heard a compartment slide open and
hit something. There was a curse. Apparently, Tusk had been
standing too close. The lights in the ship just barely flickered
on and Dion saw a hunched-over Tusk, rubbing his shin
and hauling out a frayed piece of cloth. The abused sandals
flapped again on his feet. He wrapped the towel around his
naked loins and limped up the ladder and out of the plane, still
swearing.
Dion realized in admiration Tusk hadn't repeated himself
once in his long string of curses.
"I, personally, am shocked," the computer said. The lights
came back on. "Now, then, kid. Tell old uncle XJ all about it.
Are you the long-lost prince of our dreams?"
"Yes, I am," Dion said, leaning his head back on his hands.
"You are?" The lights flashed in a wild, strobelike effect.
"Did Dixter say that?"
"No." Dion shrugged. "But I know from the way he acted.
He recognized me. He knew Platus and Stavros and Derek
Sagan. And he was at the palace that night. Oh, he says he
wasn't, but he's lying. There's a lot he knows that he's not
telling." The boy yawned until his jaws cracked. The thin air
and the excitement and the long day were getting to him. "It
makes sense."
"Well, well." The lights dimmed as XJ recovered from the

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MARGARET WEIS	1
shock. "Maybe so, but the general didn't actually say any-
thing."
"He didn't need to," Dion countered. He settled himself
more comfortably in his hammock, moving slowly so as not to
set it swinging. "I know. I am."
"I hate to ask this, because it's admitting the occurrence of
an improbable situation, but what does Tusk think?"
"We didn't discuss it." Dion had tried. Tusk had refused.
The boy felt a return of his irritation.
XJ hummed to itself, assimilating the information, and
decided to change the subject. "So, what's this about Tusk and
a TRUC?"
"I'm not sure." Dion yawned again and shifted in his bed.
Tired, he felt nervous and keyed up, his muscles jerked, and
he couldn't get comfortable. "I understood only a little of the
briefing. They all talk in a different language. Tusk explained
most of it to me on the way back. Dixter introduced a human
named Marek—I think that was it. Apparently he used to own
the uranium mines in some country—I can't remember its
name. He was a type of corporate feudal lord, it sounds like.
The mines've been in his family for generations. Anyway,
about two years ago, there was a civil war and the government
of this country fell into the hands of an oligarchy. They
nationalized the mines and sent Marek into exile. Marek was
well liked by his people and the government was careful to
treat him nicely. He went peacefully—not wanting to prolong
the fighting, which was disrupting the economy—and he
might have been willing to stay where they had sent him,
which was on a planet somewhere on the fringes of this system.
The government gave him a percentage of the income,
anything he wanted to keep him happy and away from the
mines.
"But then Marek got word that his miners were being
mistreated. Production was falling off, profits were dropping.
The miners walked off the job. The government sent in troops
and there was bloodshed. Marek heard talk that the Warlord
would step in if the uranium shipments were halted and place
the country and maybe the whole planet under military
control—"
"'Which means kiss your ass good-bye," XJ interrupted.
"I guess it means kissing the profits good-bye, at least,"
Dion said, smiling slightly. "And nobody wants that, not

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147
Marek, not the miners, not the government. But nobody's
willing to back down."
"I get the picture. They're all holding a gun on each other;
meanwhile, the Warlord steps up and shoots them all in the
back."
"Yeah, and the government's got the shakiest hand, accord-
ing to Marek. The oligarchs can't agree on anything. The
people are fed up and there's a group all set to move in and
take control. Tusk thinks Marek's involved in that, too, but
Dixter has drawn the line at helping him overthrow the
government. All we're doing, I guess, is making sure the
uranium shipments keep going out while Marek tries to regain
control of the mines."
"That's why Dixter's lived as long as he has. Mercenary
generals like him start overthrowing governments, and we'd
find the Congress breathing down our necks. While we still
had necks," XJ added as an afterthought. "Who's likely to try
to stop the uranium?"
Dion yawned again. He was finally relaxing and wished the
computer would keep quiet. "According to Marek, there's one
or two in the government who think that the Warlord taking
over might not be such a bad thing. Sagan would be so
grateful, he'd leave them in power—"
"Uh-huh. So grateful he'd put them in the cellular disrupter.
Sagan can't stomach a traitor. Kind of funny, when you stop to
consider that—depending on how you look at it—he's got a
good chance of winning the Traitor of the Century award. "
There was no answer.
"How much did Tuck lose?" XJ asked gloomily.
"Twenty-seven gildons," Dion murmured.
"How much did you tell XJ I lost?" Tusk asked, leaning over
in his chair to whisper to Dion.
"Twenty-seven gildons."
"Good kid!" Tuck whistled in relief. Pulling out his well-
worn wallet, he thumbed through a fat stack of plasticene bills
and, pulling two out, handed them to the boy. "Here's your
cut. I got to admit that system of yours really works. Now if
there was just some place aboard the plane where I could hide
my stash so that—"
"Attention!" Bennett's crisp voice silenced conversation.
There was a scrapping and scrabbling as the mercenaries got to

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MARGARET WEIS	1
their feet or claws or whatever it was they stood on, each
informally saluting General Dixter in his or her or its own way,
each with the utmost respect.
Walking across the tarmac, the general motioned for them to
be seated, and those that used this form to rest their bodies did
so, while others leaned back on gigantic tails, slithered to the
ground, or—like the six floating Kandar—bobbed slowly up
and down in mid-air.
Due to the intense heat during the day, pilots' briefings
were held outdoors, in the relative cool of the Vangelian night.
Camp stools were drawn up on the still-warm concrete. Harsh
lights illuminated the pilots and their fighters. Force fields
surrounded the airstrip. Security was tight.
Dixter nodded in greeting, his brown eyes flicking over
each, silently acknowledging and thanking each for his, her, or
its presence. The gaze included Dion, and the young man
thought he noticed the tired lips widen in a small smile that
remained when the general began to speak.
"Knowing how rumors spread around this outfit, I guess you
don't need me telling you that Marek deployed his ground
forces today. He's taken over the mines. You probably know
more about it than I do by now, so I'll skip the details."
Appropriate laughter and nodding of heads. Dixter's smile
left, his face returning to business.
"We have nothing to do with the ground end of things," he
said.
Dion, remembering the maps on the walls, raised an eye-
brow at this. Maybe not, but Dixter was certainly keeping
himself well informed. Peeking curiously into mobile field
communications, Dion'd seen numerous people monitoring
radios and transferring information onto computers. Walking
from one to the other, staring at the constantly changing light-
maps on the huge screens, Dixter studied them and discussed
them in low voices with his officers.
A thought occurred to the boy. If the general was this well
equipped with modern technological advancement, why the
old paper maps on the walls? Why the obviously loving care
given to them? Perhaps, Dion answered himself, because
Dixter's entire life is where he's been, not where he's going.
"Repeat!" Dixter's stern voice caught the boy's wandering
attention. "This better sink in. The uranium shipments will get
through. After me."
The mercenaries obediently chanted the chorus.

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149
"Again. Louder. The uranium shipments will get through."
Everybody said it again, this time laughing.
"Once more, and this time, mean it. Your skins and your
hides and your bubbles"—a glance at the bobbing Kandar—
"depend on it. If even one TRUC is destroyed, we'll have the
Warlord's battle cruisers down on us so fast you'll think bosk
snails move at supralight. Repeat—the uranium shipments
will get through!"
Grinning, everyone shouted it out with enthusiasm.
Dixter smiled and nodded. "Very good. Most of those in
power around here don't want the Warlord on Vangelis any
more than we do. But you've all heard Marek. He believes that
this government might attempt to try to capture the uranium
shipments and sell them directly to the Republic, concocting a
story for the Warlord guaranteed to put them in a good light
and Marek in eternal darkness. There's a lot more riding in
that TRUC with you than uranium, Tusk."
"Yeah, like our payroll!" someone sang out from the back.
Everyone laughed and several leaned forward to pound
Tusk on the back or shove him playfully. Tusk scowled darkly.
He'd spent ten minutes in the general's office, trying to see
Dixter to argue, but the general had been too busy.
"Three fighters will go up with each shipment. The TRUC
Tusk is babysitting will be the first and the only shipment for
the time being. I wish like hell we could send numerous
TRUCs at the same time and split up the enemy's attack forces.
But what with the strike and then the fighting yesterday, the
deliveries are late as it is. The miners have been working day
and night to load up just one, and therefore it has to get out.
There is a piece of good news. The TRUC has been equipped
with lascannons—on loan from the Warlord."
Everyone laughed.
"What's the joke?" Dion whispered to a sulking Tusk.
"The Warlord doesn't know he's loaned them."
Dion looked at him blankly.
"Stolen, kid. They're stolen. Like most of the rest of the
equipment."
And like yourselves, Dion thought. He glanced about the
group of pilots, remembering their varied histories as recited
by Tusk during interludes in the card game. Some were
deserters from the Galactic Democratic Republic's Armed
Forces, who like Tusk had become disillusioned with life in the
military. Some had been honorably or dishonorably discharged

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MARGARET WEIS	1
from the former and, accustomed to fighting and finding other
jobs less fulfilling and less lucrative, had kept on doing what
they knew best. Others were outlaws, on the run from planets,
systems, bounty hunters, the Republic, or a variety of the
above.
Each was known to Dixter, who personally interviewed
every applicant wanting to join his team. Any human or alien
who didn't live up to the general's high standards was paid off
and told not to bother to come back. Dixter and his merce-
naries soon developed a reputation not only for being expert
soldiers but a disciplined and organized fighting force. The
general was, therefore, able to carefully select the causes for
which he and his people fought. After all, it was a cause that
could conceivably cost them their lives.
"Those scheduled for the first run assemble at the location
point at 0400. Tusk, report to me immediately following this
meeting. The rest of you are dismissed."
Lurching to his feet, knocking over the camp stool on which
he'd been sitting, Tusk hurried after Dixter. Dion followed,
feeling a growing sense of excitement and exhilaration over the
impending mission. The young man brushed aside the stinging
gnats of guilt that assailed him whenever he heard, in memory,
the gentle voice of Platus argue against warfare and violence.
It seemed to Dion that they—Marek and Dixter—were in the
right and the oligarchs in the wrong. Marek had tried to settle
the dispute peacefully and had failed. Certainly Platus would
have understood that. The young man was even mildly disap-
pointed to find that Dixter had no plans to rush in, overthrow
the government, and seize power.
Tusk had a head start and Dion, becoming entangled in the
dispersing crowd, dashed up on Tusk's heels just as the
mercenary was arguing his case.
"I'm a fighter pilot, sir, not a freight hauler. Let me fly
escort. I'll be of more use—"
"I've made my decision, Tusk," Dixter said, striding across
the tarmac toward the GHQ building. "I'm not asking you to
fly the TRUC; you'll have a driver, one of the best in the
business."
"Not fly it! Begging your pardon, sir, but then what the
hell—"
"You're a skilled gunner, Tusk. You've got to handle the
lascannon—"
"Riding shotgun!" Tusk swore.

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"What was that?" Dixter paused in mid-stride, glancing at
Tusk and raising his eyebrow.
"Nothing, sir."
The lines around the elder man's eyes crinkled, the corner
of the lips deepened into the folds of the cheek—a weary smile
of understanding. Tusk, his eyes on his shoes, didn't notice and
there was no indication of sympathy in Dixter's crisp voice.
"You're the only gunner I've got who's had experience with
these new models. Not only that, but you're intelligent and
imaginative and not prone to shoot your way out of a problem
if there's a more logical solution."
The general wiped his hand over his perspiring face. Even
at night, the heat lingered. "I guess you and the rest think I'm
a damn fool." He glanced at the other mercenaries heading
back to their ships or the bars or the nearest ante-up game.
"But I can't emphasize too much the importance of getting this
shipment through without causing any more of an incident
than we can help. I chose you for one reason, Tusk. I trust
you." Dixter laid his hand affectionately on the man's shoulder.
"Don't let me down."
The general gave the mercenary a nod that was friendly, yet
indicated that the subject was closed and would only be
reopened at considerable peril.
Tusk ducked his head. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.
"Now, come to my office. You'll meet your driver."
Dixter withdrew his hand from Tusk's shoulder and turned
his attention to Bennett, who had been hovering at his
shoulder with a clipboard, papers, and obviously important
news. The two walked rapidly on ahead. Dion, slowing his
pace to follow at a discreet distance, discovered that Tusk had
come to a complete standstill.
"I don't like this," Tusk muttered. "Not one damn bit!"
Dixter's trailer was crowded, noisy, and hot. People were
coming and going constantly, mostly from a large white van
that was mobile field communications and carried an assort-
ment of various monitoring and transmitting equipment
mounted on the top.
"They're in touch with Marek, picking up his troop reports,
probably listening in on the government forces' transmis-
sions," Tusk explained.
Dion nodded, attempting to look wise. His gaze shifted to

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another van, parked next to the first. This one was smaller and
much newer. Unlike the other van, no one was coming into it
or going out of it. It appeared to be operational, however;
lights glowed from instruments on the van's roof, where
several long, gleaming metal tubes pointed fixedly at the sky.
"What's that one doing?" Dion asked.
Tusk gave him a swift, sharp glance. "Monitoring the fleet."
"The Warlord?"
"Uh-huh."
Dion stared at the van, his fingers tingling, a shiver that was
half-pleasurable and half-chilling crawling over his skin.
"C'mon, kid. It's not polite to keep a general waiting."
"Maybe I should stay out here."
Tusk looked at Dion, looked at the van, and, shaking his
head, got a firm grip on the young man's arm. "I know what
you're thinkin', kid, and it ain't healthy."
Dion glared at him, trying unsuccessfully to break free of
the mercenary's hold. "What do you mean?"
'"One man knows who I am'? or words to that effect? Yeah,
Sagan knows, all right, but are you willing to risk your life and
mine and Dixter's and the lives of everyone else around here
to find out?"
"You're wrong! I wouldn't do anything like that! I'm not
stupid. Besides," the boy added coolly, twisting free, "I
already know the truth."
"Yeah." Tusk grinned. "XJ told me. I got to hand it to you,
kid, you threw a lightning bolt into that computer. XJ hasn't
had a shock like that since we got caught in a zapping crossfire
on Delta Venus. C'mon." The mercenary heaved a sigh. "Let's
get this over with."
Dion allowed himself to be persuaded. He cast a backward
glance at the van. He hadn't really been plotting what Tusk
suspected him of plotting. In fact, he hadn't consciously
thought of it at all until Tusk brought it up.
Consciously thought of it.
The plan must have been in his subconscious, however,
because the minute Tusk accused him of trying to communi-
cate with the Warlord, Dion recognized the idea and knew it
for his own and knew he had rejected it for all the reasons Tusk
had mentioned. Which meant that Tusk knew Dion better
than Dion knew himself. The boy found this disconcerting.
The two shoved their way inside GHQ, trying—along with
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were trying to get out. Fighting his way inside, Dion was
smothered by the heat, the noise, and the crush of people. He
didn't like crowds. He felt himself apart, separate, distinct
from other people.
I don't belong, he thought. I'll never belong.
After a considerable wait, during which the young man
became so absorbed listening to the conversations around him
and trying to make sense of the military jargon that he forgot
his uneasiness, Bennett shouted into the packed room. "Tusk!"
More pushing and shoving, and finally the two left the heat
and the noise and entered Dixter's office, which—by compari-
son—was almost cool and almost quiet. Bennett shut the door.
General Dixter sat behind the desk. Across from him, sitting
in a chair, reading a mag, was a woman. She looked up when
they entered, then turned back to her reading. Obviously, she
wasn't impressed.
"Tusk, come in. Dion. Sit down."
The general nodded in welcome. If he was surprised that
the mercenary had brought the young man with him, he didn't
indicate it by word or gesture. Dixter appeared to have
forgotten there was anything the least strange about Dion—
either that or the load of more urgent matters had shoved it all
to the back of his mind.
"Tusk, this is your TRUC's driver, Nola Rian. Nola, this is
Tusk, your gunner. You two will be our first team."

Chapter	Fifteen
Truckin', got my chips cashed in . . .
The Grateful Dead, "Truckin"'
It wasn't that Tusk had anything against women. Tusk liked
women, liked them very well, in fact. Tusk respected women.
There'd been several excellent female pilots in his flight
school. When a woman was in another spaceplane, flying next
to his, she wasn't a woman anymore. She was a pilot. What
Tusk didn't like was having a woman in the same plane, having
a woman as a partner. That made him nervous. He was always
inclined, when with a woman, to feel protective and fuss over
her. Leap in front of her with his drawn sword—that sort of
thing. And that sort of thing could get you killed.
So now he was not only being forced to ride shotgun on a
TRUC, he was going to have to share his duties with a female.
Not seeing how matters could get much worse unless the
Warlord should suddenly happen to stroll through the door-
way, Tusk gave a sickly grin, extended his hand, and said the
first dumb thing that came to mind.
"You don't look much like a TRUC driver."
Actually Tusk was thinking that this Nola Rian looked more
like a TRUC. She had a short, compact, square-shouldered
body, with the muscular arms required to handle the cumber-
some, unwieldly freight haulers. Nondescript brown hair, cut
short in a no-nonsense fashion for comfort in the heat framed
a pert face freckled by the Vangelian sun. Green eyes, flecked
with brown, glanced at Tuck without interest and she kept her
hand to herself. What he said had been meant as a compli-
ment, but she apparently took it differently.
"You don't look much like a deserter," she replied.
Was that an insult? Tusk couldn't make up his mind. Mulling
it over, he took back his hand before she bit it.
154

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"Sit down, please, and let's get on with this," Dixter
ordered. Tusk hunched himself into a chair. Nola moved away
from him. Dion remained standing in a corner, unnoticed, he
thought, until he happened to catch Dixter's gaze shifting
somberly from the papers on the desk to the young man.
I was wrong. I'm on his mind, Dion said to himself. He's
thinking about me more than his war. Look directly at me,
damn you! Who is it you see? What do you fear?
But by the time the words flicked through Dion's mind and
before his eyes could connect with the man's, General Dixter
had turned his attention back to his two reluctant recruits.
"Nola Rian is one of the best drivers around, Tusk. She
comes highly recommended by the mining authorities. Over
four hundred flawless runs. Tusk is one of my best gunners,
Rian. He's also one of my most trusted men. You two will make
a good team."
Tusk and Nola were eyeing each other with all the friendly
intent of two starving mountain lions standing over a fresh kill.
"You will make a good team," Dixter repeated, his voice
hardening. "This is the first shipment. If anything happens to
it, there may not be any more. If you get out safely, it might
demonstrate to the government how useless it is to try and
stop us. Rian, do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." Nola sat up straighter, squaring her jaw, which—
in Tusk's opinion—was the last thing her jaw needed.
"Tusk?"
"Yes, sir. Any idea what they'll send up against us?"
Dixter nodded, slowly. "According to Marek's intelligence
reports, the government's typical of most small-planet oligar-
chies. They've got a wide assortment of fighters, long- and
short-range, mostly old needle-noses from the days of the
monarchy."
Dixter paused, and Tusk tensed. "Yes, sir. What else?"
"A very modern, very sophisticated torpedo launcher.
Brand-new."
Tusk's jaw dropped. "Where'd they get that?"
Dixter scraped a grizzle-bearded cheek with his hand. "I
wish I knew." His face was grave. "I wish I knew."
Tusk started to say something, caught Dixter's flickering
eyelid, glanced at Nola, and kept quiet.
The door opened. Bennett stuck his head around the corner.

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"Begging your pardon, sir, but there's a message from Mr.
Marek—"
"Right. Anything else?"
Dixter swept a questioning glance at Tusk and Nola, who
both shook their heads. Chairs scraped. Tusk stood back to let
Nola pass in front of him.
"See you in the morning," he said in a friendly tone.
"0400." For the first time, she looked at him directly. Her
green eyes were very green. "Be on time."
Slinging a handbag over her shoulder, she stalked out the
door without a backward glance. Tusk and Dion, following her
out of the crowded HQ, saw her set off alone with confident
ease across the tarmac. Her walk was straight-backed, with
wide strides. She didn't look like the type who was easily
stopped by obstacles and obviously enjoyed going through
them, rather than around them. She didn't look the type to sit
quietly and do exactly what she was told.
"Damn," Tusk growled.
0400 hours.
Tusk zipped up his flight jacket, Dion watching with envy.
"I don't suppose—"
"No," Tusk said shortly. "I got enough problems." He
grabbed his helmet and began to climb up the ladder leading
out of the spaceplane.
"Same arrangements as usual?" XJ called out.
Tusk paused a moment. "No. Put the kid's name in. Okay
with you?"
"Sure," the computer said. "He doesn't swear! Good flying,"
XJ added when it was fairly certain Tusk was out of the plane
and couldn't hear.
"What did that mean?" Dion asked suspiciously, staring
sulkily at the closing hatch.
"What did what mean?" XJ crackled. "And make it short. I'm
going to shut down for the rest of the night."
"What arrangements that have to do with me?"
"Oh, that. Disposition of property after death. Tusk's just
made you his heir. Not much to inherit. Half-ownership with
me in this crate. At least now. Tusk's old man was pretty well
fixed and left his mother a bundle. I suppose when she dies
Tusk will be pretty well heel—"
Grabbing an old jacket of Tusk's, Dion climbed out of the

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plane. He could see, in the harsh white of the nuke lights, the
hoverjeep waiting to take Tusk to the TRUC launching site,
which was located near the mining operations. Standing
around it were General Dixter and three other people Dion
didn't recognize.
Swiftly he clambered down the ladder and, keeping to the
dark shadows held back by the pools of light, made his way
across the tarmac.
"These are your escort pilots, Tusk. Nigol from Anwar 33."
Tusk and the alien, whose thick hide required no protection,
touched hand and claw.
"Captain Link Jones."
"Link." Tusk held out his hand. "Where're you from?"
"Less said the better, eh, Tusk?" The handsome pilot
grinned and shook hands.
"And Captain Mirna Anrim, Ahna 2335."
A grim-faced woman shook hands with Tusk without com-
ment.
"All flying Scimitars," Dixter continued. "All under your
command, Tusk. They'll stay with you until you're within
range of the fleet's tanker. Then the fleet's own fighters will
have you under cover. If the government forces try something,
it won't be under the guns of the Warlord. The TRUC driver
has instructions to unload and get back here quickly. Every-
body clear?" The pilots nodded. Dixter handed out sealed
envelopes. "Inside you'll find the rendezvous point. Don't
open these until you're airborne. Any change will be transmit-
ted to you in the code you'll find inside. Anything you want to
add, Tusk?"
The mercenary shook his head, and the pilots left for their
fighters. Dion moved nearer. Dixter had seen him and hadn't
said anything, so the young man assumed it was all right for
him to stay.
"Tusk, a word with you."
The general, glancing at Dion, made an oblique motion for
the boy to join them and led Tusk away from the jeep so that
its driver couldn't overhear their conversation.
They walked over to the security fence surrounding the
tarmac. Dixter stepped into a pool of light. He looked tired; his
eyes blinked with the burning that comes from lack of sleep.
"Tusk, we picked up a Priority Code One signal from the
Warlord's flagship. They've issued a Class A seize and appre-
hend for you. They have your description, including a vid—

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MARGARET WEIS	1
your old military I.D.—and your plane's description down to
the last carbon streak and rivet."
Tusk's shoulders hunched. "So they did make me when we
left Syrac."
"It gets worse, I'm afraid. There's a price on your head, my
friend. Ten thousand golden eagles."
Tusk, staring at him, gasped.
"Ten thousand! Damn! For that kind of money I'd turn
myself in!"
Dixter smiled wearily. Dion glanced at them in confusion,
only partially understanding, biting his tongue to keep from
interrupting.
"What about the kid?"
"Nothing. You at least achieved that much, Tusk—you and
Platus. My guess is that Sagan either doesn't know he's with
you or he has no idea what the boy looks like and can't put out
a description."
Tusk nodded in gloomy satisfaction.
"You still want me on this job, sir?" he asked calmly. "Or is
this my pink slip?"
"No, I need you. You're not flying your plane and there's no
reason for you to leave the TRUC. When you arrive at the
tanker, let Rian handle the docking and do all the talking. They
know her, after all. You stay on board, out of sight of the vid
sensors. Keep your helmet on, your mouth shut. They may
have-—probably do have—voice prints. You should feel flat-
tered. Sagan's spent a lot of time and money on you."
"And what happens when I get back, sir?" Tusk didn't seem
to appreciate the compliment. "I can't just sit here, for God's
sake!"
"I'll work on that. Leave it to me," Dixter said reassuringly.
"As if you don't have enough to think about, sir," the
mercenary said ruefully. He ran his hand through his wiry
black hair, tugged at the silver earring.
"Don't worry, Tusk. Concentrate on this job for now." Dixter
clapped him on the back—a gesture Dion had come to
recognize as one of dismissal. "Good flying. Give Nola Rian my
regards."
Yeah. I mean, yes, sir." Tusk, not appearing happy, turned
to find Dion standing in front of him.
The mercenary started and instantly manufactured a smile.
He apparently hadn't been aware of Dion's presence and he

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cast a reproachful glance at Dixter. "You here, kid? You ought
to be in bed."
"I just wanted to say"—Dion couldn't untangle the skein of
words that twisted in his mind—"good flying," he finished
lamely. He held out his hand.
Tusk smiled. Taking the boy's hand, he gripped it firmly,
then-—consigning Dion to Dixter with a glance—the pilot
loped off, climbed into the hoverjeep, and disappeared into
the night.
"What does that mean, sir?" Dion asked. "A Class A seize
and apprehend?"
Dixter stood unmoving, staring fixedly into the darkness. A
flare of blinding light and a fiery, deafening roar as one of the
fighters took off prevented the general from answering. He
waited until all three planes were airborne, following their
progress aloft with his eyes until they were nothing but
flaming dots in the heavens before he spoke.
"It's used only for the most dangerous class of criminals—
those who are considered a serious threat to the Republic.
There were only a few names on that list, and now Tusk's has
joined them."
"What names, sir?"
Dixter turned shrewd, narrowed eyes on him. "You know
them, Dion. You don't have to ask me. Danha Tusca, Anatole
Stavros, Platus Morianna, Maigrey Morianna—"
"Who?" Dion stared at the general. "Who did you say—"
Dixter, obviously sorry to have spoken, didn't reply. Turn-
ing to leave, he stepped out of the light and Dion could no
longer see his face. "There's only one name you have to worry
about, young man, that of Mendaharin Tusca." Dixter's voice
came out of the night and was soft and bitter as the darkness.
"Because all the others are dead."

Chapter ••«*>©«•<- Sixteen
Put the pedal to the metal!
Trucker slang, circa 1970.
"Where've you been?" Nola pounced on him. "We're thirty
minutes behind schedule!"
"The general had some last-minute instructions," Tusk
replied.
The two stood eyeing each other grimly, then Nola, lips
pulled tight, hit a button and the TRUC's heavy door heaved
itself shut with a rumble that shook the gigantic vehicle. Tusk,
when viewing the thing from the outside, had come to the
conclusion that it looked like a squat, rectangular warehouse
some joker had decided to levitate.
"Follow me," Nola ordered, leading the way down a metal-
lined corridor.
Tusk did so, noting that the puffy flight suit she was wearing
did nothing for her figure. He didn't like short women,
anyway. He couldn't stand brunettes. Tall willowy blondes—
especially blondes who had more sense than to drive TRUCs
for a living—were more his style. Gloomily, he stared around
him, oppressed by the sense of several hundred tons of
metal-encased rock riding on his tail.
The cabin they entered was tiny, meant for brief journeys
into space and back. Brusquely, Tusk shoved the woman aside
to get a look. Two people would have been a tight fit under
normal circumstances, and the huge lascannon mounted in the
center further restricted movement. Reaching up a hand to
scratch one's head would be a task that called for serious
precalculation.
"It's designed for function, not speed," Nola snapped,
shoving Tusk aside in turn with a deft hip and shoulder
160

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161
movement that slammed him face-first into a bank of toggle
switches.
"Function!" Tusk snorted. "I know that's something I always
look for when some S.O.B.'s shooting torpedoes at me!"
He regretted his statement as soon as he said it. He couldn't
see her face—-her back was turned to him—but he heard the
woman catch her breath, saw the hand clutching the back of
the pilot's seat tremble. With difficulty, Tusk wormed his way
around to face her.
"Look, Rian. I—"
"Get your helmet on!" She slid away from him. "We're
thirty-five minutes behind schedule."
Wondering how he got himself into this and deciding to
blame it all on XJ, Tusk pulled on his helmet, snapped the chin
strap with a vicious click. He took a few moments to inspect
the lascannon, not because he needed to, but because the
delay was obviously irritating Nola Rian. The cannon was a
newer model than the ones with which he was familiar, but he
noted and highly approved all the changes in design and
smiled in grim satisfaction. At least something was going right!
Leaning back in his seat, Tusk watched the woman's hands
move skillfully over the instrument panel. He had only the
vaguest idea of what she was doing. The TRUCs were anti-grav
driven vehicles, and though Tusk knew something about them
on principle he had never operated one.
Glancing out the thick steelglass windscreen, he saw the
crew scrambling to clear the area as Nola gave a thumb's up to
indicate they were ready to go. A rumbling—barely heard
through the TRUC's thick metal shields—indicated that the
overhead doors to the silo where the monstrous vehicles were
housed were slowly sliding open. Nola activated the anti-grav
field and slowly and silently the ungainly monster rose up into
the air. Absorbed in the remarkable and unexpected beauty of
seeing the ground fall slowly away from him, instead of
blasting up off it like a bolt of perverse lightning striking out at
heaven, Tusk was startled to feel an ice-cold touch on his hand.
Turning, alarmed, expecting a crisis, he discovered Nola
reaching out to him, not an easy task considering the lascannon
mounted between them. Her eyes, seen through the visor of
the helmet, were pretty eyes—sparkling green, wide, with a
fringe of brown eyelashes beneath pertly slanting dark brown
eyebrows.
"Tusk—" she swallowed, seeming to have difficulty finding

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MARGARET WEIS	1
the moisture in her mouth necessary to talk, "I just wanted to
say that I'm sorry—about being such a . . . such a bitch—"
"Hey, no. You weren't—"
"I was," she said feelingly. "Last night and this morning
both. And you didn't do anything to deserve it— Well, maybe
that crack about not looking like a TRUC driver. But I'm
sensitive about that. I was fat when I was a kid and they used
to call me TRUC. Maybe it's one reason I took up driving
them. Now I'm babbling. First a bitch, then a babbler. The
truth is, Tusk, I'm scared. So scared it took all my bitchiness
this morning to keep me running to the head and throwing
"Rian, hush, take it easy," Tusk said, catching hold of her
hand and squeezing it. "Jeez, your fingers are like ice. Hell,
you got a right to be scared. I'd be worried about you if you
weren't!"
"I've flown through cosmic dust storms and never lost either
my nerve or my cargo," Nola continued, gripping Tusk's hand
tightly. "These TRUCs could fly through the side of a moun-
tain and come out intact. But cosmic storms don't shoot at
you—"
"You're gonna do fine, Rian. And everything's gonna be all
right." Tusk hoped the helmet obscured the expression on his
face. "They wouldn't dare shoot at us. Think of the repercus-
sions. Reporters crawling all over them."
The green eyes crinkled in the corners. "Uh-huh. There's
always the chance that whoever got that fancy new torpedo
boat is planning to use it as a prop for filming a war vid. Right?"
Before Tusk, somewhat taken aback by her perspicacity,
could think up an answer, the woman had turned her attention
to steering or whatever one did to maneuver the vehicle, if one
maneuvered it at all.
"And if it isn't a breach of discipline, you could call me
Nola."
"N-no. Not a breach, Ria— Nola ..."
Lord! Now who was babbling? Tusk sought refuge in
plugging his helmet into the TRUC's crude, antiquated com-
munications system.
"Twenty-six minutes to rendezvous," Nola reported. "No,
the other channel. That one's mine to my ground crew and
later to the freighter. This one links us—you and me—that's
what we're talking over now. Just leave it alone. This one is
yours to the fighters and it's clear. I made sure of that. You've

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got to flick the switch every time from sending to receiving. I
know. It's a damn nuisance but the bastards running the
company wouldn't spend the money to upgrade. Marek would
have. Whatever we said we needed, he bought. No questions
asked. Trusted us to know our end of the business best."
"So now you're up here, risking your life for him."
Tusk experimentally flipped switches, hoping he wouldn't
forget in the tenseness of battle and end up talking to himself.
"Not just for him, for all of us workers," Nola corrected.
"You picking anything up from your friends yet?"
"No. We won't until we reach the point."
Nola nodded, but didn't answer him. She was conferring
with her crew below, and making adjustments to her instru-
ments. It was amazing, Tusk thought, how fast they were
actually moving. He could see the curvature of the planet's
surface and one of its small moons peeping over the edge.
"Rendezvous . . . now," Nola said, peering out through
the windscreen.
And there they were, all three. Tusk breathed a small sigh.
One fear down. A couple hundred more to go.
"Hey, Tusk." The voice crackled in his ear.
"Yeah, Link, I'm here," Tusk answered without enthusiasm.
"Oh, Tusk, where are you? The flamin' speed of that thing
hasn't caused you to black out, has it?"
"Flip the switch!" shot Nola out of the corner of her mouth,
her hand motioning.
Swearing roundly, having forgotten as he'd known he
would, Tusk switched from receiving to sending.
"I'm here. Everything okay from our end. What about
yours?"
"Picking up company, old buddy. You see 'em?"
"Just on my radar. Yeah, that's what I said—radar. We're
talking dark ages. And this damn windshield's so thick I won't
be able to see them until they're on my—" He glanced at Nola
and stuttered, "uh . . . right in front of me. And I'm not your
'old buddy.' What have we got?"
Looking at the radar screen, he could see four blips, one
considerably larger than the rest, and he guessed the answer.
"Visual sighting," Mirna reported. "Three needle-nose fight-
ers. No modifications. One torpedo boat. Whewww!" she
whistled in awe. "New model. Got those new hypermissiles."
Nola, who was apparently monitoring Tusk's transmissions
as well as her own, glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.

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Tusk hesitated, then decided, what the hell. Might as well
let her know the worst.
"They move faster than light," Tusk said, staring out the
screen, trying to get a fix on his enemies, trying to keep from
looking directly at Nola. "You never see what hits you."
Nola's tongue flicked twice over her lips, before she could
ask casually, "Where the devil did they get something like
that?"
"Beats me. Dixter'd like to know, too, from the looks of it.
But don't worry. They're not about to blow their prize up."
"Maybe the Warlord sent it."
"Naw! The Congress wouldn't bother outfitting a small-time
government like this one with prototype torpedo boats. Lots
cheaper to step in and take over. Look, Nola"—he wanted to
pat her hand reassuringly, but the hand was busy—"don't
think about the missiles. Let me take care of that boat. You just
keep this thing moving, no matter what. From what I've
heard, you can do that better than anyone around."
He was rewarded with a smile that rearranged all the
freckles on her cheeks and nose and did a little minor
rearranging with his heart. Reminding himself sternly that he
didn't like short, stockily built brunettes, Tusk turned his
attention back to the job at hand. The fighters had taken up
their positions—one behind the TRUC and one on either side.
They were well above the planet by now, surrounded by the
eternal starry night of space. The torpedo boat hove into view.
Spotlights shone on its bristling weapons and illuminated the
myriad whirling, flashing, revolving, and oscillating instru-
ments sticking out from it in all directions. It was small, built
for the speed and maneuverability that would give it the
advantage over a larger opponent. The torpedo boat floated in
front of them, well out of range of most weapons the TRUC
might be likely to have, but not the lascannon. Good. That was
gonna be a nice little surprise.
"Tusk," Nola said, "I've shut off the anti-grav. If I don't fire
my rockets soon we'll drift off course."
A streak of flame zipped past them. Nola started; her hands
on the instrument shook.
"Warning shot across the bows," Tusk said. "They want our
attention."
"They got it!" the woman muttered.
"TRUC 4," an official-sounding voice came over the radio.

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165
"By orders of the—" there was a slight hesitation on the part of
the voice, "Mectopian Council, you are under arrest. You and
the mercenary pilots with you will surrender yourselves to our
jurisdiction. The mercenary pilots will be escorted back to our
base. We will see that you reach the Republic freighter safely.
If you cooperate, this will be taken into consideration in your
sentencing."
"This bastard wants a fight," Tusk commented.
"That's an off-world accent," Nola said in a low voice, "and he
mispronounced the name of the government."
Tusk nodded, frowning. "Stall," was all he could think of to
say.
"Hello, out there. I'm experiencing instrument malfunc-
tion," Nola said into her mike. "Would you repeat your
instructions?"
"You heard me, TRUC 4," was the cold response. "You have
thirty seconds to surrender or we open fire."
"Two fighters closing on me, Commander," Nigol reported.
"Get into position but remember orders—let them shoot
first. Nola, put up the deflector shields everywhere except the
front so that I can fire." Tusk rose to his feet and positioned
himself behind the lascannon—an extremely tight fit.
"I only have front deflector shields!" Nola snapped. "To
protect the cab."
"Damn!" Tusk swore. Dixter'd told him that during his
briefing on the TRUC. "Keep talking, then. Link, Mima, you
handle the freighters, and throw what you can at that torpedo
boat."
"Righto," sang out Link.
"Yes, sir," returned Mirna.
"Are you from the Republic?" Nola was shouting.
A flash of light and bone-jarring jolt was their answer.
"Ordinary missiles." Tusk held onto the grips of the lascan-
non for support. "Hit us somewhere in front and below. Any
damage?"
"No." Nola was white-faced but steady and calm. She even
managed a weak grin. "It takes a lot to damage a TRUC."
"Thank you, Creator!" Tusk murmured.
Flares and flashes outside the windscreen indicated the
Scimitars were attacking. Tusk crouched behind his gun,
lining up the computerized sights that were being fed readings
from the radar.
"Hold tight, Nola. Don't pay attention to what I'm doing or

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MARGARET WEIS	1
to those birds out there. Do you have to warm up your engines
or anything like that to start this tub moving?"
"No. When I fire, we go. Real simple."
The beginnings of a plan were lurking about in Tusk's mind.
It was desperate and not to be thought of until things
were . . . well, desperate.
Another shot slammed into them, knocking them around a
little but no damage. That captain must realize he isn't
accomplishing anything except making a nuisance of himself,
Tusk thought. Off-world, is he? Probably answering to a couple
of government flunkies aboard his ship. He'd do what they said
to a point. Then he'd take matters into his own hands—or at
least that was how Tusk read that cold, impersonal voice. He
could almost hear it saying, "I regret very much the action I
was forced to take which led to the total destruction of the
TRUC but as you see we were unable to impress upon them
our determination not to let rebel-held shipments through—"
"Hey, Tusk," came Link's voice, "get this S.O.B. off my tail,
will you, ol' buddy?"
Tusk, shaking his head, opened fire.
Flaming bolts shot from the usually inoffensive TRUC. The
needle-nose chasing Link caught one and went spinning out of
control. Its partner, realizing suddenly he was facing a lascan-
non, pulled up so sharply he did a roll over and flew out of
range to consider the matter.
Another shot slammed into the TRUC. The captain must not
have known about the lascannon. He did now, which was
unfortunate but couldn't be helped. Tusk would have liked to
have him come in a little closer.
"I'm going in for a hit," Mirna reported.
"I'll cover you." Tusk opened a steady barrage of fire at the
torpedo boat. Its deflector shields were up. He was doing little
damage but hoped at least to make them keep their heads
down, perhaps even score a lucky hit. Did they have to lower
their shields to fire the torpedoes? He—
A bright orange flash, and Mirna was gone.
There was nothing left of her Scimitar. It had been vapor-
ized. All over in less than a second. Tusk hadn't seen a thing.
He couldn't even tell the part of the ship from which the
torpedo had been launched.
"Sweet, holy mother. Did you see that?" Link sounded
awed.
"I saw it."

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167
In anger and frustration, Tusk fired another ineffectual burst
at the torpedo boat.
"TRUC 4." The captain was back on the air. "You have seen
a demonstration of our weapon's superiority over your own. I
ask you once again to surrender. "
"Do it, Nola," Tusk ordered,.
"What?" She turned to stare at him, her face strained and
incredulous. "You can't be serious! I'm not going to!"
"Do it!" Tusk growled. "Link, Nigol? You two clear out. Run
like you're scared as hell. You can't do anything against that
torpedo boat."
"I wouldn't say that," Link protested.
"I smell one of the famous Tusk scams, " Nigol struck in. The
alien added something in its own language that Tusk assumed
was good luck but which sounded as if someone had dumped
a bucket of frogs into a pond.
"Okay, we're outta here." Link was disgruntled. "Make sure
you get Nola home on time tonight. We got a date."
The two fighters peeled away, spiraling out of the skies and
drawing off three of the needle-noses after them.
"A plan? What plan?" Nola was glaring at him suspiciously.
"A date? With Link?" Tusk glared back at her. "What do you
see in that two-timing hotshot?"
The woman's face flushed to the roots of her brown hair. The
green eyes flashed. Before she could reply, Tusk added, "I
thought I gave you an order, Rian."
"You could at least tell me what's going on!" Another shot
thudded into the hull.
"No time," Tusk said, which was a lie. He didn't want her
having to think about what she was going to have to do any
longer than necessary. "Go ahead. Surrender. Make it sound
convincing."
Nola, shooting him a frustrated, helpless glance, spoke into
the mike. "This is TRUC 4. Don't fire anymore. I—I surren-
der. "
"Good," Tusk whispered. "Now, more panic. Tell them
we've been hit and that I'm dead."
Her anger faded, replaced by astonishment. Completely
mystified, Nola spoke into the mike, her eyes on Tusk. "We've
been hit. My gunner's dead. I've—I've got his blood all over
me!" Her voice rose shrilly. "Don't hurt me, please!"
Tusk held his breath. Everything hung on the torpedo boat
captain's next command. The mercenary was counting on the

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MARGARET WEIS	1
fact that this man was a professional, as tough and experienced
as he'd already shown himself.
"TRUC 4, raise your deflector shields."
"Hot damn!" Tusk crowed.
"But that means we can't use the cannon!" Nola hissed.
"Do it!" Tusk commanded tersely.
Returning to his seat, he strapped himself in securely,
taking extra precautions. Nola, sighing, yanked on a lever. A
scraping and rumbling sound and the deflector shields lurched
into place. Tusk was happy to see that they were every bit as
old-fashioned and massive as he had hoped. No invisible force
fields for the TRUC. Reinforced steel plate that they couldn't
even see through, leaving the driver to steer by instrument
readings.
Good, Tusk thought. That'll make it easier for her.
"My shields are up," Nola reported unnecessarily, knowing
that the torpedo ship could see them.
"I'm going to send an armed party aboard, TRUC 4,"
returned the captain of the torpedo boat. This guy was taking
no chances.
"What's he doing?"
From where he sat, Tusk couldn't see Nola's radar screen,
and he fidgeted nervously.
"He's moving toward us, closing fast," Nola reported.
"That's good. Now, Nola," Tusk said, keeping his voice even
and calm, "when he gets closer still, right in front of us, I want
you to start this baby up."
Nola sucked in her breath, her eyes widening. The freckles
on her face were vivid brown against her pale skin.
"But that will mean—"
Tusk nodded. "Ramming them—an old and honored tradi-
tion in the history of naval warfare."
"Tusk!" Nola gasped. "It won't work! We'll all end up dead."
"I thought you said this thing could fly through a mountain."
Nola, looking sick, shook her head.
Tusk considered taking over, but he didn't know anything
about flying one of these contraptions. Nola's hair clung in
loose, damp ringlets to her sweating forehead. Her eyes
shimmered with tears that she had too much pride to shed.
Her full lips trembled.
Date with Link!
Reaching out, Tusk took hold of the woman's chilled hand.
"You can do it, Nola! You have to do it! There's no other way

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169
now. You don't want to let Marek down? Or all the rest who re
depending on you? Think of them, Nola. Don't think of anyone
or anything else. Where's the torpedo ship now?"
Nola looked unwillingly at the screen. "Almost— Going
around to the portside."
"He must not have a launch vehicle. That or he wants to lock
onto us. When he's in range, head this mother straight at him."
For a tiny moment, Tusk thought she was going to fail him.
Then her head lifted, her lips tightened. Nola drew a deep
breath, straightened her shoulders, and put her hand on the
ignition button. The hand made some minute adjustments to
the instruments, changing the direction the rockets would fire
to take the TRUC straight into the path of the torpedo boat.
Nola knew her vehicle. She alone could best gauge how near
the torpedo boat would have to be so that it wouldn't have time
to react and get out of the slow-moving TRUC's path. There
was nothing for Tusk to do but sit back, brace himself, and
wait.
Those were the worst few moments of his life.
Now that he had convinced the woman to take this drastic
action, he was having second thoughts. She was right. It didn't
matter that the torpedo boat was about thirty times smaller. It
would blow up and take them with it. The TRUC, after all,
wasn't indestructible. Even with the deflector shield protect-
ing them, the cab was vulnerable. He was an idiot. A damn
fool. He'd let down everyone. Dixter. Marek. The kid. He'd
get himself killed and—worse—he'd kill this woman who
trusted him, who was depending on him. She'd know, in those
last few horrifying moments, that he'd been wrong . . .
Nola's finger jerked spasmodically. A roaring blast from the
rear told him the rockets had fired. The TRUC lurched
forward.
An indrawn breath, holding it, holding it—
A jarring thud, blinding light, a concussive blast—
A constant beeping was making his head hurt.
"Shut up!" Tusk told XJ, flapping about with his hand to give
the computer an extra little reminder.
He couldn't find it.
"XJ?" Sitting up, he opened his eyes. "What the—?"
Where was he? Whoever was playing this joke better cut it
out. He turned his head to locate the sound of the beeping and

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MARGARET WEIS	1
end its days forever when he saw a figure slumped over the
control panel. Memory returned in an aching torrent.
"Nola!"
Shoving aside the broken lascannon, which had toppled to
the deck, Tusk leaned over the woman's comatose body.
Gently removing the helmet, he felt her neck and found a
pulse—strong and even. Exhaling a deep sigh, he eased her
back into the chair. There were no holes in the flight suit, no
signs of blood except for a cut on her lip where the mike had
driven into her mouth when she fell forward. Like him, she
must have been knocked unconscious by the explosion.
Glancing out the windscreen, Tusk saw the wrecked and
mangled deflector shield. The screen itself was cracked, but its
seal held. Tusk recalled guiltily all his uncharitable thoughts
about that thick windscreen.
"Bless you!" He reached out and patted it. He could have
kissed it. No, on second thought he'd rather kiss something
else.
"Nola." He brushed back the damp brown hair. "Nola!"
Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinked, and looked up at him
with a hesitant smile that set freckles dancing over her face.
"Nola Rian," Tusk said, "you're beautiful!"
"Not only that," she said, grinning up at him shakily, "I'm
the best goddam TRUC driver you'll ever meet!"

Chapter	Seventeen
When the stars threw down their spears . . .
William Blake, "The Tyger"
Dion hung around outside the communications van, fidget-
ing, jittery. The hot early morning sun blazed down on the
tarmac, evidently warming it up for the truly hot afternoon
sun. Sweating, his clothes sticking to his body, the young man
crouched in a scrap of shade cast by the GHQ building and
waited for word of Tusk. Gadgets and devices on top of the van
revolved swiftly or slowly rotated or just pointed straight into
the air. Dion watched them until he was half-mesmerized by
the movement. Odd, disjointed thoughts flashed in and out of
his mind in time with the rotations.
A month ago, I wouldn't have been able to believe I was
doing this . . . Tusk left me his spaceplane. If he doesn't
come back, I'll . . . He'll come back. I shouldn't be thinking
things like that, the bad luck word. At least I didn't say it
aloud. Platus would laugh. Our joke, the bad luck word. Dear
God! What was it I said that killed him? No, stop it. Don't
think about it. ... I could fly the plane, I know I could. I did
for a while that time back when we first came out of the Jump.
Tusk said I handled it like a pro, too. Maybe Dixter'd let me fly
with the others. I could avenge Tusk . . . That's stupid.
Nothing's happened to Tusk, nothing's going to. And they
wouldn't be likely to let a kid with no training up there. Shoot
yourself in the foot and we're all dead, that's what Tusk would
say. I— Someone's coming out. Running. Something's hap-
pened. Something's wrong.
Dion was on his feet, following the soldier dashing from the
van. The boy slammed into the GHQ office right behind the
man, nearly taking the door from its hinges. Bennett's eye-
171

172
MARGARET WEIS	1
brows jumped up into his hairline with such force it was a
wonder they didn't scalp him.
"The general—" the soldier said.
Bennett nodded, motioned to the office, and fixed Dion with
a stern gaze. Dixter, hearing the commotion, came out, nearly
colliding with the soldier coming in.
"Sir, radar's picked up what looks like a squadron of bombers
closing in—"
"Nukes?"
"No, sir. Nothing that sophisticated. Looks like a bunch of
the old garbage scow model, sir."
"That figures. They'll dump whatever they've got on us.
Well, this means we're getting our hands slapped. I take it the
TRUC mission was successful, then?"
"Yes, that was my next report. There was one casualty—"
"Casualty?" Dion stepped forward.
Bennett was packing up the portable computers and obvi-
ously preparing for a hasty departure. But he managed to clear
his throat and frown at the interruption, pausing in his work as
if expecting to be asked to toss the young man out on his ear.
"Captain Myrna—"
Dion heaved a sigh and missed the rest of the report. Dixter
issued several orders that made little sense to the boy, who
didn't understand what was going on. Bennett was shutting
down systems and unplugging plugs and packing things away
with an efficiency which indicated this was all routine proce-
dure. The soldier left and Dixter turned to enter his office,
then seemed to remember and looked over at Dion with a
smile that was kind but preoccupied.
"Tusk's all right. They made it through safely and hooked up
with the Warlord's tankers."
At that moment, what sounded like the throaty howl of some
wild animal rose in pitch to the wail of the three Furies. The
awful sound made the hair stand up on Dion's arms.
"Air raid alert," Dixter said, by way of explanation. The
man's eyes, fixed on the boy, narrowed. "What the hell do I do
with you? Bennett?"
"Almost finished here, sir. Your office—"
"Yes, yes. I'll take care of it. We've got time. We spotted
them early."
"Please, sir, what's happening?" Dion broke in.
The siren's wail was unnerving and yet oddly exhilarating.
The ground began to shake and he saw out the window some

THE LOST KING
173
of the spaceplanes powering up and heading for the takeoff
zone.
"Bombing run. A damned nuisance, that's all. We'll have the
planes off the ground, but it'll tear hell out of the tarmac. Have
to find a new location. Bennett—"
"I have one, sir. Do you want—"
"No, go out there to the van and relay it to commlink."
Dixter moved toward his office. "Come with me, boy, while I
get ready to roll—"
"Bombs." Tusk's plane. XJ. But all Dion said aloud was,
"Bombs."
Dixter entered his office. "You can ride with us. It's a little
bumpy—the shocks in this damn thing need overhauling but
there never seems to be time. I—"
He glanced around behind him. The kid was gone.
Dixter charged out of his office to find Bennett, returning
from relaying the air base's new location to the communica-
tion's van, backed up against the doorjamb. From his indig-
nant expression, it seemed the aide had been nearly run down.
"Dion?" the general demanded.
Bennett pointed.
"Damn!" Dixter exploded, realizing where the boy was
going and what he was planning to do. He headed for the door
only to find his aide standing respectfully but firmly in his
path.
"Get out of my way."
"Excuse me, sir, but were you going to attend to the
breaking down in your office or shall I? We have less than
fifteen minutes, sir."
"That damn kid—"
"Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, but it would be physi-
cally impossible, without stimulants, for someone your age to
catch up with someone his age. I'll just go take care of your
office—"
"You know damn well I can't stand anyone pawing through
my papers. Don't look so smug. I'm not going to forget that
crack about my age. Where's my driver?"
"Warming up the engines, now, sir."
"Use the cab's link. See if you can establish communication
with that spaceplane before the kid tries to take off. If you can
raise him, tell him to let the fools pound it into dust. We'll get
Tusk a different one. This'll work out better anyhow, the
Warlord will lose him."

174	MARGARET WEIS	1
"Yes, sir." Bennett was out the door.
Dixter entered his office, shut his computer down, and
began to pack up everything that wouldn t survive rattling
around in a trailer lurching over the desert at high speeds. The
roaring of spacecraft blasting off was deafening, even this
distance from the launch zone. The ground shook and several
maps slid from their places on the walls. Dixter glanced out the
window. Through the blowing dust and drifting smoke, he
could see what looked like red hair streaming in the wind—
flame burning in the desert.
"What the devil's that quote?" Dixter said aloud. "The Lord
went before them by night in a' what—pillar of salt? No. Pillar
of five. 'To lead them.' What put that into my mind? Blasted
kid's going to get himself killed. Tusk'll never forgive me. I
said I d take care of him. Why didn't I go after him? That's the
quote:
"'. . . and by night in a pillar of fire."'
Dixter finished his work. Straightening, he looked back out
the window. The boy was gone.
"And that's why," he said to the patch of vivid burning color
he could see in his mind, "I guess, kid, I really don't think
you're destined to be pounded to pulp by some third-rate
oligarch. I almost wish you were. I think it a be easier—on all
of us."
Coughing, blinking in the stinging dust raised by the
blasting force of the spaceplanes, Dion ran half-blindly
through the smoke, searching for someone to give him a lift.
He found a hoverjeep filled with pilots in the same predica-
ment as himself. It was already starting to move by the time he
reached it. Shouting for them to wait was out—he couldn't
hear himself think, let alone talk. He hurled himself forward
and landed on the jeep's back end with a thud that knocked the
wind out of his body. One of the passengers grabbed hold of
him, hanging on to him just as the jeep roared into life and
hurtled through the air.
There was nowhere to sit; Dion clung to the flat back of the
jeep, the woman'd who'd caught him keeping hold of his arms
so that he didn't fly off. The wild ride ended before he quite
knew what was happening. The woman let go of him before the
jeep stopped. Dion slid off the back, landed face-first in the
dust. He was up and running without giving himself time to
find out if he was hurt. The siren wailed and sobbed; the sound
was in his blood, surging through his body.

THE LOST KING
175
He scaled the outer ladder to the spaceplane, fumbled with
the hatch, and nearly fell in head over heels when XJ opened
it for him. Slithering down the ladder, he bounded through
the living quarters, jumped down to the bridge, and threw
himself into the pilot's seat.
"Prepare for takeoff," he managed to gasp. Breathing was
like a sharp knife being driven into his side.
The lights blinked; life-support made a kind of coughing
sound.
"My circuits shorted out," XJ snapped. "I thought you said
prepare for takeoff."
"Don't you hear that . . . damn siren!"
"You're hyperventilating. Stick your head in a paper sack
and take a deep breath. It's just another scramble. Happens
two, three times a day—"
"It isn't . . . either! Bombers—"
"Bombers! Real ones? C'mon, kid. I'll get in my remote. You
carry me, that way I can shut down. We'll head for those
rocks—"
A round remote unit, bristling with electronic eyes and
wiggly little arms that had been perched near the edge of the
instrument panel suddenly came to life and landed with a plop
in Dion's lap.
"No!" Lifting up the remote, Dion glared into what he
assumed was its camera lenses and shook it. "We're going to
take off, save Tusk's plane. Either that, or we sit here and get
bombed."
Which wasn't a bad idea. Dion grabbed the bottle of
jump-juice. Tilting it to his lips, he took a swig and gasped as
the foul-tasting stuff burned down his throat. It seemed to help
his breathing—once he could breathe—and the pain in his
side went away.
The remote unit flashed eratically and emitted a series of
loud, static-laced sounds that were, however, perfectly under-
standable. Tusk would have been impressed.
"I'm going to tell him you said that." Dion grinned shakily
and took another drink. This stuff wasn't bad, once you got
used to it. Tucking the bottle under one arm, he went to work.
The remote whirred viciously to itself for another second, then
hopped back to its perch. The computer's blank face came back
to life, lights flashed on the control panel, and he heard the
clanging sound of the hatch sealing shut.
"They're coming in," XJ said. "I've got 'em on my screen."

176
MARGARET WEIS	1
Dion jammed a helmet on his head, strapped himself in, and
tried to remember what to push and what to flick in what
order. His hands had quit shaking, but the tips of his fingers
had gone numb.
There was a jarring thud and the ground seemed to lift up
around them. Dion stared at the instrument readings.
"What did I do? I didn't do anything—"
"It was a bomb, you idiot!" XJ was practically howling.
"Ignore it. Just get us the hell outta here! Push that one and
there, no, to the left. That one! Damn Mendaharin Tusca to
the Correlian gasworks. Noooo! Yes, yes! That's it! And—"
The spaceplane's engines rumbled. Tremendous forces flat-
tened the boy back in his seat. The jump-juice surged up from
his stomach and into his mouth and he completely missed his
first takeoff because he was leaning over the arm of the chair,
heaving up his guts.
The bombers saw the spaceplane fly up right in front of them
but they let it go past. Once a plane was off the ground, it was
beyond their reach. They had their orders and those orders
didn't come from the government, as Dixter had assumed.
Up in the heavens, far above the planet's surface, a hunter
waited to see what prey his dogs flushed out of the brush.

Chapter	Eighteen
So pale, so cold, so fair.
"St. James Infirmary Blues"
Maigrey had no idea how much time had passed since she
had been taken aboard the Phoenix. Prisoners lose a sense of
time, even when they are able to experience day and night—
one runs into the next and a day is as long as a month, a month
as short as a day. Maigrey's days were routinely, interminably,
endlessly the same. She was allowed to walk about the ship,
but not allowed to speak to anyone, not even the centurions
who guarded her.
It is easy to be courageous during brief and terrifying
moments of crisis. The body leaps with a surge of adrenaline,
the mind dances with brilliance. When the danger is over, you
are a hero and can't say how or why. But to face danger day
after day; to keep up your courage hour after tedious hour; to
sleep with fear and wake up with fear; to live in constant
doubt, both of the future and of yourself, drains the body and
the soul.
Maigrey obeyed the commandment for silence not out of
defiance, as the Warlord supposed, but out of despair. The
trumpet sounded the end of each day and began the next
and every time Maigrey heard the notes she thought, "To-
morrow he will ask me about the boy. Today he will ask me
about the boy." But Sagan never did. He didn't speak to her at
all, never came near her. But he was aware of her, as she was
aware of him. A haunting fear took ghostly form and stalked
her.
What does he want from me, if not the boy? she wondered.
Could it be I've mistaken him, misjudged him, misread him?
Fatal. Fatal.
177

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Maigrey attempted to exorcise the ghosts by turning to old
friends, long-lost friends—books. She had been without books
during the entire time of her exile. Old favorites were
rediscovered and enjoyed as much as or more than when she'd
iMsad them years ago. How, she wondered, could she have ever
deserted Mr. Micawber?
There were new works to be read, although she didn't much
care for the modern authors who had surfaced after the second
Dark Ages. They seemed to think that if they didn't reduce a
reader to a state of hopeless depression they hadn't written a
novel. This led her to wonder what the Warlord had been
reading. It might give her a clue to his plans. Despair had not
reduced her to inaction, and an hour spent at her computer
enabled her to access the ship's library file.
She and Sagan did not share a similar taste in novels—he
considered them, with few exceptions, frivolous—she was
interested to note he had been rereading Plato's Republic and
Machiavelli's The Prince, an odd combination and one she
found disquieting. Several recent historical texts and commen-
taries brought her up to date on the current galactic political
situation, plus she found a fascinating technical text written by
the Warlord himself describing his development of the long-
and short-range Scimitars. When Maigrey had completed that
one, she had no doubt that she could fly the planes with ease.
Music was her best source of consolation. She had dreamed
music in her exile, waking to find melodies running through
her head, trapped in silence. Now she could fill her life with
music. Always alone, with her music the prisoner found she
could bear loneliness.
What Maigrey could not bear was a reawakened love—a
love she thought she had conquered but which she realized
had always been and would always be a part of her. Her love
of spaceflight.
Spaceflight was a lover whose charm was in his mystery, his
excitement, his danger—a lover who cared nothing for the one
who loved him. His beauty could pierce the heart, his cold
could freeze the blood. He drew you to him, made you his
own, then killed without pity, without mercy.
Aboard Phoenix was a small lounge located on a deck in a
part of the ship set aside for the use of visiting diplomats or
planetary governors or members of Congress on some of their
"fact-finding" missions. Sagan had little use for diplomats, less
use for planetary governors, and no use at all for junketing

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Congressmen. This portion of the ship was therefore rarely
used, off-limits to all nonauthorized personnel. Maigrey had
wandered into it during one of her restless roamings and had
discovered that the view from the vast steelglass windows was
breathtaking.
Her guards, of course, reported. "My lord, should she be
allowed here?"
Sagan, after some thought, gave his permission. Maigrey
returned to the lounge often to watch the spectacular pan-
orama of the ships of the fleet traversing space, their tiny,
bright, twinkling man-made lights dwarfed and made humble
by the black void through which they sailed.
"This fleet could have been yours," Maigrey said to
herself—the only person to whom she was allowed to talk.
"This galaxy could be yours! You have the power, the strength,
the will to make it yours!"
The specter appeared before her suddenly and now she
could put a name to it.
It was herself. It stretched out its bony hand and in it was a
crown.
Maigrey quit going to the diplomat's lounge.
"My lord, we are within communication's range of the planet
Vangelis."
"We are not close enough that they can detect our pres-
ence?"
"No, my lord," Captain Nada replied. "Not with this planet's
limited technological capabilities. Vangelis is a "C" rating, my
lord." ["A" is the highest—a planet whose people have devel-
oped intergalactic travel. Class "B"—interstellar travel, rela-
tively close to home. Class "C"—interplanetary travel within
one's own solar system, and so on down to "X," which had been
the classification of what was now the penal colony of Oha-
Lau.]
"Thank you, Captain Nada. Send for the Lady Maigrey."
"Yes, my lord. And where will the prisoner be brought?"
"Here, Nada. To the bridge."
Captain Nada's lips pursed, the folds of his pudgy cheeks
sucked inward. He was displeased. Prisoners, especially roy-
alists, had no business upon the bridge of a Republic warship.
Not that Nada believed seriously for one moment that they
were in any danger from this middle-aged woman. It was the

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principle of the thing. The captain had no choice—now—but
to carry out his orders. He would, however, put this in his
report.
Nada descended from the navigation bridge to communica-
tions below. "Have Citizen Morianna brought to the bridge."
The captain refused to refer to her by that abhorrent title of
a nobility that was dead and gone. It was bad enough, being
forced to "my lord" this and "my lord" that. The words
sometimes stuck in his craw. Every time he said them, they
left a bad taste in his mouth. A message was handed to him.
Reading it, Nada returned to the bridge.
"We just received this communication, my lord. The Scim-
itar has been sighted."
"Where?"
"Vangelis, my lord. It is with mercenary forces under the
command of one"—Nada was forced to refer to some hastily
scrawled notes "—John Dixter, a so-called general in the
employ of the rebel Marek. As you suggested, my lord, the
government ordered bombing runs made on all mercenary
spaceplane squadrons currently operating in the area. The
Scimitar left the planet's surface and was sighted by an
employee of a private concern. We were unable to get the
name."
"That's not important." Sagan knew the name—the
Adonian, Snaga Ohme. The oligarchs were not the only ones
on Vangelis to have received orders from the Warlord. "Was
the sighting confirmed?"
"Yes, my lord. A fighter was sent to verify. It did so and
tracked the spaceplane back to its new landing site. The fighter
maintained its distance, as you commanded, my lord, and did
nothing to arouse Tusca's suspicions."
"You hope it did nothing. My commendations, Captain."
Characteristically, Sagan made no mention of the fact that
he had been the one to put his dogs on the correct trail.
Turning on his heel, he started to walk away.
But, my lord!" Nada stared after him. "What are your
orders?"
^Orders, Captain? You have my orders. My orders stand."
I was not referring to that, my lord. We are maintaining our
current position in deepspace. I was referring to the deserter,
Tusca. Shouldn't I send a squad to arrest him, my lord?"
"Have you gone deaf, Captain? My orders stand. You will do

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nothing. And make no mention of this in the hearing of Lady
Maigrey."
Nada's cheeks sucked in, puffed out. His brows would have
met over his nose in a frown had they not been kept apart by
a roll of fat. This smacked of intrigue. Admiral Aks had hinted
that this search for a deserter was being performed with the
President's knowledge and approval. Nada wondered, how-
ever. He knew the Warlord was in communication with
someone on the planet. These communications were coded
Red, which meant that no one, not even the admiral, could
understand them. Was this a proper action for a citizen of the
Republic who lived, after all, to serve the people? One of the
tenets of the revolution had been "No secrets from the
people!"
Believing in this tenet strongly, Captain Nada had made
certain secret reports himself to the President. The reports
had been well received. It was about time, he thought, that he
make another.
The main viewport aboard Phoenix was a gigantic porthole,
its diameter over one hundred meters in length. Several decks
bisected the viewport—the relaxation lounge for the crew
looked out of the lower part of the circle, the lounge for officers
was on the deck above that, the porthole's top formed an
arched window that extended from deck to overhead in the
Warlord's chambers. The bridge had the benefit of the view
from the viewport's very center.
The traditional "captain's walk" on the bridge was a narrow
catwalk built in front of the gigantic porthole so as to obtain full
benefit of the magnificent view. The "captain's walk" was
suspended above the command center of the ship and it
allowed those privileged enough to set foot upon it the privacy
sacred to the workings of their mighty brains. At the same
time, it enabled them to keep themselves appraised of all the
functions of the ship that were being controlled and monitored
on the deck below them.
On a flagship, the captain's walk could be somewhat
crowded, since both captain and admiral came here to stroll
about and enjoy the panorama of suns, double suns, nebulae,
distantly seen galaxies, comets, asteroid belts, insignificant
planets, moons. On a flagship such as Phoenix, with a marshal
present in addition to a captain and an admiral, the three

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might find themselves bumping into each other on the catwalk
had not protocol dictated that whenever a marshal was using
the walkway, no one else was allowed on it except by
invitation.
Pacing the bridge alone, Lord Derek Sagan caught a
glimpse of pale hair on the deck below. Pausing in mid-stride,
he watched the woman walk toward him, and for the first and
only time in his life Sagan regretted his sarcastic speech to the
admiral. Seeing Maigrey, he understood why work came to a
halt in her presence, why his men could do nothing except
stare.
If Corasians, in their horrible trundling mechanical bodies,
had boarded his ship, Sagan's men would have responded
swiftly and efficiently, reacting as they had been trained. But
how were they to react to this? How were they to react to the
sight of that pallid face set in rigid calm, the fixed, staring gray
eyes? The only life visible in that face was the blood that
pulsed in the scar.
Sagan had won. The woman who stood before him was
crushed, beaten. But the Warlord felt cheated in his victory.
He didn't want a lifeless corpse. A corpse wasn't useful to him,
and he needed to make use of this lady. Somehow he had to
jolt the body back to life. The guards brought the woman to the
foot of the ramp ascending to the • catwalk. The Warlord
descended to greet her.
Their eyes met—his shadowed behind the helm, hers gray
as the sea beneath a winter sky. Two enemy commanders
taking up position on opposite ridges, the field of battle spread
before them, each trying to spy out any weakness in the other.
Sagan bowed, a courtly gesture. "Lady Maigrey, a rosette
nebula is currently visible from the viewport. You shouldn't
miss this sight. I would be honored if you would join me." He
held out his hand to her.
Both were fully aware of the eyes of the crew watching
them; both were reacting to the crowd. This is what they had
been born to. The tragedy of their lives had been played out
before thousands.
"Thank you, my lord."
Very precisely and coldly, she placed the tips of her fingers
on his open palm and walked up the stars beside him, making
it quite apparent by her stiff back and high-held chin that she
was a prisoner obeying a command. Her cheeks were flushed,
there was a spark in the eyes.

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The Warlord experienced the elation of Dr. Frankenstein.
The corpse was coming to life.
Glancing behind him, Sagan indicated that the lady's guards
were to remain below. Together, in silence, he and Maigrey
walked up the ramp. The murmured low voices of the men
watching was their applause. A sharp, biting rebuke from
Captain Nada recalled the crew to its duties, but both lord and
lady were aware they held their audience still.
Arriving on the bridge, Maigrey removed her fingers from
the Warlord's palm and stood staring silently out the viewport,
her hands clasped before her. Sagan crossed his arms behind
his back, beneath the folds of his cape, and settled into a
relaxed stance. Both gazed out at the nebula with such rapt
attention it seemed neither had ever seen one before. Neither
was—in reality—seeing this one now.
"It's beautiful, isn't it, my lady?"
"Yes, my lord. I know how highly you value beauty. What do
you intend to do—blow it up?"
The upper part of his face was covered by his crested
helmet, but Maigrey could see clearly—though she was not
looking at him—a faint smile widen the lips that were a dark
slash across his face. Like a severed limb sewn back on the
body, the mind-link—newly joined—was still raw and bleed-
ing at the edges, sensitive to the touch. Each kept bandages
wrapped around the wound, to hide it from the view of the
other, but this wasn't completely successful.
Maigrey had been six years old by her planet's reckoning
when the two of them had met and their minds had first, by
accident, been joined. Sagan had been fifteen. The melding
had lasted nearly twenty years before his sword slashed it
apart. Now, reestablished again, it was natural that, however
well protected, certain thoughts and feelings must seep
through.
"No. I think I'll leave the nebula as it is, my lady. It serves
a useful navigational function. Because of it, in fact, I can tell
you the name of the planet over there." The Warlord pointed
to a speck of light, indistinguishable amid a myriad specks of
light. "Vangelis."
Maigrey felt the probe of his mind flick into hers, a surgeon's
scalpel touching the wound. Involuntarily she flinched. What
did he want? What was on that planet? Was it supposed to
mean something to her? It didn't, but she wasn't going to let
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"How interesting, my lord. Named for the twentieth cen-
tury composer, I presume?"
Music. She filled her mind with music, one of the tech-
niques their teachers had taught them to use to enable them to
retain a sense of their own identities. Sagan could make out
nothing in her mind except a cascade of bells and swooping
melody. Something by the very Vangelis of whom she'd
spoken, no doubt. The Warlord did not recognize it.
"More likely it was named after some whore," Sagan com-
mented. "The planet was established as a mining colony—it's
composed almost entirely of uranium. "
Maigrey's mind touched his—not a probe but delicate, cool
fingers. Sagan allowed her to touch, allowed her to find part of
what she sought—the boy. Maigrey snatched her mind back.
The Warlord saw, by the sudden livid appearance of the scar
against her skin, that she had cut herself.
"If you will excuse me, my lord, I am extremely tired. I wish
to return to my quarters."
Maigrey turned to leave. Sagan, politely, gave her his hand.
"I was hoping you would be my guest for dinner this
evening, my lady," he said as they walked slowly to the ramp.
Maigrey, keeping her eyes anywhere but on his face, saw
the sinew, muscle, and bone of his arm clearly delineated
beneath the tanned skin crisscrossed by the battle scars. Some
she remembered, others were new.
"Thank you, my lord. I prefer to dine by myself."
"I have no doubt," he said in a low, wry tone for her hearing
alone. "Betrayal leaves a bad taste in the mouth."
"I'm surprised you noticed, my lord. I should think you
would've become accustomed to it, by now."
In silence, they walked together down the ramp—the lord
brilliant in shining gold and flaming red, the lady pale as the
moon beside him. The centurions snapped to attention; the
eyes of every man in the crew that were not absolutely
required to be somewhere else were on them.
"I have been remiss in my duties as host," Lord Sagan said
loudly, for the benefit of the audience, when they arrived on
the deck. "My officers have been eagerly awaiting the oppor-
tunity of dining with you, Lady Maigrey. This night seems a
fitting occasion."
"What is the occasion, my lord?'
"One which you will have cause to celebrate, I trust, my
lady."

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185
The Warlord handed the woman over to the custody of her
guards. "Dinner this evening is formal, my lady." He glanced
somewhat scathingly at the nylon, zippered men's gym suit she
was wearing. "I have arranged for suitable attire. You will find
it when you return to your quarters. We dine at 2200. I will
send my orderly for you. My lady." He bowed.
Gravely, she returned the courtesy. "My lord."
For an instant the eyes met, the mental blades touched, but
it was in salute, not contest. Not yet. The combatants parted,
the Warlord ascending back up the ramp, the lady leaving
under guard for her quarters.
"Pass the word for Admiral Aks," Sagan commanded.
The message was sent, and the admiral appeared. Aks and
his lord walked together the length of the catwalk. Nada, out
of earshot on the deck below, would have given his pension to
know what was being discussed up above him.
"The Scimitar's been sighted."
"Yes, I am aware of that, my lord. Captain Nada wanted to
send a patrol to arrest Tusca."
"Nada's a bungler. He wouldn't get within ten miles of the
mercenaries. They're undoubtedly monitoring our transmis-
sions. By the time we arrived, they'd have ducked down some
other hole. We'd lose them again and maybe not find them so
easily."
The admiral glanced around to make certain they could not
be overheard.
"What of the boy, my lord?"
Sagan paused in his pacing; his gaze went to the bright speck
in the blackness that was Vangelis. "I see him, Aks. Not
clearly, he's a shadow on my mind, but I see him. And she sees
him, too."
"Doesn't that make it conclusive, then, my lord? Only those
of the Blood Royal could touch each other—"
"I don't know! That's the hell of it! My desire, her fear.
Maybe those are the shadows we're seeing. I can't put a face to
him, Aks, and I don't believe she can either."
"Then how are we to resolve this dilemma, my lord? We
can't go in and seize him because we have no idea what he
looks like, who it is we're supposed to seize! Not to mention"—
Aks's voice sunk even lower—"Snaga Ohme."
"The damn fool," Sagan was bitter, "reacted with typical
Adonian paranoia. Someone's bound to wonder where the
devil those stone-age oligarchs came up with a prototype

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MARGARET WEIS	1
torpedo boat." The Warlord stared out the viewport at the
glittering nebula. "Do you remember what I said to you the
other day, Admiral, in regard to God?"
"I beg your pardon, my lord?" Aks had not been prepared
for this sudden leap from the mundane to the metaphysical.
"'The Lord works in mysterious ways, his wonders to
conceal.' The Creator is working, Aks. He is bringing all
together—my greatest desire, my most dangerous enemy, and
my gravest threat."
"Your greatest desire is, I presume, the boy." Aks, seeing his
lordship was in good spirits, decided he would be safe to
indulge in a bit of sarcasm. "I suppose God's going to drop him
into your hand, my lord?"
The Warlord glanced at the admiral from out of the corner of
his shadowed eyes. "Precisely."

Chapter ~«>o©c*>~ Nineteen
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
T. S. Eliot, "Four Quartets"
Returning to her quarters, Maigrey slammed shut the door
and stood leaning against it. She had to sort out her thoughts
and she was reluctant to disturb them by even the simple act
of walking across the small area of floor space and sitting down
in the one chair provided for the "guest's" comfort.
Outside, she heard the boots of the centurions take up their
accustomed places on either side of her door. On the bed
Maigrey saw what she assumed to be the "attire" Sagan had
mentioned. It was wrapped in white linen, like a shroud.
Maigrey was reluctant, suddenly, to touch it.
This is nonsense! Since when are you afraid of a dress?
But she didn't lift the white linen covering to see what was
beneath. She did move away from the door. Walking over to
her nightstand, Maigrey pulled up the chair, sat down before
the mirror, and told herself she was going to fix her hair.
"The boy," she said quietly. "That was the thought in Sagan's
mind, the thought he wanted me to find. The boy is there, on
that planet. He can see him just as I can, a shadow on the
mind. Why is he letting me know? Why is he telling me?
Surely he must know I'll do everything I can to keep the boy
safe."
Maigrey's hand touched the scar, the fingers following its
line from her cheekbone to her lip. From the pain she felt, she
would not have been surprised to see that touch draw blood.
She could have masked the scar—plastiskin could make a
187

188
MARGARET WEIS	1
human of one hundred appear no older (at least on the surface)
than one of twenty. But Maigrey knew that nothing would
cover it, nothing would blot it out. Were she to put a metal
helmet over her head, the scar would burn through.
Picking up the brush, she began to smooth the tangles from
her long, pale hair. "And what is safe? For the boy to live his
life in ignorance? To never know who and what he is? Is that
what you truly want for him? But if you really believed this,
why did you hide away the child? He was to be our hope. 'Sick
of ourselves, we have dreamed a king.'
"But not like this. Not Sagan taking him to that man who
calls himself President." Maigrey's hand jerked. The brush
turned, the bristles missed on a hard downward stroke, and
she let it fall. "Of course! Sagan doesn't intend to take the boy
to Robes! He's going to keep him, use the boy himself!"
Her gaze went to the white linen shroud.
Kicking the brush aside, Maigrey rose to her feet and
walked slowly over to the bed. She knew, yet she was afraid to
know. She reached down, grabbed a handful of the linen, and
tried to tear it off. The shroud was tightly wrapped around
whatever it covered and she was forced to fumble at knots.
Maigrey could feel the gown beneath the covering. Its weight
was heavy; made of thick fabric. The knowledge increased her
certainty and she tore at the knots that refused to give way to
her trembling hands. Finally they came undone, and hesi-
tantly, afraid to breathe, she lifted one corner and peered
beneath it.
Maigrey closed her eyes. She sank to the floor, suffocating,
the pain in her chest constricting her breathing. Let me die,
Creator! she pleaded silently. Let me die as I should have died
then!
Her hand remained on the bed. Beneath its fingers she felt
fabric so soft and smooth it was almost warm to the touch.
Blue. Indigo blue velvet. A ceremonial gown, worn on state
occasions. Worn by the Guardians on state occasions. State
occasions such as a dinner given in their honor by King
Starfire. A dinner in the palace. A dinner in the palace on the
night of the revolution. Indigo blue velvet, matted black with
blood.
Her hand clutched the velvet, crumpling it between her
fingers. She saw them entering, moving with quiet, ordered
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THE LOST KING
189
ballroom. Each man, each woman dressed alike in robes of
shimmering indigo blue. On each breast glittered the star-
jewel; the Guardians wore no other adornment, no jewel ever
mined was of greater value. Stavros walked in front of her,
Platus behind her. They moved to their table, the king's table,
for tonight they—the Golden Squadron—were being specially
honored. But Sagan wasn't there. He hadn't entered with
them. He was late. Stavros made a joke; he was always making
jokes. Maigrey couldn't remember it. It hadn't been funny.
Nothing was funny. The room was too crowded, the voices
rose in a mindless hubbub and gave her a throbbing headache.
She wanted them to be quiet. Couldn't they tell? Some
dreadful calamity hung over them. Why couldn't they under-
stand? She would tell them! Warn them. Before she could do
so, Sagan entered. All the Guardians were seated except him
and he was there, standing in the doorway. He, alone, was not
clad in indigo blue. He was wearing battle armor. . . .
Darkness.
And then the hospital and pain and bandages and fear. And
the worst pain, the most terrible pain was discovering that she
was still alive.
Dr. Giesk and his infernal machine with its wires and bits of
adhesive plastic could have inflicted no more exquisite torture
on this victim than did the Warlord, using nothing but a few
yards of blue cloth. And even Sagan might have been amazed
at his success. He knew the pain he must inflict by summoning
memory. He couldn't know how much greater the torment of
not remembering!
I won't wear it, was Maigrey's first coherent thought. I won't
go to his dinner. I won't leave this room. I am a prisoner and
I will be a prisoner! I won't set foot out. I'll hide—
Pulling herself to her feet, barely able to stand, Maigrey
backed away from the bed. She was forced to open her eyes
and all it seemed they could see was indigo blue. Before she
fell, she caught herself on the back of the chair and, leaning
against it for support, stood staring at the robes.
And then Maigrey sensed Sagan's mind. He had hit her,
drawn blood. Weakened, she had lowered her guard. Would
she fall down now and die?
She sank into the chair and moved her hand to pick up her
comb. Her fingers brushed against the rosewood box that
stood in an honored place on her vanity. The wood was smooth

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MARGARET WEIS	1
and warm, warmer and smoother than the fabric of what had
come to be known as the robes of death. Her hand closed over
the box.
Memory's sword is a two-edged blade.
The formal dining rooms on Phoenix were located in the
portion of the ship devoted to the rare and occasional visitor.
The Warlord cared nothing for what he considered worthless
civilities, but he did demand that his officers dine with him
once every ship's month. The room's furniture was severe—all
steel and chrome and glass with sleek lines and sheered-off
angles. It was designed to be uncomfortable; visitors were not
encouraged to linger. There were no decorations or adorn-
ments. You were never allowed to forget this was a ship of
war. Each piece of furniture could be dismantled almost
instantly, to be stowed away when the ship was cleared for
action. Huge steelglass viewports provided ever-changing
vistas of black space that were breathtaking but somehow
seemed to emphasize the chill atmosphere of the room.
The dining table, made of steel, bore an unfortunate
resemblance to a table in an operating room. Covered with a
white cloth, as it was this evening, it did, however, manage to
look quite elegant. The plates were of pewter and marked with
the emblem of the phoenix rising from the flames. The heavy
crystal goblets bore the same emblem embossed in gold.
The room's lighting was indirect. Spotlights were hidden in
recesses in the overhead. Beaming downward in a straight,
direct line, they had the effect of illuminating only small areas
of the room at any one time, leaving the rest in dimly lit
shadow. So cunningly placed were these lights that when the
guests were seated at the table, the Warlord's face was left in
almost complete darkness while the faces of those dining with
him were harshly exposed.
This trick lighting often served Sagan well. It was at such
times as these when the guard is lowered, good wine and good
food loosen the tongue. A journey down what appears to be a
well-worn conversational path often leads the unsuspecting
victim right off the edge of a cliff. A covert glance, a guilty
blush, a cheek gone pale in anger or fear—all are visible to the
eyes watching from the shadows. It was no wonder his officers
came to dread these evenings. Even Nada, who considered
himself ten times more cunning than his lord, never attended

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191
without a supply of small white pills prescribed by Dr. Giesk
for internal disorders.
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

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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

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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 faces 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 face 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 circum-
stances, his opponent was incapable of following up her
advantage and he was able to return and strike back.

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"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

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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 them-
selves. 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 every-
thing, 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

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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?
I think perhaps I can, my lord. I am a danger to you.

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A very great danger. You see, my lady, I pay you the
compliment of not underestimating you.
And so once I have served my purpose—
Once I am prepared to move—
—you will rid yourself of me.
Sagan led her to the head of the table. The other officers
took their places as they were assigned, all remaining standing
in respectful attention. The Warlord himself drew out her
chair.
I had a dream, Maigrey. You know that my dreams are
portents.
Yes, she knew. She remembered.
In this dream, 1 see your death ... at my hands, my lady.
Maigrey sank into the chair. Sagan paused a moment to see
that she was settled comfortably, then took his own seat at her
right hand. The others sat down and the stewards instantly
came around with water and wine.
The dream came in answer to a prayer, he continued
silently. She could see of him only his hand that reached out
from the shadows in which he surrounded himself and lifted
the glass of water. I asked the Creator to give into my hands
those who betrayed me. One by one, they have all fallen to me.
You are the last.
Why didn't you kill me that night? Maigrey asked in the
privacy of her own thoughts. The scar on her face ached and
throbbed. She covered it with her hand, feeling that it must be
pulsing burning red. Only your sword could have done this.
Only your hand could have struck me down. Yet why didn't
you end it? Why let me live? Dear Creator, if only I could
remember! Then, startled, she wondered if that was truly what
she wanted. One had to be careful when asking of the God.
What was that prayer accounted to Socrates? "Avert evil from
me, though it be the thing I prayed for; and give me the good
which from ignorance I do not ask."
It was a comforting thought and reminded her that although
Sagan was a priest, he did not know the mind of God.
Somehow, she supposed, this tragedy must make sense. She
wondered if it did to him.
The Warlord's thoughts had, fortunately, turned away from
her, and conscious of eyes upon her, Maigrey made some
attempt to eat and drink. Ship's food is ship's food the galaxy
over. It tasted the same to her now as it had twenty years
previous, which meant that she could not lose herself in

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gastronomical delight. At least the wine was good. She had
only to remember not to drink too much or she would receive
a rebuke from her commander. And then, sipping at the
warming liquid, Maigrey reminded herself that Sagan was her
commander no longer. She could do what she damn well liked.
Just what she'd mostly done anyway.
Maigrey finished the draught and, with a smile, indicated to
the steward to refill her glass. The steward did so with alacrity.
Lifting the goblet to her lips, Maigrey was conscious of Sagan's
stern, reproving glance, though she couldn't see it. Some
things, she supposed, never changed. She was actually begin-
ning to enjoy herself. Though wounded a few times in their
last encounter, she'd managed to penetrate her opponent's
guard and knew she'd drawn blood. It was exhilarating to be
back in action.
The Warlord leaned forward, looked across her to Admiral
Aks, who was seated on her left.
"Any word on that Scimitar, Admiral?"
"Scimitar, my lord?" Aks, having imbibed two glasses of
wine, almost missed his cue. "Oh, the one belonging to the
deserter, Tusca. Yes, my lord. We have located its position on
Vangelis and are currently monitoring it."
"Circumspectly, I trust."
"Yes, my lord, of course. As you commanded."
"And where did it finally set down?"
"In a small valley in the midst of a large mountain range. An
excellent site, well fortified."
"John Dixter is a good general. Marek chose wisely when he
selected him to lead this little insurrection. " All Maigrey could
see of the Warlord were his hands. They held a knife and were
cutting into a piece of meat with deft, swift slicing strokes.
"John Dixter. I believe you knew a John Dixter at one time,
didn't you, my lady?"
The food was ash in Maigrey's mouth, the wine vinegar. She
put the table napkin to her lips, fearful that she would choke.
Plutarch relates that Portia, the wife of the traitor Brutus,
killed herself by snatching burning charcoals out of the fire and
putting them into her mouth. Maigrey knew then in what
agony the woman had died. She tasted fire. She felt stifled, her
throat burned. Tears stung her eyes.
Sagan s thought touched her. They know I was your com-
mander, lady. Don't disgrace me by crying!
Anger gripped Maigrey with a cool, steadying hand. Sagan

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199
had taught her the techniques of withstanding torture and
torment, even as cruel as this. Disgrace him? She wouldn't
disgrace herself.
"I once knew a John Dixter, my lord. But it is a common
name in the galaxy."
Beneath the table where he couldn't see, Maigrey's hand
clenched, her nails digging into her flesh. The steward would
later find traces of blood upon the linen napkin.
"It would be a remarkable coincidence if the son of Danha
Tusca were to be found with another John Dixter, a John
Dixter who was not a friend of the members of the famed
Golden Squadron. It is a common name, but this time, my
lady, I am convinced that it belongs to a most uncommon
man."
"If it is the same John Dixter, my lord, then he was a loyal
commander, both to his king and to those whose honor he held
in his care—those whom he commanded. I agree with you. He
is an uncommon man. Certainly I know no other like him."
Very deliberately, the Warlord laid down both fork and
knife, forming a cross upon his plate, a tradition among priests.
"Admiral Aks, you will send a squadron of marines to the
planet's surface and arrest, in my name, the deserter known as
Tusk and the royalist John Dixter. I want Tusca for question-
ing, but Dixter is expendable. If he resists, terminate him."
"Yes, my lord." The admiral made as if to rise from his seat.
A lieutenant of the marines, who was also a guest, looked
somewhat startled, but started to do the same.
"Leave Dixter out this, Sagan!" Maigrey said softly. "He had
nothing to do with us!"
"I warned you long ago, lady, what your friendship might
cost that man. You have only yourself to blame."
Maigrey stood up, hoping, as she did so, that she would find
the strength to stay on her feet. The linen napkin slid from her
lap and fell unheeded to the floor. "If you will excuse me, my
lord, gentlemen."
There was much fumbling, clattering of tableware and
scraping of feet, and a few coughs; the woman had caught most
of the men in mid-mouthful. Admiral Aks held her chair. The
other officers did her the honor of standing. Last of all, the
Warlord rose slowly.
Maigrey could not see his face, but she could see the light of
the starjewel, reflected coldly in his shadowed eyes. Catching

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hold of the gem, she wrapped her hand around it tightly,
quenching the blue-white glow, and left the room without a
word.
"Will she do it, my lord?" Aks inquired in a low voice.
"Yes. She must, she has no choice. I have made it a matter
of honor."
Honor? Aks had seen the woman's face when John Dixter
was mentioned. In the admiral's opinion, honor had very little
to do with the matter. But, whatever the reason, the Warlord
appeared to have won this contest. Aks glanced at Sagan to see
if he could detect an expression of satisfaction on the stern
face.
If there was, the shadows hid it extremely well.

Chapter -w*- Twenty
Can this be death? there's bloom upon her cheek . . .
George Gordon, Lord Byron, "Manfred"
"The kid handled the plane like a pro, sir. Oh, sure, he did
some minor damage on landing, but that's to be expected with
a first-timer, though to hear XJ carry on, you'd think the kid'd
run the plane into the ground and brought it out again on the
other side of the planet."
Dixter smiled. The general would have liked to point out to
Tusk how paternal the mercenary was sounding, but, looking
at the eight-pointed star glittering in the man's ear, Dixter
kept quiet. That might be striking a little too close to the heart.
Better to forget the past; maybe it'd go away.
"I've had him up a few times since in that reconditioned
Scimitar you found for us, sir. It's about to melt XJ's micro-
chips. I caught him trying to break into the other plane's
computer files to see what was going on."
"How's the boy doing?"
Tusk pulled thoughtfully and absentmindedly at the earring.
"It's just plain weird, sir. Now, I've never trained pilots or
anything, but I remember my own trainer flights and this kid
is uncanny. There's a helluva lot of things to do when you're
flying. Things not to do, too. Just figuring out how to add what
the computer's telling you with what your instruments are
telling you and what your eyes are telling you—when most of
the time the three don't agree—takes a military year. You get
to do it by instinct, but that doesn't come except with
experience."
The two were standing in one of the modular hangars that
had just been constructed on their airfield. An alien had its RV
in for work and at that moment a generator roared into
operation, followed by the sound of furious banging and
201

202
MARGARET WEIS	1
hammering. Shaking his head, coughing in the fumes, Dixter
led the way outside.
"The kid already has the instinct," Tusk shouted over the
noise. "It's like he had it before he ever set foot in the plane.
No, maybe that's not right. It's more like he absorbs every-
thing all at once and processes it and, bam! It's all right there
for him. He knows exactly what to do and how to react. I've
never seen anything like it, sir."
I have, John Dixter said to himself. It's bright and beautiful,
Tusk, and the flames will reduce you to ashes. It's what
happens when we dare to love a god.
"I gave him an old Scimitar pin of mine. The boys and I
made it a regular ceremony, sort of like they do in the Air
Corps. You'd've thought I crowned him king—"
Dixter raised an eyebrow.
"Sorry, sir," Tusk grunted. "Bad metaphor, Uh, say, Gen-
eral. The real reason I came. Where has . . . uh . . .
Nola—that is, Ms. Rian—been keeping herself these last few
days? We were going to get together to discuss some . . .
uh . . . technical modifications on the TRUC before we take
out the next shipment."
"Technical modifications." Dixter kept a straight face. "I see.
Well, Tusk, I don't think we have to worry about flying
shotgun on any more of the shipments. Not since you made
scrap metal of that torpedo boat. We'll keep sending escorts,
but I doubt they'll run into any trouble. And speaking of the
torpedo boat, that's where Nola is. Marek and I got to
wondering about that fancy device and I sent Rian to do a little
investigating. Nothing dangerous, Tusk, so don't get your
shorts in a knot. She'll poke around a few files, eat at a few
TRUCer diners, ask a few questions. She knows just about
everybody in the industry. This is strictly between us, all
right?"
"Yes, sir. Tusk appeared somewhat shamefaced. "Thank
you, sir. That's all I wanted to know."
The alien had ceased his work for the moment to search for
a tool. The noise temporarily subsided.
"While I've got you, here's the new flight schedule." Dixter
removed a computer printout from an antiquated file folder he
was holding and handed it to the pilot. "See that everyone gets
a copy. I'm glad to hear Dion is keeping occupied— Well,
well. Speak of the devil."

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203
"Tusk! I've looked all over for you! Say, can Link and I— Oh,
sorry, General Dixter. I didn't see you!" Dion came dashing
around the corner of the hangar building and pulled up short
at the sight of the general.
"That's all right. We've finished. See you at the briefing
tonight, Tusk."
"Yes, sir. What is it, kid?"
Dixter, walking away, heard Dion say something about
provisions and Link giving him a ride into town. Heading back
to his headquarters, the general's mind ran over everything
Tusk had told him about Dion. Dixter understood and was
wishing he didn't when he heard a wild yell behind him.
Turning, he saw Tusk waving his arms and shouting. Dion
lay sprawled on the tarmac on his feet.
"What happened?" Dixter ran up.
"My God! I don't know, sir. One minute he was standing
there talking and the next he pitched down on the ground.
Look at him, sir!" Tusk clutched Dixter's arm. "D'you ever see
anything like that?"
No, Dixter hadn't. And he'd seen just about every kind of
casualty that could happen to a living being. The boy lay on his
back, looking straight up intently at something no one else
could see, seemingly listening to something no one else could
hear. And he was answering. Or thought he was. His lips
moved.
A chill went through Dixter, starting in his gut and spread-
ing through his body. He glanced around. They were attract-
ing a crowd, of course. Any distraction was welcome to break
the monotony of war, which had been likened to drinking
jump-juice and water—one shot of gut-wrenching excitement
mixed with a glassful of boredom.
"The kid's having some sort of fit. Get a blanket, you men.
Don't just stand there gawking. Make a litter and we'll carry
him to my office. I suppose the rest of you haven't anything
better to do than stand here?"
"Look, sir. He's trying to say—"
"Shut up, Tusk!" Dixter commanded in a low voice, bending
over the boy, seemingly to help him but in reality to shield him
from curious eyes.
The men dashed up with the blanket and gently transferred
Dion from the concrete to the makeshift stretcher. The general
covered him well, to keep him warm, and managed at the

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same time to slip the blanket up over his mouth. A startled
Bennett ushered the men into Dixter's inner office, shoving
maps and files off an old battered couch that occasionally
doubled as a bed. Laying the boy down on the couch, they
made him comfortable, and Bennett cleared the office of those
who would have been more than happy to hang around and
wait for the kid to either come to or kick off. Dixter sent
Bennett on a search for a medic and locked both the door to
the outer office and that to the inner when his aide had left.
"He's coming to himself, sir," Tusk reported.
Dixter returned in time to see Dion shove aside Tusk's
restraining arms and try to sit up. The red-golden hair burned
like flame. The boy's eyes were a startling blue against his pale
face. Looking up at Dixter, he reached out clutching hands.
"Leave! We've got to leave! Sagan knows!"
"What the hell—" Tusk stared at him.
"Hush." Dixter gently pried loose the fingers that seemed to
be trying to rip his shirtsleeve from his arm and sat down
beside the boy. "Steady, son. You're not making sense. Tell us
what happened."
"There isn't time!" Dion glanced around fearfully. Sweat
trickled down the boy's face. "We've got to leave! Sagan's
coming. Didn't you hear her, sir?"
"The kid's been in the jump-juice again," Tusk muttered.
"Shh. Calm down, Dion. Everything's under control. The
Warlord isn't coming yet and we'll be ready for him when he
does."
"Where is she?" the boy demanded. "Did you send her
away? I was going to ask her—" he paused, frowning, "ask her
something. I can't remember. Get her back! Get her back
here!"
"Sufferin' Crea—"
"Tusk, keep quiet and get him some water."
Dion glared at the general angrily. Dixter was firm, his face
grim. "Here, Dion, drink this." He held out the water and the
boy finally did as he was told and seemed calmer when he'd
drunk it down.
"Now listen to me, son. Look around you. Don't you
remember what happened? You were standing outside the
hangar. You asked Tusk about going into town with Link—"
Dion's eyes widened; he stared around confusedly. "Yes,
that's right. How'd I get— What—"

THE LOST KING
205
"You passed out. The boys carried you in here. But you
didn't faint, did you? You weren't really unconscious."
"No." Dion felt limp and drained. He lay back on the couch,
his head propped up on a roll of maps. "Then you didn't see
her? She wasn't here?"
"Who, son?"
"The woman! I was talking to Tusk and . . . then . . .
she was standing right in front of me! She was ... so real!
She was as close to me as you are now, sir. She said, 'Sagan
knows where you are! He's coming after you. If you need help,
you can trust John Dixter. God be with you.'" Dion frowned.
"But then you couldn't have seen her, or she would have told
you herself instead— Sir, are you all right?"
Dixter sat back on his heels. The general's face muscles were
rigid, his skin was gray, the eyes staring at Dion were like the
eyes of a corpse—wide open but unseeing. Tusk jumped up.
"Sir, are you all right?"
Dixter ignored him. Tusk, glancing from the general to the
kid, muttered, "I think we could all use a drink," and headed
for the bottom drawer of the general's battered desk.
"What did she look like?" Dixter's question was almost
unintelligible. His mouth barely moved. Dion answered it
only because he heard it more with his heart than his head.
"She was dressed in a blue gown—a blue that kind of
shimmered when she moved. She wore a beautiful jewel,
shaped like a star. Her hair was long and straight and fell from
a part in the center of her head down either side of her face."
"What color was her hair?"
"Damn! Where's the bourbon?" Tusk was banging drawers.
"Brandy. That'll do. Here, sir!" He sloshed a thick viscous
green liquid in a glass and handed it to the general. "Drink it,
sir. You don't look good."
Dixter didn't touch the glass, didn't even look at Tusk.
"Her hair's hard to describe, sir. It wasn't golden, it was
lighter than that. But it wasn't pure white. It was—"
"Sea foam," Dixter said so softly that the boy leaned forward
to hear. "The color of sea foam against blue water."
"I don't know, sir," Dion murmured, beginning to shiver.
"I've never seen the sea."
"Go on."
"There . . . was a scar on her face—"
"General, sir! Where the hell's Bennett!" Tusk leapt for the
door.

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"No!" Gritting his teeth, Dixter stood up and made his way
over to his chair. He lowered himself into it and closed his
eyes. "I'm fine. Don't call anyone, Tusk. Don't let anyone in."
He motioned for the brandy. "I'll take that now."
Tusk, looking dubious and half-determined to disobey,
shoved the tumbler across the table.
Lifting the glass to his lips, the general managed a twisted
smile. "The pain's an old one." He swallowed the fiery green
liquid, gulped, and drew a deep breath. "The scar. Did it
run . . . like this?" Slowly, as if he were inflicting the wound
on himself, Dixter drew his hand along the right side of his face
from the cheekbone to the corner of the lips.
"Yes!" Dion threw off the blanket and sat up. "Who is she?
Do you know her? I have the feeling I should. There was
something familiar about her, but—"
Tusk motioned him to be quiet.
Dixter was staring at the glass in his hand. For a moment, he
rolled the glass around between his fingers, watching the
green brandy coat the sides, then he tossed the rest of the
liquor down the back of his throat.
"I know her. Or rather, I knew her. She's dead. She's been
dead these seventeen years."
Rising from behind his desk, Dixter walked over to stare out
the window of his mobile headquarters. It was cooler, down in
the flat bottom of the mountain bowl that he'd selected as their
new site of operations. The fans no longer kept the maps
rustling. But the maps seemed to stir anyway, as if whispering
to themselves.
"Shit," Tusk said and reached for the brandy bottle.
"Begging your pardon, sir."
Dixter drew a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped
chill sweat from his face. Turning, he sat back down at his
desk. Tusk passed the bottle. The general studied it, as if
wondering if it was real or a figment of his imagination. He
looked at Dion.
"And you recognized her. You thought she looked familiar."
"She reminded me of someone—"
"I'm not surprised. Platus. Your mentor. I never thought
they looked that much alike. But other people did. She was his
sister."
"Maigrey Morianna!" Tusk coughed and blinked back tears.
The green brandy of Laskar was potent stuff. It made jump-
juice taste like lite beer. "My father talked about her some.

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Uh, I hate like hell to ask this, sir, but just how sure are you
that she's dead?"
"I didn't see the body, if that's what you mean," Dixter
answered with a wry smile. "But I was sure, all the same." The
eyes, from their web of wrinkles, looked at the wall and saw
right through it, clear back through space and time. "She was
scared, and I'd never seen her scared of anything. She
disappeared in the night. She gave me the slip, stole a plane,
and tried to get off-planet. The press reported that she'd been
shot down over Minas Tares." Dixter poured and drank
brandy. "I never heard from her again. Yes, I believed she was
dead. Why not? Everybody else was."
"Then, sir, do you think there's a chance that she's alive?
Maybe what the kid saw wasn't a ghost. Maybe she was using
that telepathic projection stuff that the Blood Royal used to use
on each other. And if that's true"—Tusk peered nervously out
the window—"then shouldn't we be doing something? Like
leaving?"
"Where would you go?" Dixter's words were glazed with
liquor. "If Sagan knows where we are, you can bet that he's
waiting somewhere up there for you, probably just out of
range. That bombing run. I wondered about that. Why
bother? Unless you want the quail to leave the thicket."
Tusk got to his feet, heading—somewhat unsteadily—for the
door. "That reconditioned Scimitar. I'm taking it. C'mon, kid.
We can make Mannheim XI by 0600—"
"Not you, Tusk. Sagan's made you. Link. Send the boy
with—"
"Link! That ego-inflated blob of hair gel? He's not a Guard—"
Tusk stopped, his tongue asking his brain if he really wanted to
continue. "Thanks for the suggestion, sir, but Link didn't make the
promise to the kid's dead friend. I did. It's my responsibility."
"Not anymore. She made it mine. Send the boy with Link,
and that's an order—"
"It doesn't matter, either of you," Dion interrupted coolly.
"I'm not going anywhere. Not till I get some answers."
"Kid—"
"I mean it, Tusk. Don't argue with me. You don't under-
stand."
"Goddam right I don't! Dead ladies talking to you. Sagan
coming to haul us off and shove us in the disrupter and you and
the general sittin' here on your—"

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"That'll do, Tusk," Dixter interrupted. "The boy's right.
We're all in this too deep to wade out now."
"I just hope like hell the water doesn't close over our heads
in the meantime," Tusk muttered. He stood near the door to
the office, irresolute and unhappy.
The boy's intensely blue eyes were wide and clear and
glittered with an unholy radiance. The red-golden hair, swept
back from the forehead, was like a cascade of flame in the cold
sunshine that filtered through the trailer window. He sat
forward, staring at Dixter, his lips slightly parted as if to take
a deep, long, and satisfying drink.
"This proves it, doesn't it, sir? It proves who I am! Beyond
all doubt."
"It doesn't prove anything, son, except that you're of the
Blood Royal." The general poured himself another brandy.
Dion looked downcast, but gamely tried again. "That prom-
ise you talked about making—to 'someone very dear. Someone
who was dying.' That was to her, wasn't it? To Lady Maigrey?
Now don't you see, sir? She's absolved you of that! She isn't
dead. I know she isn't. Please tell me what you know, sir!"
"I'll tell you," Dixter said, staring into the glass. "But I warn
you. It isn't much."
The general was quiet. There was no sound except the
whispering of the maps. Tusk, still standing near the door,
shifted from one foot to the other, gazed longingly outside, and
finally threw himself back into his chair. "Link!" He said in
disgust and reached for the brandy bottle.
"What do you know about comets?" John Dixter asked.

Chapter ■••*>««<»•• Twenty-one
Go and catch a falling star . . .
John Donne, "Song"
"Comets? Sir, you were talking about ..." Dion paused.
Dixter hadn't heard, hadn't even looked up. Rolling the
brandy on his tongue, he swallowed. "They're made of ice, you
know. Flaming ice, they streak across the sky, touch you with
fire, and then disappear. You ever been to Laskar, Tusk?"
"Where they make this stuff?" Tusk upended the bottle.
"Yeah, sir, I've been there."
Dixter, reaching into a drawer, pulled out another bottle,
uncapped it, and poured himself a generous glass.
"A hell-hole, Laskar. A planet where any sin known to
human and alien is for sale at any price. I haven't been there
in years, but I don't suppose it's changed."
"Worse, sir," Tusk said. "The cities are wide open. No law.
But the casino owners and such pay their taxes, if you know
what I mean."
"I heard as much. Well, in the old days we used to try to
keep the place in order—taxes or not. We had a base near the
capital—"
"It's still there, sir. That's where they collect the taxes." Tusk
swigged brandy.
"The king's army used to assist the locals if things got out of
hand, which things did on a pretty regular basis. It was a great
place for R and R, one of the hot spots in the galaxy."
"Off-limits now, General. Has been ever since pirates
hijacked that naval destroyer, murdered the crew, took off with
the ship, and started attacking the commercial fleets. There
was a big public outcry. People wanted the President to shut
Laskar down or maybe just drop a couple of nukes on it but all
that happened was to declare the planet an official, no man's
209

210
MARGARET WEIS	1
land. 'Citizens, go there at your risk. The government will not
be responsible. Like I said, Laskar pays its taxes.
"Somebody's paying, that's for sure. It'd be interesting to
know who and for what. Still, that's neither here nor there.
Another drink, Tusk? Sure you won't have one, Dion?
"Well, where was I? Laskar. Yeah. I was on Laskar. Sta-
tioned there, when I was a colonel. Thirty-two years old, by
my planet's calculations. I was due for reassignment and it
couldn't come fast enough. Some men liked that tour. I knew
guys who volunteered for it. I hated Laskar. It's got a green
sun. Something about the atmosphere. Turns everything you
look at green. You learn to sleep days. First because you can't
take the sight of everything bathed in a sickly gangrenous
glow. Second because you're up all night anyway. Life on
Laskar begins at dusk. Life ends at night, generally alone, in
an alley.
"Lovely place, Laskar. You never went to the grocery store
without one hand on your lasgun and a friend walking behind
to make sure you weren't stabbed in the back in the frozen food
aisle."
Dixter watched the brandy swirl in the glass.
"My orders for transfer came through, finally. I was sched-
uled to ship out on a battle cruiser orbiting on routine patrol.
Some buddies and I went to celebrate in a bar we'd found that
was relatively civilized—for Laskar. We were standing around
the bar when some of the Royal Air Corps pilots from this
cruiser swaggered in. We knew there'd be trouble. A lot of the
base soldiers were in that bar, and ground troops've got no use
for hotshot fly-boys. My friends left. They were officers and
had their stripes to think about. But I was getting off that
stinking planet and I just plain didn't give a damn. Besides, the
owner was a good guy. I'd done him a few favors and I knew
where the back door was and the combination to the lock that
opened it. I decided to stick around and see the fun.
"Sure enough, the pilots had a few and then started in on
land-bound lubbers.' The soldiers told the fly-boys where
they could fly their planes and it wasn't deepspace. I don't
know who threw the first punch. It didn't matter, cause within
seconds it was every man for himself. I stood at the end of a
bar, drinking brandy. This brandy." Dixter held the glass to
the light. "Occasionally I'd duck a bottle or convince some
private that he didn't really want to hit a colonel and shove him
back into the fracas. The pilots were getting the worst of it.

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There wasn't a stick of furniture left intact unless you count my
barstool. The owner was on the phone, screaming for the cops.
It would be just a matter of time before the M.P.'s arrived to
bring down the curtain. I was thinking about heading for the
door in back when one of the Air Corps officers walked through
the door in front."
Dixter took a mouthful of liquor down the wrong way,
coughed, and covered his mouth with his handkerchief. Tusk
started to reach out unsteadily to pound the general on the
back, thought better of it, and latched onto the bottle instead.
Dion sat on the edge of his chair, his hands clasped tightly in
his lap, his penetrating gaze fixed on Dixter.
"The officer was a female. I'd known women officers before
and I could take them or leave them. Some were good. Some
were bad. Just like men. Just like aliens. But this one—"
Dixter drew in a soft breath, "she was young. Too young. And
fragile. Hair the color of sea foam. Eyes that changed color like
the sea, too. Sometimes they'd be green, sometimes sparkling
blue, sometimes dark and gray. Not that I noticed the color of
her eyes then. I just remember thinking that it must have been
that hair and those eyes that got her those major's bars she was
sporting and she'd probably take one look and beat it. Hell,
there were fists punching, feet kicking, fingers gouging. There
wasn't room for the bodies on the floor; they were starting to
stack up in the corners.
"But she didn't leave. I saw her lips tighten and suddenly,
from the expression on her face, I knew how she'd won those
bars. She waded into the melee, grabbed hold of the first pilot
that came flying her direction, and smacked him hard to bring
him to his senses.
"Get out, Fisher,' she ordered. 'The M.P.'s are coming.'
"The fly-boy was thinking about arguing until he saw who
had him.
"'Yes, sir, Major,' he mumbled and staggered toward the
door.
"She was back in the midst of the fight, as cool as you please.
Someone—like me, I thought—should get her out of here
before she gets hurt. But I just sat there. Somehow I knew, by
the look of her, that she wouldn't thank me for coming to her
rescue. Besides, she didn't need rescuing. One guy took a
swing at her. In less time than it takes to tell, he was on the
floor wondering what had run him over. But she wasn't there
to fight. She was there to get her men out before they landed

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in the lockup and she did. When they saw her, they forgot
about their brawl.
" 'Out!' was all she said, and they slunk out, those who could
walk carrying those who couldn't.
"She turned back, going through the debris, lifting up the
overturned tables to make sure no one got left behind.
Satisfied that she had all her boys, she headed for the door.
"I'm not a praying man. But I said a prayer then—the kind
a kid prays. You know, 'Grant me this, God, and I'll do
anything you want in return.' And my prayer was answered.
Sirens and whistles. The M.P.s were right outside. That broke
up the fight in a hurry. Guys began leaping through the
windows. Too late, of course. They were being nabbed on the
sidewalk. She was trapped. If she walked out, she'd walk right
into their arms and, what with the blood spattered on her and
her hair down in her face and her uniform torn, it wasn't likely
she could pass herself off as an innocent bystander. The room
spun around me and it wasn't the brandy. Somehow, I
managed to cross the floor and I caught hold of her hand.
'"This way,' I said.
"She never hesitated. We were out the back door just as the
M.P.'s came in the front.
"'Quick!' she said. 'They'll be back here, too.'
"We ran down the alley, knocking over boxes, scattering
stray cats and bottles and bums. When we reached the street,
we let the crowd on the sidewalk catch us up and take us with
them. Behind us, I could hear more sirens. We ducked into
the shadows of a doorway. I was still holding her hand.
"'Thank you, Colonel.' She caught her breath. Her eyes
were brighter than the street lamps. 'I would've been in real
trouble if my commander'd had to come get me out of jail.' She
laughed, though, when she said it. I wondered why, at the
time. 'I owe you one, Colonel—'
"'Dixter. John Dixter.'
"'Where's home base?'
" Here, but I'm shipping out tomorrow. Reassignment.'
'"Good. You'll be traveling with us.' She slipped her hand
out of mine. 'Thank you again, Colonel Dixter. I won't forget.'
"She was gone. Vanished into the crowd.
"I didn't even know her name."
Dixter's glass was empty. He didn't refill it. Tusk lolled in his
chair, his face lit by a warm glow. Dion never moved, never
took his eyes from the general's face. Outside he heard

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Bennett pounding on the locked door to the trailer, but the
sound wasn't real, not nearly as real as a decadent city beneath
a green sun.
"I hate spaceflight," Dixter growled suddenly. He glanced at
Tusk, who blinked and made some attempt to sit up straight.
"You wouldn't understand. No pilot ever does. I guess that's
the real reason I stayed in that bar to watch the fly-boys get the
flak knocked out of 'em. Oh, I know all about the beauty, the
mystery, the romance of space. To me, it's just a cold and
lonely place to die. Where's the romance in sudden
decompression—your brains gushing out of your nose? Or in
being blown to pulp or drifting endlessly, marooned, to die of
the cold or starvation or by your own crazed mind?
"Plus I always get space sick. The first three days out for me
are hell and I'd been dreading the flight to my new assign-
ment. But not now. When it came time to board, I was the first
one in the shuttle. Of course, I was still sick as a dog. For three
days I couldn't move off the bed, except to crawl to the head.
Finally, when I decided I might live after all and I could keep
water down, at least, I made my way out into the ship and
began to search for her.
"I found out where the pilots bunked, where their officers'
quarters were. I hung around, hoping to see her. I came to
know every major by sight, but I never found the one I was
looking for. Maybe she hadn't meant this ship, but there
weren't any others. Besides, I saw a couple of her boys, their
faces cut and swollen from the beating they'd taken. A week
went by and then one day a pilot I'd met—I got to know a lot
of them, as you can imagine—and I were walking down a
corridor to the rec room ..."
Dixter filled his glass, but he didn't drink it. He rubbed his
eyes and ran his hand through his graying hair.
"I saw her and knew in that moment the answer to
everything: why she wasn't quartered with the other pilots,
why those boys of hers turned white at the sight of her, why
she had those major's bars and she couldn't have been more
than twenty, why nothing would ever be the same for me
again.
"She was coming down a corridor, walking toward me, and
she was dressed in the shining silvery armor of the Guardians.
Around her shoulders was the blue cloak with the silver edging
that marked her rank, around her neck was the starjewel, at
her waist was the bloodsword. At her side walked a man—tall

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and strong and proud. He was dressed in silver armor and
wore the blue cape, only his was edged in gold.
"'Derek Sagan,' said my friend, seeing me staring and
thinking I was looking at him.
"When he said the name, I did look. 'Sagan?' Even on
Laskar, we'd heard of him. 'What's he doing on board a
cruiser?' It was the first time I'd ever heard of the Guardians
being directly involved in combat.
" 'He's been given command of a special squadron—an idea
he proposed. It's made up entirely of members of the Blood
Royal, because of those touted mystical powers of theirs. I'm
thankful I'm not part of it. He's a brilliant commander but a
real bastard to serve under. A perfectionist. Can't tolerate
mistakes. They say he's as hard on himself as anyone else, but
that doesn't make it any easier to be around him."
" 'Who's the woman?' I asked. All I could see were her dark
eyes and that glittering jewel.
"'The Lady Maigrey Morianna.'
"This guy I was with had spent some time at court, I found
out. His father was a minor potentate of some sort and he
considered himself an expert on the Royal Family.
'"Major Morianna, I should say,' my friend said. 'She's a
pilot, too. My guess is she'll be in the new squadron. A
member of the Blood Royal, of course. The king's a first cousin
on her father's side, I believe, and Sagan's a cousin once
removed or something like that—-despite the fact that he's a
bastard. I mean a real one."
"He spoke in a whisper. I didn't blame him. Looking at
Sagan's face, I wouldn't have said those words aloud within a
light-year of him.
" 'What about her?' I asked casually, trying to be cool.
"I guess I failed, 'cause he grinned at me and shook his head.
" 'Forget it, friend. You might just as well have fallen in love
with a comet. Fire on the outside and cold in the center. She's
a warrior from a family of warriors. On her planet her people
ride horses and fight with arrows and spears. She was thrown
out of the Royal Academy for Women when she was six for
nearly knifing one of the Sisters. King ordered her sent to the
men's academy with her brother. That's where she met Sagan.'
He leaned closer to me, lowering his voice even further.
'They're mind-linked.'
"'What the hell's that?'
I was only half-listening. Her hair was so soft and fine it

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215
floated when she walked. It was long, almost to her waist. She
must have had it braided under her cap the day I saw her.
"'Watch the two of them,' my friend said. 'It's really
uncanny. They can share thoughts. Their eyes meet and you
can almost see the energy flash between them.' He rambled
on, but I wasn't listening.
"Fall in love with a comet. That was true. I saw it now. She'd
flash through my life and leave only an aching blackness when
she was gone. I saw it all as she walked down the passage,
coming toward me. I had been going to say something to her,
but I put that thought out of my mind, just as I put her out of
my-life at that moment.
"They strolled through the ship as if they owned it. Hell,
maybe they did, for all I knew. People made way for them
without even thinking about it. I flattened myself back up
against the bulkheads, hoping to fade into the ductwork. Sagan
was saying something to her. Her eyes brushed over me
without a glimmer of recognition and then she was past me.
That was that, I supposed. I was almost relieved when Sagan
stopped, his attention drawn to someone else. Maigrey turned
her head. She looked at me—directly at me—through that
mist of hair and she grinned. It wasn't a smile. It was a
grin—one conspirator to another. She raised one finger in a
warning kind of gesture. Like this—'keep quiet.' I remem-
bered what she'd said about her 'commanding officer.' Then
she turned and walked away.
"And that was that." Dixter toyed with the half-empty glass.
"We became good friends on that trip. We were friends for
years. Her friendship wasn't what I wanted, of course, but I
took that over losing her. She was Blood Royal, after all. Her
ambition burned in her. It had been born in her, she'd been
raised for it. Politics bored her, she didn't want that. She
wanted to fly. She and Sagan and the others in the squadron
were the first members of the Blood Royal the king allowed to
become pilots. Usually, you know, they were married off to
others in the royalty to keep the bloodline pure. But this was
when things were starting to fall apart for the monarchy. I
guess the king figured he needed all the help he could get.
"And the help turned around and stabbed him in the back."
Dixter fell silent. The banging and yelling had increased in
volume and ferocity. He glanced vaguely in the direction of
the outer door.
"Confound it, Tusk, make em stop that racket!"

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Rising to his feet, Tusk lurched forward, fumbled with the
lock, flung open the door, and staggered into the outer office.
Dion heard the mercenary conferring with Bennett. Whatever
he said obviously didn't have much effect, for Bennett himself
appeared in the doorway.
"General Dixter, sir—"
"It's all right," Dixter said. "Just"—he waved his hand—
"leave us alone."
"Yes, sir," Bennett said. "Would you like some coffee, sir?"
"No, Bennett. I'd like to stay drunk."
"Yes, sir. Very good, sir."
"Find Captain Link and tell him to report to HQ on the
double. And send Tusk back in."
"That will be difficult, I'm afraid, sir. He's passed out."
"Good. That'll make it easier. Take him back to his plane.
And tell XJ that Tusk's grounded until further notice."
"Yes, sir."
Dion started to stand up, but Dixter waved him down.
"Bennett'll take care of Tusk. You stay here. You should . . .
know the rest. While I'm still sober enough to tell it."
"Yes, sir." Dion subsided back onto the couch.
They heard a sound as if someone had thrown a glass of
water into someone else's face. A groan and then a scuffling
sound and a crash, swearing. The door slammed and every-
thing but the rustling maps were quiet. Even Dixter's voice,
when he spoke, seemed to Dion not so much to disturb the
silence but to flow into it and become a part of it.
"I've never told anyone about that night at the palace. And
it's not me talking now. It's the booze. I lied when I said I
wasn't there the night of the revolution. The night that came to
be called 'die Freiheit.' Freedom! Hah! I was there." Dixter
lifted the brandy bottle with a shaking hand and poured. Most
of the liquor made it into the glass.
"God help me! I was there."

Chapter ••«*»©<*••■ Twenty-Two
Where sceptered Angels held their residence
And sat as Princes . . .
John Milton, Paradise Lost
"Minas Tares—the royal city. God, it was beautiful. Maybe
it was everything else they say now—decadent and extrava-
gant. People living in unimaginable wealth while millions
went hungry. All I know is that for me it was the center of
everything that was wonderful and lovely. Music, art, litera-
ture, architecture—the best came to Minas Tares. It was all
destroyed in the name of 'democracy.'
"We knew what was coming, I think. The king knew,
certainly. But he either didn't want to believe it or he couldn't
decide what to do. Starfire was a good man, but he was weak.
His ministers weren't much better. As Yeats says, 'The best
lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate
intensity.'" Dixter stared at the brandy, then drained the glass
all in one gulp. He closed his eyes, drew a breath, and
expelled it in a sigh. "Anyway ... I was there that night for
two reasons. One, I'd just been made a general. Me and about
five hundred other human and alien commanders from all over
the galaxy. It was quite a ceremony. 'For meritorious valor.'
The king himself pinned the stars on my collar.
"So I was on Minas Tares for that, and I was there because
she was there. It was the night the Golden Squadron was being
honored by their peers—the Guardians—for their battle
against the Corasians on some planet, somewhere. Maigrey
was attending, but her most important reason for being there
was to be with her best friend, Semele Starfire, wife of the
crown prince, who was due to have her baby anytime."
Dixter didn't look at Dion when he spoke. The boy flinched
217

218
MARGARET WEIS	1
but kept quiet. It seemed to him that the general had forgotten
he was there, had forgotten their danger. Dion remembered
but he didn't want to remind the general, fearful of breaking
the spell. Besides, to Dion, it wasn't danger, it was deliver-
ance.
"I guess you've heard all about the traitors within the Royal
Army who detected the rebel fleet entering orbit around the
planet and didn't report it. The base fell. There wasn't even a
fight; most of the soldiers joined the rebels. When Robes's
army held control of the city, he ordered them to march on the
palace.
"I was in the palace ... or rather on the grounds. The
palace was a city in itself. Beautiful buildings, tree-lined
boulevards, galleries, shops, restaurants. Thousands of people
lived and worked there. It was filled with light and music, day
and night. I was there by invitation—it was the only way you
could get in. Maigrey's invitation, of course. She wanted to
congratulate me. We were going to celebrate."
Dixter reached for the bottle, but it was empty. He gripped
it, hard, and stared into the past.
"The rebels hit the palace with everything they had. I'd just
come through the first series of gates when the first wave
struck. I knew in an instant what it was—there'd been rumors
and civil unrest for months. Some of the king's own personal
troops switched over to the rebel side. Most of them stayed
loyal, though. It was chaos. No one knew whose side anybody
was on. People shot each other down like dogs in the name of
freedom.
"We were outnumbered a thousand to one. They came out
of the skies, poured like rats up through the sewers. What
fighting there was wasn't resistance so much as plain frustrated
anger. I was unarmed but I grabbed a lasgun from a corpse
and fought until what I figured would be my end. A mortar
round saved my life. The explosion blew me into a ditch. It was
nighttime. In the confusion, no one noticed me, or if they did
they must have thought I was dead. When I came to, it was all
over.
"I could see flames on the horizon and I knew it was the
palace. My one thought was Maigrey. I took the uniform off the
body of a rebel solider, a sergeant, and put it on, grabbed his
blaster, and headed for the palace.
"The night's like a horrible dream to me. I'd been hurt in the
explosion, but the pain didn't seem to register. It just made

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219
things unreal. Still, I don't think that even death will blot out
my memory of what I saw that night. Robes's troops were out
of control—drunk on liquor and blood. Rape, torture, burn-
ing, looting—I saw it all and yet I didn't see it. I made myself
not see it because I knew if I looked I'd open fire and keep on
blasting until they cut me down. I had one idea in my
mind—Maigrey.
"After a while, I welcomed the confusion, because it let me
go where I pleased. I kept heading straight for the palace. I
could see it now—its steelglass spires glistening in the flames.
Whenever I came up on someone who seemed halfway sober,
I asked what had happened there. I heard all sorts of gruesome
rumors—the king was dead, murdered. Everyone in the
palace was dead, the Guardians slaughtered. One soldier came
past, wearing one of those blue robes. It was torn and black
with blood. I don't know how I stayed on my feet. The
unreality, I suppose. Part of me still couldn't believe it was
happening.
" When I reached the palace, I got a shock. Here, everything
was under control. The troops were cold sober, disciplined—
an army, not a mob—and they were standing guard against
their own. I found out later who their leader was. I might have
expected. Derek Sagan. They all wore that new crest of
his—the phoenix rising from flames.
"I picked out a side entrance and waited for my chance to get
inside. Fortunately, a brawl among the rebel troops drew the
guards away from their posts. The soldiers'd heard rumors of
loot inside the palace and were trying to break in. The guards
beat them back with the butt ends of their guns or stunned
them. During the confusion, I slipped through the door.
"I'd been in the palace before—Maigrey'd taken me around.
But I damn near didn't recognize the place. Some of it had
burned; Sagan's troops were busy putting out the fires.
There'd been explosions, holes blown in the walls, floors
knocked down, staircases hanging out in the middle of no-
where. I was standing there, staring, trying to orient myself,
when one of the soldiers came up to me.
" 'What's your business here, Sergeant?'
"'Dispatches.' I spoke automatically. I don't even remember
thinking about it. I put my hand over my breast pocket. 'For
the commander.'
I didn't care anymore. I knew, now, she was dead. I prayed
she was dead, after what I'd seen. I was dead myself, inside,

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and I just plain didn't care. The soldier looked at me and must
have decided that since I was sober I was telling the truth. He
motioned me on.
'"Commander Sagan's in the computer center. Up those
stairs and turn to your right.'
"Sagan! My mind reeled. Derek Sagan. A traitor. Of course,
by now he knew me. Maigrey'd introduced us. I wondered if
she'd known he was going to betray his king. If so, that alone
must have killed her.
"You can be sure that, once the soldier was out of sight, I
didn't go in Sagan's direction. I made my way to the hall where
she'd told me they held the royal banquets. The chamber was
enormous. It took up almost half one whole floor. And it was
filled with bodies. The Guardians hadn't been armed, you see.
That was part of the plot.
"I searched among the dead for what seemed like hours. I
saw the body of the king, lying in his throne. Robes put it out
that Starfire had died of a heart attack, but that wasn't true. I
saw the hole—burned through the crown, burned through his
skull. But I didn't find Maigrey. I couldn't find any of the
Golden Squadron, and I began to hope. I went out into the
corridors again, searching—for what I'm not sure. There was
even this crazed idea in my head to go find Sagan and ask him.
"It was quiet in the palace; the silence seemed eerie after
the noise outside. There was almost no one around—a few
soldiers moving about on business, a few standing guard, but
most of them were outside. There were no medics, tending to
the wounded. There were no wounded. Only corpses. When-
ever someone passed me I looked purposeful. I walked
quickly, like I knew where I was going. Amazing, what that'll
do for you.
"Not really thinking much about it, I made my way to the
king's private living rooms. Of course, I'd never been up
there. I couldn't have entered now except his own personal
guards were dead. I'm not sure why I came. It seemed to me
later that I was stumbling around in a fog of pain and despair,
but I guess I must have had some kind of rational thought
process. I thipk it was in my mind that if Maigrey could have
escaped she would have gone looking for her friend, Semele.
And that would have brought Maigrey here. And it was here I
found her."
Dixter's voice was thick, but his words were clear, obviously

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coming from somewhere deep inside him that the liquor
couldn't touch.
"She was lying across a doorway, the bloodsword in her
hand, as if she'd been holding that door against attack. Her
hair covered her face and it was matted with blood. I sank
down onto the floor beside her. There was no strength left,
nothing left in me. I knew she was dead and I was thankful
she'd died quickly. I lifted her hand and put it to my lips and
the flesh was warm. That jolted me. I found a pulse. She wasn't
dead!"
Dixter looked at Dion, bringing the boy back into focus.
"She wasn't dead. Do you understand? None of the other
wounded had been allowed to survive. Everyone had been
ruthlessly slaughtered. But not her. Of all the things I saw that
night, that seemed to me to be the strangest. Her enemy had
struck her down and then left her. But I couldn't take time to
think about it.
"The wound on her face was terrible, I could tell that much,
though I didn't dare examine it. Her blood-soaked hair had
stuck to it, formed a kind of bandage over it. Carefully I
stripped off her blue robes—that would have marked her for
death for certain—and I dressed her in the clothes of a
murdered nurse, whose body I'd seen lying in the hallway. I
carried her out of the palace.
"Once back in the confusion outside, I was in more danger
than when I'd been in the palace. But when anyone stopped
me, I leered and joked about my 'prize' and said I was just
looking for a quiet place where I could have some fun. No one
tried to take her from me. I think they thought she was dead
and I was some sort of crazed pervert.
"A terrible storm was raging. Rain fell in torrents; the
lightning was brighter and more deadly than the artillery. God
must be really pissed, I thought. But I guess He wasn't mad at
me, because I carried her safely through the turmoil to the
hospital in the city.
"It was hell in there. You can imagine. The rebels had taken
it over. They were permitting their own people and civilians
be treated, but I saw them kill a wounded royal officer, who
was brought in on a stretcher. Fortunately, my stolen uniform
gained me safe passage.
"When the doctor examined Maigrey, he saw the starjewel
hanging around her neck. There was a nurse and another
young doctor with him. They all saw it and they all looked at

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each other. I held my breath. The doctor glanced around, saw
the rebel soldiers standing right outside the door of the emer-
gency room.
"'This woman's dead," the doctor said. 'I need this space for
the living. Get the body out of here.'
"I was on my feet. The doctor, walking past me, jabbed me
hard, in the ribs. 'Shut up and wait for me in there!' he hissed,
nodding at the visitor's room. The nurse drew a sheet up over
Maigrey's body, covering her face, and she and the young
doctor wheeled her out right past the rebels.
"Dazed, I went into the waiting room. Somebody cleaned
and dressed my wounds. That was the first I think I knew I'd
been hit. I sat there in a stupor for hours. Finally, the doctor
came to find me. He led me to a ward filled with wounded.
Maigrey was there, her face bandaged. The nurse I'd seen
with her handed me a medicine bottle. Inside, swathed in
cotton, was the starjewel. I heard later they'd operated on
Maigrey in the morgue.
"When she came out of the sedation, she looked around and
seemed just as amazed as I'd been to discover she was alive.
She asked me where I'd found her, what had happened. I told
her I'd found her lying in a doorway, alone.
"'There was no one else?' she persisted. 'Not Platus? Not
Stavros or Danha. Not . . .' she hesitated before she spoke,
'not a baby?'
"When I told her no, she seemed relieved and lay back.
'Forget I asked you that,' she said, gripping my hand tightly.
'Promise me, John.' I promised.
"She didn't say anything else to me after that. She just lay
there, holding on to my hand, staring into nothing. A few days
later, when she was stronger, I asked her what had happened
in the palace that night. The doctor had told me she might feel
better if she talked it out. But she only shook her head.
" 'I don't remember, John. I've tried, but I don't remember
anything except— I don't remember anything.'
"The next day, when I came to visit, she was gone. She'd
fled in the night. Then came the news report that Maigrey
Morianna, former Guardian and enemy of the people, had
been attempting to escape in a stolen spaceplane. She'd been
shot down over Minas Tares.
"I managed to make my way off-planet and I started life
over, though lots of times I wondered why I bothered. But
years pass, wounds heal. The pain subsides and you find out

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223
you can laugh again. But it's never quite the same. Never quite
the same."
Dixter passed his hand over his face. He looked aged,
haggard. Dion hardly recognized him.
"So it could have been her I saw, couldn't it, sir?"
"Yes."
"And it makes sense, now. The baby she talked about was
the son of the crown prince who was born that night."
"Possibly." Dixter was noncommittal.
"Lady Maigrey rescues the baby and gives it to the person
she trusts—her brother Platus. He takes the baby off-world, to
the most isolated planet he can find, and we live like criminals,
hiding away until Stavros, who knows where we're hiding, is
forced to tell. When you saw me for the first time, sir, you
looked at me as if you knew me. Who do I look like? Who do
I remind you of?"
Dion stared dreamily at the boy. "All the Starfires had those
intense blue eyes of yours, eyes that seem to be able to see
through walls. And you have your father's red hair and
something of your mother's look. She was a renowned beauty,
Princess Semele. You could be her son."
"Heir to a throne that no longer exists."
"Except in the minds and hearts of many."
"Was that why they did it, sir—saved the baby? To bring
back the king?"
"If that's even what they did. I don't know, Dion. I've told
you all I can."
"I saw her. I saw her as plainly as I see you now, sir. How?"
"The Blood Royal had the gift of telepathic communication,
but it could only be with those they knew or with someone
who had an object that had once belonged to the one commu-
nicating. "
Dion's hand reached up to touch the ring he wore around his
neck. That made it conclusive. But whose ring was it? Why did
he have it? And why, if he was who he thought he might be,
had Platus never told him? Indeed, Platus had made his
lineage sound like something to be ashamed of! And here was
this lady, Platus's sister, warning him away.
Dion felt anger stirring within him. Platus had concealed
the truth from him. This woman was trying to do the same
thing. There was only one person he was beginning to feel he
could trust, one person who could understand.

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"Where the devil's Link?" Dixter glanced impatiently out
the window.
"I think I'll go back to the plane, get my things together so
that Link and I can leave right away," Dion said, standing. He
felt little remorse about lying. They'd lied to him for seventeen
years, but he discovered it wasn't quite that easy. Tusk would
wake up, realize he was gone. "If you'd tell Tusk, sir, that I
thank him and I wish— I wish ..."
Dixter made a deprecating gesture. "He'll understand."
No he won't. None of you will. But is that my fault? Dion
swallowed, trying to force the pain down his throat. He
thought there must be something he could say, something that
could make it all right.
He looked at the general's haggard face, the man's gaze that
was unfocused but not quite enough. The general was all too
sober.
"Good-bye, sir."
"Be careful what you wish for, Dion." Dixter glanced up at
him, then drained the last of the brandy. "You may get it."

Chapter -fw- Twenty-Three
La cadence est moins lente, et la chute plus sure.
Gabriele Faure, "Pavan"
Maigrey sat curled up in the only chair in her small quarters,
her head leaning against the side, her scarred cheek resting on
her hand. Melancholy music accompanied her thoughts—the
sad, familiar melody causing her to remember a time when she
had not paid much attention to the words because she had not
understood them. She wished she had listened more closely,
heard what the voices were telling her.
"The cadence is less slow, and the fall more certain."
The dance was nearing its end, the pace increasing, growing
frantic. . . .
The door to her room slid open silently and Sagan entered,
just as silently. The music swelled, the voices were sad, but
the regret was mingled with a joy that there had been so much.
The door slid shut. Sagan stood near her, loomed above her.
She did not move or look up at him, but only listened. What
if youth had never been?
"I know I'm your prisoner, my lord, but you could at least
have knocked."
"I heard the music. I didn't want to disturb you."
The Warlord walked over to the computer screen that
printed out the title of the piece the person had selected from
the ship's music library, but just as he bent down to look, the
name flashed out. "What was it?"
"Faure's 'Pavan'—a 'grave and stately dance."'
The Warlord moved to stand behind her and placed a hand
upon her shoulder. She flinched at his touch, though it was
gentle and matched his voice. "If so, my lady, then you must
take your final turn upon the floor. For you, the dance is
coming to an end."
225

226
MARGARET WEIS	1
Maigrey was not surprised, nor was she frightened. She was
very tired and only wanted to rest. His hand was warm, a
contrast to her chill skin.
"The boy is on his way," Sagan added.
"You've lost him, then, my lord."
Maigrey was surprised he wasn't angrier, but then he'd
always been expert at controlling his emotions. She didn't
bother to search his mind or she might have been prepared for
his next statement.
"No, my lady, though you did your best to warn him. He's
on his way to me."
Maigrey raised her head, stared at him. Her movement
caused her pale hair to brush across the back of his fingers and
he withdrew his hand away from the touch.
"I don't believe you."
"Yes, you do, my lady. We can keep our thoughts hidden
from each other, but we can't lie. This shouldn't come as a
shock, Maigrey." Sagan rubbed one hand over the other, as if
the flesh had been burned. "You should have anticipated it. I
did. He is, after all, of the Blood Royal."
Slowly, not taking her eyes from him, Maigrey rose out of
her chair and stood, facing him. "A trap! It was all a trap."
"Traps are clumsy. I prefer to think of it as a finesse that, if
it succeeds, gives me an extra trick."
"And if it had failed?"
"I still make my bid. You see, Maigrey, if the boy had taken
your warning and fled, I had decided that I did not want him
anyway."
"The taint in our blood. That's what's in him!" Maigrey
began to shiver. Clasping her arms, she huddled within
herself, turning away from him. "You've won, seemingly, my
lord. 7/he's who you think he is. Why don't you leave? There's
no need to torment me further, I suppose."
Sagan came near her. She could feel the warmth of his body,
the heat of his mind. His hand touched her, his thoughts
enveloped her, both drew her near.
"Perhaps the dance doesn't need to end. We could be
partners again, like we used to be." His breath stirred against
her hair; his hands closed, painfully tight, over her flesh. The
name of the music she heard in his voice was power, its melody
was ambition, its theme—conquest. And the hell of it was that
she was enjoying it.
"I am going to the assembly hall to meet him. In one hour,

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I shall send for you." Sagan's grip tightened imperceptibly.
Maigrey couldn't breathe. He might have had his hands
around her throat instead of on her arms. "You will make the
identification."
No need to tell him she couldn't. He knew better.
Maigrey hung her head and did not answer. The hands left
and took their warmth with them. She thought she heard
Sagan over near the computer but she couldn't imagine why.
Then the door opened and shut and he was gone. After a
moment, music began to play again, something he'd pro-
grammed. She recognized it—the opening of the second act of
Puccini's Tosca. Baron Scarpia's voice, rich, smooth, pleased
with himself and the world.
"Tosca e un buonfalco. Certo a quest'ora i miei segugi le due
prede azzannano!
The assembly hall was the largest chamber on Phoenix.
Located in the very center of the ship, it was used only when
the President arrived to address his troops. At other times, it
was sealed off. The corridors leading to it were silent and
empty. Maigrey's footsteps and those of her guards echoed
through it with a hollow sound.	k
Lighting had been switched to the lowest level possible to
conserve energy.' Nuke lamps positioned in the ceiling at
intervals of about ten meters illuminated circles of about three
meters. The remainder of the corridor was in semidarkness,
the lights' reflections shining in the metallic walls like small
suns.
Maigrey wasn't surprised to see this portion of the ship
deserted. Sagan had never been one for public exhortations to
the troops to give their all for the fatherland. Under the
Warlord's command, a soldier didn't fight and die for some
faceless politician and dust-covered rhetoric. A soldier fought
and died for his own honor and that of his commander's.
"As he was valiant, I honor him ..." the quote from
Shapespeare's Julius Caesar began in her thoughts.
Courage was something you couldn't give a man in a speech
but only by example. Sagan was their example. Once, he'd
been hers.
'Tosca is a good guide to our victims. Surely by now my bloodhounds have
seized their double prey.

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"... but as he was ambitious, I slew him."
Maigrey hadn't meant to finish the quotation and wished
she'd never thought of it. She forced her mind to walk the dark
and shadowy corridors of the ship, not those of memory. This
meeting would be accompanied by enough ghosts without her
bringing along extras.
The guards came to a halt in front of what appeared to be a
blank wall. One pressed his palm against a security device and
a huge steel panel rumbled open. The gap it created would
have admitted an army. Maigrey felt small and abashed
walking through it alone and smaller still when she set foot in
the vast, windowless, circular chamber.
Hundreds of tiny spotlights positioned high, high above her
in the ceiling imitated stars, were reflected off metal walls that
had been covered with a dull gold alloy. The domed ceiling
was ribbed with bands that rose up from the floor to meet at a
circle in the center. The huge room reminded Maigrey of
nothing so much as an overturned battle helmet.
At the circle's very top, illuminated by a single bright
spotlight, was the seal of the Republic. Directly beneath the
seal, on the floor below, stood a dais, and on that dais was a
throne, fashioned with the arms and crests of the President.
Moving nearer, studying it curiously, Maigrey saw that the
dais was operated by hydraulic lifts and could be raised above
the heads of the crowd. She guessed that it could also be slowly
rotated, so that the President could be seen by all. Maigrey
understood more fully than ever why this place was never
used. The wonder of it was why Sagan hadn't been able to
foresee, years ago, that the revolution would come to nothing
but this—empty hallways filled with echoes, a politician's
gimmick.
The doors boomed shut and Maigrey, starting nervously,
turned to see that she was alone. The centurions had not
followed her inside. Sagan, although he had said he would
meet her here, was not in the hall, or at least not visible. She
felt his presence, but then she always felt his presence now.
He could be across the galaxy and she would still feel his
presence.
Heat had not been wasted on this vast room. Maigrey
shivered in the cold, and to keep her blood stirring and her
thoughts from wandering off down forbidden paths, she
walked across the floor toward the throne. The walk was a long
one; the room's size was immense. She could imagine the boy
making this same walk, under the scrutiny of herself and

THE LOST KING
229
Derek Sagan. She pitied the young man, but it was a pity that
was cool and dispassionate. He had chosen his own end.
Maigrey climbed the dais and, turning, looked out upon the
empty chamber. She was forced to admit to herself that she
admired the boy. Like Sagan had said, if he'd run, she would
have understood, but she would have had no use for him. The
taint in the blood. It burned like a fever—in some, not in all.
Platus had never been afflicted. He'd tried to purge the boy of
it, seemingly. Slowly, hardly realizing what she was doing, her
mind on the young man whom she'd seen only briefly and
indistinctly through a ring of flame, Maigrey sat down upon
the throne.
"Power becomes you, my lady. But, then, it always did."
The voice came from without and from within and drove the
hall's chill deep into her bones. Sagan emerged from the
shadows of the room's far distant perimeter. He was clad in
burnished golden armor; the golden helmet hid his face except
for the mouth. A red feathered crest burst like flame from the
top of the helmet, his red cape edged in gold and decorated
with the phoenix swept the floor behind him. Around his
waist, he wore the bloodsword.
Maigrey was clad in the indigo blue robes of the Guardians.
The light of the starjewel gleamed like a pale moon on her
breast. Around her waist, she wore the bloodsword.
Sagan stood at the foot of the dais, looking up at her.
Through the slits in the helm, she could see the starjewel's
light glitter in the eyes as if on a blade of steel.
"This was the reason why I let you live that night, Maigrey.
Killing you would have been like cutting off my sword arm. I
once cursed the mind-Hnk that bound me to you, but I was
young then. I didn't understand. We were a power, lady, a
force that nothing could stop. Don't you remember, Maigrey?
When we were together, we were invincible. The Creator
intended it to be so. As proof, He has brought us together
again. Will you continue to thwart His will?"
Slowly the life drained from her body. Maigrey couldn't
move, couldn't take her eyes from him. His words conjured up
the past, brought back hopes and dreams, brought back
exultation and victory and pride. Once again it could be like
that. She could have it all and more. Join together—Warlord,
Warlady. Overthrow this mockery of a government and rule as
they'd been born to rule. It would be easy. Nothing had ever
defeated them.

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Nothing, except themselves.
A small side door, invisible in the metal wall panels, slid
open. One of the Honor Guard appeared and saluted, closed
fist over his heart.
"The boy is here, my lord."
"At my signal, send him in alone. You and the others take up
your posts outside. No one is to disturb us for any reason."
"Yes, my lord."
The centurion disappeared, the panel slid silently shut.
Sagan climbed the steps of the dais. Maigrey would have risen
to her feet, but she was afraid that if she did so, she would
crumble in a heap at the foot of the throne. It took all her
courage, all her resolve just to keep sitting there. The Warlord
took his place beside her, standing at her right hand.
"My lady?" he questioned silently.
"My lord," she replied without a voice.
Sagan touched a tiny control on his wrist.
The huge doors slowly rumbled open.

Chapter	Twenty-Four
By his shining and his power she knew
him . . .
Mary Renault, Fire from Heaven
Stealing the old reconditioned Scimitar and flying it out of
the mercenary base was an easy task. No one tried to stop
Dion, or even seemed to notice his leaving, for that matter.
Fighters were coming and going at all hours of the day and
night, running escort for the TRUCs and whatever other
functions the war on Vangelis called on them to perform.
Dion ordered the plane's computer to secure him clearance
so that his voice wouldn't give him away in case there was
anyone in the tower who knew him. The computer did as he
commanded. An updated edition of the XJ model, it was
extremely polite and subservient and performed its job with-
out comment. The boy thought it boring.
Once outside of the planet's gravitational pull, Dion
searched space for the Warlord's ship and couldn't find it. So all
the young man's lies and plans had come to this—nothing. He
felt a baffling, frustrated disappointment and was just trying to
make up his mind to go back to base, tail between his legs,
when he caught sight of an officially marked, short-range
Scimitar streaking across the starlit darkness. He followed it,
hoping it would lead him back to its base.
It did.
Be careful what you wish for.
Dion laughed. What did that old man know? At the age of
seventeen, having just discovered he was heir to a galactic
empire, the boy felt equal to anything. He was young; he was
immortal.
The awesome sight of the Warlord's fleet was the first pin to
prick ego's bright bubble.
231

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Dion had never imagined anything so magnificent, so
beautiful, so deadly—the gigantic Phoenix, its white surface
gleaming brightly as a sun. Its escort ships surrounded it,
planets basking in the reflected radiance. Heading toward this
wondrous sun, flying his reconditioned, shabby Scimitar, Dion
wasn't a planet, much less a sun. He was an insignificant dot,
a speck of dust.
"I don't belong here. What a fool I am," he murmured to
himself, but he didn't turn back. A tractor beam latched onto
his ship and pulled him ignominiously toward a destroyer
circling the outer perimeter. The tractor beam wasn't neces-
sary. Another force—a force much more powerful than any
created by man—was pulling Dion inexorably closer. He
hoped, very much, that it was destiny.
Four soldiers were waiting for him when he emerged from
his Scimitar. He recognized them by their Roman panoply and
red-crested helms—the Warlord's centurions, the ones who
had surrounded his house on the night Platus had died. They
didn't say a word to him; it seemed—from the stern, impassive
look of them—that they didn't intend to waste their breath. On
orders from their captain, they formed ranks around Dion and
marched him off.
Impressed by them, irritated at himself for being impressed
and even a little frightened, the young man lagged behind
once to see what would happen. An iron hand clamped
painfully over the flesh of his upper arm and a rough but
efficient shove kept him moving. Something in the captain's
eyes, flicking his direction, told Dion that the man's orders
were to get the boy there—in what condition was left entirely
up to the captain's discretion. After that, Dion kept in step.
They marched him on board a shuttlecraft that carried them
from the destroyer across a vast expanse of space to Phoenix.
He had a long time to look at the warship. Viewed up close, it
was unbelievable—the most colossal object the boy had ever
seen.
The shuttle waited in line to dock behind several others
which apparently had more important business. What was he,
after all, but heir to the galactic throne—a throne that didn't
exist? Slumping into a chair, Dion felt his confidence ooze out
of him. Guilty thoughts of his gentle, beloved mentor came to
him.
Platus knew. He tried to save me from this. He gave his life

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to keep me away from Derek Sagan. And here I am, running
to the very man who murdered him.
Surely Platus would have understood! Surely he must know
how important this is to me! No, what am I thinking? Every-
thing he taught me, everything he wanted for me was just to
be a simple, good, ordinary man—like himself.
Dion tried once again to summon up his anger over being
cheated out of what was rightfully his. But—looking around
him at the visible, outward signs of incredible, ruthless
power—he was beginning to realize that his anger was the
frustrated anger of a little child whose father refuses to allow
hirri to thrust his hand into the fire.
The shuttle docked on Phoenix at last. The guards escorted
Dion out and marched him into and out of elevators and
through a seemingly endless maze of corridors. Not one of
the men moving purposefully about glanced at him or paid the
slightest bit of attention to him. So much for the king of the
galaxy. Dion stumbled and nearly fell. The iron hand pro-
pelled him onward. It wasn't defiance now; it was his heart,
down around his shoes, tripping him.
The guards led him into a part of the ship that was empty of
people. The corridors were cold and lifeless, their silence
oppressive. Here, at the end of a passageway, he was met by
four more of the Roman-clad centurions. One, whose feath-
ered crest was black in comparison to the others' white crests,
gestured to Dion to step forward. The young man did so, his
own guards falling behind and to either side. The black-
crested guard gripped him by the arm, led him in front of a
blank wall, and stood silently, waiting. The guard didn't speak.
Dion wasn't even certain the man was breathing.
Beneath his feet, the young man could feel the slight
vibrating thrum of the ship's engines. He thought, almost, that
if he listened closely enough he might hear them. But that was
wishful thinkmg. The silence dinned and echoed around him.
When a small beep went off on the black-crested guard's wrist,
Dion nearly climbed up the sheer-sided walls.
The guard placed his hand, palm down, over a security
panel. A massive door rumbled aside, revealing a vast, domed,
circular chamber. A rush of cold, purified air blew past Dion,
ruffling the flaming red-golden hair and drying the chill sweat
on his body.
Looking within the hall, he saw—far away—a dais, and on it

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what seemed to his dazed and blurred vision to be the
embodiments of the moon and the sun.
He looked at the guard.
"In there," the man said—the first words anyone had spoken
to Dion in hours.
The young man stepped inside, hoping his legs wouldn't
collapse beneath him. The door slid shut behind him. He was
alone, except for the two people on the dais, and they only
made him feel more alone than he'd ever felt before in his life.
"Come forward," the man said.
Not "Come forward, Your Majesty." Not "Come forward,
Your Highness." Just "Come forward."
Dion wondered if he could. He recognized the man: the one
who had driven the shining sword through Platus's body. He
recognized the woman: the one who had warned him away.
The sun and the moorr. He was in the presence of both and
he felt their pull on him, felt his blood surge like the tide, his
body move in response. It would be very easy, he realized, to
take his place in orbit around these two. And he realized in the
same instant: But I want them to orbit me.
He walked across the metal floor, his thick boots making an
unholy noise that jarred every nerve in his body. There was no
help for it but to grit his teeth and end it quickly. When he
came to stand before them, in front of the dais, the echoes of
his footfalls seemed to linger on long after he'd stopped
walking.
Dion looked into the eyes of the woman because he could
see her eyes. They drew him and held him. Too late, he
discovered that they were peeling him, laying back his flesh in
layers, cutting open bone to see the heart and brain beneath.
She tore out every secret and held them up to the light of the
glittering jewel she wore and examined each carefully. She
tucked them back within him and sewed up the gashes, but
Dion knew he would always carry the scars, the marks of her
probing—like the scar on her face.
• He sensed approval and pity, expressed in a small, whisper-
ing sigh. The woman did not take her eyes from him, but their
scalpel cutting ceased. She passed the knife to the man.
"What is your name?"
"Dion, sir."
The Warlord stepped from the back of the throne where
he'd been standing. He made a polite, if chill, gesture toward

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the woman. "I would introduce Lady Maigrey Morianna. But
then, I understand that you two have already met."
Dion flushed. He didn't know what to say. His tongue went
stiff. Maigrey smiled at him, her eyes grew warm, and he
relaxed cautiously. Apparently he wasn't supposed to say
anything.
"I am Lord Derek Sagan. We have not met."
Oh, yes, we have, Dion said, but only to himself. Lady
Maigrey seemed to understand him, however. He saw one of
her eyebrows lift; the smile was sad and shared sympathy. He
remembered, then, that "Platus had been her brother.
"Who gave you your name?"
It was a startling question. Dion was momentarily confused.
"The man who' raised me, 1-lord." The title came clumsily. He
felt reluctant to talk about Platus to his murderer.
"His name?" Sagan's voice was cold and sharp, doing more
damage than the woman's gaze, for the man was leaving
wounds he obviously didn't intend to close.
Dion swallowed, his throat burned, his tongue was thick and
didn't fit inside his mouth. "Platus, my lord. Platus Morianna."
"And what is the derivation of your name?"
Dion blinked at the man, staring stupidly.
"Who were you named for?" Sagan said with a touch of
impatience. "Why this particular name?"
"I was named for Dion, ruler of Syracuse in Earth's fourth
century B.C., my lord."
"A ruler who was betrayed and assassinated by those who
claimed to be his friends. Truly a worthy namesake."
"That wasn't the reason, my lord!" Dion cried, stung to
courage. "I was named for him because Dion was the student
of Plato and was considered by the philosopher and those of
the Academy to be the embodiment of what they considered
ideal in a king—"
Dion's voice died. Why had this never occurred to him?
This name Platus had given him was a clue to his destiny. He'd
never seen it before now. He'd always been too absorbed in his
anger over the question of a last name to understand that the
first was his answer. Platus hadn't despaired of him or his
heritage. The name Platus had given him was his blessing—
and his warning.
Memories—the two of them sitting together, reading to-
gether, his master's gentle voice expounding, explaining. Tears
burned Dion's eyes and he was frightened of them, for he

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knew Sagan would have no patience with them. He thought of
running, flinging himself out from under the cruel knife of the
man's gaze. But he knew if he ran away that would be the end.
He would always be running, not from the Warlord, for he
would no longer care, but from himself.
A bright, cold light—half-seen through a shimmer of tears—
caught his gaze. Lady Maigrey had lifted the starjewel in her
hand and held it so that it would capture his attention. Its cool,
pure radiance eased Dion's grief and pain. His tears could not
shame him; if anything, they shamed the man who had caused
them.
The drops itched as they dried on his cheeks, but he didn't
wipe away the traces.
"Very good," Lord Sagan said in a voice so soft that Dion
wondered if he'd heard the words or imagined them. "Lady
Maigrey"—the helmed face turned toward the woman—"the
night the king died, you and the Guardians stole a baby from
the palace at Minas Tares. Whose child was it that you took?"
The starjewel's light was no longer clear and beaming but
was suddenly splintered and jagged, refracted. Dion saw the
woman's hand tremble and she clasped her fingers around
the jewel tightly. The light almost completely disappeared and
the hall seemed dark and barren without it.
"The baby was born to Semele, wife of the Crown Prince.
The child was a boy." The lady's voice, heard for the first time,
was dark and barren as the hall.
"The child, for some reason I will never fathom," Sagan
continued, "was given into the care of your brother, Platus
Morianna. I presume, my lady, that there was some token you
sent with the child so that, in the eventuality that something
unforeseen occurred, the Guardians would know the child, the
heir to the throne, at a later date?"
Maigrey's answer was inaudible. Dion understood it only by
the movement of her lips. "Yes, ipy lord."
"What was that token, my lady?"
The hand holding the jewel tightened visibly, the knuckles
white. Dion, thinking of the sharp.points of the star, knew they
must be driving into the woman's flesh. He felt them pierce his
own flesh as well. Her words, these next few seconds, must
irrevocably decide his fate.
Be careful what you wish for.
"A ring of . . . his mother's. There was no other like it,

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237
because I'd had it made especially for her ... on her
wedding."
The Warlord stepped down from the dais and approached
the young man. Dion gritted his teeth and concentrated every
nerve in his being to hold himself perfectly still. He had
forgotten how tall the man was, how massive the body. The
golden armor radiated heat and it was truly as if the sun had
left the sky. Dion was scorched and dazed and almost sick.
"Do you own a ring that might be this token?"
The baritone voice boomed next to him, coming from the
chest, resonating through the golden armor. Dion glanced up
once at the face but couldn't keep his gaze on the gleaming
helmet and immediately lowered his watering eyes. His hand
fumbled inside the collar of his shirt; he scratched himself on
the little Scimitar pin that Tusk had given him a lifetime ago.
Dion hadn't remembered that he was still wearing it.
The boy drew out the ring, hanging from its silver chain.
Sagan's hand took it and he held it in his palm. Dion flinched
away from his touch and involuntarily drew back as much as
possible, with the result that he nearly strangled himself.
"Describe the ring, my lady."
"You know what it looks like, Sagan." Maigrey's voice had
changed; it was grinding.
"Describe it." His ground against hers. Rock against stone.
"A circlet of flames, done in fire opals and rubies, banded
with gold."
Sagan's hand let the ring drop. It struck Dion's chest with a
thud and the boy drew a deep and shuddering breath.
The Warlord walked back to the dais, his eyes fixed on the
lady. It seemed Dion was forgotten.
Sweat poured off the boy, rolling down his face, obliterating
the traces of his tears. His legs were weak and there was a
twisting in his bowels. The room tilted, sending him sliding
across the floor.
"Sagan!"
The man turned with incredible swiftness and agility. A
strong hand gripped Dion by the back of the neck and shoved
his head down.
"Take a deep breath. No, keep your head lowered."
Those were the only words Dion heard clearly, but he
thought there was something added about "typical" and "fine
choice for a king."
Then soft, cool hands were holding him and comforting him.

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"He's had a shock. My God, Sagan, how would you have
reacted? He's only seventeen."
"When I was seventeen I was commanding a flight squad-
ron. When you were seventeen you fought in the bloody
Battle of Shiioh's Sun. This one nearly faints in my presence.
Your brother has raised us a poet for a king!"
Dion raised his head, he could breathe again. The star's light
shone clean and bright in his vision.
A pale and slender hand reached up to touch the ring he
wore around his neck. He saw, on the palm, five tiny spots of
blood. Maigrey was tall; her gaze was level with his.
"Are you feeling better, Dion?"
"Yes," he managed. "Thank you, my lady."
They stood together in silence, each glancing at the other,
and Dion was suddenly aware of a shared consciousness among
the three of them, of an unspoken question: What do we do
now?
Suddenly, Sagan stirred. "I asked you to make a decision,
Lady Maigrey, before the young man entered. Do you have an
answer for me?"
Her hand lingered on the ring. The opals flashed their blue-
orange fire, the rubies their blood-red flame. It was reflected
in her eyes—the fire of the ring and the cold light of the
starjewel. Maigrey looked into Dion—far, far into him—and
once again he felt her approbation and her pity . . .
yearning, heart-rending pity.
"Yes, my lord. I have made my decision."
Maigrey let go of the ring gently. She took a step back from
the young man, facing him. Her hand went to the scabbard of
the bloodsword she wore at her side. With an easy, graceful
motion she drew the scabbard from around her waist and,
holding it out hilt first toward Dion, she sank to her knees on
the metal deck at his feet.
"You are my liege lord. From this day forward, I live only to
serve you and those you take under your protection. Accept
my sword, that it may defend the innocent in time of war.
Accept my sword, that it may stand as a symbol of your
strength in time of peace. Accept my sword, my king, and with
it accept my honor and my life."
Dion stared, dazed and uncomprehending. He hadn't ex-
pected to become a sun quite so soon.
"What do I do?" he whispered.

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239
"Take the damn sword." Sagan was angry, bitterly, lethally
angry. Not at Dion, but at the woman who knelt at Dion's feet.
"She's a Guardian, after all."
Maigrey kept her eyes on Dion. Her face was solemn and
ethereal; the pale hair flowed over her shoulders like the sea
he had never seen, it stirred about her in the whispering air.
And she knelt before him, at his feet, pledging her protection,
her love, her loyalty. Slowly, with a trembling hand, Dion
reached to grasp the strange-looking weapon.
"It will not harm you," Lady Maigrey said, thinking, per-
haps, that was why he hesitated. "Not while it is sheathed. Be
careful, and do not remove the hilt from its scabbard. Do not
touch the needles."
Dion didn't understand, but he couldn't ask questions. This
wasn't the time to reveal ignorance. He wasn't afraid of the
sword. He was reluctant to take it because doing so meant
taking the responsibility.
But wasn't that why he'd come?
Dion's fingers closed gingerly around the hilt, carefully
avoiding the five razor-sharp needles protruding from it. He
nearly dropped the blade. Not from pain. He'd expected it to
be heavier and was surprised at its light weight.
Neither of the two watching him said a word, though he saw
Maigrey cringe, just slightly, and make a swift movement with
her hand that she checked, holding herself back, letting him
learn.
Dion fumbled with the weapon and finally managed to get a
firm grip with his sweating hands. He remembered hearing
stories from Platus about kings of ancient days who knighted
subjects by tapping them on each shoulder with the sword's
blade. The young man wondered if this ceremony was still
appropriate, but he didn't know what else to do and he had to
do something. Was it right shoulder first or left, and did it
matter? What was he supposed to say? Something resounding
and memorable; but all he could think of, as he clumsily and
fearfully brought the blade down upon the blue indigo velvet,
was, "Thank you, my lady."
Maigrey rose to her feet and took her weapon back,
somewhat hurriedly, Dion noticed. She was probably afraid
he'd cut off his hand.
"Kings are made, not born," Derek Sagan said. "You will
note, young man, that my sword stays at my side."

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Dion was stunned, fearful. "Then you don't believe I'm . . .
I'm the heir?"
"I believe you're the son of the crown prince, let's put it that
way. The lady and I, by the way, are both your cousins—
though just what the relationship is I can't begin to explain to
you. Had those I trusted long ago not betrayed me, I might
have raised you, young man, and then you would truly have
been prince of a galaxy. But now—" Sagan shrugged and
turned on his heel to leave.
"What are you going to do to me?" Dion knew he sounded
like a frightened child, but he couldn't help himself.
Sagan paused and glanced back over his shoulder. "I'm not
going to do anything to you. I might do something with you or
for you. I haven't decided yet."
He continued walking, his cape billowing out behind him,
his anger whipping like a storm wind around him.
Dion felt Maigrey, standing near him, breathe a small sigh.
Sagan halted. Golden flame and red fire, he faced her.
"Enjoy the final set, my lady. For you, the dance is drawing
to an end."
He bowed and turned. By some unseen, unspoken com-
mand, the doors rumbled open and the Warlord walked
through them. The doors did not, however, close after him.
They saw him say a word to the guards and gesture toward
them with a gloved hand. Then he was gone. The guards took
up positions outside the door.
Dion shivered and glanced around, feeling helpless and
disheartened. This hadn't turned out as he'd planned. What
had he expected? Anything from immediate arrest and execu-
tion, he supposed, to sudden adulation and success. What he
had was nothing. He hadn't expected nothing.
Oh, sure, now Dion knew who he was, but then he'd known
that for a long time, anyway. His one small bit of comfort was
Platus's message to him from the grave. But even that was
bittersweet. Hope. Hope for what? Hope for a wise, compas-
sionate ruler? Hope for a king who ruled by justice tempered
by mercy? Hope for the millions being kicked in the faces by
heavy boots? Hope for those ground beneath the wheel of
corruption? Yeah, hope—brought to you by a seventeen-
year-old orphan who couldn't hold a sword without dropping
it.
What a fool I was to come here! I should have done what

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Platus wanted, what he gave his life for. I should have lived my
life an ordinary person. That's all I am or ever will be."
Dion spoke bitterly. It was only when the lady answered
him that he realized he'd spoken aloud.
"No life is ordinary. Each, no matter how small or insignif-
icant, is a tiny spark of divinity."
Maigrey drew nearer to him. He saw himself suddenly as
protected and protector all in one, and felt warmer, better.
"If it is any comfort to you, Dion," she continued, looking at
him with grave intensity, "you were drawn here, not by him or
by me, but by what you are."
"You mean fate? A Higher Being? Destiny?" Dion shook his
head. "I don't believe in that. Platus taught that man is his own
destiny, he is free to choose his own path in life."
"My brother was an idealist. We can never have complete
freedom to choose what we are or become. We aren't born into
a void. We are born to parents in a city in a world on a planet
and each of those are links in a chain dragging us through life."
"But the chain can be broken."
"By some, perhaps, but not by us. Not by those known as
the Blood Royal. How do you think you came to be, Dion? Did
your parents meet and fall in love? No, their DNA met. It was
a match discovered beneath a microscope. The matchmaker
was a computer. It's how all of us were 'produced.' Almost all,"
Maigrey amended, glancing toward the door. Though Sagan
had ieft them, his presence lingered around them still.
Dion's head throbbed and he put his hands to his aching
temples. "Why the hell didn't they just build androids? It
would have saved them all a lot of trouble!"
"The spark of divinity, Dion. The spark that can burst into
the flame of greatness ... or a devouring fire. But I
shouldn't keep you talking. You're tired and it's cold in here.
I'll call the guards, they'll escort you to your quarters."
"Wait! What if I don't want to stay on this ship, my lady?
What if I want to go back?"
She looked at him and he saw again the cool pity in her eyes.
"It's too late for that now, Dion. Don't blame yourself. I think
it was too late from the moment you were born."
"I'm a prisoner, you mean." But if she was right, who was his
jailer?
"For a time. You're not what Lord Sagan expected, Dion. I
can tell you that much. The reason I know is that he and
I . . . our minds are linked. It's difficult to explain—"

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Dion nodded. "I know, my lady. The general told me about
you, about both of you. General Dixter. John Dixter."
The young man watched the woman out of the corner of his
eye, hoping for a reaction, although he had decided that the
rumpled, brandy-soaked old man wasn't worthy of her.
No blush crimsoned the lady's pale cheek, no smile touched
her lips. She gave no indication that the name held any
meaning for her at all. Ice. Flaming ice. Dixter had been right.
The warmth Dion'd first felt around her began to seep away.
Maigrey turned from him and gestured. The centurions had
left their posts and were marching into the chamber toward
them.
"You're his prisoner, too," Dion said, edging near her.
"What he said about the dance—that means he's going to
execute you, doesn't it, my lady?"
"He can try," Maigrey answered, her gaze on the guards.
Dion was somewhat nonplussed at her coolness, but he
forged ahead, lowering his voice. "We could escape ..."
Maigrey turned, looked at him, the gray eyes smooth and
placid and fathoms deep. "We could, Dion. Would you come?"
He started to answer "Yes, of course," but she'd seen inside
him, seen his secrets. She held them up before him, one by
one, illuminating them in the harsh, brilliant light of the
starjewel.
The "yes" wouldn't be spoken; he was ashamed to say the
"no" aloud. And so he averted his face from the gray-eyed gaze
and said nothing.
"God be with you, Dion."
Coolly bowing her head, Lady Maigrey left him. Her guards
fell into step behind her and with her dignity, her regal
posture, and the respect the men accorded her, she gave the
impression that she was their commander, not their prisoner.
Alone with his own guards—and that was tantamount to
being alone, for they didn't even look at him, much less
attempt any form of conversation—Dion stood in the huge,
round, empty hall.
"At least now I have a name."

Chapter	Twenty-Five
Even in heaven they don't sing all the time.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, from Pictures of the Gone World
A million dark suns revolved erratically around in Tusk's
brain. Suddenly and without warning, they all exploded into
fiery life.
"Good morning!" sang out XJ. "Rise and shine!"
"Sufferin' Satan! Damn and blast you to hell and back again!"
Tusk clutched his head, squinched his eyes shut.
"No swearing!"
The computer turned the lights up to full power and opened
the viewport. A flood of blazing sunlight drowned Tusk.
Groaning, he staggered to his feet and vanished precipitously
into the head.
XJ hummed to itself and lay in wait.
"Where's the kid?" the computer demanded when Tusk
reappeared. "You didn't lose him in some game of seventy-
eight, did you?"
Tusk fell face-first onto his hammock and lay there wonder-
ing if his head was going to remained attached to his neck or
just float off into the sky like a balloon. He found himself
devoutly hoping it would leave before it exploded.
"I asked you a question!" XJ snapped.
"I'll answer it as soon as I shave the fur off my tongue, " Tusk
mumbled into the pillow. "Whadaya mean, where's the kid?
He went into town with Link."
That didn't sound right, Tusk thought. I should tie a string
on my head. Tie the other end around my wrist . . .
"That was yesterday afternoon, you rummy! The kid didn't
come home all night. I've been worried sick! You're no help.
You stroll in after a hard day at the gaming table boozed to
the—"
243

244
MARGARET WEIS	1
"Didn't come home?" Tusk sat up, holding onto his head
with his hand. Someone was trying to stick a pin into his
balloon. "I didn't play cards. I was with Dixter." The explosion
sent shattering pain through his throbbing temples. "Dixter!
The kid! Sagan!" The mercenary staggered to his feet and
headed for the hatch.
"You can't go see the general looking like that!" the com-
puter cried, scandalized. "Put on a shirt! And a pair of— He's
gone." XJ sounded disbelieving. "Everybody'11 blame me, I
suppose! Well, it's not my fault he goes around looking like a
refugee!"
"That's as far as I could get, General," Nola Rian said. "The
door was sealed shut, from the inside. No one in that factory
knows a damn thing except that they went to work one day and
there was nothing there. No furniture, no computers, no
files—nothing except the electric outlets. You understand, sir,
that the people I talked to were the ones who wouldn't be
likely to know much about the business—maintainence,
groundskeepers. The people who did, the people who knew
things— Well, they're gone."
"Gone?"
"Just . . . gone." Nola spread her hands, encompassing
empty air. "The business was obviously a front for something
else, something really big. I came up with a name. It may or
may not mean anything. One of the secretaries had to bring
coffee to a meeting of the general managers one day and he
heard the name 'Snaga Ohme—'"
"Ohme!" Dixter stared, his heavy eyebrows meeting in a
frown.
"Yes, sir. The secretary remembered it because he'd been
reading a mag about a party this Ohme fellow had thrown on
Laskar. Apparently he's one of the rich and the beautiful. "
"One of the rich and the deadly. He's—"
A buzz made Nola start. Dixter depressed a button.
"Tusk's here, sir."
"Thank you, Bennett. Send him in."
The last was unnecessary. Tusk flung open the door. "The
kid's gone! He didn't come home—"
"Come in, Tusk, please, and shut the door." Dixter was
calm, unperturbed. "You remember Driver Rian?"

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245
"Nola!"
Looking at her, Tusk saw her looking at him and he realized
he was standing in General Dixter's office in nothing but a pair
of filthy, stinking blue jeans and rope sandals. His hair was
uncombed, unwashed, his body was unwashed and half-
undressed. His eyes must look like Tison's twin red suns, and
Tison's desert sands were in his mouth.
"I'm sorry, sir, I—"
"Sit down, Tusk. Rian, would you please wait in the outer
office? This won't take long."
"Yes, sir." Nola rose to her feet. She cast a worried,
concerned glance at the mercenary, who was too upset and
preoccupied to return it. The door closed behind her.
Tusk slumped into a chair. He couldn't believe Dixter. The
general was cleanshaven, uniform clean and no more rumpled
than usual. His eyes were clear. His shoulders were hunched,
but that seemed to be from a heavy burden he was carrying
rather than the effects of yesterday's brandy. The painful
throbbing in Tusk's head moved to his heart.
"Sir, I think we should send out patrols—"
Dixter interrupted, raising a hand. "That won't be neces-
sary, Tusk. I know where the boy's gone."
Tusk knew, too, then. He stared at the general in bitter
silence. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and started to leave.
"You couldn't have stopped him."
Tusk whirled around. "I sure as hell could have tried! Sir!"
He grabbed for the doorknob, missed, and nearly fell over
backward.
Dixter sighed. "Tusk, sit down and listen to me. That's an
order."
Tusk didn't know whether to obey or throw the chair
through the door. Discipline and his better sense won out. He
relapsed into a seat, his face angry and brooding. He kept his
eyes on the floor.
"You know how it is, Tusk, to be one of the Blood Royal."
"I'm only half," Tusk muttered, not looking up. "My mother
wasn't. My old man never did anything right."
"But you know—"
The mercenary stirred uncomfortably. His head hurt, bad.
"Yeah, I had delusions of grandeur. Once. That's why I joined
the Air Corps. Got beat out of me real quick."
"Your father tried to stop you from joining, didn't he?"

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"That was a helluva lot different, sir!" Tusk lifted his head,
glared at the general. "I was going to flight school, not
throwing myself into a terminator!"
"You knew your own name, Tusk. You know who you were,
who your father was. And, yes, you were going to flight school.
You weren't going out to find a throne."
"The only throne that kid's gonna sit on is the kind you flush.
Why did you let him go, sir? The woman—Lady Maigrey, if
that's who she was—gave him into your trust!" I gave him into
your trust, Tusk added, but had sense enough not to say aloud.
"No, Maigrey said that if Dion needed help, he could trust
me. The boy did. I answered his questions. I told him all I
could. But I can't live his life, Tusk, and neither can you. If it's
any comfort, I don't believe Sagan will execute the boy.
There's something about Dion. He's got 'destiny' stamped in
large letters across his forehead."
"But you let him go alone, sir!"
"Who would you have sent with him? You? Me? Sagan
would have terminated both of us, without a moment's
thought. You're a deserter for God's sake, Tusk! I'm traitor.
Not to mention the fact that Sagan's carrying a grudge against
you for swiping the kid out from under his nose in the first
place. I think that was another reason the boy went—to
protect us. Besides, Dion's not alone. Lady Maigrey's with
him."
"Good!" Tusk grunted. "Great! A ghost."
He was still mad, but he didn't feel like he was going to
throw things anymore. What Dixter said made sense—or at
least Tusk figured it would when the balloons quit bursting in
his head. He wasn't mad at the general. He was mad at
himself. And at Dion, he thought. Damn fool kid. I let him
down. But why'd he have to make me care, anyway?
Dixter's lips parted in a wry smile. "I don't think she's a
ghost, Tusk. I think she's with Sagan, probably a prisoner,
too."
He hopes she's a prisoner, Tusk realized fuzzily. God, that
man's hurting. Love. You'd think, after all these centuries,
they could have found a cure. He rose unsteadily to his feet.
"I'm sorry, sir, for the way I acted."
"Apology accepted. I understand. I felt like hitting someone
myself when I woke up this morning."
Tusk paused, hand on the doorknob that he managed to find
this time. "Sir, do you think I can fly my plane now? The

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Warlord's got what he was after, and anyway I really don't give
a damn. If he wants me, he can come and get me."
"Sure, Tusk, go ahead. This war isn't going to last that much
longer. The government's about ready to negotiate. Marek
estimates they're losing twenty million on the uranium ship-
ments daily."
"And when it's finished?"
"I've already had offers from three other systems. I'll take
the one that's farthest away. There's nothing here for either of
us anymore, Tusk."
Reaching up to his left earlobe, Tusk jerked out the earring
that was in the shape of an eight-pointed star. He stared at it,
fingering it, then stuffed it into the pocket of his blue jeans.
"Yeah," he agreed. "Not a thing!"

Chapter -wf- Twenty-Six
Necessity and chance
Approach me not, and what I will is fate.
John Milton, Paradise Lost
It was ship's night of the day following the day of the
meeting with Dion. Maigrey hadn't seen Sagan, she hadn't
seen the boy. She'd kept herself apart from both. Going to the
library on board Phoenix, she returned to her quarters with a
book. She had just started to read it—she'd finished about
sixty pages—when she came to this passage:
" 'In our course through life we shall meet the people
who are coming to meet us, from many strange places and
by many strange roads . . . and what it is set to us to do
to them, and what it is set to them to do to us, will all be
done.'"
The words struck Maigrey and chilled her, and she looked
back to reread the paragraph with more careful attention.
My lady.
Sagan's thoughts suddenly entered her mind, startling her
as much as if he had suddenly entered the room.
My lord. Maigrey closed the book, keeping her fingers
between the pages to mark her place, and waited in trepida-
tion. Sagan had spent the night in prayer; she'd sensed his
thoughts. She'd spent the night awake, staring into the
shadows.
I intend to initiate Dion.
You can't be serious!
I am, and you will assist me, my lady. You should be
pleased. It will lengthen the days of your dance.
248

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The boy isn't prepared! It takes years of study, training. The
thought came to her reluctant and unbidden. What if he fails?
I have no choice. The President and the Congress know that
he is in my possession.
Captain Nada, she guessed.
Yes. He has just wit enough to serve my purpose. He feeds
Robes's paranoia, and a fearful man is a clumsy man. I am
close, very close to gaining what I've always sought. 1 must
know completely the will of the Creator in this, my lady, before
I make my final move against the leaders of the great and
glorious Republic.
The sneer was almost audible.
If you have so little respect for Robes and his principles,
why did you join the rebellion? I know you considered our king
weak and unfit to rule. I know you believed he had lost his
mandate from heaven. But was it—she hesitated. Did you
truly believe the worlds would be better off under a democ-
racy?
They could hardly have been worse, or so I thought at the
time, Sagan replied. It seems I recall having this conversation
before, my lady. Don't you remember?
No, she didn't remember. They must have talked that
night . . . before the killing started. He must have given her
some hint, some indication of what he intended to do. He
couldn't have concealed his purposes from her. Which meant
she must have known, must have condoned and gone
along. . . .
Their silences merged and she sensed him thoughtful;
sensed, too, the disillusionment that had corroded the once
strong, true steel of his ideals.
Yes, my lady, I believed in Peter Robes. You didn't know him
then. You considered him beneath you—
That's not true. I didn't like him. I didn't trust him.
It is true. You could never forgive him for being one of us
and yet for renouncing us. I believed in his goals, his
principles—or what he wanted us to think were his goals and
principles. I believed in the people. Pah! Do you know, lady,
that in the last election only twenty percent of the citizenry
bothered to vote? And those who did elected the candidate who
spent the most money to woo them. Never mind that Robes is
proven corrupt. Never mind that the once great empire is
crumbling into pieces.
Edmund Burke, Sagan continued, is said to have predicted

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MARGARET WEIS	1
that the French revolution would lead to a military
dictatorship . . . and there was Napoleon, reaching into the
ashes to fan destiny's dying spark. I am reaching, my lady, and
it is almost within my grasp.
Maigrey carefully shut the book and lay it down upon her
reading table.
And why the boy, my lord? Why this obsession with him?
Isn't it obvious, my lady? To keep sentimental fools like you
from raising up another Starfire—another weak king who
couldn't decide if he should part his hair in front or behind.
You'll dazzle Dion with power. He'll come to love and
respect and honor you, and then you'll betray him just like you
betrayed—
Maigrey checked her heedless, headlong rush down a path
she'd never meant to take. She drew a quivering breath,
wiped a stray tear from her face, and searched for a handker-
chief. She never had one; it was some sort of law with her.
Finding none, she wedged herself into the tiny bathroom,
grabbed a face cloth and doused it in cold water.
You speak easily of betrayal, my lady. It seems to be the one
unresolved question between us. Who betrayed whom?
Did I betray you, my lord? Or did I betray my king? Did I
know what you planned and keep silent until it was too late?
Maigrey sighed and pressed the face cloth to her eyes.
I refuse to help you, Sagan.
I will need three days to prepare myself. You may have that
time to prepare the boy for the ceremony. If you've forgotten
it—
"Not likely," she said aloud.
—you'll find it on the computer, in my private files. I'll give
you access.
I won't—
You will, my lady. Because you're wondering, too.
He was gone.
Maigrey returned to her chair, picked up the book, and
opened it. The computer on her desk beeped to life with a
message, and she glanced over at it.
"File: Rite. Type code and enter."
Resolutely, Maigrey ignored it and returned to her book.
"... 'y°u may be sure that there are men and women
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you, and who will do it. Of a certainty they will do
it. . . ."'
Yes, they would. Maigrey couldn't stop that. And the boy
had better be prepared, he had better know what he could do.
If he could do it. Besides, she was wondering, she had to
admit it. Sagan knew her, knew her very well.
Maigrey started to dog-ear the page, thought of the grim
and sour-faced ship's librarian who would glare at her, and
dog-eared it anyway. Very few people ever checked out the
ancient English language texts. She and Sagan were probably
the only ones, and then he wasn't very likely to read Little
Dorrit. It was a long book.
I wonder if I'll live to finish it.
Three days. The words came from her subconscious as if in
answer to her question. Why? Why that time? Maigrey
paused, considering. Three days. Sagan didn't need three days
to prepare himself! Certain ceremonies required a priest to
spend hours in fasting and in prayer—especially if one was
going from warrior to cleric—but not this one. He was waiting
for something, something that would happen in three days.
And he was keeping it hidden from her in the very darkest part
of his mind.
Going to the computer, Maigrey stared at the screen and
then, sighing, reached out and experimentally hit a key
and then enter. Nothing happened. A true code was required,
and it was like Sagan not to tell her what the code was. Of
course, it would be something she knew, something only the
two of them knew, for it was forbidden that anyone outside the
Blood Royal should have knowledge of the mysteries.
It needed little prompting for her to remember the words,
but a great measure of strength to type them, to give them life.
She could have said them aloud. That, however, would have
been to give them a soul. Her fingers were stiff and fumbled at
the keys.
"Two togeher must walk the paths of darkness before they
reach the light."
She hit enter hurriedly, wanting to see them vanish.
Nothing happened.
Maigrey bit her lip and forced herself to reread them
carefully. This had to be the code he would select.
There it was, a stupid mistake.
She added the t in together. Hit enter.

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MARGARET WEIS	1
The screen blanked out and then filled with words. She
assumed they were words. All she could see, for long mo-
ments, was a shining blur.
"An initiation rite, my lady?" Dion appeared dubious. "Isn't
that sort of . . . silly?"
Maigrey shook her head. "Lord Sagan isn't talking about a
frat party. This is serious. Deadly serious."
Dion looked alarmed at her tone, but Maigrey did nothing
to soften it. She wanted him to be scared. Scared as hell.
The two were together in the empty diplomat lounge.
Maigrey had gone back to watching the ever-shifting, ever-
same magnificence of the universe and she had brought Dion
with her. The lounge was cold and almost devoid of
furniture—-just a few chairs that looked as if they'd been cut
out of a circle, then the halves turned upside down and stacked
on top of each other. Sitting in one of these, her arms resting
on the high sides, Maigrey stared at the stars glittering in the
deep blackness and pondered her words.
Dion, sitting in a chair across from her, found his gaze drawn
irresistibly to the scar on her face. It seemed to him that when
the flesh had knit to close the wound, it had caught up the soul
and bound it in as well. The face might try to hide her
thoughts, her emotions, but they were clearly visible in the
scar. He could see her blood rise and fall in it, see the pulse of
her heartbeat. He knew he shouldn't be staring. It was
impolite. But he couldn't help it. When she turned her eyes
upon him, suddenly, he flushed and made believe he had been
looking with intense interest at one of the centurions, standing
in the doorway.
Maigrey's hand moved unconsciously to touch the scar that
sometimes ached with an unbearable pain.
"The initiation rites began years ago as a test—"
"A test?" Dion bounded to his feet. "Lord Sagan doesn't
believe me, does he, my lady? He doesn't believe who I am—"
"Sit down, Dion. And allow me to finish."
Flushing more hotly, shamed by the cool rebuke in her
tone, the young man subsided, sitting back in his chair.
"During the second Dark Ages that occurred in the early
twenty-first century, the intelligentsia saw only two beacons of
light in the future of mankind—space travel, whereby they
could
escape the repressive governments, and genetic tamper-

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253
ing, whereby they could create their own superhuman leaders
to come back and take control. Over future generations, they
proved successful in achieving both goals.
"But when the process of genetic improvements began, the
repressors tried to imitate it, tried to create their own
superhumans for their own purposes. The scientists had
foreseen this and reacted to keep the process under control.
They developed tests that enabled them to determine who was
one of the Blood Royal and who was, so to speak, a cheap
imitation."
Dion stirred restlessly, scowling, and Maigrey paused a
moment to study him. She knew well enough what he was
thinking and he would have his answer. He had to learn to be
patient. But it wasn't that which drew her notice. It was the
cobalt blue eyes, the flaming red-golden hair that tumbled
about the face like a lion's mane, the crease between the
feathery reddish brown brows, the high forehead and cheek-
bones, the sensually curving lips. Looking into his face was to
look into the face of another, the face of her one, dear, true
friend. Maigrey seemed to see that face against a backdrop of
flame and horror. . . .
Swiftly, she looked away.
"As time went by, and the process of genetic altering
evolved, the Blood Royal began to control itself. They wanted
to keep their line pure. Marriages were arranged only after the
most rigorous computer searches. A man who was weak in
certain areas sought a woman who made up for them. Occa-
sionally, of course, this didn't work. The divine spark, as I said.
"By this time, the test had become a part of the culture of
the Blood Royal, getting mixed up along the way with rites of
passage and bar mitzvahs and eventually, in some parts of the
galaxy, the test lost all of its original intent. About this time,
the Order of Adamant began its rise to power.
"The Blood Royal were designed to be rulers, but no one
foresaw that they would become rulers of the soul as well as
the body. Charismatic, strong, and powerful, the priests and
priestesses of the Order of Adamant spread the worship of the
Creator throughout the galaxy.
"They brought continuity and conformity into the lives of
people of varying cultures, particularly into the lives of the
Blood Royal, who were often called upon to leave one world
and marry into another that was vastly different. Religion was
often the only thing the wedded couple had in common.

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MARGARET WEIS	1
"The old test became one of the first rituals to be taken over
by the Order. They standardized it and added their own
touches, so that, in the time of your uncle, the king"—-Maigrey
added that little touch to calm the boy and subtly remind him
again of the serious nature of what she was saying—"the test
had become a true rite of passage, a solemn ceremony that was
often attended by prophecies and . . . and such like."
Maigrey coughed and cleared her throat. One of the guards,
with quiet efficiency, brought her a glass of water.
"Thank you," she said, smiling at the guard.
The centurion, from his expression, took that smile as a gift.
Dion knew how he felt. Cold and proud and strong, the
woman seemed at the same time vulnerable and fragile. The
boy longed with every fiber of his being to comfort her sorrow,
protect her from danger. Yet the idea of putting his arm around
her, of touching her seemed appalling, irreverent. He would
have as soon embraced a . . . comet. The young man was
consumed more by the impulse to offer his body to her as a
living shield, to throw himself between her and whatever
threatened her. Dion saw on the face of the centurion that
same desire. And Maigrey had probably never spoken five
words altogether to the man.
Before Dion knew quite what he was doing, he was out of his
chair and down on his knees beside her.
"My lady, you're so unhappy! Let me— Tell me what I can
do—"
Maigrey smiled at him. Then her lips tightened, the scar
flamed red. Reaching out, she took hold of his jaw in her hand
and gripped it tightly. Her nails cut his flesh. She turned his
face to hers.
"Look within yourself, Dion! What you are experiencing is
the power of the Blood Royal. Someday, the way you feel
about me is the way other people will feel about you."
She shoved him backward, away from her, and curled up in
her chair, brooding.
Catching his balance, Dion rubbed his stinging skin and
stared at her. He was half-angry. He'd been brutally rebuffed,
his pride had been hurt. He wasn't certain he understood her
words. Maigrey didn't glance at him, but sat wrapped in a
shroud of dark and bitter silence. Slowly, Dion rose to his feet
and made his way back to his chair. He sat down and, drawing
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"So," Maigrey said abruptly, "that is why Sagan wants you to
undergo the rite."
"What's it like? What happens?"
"I can't tell you. It's a secret, sacred to God. A curse is said
to fall on those who reveal it." Noticing his exasperated frown,
Maigrey added, "I can tell you this much: Often the Creator
will speak to the priest or give some sign of His will and intent
for the life that comes before Him. This is what Sagan s hoping
for, I believe."
"The Creator's will," Dion muttered, wiping the blood on
his pant leg, hoping she didn't notice. "I can't believe in some
myth." He kept his face averted from her, rubbing his hand
back and forth along his jaw where he could feel the scraping
stubble of a beard whose golden color rendered it invisible to
all eyes but his. "What about me? What about what I want? My
own will? You and Sagan seem to think I haven't got one."
"You have a will of your own, Dion. But that doesn't negate
the feet that there is another Will, a Higher Power which says
'You can be more than you are. I know, for I made you.' Often
the two struggle together—every child rebels against his
parent and the struggle is good, for it's only in questioning and
pushing and testing our own limits that we come to know
ourselves, that we become strong. And we can fight against it
all we want, but there comes a time when man must bow his
head and say to God, 'Not my will, but thine, be done.'"
"So how do you know which is which?"
"I think, eventually, we come to know. " Maigrey sighed and
looked far away, into another part of the ship, into another
heart. "It is for those who know and who continue the fight that
the struggle becomes bitter.
"We like to see ourselves as suns," she added, speaking
almost to herself. "We want to be worshiped as life-givers,
feared as destroyers. But though each sun possesses an
immense, fiery radiance, its light eventually fades over dis-
tance and time, and all of the stars together are powerless to
illuminate the vast and empty darkness."
Nevertheless, whispered like an echo in Dion's ears, not my
will, hut thine, be done.

Chapter -wt- Twenty-Seven
Lachende Lowen miissen kommen.
Friedrich Nietzsche, Die Bergriissung
As Maigrey had told Dion, the struggle between knowing
the will of God and submitting to the will of God was a bitter
one. Sagan had followed his Lord's commands because they
coincided with his own desires. Now, he was beginning to see
that there might be a clash of wills. The Warlord claimed to
want to know the mind of God. In reality, he feared he knew
and sought to change it.
When Derek Sagan had completed his mental conversation
with the lady, he summoned the captain of his personal guard.
"When I shut this door"—the Warlord indicated the outer
door that led to his chambers—"no one is to pass. No one. For
any reason."
"Very good, my lord."
"Any messages, no matter how urgent, are to be delivered
to you. You will deliver them to me when I ask for them."
"Yes, my lord." The centurion saluted, fist over his heart.
Sagan caused the door to slide closed and sealed it from the
inside. He shut his computer down, switched off all commu-
nications and signaling devices. He took off his armor, packed
the bloodsword away.
There was, in the Warlord's quarters, a secret chamber that,
if Captain Nada had known of its existence, would have gained
him enormous credit with President Robes and ended the
career and undoubtedly the life of Warlord Derek Sagan. It
was a small, private chapel, and no one, not even Admiral Aks,
was aware of its existence. Those who had supervised its
construction believed they were building a vault to hold the
wealth of solar systems. So it did, but it was a wealth that had
256

THE LOST KING
257
been collected over the centuries and had nothing to do with
gold.
His body stripped naked, Sagan entered the chamber
through a door that was activated by a security device which
functioned similarly to the bloodsword. When the palm was
placed on five needles protruding from the pad, a virus
identical to the one in the sword was injected into the
bloodstream. It flowed harmlessly through Sagan's body. Had
it entered any other body—Captain Nada's body, for
example—the captain would have been writhing on the deck
in extreme agony.
Entering the vault, Sagan caused the door to shut and seal
behind him. Certain it was secure, he approached an altar
made of a block of obsidian that had been left rough on the
sides and was ground smooth to a polished finish on top. It was
pitch dark inside the vault; no artificial light was permitted to
shine on the sacrosanct. Sagan needed no light to see what was
before him. A small dish holding rare and costly perfumed oil,
a silver chalice decorated with eight-pointed stars, and a silver
dagger whose hilt was an eight-pointed star were arranged on
top of the altar. Folded neatly beneath it were robes made of
the finest black velvet—a priest-father's only legacy to his
bastard son.
Standing before the altar, Sagan raised his hands and
invoked God. He dressed himself in the robes, kissing the
cloth reverently before he put them on as he had been taught.
Kneeling upon a black silken cushion fringed with gold, the
emblem of the phoenix embroidered on it in threads of gold
and crimson, he struck a match and lit the oil. A blue and
yellow flame illuminated the dark chapel, filling the air with
the heady fragrance of incense.
Sagan stared into the flame long moments, composing his
mind. Then he shoved back the sleeve of his left arm,
revealing the muscular, sinew-lined wrist and forearm. The
smooth skin, always hidden by gauntlets, was marked with
numerous ugly scars, all of the same peculiar nature. Long
ago, these scars had been the marks of the priests and
priestesses of the Order of Adamant. Now they were marks of
death, for that order was outlawed and anyone found with
these telltale scars was swiftly and summarily executed.
Sliding his fingers through the openings left between the
points of the star that was its hilt, Sagan grasped the dagger
with his right hand and, with a swift, deft motion, slashed open

258
MARGARET WEIS	1
the flesh of his left arm. Blood flowed, pumped from the heart,
The Warlord held his arm over the chalice. The flame's
unwavering light glistened off the pulsating liquid dripping
into the cup. When the chalice was full, Derek placed his
wounded arm in the fire and whispered a prayer, his lips
pressed tightly together to keep from crying out with the
pain. The fire seared the flesh, sealing the cut; the bleeding
ceased.
Light-headed from blood loss and the agony of the burn,
Derek leaned his elbows on the altar for support, lifted his
head, and commenced his argument with God.
Dion was confined to his quarters, not by any orders of the
Warlord's, but on Maigrey's recommendation that he take this
time to meditate and think and try to resolve the turmoil in his
soul. The young man lay on his bed and stared up at the
underside of the metal deck above his head.
He wished he had his syntharp, but it was aboard Tusk's
spaceplane. The young man'd had no choice but to leave it
behind. Dion tried to listen to the ship's music, but it was
Platus's music he heard, and that made him feel angry and
then guilty because he felt angry. He finally shut it off and
listened to the silence that wasn't silence in the gigantic battle
cruiser but a composite of sounds blended together into white
noise which was, he discovered, oddly soothing.
Lying on the bed, Dion wrestled with questions: Who am I?
Why am I here? Where am I going? Does Someone know for
certain or I am drifting in chaos?
"Mankind has pondered these questions for centuries. I'm
supposed to answer them in three days?" Dion asked a light
fixture.
The light fixture provided only its own brand of illumina-
tion, nothing beyond. Lady Maigrey had been no help either.
"You have to find the answer yourself, Dion. I can't tell you
what to believe."
"Platus told me what not to believe," the boy countered.
"Did he? Or did he ask you to study, to question, to seek the
truth? Instead of seeking it, perhaps you decided that it didn't
exist."
Dion recalled the hours he and Platus had spent reading the
Koran, the Bible, the writings of Buddha. And then there'd
been Thomas Aquinas, Jean-Paul Sartre, Descartes, Schopen-

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259
hauer, Nietzsche. Yes, he realized, they'd been searching for
truth—the teacher as much as the pupil.
Alone in the humming silence, Dion thought he was
beginning at last to come to know Platus and, as he did so, his
anger started to die. The Guardian had done what he'd
thought was right. After all the horror he'd seen, after the
tragedy he'd faced, could Platus be blamed for losing his faith?
Dion wondered if now, after death, Platus had discovered that
for which he was searching.
The days passed. Sagan struggled with God, Dion searched
for God. Maigrey pointedly ignored Him. He'd brought her
here for no purpose other than to torment her. He was
allowing the kind and innocent people of Oha-Lau to suffer
beneath the lash. He'd dropped the boy right into the palm of
Sagan's hand.
She possessed all the touted mystical powers of the Blood
Royal—the mental gifts that made locked doors a mockery,
guards laughable. She could walk out that door—hell, she
could walk through that door—this instant and no one except
Derek Sagan could stop her. And he was, she knew, com-
pletely preoccupied, locked in battle with a redoubtable
foe—her foe. The Foe that had given her the means to escape
a prison of steel and then chained her to the walls with a silken
thread. She could batter down the steel doors, she could flee
Phoenix, flee this solar system, flee the galaxy, but the thread
would be impossible to break. It was wound around her soul.
Maigrey continued reading Little Dorrit.
For others do I wait ... for higher ones, stronger
ones: . . . laughing lions must come!
The words were disjointed, no longer made sense. Laughing
lions. Dion flung Nietzsche across the room. He'd had
enough. He showered and dressed himself in an Air Corps
pilot's uniform Sagan had sent to him to replace his faded blue
jeans. The young man dragged a comb through the tangled
mane of flaming red-golden hair; having no patience with the
snarls, he yanked them out, though it brought tears to his
eyes. He smoothed minute wrinkles from the high-collared,

260
MARGARET WEIS	1
black, red-trimmed uniform. Its impeccable tailoring accentu-
ated his height and his lithe, muscular form. Dion studied
himself in the mirror and decided that, when all was said and
done, he looked like a king. Going to the door, he slammed his
hand hard on the control. The panel slid open and he sprang
out swiftly, hoping to startle the guards who were standing at
relaxed attention on either side.
Beyond a flicker of the eyelid and the glance of the eyeball
his direction, neither man moved a muscle. Dion wondered
what would make them respond. The detonation of a nuclear
warhead right in front of them, he decided, or the sudden
appearance of the Warlord.
"I suppose," the young man said, shaking back the flame-red
hair out of his face, "that there is some sort of recreation lounge
on board?"
"Several," the guard answered. He did not, Dion noticed,
say "my lord" or "sir" or even "young sir." The young man
might have put such a lack of respect down to the fact that he
was a prisoner, except that Lady Maigrey was always "my
lady," spoken with almost the same inflection of near rever-
ence that the men accorded to Lord Sagan.
Dion chafed against his youth and inexperience, but Platus's
teaching had taught him enough to realize that such respect
must be earned and could not be dictated. Swallowing his
resentment, he clarified. "A bar?"
The guard raised an eyebrow and glanced at his fellow. Dion
felt a moment's elation. At last he'd gained a response—even
if it was only surprise.
"I want to go there," he said before the surprise wore off. "I
believe Lord Sagan gave orders that I am to have complete
freedom of the ship, provided, of course, that you accompany
me."
One of the guards spoke into a commlink. The answer came
back almost instantly. "Lord Sagan has left orders not to be
disturbed."
"Come on," Dion urged. "What can it hurt? It's not like I
want to visit some classified or restricted area. I'm seventeen.
I've been to bars before."
Well, he'd been to one bar. Link had taken him (making him
swear never to tell Tusk). The place was noisy and smoky,
dark, confusing, and exciting—all of which sounded quite
soothing to Dion now.
"The Warlord did say the kid could go where he chose."

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"I can't see any harm in it. You stay with him. I'll go file our
daily."
"Okay, kid. This way." The centurion indicated that Dion
was to turn to his left, and the two proceeded down the
corridor.
"What's your name?" Dion asked the guard.
The centurion appeared reluctant to answer.
"You can at least tell me your name. It gets . . .
lonely . . . sometimes." Dion hadn't meant to admit to that,
felt his cheeks burn.
"Marcus. My name is Marcus."
Pleased that he'd made a dent in the armor, Dion glanced
around at the man. "That name's Roman, isn't it?"
"All of those chosen to be centurions have names of Roman
origin. Lord Sagan awards them to us when we are accepted
into the Honor Guard."
"I notice you're wearing a Scimitar pin. Were you a pilot?"
"I still am." Marcus appeared amazed that Dion could ask
such an inane question. "All Lord Sagan's personal guard are
seasoned pilots. The best in the fleet." He spoke with the
quiet, unconscious pride of men who know they don't have to
boast about their achievements.
Dion began to realize that these men performed menial
tasks—such as escorting a prisoner to a bar—without com-
plaint because they knew that at a moment's notice they might
be called to escort their commander to glorious victory.
The full implication of what Sagan had accomplished struck
Dion with such force he nearly stumbled over his feet. The
Warlord had provided himself with his own personal army—an
army that was intensely loyal to him and him alone. The hell
with the President. Damn the Congress. To the devil with the
Republic. These men were Sagan's, body and soul.
"In here." The centurion touched the young man's arm.
Dion had been walking along in a dazed fog.
Numerous recreation lounges on board the Phoenix helped
combat the long hours of boredom when off-duty—the quiet
hours that were more deadly to a soldier's morale than the
most terrifying bombardment. Gaming lounges, vid lounges,
and gymnasiums with swimming pools provided recreation for
the body and the senses. The library and classrooms—where
qualified professors taught everything from alien thought and
philosophy to military history to playing the synthesizer to

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MARGARET WEIS	1
transferring the magnificent panoramas of space to canvas
using paint and brush—provided recreation for the mind.
All these were popular—mainly because they were places
where a man didn't have to be. In addition, there were the
bars. Ever since the days of Admiral Nelson, the "rum ration"
had been considered essential to the morale of the naval fleet.
These days rum had been replaced by hundreds of other far
more exotic concoctions. A computer kept track of what each
man drank and how much. Any hint of alcohol addiction and
the crew member found himself under the none too gentle
care of Dr. Giesk.
Dion entered the bar, pausing a moment to allow his eyes to
adjust to the dim lighting after the glare of the corridor. All
noises of the ship were suddenly left behind, replaced by soft,
nerve-soothing music.
The bar was comfortable, inviting, designed for talking and
relaxing. Stuffed couches arranged in semicircles undulated in
mauve waves throughout the room. Indistinct and shadowy
forms talked quietly, erupted into sudden laughter. Glasses
clinked on the tables, cool air fragrant with artificial smells of
anything but the antiseptic smell of the working part of the
ship wafted from unseen vents. Dion stood in the doorway,
looking around and feeling suddenly homesick for Tusk and
Link and his other friends. He was unaware that he was
beginning to attract attention until the talking and the laughter
and the glass clinking ceased.
The bar suddenly grew quiet, except for the soft whoosh of
air, and everyone in the place stared at him.
Dion had been the subject of rumor for a week: the search
for him, his eventual surrender, his dramatic meeting with the
Warlord and the Lady Maigrey. The young man should have
felt intimidated by the staring eyes—the eyes that met his,
then slid away to look knowingly into other eyes, the eyes that
were skeptical or curious or laughing. The young man should
have felt shy, awkward, embarrassed, perhaps even angry.
Dion didn't feel any of this. A tingling sensation spread from
his fingertips through his arms, pulsed from his heart to the
rest of his body. He could scarcely breathe for the excitement.
Dion didn't need to drink liquor. He was tasting a stronger,
more addicting wine—power. He breathed it in and sucked it
up. He stood there a long time, saying nothing, meeting the
eyes, drawing them to him, feeding off them. It was exhilarat-
ing, like the first time he flew the Scimitar.

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263
The spark of divinity—flame or devouring fire.
Without saying a word, Dion turned and left the bar.
Marcus glanced at the bartender and shrugged.
"Kids!"
The ship's bells chimed the watches and three days came to
an end at last.
Derek Sagan emerged from the chapel. He'd spent the
entire time in the tiny altar room. Nothing but water had
passed his lips, and that sparingly. He'd slept on the bare, chill
metal of the deck. He was gaunt and grim and looked as if he'd
fought all the legions of heaven.
He bathed and broke his fast. Putting on his armor and a
pair of gauntlets—hiding the old scars and the new—he
concealed his ravaged face behind the cold metal of his helmet
and unsealed the door.
"Send for your captain," he ordered the man standing
guard-duty outside.
The captain entered, fist over his heart.
"Ave atque vale,1 my lord."
"And to you, Captain." Sagan returned the salute. "You
bring a message."
"I do, my lord. " The captain paused. He did not understand
what he was saying—it was in an archaic language. He had
committed it to memory phonetically and he needed to be
certain in his mind he had it absolutely correct.
"'The blood-dimmed tide is loosed.'"
Actually it came across more as "ze blud-dmmmmd tid iz
luuzed" but Sagan understood the garbled words of the line
from Yeats's poem The Second Coming. He knew who had sent
it; he knew what it meant.
"Satisfactory, Captain. When it is 2300 hours, bring Lady
Maigrey and the boy, Dion, to my chambers. Request Admiral
Aks to report to me now."
Yes, my lord."
The
captain left upon his assignment. Derek Sagan poured
himself a glass of water and raised it in salute to the door of the
chapel.
I am well on my way to victory. Any further argument?"
Hail and be well." Ancient Roman salute.

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Alone in her room, Maigrey finished Little Dorrit:
They went quietly down into the roaring streets,
inseparable and blessed; and as they passed along in
sunshine and shade, the noisy and the eager, and the
arrogant and the froward and the vain, fretted and chafed,
and made their usual uproar.

Chapter -^©c*.. Twenty-Eight
In vain man's expectations;
God brings the unthought to be,
As here we see.
Euripedes, The Bacchae
Maigrey s guards escorted her to the double doors decorated
with the phoenix rising from the flames that guarded the
chambers of the Warlord. The centurion standing outside the
doors spoke a few words into a commlink set into the wall, and
Maigrey heard the harsh answer, "Let her enter."
The guard started to push open the door, but Maigrey
halted him. "Wait," she murmtsred. She smoothed the folds of
indigo blue velvet, adjusted the cowl over her hair. The
centurion would think, no doubt, that she was preparing
herself to be ushered into the presence of the lord. Maigrey
wasn't; she was stalling. She didn't want to enter his room, his
private chambers, his sanctum. It would be him. Ail him, all
memories, and she didn't think she could bear it.
But what am I going to do? she thought. Stand here in the
corridor, looking like an idiot? If I don't walk in there, he's
beaten me. How do I expect to defeat him, destroy him if I
can't summon the courage to walk into his bedroom?
Lifting her chin, disguising her fear beneath an imperious
air, she stepped toward the door, and the guard—caught by
surprise at her sudden movement—hastened to open it for
her.
I would know this room anywhere, Maigrey reflected. If I
were set down upon a strange world and entered these
chambers, I would know them for his.
There were the same familiar objects, objects she had
forgotten, yet if they'd been missing she would have noted
their absence. The collection of Roman artifacts—armor,
265

266
MARGARET WEIS	1
swords and daggers, shields. An ancient helmet, a broken
sandal worn by some long-dead plebeian, a statue of Apollo
Loxias, the god of the longsight. There were no new additions
to his collection, which Maigrey found odd and foreboding. He
paid homage to his past, but was not bringing it into his
present ... or his future.
The furnishings were more numerous and more luxurious
than he'd been able to afford when she'd known him. But they
were in the same style, arranged in the same way with taste
and simplicity. Had Maigrey been blind, she could have
walked around this room without hesitation. She knew where
everything was; everything was in its place. She could have sat
down in a chair and wept.
Instead, she clasped her ice-cold hands together and took a
step forward. A robed figure emerged from behind a plain
black screen.
"You kept . . . that?" Maigrey stared.
Sagan was dressed in black robes, his father's robes. His
head was bare; the cowl rested on his shoulders. He wore his
long black hair loose; it fell in heavy, gray-streaked waves to
his shoulders, curling slightly at the ends. He looked older,
more haggard without the strong shielding of the armor.
Maigrey glanced at the dark, cold eyes, then looked involun-
tarily at his wrist, knowing what she would see and seeing it,
she swiftly averted her gaze. The sight of the new scar
unnerved her. He was still practicing his faith. Somehow, she
had presumed that following the revolution, he would have
renounced it, as he had renounced everything else he had
once believed in. The past, apparently, was intruding upon
the future.
"Come this way, my lady."
With an abrupt, commanding gesture, Sagan beckoned her
around behind the screen.
Drawing a deep breath, Maigrey followed him. The screen
hid from view a large open area. This part of the chamber had
been cleared of all furniture except a long metal table covered
with a black cloth marked at each corner by a silver eight-
pointed star. Another black cloth shrouded several objects in
the table's center. Tall, thick, beeswax candles stood in silver
candle holders at either end. Lifting the black cloth, Sagan
allowed Maigrey to see the objects beneath it.
"Is it all correct, my lady? Is it as you remember?"

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267
Yes, it is as I remember. Their own investiture came back to
her clearly. The two of them, because of the mind-link, had
gone through the ordeal together. The voice of the priest,
Sagan's father, had reverberated around her, around the room.
It had been the first time he'd spoken since he took the vow of
silence—an act of penitence for his great sin. It was to be the
last time anyone would ever hear him speak:
Two together must walk the paths of darkness before they
reach the light.
Maigrey pressed her hand over her mouth. She couldn't
read Sagan's thoughts; they were heavily shielded, and she
hoped he couldn't read hers. Not that it mattered; he could
undoubtedly see the pain on her face.
"My lady?"
His impatient voice came from a great distance, through a
thick and blinding mist.
"Yes, it's all correct."
She tried to say the words but the mist was too thick,
robbing her of breath, of strength, of sanity. It was billowing,
blinding, suffocating, and she was sinking beneath it when she
felt him near her, felt his hand upon her arm, steadying her.
His voice was in her ear, his breath warm and moist on her
skin. "When this rite is ended, so is your usefulness to me. You
will not know when, for I will not give you opportunity to
thwart me, but sometime soon, rest assured, my lady, I will
come for you."
Maigrey tensed; anger and excitement and the need to keep
her plans hidden from him burned away the mists. She wasn't
succeeding well. He gazed at her, amused.
"You're going to fight me, aren't you, my lady?"
"You'd be disappointed in me if I didn't, wouldn't you, my
lord?"
Calm and composed again, she glided away from his touch
and saw a smile flicker across the thin, stern lips.
You challenged me deliberately! She marveled. Neither
spoke, except in their minds. To give me back my courage! Yet
you could kill me now, toithout a moment's hesitation. You hate
me that much. Or is it me? No, not me but what I remind you
of, what 1 am to you. Your past, our past. And more than
that—the future. A future that was bright and glorious and
full of promise. Now it's bitter and dark and stained with
blood. By erasing me, you erase all that and, with the boy, you
once again have youth and hope.

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You were always a romantic, my lady. You should have
listened to the prophecy. There was nothing in our future
except darkness, betrayal, death. By ridding myself of you,
Maigrey, I rid myself of the one person who possesses the
power and the understanding necessary to stop me. It is that
simple.
That simple? Then why the doubt, why the confusion? I see
your mind, my lord, and your purpose is not clear. Something
clouds it, casts a shadow over it—
Sagan turned from her abruptly. The chain of thought
severed, leaving behind a bleak emptiness. Maigrey remem-
bered the sensation. It had always occurred when they broke
the close mental contact between them. Even if they had been
miles and miles apart, they both felt as if a chill wind were
roaring through the hollow tunnel of their minds. Each was
forced to concentrate a moment, force each one's own soul to
move back in to fill the void.
This had not happened to them since the mind-link had
been reforged. It only indicated how strong the link had
grown—despite themselves.
"My lady?" He wondered if she was ready.
"My lord." As ready as she'd ever be.
The clock's digital readout lacked a few minutes of 2300.
Dion sat nervously in a chair, staring at the computer chess
game he'd started days ago and never gone beyond three
moves. When the knock came at his door-—the knock he'd
been expecting ever since he'd received Sagan's message—
Dion didn't move but stared at the screen, brow furrowed in
concentration as if he had nothing on his mind except his
gambit.
The knock was not repeated. The hatch slid open; Sagan's
centurions had no intention of bringing their charge late.
"It's time."
The centurion who spoke was Marcus. Dion would have
greeted him by name, but the soldier's face was stern,
forbidding any attempt at familiarity.
His mouth dry, his hands wet, the young man rose to his
feet, nearly overturning the chair in his nervousness. It had
been a foolish thing to do, he realized—sitting there for over
two hours speculating, guessing, imagining, trying to recall if
Platus had ever dropped one tiny hint about this ritual. Now

THE LOST KING
269
I'm stretched taut as a string on Platus's old harp. If someone
touches me the wrong way, I'll snap.
Marcus eyed him with cool curiosity. Dion did not know,
but the centurions had themselves been speculating what the
Warlord wanted with the young man at this hour of the night.
Everyone on board ship knew who Dion was, by now. They
knew he was the heir to a throne stained in blood. They knew
he was wanted by the President and Congress. They knew—or
thought they did—that he might very well face execution
unless he renounced his birthright. Perhaps Lord Sagan was
going to discuss that issue with the boy right now. A "dis-
cussion" with the Warlord was rarely pleasant—he could make
a man renounce the fact that he was a man at all. It was even
money among the crew that—when they saw this young man
again—Dion would be lucky to remember his name, much less
the fact that he was king.
The ride up the Warlord's private elevator was accomplished
in silence broken only by the soft hissing of life-support and
the almost inaudible whoosh of the hydraulics. The centurions
escorted Dion to the golden double doors decorated with a
blazing phoenix and turned, silently, to leave him.
"But—what?" Dion felt helpless, paralyzed. He could barely
force words from his parched throat.
"You are to enter alone," Marcus said, from the shadows.
"Go ahead. The door will open. You are expected."
Dion heard the words as ominous, whether the man in-
tended them to be or not. He hesitated and the thought came
into his mind that he could turn and run and no one would stop
him. And he realized, at the same moment, that this was Part
I of the test. Raising a shaking hand, he pushed on the door
and it slid silently open.
Dion stepped forward and was almost immediately blind,
swallowed up by darkness. The door shut behind him. He held
still, afraid to move until he could see, not wanting to impair
his dignity by bumping into something. Listening, he heard a
soft sigh and the rustle of smooth cloth and he knew Maigrey
was here. She did not wear the starjewel. Perhaps its light was
considered intrusive.
Within the thick blackness, a darker, heavier shape
moved—the Warlord. "Stretch out your hand."
Dion did so, hesitantly.
"You feel the cloth at your fingertips?"
Groping, Dion found it—some sort of coarsely woven fabric.

270
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"Strip off your clothes, drape that over your body:"
Flushing in embarrassment, despite the darkness, Dion did
as he was commanded, struggling with folds of the fabric,
trying to figure out how it was worn. At last he found an
opening he figured was for his head. He slipped it on and the
crude robe fell over his shoulders and touched the floor. It left
his arms bare and he shivered in the room's icy chill. The fabric
was like rope. It itched and, when he moved, scratched
irritably against his skin.
A strange scent made Dion's nose tickle. Incense, He was
afraid for one panicked moment that he might sneeze. Rub-
bing 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 stern, frowning displea-
sure. "Nothing. I've told him nothing."

THE LOST KING
271
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 ges-
ture, 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, sud-
denly, 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

272
MARGARET WEIS	1
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 Nietz-
sche 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, grip-
ping 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

THE LOST KING
273
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 watch-
ing. 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.

274
MARGARET WEIS	1
"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!"

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275
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

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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.
Illusion, Dion. She attempted to give the boy a telepathic
message. It's all illusion. The spikes aren't really there. They're
illusions—
Only they weren t.
The globe fell; the knife-sharp spikes made an eerie whis-
tling 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.
"My God!"
Maigrey could only stare. Sagan flung his arm around her,
holding her tightly, keeping her from going to the boy. His
precaution was needless; she couldn't move.
The spikes suddenly withdrew; the globe rolled from the
boy's torn hands, fell to the floor, and bounded .into the
darkness.
Dion raised his head and looked at Maigrey. Slowly, he held
out his hands. Blood oozed from the palms, severed fingers
dangled by strips of skin. He had ceased to scream, he was in
shock.
Sagan withdrew his arm, shoved her forward.
"Continue!" His voice was harsh and unrecognizable.
"I can't, Derek! I don't know what's happening!"
"Continue, lady! Or the boy will die!"
"Water."
Maigrey wondered if she had strength to lift the pitcher and
was not surprised when she very nearly dropped it. The boy
will die. The words she spoke next came from a place inside
her that was acting completely on its own, of its own volition.
She no longer had any conscious idea what she was saying.
"Water—from which comes life."
Upending the pitcher, Maigrey poured the water on Dion's
injured hands. The cool liquidflowed over the palms, bringing
relief to the pain, seemingly, for he closed his eyes, tears
sprang from beneath the lids. The water mingled with the
blood, washing it away.
"Fire. Sustainer. Destroyer." The oil lamp burst into bright
flame.

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Maigrey lifted the oil lamp, uncertain what to do, for in this
part of the ritual the initiate passed his or her hand through the
top of the fire. Sagan reached out, snatched the lamp from her
grasp. Grabbing hold of the boy's hands, he thrust them into
the flames.
Maigrey caught hold of the Warlord's arm, trying to stop
him, but he flung her aside and poured the burning oil directly
onto the flesh.
The smell was nauseating. 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.
Dion looked up at them, at each of them, smiled brilliantly,
radiantly, and dropped, lifeless, to the floor.
"Is he—" Maigrey couldn't find breath enough to speak the
word.
Sagan walked around the table. Standing over the boy, he
stared at him a moment, then leaned down and put a hand on
Dion's neck.
"No. He's fainted." The Warlord straightened. "He'll be all
right ... in time."
Maigrey walked slowly around the table. The cloth was wet
with water. The pitcher lay where she'd dropped it when
Sagan knocked her aside. The silver globe had disappeared;
she doubted they'd ever find it. The One who had made use of
it was gone and had probably taken His tools with him. If there
was blood on the cloth, she couldn't see it, couldn't distinguish
it in the darkness from the oil and the water.
This wasn't what the script called for. This hadn't been the
way the scene was supposed to be shot. No one had requested
these special effects. What did it mean? Pain, suffering. Yes,
that was to be expected of those who lived to serve, that was
the rite's lesson. But initiates were given the power to
compensate, to turn the pain into illusion, to prove that the
mind could overcome outside forces. Dion was given the
power, but apparently he wouldn't be allowed to use it, just as
he had not been allowed to use it during the rite. Or, if he did
use it, it would be turned against him. He would be expected
to sacrifice . . . everything? For nothing in return?
Sagan's thoughts were turmoil, darkness, confusion. He was
staring into the stars, into the night, into nothing. Maigrey
looked at the young man lying at her feet.

278	MARGARET WEIS	1
"What was that ritual, my lord? The rite for a king?"
Sagan stirred, returning from whatever dark realm he'd
been traveling. "A king? Yes."
His lips tightened. The struggle was bitter indeed.
"And more. A savior."

Chapter	Twenty-nine
I am born.
Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
The guards knew that today she would die. Maigrey saw the
knowledge, saw respect mingled with sorrow, in their eyes
when they met her that morning for her customary walk.
There was no shame, no guilt, however. They were devoutly
loyal; they believed implicitly in their lord. They would die
themselves if he ordered it. They would see her put to death
with equal equanimity.
"Please take me to the sick bay," she requested.
"Yes, my lady," the centurion answered, and she heard a
softness in his voice. Yes, they knew. It was to be today.
Dion was still unconscious. Dr. Giesk, flitting around her
like a bat, assured her that the boy would sleep for days. Good.
Whatever happened, however this encounter ended, it would
be hard on Dion. Maigrey had seen, last night, the darkness
and the light enter his soul. All his life, the two would fight
within him, each striving for dominance, each bringing its own
strengths, its own weaknesses. He would never be free of the
conflict. Never, from this moment, be truly happy.
Leaning over the bed, Maigrey brushed back the red-
golden hair from the white forehead. A sudden, vivid, flashing
memory came to her. Semele, lying in my arms, dark hair
tousled. Her face is deathly white, streaked with tears and
blood. So much blood, and the flames are getting nearer. . . .
Maigrey s soul shrank back, appalled. The memory sank and
she did not try to dredge it back up.
The young man stirred and cried out in his sleep. Maigrey
clasped his hand and held it fast. Her touch seemed to bring
him ease, and he sighed and slept. Leaning down, she kissed
him on the cheek.
279

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Rising suddenly, briskly, she turned and saw one of the
centurions blinking his eyes with unusual rapidity. Maigrey
carefully kept from observing him and laid the book she had
brought with her down upon the bedstand.
"Please see that the boy is given this," she said to Dr. Giesk.
The doctor's eyes were fixed not on her but on the scar on
her face. When Giesk realized she had spoken to him, he
started and gave her a deprecating, guilty smile.
"Oh, yes, my lady. Certainly."
Firmly resisting the impulse to grab the man's necktie and
knot it around his scrawny neck, Maigrey brushed past him.
She saw his glance go from her to a set of double swinging
doors at the far end of the sick bay. Maigrey knew what was
behind those doors—a shining steel table standing on a tile
floor with a drain beneath it; instruments to cut and remove
and slice; shining steel basins. This night, her body might be
lying there. This man, gloating over his prize. . . .
"Come away from here, my lady."
One of the centurions had hold of her arm and was guiding
her firmly away from the autopsy room, out of Giesk's odious
presence.
"The stench in here is enough to make anyone feel giddy,"
added the centurion.
Well, well, Maigrey thought, gratefully accepting the man's
assistance, perhaps they wouldn't watch her die with equanim-
ity after all.
"How are you feeling, young man?"
The pinched, weasel-like face of Dr. Giesk loomed over the
boy. A scrap of necktie escaped from beneath the doctor's
white coat and flopped onto the blanket. Giesk rescued the tie,
tucked it neatly back, and continued to peer into the boy's
face. Dion blinked, involuntarily moving away.
"I'm fine."
Dion tried to push himself up to a sitting position in the bed,
only to discover wires attached to his wrists, leading to a
winking, blinking machine that stood nearby. The young man
glanced around, saw sterile beds standing in orderly, well-
dressed rows, their blankets folded and tucked to exact
specifications, their crisp, smooth, white sheets overlapping
by just the proper width, no more and no less. Even with a
patient between them, the sheets did not relax. Dion had to

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squirm to ease himself out from beneath his sheet's rigid grasp.
He was, he realized, in a sick bay.
"What happened to me?"
"You suffered a shock to your nervous system. A thing not
uncommon for those who are guests of the Warlord." Giesk
giggled and peered intently at the readings on his machine.
Dion remembered. Fearfully, he lifted his hands and stared
at them, turning them over and over. There was not a mark on
them. But the pain had been real, the tearing flesh, shattered
bones, severed tendons. And then the horrible moment when
he saw his flesh withering and burning in the fire. The
memory of the horror overwhelmed him and he began to
shake. Cold sweat covered his forehead.
"Mmmmm," Giesk murmured, frowning. "I think you had
better keep to your bed today. I'll give you a sedative."
"No, wait!" Dion reached out a hand to grasp the doctor's lab
coat. "Who brought me here? Did they say anything?"
"The Warlord brought you himself," Dr. Giesk said, giving
Dion a shrewd, penetrating look. "Carried you in his arms and
you're no lightweight. He's kept his strength up remarkably
for a man of his age. Comes from exercise and the proper diet.
I limit his intake of red meat, you know. And he has never in
his entire life touched a drop of alcohol. The priests don't, or
perhaps I should say didn't . . . but we're among friends."
One half of the doctor's face suddenly performed the most
grotesque contortions. Dion was considerably alarmed until he
realized Giesk was winking at him.
Shivering, the boy pulled the blanket up around him. Every
object in the room was either metallic or white; the place even
smelled cold. "But didn't he say anything? What about Lady
Maigrey? Was she with him? Didn't she say anything?"
"Lady Maigrey? Now, there's a fascinating woman. Have
you noticed that scar on her face?" Giesk perched his thin
behind on the edge of the bed. "Remarkable. Quite remark-
able. She came to see you shortly after the Warlord brought
you in for treatment. The lady didn't say anything, but she left
that for you." Giesk pointed at a book lying on the bedstand.
Dion snaked an arm out from under his blanket and grabbed
it. Lying propped up on his elbow, moving awkwardly so as to
keep from tangling himself in the wires, he opened the cover.
"There's some writing on the inside and a few lines marked.
I couldn't read the inscription. It's in one of those old

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languages." Giesk turned and motioned to a medicbot that was
filing charts. "QUAC, over here, please."
Casting the doctor an angry glance, which went right past
Giesk, Dion carefully brushed the cover of the leatherbound
book to rid it of the man's touch. The medicbot trundled across
the floor. Giesk punched several buttons on its chest. A
mechanized arm moved over a tray, selected an item, and
stuck what looked to be a wet dot on Dion's arm. The young
man, absorbed in studying the book, paid little attention to it.
The book was David Copperfield. Hurriedly he flipped the
pages to find Maigrey's inscription, for he guessed it must be
some sort of message. He hoped it would let him know how
he'd fared with the test. He wondered uneasily if he'd
disgraced himself by passing out. He couldn't imagine Sagan
flopping down on the floor like a dead fish.
Dead . . . The memory of his ordeal became suddenly
cloudy and hazy, not nearly as frightening. Dion felt his
muscles relax and he stopped shivering.
Preface. Introduction. A long introduction, written by some
scholar. Table of Contents. Chapter One. "I Am Born." And
there, lines marked. First lines. Dion read them carefully.
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life,
or whether that station will be held by anybody else,
these pages must show.
Written in feminine handwriting on the margin were the
words, "My love and prayers are with you always. Dominus
tecum, Dion Starfire." It was signed with Maigrey's name.
Dr. Giesk, still sitting on the edge of the bed, was rattling
on.
"That scar of hers. I think it was made by the blade of a
bloodsword. Whoever handled it was extremely skilled or she
was extremely lucky, since a blow like that should have split
open her head. I haven't had a chance to examine the scar
closely—not yet, anyway."
Dion puzzled over the inscription. It seemed as if she were
saying good-bye. He rubbed his eyes; he was drowsy. He
couldn't think. Giesk rambled on. There were, at present, no
other patients in the ward, so the boy was in for the full brunt
of the doctor's bedside manner.
"They'll bring the body to me afterward, however. I've
specifically requested it. I'll be able to study it quite closely,

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see just how they managed to close the wound so that the skin
grew back so smoothly. I think it was probably glued—"
"Body?" Dion raised his head. It took an effort. Some-
one seemed to have filled his skull with rock. "What do you
mean—body?"
"She's to be executed today," Dr. Giesk said. "There's
nothing you can do to stop it, young man, so you might as well
lie back down and let the drug take effect. When you wake up,
it will be long over."
"Wake up . . ." The rocks were tumbling around and
around, crashing into each other. "That . . . wasn't . . .
sedative." Dion fumbled his way out of the sheet, ripping off
the wires attached to his hands. Slowly, he swung his legs over
the side of the bed. The rocks left his head, tumbled down his
body, and landed in his feet.
Dr. Giesk made no move to stop him, but sat watching, the
cold eyes observing the boy with detached, clinical curiosity.
"That's a very powerful sleeping drug. You won't make it to the
door."
Matter. You can control matter. I kept the silver globe in the
air. I willed it to stay in the air and it did—until . . .
until . . .
Dion gritted his teeth.
"I'll make it!"
Why was the floor floating ten meters beneath the bed?
He'd have to jump for it. The floor leapt up to meet him and
he landed heavily on his hands and knees. Standing, reeling
against the side of the bed, Dion took a step and realized he
was naked.
"Can't be a hero . . . naked. Can't go . . . t'rescue . . .
thout clothes. All . . . laugh. Sagan'd . . . laugh."
Peering around, Dion discovered his jeans, neatly folded,
on a shelf beneath the bedstand. He made a grab for them, but
they drifted away from him. He tried again and this time
snagged them. But, holding them up, he was confused by the
sight of two legs. He had no idea how to put them on.
Seeing a patient needing aid and receiving no orders to the
contrary, the medicbot set down its tray of medicines and went
to assist. Dion allowed it to dress him like a child. Dr. Giesk
watched all this with intense interest, never moving to stop
him. Once his jeans were on, Dion lurched toward a door
leaning at an odd angle at the end of a long metal and white
tunnel.

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"Follow him, QUAC," Giesk ordered the medicbot. "Don't
interfere with him. What a marvelous research opportunity! I
want to see where he goes, what he does. Switch on your
camera and your remote scanner. Keep a record of brain
activity. Monitor his heart rate and, when he collapses, extract
a blood sample."
The medicbot whirred off in pursuit of its patient.
Giesk stood staring after the two of them, his hands fiddling
with his necktie. "I wouldn't have believed it. I wonder how far
he'll get? I almost think I'll go along . . . No." He smacked
himself on the hand. "Naughty, naughty. You have work to do.
Must prepare for the autopsy. It isn't every day you get a
chance to observe a dead Blood Royal. And I'll be able to
review the medicbot's vid tapes of the young man. That kid!
Doped to the gills and still functioning. Remarkable! Abso-
lutely remarkable."
Maigrey sat in the empty lounge on the deserted level of the
ship, watching the stars glittering in the darkness of the
universe's cold and endless night. Her guards had retreated
back near the door, standing well away from her, unobtrusive,
respectful of her desire to be alone.
She wasn't alone long. Her back to the door, she heard
behind her the muffled footsteps of several men, the soft tread
of one pair of booted feet walking across the carpet. She knew
that tread; it matched the beating of her heart. Maigrey didn't
move, didn't turn her head. Calm and relaxed, she waited,
never taking her eyes from the stars.
Heavy hands rested on her shoulders with unwonted gen-
tleness.
"It is time, my lady."
Sagan's fingers brushed softly through the pale hair. Mai-
grey closed her eyes, her courage almost failing her. Why keep
on fighting? Wouldn't it be easier, better, just to let it end?
• Yes, and he would despise her forever.
The Warlord backed up a pace. Maigrey rose to her feet,
turned, and stood facing him. She wore the indigo blue gown;
the starjewel gleamed with its own light, brighter and warmer
than any of its namesakes. At her side, the bloodsword.
"And how am I to die, my lord?"
"The beam. It's swift, painless. I owe you that much, at

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least." He frowned slightly as he said this, then shook his head,
to rid himself of a disturbing thought.
Maigrey wondered very much what that disturbing thought
had been, but she couldn't see his mind.
The beam. Laser through the forehead. There were worse
ways to die. She knew; she'd seen most of them.
Maigrey nodded gravely. "And what is the crime of which
I'm accused?"
"If I read the list, my lady, we'd be here for a light-year,"
Sagan evinced some impatience. "But, since you insist, the
crime for which you must pay with your life is the crime of
treason against the state."
"I have not committed treason, my lord. My king lives and
I am loyal to him. It is you, my lord, and your state who have
committed treason."
Sagan's eyes narrowed. "If you're trying to stall—"
"It's my right to know with what I'm charged, my lord."
The Warlord's lips compressed; his jaw muscles tightened.
"Very well, Lady Maigrey. You are charged with breaking your
oath of allegiance to a superior officer. You are charged with
refusing to obey his commands. You are charged with betray-
ing those who trusted in you."
For an instant, it seemed the laser beam had struck her.
Maigrey's face went livid, her eyes rigid and staring. Her
breath stopped. It took her a moment to find the breath to
speak, but when she did, her words were clear and strong.
"According to the law of your state, I have the right to be
tried and convicted by a jury of my peers."
"You have been tried by your peers, my lady," Derek Sagan
said. "I am your peer—the only one left alive."
"Then, my lord, you can have no objection to a trial by
combat."
The Warlord's well-disciplined, well-trained guards stirred,
turned their heads, and exchanged glances.
Sagan heard them, if he could not see them. His lip twitched
slightly. He leaned close to her and whispered, "I am pleased
to see that time cannot stale, nor custom wither your infinite
variety, lady. I wondered what you had in mind. I compliment
you."
Maigrey lowered her eyes. "Thank you, my lord."
Sagan said aloud, "I have judged you, my lady. I have found
you guilty. I have sentenced you to death, and I will carry out
that sentence."

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"I dispute that, my lord. And it is my right, being of the
Blood Royal, to take my case to the Supreme Judge, the
Highest Judge, the Judge who will someday judge us all. I
challenge you, my accuser, to prove your charge against me on
the field of honor. Through my valor and my skill at arms, I
will prove my innocence. God alone will be my judge."
The men behind them had fallen silent, too silent. Every
man was waiting, each seemingly holding his breath, to hear
his lord's answer.
"You can't turn me down, Sagan," Maigrey said to him softly.
"They would always wonder if you were afraid to face me—the
first crack in the solid shield of their loyalty. And you're going
to need that loyalty when you commit your own brand of
treason."
"Reconsider, Maigrey. You can't win. Even if you do manage
to slay me, my men will kill you where you stand."
"One thing at a time. That is what you always taught me,
wasn't it, Commander?" Maigrey looked into his eyes, saw
reflected there the blue-white light of the starjewel.
Sagan's thin lips twisted in a bitter smile. "You have been
very clever. I hope you won't live to regret your cleverness."
Reaching out his hand, he touched the scar on her face,
running his fingers down the smooth skin. "This time, I will
not be merciful. My lady." He bowed, turned on his heel, and
left her.
"My lord." Maigrey pressed her hand against her cheek.
The skin, where he touched it, burned.

Chapter ••«>;>©<*>•■ Thirty
Die now!
Ancient Greek response to good fortune
Dion wondered fearfully if the ship was under attack. The
deck canted away beneath his feet, the corridors slanted at
impossible angles, making it difficult to walk them. He was
continually dashing himself against the bulkheads, hurtling
into blast doors. But if the ship was being fired on, no one
seemed the least bit concerned. Everyone continued going
about his business. Those who noticed Dion at all regarded
him with either amusement or disgust.
"Please ..." Dion lurched toward the two officers. "Lady
Maigrey, tell me—"
But the men continued past him, regarding him with
disgust.
"Drunk! The Warlord won't tolerate that!" one said to the
other.
Dion leaned against a wall to recover his balance and try to
rediscover the floor. He could hear the medicbot whirring
along behind him, its metal fingers clinking together, plucking
at him if he allowed it to come too near. Whenever he stopped,
it sidled close to him. He could see himself—a grotesque,
curved, and convex reflection—in its round, lifeless lenses.
Pushing away from the wall, filled with a vague terror, he
stumbled on.
"Dion!"
The voice was familiar.
The boy stopped in his headlong rush to nowhere and
turned—too quickly. His body couldn't maintain its balance
and he fell. The medicbot's motors whined in triumph, and
Dion tried to scramble up and get away. He managed to make
it to his knees.
287

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MARGARET WEIS	1
"Dion, what's wrong? Look, it's me, Marcus."
Strong arms had hold of him. Strong hands supported him.
Peering into the man's face, Dion knew him . . . one of his
guards.
"He drank his lunch," someone else said. "That's what's
wrong with him."
"No!" Dion protested, choking on his swollen tongue. "It's
a . . . drug!" He waved his hand at the medicbot, hovering
over him with a syringe in one metal claw, a ball of wet cotton
in another, and a glass vial in a third.
"Giesk?" Marcus asked, eyeing the medicbot with a grim
and unfriendly expression.
"Can't fall . . . asleep!" Dion clutched at the man.
"Maigrey . . . execute. Must . . . stop."
"So that's it," Marcus muttered. "Get away!" he ordered the
medicbot. "Back off, you metallic ghoul!"
The medicbot slid backward, clicked to a stop, and re-
mained standing, staring at them through its myriad lenses.
Marcus said to his companion, "Help me get the kid back to
my quarters. Then you—" he added something in low tones
that were lost on Dion, who was beginning to feel himself
spiraling down into a deep pit.
He started awake, grasping frantically at the edges of
consciousness, trying to pull himself back.
"I can walk," he mumbled, shoving the men's hands away
from him.
Marcus helped him to stand and guided him, offering a
steadying hand when the boy's knees began to sink beneath
him. The centurions' quarters weren't far away; Marcus and
his friend had just left them when they ran into Dion. The two
guided the boy inside, the other guard left on his errand, and
Marcus shut the door in the medicbot's blinking face.
Dion gazed longingly at the neatly made bed and planted his
back firmly against a wall. "Lady Maigrey ... is she . . .
dead?"
"No," Marcus said.
Dion closed his eyes, almost sobbing in relief.
"Not yet," the guard added in a low tone. He stood in the
center of the small room in which there was a bed, a computer,
a desk, a locker, and a chair. "What did Giesk give you? Do
you know?"
Dion shook his head muzzily. "Sleeping . . . something."

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The wall was starting to tilt over backward, taking him with
it. Marcus put out his hand, caught hold of him.
"You better sit down before you fall. You might hurt
yourself."
"Can't. Must . . . rescue . . . lady."
"There's nothing you can do, Dion. She's chosen trial by
combat. Against Lord Sagan."
Dion's eyes flared open. He stared at Marcus—who was
beginning to separate and become three people. "I don't . . .
understand."
"You won't understand much of anything under that drug.
I—"
"Take me ... to her!"
Marcus shook his head. "I've broken the rules, bringing you
here. By rights I should have marched you right back to sick
bay."
"Then I'll go . . . myself—"
Dion stared at the door and willed his body to walk over to
it. It was going to be tough going, because someone had cut off
his feet. At least he assumed that was what had happened,
since he couldn't feel them anymore. The door slid open—
Shining gold and fiery red filled his vision.
"My lord! Please! You can't—"
Dion lurched forward, clasped hold of metal, cold and
unyielding. Flames burst in his skull and he began a sickening,
slithering fall . . .
The Warlord caught the boy in his arms.
"You can put him on the bed, my lord," Marcus offered.
"What's the matter with him? Did he say?"
"Yes, my lord. Apparently Dr. Giesk gave him some sort of
sleeping drug. One of the doctor's medicbots was following the
young man."
Sagan gazed at the boy in frowning thoughtfulness, then
snapped into the commlink, "Giesk!"
"My lord."
"I'm with Dion. Did you—"
"You're with him, my lord? Excellent. I have a complaint to
register against your guards, my lord. They interfered with
one of my—"
"Giesk, shut up."
"Yes, my lord."
"Did you give the boy the drug?"
"Yes, my lord. As you ordered."

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"Then what the hell is he doing up walking around?"
"Remarkable, isn't it, my lord? His system is fighting it and
was almost actually winning! So to speak, my lord. In medical
terms, I'd say it was his chromosomes—"
"Damn his chromosomes! What's the prognosis?"
"I couldn't say, my lord." Giesk sounded hurt. "If my
medicbot had been allowed to take a blood sample—"
"Make a guess."
"Well, my lord, I would guess that his system has success-
fully acted to dilute the drug. Just as your system would, my
lord, were I to give it to you."
"Thank you, Doctor, but I'm not the one under sedation. I
asked you—"
"Yes, my lord. What's the young man's condition now?"
"He's sleeping."
"That probably won't last long. I can't give him any more of
the drug without risking serious harm. He'll wake up suffering
the galaxy's worst hangover, but beyond that, my lord, he'll be
all right."
The Warlord stared down at the boy in grim silence. Marcus
had retreated to a far corner, the centurion letting it be known
that he was here if needed and was not if he wasn't.
"I tried to spare you this, Dion. But—so be it. You might as
well see that the shining toy you want so much has a dark and
lethal heart. Giesk!"
"What were you saying, my lord? There's nothing wrong
with his heart—"
"Don't be any more of a fool than you can help, Giesk. Can
you give the boy something that will bring him around now?"
"Yes, my lord. A pep shot. He won't feel very good—"
"Where he's going, he won't feel good no matter what kind
of shot you give him. You have your orders."
"Yes, my lord. I'll send the medicbot—"
The Warlord broke the connection. Rising to his feet, he
looked around the small room.
"Centurion."
"My lord."
"When the boy regains consciousness, bring him to the
arena. But see to it that he doesn't interfere."
"Yes, my lord."
Sagan started to leave. The door slid aside, the medicbot
hovered just beyond. Pausing, the Warlord turned around and
fixed his shadowed gaze upon the soldier.

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"Your name is Marcus, isn't it, centurion?"
"Yes, my lord."
There were one hundred men in the Honor Guard. Sagan
knew every one of them by name.
"Tell me, Marcus. Why didn't you take the boy back to sick
bay? Or just allow the medicbot to do its duty?"
Marcus hesitated, swallowing, passing his tongue over dry
lips. This could earn him a reprimand—if he was lucky.
Punishment, if he wasn't. It might get him thrown out of the
Guard, dishonorably discharged from the service. Men had
killed themselves rather than face that fate.
It was always best, with the Warlord, to tell the truth. He
knew when a man was lying. He could, it was said, see inside
the brain.
"My lord, the young man asked about the Lady Maigrey. He
could have let the drug put him to sleep, but he didn't. He was
fighting against it to come to her aid. Such courage shouldn't
be thwarted."
Marcus had no idea if what he'd said made any impression.
Sagan did not immediately respond. He might not have been
paying attention. He was looking at Dion, lying on the bed,
the flame-red hair tousled on the pillow.
"Centurion," the Warlord said suddenly, "if I fall this day,
the Lady Maigrey will be in considerable danger. Would you
be prepared to defend her—against your own comrades?"
Marcus, completely confounded by the question, stared at
the Warlord, uncertain how to answer. "My lord—"
"The truth, centurion."
"Yes, my lord. I would defend her with my life."
What Marcus had said amounted to treason. Sagan could
very well put him to death for such a statement. But the
Warlord had commanded his soldier speak the truth, and
though Sagan was known to be unmerciful, he was not known
to be unjust.
The Warlord glanced outside the door. The medicbot
hummed in its impatience to carry out its instructions.
"Very good, centurion. If I fall, see to it that Lady Maigrey
and the boy are taken to a place of safety."
Marcus couldn't speak. His face must have registered his
astonishment, however, for the Warlord, glancing at him,
smiled wryly. "Don't worry, centurion. That's one command I
don't expect you to have to carry out. However, it's well to be

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prepared." He reached out his hand; the tips of his fingers
touched the red-golden hair.
"Yes, my lord." Marcus saluted, fist over heart.
The Warlord nodded, returned the salute, and stalked out.
His red cape, billowing behind him, nearly engulfed the
medicbot coming in. It whirred irritably and began puttering
around the boy, drawing blood samples and surreptitiously
carrying out numerous other tests for the benefit of Dr. Giesk.
Finally it planted a small wet dot on the boy's arm and, clicking
and clanking, whirred itself out of the room.
Marcus sighing, wiped his hand across his sweat-beaded
upper lip, and sank down into a chair.
"Admiral Aks requests permission to see you, my lord."
"Let him enter."
Aks strode through the golden double doors. Seeing the
Warlord clad in a tight-fitting body suit that he used only for
physical exercise, the admiral stopped dead in the entry hall.
"So this ridiculous rumor I've heard is true, my lord?"
"Not knowing to which ridiculous rumor you are referring,
Aks, I couldn't say."
The body suit slid over the Warlord's smooth muscles,
emphasizing his strong build and girth. He flexed his arms, to
make certain the suit allowed suitable freedom of movement.
Satisfied, he tied back his long, gray-streaked black hair with
a leather cord.
"You've actually agreed to fight the Lady Maigrey in a duel!
My lord, I must protest. This is preposterous." Aks was red in
the face with the exertion of his emotions. "You're far too
valuable to the Republic to risk yourself in this manner."
Sagan flicked him a glance.
"Hardly an argument conducive to forcing me to change my
mind, Admiral. You know better than anyone aboard this ship
that I am not valuable to the Republic. I am, in fact, a distinct
menace to the Republic."
"Damn it, Derek, you know what I mean!" Aks rarely
resorted to swearing and never in front of his liege lord. He
had never called Sagan by his given name. "You're our hope.
You can squash this imbecilic democracy and put power back
into the hands of those who deserve to hold it. You've made

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your plans. You've spent years on them! Now, when all is
nearly ready—"
"—I remove the last obstacle, Aks."
"But at such a risk to yourself, my lord!"
"Thank you, Admiral, for your vote of confidence. Are you
suggesting the lady might defeat me?"
Aks paused, nonplussed, but his fear overrode his usual
strong sense of self-preservation. Or perhaps it was his sense of
self-preservation that goaded him on. The admiral was well
aware of Captain Nada's spying. Aks knew that he himself had
figured largely in Nada's reports of Sagan's treasonous actions.
At the moment, the admiral stood safely behind his Warlord.
He didn't like to think what would happen to him if that secure
bulwark was removed.
"My lord, of the two of you, she was the better swordsman."
Sagan looked at himself in the mirror. The muscles of the
arms and legs were well rounded, smooth. There was not a
stronger man on the ship, not a man—even among the young
ones—who could keep up with him in running, swimming.
There was not a wrestler who could bring him to a fall, not a
fencer who could come within his guard. Yet every day it took
a little more effort to keep up his pace. Every race he ran, the
Warlord wondered if this would be the one in which he would
slip, falter. He put his hand on his abdominal muscles, felt
them not rock hard, as in his youth, but softer, beginning to
sag.
Lifting his right hand, he stared at five white marks in the
palm. In his mind he could hear the chanting of an unseen
crowd. "Die now!" they cried. "Die now." The shouts of the
ancient Greeks to one who had achieved some great triumph
in his life. "Die now, while you are happy, for nothing in your
life can be better than this moment." Or, in other words, Go
out in glory, it's all downhill from here. Angrily, Sagan shook
his head, physically shaking off the thoughts. What a fool's
notion. He hadn't yet reached the pinnacle of his success. "The
blood-dimmed tide is loosed." He had it in his power, now, to
conquer the galaxy.
The Warlord's open palm clenched slowly to a fist.
"I've waited seventeen years for this moment, Aks. Don't
tell me it isn't worth it! She's the last. The last who turned on
me. My victory over her is assured. God has given her into my
hands. I've foreseen it."
The Warlord turned abruptly and, lifting a pair of fencing

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gloves, pulled them on. The Admiral, though daunted by
Sagan's anger, was frightened enough to blunder ahead.
"My lord," he said, lowering his voice, though he knew they
couldn't possibly be overheard, "there are ways. ... No one
could ever say you had anything to do with it. One of the men,
gone crazy. A fanatic, killing her to protect you. You could be
furious, outraged—"
"—and live with myself the rest of my life?"
Sagan's anger had cooled. He appeared amused and he laid
a hand on the admiral's shoulder.
"The men would always wonder, Aks. I'd see the shadow of
doubt in the eyes that now regard me with fear and respect.
No, it's fitting, after all, that we meet this way, as we met that
last night. I wonder, Aks, if I didn't know what she was
planning. I think I must have. It came as no surprise to me,
when she issued the challenge. I knew, when she said the
words, that this was our destiny. I saw again the vision of her
death in my mind when she spoke. And yet—-yet—"
"My lord?"
Sagan lifted the bloodsword, held it in his hand, staring at it.
"Something isn't right, Aks. You know that when I have these
glimpses into the future, they are clear and accurate to the last
detail. And, in that vision, she is wearing armor—silver armor.
An exact copy of mine." The Warlord cast a glance at his gold
armor, carefully arranged by his orderly on its stand near his
bed.
The admiral failed to see what silver armor had to do with
anything. He had never really given credence to his lord's
visions, considering them dreams and nothing more. Aks
spread his hands deprecatingly.
"Women's fashions change with such rapidity, my lord—"
"Aks, you're a dolt."
I may be a dolt, my lord, but I'm not the one risking my life
for some worn-out notion of honor. Aks did not say this aloud.
He didn't say anything, and the Warlord didn't notice his
silence.
"Such armor as that doesn't exist, Admiral. It couldn't
possibly exist, unless I had it made for her. And, in my hand,
I'm holding a dagger—a silver dagger of ancient make and
design—"
The chiming of the ship's bells interrupted him. Sagan
straightened, glanced around. "Leave me, Aks."
"You're determined to go through with this, my lord?"

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The dark line of the Warlord's lips expanded slightly. "Don't
worry, Aks. If I fall, you can always claim that you were going
along with me simply to gather evidence to use at my trial for
treason. Instead of hanging around, annoying me, you might
want to spend this time erasing any incriminating computer
files."
"You have completely misunderstood my intentions, my
lord. I can assure you of my undying loyalty. I wish you
success, my lord."
Hurt and indignant, Aks turned on his heels and marched
stiffly out of Sagan's chambers. But, once he was alone in the
Warlord's private elevator, the admiral happened to remember
the existence of certain files on the Adonian, Snaga Ohme. Aks
was loyal, but there was no sense in carrying it to extremes.
Emerging from the elevator into the corridor, the admiral
hurried posthaste to his own quarters.
Derek Sagan removed the hilt of his sword from its protec-
tive platinum and palladium scabbard, which also served as an
energy recharger for the weapon. The Warlord checked the
sword out of habit, though he knew that it was up to full
power. He hadn't used it since the night he'd slain Platus
Morianna. Balancing the sword in his hand, making a few
passes to limber his arm, he halted and stared at it.
Silver dagger. Of ancient make and design. Not a blood-
sword.
Sagan fitted the hilt back onto its scabbard, unbuckled the
scabbard from around his waist, and carefully laid the sword
upon his bed. One did not come armed into the presence of
God.
Entering the chapel, the Warlord looked down upon the
black cloth, the objects resting there: the chalice, the lamp,
the dagger.
Yes, that was it. That was the dagger. A ceremonial blade,
blessed by the Priests of Adamant, intended for use in the
worship of the Creator, never meant to take life.
Cursed, he thought. I would be cursed, my soul damned for
eternity to use it for such a purpose.
Sagan touched the dagger, traced the pattern of the eight-
pointed star with his finger. He wondered that he hadn't
recognized it when he first had the vision, but it had been
unclear then. He had dreamed it many times since, and each
time it became clearer in his mind, each time he saw more
details.

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What is God trying to say to me? What is God doing to me,
anyway? To tell me this boy—this heir of the Starfires—is a
savior! Sagan lifted the dagger, held it in his hand.
A savior!
With a bitter curse, the Warlord hurled the dagger back
onto the altar. He heard a ringing clatter and something metal
fall onto the deck, but he didn't look around. Walking out the
door, he sealed it behind him and, grabbing the bloodsword
from his bed, he summoned his guard and left for the arena.
In his mind, he could hear the voices, "Die now!"
"How do you feel?"
"Like warships are blasting off in my head and using my
mouth for a landing pad." Dion groaned, sat up, and clutched
his throbbing temples.
"Can you walk?"
Dion opened his eyes. The light was like spears flying into
his brain, but the walls at least were where they should be and
seemed likely to stay there. The overhead was up and the deck
was down. When he stood, Marcus was at his side, to keep him
from falling.
"Yeah, I can walk." Dion remembered, and looked around
fearfully. "Where's the Warlord?"
"Relax. He's not hiding in my footlocker. He was here and
ordered Giesk to give you a shot. That's what brought you
around." Marcus grew more serious. "I'm to take you to the
arena."
Dion shivered. The small room was cold and he had nothing
covering his chest and arms. He was barefoot, too, standing on
the cold metal deck.
"The arena. That's where . . . this fight ..."
"Yes." Marcus rummaged in his locker. "Here, put these on.
Your feet are some bigger than mine, but I wear these in the
gym and they're stretched out. I've got a shirt, too."
"Thanks." Dion struggled into the shoes and pulled the shirt
gingerly over his aching head. He saw Marcus putting on his
armor. "Aren't you coming with me? Are you on duty?"
"Yes. You are my duty. And I'm coming. Everyone on the
ship who isn't manning some critical station—or dead—will be
there. And I bet even the dead are lined up to watch this
contest."
Dion's face grew dark and shadowed. He turned away and

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would have shrugged off Marcus's comforting hand, but the
man gripped the boy's shoulder tightly. "Dion, there's an old
soldier's saying. 'We live for the day, and we die for it.' They're
both soldiers. " Marcus put on his helmet, buckled it beneath
his chin. "We should be going. It's nearly time."
The two left the centurion's quarters and walked into the
corridors, joining a flow of men that were all moving the same
direction.
"See," said Dion, waving his hand. "Everyone hurrying to
view the show! It's like the gladiators, only worse, because
we're supposed to have another three thousand years of
civilization behind us."
"It was the lady's decision. It was her choice, as it must be,
according to the law."
"What?"
Dion stopped in the corridor, and was immediately in
imminent danger of being run down. Men cursed him and
shoved him out of their way. Marcus, grabbing hold of the
sleeve of the boy's shirt, pulled him to one side, out of traffic.
"I don't helieve it!" Dion retorted.
"Would you have her die like a sheep led to the slaughter?
That would have been the easy way for her, Dion, and you can
bet that she knows it. This gives her the chance to fight for her
life, but if she fails—" Marcus shook his head.
"Fails? She can't win!" Dion cried. "If she—"
"Lower your voice."
"If she wins, if she kills ..." Dion paused, unwilling to say
the bad luck words, and then wondered why the thought of
Sagan's death was difficult for him to accept. He made himself
continue, speaking coldly. "If she kills the Warlord, then you
centurions will kill her. Won't you?"
Marcus did not answer aloud, but he turned his face toward
the boy. The eyes were barely visible beneath the shadow of
the helm, the face was stern and expressionless. But Dion
understood. The man's silence said more than words.
My God! She knew this; she's been planning this all along.
Dion felt her nails, digging into his flesh. What you are
experiencing is the power of the Blood Royal. What a dumb,
stupid . . . kid . . . I've been.
The two continued on, walking in silence for several paces.
Then Dion asked in a subdued tone, "You said her right by
law. What law are you talking about?"
"It's sort of the final appeal. You see, on board a ship like

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this, with thousands of men living side by side, justice has to
be swift and thorough. A man is tried by his superior officers,
who determine his sentence. But sometimes, when a crime is
committed, it's one man's word against another's. When this
happens, the Warlord deemed that the accused has the right to
trial by combat. God is considered to be the final judge, for it's
known that He wouldn't allow an innocent man to pay for a
crime he didn't commit."
But that's a superstition that dates back to the Dark Ages!
Dion started to say. The centurions—like their commander—
were pious men. The boy wanted Marcus's respect, so he
swallowed his blasphemous words. "It just doesn't seem fair,"
he said instead. "Lord Sagan's a strong and powerful man and
Lady Maigrey's . . . well . . . a woman."
"Strength doesn't count. Agility, stamina are what's impor-
tant. The bloodsword makes all else equal."
They were halted by a gigantic crowd swarming into the
arena. Dion stopped, dismayed. Marcus grabbed hold of the
boy and bullied his way forward.
"My lord's command, let us pass!" he called, and men,
turning, seeing the bright helmet and flashing armor of the
Honor Guard, hastily did what they could to make room.
The arena was a large, circular, domed hall with tiers of seats
extending around a huge playing field. In the starship, partic-
ipation in organized sports was not only encouraged, it was
mandatory. Not only did sports provide an outlet for pent-up
energies, they kept minds quick and alert and the body in
shape. And, when not needed for some game, the officers used
the arena to keep the troops drilled, for practice formations,
and to rehearse the military band. Some type of activity was
going on in the arena almost any time of day. But there had
never been, in the memory of anyone on board Phoenix, a
crowd gathered in the arena equal to the size of this one. No
one had ever personally dared challenge the Warlord.
As Marcus said, even the dead must have come to watch.

Chapter 	 Thirty-one
O, that a man might know
The end of this day's business ere it come!
But it sufficeth that the day will end,
And then the end is known.
William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
Maigrey stood by herself at the far end of the arena.
Opposite her, about ten meters distant, was the Warlord. A
circle had been drawn with chalk in the artificial dirt between
them. Maigrey was dressed in a body suit similar to the one
the Warlord was wearing, except that hers was silver and his
was gold. Sagan was noted to scrutinize this costume of hers,
but at length shook his head slightly. Those standing near the
Warlord saw his face was shadowed, sterner and grimmer than
usual.
The Lady Maigrey was very pale, but composed and calm.
Marcus shoved and pushed his way through the crowd,
dragging Dion after him. Most of the men, when they saw the
boy and recognized him, did what they could to make way for
him. The arena was packed. It was standing room only. Dion
hadn't imagined there were this many men on board Phoenix,
and he wondered who was left to run the ship. The noise level,
at least, was tolerable. Voices tended to be hushed in the
presence of the Warlord; there was no cheering or yelling but
awed, almost reverent silence among those gathered to see
their lord's moment of triumph ... or his crushing defeat.
By the time Dion and Marcus had reached the front of the
crowd, the young man had surged ahead of the centurion.
Dion burst through the open doors and was out onto the floor
of the arena before Marcus could catch up with him.
"Let me go!" Dion attempted to shake off the man's hand.
299

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The pep shot seemed to give him unusual strength, but it was,
he discovered, an illusionary feeling. Marcus had a grip like
iron. "I'm going to stop this!"
"How?" the centurion asked in a low, cool voice.
Frustrated, Dion paused to consider. Or try to consider. His
head throbbed, the crowd confused him; the arena was hot and
the air stale. He was dimly aware of hundreds of pairs of eyes
fixed upon him, expecting, perhaps, some entertainment
before the main event. This attention didn't fill him with the
same sense of elation he'd experienced in the bar. He felt like
a fool and knew, from the expression on Marcus's face, that he
looked the part.
"I don't know," he said, sick and miserable. He could see
Sagan and Maigrey standing not five meters from him. Both
must have noticed him, but if they did, neither gave any sign.
They seemed completely oblivious to everything going on
around them. The Warlord placed the hilt of his sword
carefully in his gloved hand. Dion remembered, vividly, Sagan
performing the same action in Platus's small house. The boy
saw the blade blaze to life, and the blood flow down bright
armor. . . .
Marcus was leading him to a bench that stood on the edge of
the field.
"At least let me talk to them," Dion mumbled, sinking
down, his shoulders slumped, head in his hands.
"Neither would thank you for breaking their concentration.
Using the bloodsword takes tremendous mental control."
Marcus, standing beside him, suddenly smote Dion on the
shoulder. "Brace up, boy. Do you have less courage than your
lord and your lady, who are fighting for their lives?"
The word "boy" stung Dion's pride; the blow stung his skin.
Sullenly, he sat up straight and shook the red-golden hair out
of his face. Marcus stood at attention beside him—hands
clasped behind his back, his feet planted firmly apart, his head
facing forward. When he spoke, it was out of the corner of his
mouth and in a voice so low, Dion had to strain to hear him.
"If your lady wins, she will need your help. You are of the
Blood Royal, aren't you?"
"Yes." Slowly Dion rose to his feet, to stand next to Marcus.
"You can use the sword, then." The centurion flicked him a
glance from the corner of his eye, half-shielded by his helm.
"But you had better be certain you have a king's blood flowing
in your veins. To handle the bloodsword otherwise is death."

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"I'm certain," Dion said, but not without a flutter in the pit
of his stomach. Of course he was. He was the son of the crown
prince. Reaching up, he clasped hold of the ring he wore
around his neck. "I'm certain," he repeated more firmly.
"Good. Then, if my lord falls, you must be prepared to take
his sword. I will be with you, but I can't use the blade."
Dion tensed, trying desperately to will himself to feel
better, to banish the ache in his head. "You'd do that, you'd
help her? Us? Why?" There was a tinge of suspicion in the
boy's voice.
"Because it is my lord's command," Marcus said simply.
Dion forced down a rush of sickness and dizziness. He was
sweating, but his body was shaking with chills. "I don't . . .
know anything about . . . those swords," he said through lips
so stiff he could barely talk. "Could I even use one?"
The arena blurred in his vision. He blinked his eyes,
focusing on the weapon in the hands of the Warlord. The two
combatants were walking forward to take up their places
directly opposite each other within the center of the chalked
circle.
"She's so pale," Dion murmured. "There's something
wrong. Look—"
Maigrey started to step into the circle, but she halted and
put her hand to her forehead, swaying slightly on her feet. A
low murmur passed through the crowd. Dion took a step
forward. Marcus's hand reached out and gripped him so tightly
Dion could hear the bones in his wrist crunch.
"No one is allowed to assist a combatant. If she falls, she
falls."
Dion bit his lip with the pain.
A breathless moment passed, then Maigrey looked around,
confused, as if wondering where she was. She shook her head,
almost angrily, and with firm step, her slender shoulders
squared in resolve, she entered the ring. Sagan entered it at
the same time. The two walked forward to meet each other.
"By the law, they must remain in the ring and fight in the
ring," Marcus said, relaxing his grip on the boy's wrist. "They
are allowed to step outside to rest, and when one does, the
other is not allowed to pursue him. But only two rest periods
are permitted. Then it is a fight to the finish."
Maigrey and Sagan came to stand face to face. The combat-
ants were required to salute each other before they took up
their battle stances. Dion, standing near, every nerve and

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fiber of his being attuned to each of them, heard their softly
spoken words.
"The last of the Oath-breakers. After seventeen years,
Maigrey, I take my revenge."
"It isn't vengeance, Sagan." Dion saw Maigrey's lips part in
a smile whose sorrow pierced his heart. "Let us admit the
reason we are truly here. Life is too painful for each of us to
tolerate, if both of us still live."
The Warlord stared at her intently for a long moment, and
Dion wondered what was passing between them silently.
Sagan bowed, with true respect.
"My lady."
Maigrey bowed in turn.
"My lord."
The arena seemed to Dion to echo with those words. There
was a hushed silence, coughs were stifled, no one spoke or
even appeared to breathe. The two combatants, stepping back
about five paces, took their places and fell into the battle
stance.
"They should at least wear some sort of armor," Dion said, in
an agony of apprehension.
Marcus cautioned him to speak softer. Dion saw Maigrey
glance his way, saw her frown slightly, and, fearful of breaking
her concentration further, he gulped and kept quiet. Marcus
leaned near him.
"It wouldn't do any good," the centurion whispered. "There
is no protection from the bloodsword. It can slice through
solid, zero-gravity forged steel as neatly as it will slice through
the flesh of your arm. Those who use it rely on swiftness and
agility and their own mental power to protect them."
"Tell me how it works." Dion moved closer, their shoulders
touching. He never took his eyes from the two in the center of
the ring.
Maigrey and Sagan circled each other, trying to draw the
other into making the first move. The sword blades glowed an
almost blinding blue color, then suddenly Maigrey made a
feinting strike inward and in the precise instant the Warlord's
blade appeared to disappear. She fell back from the attack.
Sagan's blade reappeared and struck out and Maigrey's weapon
blinked out of sight.
"What's going on?" Dion stared in confusion. "Why does the
blade vanish?"
"It doesn't. Not really. That's the weapon's defense shield. It

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will protect against the enemy's blow, but to use the shield
requires almost double the energy needed to use the blade.
They're playing a mental game with each other, trying to drain
each other's strength."
"I don't understand."
"You had better, for you may be called on to use it."
The two were circling, feinting attacks now and then. The
swords blazed blue, then disappeared and then were blue,
switching from offense to defense with the swiftness of a
thought.
"Have you ever seen one of the swords?"
"Yes." Dion did not tell Marcus where or under what
circumstances. He saw it clearly, though, in Platus's hand.
"You've seen that there are five prongs on the hilt. When
the user grasps the hilt, these prongs penetrate the flesh and
inject a virus into the bloodstream. In a person with the
correct blood type and DNA structure, this virus opens
channels that parallel the normal nerve channels and eventu-
ally reach the brain. Micromachines are injected, making
connections with the lymphatic systems to draw energy from
the body's cells to power the weapon. The energy used comes
from ATP, adenosine triphosphate. The sword has its own
energy source, but once that is depleted, it begins to draw on
the only other source available—your body."
"What happens if you don't have the correct blood type and
you pick up the sword?"
Sagan made a sudden lunge at Maigrey, who didn't meet
him with a block as expected, but who swiftly and agilely
dodged, whirled, and sent her blade slicing through the air
with a vicious downward stroke that would have cut the man in
two had he not guessed her attack and reacted in time, falling
back away from her. The two paused a moment, eyeing each
other, then resumed their places in the center of the circle.
Dion resumed breathing.
"The virus injected into a body that doesn't have the proper
bloodline turns into a particularly nasty form of cancer,"
Marcus said quietly. "It mutates rapidly. There is no cure.
Death, if you're lucky, comes in about three days. At least
there's one thing you won't have to worry about. If my lord
falls, no one will be eager to take possession of his bloodsword.
You'll have it all to yourself."
Death, if you're lucky, in three days. The inside of the palm

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of Dion's right hand itched unpleasantly. He rubbed the skin.
"But Sagan's wearing gloves. How could—"
"Doesn't matter. The prongs will penetrate the heaviest
gauntlet. And the hilt is weighted in such a way that, in order
to use it, you must hold it so that the prongs dig into the flesh.
Oh, good exchange. Well done!"
The crowd was losing its awe, getting into the spirit of
the battle. A rapid series of attacks made the air hum with the
blade's energy. The afterimage of the blue light burning the
retina of the eye made it seem as if the two were surrounded
in red streaks and it was difficult, for an instant, to see what
had happened.
Both emerged unscathed, though each was sweating pro-
fusely and their breath was visibly coming quicker and shorter.
They took up their positions again when Maigrey suddenly
made the same gesture that had drawn Dion's concern earlier.
She put her hand to her temple, blinking her eyes. She had
just presence of mind left to stumble out of the circle. Sagan,
standing in the center, his sword arm relaxed, watched her
closely, warily, apparently suspecting some trick.
But Dion, who could see Sagan's face clearly, saw a tiny
frown appear between the thick black brows. The man was
puzzled, obviously wondering what was going on.
"That will cost her," Marcus said in grim tones. "She should
have taken the rest later in the battle when she'll need it
more."
"There's something wrong with her! That's obvious. Why
don't they stop?"
"There's no way they can. The only way to stop now is for
one to yield to the other, and that would mean not only death
but dishonor."
"What honor is there in this? Fighting someone who's sick?"
"The lady doesn't appear sick to me. She fought with too
much energy. There, she's going back. I don't know what the
matter is, but she better control it."
The fight seemed, to Dion, to drag on for hours. The tension
was unbearable. It was, as Marcus said, a battle of wits as much
as of physical prowess. Eyes were focused on each other, the
brain endeavoring to penetrate the mental shield while the
body tried to penetrate the physical. Each was growing visibly
tired, each making tiny mistakes, saving themselves only by
■sheer bursts of energy, skill, and intuition. Blood oozed from
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And then Sagan slipped, the aching muscle of his legs giving
out. Maigrey was on him in an instant and only the fact that he
was standing next to the circle and could throw himself out
saved him.
Picking himself up from the dirt, he jumped back into the
circle, and those who knew him knew that he was furious.
Unlike other men, the Warlord's rage did not kindle a fire, but
rather seemed to quench one. He was cold and remote and
intent on ending this contest that had, in his estimation, gone
on far too long. His attack was vicious. He hammered at
Maigrey's sword again and again until it seemed impossible
that his arms would possess the strength to keep inflicting such
blows ... or hers to absorb them.
Maigrey was forced to keep her shield switched on contin-
ually and her strength was waning fast. But she defended
herself bravely. The shouting in the arena was deafening and
seemed not to be for either one in particular but in homage to
the valor of both and the eager, brutal expectation that is
humanity's worst failing—the thirst for blood.
Dion strained forward, his heart thudding in his chest, his
throat burning. Marcus, mindful of his duty in the midst of the
excitement, had hold of him, or else the young man would
have hurled himself into that circle of death. The noise
reverberated off the walls, sending the blood pounding in his
head until he feared something inside him must burst from the
pressure.
And then suddenly Maigrey collapsed. She sank to her
knees in the dirt of the arena, her head bowed, her shoulders
slumped, the sword gone lifeless in her hand.
"Get out!" shouted many, on their feet, urging her to seek
the sanctuary outside the edge of the circle.
Lord Sagan paused, flaming sword in hand, waiting to see if
she would make the attempt to save her own life. But Maigrey
didn't move. She had fallen in the classic pose of one who faces
execution, and the Warlord, taking this for her surrender,
raised the blade above her head.
The crowd roared. Some shouted for Sagan to finish it.
Others shouted for the lady to find her courage.
A scream of rage welled up inside Dion. He leapt forward,
only to feel Marcus's arm around his neck, throttling him. The
young man fought viciously, hopelessly, and Marcus was
forced to nearly choke the breath from Dion before he could
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"Look, boy! Look!" Marcus's hissing voice finally pene-
trated.
"She's in a trance!" Dion whispered.
Maigrey seemingly had no idea where she was or that her
own death was standing over her. She was staring at something
no one else could see, a look of tense concentration on her
face. The Warlord hesitated to strike; it would be like killing
her in her sleep. Still thinking it might be a trick, he kicked the
sword from her hand out of her reach. Maigrey didn't move,
didn't appear to notice her weapon was gone. The expression
on her face had changed to one of horror. Whatever visions she
was seeing must be terrible.
The shouting in the arena had changed to a murmur,
puzzled and ominous.
Hurling his own sword into the dirt, Sagan knelt beside the
woman, and taking hold of her by the shoulders, he shook her.
Maigrey's head snapped back, her hair straggled over her face.
Her eyes were gray; the scar was a leaden streak across her
skin. Her lips parted to gasp for breath. She didn't speak.
Blinking, she focused on Sagan and a shudder went through
her body. Reaching out her hands, she caught hold of him,
clutching at him as she were drowning.
The Warlord's black hair had come undone and fell about his
sweat-streaked face. He held her, supported her.
"What is it, Maigrey? What do you see? Share it with me!"
Looking up into his eyes, her expression ghastly, Maigrey
placed both hands on either side of the Warlord's face.
The murmur of the crowd became a muttering, an exchang-
ing of glances, grim and fearful. The arena seemed to grow
darker. A shadow was spreading, emanating from the two
unmoving figures in the center of the arena, like a perverse
sun that brings night, not day.
Dion freed himself from the centurion and started across the
arena. Marcus, uncertain what was happening or how it
affected his orders, allowed the boy to go and followed him.
His lord did not look like himself.
"My lord!"
Captain Nada had entered the arena. Making his way
through the dirt toward the two combatants covered with
grime and sweat and their own blood. A disdainful expression
on his face, Nada paused inside the ring to flick a bit of soil
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before the last scene in a tragedy, he gave the audience a
chance to relieve their pent-up feelings. Nervous, stomach-
clenching laughter burst from the watching men. The captain's
face flushed purplish red. He glared around at the men in
silent rage, but it was obvious he blamed this insult on the
Warlord. He gave the man and woman kneeling in the circle a
look of complete and utter disgust.
"My lord, we have received a message from outpost B545 on
Shelton's Planet I. They are under attack. Enemy unknown.
Battleship Diana is on patrol in that vicinity. I have ordered
Jupiter to reinforce—"
"Call it back." Lord Sagan's voice cracked harshly, from
exhaustion and strain. He freed himself from Maigrey's grasp
and rose wearily to his feet. Glancing around, he caught sight
of Marcus's bright armor. "Centurion, take the lady to sick
bay—"
That threat was enough to rouse Maigrey from her trance.
"No," she murmured, holding out a warding hand, waving
Marcus away. "I'm fine. I'm all right. Just ... let me rest a
moment."
The Warlord was strolling rapidly out of the arena. The men
were breathlessly silent, straining to hear.
Nada, obviously incensed, followed. "My lord, I protest—"
"I said order Jupiter back, Nada. Their mission is pointless."
"I hardly call going to the aid of an outpost under attack
pointless, my lord. We have received no further reports from
Shelton but—"
Sagan spun on his heel. Captain Nada, nearly tripping on
the Warlord's feet, was forced to backpedal swiftly to avoid a
collision.
"Nor will you, Captain. Ever. The outpost no longer exists.
I've seen it. It has been wiped out—to the man."
"What—"
"Corasians, Nada. They've entered the galaxy." Sagan,
turning again, continued walking. His centurions were hurry-
ing to him, eager to be of use, and he was issuing orders as he
walked. "Put the fleet on alert and get hold of the President.
I'll use the emergency channel. Where's Aks? Send for the
admiral and tell him to meet me in the war room. Alert the
outposts on Shelton's Planets II and III, but don't be surprised
if they don't respond."
Maigrey, forgotten, brushed the pale hair out of her face.
Her eyes were on the Warlord. She looked drained. Dion,

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kneeling beside her, heard her sigh. She closed her eyes,
overcome with a weariness that was not of the body but of the
spirit.
"And so we go on." He heard her murmur.

Book II
Where All life
Dies
. . . while I abroad
Through all the coasts of dark destruction seek
Deliverance for us all . . .
John Milton, Paradise Lost

Chapter -^ooo- One
I wish to have no connection with any Ship that does not
sail fast, for I intend to go in harm's way. . . .
John Paul Jones
Derek Sagan stood in the war room aboard Phoenix. On the
vidscreen before him, President Robes sat at the oval table.
He was alone. Robes was attired in a white, cable-knit,
V-necked sweater, striped at the neck, and with cuffs of bright
lines of red and blue. The white set off his tan, which in turn
set off the touches of gray at the temples; the entire effect
looked extremely good in the newsvids. He had apparently
been taking some sort of gentle exercise which Sagan's urgent
message had interrupted.
The President leaned forward, nudging to one side a silver
water pitcher that sat on the table before him in order to get
a better view of the vidscreen. The Warlord, glancing at this
water pitcher, saw the image of another person reflected in it,
someone who was keeping out of range of the camera, some-
one standing directly across the room from the President.
Robes did not look in this person's direction, but clasped his
hands before him—a gesture which meant he was giving you
his full and complete attention. His face was expressive of
grave concern.
Derek Sagan swiftly depressed a series of buttons on the
control panel before him. Robes's face disappeared, replaced
by the silver water pitcher that was, with every shot, growing
larger on the screen.
"You have, of course, verified this news of an attack, Citizen
General?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
The silver water pitcher was revealing a curved and dis-
311

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torted magenta blob. Sagan ordered it brought closer. Ma-
genta. The Warlord's blood congealed in his veins.
"This is an outrage," the President was saying. "I'll take it to
the Congress, of course. I'll call an emergency session. I've no
doubt that we will declare war on the Corasians."
"Yes, Mr. President."
The person reflected in the water pitcher could be seen
clearly. Sagan hadn't been wrong. Magenta robes, edged in
black, the zigzag of black lightning—dark lightning—running
down the front. It was him! Mentally, the Warlord staggered.
He was reported dead! What's he doing here? Of course!
Robes. He has Robes! Perhaps he's had him under his control
from the very beginning. It would explain much.
"Citizen General Sagan? Have we lost communication?"
"Excuse me, Mr. President." Sagan wrenched his mind back
to his duty. The silver water pitcher dwindled in size and on
the screen, once again, was Peter Robes. "I was ... re-
ceiving further news on the enemy."
"I understand your interest, Citizen General. But perhaps
you could favor me with your full attention?"
"Yes, Mr. President." Sagan ground the words with his
teeth.
"It is likely, if the Corasians follow their usual plan of action,
that they will use Shelton's Planets I, II, and III as bases and
strike out at the rest of the galaxy from there. Wouldn't you
agree, Citizen General?"
Sagan agreed.
"Then," the President continued, "we are fortunate that the
enemy has picked a relatively worthless and out-of-the-way
system—"
"There are seven million people on Shelton's planets, Mr.
President."
Robes's face crumbled instantly from grave concern to
gentle grief. "You misunderstood me, Citizen General. Of
course, I didn't mean worthless in terms of human life. That is
a terrible tragedy, certainly, but . . . let's be brutally realis-
tic."
Yes, since the press isn't around, Sagan thought.
"Seven million people is a mere drop in the ocean of the life
of the galaxy. And, in terms of resources, Shelton's planets are,
I believe, devoted mainly to scientific research. There are vast
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"I intend—once Congress has declared war, of course—to
command the generals of the other sectors to pull back and
guard the dense population centers of our galaxy. I want you,
Citizen General Sagan, to stop the Corasians from penetrating
further into the galaxy."
"Yes, Mr. President. I will need reinforcements—"
"Impossible, I'm afraid, Derek." Robes leaned forward, his
face revealing complete and absolute confidence in his com-
mander. "Let's drop the formalities. We're old friends, after
all. The inner circle of the defense will need all the galaxy's
current resources in case—and I don't mean this to be negative
thinking, I'm only being realistic—in case you fail to stop the
, enemy."
"I would say, Mr. President, that fighting the Corasians with
the force I have means failure is a foregone conclusion."
The President's face exhibited gentle sorrow, extreme dis-
appointment. "I'm sorry to hear that, Derek. You are my
ablest commander. I expected better of you." Robes's eyes
flicked, almost involuntarily, to the unseen person standing
across the room from him. Their gaze returned to the Warlord
immediately. Sagan might not have caught the glance if he
hadn't been watching for it. "You have your orders, Citizen
General Sagan."
"I have my orders. Yes, Mr. President."
"Our best wishes and those of the galaxy are with you."
Are they indeed, Mr. President? Sagan silently commented.
The screen went blank. The Warlord stood staring at it in
profound silence for a long, long time.
In the forgotten lounge on the diplomatic deck, Maigrey and
Dion were alone. There were no guards in attendance—-an
oblique compliment to the lady, and one which she found
depressing. The threat to her galaxy was holding her prisoner
now more surely than Sagan ever could. She sat limp and
lifeless in a chair, staring, unseeing, out at the stars. Her head
rested wearily on her hand. Dion watched her with grave
concern. She had drunk nothing, eaten nothing in the several
hours that had passed since the duel. She had not spoken at all.
An orderly entered the room, padding softly, not breaking
the heavy silence. He bore a tray and set it down on a table at
Maigrey's side. On the tray was a porcelain teapot of fanciful
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body, and the handle was the dragon's tail. The pot rested on
four small clawed feet. Steam curled from the dragon's parted
mouth. Two cups, shaped like dragon eggs, without handles,
stood near the pot, along with a bowl of fruit and a plate of
plain, unsalted crackers.
"From his lordship," the orderly said and left.
Dion, leaning over, sniffed at the tea. It had a faintly tarry
aroma and his nose wrinkled. He glanced up at Maigrey, who
was looking at the pot with a wan smile.
"You don't think he's trying to poison us?" The young man
was half-serious, wholly in earnest.
Maigray's smile widened slightly. "No, Dion, it's supposed
to smell like that. It's called lapsong souchong." She traced her
finger over the dragon's head. "Even the teapot looks familiar.
But it couldn't be the same one. It couldn't." Sighing, she
closed her eyes.
Dion carefully and awkwardly lifted the teapot. "Here, let
me pour you a cup. You should drink something."
"Why? To keep up my strength? To keep on living?"
Her bitterness and anger startled the young man. He tried
to set the teapot back down gently, but it struck against one of
the cups and made a frightful clatter. Maigrey opened her
eyes, saw his face, and sighed.
"I'm sorry, Dion. It's just—" She paused, thinking, then said
softly, "Once, I knew a man, a renowned poet, who fell down
an elevator shaft. He was rescued and they brought him up
alive, but the doctors diagnosed some sort of internal injury to
the brain and said he only had a few months to live. The man
bid his friends and family good-bye, completed the book of
poetry he was writing, and then prepared himself to die. But
he didn't. He kept on living. Five years later he was still alive.
It was his biggest disappointment."
Dion said nothing. The story appalled him, though he didn't
understand its point. He picked up a cracker, broke it in two,
started to eat it, then tossed it back down onto the plate.
"Lady Maigrey," he said abruptly. "What did the test tell
you about me? Did God . . . er . . . speak?"
What a superstitious fool he sounded! Might as well ask a
Ouija board.
"He spoke, but not quite what we expected to hear."
Maigrey lifted the teapot with a sudden, brisk gesture. "Will
you try this? It doesn't taste as odd as it smells and it's good for
queasy stomachs. How are you feeling?"

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"The drugs seem to be wearing off. I was feeling hungry, in
fact, until the food came in. Now, I'm not certain." Dion
looked at the hot brown liquid in the dragon's egg cup. "If you
don't mind, my lady, I think I'll go see if I can find some
water."
So that's all she plans to tell me, Dion thought. Bah! God
talking! What kind of fool do they think I am? What's God
supposed to say—that I'm going to be a great king because I
passed out on Sagan's floor? Probably all the Warlord meant to
do was torture me and see how I reacted! Well, if you ask me,
I think I came through it pretty fine. Now if I could just figure
out how I managed to make that silver ball float in the
air. . . .
When he returned, he found Maigrey standing by the
viewport, staring thoughtfully into a distant part of the galaxy.
"I saw the Corasians before the fight began, you know."
Maigrey didn't turn, didn't look around at him. "Black shapes,
blotting out the stars. I'd seen them in my mind before, but it
was years ago, and I couldn't remember what they were, I
couldn't concentrate. I didn't dare concentrate on them."
"But—you saw them!"
"Our altered blood structure does quirky things, sometimes,
things scientists can't explain. I can see images in my mind of
events happening somewhere far distant. Sometimes I can
control it and see what I want; sometimes the visions come to
me unbidden, as this one did today. It was how Sagan hoped
to be able to use me to find you. But, as it turned out, that
wasn't necessary."
Dion stirred uncomfortably, angrily, feeling that he'd been
accused of some misdeed. Shaking the red-golden mane of hair
out of his face, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans
and stared moodily out at the stars.
"What about sharing this vision with Sagan? That hand-
on-the-face business." Dion hadn't meant to sound jealous and
only realized he'd done so when he saw her glance at him,
amused.
"Because we're mind-linked, he and I can share the visions,
but only if we are physically touching." Maigrey lifted her
palm. By the dim light of the lounge and the lambent light of
the stars, he could see the five small white marks that were
now slightly red and swollen from contact with the blood-
sword. "It happened only after we'd been given our swords. I

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think it probably has something to do with the virus. Two
people of the Blood Royal who aren't mind-linked can experi-
ence a certain amount of mental telepathy when they are using
the swords. This can be good or bad, depending."
"Depending on what? It seems good to me."
Maigrey looked at him fully, intently. "On the minds using
the swords. The stronger, you see, has the ability to control
the weaker."
He hated it when she looked inside him like that. Dion
flushed and rubbed the palm of his right hand. Ever since he'd
seen the bloodswords, he'd felt those five marks on his skin.
Clearing his throat, he turned away from the window, wan-
dered over to the table, and absentmindedly devoured all of
the crackers. He heard a sound, a faint jingle of armor, and was
almost relieved to see Lord Sagan standing in the door.
Maigrey turned back to staring out the steelglass.
Sagan glanced at the young man. "How are you feeling,
Dion?"
"Fine, my lord." The young man spoke coldly. He was
furious at Sagan and his anger vied with his intense admira-
tion. The conflicting emotions were confusing and painful and
he didn't know how to handle them. Standing straight and stiff,
he clasped his hands behind his back.
The Warlord's face was drawn and tired-looking; there was a
gray tinge to the skin. The lines around the mouth and nose
and on the brow were deeper, darker.
"Fine or not, I want you to report to sick bay."
"Why?" Dion's anger flared. Sagan was obviously trying to
get rid of him. "I feel fine. I—"
"I said, you are to report to sick bay. There are some tests
Giesk wants to run. Guards." Sagan made a peremptory
gesture. "If he won't go, take him."
Dion glanced at the Lady Maigrey, but she was no help. She
stood with her back to him, looking out at the stars. The young
man swallowed the hot words that came flooding to his mouth
and, after a moment's bitter struggle, did as he was com-
manded. Stiff-necked, red-faced, he stalked out of the room.
The Warlord indicated with a gesture that the guards were
to follow.
"My lord," said one of the centurions, "should we send for
replacements?"
Sagan shook his head.
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feet ringing on the steel deck, then the sound faded and she
and the Warlord were alone.
"You were hard on the boy, my lord."
Sagan came to stand beside her. "He better get used to it.
Things are only going to get worse."
"So it's as bad as that?"
"Don't you know? I haven't kept my thoughts hidden from
you. I've been too damn busy."
"I didn't want to see them." Maigrey's voice was soft. Her
hands were clasped before her. Tensely, unconsciously, she
twisted her fingers.
"The Corasians are attacking in force. We had a treaty with
them. Don't blame me, lady. I had nothing to do with it. It was
Robes's first act as President, guaranteed to win him popular-
ity. For the past fifteen years, our spies—mine and those of the
other Warlords—-have reported to him that the Corasians were
not holding to the terms of the treaty, that they were building
up their forces. Robes always refused to comment directly, but
his mouthpieces in Congress accused us of war-mongering, of
using the Corasians as an excuse to keep our fleets and armies
strong."
"This attack surprised you, then?"
"To be honest, yes. I had expected them to strike, but not
this soon. According to my last report before I lost contact with
my agent, the Corasians couldn't possibly have been ready to
make a full-scale assault. But I think," Sagan added, his voice
dry, "I was the only one surprised."
Maigrey turned, stared at him incredulously.
"You think Robes knew?"
"I'm convinced of it."
"And he let hundreds of thousands of people on those
planets die? I can't believe that, even of him!"
The Warlord shrugged off the question. "What are thou-
sands to him when he has trillions of votes in the inner circle
of the galaxy? Shelton's planets were inconsequential—mostly
inhabited by soldiers and scientists, their families, a few
scientific stations, and the usual population centers that grow
up around military bases."
Pausing, Sagan leaned near, lowered his voice. "You must
understand, lady, that my agent in the Corasian galaxy was
good. Very good. He'd been there for years-—a slave in one of
their chemical factories, that was his cover. They'd never come

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near discovering him. Then he disappeared. In his last report
he indicated that there was someone on to him."
"Robes's agents?"
"Someone's agents. And not, I think, the Corasians."
Turning, the Warlord left the viewscreen and went over to
seat himself wearily in a chair. Suppressing a groan, he rubbed
a knotted muscle in his thigh.
Maigrey turned away. She found she couldn't look at
him—weary and beaten—without feeling a wrenching pain in
her heart. Plus she sensed him afraid, and his fear unnerved
her. But what was he afraid of? Certainly not the Corasians,
not impending battle, however uneven the odds. It was
something else, something buried that had just been recently
brought to the surface—like an exhumed corpse.
"The tea's cold, I'm afraid, my lord." She spoke just to fill the
silence. "You never liked the lapsong much, anyway. I could
send for oolong—"
"No, it doesn't matter. Come sit with me, lady, like the old
days. We have much to discuss. Pour me a cup of this stuff. I
won't taste it anyway."
Dying would have been so much easier.
Maigrey turned from the window and walked over to the
table. Pouring the tea, she handed the cup to him and he
gulped it down thirstily. Silently, she poured him another.
He drank half of this cup, then sat, holding it in his hand,
staring at it, The delicate porcelain looked fragile as an
eggshell in his large hands.
"Robes has ordered me to make a stand. To stop the
Corasians here and now. No reinforcements."
Maigrey seated herself in the chair opposite that of the
Warlord. "And he kills two birds with one stone."
"Not precisely. Let's say that he allows the birds to kill each
other."
"He knows you're plotting against him?"
"Yes, he knows!" Sagan beat a clenched fist softly against the
arm of the chair, emphasizing his words. "Damn the man! He's
clever, Maigrey. I keep forgetting how clever! And there's
another more clever—" he broke off abruptly.
Maigrey wondered what he had been going to say, but she
kept clear of his mind. The last thing she wanted right now was
to get too close to him.
"The President orders us to stand and fight the initial assault

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out here, where there are few populated systems—a command
that will be applauded by the Congress and the press."
"And the other marshals?"
"He's pulling them in to form a second line of defense
around the major populated zones."
"We're on our own."
Sagan's mouth twisted. "We?"
Maigrey flushed and looked down at her hands.
"Yes," the Warlord added quietly, "we're on our own."
"But the enemy could penetrate anywhere! A thousand
different places!" Maigrey gestured to the stars. "How can he
be certain—" But she knew the answer, the moment she asked
the question.
"They'll come straight for us, lady. I would bet all my
fortune on the fact that somehow, undoubtedly through a leak
in security, the enemy knows our exact coordinates, knows all
our moves. That's why they've attacked before they were
ready. They didn't need to be ready. Undoubtedly they've
promised Robes they'll turn and run after they've destroyed
us. If he believes that, he's a bigger fool than I thought. You
know, of course, what the enemy's really after?"
"Phoenix." Maigrey's hands curled over the arms of the
chair. Her eyes glanced around the ship.
"And the rest of the ships. The reports we've received from
the survivors fleeing Shelton's system tell us that the Corasians
are following their same pattern—rounding up the people,
using them either for food or slave labor, destroying every-
thing else except the machines. It's our technology they want.
They'll come straight for us, all right. We have the unique
distinction of being both bait and trap."
"You know their numbers?"
"I can estimate them, from the early reports."
"Can the fleet survive?"
"The computers say no, not with our current strength. But
we can do a significant amount of damage before we die. By
God, I'll blow up this ship myself before I turn it over to
them!"
"You've never been one to give a damn about orders, Sagan.
You could retreat, fall back."
"I'd be branded a coward—disgraced forever. Not but what
I might do it; I can handle the newsmedia, and Robes knows
it. But you see, my lady, there's a possibility I can win this.

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And, if I do, I'll be the galaxy's hero. Nothing will be too good
for me."
"Not even the galaxy itself." Rising to her feet abruptly,
Maigrey left the Warlord, returned to staring out the window.
Her back was to him, her arms crossed across her chest. "It's
quite a risk Robes is taking."
"He's a gambler; he knows the odds and they're in his favor."
"What about the local systems? Won't they send help?"
"They'll be too concerned for their own safety. We're
keeping this quiet, but the news will break soon and then we'll
be deluged with pleas for us to rush to their aid."
Maigrey stood at the window, her hands rubbing up and
down her arms. Sagan, suddenly realizing what she was
thinking, rose to his feet.
"You're wrong, Maigrey. Dixter and his people won't join
me."
"Would it help if they did?"
"Yes, of course. Any addition to our manpower would help."
"His people are good, from what I've heard."
"They're good. I trained most of them myself. Three-fourths
are deserters from my air corps!"
Maigrey smiled slightly at the bitter edge in his voice. "John
Dixter will come."
"He might if you asked him, is that what you mean,
Maigrey?"
"No." She shook her head, the pale hair falling around her
face, hiding it from view. "Dion."
Sagan was caught off guard. He hadn't seen that one coming.
Moving close behind her, he rested his hands on her shoul-
ders. "Nice try, my lady, but it won't work. Even if Dion did
go, he would come back to me. What do you call it? The taint
in our blood? Ambition, the lust for power burns in that boy.
And I have what he wants."
Maigrey held herself rigid beneath his touch. Hours ago,
they had been intent on killing each other. Still alive. Her
biggest disappointment. Setting her jaw, she turned, breaking
his grip, and faced him stolidly.
"And what will you do with him now? What will you do with
a boy our God has told us is His chosen. A boy destined,
perhaps, to be both king and savior of his people?"
Sagan clasped his arms behind his back, beneath his cloak.
"A foolish question, my lady. You know that—like Lucifer—I
would far rather reign in hell, than serve in heaven."

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"You dare to defy God?"
"Let us say, my lady, that I am working to persuade Him to
change His mind."
"I'll stop you in this, Sagan!" Maigrey advanced a step. "I
fought you for Dion once, long ago. I'll fight for him again."
"Be warned, my lady, I can rid myself of you right this
moment—"
"No, you can't. That's an empty threat, my lord. You could
have killed me this afternoon, but you didn't. You hesitated,
held back. I see into your mind clearly now. You're torn two
ways. God has granted you a glimpse into the future and
you've forseen my death at your hands. But not now. Not yet.
Something wasn't right today, was it? Something I wore, some-
thing I said— Killing me today would have defied God, and
you don't dare do it! He has brought us together for a purpose,
perhaps to fight together against this new peril."
She took a step nearer; they were practically touching.
"Our motives will be different, my lord. You think of your
own glory, your lust for power. I'm thinking of the people, the
millions who will die. Like it or not, we're shackled to each
other. There's no way to break the chain. We've tried it, and it
didn't work. The only way it seems we'll ever escape this
hellish prison is to help each other climb the walls! I'll help
you, Sagan, but only if you keep your chains from entangling
Dion. If you don't, I'll drag you down myself!"
"And you'd drag the boy down with us. It's too late,
Maigrey. Dion's bound, body and soul. He was from the day
he was born." Sagan backed away from her. Reaching into the
bowl of fruit, he selected an apple, and held it up to the light.
"I accept your premise, lady. But I question your motives. I
don't believe they are as pure as you pretend. Since we're
peering into others' minds, I see you, standing behind Dion's
throne . . . very close behind his throne." He tossed the
apple into the air. "I think I'll take this to the boy. He's
probably hungry."
"Yes," Maigrey said, biting the word. "He probably is."
The Warlord turned to go, paused, looked back. "But I like
your idea about Dixter. I'll consider it. Thank you, my lady."
He turned, and was gone.
Still alive. Maigrey sighed. Still alive.

Chapter '-wo- Two
'Great are thy virtues, doubtless, best of fruits.'
John Milton, Paradise Lost
A sudden buzzing roused Sagan from the deep meditative
state he used in times of emergency, preferring it to that of
sleep. He came out of his meditation mentally alert, physically
ready for any type of action. No action was called for at the
moment, however, except to respond to a flashing red light on
his personal computer.
A message, coded for him, beamed directly to him.
He gave the voice response and the message flashed on the
screen. His security was absolutely unbreakable, his computer
being programmed to seek out, identify, and attack any other
system trying to surmount his innumerable defenses. But
Sagan had taken the additional precaution of carrying on his
clandestine dealings in twentieth century English—a wordy,
clumsy, and confusing language now almost totally, but not
completely, forgotten.
"Gad, Sagan, what a beastly language. I quite abhor it. Can
you imagine the barbaric types who used it? I assure you, I get
quite nauseated just thinking about them. In response to your
question, my agent reports that after my removal from Van-
gelis, a young human female was discovered snooping around
my offices. She is one Nola Rian and she is a—if you will
believe it—TRUC driver. Isn't that too ridiculous? Further
investigation has linked her to a human male, one John Dixter,
commander of the mercenary forces. There is, of course,
always the possibility that I could have been the teeniest bit
careless and let something slip but, gad, Sagan, I'm a genius.
What do you expect? Is this a problem, dear boy? If so, I
assure you, it can be rectified."
322

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"It's a problem but not for me. For you, Snaga Ohme." The
screen had gone dark. The Warlord was talking to the night. "I
will do the rectifying. You will pay the price."
Returning to his bed, Sagan stretched himself out, crossed
his hands over his chest, interlacing the fingers, and drew a
deep breath. Releasing it, he murmured, "Yes, lady, your
suggestion is an excellent one. John Dixter's assistance in our
cause will be invaluable. Truly invaluable."
"Dion, a moment's word with you."
"Certainly, my lord. Please come in."
The boy's voice was cold and stilted; he was nurturing his
anger. The Warlord, seeming not to notice, stepped inside the
young man's living quarters. Sagan was clad in his gold
ceremonial armor, the golden helm with the red-feathered
crest on his head, his red cape, trimmed in gold, fluttering
behind. He was holding something in his hand, keeping it
concealed beneath his cloak.
The Honor Guards took up their stance, the door sealed
shut, and the two were alone. Dion rose to his feet, and
remained standing, rigid, defensive.
Sagan, glancing around, saw that the young man had been
reading a book—David Copperfield. The Warlord's lips tight-
ened, but he said nothing. Now was not the time.
"There's to be a meeting of the fleet's officers, 1800 hours. I
want you to attend."
Disarmed, Dion's mouth sagged. He blinked and brought
his gaze to bear on the Warlord. "Me?"
"As the Lady Maigrey and I were discussing last evening,
this current crisis engulfs us all. There is, in fact, an important
mission I'm going to be asking you to undertake. And since
from now on, wherever we walk, we walk with danger, I
thought you should have this."
The Warlord threw aside his cloak, revealing the object he
had hidden—a bloodsword.
Dion gasped, then drew a shivering breath. His hands
itched to touch it, but part of him wanted to put those same
hands firmly behind his back and have nothing to do with it.
Before he could make any sort of intelligent response, the
Warlord had come forward and—with all the deference of a
squire to his knight—buckled the sword in its scabbard around
the young man's slender waist.

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"When wearing this sword, you should at least dress like
royalty." The Warlord glanced scathingly at Dion's blue jeans.
"You can change to your uniform later. Now, if you like, i have
an hour to spare. We could go to the gymnasium and I could
begin to instruct you in the sword's use."
"If you want, my lord."
The young man's response was hesitant. His gaze was fixed
on the sword, fear and desire vying within him.
"There is some risk involved. Do you understand?"
"About the—the virus?" Dead in three days, if you're lucky.
Dion replied in a steady voice, "Yes, my lord. I understand."
"You don't have to do this, if you don't want to. You don't
have to take the risk. Even though your parentage seems
certain and you were given the rite of initiation, there
remains, still, this final test." Sagan did not mention that he'd
had Dr. Giesk run a blood sample. The boy was in no danger,
none at all. His blood was pure. Or it was "tainted," depending
on how one looked at it. This moment—though the boy would
never realize it—was the true test.
"I know about the risk, my lord. I want to take it."
"Good." Lord Sagan's cool smile was hidden by the shadows
of the helm. "I thought you would."
Maigrey sat in the bar, watching the light reflect off the
bottles. She was glad they'd kept the bottles. There were more
modern, convenient means of dispensing liquor available.
Hell, almost any two-byte computer could mix an old-
fashioned. But there was something about the bottles and
about the bartender mixing his magic from the bottles that was
comforting to her. Rather, Maigrey supposed, like the wizard
from ages past, working in his laboratory, mixing the weird and
the wonderful to weave his spells.
"Another?" the bartender asked, whisking away the soggy
cocktail napkin, his hand hovering over the glass.
"Yes. But don't take that yet. One more swallow."
Maigrey drank it, returned the glass to the bar. The empty
disappeared, a full one took its place. Magic. She stirred the
ice cubes around and around, admiring the various colors of
the liquors in the bottles—-amber, bright green, gold, clear;
the different shapes of the bottles . . .
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw flaming red-golden
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the bar. She saw what he wore around his waist. He walked
with self-conscious pride, somewhat awkwardly, his hand
holding the scabbard as he moved through the lounge in an
effort to keep it from banging into tables. Maigrey stared back
into her glass and continued stirring the ice around and
around.
"I've been looking all over for you, Lady Maigrey." The
boy's voice was accusing.
"I knew where I was."
The young man was silent a moment, probably trying to
figure out what she meant, most certainly trying to decide how
to respond. "Lord Sagan's guards told me you were here."
"See? We knew where I was, then."
From his expression, Dion didn't see, not in the least.
Maigrey smiled faintly. There was another pause, the young
man waiting for her to say something.
"What are you drinking?" he asked finally, when she didn't.
"Vodka martini. Very dry. On the rocks. With olives. You've
got to mention the olives specifically. If you don't, they stick a
piece of lemon in it."
"Lord Sagan doesn't drink." Accusation had become reproof.
The boy was sanctimonious as only youth can be when
descrying the faults of their elders.
"I know. I do it for both of us." Maigrey swallowed vodka.
Holding the glass in her hand, she shook it gently, to hear the
ice cubes clink against the sides. "Where'd you get the
bloodsword?"
"Lord Sagan gave it to me." Dion flushed with pride. His
right hand touched the hilt, somewhat gingerly.
Maigrey glanced at it, looked back into her drink. "It's
Platus's, you know. I wish I could say he'd have wanted you to
have it."
She heard the swift intake of breath. When she lifted her
eyes and looked at the boy, she saw that he had gone white to
the lips. Dion stared at her, his brilliant blue eyes, surrounded
by white rims, glistening with the shock.
"I'm sorry," Maigrey said, shrugging. Fishing the olive from
her glass, she ate it, then carefully placed the toothpick on the
bar in front of her. "I thought you knew."
"Damn it! How could I know? I never saw it, except for
that . . . that night!" Dion's hands fumbled with the buckle
of the sword belt. His fingers were numb and shaking and he

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couldn't unfasten it. Maigrey's fingers closed over his, sud-
denly, and he shivered at the chill touch.
"Don't take it off'. I'm sorry, truly sorry." She looked at him
earnestly. "It's right you should have it, right you should know
how to use it. Only, remember what I said about the mind
control. Be careful." Keeping hold of his right hand, she
turned it palm up. Five puncture marks marred the skin.
Swelling, they were beginning to turn an angry, fiery red.
"He's using you, you know, Dion. He'll use you to gain what he
wants, then he'll throw you away like so much rubbish."
Dion snatched his hand away from her grasp. The boy's
voice was hard and brittle. "It's a game two can play at, my
lady. Or maybe three."
He glowered at her from beneath lowered brows. She'd hurt
him, hurt him badly, and he had to strike back.
"Your arm ache?" Maigrey asked.
"No."
"It'll feel numb for several days, but the sensation won't be
permanent. Next time you use the sword, it'll be easier."
"I know that. Lord Sagan told me."
"Ah, yes." Maigrey took a drink and swallowed. "'Satan was
Christ's elder brother.'"
"What?" Dion only half heard her.
'"Satan was Christ's elder brother.' Robertson P. Davies.
Fifth Business. Twentieth century author."
The young man didn't understand. "How many of those
have you had?"
'"How many of those have you had, my lady?'" Maigrey
corrected reprovingly, lifting her chin, fixing him with an
imperious gaze.
Her eyes were clear, Dion saw, and focused, though shad-
owed with indescribable sadness. The young man had the
grace to be ashamed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, ducking his
head and flexing his hand. It hurt abominably. "My lady."
"It seems all we're doing is apologizing to each other. Forget
what I said, Dion. I'm tired. I couldn't sleep. I keep
seeing . . . them. The Corasians. And I don't know if I'm
seeing them from the past or if I'm seeing them from now.
Either way, it's awful.' She shivered and shoved her empty
glass forward. "How many toothpicks do I have in front of me?"
"Four, my lady."
"Then I've drunk four drinks, unless the toothpicks're
breeding. Do you know, in thousands of years of progress,

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we've never been able to improve on the toothpick? I suppose
when man was slogging his way through the swamps, beating
his dinner over the head with clubs, he picked up a stick and
poked what was left out of his teeth. And here we are today,
traveling beyond the speed of light, proving Einstein wrong,
and scattering toothpicks throughout the universe. A marvel-
ous creation, man."
Dion glanced around the bar, hunched closer to her. "Lady
Maigrey," he said in low tones, "can I ask you a question about
that initiation?"
"Shhhh," she warned, and he leaned nearer.
"During the rite, I kept that . . . ball ... in the air. I
willed it with my mind to stay floating above my hands."
"Yes?" she said, arranging the toothpicks in a square on the
bar.
"I've been trying it, in my room. I can't even keep a paper
cup up in the air!"
Maigrey folded in one side of the square. "You did what you
did out of desperation, duress, adrenaline. It takes years of
study and training to learn to break the laws."
"Break the law? But I don't want—"
"Physical laws. The laws of the universe."
"Can you do it? Break the laws?" he asked in almost a
whisper.
Maigrey smiled, rearranged the toothpicks into an M.
"What could you do, if you wanted, my lady?"
"What could I do?" Her voice, her smile, were soft. "I could
split the bulkheads open. I could short out all the electrical
systems. I could make each man in this bar rise up and slay
himself."
Dion stared at her, skeptical, dubious. "If you could do all
that, you could have escaped, any time you wanted!"
"Yes, I suppose I could have," Maigrey said, reversing the
toothpicks, forming a W.
"Then why—" he paused, licking his lips. "Me, isn't it?"
Maigrey nodded, reached for her glass, and took a drink.
Yes, you, Dion Starfire. I am a Guardian, after all."
"You want something, kid?" The bartender came over.
"What? Oh, no, thank you." Dion waited until the man left.
This power—can you teach me to use it?"
"No."
"No?" Dion was disappointed, angry. "Then Lord Sagan
will."

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"I don't think so. You see, that was the message of the rite,
Dion. One of the messages, at any rate. You have the power,
but you are destined never to be able to make use of it."
"Why? How do you know?"
The gray eyes fixed on him, their gaze cool, dispassionate.
"Because it turned on you. Because it damn near killed you!"
"But that's not right, not fair! It's a . . . waste!"
Maigrey's gaze went back to the glass in her hands. "Yes, a
waste. All such a waste." Rousing herself, she sighed and said,
"It's almost time for the meeting." She slid off the barstool.
"Wait a moment." Dion, rising, blocked her way. "If you
have these wonderful powers, why don't you use them?
Like"—he gestured angrily, frustrated—"to pick up that glass
or open doors—"
"We can't live without order in our lives. One group of the
Blood Royal tried it. They became outlaws, running—not from
the laws of man—but from the laws of the universe. They
plunged into chaos and never managed to find their way out."
"Who were they?"
"They called themselves the Order of Dark Lightning, a
mockery of the priests' Order of Adamant. They were 'mind-
seizers.' Their order was destroyed during the revolution. I
suppose you could say, after all, some good came out of evil."
Maigrey waved to the bartender, who bowed in return.
"Thanks, Merlin."
"Is that his name?" Dion turned to stare.
"God, I hope not."
She walked out of the bar. Dion was amazed to see every
man rise to his feet as she passed. He imagined her standing in
the midst of them, her long, pale hair flowing over her
shoulders, her arms raised to the heavens, commanding, "Die.
Die for me. Die for me now!"
Dion saw the expressions on the faces of the men, heard the
murmured words of respect and admiration that fell at her feet
like rose petals, and he began to believe in her. His belief
shook him to the core of his being.
-<>■ «c>-
"You've fought the Corasians before, haven't you?" Dion
said, hastening after the woman, who was traversing the
corridors at an incredible rate of speed. Men cleared her path,
but they didn't clear Dion's, and he was continually caroming
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"Yes," Maigrey answered, glancing over her right shoulder.
Not finding him there, she looked over her left, saw him
attempting to dodge a servicebot, and slowed her pace to allow
him to catch up. "The Corasians used to raid the galaxy on a
regular basis, hitting the planets on the outer fringes, mostly.
They're desperate for new technology. They're an intelligent
species, but they haven't a creative bone in their bodies. In
fact, they haven't any bones in their bodies."
Maigrey stopped and peered around the maze of corridors.
"Where's the conference room?"
"This way." Dion steered her down a passageway to their
left. "What are they, then?"
"Creator only knows. To me, they look like something a
volcano spit up. Some sort of intelligent form of energy, kind
of like a flaming amoeba. That sounds like a drink, doesn't it?
A flaming amoeba. We made the Corasians what they are
today, you know."
"We did? How? We take this elevator to level nine."
"My, those doors shut fast, don't they? What level's the
flight deck on?"
"Level sixteen. Why?"
"No particular reason. Just handy to know these things.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Bringing the Corasians into the
twenty-second century. It happened around the middle of the
twenty-first, when hyperdrive had been perfected and humans
were happily zipping all over the universe, spreading tooth-
picks. A bunch of priests— That sounds funny, doesn't it? A
bunch of priests. Perhaps it should be a flock.
"Anyway, these priests were sent off to bring not only
toothpicks but the Word of God to the poor benighted souls in
the galaxy next door who'd never heard it. Discovering
intelligent minds on the planet of Corasia, the priests
promptly landed and realized almost at once that they had
made one of history's all-time great mistakes. Sort of like the
enterprising life insurance salesman who sold policies to the
men of the Seventh Cavalry right before the Battle of Little
Big Horn.
"The Corasians were delighted to see the priests. So de-
lighted that they refused to let them go."
The elevator came to a halt. The doors opened.
"The Corasians kept the priests prisoner until the day they
died and, from what we have gathered, the good fathers must
have prayed daily for death. You see, at that time, the

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Corasians were just molten blobs, roaming around their
planet, sucking up the energy they needed to live. They'd just
about depleted the sources. The priests were—no pun
intended—a godsend."
"This is the level," Dion said. Maigrey hadn't moved. He
looked at his watch. "We should hurry, my lady."
"Yes, I guess we should." She walked out of the elevator,
took a wrong turn. Dion drew her back. "The first thing the
Corasians did was to take over the priests' robots. The
Corasians discovered that they could fit their bodies inside
these machines and use them for the hands and arms that they
lacked. Their own energy powered the bots, they supplied the
intelligence. Once they'd done this, they had the ability to
take apart the robots, figure out how they were built, and start
building their own.
"By "interrogating' the priests, the Corasians learned about
our galaxy and the marvels of technology we'd created that
were just sitting around, waiting to be picked up. Using
the priests' taped voices, the Corasians sent out distress
signals and trapped ships that came to their rescue. Once they
had these ships, they were able to scavenge more equip-
ment, build more robots. Eventually they sailed forth and
attacked other ships, which led them to the human and alien
colonies that were springing up on the fringes of their own
galaxy.
"The Corasians used the humans they captured as slaves,
forced them to build more machines, and within a century had
become a completely mechanized populace spread out over
hundreds of planets in their galaxy."
"This is the conference room," Dion said in a low voice.
"Through those doors."
"The doors that are closed and guarded." Maigrey crossed
her arms, and leaned back against a bulkhead. "I guess we're
early. I'm always early. It's a compulsion, just as bad as people
who're always late."
"We're not the only ones," Dion muttered, returning the
stares of the other early arrivals—ship's officers, gazing curi-
ously and with interest at the woman and the young man—
the subject of the fascinating rumors currently circulating
throughout the fleet. Dion moved nearer Maigrey, who was
regarding them all with amusement, as if enjoying a private
joke.
"The Golden Squadron was being honored for heroism

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against the Corasians the night of the revolution, wasn't it, my
lady? At least that's what Tusk said. I'm sorry. Maybe I
shouldn't have brought that up."
Maigrey had gone exceedingly pale. The indigo blue dress
she wore emphasized the pallor. The elation of the alcohol was
fading, giving way to depression and the beginnings of a bad
headache.
Seeing the young man's chagrined expression, Maigrey
flushed self-consciously. "There you go, apologizing again."
Mgre officers appeared, milling about in the corridor,
talking in low voices. They were waiting for the Warlord, who
hadn't yet arrived. And though everyone stared at Dion and
Maigrey and it was obvious they were the subject of much of
the whispered discussion, no one spoke to them.
"I don't mind talking about it," she said. "It'll tell you
something about the enemy. The renowned Gold Squadron,
famous in story and song, had been sent on—of all things—a
recruiting mission. Sagan was furious. He considered himself
above all that nonsense. But the king had commanded us to go
and we couldn't disobey. ..."
Her voice trailed off; she was silent, looking back. The
voices faded around her, the walls of the ship dissolved.
Once again, she was standing on that beautiful planet with its
trees and birds and gently rolling sea, the white sand beaches,
the water that glittered with phosphorus in the long, warm,
soft nights. What was the planet's name? She couldn't recall.
And there'd been a time when she'd thought she'd never
forget.
And then had come the shadows.
"I saw the enemy, in my mind, much like yesterday. Only I
didn't know what they were. We'd fought them before, but I'd
never seen them in my visions. I was nervous and upset, which
was odd, because all the others—even Sagan—had begun to
relax and enjoy ..."
Her eyes closed. She shook her head. "But never mind that.
I knew something dreadful was going to happen, some sort of
terrible calamity was sweeping down on this planet. Sagan,
through the mind-link, came to share my fear. We went to the
authorities, tried to convince them to take precautions, to
mobilize their defenses. By then I knew what the enemy was,
I could see the Corasians clearly. But this planet was a happy
place, a sunny place. And what were we but a bunch of royal
brats—too smart for our own good?

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"We returned to our base. Sagan had decided, orders or no
orders, we were getting the hell out of there. But it was too
late. The Corasians came out of hyperspace and hit the planet
before it knew what was happening.
"It was a pilot's worst nightmare—being caught on the
ground during an assault. The Corasians don't use destructive
nuclear weapons. God forbid that they should hurt the ma-
chines or ruin a perfectly good food source. They drop
chemical bombs; that paralyze all living organisms. Then they
move in and take over. Some of the people—the strong
ones—are restored, used as slaves. Others—the old, the weak,
the children—well, they're marched, like cattle, into the
slaughterhouses. And for the same purpose."
"My God!" Sweat beaded Dion's upper lip. The lines around
his mouth were tinged green.
"The Corasian fleet was sighted and the planetary govern-
ment had just time enough to send everyone into terror-
stricken panic. The first battle we fought wasn't against the
enemy. We fought our own kind. They wanted our planes.
They wanted to escape. It was awful. I remember Danha
Tusca, weeping, as he shot them down. Sagan saved our lives
that day ..."
"Maigrey," Dion said softly.
But she didn't see him or hear him. She didn't see or hear
the Warlord come up and stand right in front of her. She was
blind to the present. Her eyes saw only the past.
"He was calm, frighteningly calm. He said we couldn't
survive an encounter with an invading fleet; he ordered us to
delay our takeoff until most of the Corasians had landed and
were occupied in conquering the planet. Our helmets pro-
tected us from the paralyzing gas.
"Sagan's plan worked. When we finally lifted off, the main
body of the enemy fleet had been dispersed and was scattered
all over the solar system. We fought our way out easily, flew to
the nearest battlecruiser in the vicinity and alerted the king.
The Royal Army attacked and eventually drove the enemy
from the planet.
"Sagan saved our lives," Maigrey repeated. "His will held us
together when we were falling apart. He was our commander
and we revered and respected him. We would have followed
him anywhere."
She became aware of her audience, of the man standing
before her, clad in golden armor, golden helmet hiding the

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face in shadows. Her voice faltered when she realized what
she'd been saying and who'd been listening.
"We revered and respected him," she repeated steadily,
"and we would have followed him anywhere—except down,
into dishonor, disgrace. Into hell."

Chapter	Three
The lion is alone, and so am I.
George Gordon, Lord Byron, "Manfred"
The conference chamber aboard Phoenix was a large, oval
room whose walls were decorated with a gigantic composite
photograph of the galaxy taken from the side and focused
inward. One gigantic arm of the galaxy's spiral began at
approximately the place the Warlord was standing. The myriad
stars swept around the room, bunching up and becoming
thicker and thicker above the door at the room's far end, which
was directly opposite Lord Sagan. On the opposite side of the
door, the stars flattened out and the other spiral arm extended
around the room, vanishing into darkness, both arms nearly
meeting right above the Warlord's head. It looked to Maigrey
as if the stars were engulfing them and she began to feel
slightly claustrophobic. Not to mention a throbbing headache.
"And that, gentlemen, is the updated report on the enemy's
strength. They are formidable, to say the least."
To say the least. The officers were avoiding meeting each
other's eyes. Those who couldn't hide their appalled expres-
sions stared down at their hands. The rest kept carefully
impassive gazes fixed on their Warlord.
"I have been in contact with the President. He has ordered
us, essentially, to stand in harm's way. If we cannot stop the
enemy, we are to inflict severe damage, force them to halt
their advance."
"My lord." A young officer, the youngest present, raised his
hand.
"Williams."
"Begging your pardon, my lord, but why doesn't the Repub-
lic support us? They could have fifty cruisers here within a
ship's week."
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An intelligent young man. Maigrey noted Sagan reward him
with an approving glance. Of course, the Warlord couldn't tell
him the truth, tell this young man that he and his compatriots
were being sacrificed to their liege lord's dangerous ambition.
"Such a move would leave the densely populated systems at
the galaxy's heart virtually unprotected. A second line of
defense is being thrown up here"—the Warlord moved along
the wall, to stand near one panel at the center of the galactic
map—"and here." There was some muttering and low ex-
changes of conversation. The Warlord allowed this to continue
for only a certain length of time, then his deep baritone
overrode them. "We have our orders, gentlemen. There is no
use whining about them."
The officers appeared chagrined, some—among them young
Williams—flushed angrily. "My lord—" he began in protest.
"I have not yet finished, Captain. There is, of course,
another alternative to the two I have mentioned. We damage
the enemy, we stop the enemy, or we destroy the enemy
utterly. I have decided on the latter. In other words, gentle-
men, I intend to win."
Three rousing cheers, Maigrey thought, leaning her aching
head on her hands. She could feel the wave of enthusiasm
break over her, sweeping them all along with their Warlord to,
what? Inevitable destruction. We would have followed him
anywhere. . . .
"Are you feeling quite well, my lady?"
The Warlord, walking back to his place at the head of the
table, paused behind her chair. He was furious with her, but
whether over what she'd said or the fact that she'd been
drinking was beyond her current mental capacity to figure out.
"Yes, thank you, my lord. A slight headache. It will pass."
Maigrey didn't bother to look up at him.
The Warlord continued past her, pausing a moment to
answer a question put to him by Admiral Aks. What in God's
name had caused her to bring up that ancient history anyhow?
It was that cursed wizard's potion. She'd asked for one to make
her forget the past, not present it to her in living color.
"... our strategy will be to wait. We'll take up stations
outside the Vangelis solar system, to protect our supply
sources, particularly the uranium. We have some time in
which to prepare ourselves. The Corasians, following their
customary procedure, are establishing bases in Shelton's sys-

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tem. They'll need to obtain fuel and to repair whatever
equipment was damaged in their attack on Shelton."
The faces of the officers were grim. Many of them had fought
the Corasians and knew what they did to a conquered planet.
One of them—Williams again—raised his hand.
"My lord, why don't we attack them now, on Shelton's
planets, before they recoup their strength?"
Sagan's lips were a straight dark line beneath his helmet. "I
don't like the thought of what's happening to the people on
Shelton's planets any more than you do, Captain Williams. But
to rush heedlessly to their rescue would serve no one. We will
let the Corasians stretch their supply lines. We will let them
come to us and we will spend our time preparing to meet
them."
There was a struggle in young Williams's face. He wanted
desperately to argue. Perhaps he knew someone on Shelton's
planets. Or maybe he was just a young warrior who longed for
the glory of the charge, who lacked the patience to crouch
down in the foxhole and wait. Dion, next to Maigrey, stirred
restlessly. He must agree with the captain, Maigrey realized.
Why is it always the young, who have the most to lose, who
want to rush headlong to death?
Because they are immortal, Maigrey answered silently.
Once, I was immortal. . . .
Williams managed to control himself and the meeting
continued.
"I will not hide from you gentlemen the fact that we are in
desperate need of manpower. The local systems can be of no
help to us. They have put their own military on alert and will
be providing for the defense of their own planets. The Lady
Maigrey has offered a suggestion which I have considered and
have decided to act upon. You know, of course, about the
conflict being carried on between one Marek and the govern-
ment of Vangelis. Marek called in mercenaries to assist him.
Lady Maigrey proposes that we ask these mercenaries—
particularly those who are fighter pilots—to join us."
"My lord, I must protest!" Captain Nada, of course. "Even if
this scum could be scraped up out of the gutter and molded
into some sort of viable fighting force, it would be impossible
to trust them!"
"What do you mean, scum?" Dion was on his feet, his chair
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"That will do, Dion." Sagan's tone was stern.
"Viable fighting force?" The young man was in a rage, past
hearing. "They can outfight you, you fat—"
"Dion, sit down."
The Warlord did not raise his voice. It penetrated the young
man's fury, however—that and Maigrey's cool fingers touching
his forearm. Swallowing his wrath, Dion picked up his chair
and sullenly returned to his seat.
"Perhaps with any other troop of mercenaries, I would agree
with you, Captain Nada. But these are led by a man known to
myself, to Lady Maigrey, and, I believe, to Admiral Aks."
The admiral nodded.
"His name is John Dixter. He held the rank of general in the
old Royal Army. I have served with Dixter. He is a capable
commander, a good judge of men. I can assure you that his
people will be disciplined, skilled, and—if Dixter gives me his
word—I believe they can be trusted."
Maigrey stared at Sagan. What a commendation! It was no
more than John deserved, but still— The knowledge made her
uneasy. Any man Sagan rated that highly would be a man he
would consider dangerous. She probed his thoughts but
discovered them roped off, barricaded. She sensed duplicity;
this wasn't the innocent overture for an alliance of desperation
that it appeared. But, if not, then what? Surely, even Sagan,
when driven into a corner and fighting for his life, would not
expend his energy in taking potshots at an apparition from his
past? Maigrey, frustrated, was suddenly sorry she had ever
made the suggestion. She had the distinct impression that,
somehow, she had played right into Sagan's hands.
"As you say, my lord, I know John Dixter," Admiral Aks was
adding. "I know him from the old days. I agree with you, my
lord, that he is a good officer and that he can be trusted.
However, I do not think he will join us. His hatred and
defiance of the Republic is well known. It is not a question of
us trusting him, but of him trusting us." Aks made his speech
smoothly; he'd been well coached.
"That is true, Admiral, and therefore I propose that we send
this young man, Dion Starfire, to act as intermediary. The
young man, as you have witnessed from his impassioned, if
ill-timed and ill-mannered defense, is acquainted with John
Dixter and those in his command. He will inform the merce-
naries of our mutual danger and offer them our proposal of a
temporary alliance."

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Dion's mouth fell open. He stared at Maigrey, then at
Sagan. Maigrey was no help. She would have liked to tell the
young man to refuse, but she had no grounds to do so, nothing
but a vague feeling of disquiet. And we need the pilots! she
reminded herself. We need their planes. Maybe I'm just being
paranoid.
"Of course," the Warlord was continuing, "Starfire is a
civilian. I cannot order him to undertake this mission, but I
would take it as a great personal favor if he would."
The Warlord smiled, the dark line of the lips lengthening.
By thy cold breast and serpent smile . . . Maigrey shiv-
ered.
Flushed with pride, stammering with confusion, aware of
the cool, measured observations of the officers, Dion rose
awkwardly to his feet, his chair scraping the deck.
"My lord. I— It would be my honor. What about sending
Lady Maigrey with me? I really don't know General"—Captain
Nada snorted at the use of this title and the Warlord cast him
a swift, frowning glance—"Dixter all that well, but he and the
Lady Maigrey were friends—"
"An excellent suggestion," Sagan answered gravely, "but I
find her ladyship's presence on this ship necessary. She has
fought the Corasians before. I value her advice. She will
remain here—safely, I assure you."
Dion opened his mouth to argue, felt Maigrey's hand on his,
and said instead, "Very well, my lord."
"You will leave at once, when this meeting is ended. There
is no time to be lost. Gentlemen, I have told you everything I
can. If you have questions, ask them now. All ships are to be
rigged for silent running until the battle begins. No ship-
to-shore transmissions are to be either sent or received.
Communication between ourselves will be handled by courier.
The enemy can see us, there's no need to let him hear us, as
well. Oh, and by the way, Captain Nada, I'm afraid this means
President Robes will have to miss his daily reports. He'll be
annoyed, but then, this is war and we must all make our little
sacrifices."
By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile . . . The lines of Byron's
poem, Manfred, came to her.
The officers looked at each other, puzzled, not knowing what
this meant. Nada knew. The captain's eyes bulged with
outrage; his choleric face was purple. He sputtered, attempted
to stare down the Warlord, to bluster his way out. But as far as
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eyes, shadowed by the helm, ran their steel gaze right through
the wretched man. Nada slumped back in his chair. The
purple faded from his face, leaving it the color of the under-
belly of a dead fish.
The silence became acutely uncomfortable. Admiral Aks,
acting on a subtle cue, responded with a question. Sagan
replied and the conversation lapsed into clarification and
discussion of strategy and tactics. Dion, leaning forward in his
chair, listened with eager, intense excitement. Maigrey settled
back and let her head hurt. Only when the talk switched to
spaceplanes, and in particular the Scimitar, did she pay close
attention. And then she had to be careful not to allow Sagan to
notice.
By that most seeming virtuous eye . . .
The meeting ended. Chairs scraped, the officers were on
their feet, some hoping to talk further to the Warlord, others
speaking into their commlinks, commanding their shuttles to
be readied. Captain Nada, without a word to anyone, slunk out
of the room. No one made any attempt to speak to him. It was
obvious to all of them that he was out of favor with the
Warlord. From now on, Nada was nothing.
Maigrey stood up. The Warlord cast her a glance, command-
ing her to stay. She would have liked to remind him that she,
too, was a civilian, and therefore not subject to his command,
but she supposed that wasn't really true. She couldn't remem-
ber a time when her life had been at peace. She'd seen her first
battle when she was five years old, perched on the back of her
father's horse. She was and always had been a warrior.
Maigrey started to sit down, saw Dr. Giesk edging his way
through the crowd toward her, and hastily moved to join Dion,
who was standing near the Warlord. Giesk was, fortunately,
captured by a captain who wanted to discuss a pain he'd been
suffering in his left side.
With practiced ease, Sagan spoke with those who had
legitimate questions and politely dismissed those who merely
wanted to insinuate themselves into his notice. Maigrey lost
track of the conversation. How did the rest of the Manfred
poem go?
By thy shut soul's hypocrisy . . .
Admiral Aks, remembering his duties, recalled the more
persistent questioners to theirs and personally escorted them
from the conference room. When the three were alone, the
Warlord turned to Dion.

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"Your Scimitar is being readied. Can you leave within the
hour?"
"I can leave now, this moment, my lord!"
Dion flamed with eagerness, excitement. His eyes were on
the Warlord. Maigrey recognized the look of admiration in
them; she'd seen it reflected often in her own.
By the perfection of thine art
Which pass'd for human thine own heart . . .
Sagan glanced at Maigrey. It was nothing more than a
glance, he said nothing, not even in his thoughts. But she
knew it for what it was—his trumpet call of victory.
What was he plotting? Dear God, what was he up to?
"I have had placed in your spaceplane a complete report on
the situation. I've provided John Dixter with full information
on the status of my fleet, on my strength, numbers, every-
thing. That should convince him, if nothing else will, that I am
to be trusted.
"A meeting between Dixter and myself can be held on the
planet's surface. Neither he nor any of his people need come
on board the ship. Should he be willing to discuss my
proposal, I am certain that the Lady Maigrey would be pleased
to take part in the final negotiations."
Sagan looked at her for her approbation. What could she
say? "Yes, of course, my lord."
By thy delight in others' pain . . .
"Do you have any message for me to take General Dixter,
my lady?" Dion turned; his blue eyes were intense, enflamed.
"Perhaps Lady Maigrey would prefer to give you her
message in private," Sagan suggested. His eyes burned with a
darker fire.
And by thy brotherhood of Cain . . .
"That will not be necessary, my lord. Dion, ask John—
General Dixter—if he recalls the human impersonator on
Laskar."
Dion looked disappointed. At his age, he'd been expecting
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. This message would tell John
what he needed to know. As for the other, it was too late for
that. It always had been.
Maigrey was suddenly extremely tired. "If you no longer
need me, my lord—"

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"No, my lady. Thank you. Come, Dion. I'll walk you to your
ship. I've had a few modifications installed—"
I call upon thee! and compel
Thyself to be thy proper Hell!
Perhaps, after all, she'd go back to the bar.

Chapter -w*- Four
Here comes the prince.
William Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part II,
Act V, Scene 2
Bwaamp! Bwaamp! Bwaamp!
The blaring siren blasted Tusk out of his hammock. Enemy
alert! He dropped the mag he'd been reading, stumbled
forward, and fell over an empty bottle, stubbing his toe.
Swearing, he hopped across the deck. The plunge from his
quarters on the upper deck to the cockpit on the lower was a
harrowing experience, but he made it almost safely. His body
acted while his mind attempted to fight its way up from the
fogs of jump-juice and he was seated in his chair in the cockpit,
flipping switches and muttering commands, before it occurred
to him that something wasn't quite right.
For a base that was under enemy attack, the night was
remarkably peaceful and quiet.
"Hey! What the hell's going on?" Bwaamp! Bwaamp!
Bwaamp! "And shut that damn thing off!"
The siren faded away with a deathlike rattle in its throat.
There was something wrong with it. Tusk had always meant to
fix it, but had just never gotten around to it. He didn't really
use it all that much, anyway. It was his own private invention,
to get him going in case of an emergency.
"Goddam it," Tusk swore, peering outside the viewport and
seeing the other spaceplanes in the encampment sitting dark
and silent, their pilots undoubtedly peacefully relaxing.
"There had better be ten thousand enemy fighters bearing
down on us right now, XJ, or so help me I'll drop a bomb on
you myself!"
"There's no attack," the computer stated.
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"No attack! Then what was this? Just a little test for my
nervous system?" Struggling to his feet, Tusk shook his fist at
the blinking-eyed, monkey-faced computer. "I'll tell you how
my nervous system is! It's shot to hell! My pulse rate's
one-ninety! I think I'm having a goddam heart attack!" The
mercenary staggered across the deck and over to the ladder.
"I'm going back to bed."
"Dixter wants you," XJ said.
"It can wait till morning."
"This is morning. 0200 hours. And it can't wait. The kid's
back."
Tusk had his foot on the first rung of the ladder. The metal
was cold on his bare flesh. He paused, and in the silence he
could hear his heart thumping in his chest.
"The kid?" He looked over at XJ. "Dion?"
"What is this, a nursery? How many kids you think we got
stashed around here? Yeah, of course, Dion. He—"
But Tusk didn't listen, didn't hear. Scrambling up the
ladder, he hit the deck running, dragged on a pair of jeans,
stuck his feet into his sandals, hauled a disreputable shirt over
his head, plunged his head and face into a sink full of cold
water, and was up the ladder and out the hatch before XJ could
complete his harangue.
The computer, left behind, comforted itself by replaying a
vid tape it had just made of Tusk leaping out of his hammock
when the siren went off.
Tusk saw lights in the general's trailer and quickened his
pace. He knocked on the door, barely waiting for a reply
before he flung it open. A bleary-eyed Bennett was brewing
coffee.
"The general sent for me?"
"In there." Bennett nodded. "The general will be here in a
moment." The aide cast a stern and disdainful glance at Tusk's
outfit. "He is dressing."
Even at two in the morning, Bennett managed to look as if
he could go on parade in the next twenty seconds. His uniform
was crisp, shoes polished, hair combed. Tusk did note,
however, that the aide had missed buttoning a button, third
from the top, on his shirt. Bennett wasn't infallible. There was,
after all, justice in the universe. Tusk shoved open the door to
the general's office.

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"Kid!" he cried, bounding into the room and preparing to
fling his arms around the boy.
Only it wasn't a boy who stood facing him. Tusk stopped,
staring, confused and uncertain. He would have as soon flung
his arms around an open flame.
Dion came forward, an eager light in his blue eyes, to shake
the mercenary's hand. "Tusk! How are you? How's XJ?"
"Fine," Tusk mumbled.
He eyed the young man—the black and red-trimmed
uniform, the sword on his hip. The wild flame-gold mane of
hair had been neatly trimmed and slicked down.
Tusk pulled up a chair. Dion resumed his seat. On his lap he
held a slim metal case—the type used for carrying important
documents. Tusk recognized the symbol that stood in raised
relief on the outside of the case—a phoenix, rising from
flames. The mercenary crossed one leg over the other, un-
crossed it, scratched his head, and wished Dixter would get
here.
"You seen the general, k— Dion?" he asked, after a mo-
ment.
"No. I just landed a few minutes ago." The young man
looked apologetic, glancing at Tusk's disheveled appearance.
The smell of jump-juice was strong in the air. "Did I take you
from a party? I hadn't expected it to be the middle of the night.
It was only the middle of the afternoon when I left the ship."
"Ship's time." Tusk was feeling increasingly uncomfortable.
"I wonder if that coffee's ready yet." He stood up and started
for the door, only to fall back as it opened and General Dixter
stepped through.
Tusk saluted, hand to his forehead. Dion saluted, too, fist
over his heart. Dixter looked at the young man, noticing
everything Tusk had noticed. He smiled slightly, his eyes
remaining grave.
"I'm not a Warlord yet, Dion," he said.
The young man looked startled, then, realizing what he'd
done, he hastily relaxed his salute and held out his right hand.
"I'm sorry, sir. I guess I got into the habit."
General Dixter took the young man's hand, but he did not
shake it. Instead, he turned it palm up, to the light. The skin
was marred by five red swollen marks.
"At ease, Tusk. Sit down."
Feeling bleak and empty, as if he'd found something

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precious he'd lost only to discover it had never been his, Tusk
subsided into a chair and sat, fidgeting.
Dion radiated a self-conscious self-importance that was both
attractive and repellent. It seemed to the mercenary as if the
kid had raised his shields, was protecting himself from attack.
Dixter took his seat behind his desk. The night air was crisp
and chill. Bennett, entering the room, brought cups of coffee;
the steam rose from them in spirals. Before he left, the aide
switched on a small space heater.
Dixter, sipping his coffee, looked intently at Dion and said
nothing.
The young man suddenly appeared embarrassed, uncertain
where to begin.
"So, uh, kid, how'd you escape?" Tusk asked.
"I didn't," Dion said. "The Warlord sent me."
Dixter held very still, then slowly set the coffee cup down on
the desk.
"Tusk, you know what to do."
"Yes, sir." The mercenary was rising to his feet. "I'll alert—"
"No, wait! Please!" Dion reached out his hand, grabbed hold
of Tusk's arm. "Listen, it isn't like that! I haven't betrayed you!
I wouldn't. Lady Maigrey wouldn't, either." He held up the
metal case. "Please, look at what's in here. Then you'll
understand."
"Lady Maigrey?" Dixter's expression didn't change, but the
lines on his face seemed to stand out more noticeably. "What
about Lady Maigrey?" He didn't look at the case the boy held
out to him.
I've seen her, sir. I've been with her. You're right, sir.
Everything you said about her. A comet. Flaming ice. Only
she's so sad. So unhappy. I wish—" Dion stopped, drew a deep
breath, and kept silent.
Dixter stared, unseeing, at the steam rising in a long, thin,
unbroken line from the coffee. "She's alive."
Yes, sir. It was her idea that I come to you, her suggestion.
Please, sir, read what I've brought."
Dixter took the proffered case, laid it down on the table.
Dion leaned over and punched in a combination on the locking
device. There was a click, a whir, and the case's lid opened.
Inside were a few sheets of paper, bearing the official letter-
head of the Republic, and a computer disk. Lifting the papers,
the general began to read.
Tusk, watching the man's face, saw the flesh around the lines

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sag and grow haggard, the skin go pale beneath its weathered
tan. Paten alive by curiosity, barely able to contain his impulse
to snatch up the papers, Tusk tried to contain himself by
swallowing a large gulp of coffee. He'd forgotten it was hot and
yelped in pain, the steaming liquid burning his throat, tongue,
and the roof of his mouth. The mercenary hastily covered his
mouth, but the general never looked up.
Dixter's coffee gradually grew cool. He didn't notice, didn't
touch it. He read the papers carefully—there were only three;
Sagan was always concise—and then replaced them carefully
in the case.
"So that's what's been going on." The general picked up the
disk, but made no move to insert it into his computer. He
tapped the disk against the top of his desk.
"Please, sir, what's been going on?" Tusk pleaded.
"Two days ago, we intercepted a series of distress signals
being sent from a remote system on the fringes to any warships
in the vicinity. They were in code; we couldn't make out what
was being said or where it came from. And then they ceased.
Shortly after that, there was a flurry of transmissions from the
Phoenix back to headquarters. Again in code, but one of our
operators, who used to serve aboard the battleship Diana, said
she thought Phoenix was in direct contact with the President
himself."
"Yes, sir," Dion said. "As you see in the report, it's all there.
What the President said—"
"What's all there? Sir, for God's sake—"
"The Corasians, Tusk," Dixter answered. "They've invaded
the galaxy. They've attacked and taken Shelton's system. Sagan
believes that they're preparing for an all-out assault on the
galaxy. He thinks they'll strike this direction next. The War-
lord has been ordered by President Robes to make a stand and,
if unable to stop the enemy here, then he is to do as much
damage to them as possible."
"Holy shit," Tusk said reverently and with awe.
"Lord Sagan"—the general's voice was expressionless,
impassive-—"has asked for our help."
Tusk scowled. Reaching for his coffee, his hand jerked and
he spilled it over his legs. "Hah! That explains it, then. It's a
trap, sir."
"No, it isn't!" Dion protested earnestly. "Lady Maigrey saw
them in a vision! Lord Sagan could have killed her, but he
didn't because of the invasion! You have to believe me, sir!"

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"I believe you, son. I heard the distress calls myself."
Dixter lapsed into silence. He kept tapping the disk on the
table. It was the only sound in the night. Snick, tap, snick.
Tusk, gritting his teeth, thought he might crawl out of his skin
if that noise didn't stop.
Dixter rose slowly to his feet. The space heater was pump-
ing out hot air and it was growing uncomfortably warm in the
small office. Without thinking of what he was doing, the
general switched on a fan, and stood staring out the window,
into the night.
Dion prodded. "Lord Sagan wants to meet with you, sir, to
discuss the alliance. It has to be soon. We have a little time, he
thinks, but not much. All the details, statistics, everything he
knows about the enemy force is on that disk. The meeting can
take place on this planet, anywhere you choose. Lady Maigrey
will be there."
"She will?" Dixter turned his head around, looked at the
young man over his shoulder. The fan whirred softly.
Tusk was on his feet. Going over to stand near the general,
he spoke in a low undertone. "Sir, he's wearing one of those
damn swords. You saw the marks in his hand. I know
something about them; my father had one. It can do weird
things to your brain—"
Dion stood up. His face was pale, resolute. "General Dixter,
sir, I want to tell you something. You and Tusk, both."
The men turned to face him, Dixter's expression thoughtful,
Tusk scowling and unhappy.
"I know who I am, sir. I have a last name. It's Starfire."
Dixter nodded. Tusk coughed and started to make some
remark, but the general halted him with a slight gesture.
"That means that I'm king. The people in this galaxy are my
people, my responsibility, given to me by God. I can't, I won't
allow them to be hurt without doing everything I possibly can
to protect them!"
King! Of what? That square foot of floor space you're
standing on, maybe! Grow up! Get real! Tusk wanted to laugh
out loud, laugh long and bitterly, and put an end to this. But
the laughter never made it past his gut. He saw the young
man's face, saw the intensity in the bright blue eyes, heard the
earnest, serious tone in the hopelessly young voice. Tusk felt
the flame, felt the fire.
"I don't believe this!" The mercenary plopped down in

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Dixter's chair and glared at everyone in range. "I don't believe
any of this!" But he did, and that was the problem.
The general laid a hand on Tusk's shoulder, its firm grip
comforting. Dixter's words, however, were to Dion.
"There's one thing I don't understand, Your—" the general
paused; he'd almost said Your Majesty and meant it—
"er . . . young man. How can Lord Sagan be so certain the
Corasians are going to strike out in this direction?" He waved
a hand at the stars. "There's a million other possible routes—"
"I think Lord Sagan had better explain that to you himself,
sir." Dion flushed. "I sat in on the discussion, but I really don't
understand. Will you, at least, agree to a meeting, sir?"
Dixter said nothing. The fan whirred. The heater pumped
out hot air. The general absentmindedly opened a window.
Cold wind flowed into the room.
Turning, Dixter gave Dion a sudden, sharp, quizzical look.
"Lady Maigrey must have sent me a message. What did she
say?"
Dion licked his lips. "It's kind of strange, sir. Not, perhaps,
what you might suppose—"
"Dion, her message."
"Sir, she said"—the young man shrugged—"to remember
the human impersonator on Laskar."
The general switched off the fan. Tusk, sitting at the desk in
his shirtsleeves, had goose bumps on his black skin.
"I'll agree to the meeting."
Dion looked startled, then relieved, then elated. "You will,
sir? Where? When?"
"Tomorrow. 1200 hours." Dixter walked over to a map,
studied it, and put his finger on a spot. "Here. Take down the
coordinates." He read off longitude and latitude.
Dion repeated them excitedly. "I have them. I won't forget.
I'll go back now and tell him . . . and Lady Maigrey. Good-
bye, sir. And thank you! Thank you!" He shook Dixter's hand
heartily. "Tusk? You'll be there tomorrow, won't you?"
The mercenary didn't look up. "Yeah, tomorrow."
Dion gazed at him worriedly, a frown creasing his forehead.
He started to reach out, to touch him, but Dixter shook his
head. "He'll be all right, son. Just give him time. You better
go. The Warlord will be waiting for you."
"Yes, sir. You're right. I'll go. Thank you again, sir."
Dion, with a last glance behind him at Tusk, saluted—

THE LOST KING
349
correctly, this time—and left the office. "Good-bye, Bennett.
It was good to see you again."
They heard Bennett's cool, correct reply, the door opening
and closing. The aide peered in.
"Do you need anything, sir?"
"Enter this into the computer, Bennett," Dixter said, hand-
ing him the disk. "No hurry. Let me know when I can call it
up. And arrange for a meeting of all pilots at 0600."
"Yes, sir." Bennett glanced at Tusk, slumped over the desk.
The aide raised his eyebrows questioningly. Dixter shook his
head, and Bennett, taking the disk, left.
Outside, through the open window, came the sounds of a
spaceplane preparing for takeoff.
Tusk looked up. "What the devil does a human impersonator
have to do with this?"
"Interesting." Dixter mused. "An interesting message. I
wonder ..."
"Sir?"
"The human impersonator of Laskar was an alien with an
obsession about being human. It hated us and at the same time
longed to be one of us. This obsession degenerated into
madness. The alien had the ability to shift its form. It would
become human in appearance and entice humans—men and
women both—into having sex with it. In the middle of the act,
the alien would change back to its original body. It was so
loathsome and hideous that its victims would sometimes kill
themselves rather than have to live with the knowledge that
they'd been making love to a grotesque and horrible monster."
Tusk shook his head, too muddfed to try to understand,
wondering obliquely what this said about the general's sexual
habits.
"Kind of a strange message, isn't it, sir?" Tusk spoke
guardedly. Glancing around, he hoped to catch sight of the
brandy bottle. "From a woman you haven't seen in years?"
The general smiled. "No, not really. She's just letting me
know who I'm climbing into bed with."
Tusk gave up the search. Suddenly, he understood.
"Sir," he said in a low voice, "we could always snatch the kid
away from him—"
Leaning on the windowsill, Dixter stared out into the night,
at Dion's spaceplane, soaring into the darkness in a shower of
flame.

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MARGARET WEIS	1
"Keep away from him, Tusk. Keep back ... or you'll get
burned."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but it's already hotter'n hell."
The general grinned. Turning from the window, he fumbled
in a pocket, pulled out a key, and tossed it to the mercenary.
"Third drawer on your left. We'll drink a toast." He waited
until Tusk pulled out the bottle, wiped out two glasses with the
tail of his shirt, and poured. Dixter raised his glass. "I give you
His Majesty. God save the king."
Tusk scowled. "That's not funny, sir."
"I didn't mean it to be."
Tusk held the glass in his hand, stared into it, then suddenly
slammed it down on the desk. Brandy slopped over the rim,
flooding a map. "Excuse me, sir. I got a lot to do."
He flung open the door and stormed out, nearly knocking
down Bennett, whose eyebrows shot up to the crown of his
bald head.
"Sir," the aide said, "I've input that file you wanted. You'll
find it under 'Sagan.'"
"Thank you, Bennett. That will be all."
"Yes, sir."
The aide left, gently closing the door. Dixter lifted his glass
to the heavens and silently drained it.

Chapter -w* Five
Love bade me welcome, but my soul drew
back . . .
George Herbert, "Love"
For the meeting between the mercenaries and the Warlord,
Dixter had chosen the site of an old deserted fortress built into
the top of a cliff on a part of Vangelis considered desolate even
for that barren planet.
"It's a remnant of early stellar exploration," commented
Lord Sagan, emerging from the shuttlecraft and staring up at
it through the swirling dust. "The fortress is somewhat of a
mystery to archaeologists. The planet was lifeless when hu-
mans first discovered it. Why, then, did those early explorers
feel the desperate need to build this gigantic fortress? Who did
they think they were protecting themselves against?" He
gestured. From horizon to horizon, the land was empty.
"There was nothing out there to attack them."
"Why did they, then?" Maigrey asked, accepting his arm to
aid her steps over the rough and uneven terrain.
"The only explanation the scientists can come up with is that
the explorers were seized by a collective madness—a group
paranoia. This theory has received support from rather sinister
evidence. It appears that—locked inside their safe fortress—
the explorers proceeded to slaughter each other."
"I can understand why," Maigrey murmured, pausing to
look around.
The wind howled and shrieked and tore at the hood
covering her head. Dust devils raced each other across a
barren rock floor, orange clouds scudded across a cobalt blue
sky. No wonder those early explorers, coming from years of
living in a sterile, controlled, and protected environment, had
351

352
MARGARET WEIS	1
imagined demon hordes massing to attack them and, after
years in this forbidding and wind-blasted place, had found the
demons in their own minds.
Sagan cleared his throat. Touched neither by beauty nor
awed by desolation, he was impatient to get on with business.
Checking a sigh, Maigrey clutched the hood of her cloak,
cursed the long velvet skirts that were tangling her feet, and
struggled forward against the wind.
Steep and narrow stairs, cut into the side of the fortress's
rock wall, led up into the fortress proper. At the top of the
stairs, Dion stood, waiting to meet them. He must be tired,
Maigrey thought. He had returned to the ship after his
meeting with Dixter, made arrangements with the Warlord,
and then flown back to finalize the details with the mercenar-
ies. It was unlikely he'd had a chance to sleep in the span of a
ship's day and night. But if he were fatigued, she could see no
outward sign beyond a slight translucence of the marble
complexion that made the blue veins beneath his eyes stand
out more clearly. The wind tossed his red-golden hair, a bright
flare of color against the gray stone walls. It seemed as if a
flaming torch lit their way.
"My lady. My lord. Captain Williams. General Dixter and
his party are waiting your arrival, my lord. If you will follow
me. My lady?"
Dion held out his arm. Maigrey accepted it, and he led the
way into a colonnade whose stone columns cut the wind and
provided shade from the hot sun while still allowing the
paranoid observer the opportunity of keeping watch on the
barren land around him. Sagan's party traversed this porch for
a lengthy distance, Dion and Maigrey leading, Lord Sagan and
Captain Williams following behind, and the eternal Guard of
Honor rhythmically marching in the rear.
"Where's Captain Nada?" Dion whispered out of the side of
his mouth.
"He was taken ill last night," Maigrey answered, her face
hidden by the folds of her brown cloak. "A very sudden illness,
but one that was not, I believe, totally unexpected."
Dion stared at her, shocked, then cast an oblique glance
back at the Warlord. "You mean—"
'"You bets yer money and you takes yer chance.' Nada
backed the wrong horse."
"What?"
"Nothing, Dion. Never mind."

THE LOST KING
353
The colonnade led them through a series of arched doorways
that took them deeper into the fortress. It was cool, out of the
sun, and quiet, away from the incessantly shrieking wind.
Dion brought them to a doorway larger than the rest and
halted.
"If you will wait here, my lord," he said, "I will announce
you."
Sagan waved his hand; he was involved in a conversation
with Captain Williams. Maigrey, left alone, removed the hood
from her head and shook out her hair, wishing she'd thought to
bring a mirror and a hairbrush. Such things never occurred
to her until it was too late. She was anxiously doing her best to
smooth down her pale, fine hair and shake the dust from her
cloak when she caught Sagan's eye. A crimson flush mantled
her face. She was primping like a girl before her first date.
Her hand went to the scar on her cheek, and she was
disappointed in herself to discover her heartbeat increasing;
the fingers against her skin were chill, her face burning.
John's an old friend. Just an old friend. It's been seventeen
years, after all. I've changed. Her hand touched the scar. He's
changed, too. Probably married, with ten kids. . . .
Dion returned. He had hold of her arm and was leading her
somewhere. Maigrey had an indistinct impression of a large
room and movement: numerous people—humans and aliens—
rising to their feet from around an oblong wooden table. But it
was all a blur because he was standing in front of her and his
eyes were on her and he had changed, but then again, he
hadn't. He took her hand in his and bowed low and she must
remember who and where she was and so she could only
squeeze his fingers tightly and say with her eyes what she
wanted very much to say aloud.
Sagan and the general were being introduced as strangers;
easier far than sorting out the tangled relationships of years
past, trying to explain them to most of those present. Any
constraint and coolness present between them could be put
down to a very natural distrust and antipathy between those
who represented—ostensibly—law and order and those who
represented defiance. All very ironic, considering Sagan's
ambitious designs.
One person managed to distract Maigrey's thoughts from
John Dixter, and that was a young man introduced to her as
Tusk. He came into focus sharply. He was not much like his
father in his build—Danha Tusca had been a heavy-set,

354
MARGARET WEIS	1
broad-shouldered man. Maigrey remembered meeting Dan-
ha's wife, once, long ago, and saw that the young man took
after her—slim, fine-boned, well-developed muscles filling
out a compact frame. Tusca lacked his father's resolute and
solid presence, too. There was trouble in the young man and,
noting the eight-pointed star he wore displayed prominently
in his left earlobe and the concerned and frowning glances he
darted at Dion, Maigrey guessed she knew some of what was
gnawing at him.
Introductions performed—everyone cooly polite if not ex-
actly cordial—those present took places around the table by
order of rank. The Honor Guard posted themselves at the
door. Maigrey found herself seated at the bottom of the table,
far from the general, which was probably just as well for the
presence of mind of both of them.
The meeting opened with the Warlord going over the
situation, describing the Corasian attack on Shelton's system,
emphasizing—Maigrey noted—the horrors inflicted on an
innocent populace. He told the mercenaries precisely what he
knew of the enemy's plans, and informed the general of the
President's order that the Warlord put himself and his men "in
harm's way."
Sagan's manner was condescending, contemptuous; he
might have been here to clap them all in irons, rather than
asking for their help to save his life. Maigrey saw the merce-
naries' reactions—lips tighten, brows darken, alien tentacles
coil in anger. But John Dixter was relaxed, listening atten-
tively, his face softening into a wry smile. She breathed easier.
He knew Sagan; he understood what this was costing the man.
There was some angry muttering when the Warlord con-
cluded, but none of the mercenaries spoke, all waiting for their
commander to reply. Dixter sat silently, contemplatively for
several moments, his eyes fixed on Sagan. The Warlord's gaze
was on the general, each attempting to see how far he could
penetrate into the other's skull.
"Your report was most thorough and concise, Lord Sagan,"
Dixter said suddenly, never taking his eyes from the Warlord.
"I have only one question. How is it that you are so certain the
Corasians will attack at this point in the galaxy?"
"You know the Corasian lust for modern technology, 'Gen-
eral' Dixter." Sagan managed to surround the man's rank with
audible quotation marks, causing Tusk—at one point—to
clench his fist and stir in his chair. Dixter laid a hand

THE LOST KING
355
remonstratingly on the arm of his friend. "We are the largest
f]ee(;	Let me amend that. We are now the only fleet in this
quadrant. I am basing my calculations on the enemy's past
actions, of course, but I have received no information about
the Corasians which leads me to believe that they have
changed in seventeen years. If anything, their need for
modern advancements, for parts to repair their aging ships, is
undoubtedly more acute."
Dixter nodded his head slowly. He tapped a pen gently on
the table. The Warlord's argument was sound, logical, and
Maigrey knew John didn't believe it for an instant. She sensed
that Sagan understood this, as well.
Tap, tap, tap. The general's pen made the only sound in the
room.
"Sir?" It was one of the aliens, speaking through a translator.
"Colonel Glicka," Dixter replied, still not taking his eyes off
the Warlord, but ceasing to tap the pen.
"I don't trust him. I say we let him fight it out on his own."
This was how the statement came across. Maigrey, who
understood the language, heard it in much more colorful and
graphic terms. Dion understood it, too, apparently, for he
flushed up to his eyes and glanced nervously at Sagan.
The Warlord's cold contempt didn't thaw, wasn't warmed
even by anger. "I don't trust you either," he responded, in the
alien's own language. "And you can do what you damn well
please. I don't need you. We'll fight, with or without you. But
remember this. If we're defeated, then so are you—without
even firing a single shot. If we fall, they'll come for this planet,
they'll come for you. And you'll face them alone. Translate that
for me, Starfire, so that everyone understands."
Dion, caught by surprise, did as he was told, somewhat
haltingly, stumbling over the words. The mercenaries glow-
ered in anger, the aliens' tentacles twitched, but nobody said
anything. Whatever emotions John Dixter was feeling, he
wasn't showing, except to glance—once—down the table at
Lady Maigrey. He raised an eyebrow; she could only answer
with a small shrug. Both were marveling at Sagan. The
Warlord was doing the mercenaries the favor of allowing them
to die for his cause.
And what is the arrangement you propose?" Dixter asked.
You, 'General,' your staff, your pilots, and their space-
planes will be taken aboard Defiant, commanded by Captain
Williams. This is presuming, of course, that you would prefer

356
MARGARET WEIS	1
to fight as a unit, rather than having your men dispersed
among my squadrons?"
"Of course. And who is to be in command?"
"You, 'General,' will be under my command. Your men,
however, will look to you for their orders. Current squadron
leaders among your pilots will maintain their own authority."
Dixter frowned. The pen resumed its tapping.
"You're not a pilot, General Dixter," the Warlord said in cool
tones. "You're a ground soldier. You have only limited knowl-
edge of space warfare, of its tactics and strategy. I include you
because I am well aware that your people would not consider
any other arrangement. But I must insist that you place
yourself completely under my command."
Again the Warlord's reasoning was logical, made perfect
sense. Maigrey, feeling a pain in her hands, looked down and
saw she was tensely, nervously, and unconsciously twisting her
fingers.
General Dixter tapped the pen, marking his words. "I would
agree to those terms only if those of my people who have
broken any of the Republic's so-called laws are given uncon-
ditional pardons."
"Very well," Sagan said. "I agree."
That was too quick, too easy. The general laid down the pen,
sat a moment in silence, then slowly rose to his feet.
"Thank you, Lord Sagan. My officers and I will confer—"
"Over what? I've made my terms, 'General.' Take them or
leave them. Time moves and so does the enemy."
"I understand. This won't take long. I've arranged for
luncheon to be served in the next room—"
"Thank you, 'General,' but I follow strict dietary rules. I
never eat food that has been prepared by strangers. I will
return to my shuttlecraft to await your decision."
There was a scraping of chairs and everyone rose to their
feet or whatever appendages were used for standing. Dixter
made a deprecating gesture. "Your absence will be regretted,
of course, Lord Sagan." The general's gaze shifted to the end
of the table. "Perhaps her ladyship would honor us with her
presence?"
"It is I who would be honored, General Dixter," Maigrey
said, coming forward, walking around the Warlord.
"An excellent idea, 'General.' Lady Maigrey can answer any
additional questions that might occur to you. I trust it will be

THE LOST KING
357
satisfactory to you if she relays your decision to me? I see no
need for us to meet again."
"Most satisfactory," John Dixter said. Reaching out, he took
Maigrey's hand in his and drew it through his arm, unobtru-
sively pressing it close.
"I remind you again of the shortness of time, 'General.'"
"You will have my answer within two hours."
"'General.'" The Warlord inclined his head.
"Lord Sagan." Dixter answered, not bowing. "Dion, I hope
you will stay with us?"
"Yeah, kid, I haven't had a chance to talk with you," Tusk
said, the first words he'd spoken.
"Starfire, there are matters I would like to discuss, if you are
free," Sagan said.
Dion's blue eyes went from one to another. Slowly he began
to rub the palm of his right hand. "Some other time, I guess,
Tusk. Excuse me, General."
"Certainly, son," Dixter said, his voice and his expression
grave.
The Warlord turned on his heel. Dion walked out with him,
Captain Williams accompanying them. The Honor Guard
snapped to attention, fists over their hearts, as the three
passed. When the three had left the room, the guard followed.
Their booted footsteps could be heard echoing along the
colonnade.
"This way, my lady," Dixter said formally, leading Maigrey
down a hallway that branched off the colonnade. The other
mercenaries seemed slow in following. Casting a glance over
her shoulder, Maigrey saw Tusk impeding their path, putting
himself in dire danger of being trampled by a large and
obviously hungry alien.
Strict dietary rules?" Dixter muttered to her as they walked
slowly along.
He prefers not to be poisoned," Maigrey said, smiling.
Dixter smiled in turn, and Maigrey saw that though the
smile smoothed some of the lines in the rugged face she knew
so well, it didn't erase them all. Some were too deep. The two
walked on in silence.
Where's the dining room?" she thought to ask, after a
moment.
Back there," he said. "Are you hungry?"
"No. Not at all."
"Neither am I."

358
MARGARET WEIS	1
An archway at the end of the hall led them into what had
apparently been a pitiful attempt at a garden, built out on the
top of the cliff. High stone walls protected it from the savage
winds. Sunlight poured down from the sky, but the life-giving
fire had obviously been too concentrated, too bright. The soil
was baked nearly as hard as the rock walls. The blazing sun
must have withered anything those early settlers had tried to
grow.
But now it was late afternoon, nearly twilight, and the
garden was cool, the shadow of the walls stealing softly across
the barren soil.
Dixter drew Maigrey into a far corner. Keeping hold of her
hand, he turned to face her. "He didn't leave a guard on you."
Maigrey lowered her head; her hair fell forward. But John
Dixter was accustomed to this trick of hers. Reaching out, he
caught hold of the pale hair and drew it back from her face,
causing her to look up at him.
"He knows I won't leave. He knows I can't."
"Dion?"	• .
"Yes," she answered, and wished with all her heart that her
answer was the truth.
Then she saw that it didn't matter. It had never mattered.
John knew, he understood, better than she did. He clasped his
arms around her and held her close. Maigrey laid her head on
his breast and felt, for the first time in her years of exile, that
she had come home.

Chapter oog>«o- Six
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
Emily Dickinson, "My life closed twice before its close"
"All these years, Maigrey, I thought you were dead!"
"I'm sorry, so sorry for the grief I caused! But I had to
disappear, vanish completely. You were my closest friend,
John. Sagan was bound to watch you!"
Dixter moved his hands to her forearms, gently smoothing
the blue velvet fabric. "I remember this gown ... or one
like it. Torn, blackened, stained with fire and with blood.
Pausing, he drew a deep, shivering breath. "You might have
trusted me, Maigrey."
"Trust you!" Reaching up her hand to his face, Maigrey
slowly traced the lines upon the weathered skin. "Don't you
know yet, my dear friend, the person I was trying to escape?
The person I trusted least? The person who, to this day, I dare
not trust?" Her hand moved from John's face to her own, her
fingers tracing the scar upon her cheek. "I took that person and
I buried her in a place where I thought no one would ever find
her again!"
"Maigrey, don't!"
"But it didn't work, you see! I cried out to him and he found
me because I wanted to be found. I betrayed everything
Stavros and Tusca and Platus died to keep from betraying. I
brought him the boy and here I am, still with him, still dancing
up and down the hall, hand in hand, in time to some infernal
music!"
"Hush, my dearest, hush! We won't talk about it anymore.
For seventeen years, Maigrey, there hasn't been a day gone by
that I didn't love you."
She blinked her eyes, sniffed, and glanced around as if she
359

360
MARGARET WEIS	1
thought someone might have left a box of tissues in the garden.
John fumbled in his pocket, brought out a handkerchief, and
handed it to her.
"Here, I brought an extra."
Maigrey smiled, wiped her eyes, and, glancing up at him
through lowered lashes, said teasingly, though her voice was
muffled and half-choked, "So there isn't a wife and ten children
somewhere?"
"A wife? What kind of life is this"—Dixter waved his hand
back toward the fortress—"for a woman?"
"For a woman who loved you? Come now, John. Like Mrs.
Bagnet, she would have put on her gray cloak and shouldered
her umbrella and followed you across the sundering seas. I
wish you would have married." Maigrey stepped back, moved
away from him. "You make me feel guilty. I've left your life like
this garden—barren, empty. I never meant to do that—"
Dixter, following her, caught her and drew her near. "I
knew what I was doing. I wasn't some kid, having my heart
stolen. I was a man and I gave my love to you freely and
willingly. I knew precisely what I would get back in return.
You were always honest with me, and your friendship was
enough, Maigrey. More than enough. I knew my rivals, you
see—"
"Rivals? Plural? There were never that many!"
"There were two. Him and one other."
Maigrey, leaning against him, rested her head on his cheek.
She followed his gaze; both looked down upon the Warlord's
shuttlecraft, sleek and glistening in the fiery sunlight.
"Who was the other?" she asked softly.
"The one I feared most. The one I could never hope to
displace."
Maigrey glanced up at him, puzzled.
"Out there." Dixter looked up, straight up, into the heav-
ens.
The day was waning, the sky was still light, but a nearby
planet sparkled in the distance.
"I'll prove to you how well I know you, Lady Maigrey.
You're not here with me now. You're up there, trying to figure
out how you're going to get hold of a spaceplane and fight the
Cor—"
"John Dixter! Quiet!" Maigrey clapped her hand over his
mouth. She cast a furtive glance back down at the shuttlecraft.
Dixter laughed, suddenly, and Maigrey laughed, and the

THE LOST KING
361-
laughter—as it always does between lovers—drew them
closer. But the laughter died quickly, too quickly, and it left
them clinging together, but with an empty feeling, like lost
children who hold each other out of fear.
"Why did you ask him that question, John?"
Maigrey's eyes were on the shuttlecraft.
"About how he knew the Corasians would strike this partic-
ular small section of the galaxy?"
"Yes."
"A question, first, for you, Maigrey. Did he tell me the truth
when he answered it?"
"About the technology? Yes?"
"But not all the truth."
Maigrey clasped her hands over John's, held them tightly.
"They're flinging him to the starving wolf pack that's on their
heels."
"Why? He's the Republic's most skilled commander, a
valued leader—"
"And one of the wolves. According to Robes, the most
dangerous wolf of all."
John nodded, rubbing his cheek against hers. Her pale, fine
hair caught in the stubble of his late-day growth of beard. "I
guessed as much. "
"What do you mean?"
Dixter appeared slightly embarrassed. "As usual, I seem to
have walked into the right place at the wrong time. Have you
ever heard of an Adonian named Snaga Ohme?"
"No, but don't look so surprised. My social life has been
somewhat restricted lately. I don't get around like I used to."
"How can I describe Snaga Ohme? Like most Adonian
males, he's incredibly handsome. He has three passions in his
life—himself, rare jewels, and weapons. His collection of black
fire diamonds is said to be the finest in the galaxy."
"The Royal Family's collection was the finest," Maigrey
protested.
"He bought the Royal Family's collection."
"Bought!" Maigrey stared. "But ... it was priceless!"
"Everything has its price. The new President needed war-
ships, guns, missiles—"
"Ohme?"
"Yes, he's a genius when it comes to designing weapons. He
demands and gets top gilder. One—one, mind you—of his
combination palatial homes, warehouses, and firing ranges is

362
MARGARET WEIS	1
located on the planet Laskar. I've seen it. It's immense.
There're major metropolitan areas that are smaller in size than
his estate.
"Now, let me tell you, Maigrey, about this little altercation
in which we've been involved. You can't even call it a war. It
barely made headlines on the evening news on this planet. No
one else in the galaxy's ever heard of it. A bunch of miners are
sick of being shoved around by a bunch of goons. Marek is a
good man; he's not ambitious. He wanted his people treated
fairly, wanted control of his mines back.
"The goons call out the local militia, which is solidly mired
in the twentieth century—guns that fire bullets, some nuclear
missiles that they're all scared as hell to use, thank God, and
bombers that drop things that go boom in the night.
"And . . . one brand-new, never-been-used, ultramodern,
fully equipped, and very, very expensive prototype torpedo
launcher. Comes completely assembled with—as an added
bonus—a highly professional killer captain and a well-trained,
highly professional killer crew—all off-world."
"My God!"
Maigrey leaned back against the wall, rubbing her arms.
The evening wind was chill, and she had forgotten her cloak.
Dixter, hands thrust into his pockets, stared thoughtfully out
at the shuttlecraft.
"Yes, I thought that was rather peculiar. If it hadn't been for
Tusca's son, that launcher would have ended Marek's war
before it began. We couldn't have kept the uranium shipments
going out, and you know how touchy Sagan can be about
keeping his ships powered. But that's only the beginning. I
began getting reports that my soldiers were finding the most
remarkable weapons lying around the battlefields—weapons
so modern that most of the local boys couldn't figure out how
to use them and so they just ditched them."
"Somebody on this planet's scared."
"Of what? Of us? Mercenaries with a price on our heads? I
decided I better do a little sleuthing, find out who was behind
this and what he, she, or it was up to before something really
nasty happened. But about that time, it became obvious to
everyone that Marek was going to win. The oligarchy was in a
shambles—rioting in the streets, chaos, confusion—and when
I could clear away the rubble, it was too late. He'd packed up
and gone."
"Snaga Ohme?"

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"Yes. The Adonian weapons dealer. He was here on this pile
of rock; he'd been here for almost two years working on some
sort of project that was so top-secret not even the people who
worked for him knew what was going on. He used a uranium
shipping company as a front—which put him in contact with
Phoenix."
Maigrey shook her head. "That would be natural—"
"So you would think. But contact was infrequent, transmit-
ted in code, and as far as my people were able to determine,
not one ounce of uranium was ever sent from this company to
Phoenix or anywhere else that anyone could ever discover."
"So you've discovered the wolf's teeth," Maigrey mur-
mured, glancing over her shoulder at the shuttlecraft.
"Let's theorize: Sagan's already got his own army and navy.
He hires Snaga Ohme to provide him with weapons. He wins
the support of a few of the other 'marshals' by offering to
restore the true heir to his throne—"
"Would they support him?"
"Yes, I think so. Your old friend Olefsky would, for one."
"Bear Olefsky!" Maigrey grinned. "I didn't know he was still
around. And I'm not certain whether he'd join with Sagan or
knife him."
"He might not support Sagan, but what about Dion?" John
Dixter suggested mildly.
Maigrey grew serious, thoughtful. "Yes, Bear would give his
life for Dion if he were convinced the boy was genuine. So the
Warlord has weapons. ..."
"If Ohme hadn't panicked, if he'd sat tight and not blown his
cover, I would never have discovered his operation. I'll bet
Sagan could wring the Adonisn's handsome neck. So now I
know the Warlord's secret. The question is, does he know I
know?"
Maigrey nodded her head. "He knows. You're a threat,
John, a dire threat. He must get rid of you. And I've led him
right to you!"
^You? You didn't—"
"Yes, I did! It was my idea! Coming to you, asking for your
help. You've got to get away! Escape him—"
John caught hold of her wrists, held her fast. "Very well," he
said quietly. "I'll run. On one condition-that you come with
me."
Maigrey stared at him. The hope that had dawned in her
eyes at his astonishing agreement faded like the twilight at

364
MARGARET WEIS	1
night's approach. She smiled wanly, looked down at her hands,
twisting the handkerchief. "You always had'the most subtle
ways of letting me know I was being a fool. Why didn't you just
slap me?"
"Because I'd much rather do this." Dixter took her in his
arms and kissed her. "I thought you knew he was plotting
something," he whispered when he could breathe again. His
lips brushed against her hair. "When you sent me the message
about the human impersonator."
"I did know," Maigrey said, her head drooping against his
chest. "I just didn't know what. John, you re walking right into
a ttap!"
"At least I'll walk into it with my eyes open. We don't have
any choice, Maigrey. We all hang together or we hang
separately. War makes strange bedfellows—"
"What's this about bedfellows? Good thing I came along!" A
grinning Tusk peered through the entryway in the wall. His
face sobered. "Sorry, sir, but you told me to let you know when
it was near time."
"Yes, thank you, Tusca."
"Please don't go!" Maigrey said, reaching out her hand to
Tusk, who was about to discreetly remove himself.
"I'll leave you two alone to . . . uh . . . say good-bye,
my lady," the mercenary said, looking and feeling awkward.
"We're not saying good-bye." Maigrey clasped her hands
around John's arm. "It's too . . . final." She'd meant her
words to be cheerful, lighthearted, but the circumstances of
their last parting came back to her. Her voice faltered and she
fell silent.
Down below them, the hatch of the shuttlecraft swung
open. The Warlord appeared in the entryway, looked up to
where they were standing in the garden. Maigrey read
impatience in every line of the tall, armored form.
"I'll escort you back, my lady," the general said. He, too,
had seen Sagan. Slowly, in no hurry, they walked out of the
garden. "What was the decision of the officers, Tusk?"
"It's up to you, sir. Whatever you say."
Dixter nodded. His face was solemn and Maigrey, at his
side, could not prevent a sigh. The general smiled down at
her, squeezed her hand. "It'll be just like the old days."
"Yes," Maigrey answered and glanced back at the dead
garden.
She turned away and the three of them entered the

THE LOST KING
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colonnade. "Speaking of old days," she continued with forced
cheerfulness, "I want to say that meeting you, Mendaharin
Tusca, has been a true pleasure. Your father was one of my
closest friends, though he was several years older than I
was—nearer my brothers'age, I believe. I remember the day
you were born. He'd gone home to be with your mother. He
sent us a vid transmission from the hospital. He was holding
you up for us to see. Your mouth was wide open, you were
wrinkled up like a prune, your head was covered with black
fuzz, and you were screaming so we couldn't hear a word Tusca
said. But we didn't need to."
Tusk walked along at her side, head bowed, his eyes on the
ground.
"We knew how he felt by the expression on his face. He
loved you very much. I wish he could see you today. He'd be
so proud of you!"
The mercenary lifted his head. His black skin glistened with
sweat. The dark brown eyes were shadowed, moody. "You
think so?" He fingered the earring, as if it were irritating him.
"I don't!"
Maigrey caught back her glib reply, paused to consider her
words. "Dion told me something about your life, Tusca—"
"Tusk, my lady. Everyone calls me Tusk."
"Tusk. Your father was a brave man, an honorable man. He
was a gallant warrior, a skilled pilot. He was proud and
independent—perhaps too independent. If he had a fault, it
was that he lacked tact. He never learned that if your way to
what you want is barred, there are generally paths to be found
around the obstacle. Your father"—Maigrey smiled ruefully—
put his head down and charged. More than once, he came
back with a cracked skull and a bloodied brow.
"He fought with Sagan over battle plans and strategy, he
fought with Platus over music. He and I fought over books."
Her lips pursed. "He maintained Eldridge Cleaver was the
greatest writer of the twentieth century! Eldridge Cleaver!
^our father even fought the king himself, over his marriage
outside the Blood Royal. Up there"—Maigrey glanced into the
orange-clouded heavens—"I would guess he's probably fight-
ing with God."
"That was dear old dad," Tusk said, kicking at a loose
fragment of rock at his feet.
Maigrey stopped, laid her hand on his arm. "Tusk, don't you

366
MARGARET WEIS	1
understand? He loved us, all of us." Her eye went involun-
tarily to the space shuttle, to the figure in golden armor,
flaming in the sun. "He gave his life, rather than betray the
secret he had vowed to guard. But not before he had passed on
his most valuable possession—that secret—to the person he
loved and trusted most. His son."
Tusk kept his face averted.
"Thank you for all you've done for Dion, Tusk. Your service
to your king is not ended, however. I name you a Guardian,
Mendaharin Tusca. I wish I had a starjewel to present to you,
but for the time being you'll have to make do with one in your
heart." Maigrey held out her hand. "Welcome to our ranks.
God be with you."
Tusk, dazed, allowed the woman to take his hand and shake
it firmly. He couldn't match her strong grip; his bones and
sinews and muscles were all tangled up and felt just the way
the electrical wiring on his control panel looked.
Dixter and Maigrey walked on, leaving Tusk standing in the
shadows of the colonnade, trying to cram his insides back
where they belonged.
"What about Dion?" John Dixter asked.
He and Maigrey had come to the head of the stairs. The
Warlord, impatience radiating from him, stood at the bottom.
Gathering up the folds of the blue dress in her hand so that
she wouldn't trip over the hem, Maigrey began to slowly
descend the stairs. Dixter kept fast hold of her, matching his
pace to hers.
"You know who and what the boy is?" Maigrey asked.
"Yes," Dixter answered, his voice quiet, his eyes on the
woman walking beside him, not on the figure blazing beneath
them. "I saw him when he came back. More to the point, I saw
him before he left."
"You know, then, what Dion wants. You can guess how he
means to get it."
"If it doesn't get him first."
Maigrey put her hand over her twitching lips, but it didn't
work. She couldn't help herself and began to laugh. The
sound—incongruous in the stern, forbidding surroundings—
echoed off the rocks. The mercenaries poured out onto the
colonnade, peered over the fortress walls. Sagan's head
snapped up, his eyes glaring at her disapprovingly from the
depths of the helm. Even John Dixter looked mildly aston-

THE LOST KING
367-
ished and somewhat concerned, and Maigrey did her best to
bring her self back under control.
"I'll leave with laughter between us," she said, starting to
slip her hand out of John's grasp, but he held her tightly. His
gaze went to the Warlord,,, who was approaching them.
"I've just received a report," Sagan said. "The enemy is
preparing to move. Our time grows short. Have you reached
a decision, 'General'?"
"I have," Dixter said, his expression and his voice cool and
unperturbed. "We will join you. Allies under duress."
"Excellent. Captain Williams will stay behind to coordinate
details. I will be in contact when you are on Defiant, 'General'
Dixter. Oh, and by the way, you might be interested to know
that our ship's doctor, Dr. Giesk, has developed a remedy for
space sickness."
"Thank you, Lord Sagan," John Dixter said dryly.
The Warlord remained standing at the foot of the stairs,
waiting. A gust of wind whipped his red cloak around him, the
sun glinting off the threads of gold embroidery.
Stinging dust and her own hair blew in Maigrey's face,
nearly blinding her. There was nothing more to say. This was
only prolonging the pain. She started to go, but Dixter kept
hold of her, turned her face to his. Reaching out his hand, he
gently traced his fingers over the scar on her cheek.
"I've had nightmares about that night, Maigrey. I'd see you
lying there, torn and bleeding—" His face blanched; he
cleared his throat of a sudden huskiness. "I used to pray to God
to drive that memory from my mind! He's answered my
prayers, my lady. From now on, I'll see you smile, hear your
laughter."
His handkerchief was still in her hand—wet, tear-stained,
crumpled. Maigrey tucked it carefully back into Dixter's
pocket over his heart. Resting her hand there, she kissed his
cheek and, turning, left him.
Sagan, bowing, held out his arm.
"My lady?"
Maigrey laid her hand on his.
"My lord."
He led her back to the shuttlecraft. The mercenaries lined
the walls of the fortress that could have halted any enemy
except the enemy within. John Dixter stood on the stairs,
watching. Maigrey did not look back.
The sun had set. The shuttlecraft had turned on its running

368	MARGARET WEIS	1
lights, they outshone the stars. In the hatchway stood Dion.
The light streaming out behind him cast his shadow a vast
distance, far longer tharf he was tall.
He's answered my prayers.
"God's answering somebody's prayers," Maigrey said, cling-
ing tightly to Sagan's hand, night's rising wind threatening to
blow her off balance. "I wish I knew whose!"

C hapter>	S even
To war and arms I fly.
Richard Lovelace, "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars"
Tiny, puny, insignificant, the Warlord's fleet hung motion-
less in the vast darkness of space—a slender line of silken
cobwebs stretched out to stop a juggernaut. No one doubted
the enemy would endeavor to trundle over them. As Lord
Sagan was overheard to tell Admiral Aks, President Robes had
likely provided the Corasians with the fleet's coordinates. This
grim joke was passed around the mess room, the gymnasium,
and the lounges and became a favorite among the men. It was
a subtle compliment to their prowess, as the Warlord had
intended it to be. His crew knew now, to a man, who—after
the Corasians—would be their next enemy.
All was in readiness. The mercenaries—some five hundred
with their own planes and additional manpower available to
staff communications, computers, and fire and rescue units—
had arrived on board Defiant, where they had been cordially
welcomed by the energetic and intelligent Captain Williams.
The mercenaries were given their own quarters in their own
portion of the ship. They kept to themselves, the crew of
Defiant kept to themselves, and the alliance was, so far,
peaceful. General Dixter, sick as a dog, had locked himself in
his quarters.
The silken thread was stretched taut. Now there was
nothing to do but wait.
On board Phoenix, a woman clad in blue approached the
golden double doors that barred the entry to the Warlord's
private chambers. The captain of the centurions tensed; he
had been warned of the Starlady's (as she was now known
among the men) coming and knew what to do—or rather, what
369

370
MARGARET WEIS	1
not to do—but she made him nervous. It was much like being
in the presence of the Warlord.
Accompanied by two guards who had been assigned to her
on her return from Vangelis, Maigrey came to stand in front of
the doors. Her gray eyes turned upon the captain.
"I will speak with Lord Sagan."
The captain went through the motions. "He's left orders not
to be disturbed—"
"Tell him Lady Maigrey Morianna will speak with him on a
subject of importance. I will speak to him," Maigrey empha-
sized. She had not raised her voice, she had not lost her calm
and poised demeanor. And she left no doubt that she would
speak with the Warlord.
The captain admitted defeat with a good grace. "My lord,"
he said into the commlink, "Lady Maigrey Morianna insists on
being admitted into your presence."
Maigrey's foot began to tap on the deck; her breath came
and went a little faster. This show was being performed solely
for her benefit. If the Warlord had truly left orders not to be
disturbed, the captain would not have broken them had Death
himself demanded admittance.
"My orders stand, Captain," the Warlord's voice came over
the commlink. "I am in conference. I will see no one."
Maigrey relaxed, faced the double doors, and concentrated.
Her face was smooth and impassive; she didn't blink or move
a muscle. The captain watched, his nervousness increasing.
Her guards exchanged doubtful glances. A strong and slightly
sweet smell of burning wiring pervaded the corridor. A wisp of
smoke curled out from behind the control panel in the wall.
With a grinding sound that set the teeth on edge, the double
doors wrenched apart.
Maigrey had never touched them. Without a word, she
stepped gracefully through them and walked into the War-
lord's chambers.
The captain, recovering himself, sprang in after her.
"My lord! Forgive me, she—"
Lord Sagan, seated at a desk with Admiral Aks, was perusing
a computer screen. The Warlord did not turn his head or look
around.
"Very well, Captain, you are dismissed. Have a crew up
here immediately to repair the door."
"Yes, my lord."

THE LOST KING
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The captain retreated thankfully, glad to have come through
the ordeal more or less unscathed. He had been warned what
she might do and he had been told not to stop her. Looking at
the damaged door, shaking his head in rueful awe, the captain
wondered how in God's name he was going to explain this to
maintenance.
The Warlord, continuing to read, heard in front of him a
brief scuffling sound. The woman's guards were attempting to
pin her arms; one would have his hand positioned at the back
of her neck, ready to snap it if she so much as breathed the
wrong way.
"You may relax, gentlemen," the Warlord said, turning a
page. "If she wanted to, she could short-circuit your brain as
she did the door and have you writhing on the floor at her feet.
The lady intends me no harm. If I'm not mistaken, she is, in
fact, here to beg."
The centurions released their hold and fell back a pace,
neither being sorry to do so. The woman's skin was ashen and
chill to the touch. As one said later, he felt as if he'd been
holding on to a corpse.
\Admiral Aks, sitting beside the Warlord, appeared ex-
tremely uncomfortable and even glanced involuntarily about
the Warlord's chambers, hoping, perhaps, to find an exit that
hadn't been marked.
"Perhaps I should leave, my lord—"
"No, Aks. This won't take long."
The admiral scooted his chair back into a convenient
shadow.
Maigrey took a step forward, leaned her hands on the desk.
The starjewel she wore around her neck sparkled at her breast.
If the Warlord shifted his eyes, he must stare directly into the
blindingly brilliant light.
"Very well, Sagan, I will beg!" Maigrey's hands clenched to
fists. "Give me a plane. Let me fly."
The Warlord did not look at her. "No, my lady."
Maigrey reached out across the desk, grasped the man's
hands, and fell upon her knees before him. Admiral Aks,
watching, awed, saw light glistening on the woman's pale hair.
Her gray eyes deepened to blue, a crimson flush stained the
pale skin. The admiral was thankful from the bottom of his
heart that he didn't have to answer, for—had she asked—he
would have given her all he owned, his life and his soul in the
bargain.

372
MARGARET WEIS	1
"My lord, I'll swear whatever oath you require of me! I'll
take whatever vow you want me to take! You need me, Sagan.
I was the best!"
This brought a reaction. The Warlord's eyebrow raised.
"One of the best," Maigrey amended, the color deepening
in her cheeks.
She clung to his hands in supplication. The woman might,
thought a dazzled Admiral Aks, have been pleading for her life
instead of the opportunity to go out and die.
"Please, my lord!"
Sagan turned his head, shifted his eyes. They were cold and
hard and dark as endless space. "What oath would you take
that you have not broken before? No, my lady, I cannot trust
you."
He might well have shot her through the heart. The blood
drained from her face; the scar was a livid streak across her
cheek. Her eyes dilated; her lips were white. Her fingers on
the Warlord's hands went limp, nerveless, and loosed their
hold, sliding slowly across the table. Her body sank backward.
Aks was halfway on his feet, thinking that the woman was
dying.
Maigrey remained on her knees, on the floor, her arms limp
at her sides, her head bowed.
"Guards." The Warlord made a gesture and the centurions
responded instantly, with alacrity, stepping up and saluting,
fists over their hearts. "Escort the Lady Maigrey back to her
room. She is, from now on, confined to quarters."
The guards bent to take her arms and help her stand.
Maigrey lifted her head, cast them each a glance that made
them think twice about it, then rose slowly and haughtily to
her feet. She bestowed on the Warlord one swift look,
promising defiance, sharp and cold and glistening as ice, then
turned and started to walk from the room.
"Your lives are forfeit, gentlemen, if the lady escapes,"
Sagan added.
"Yes, my lord," both guards said, saluting.
Maigrey paused, and it seemed for a moment as if this last
shaft had been the one that drew life's blood. Her head
drooped, her shoulders slumped. Pride alone lifted her chin;
she seemed determined not to give her enemy the satisfaction
of watching her drop dead at his feet. Shaking back the pale
hair from her face, she squared her shoulders and walked out

THE LOST KING
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of the Warlord's chambers, through the broken door, with
firm, unfaltering steps, never once glancing back.
Admiral Aks, finding the Warlord's stern and piercing gaze
turned on him, shamefacedly dragged his chair up to the table
and sat down.
"I thought the lady might have . . . been taken ill, my
lord."
Sagan snorted and said nothing, resuming his reading.
"My lord." Aks found his gaze drawn to the door that was
standing ajar. The captain had posted his own body in front of
it. Maintenance crews, in their dark blue uniforms, could be
seen swarming around it like ants whose hill had been knocked
down. "Confined to quarters. Is that wise? The brig—"
"—could not hold her, Aks. But don't concern yourself. I've
just bound her with chains of adamant. She'll never break
them."
"My lord?"
"She would no more be responsible for the sacrifice of the
lives of those two men than she would kill them with her own
hands."
"Ah, I see, my lord. Very good, my lord."
Aks was supposed to be reading the same report Sagan was
perusing—a report detailing everything known about the
current strength of the enemy, garnered from the under-
ground transmissions from Sheiton's system. But the admiral
slid about in his chair, fidgeting, until the Warlord, with an
irritated sigh, looked at him.
"What is it, Aks? Spit it out and let's get it over with so that
I can return to my work."
"My lord, Lady Maigrey is—or was—an extremely good
pilot."
One of the best, as she said. She should be; I trained her."
"Yes, my lord. And you have said yourself we need every
skilled pilot. After all, you're allowing the young man to join a
squadron. I was thinking that the lady might be useful—"
And I should swallow my pride and allow her to come with
us? Absolutely not, Aks. I will have enough trouble with the
enemy in front of me. I don't want to have to worry about one
behind."
But surely, my lord, Lady Maigrey realizes how important
you are to victory over the Corasians! She wouldn't dare risk
harming you!"
"Yes, Aks, you're right. She wouldn't harm me. She would,

374
MARGARET WEIS	1
in fact, do all she could to protect me . . . during the battle."
The Warlord leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes,
fatigued from reading. His vision had always been perfect,
better than perfect. But now he noticed he had to hold
documents out away from him to bring the letters into focus.
He was past due for an eye examination; Giesk had been
nagging him about it. There were corrective drops that could
be used. Corrective drops!
The Warlord shut down the computer. "We made a good
team, she and I. A good team." He was silent, staring far
distant. The years of grim resolve, of vengeance and bitterness
erased their dark lines. His face smoothed, he looked almost
young.
The ship's bells rang, chiming the hour, and the present
charged in to banish the past. Sagan's expression hardened.
"It's after the battle, Aks, when the lady could prove an
infernal nuisance."
Light dawned. The admiral understood and nodded agree-
ment. "You mean the orders concerning Defiant, my lord?"
"Yes, Aks. The orders concerning Defiant.''
In her quarters—the quarters that were suddenly small and
cramped as the secret holds in a smuggler's ship—Maigrey
paced restlessly back and forth, back and forth. She had
resolved to be calm, when the guards first brought her back.
She had resolved to sit down, eat her lunch, read Jane Austen,
relax, and listen to Rigoletto.
Lunch was splattered on the wall, Jane Austen was under
the bed, and Maigrey'd consigned Verdi to hell.
How dare Sagan say such a thing to me? No oath you have
not broken! How dare he! Twisting her fingers, she walked ten
steps from the head of the bed to the computer desk, ten steps
from the computer desk to the head of the bed. He can trust
me. He knows he can trust mel This was punishment, then.
The ultimate punishment. He can't kill me, but he'll wound
me again and again with—
The door to her chambers slid open. Maigrey whirled,
thinking it was Sagan, for he was the only one who ever dared
entered without announcing himself. Perhaps he'd changed
his mind. She'd sensed him wavering. . . .
It was one of the centurions, however, and he was dragging,
by the shoulders, the limp body of her other guard.

THE LOST KING
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"If you could operate the control, my lady," the centurion
said coolly, hauling his companion's feet inside, having some
difficulty maneuvering in the confined space between the door
and the bed. "Shut the door."
Maigrey, completely mystified; did as she was requested.
The door slid shut.
"Is he sick? Did he pass out? Shall I call Dr. Giesk?"
"Don't call anyone, my lady. If you'd lift his feet, we could
put him on the bed."
Maigrey took hold of the unconscious man's feet and helped
to hoist him up onto the bed. Moving to look at him, she saw
the bruise, forming at the base of the man's neck, just above
the collarbone, and she turned to look at the guard.
"What's going on, centurion?"
"Thank you for trusting me, my lady."
"Trust, hell! As Sagan said, I could send you into a brain
seizure before you could draw your next breath. I'm not the
one in danger here. You are. What's going on?"
The centurion glanced at his unconscious companion. "Lord
Sagan is just. He won't punish another for my crime."
"What crime?" Maigrey was growing exasperated.
"If you would look in your closet, my lady."
Maigrey took a step backward, moved out of the guard's
path, and gestured. "You look."
The centurion, half-smiling, though his face was grave and
serious, stepped in front of her and opened the closet door.
Reaching inside, he brought out a flight suit, complete with
squadron patches, and a helmet.
"You'll find the boots in there, too, my lady. I'm afraid
they're probably going to be rather large. I got them as small
as I could, but we don't have many men who wear your size. "
Maigrey sat down, suddenly, and hoped the bed was
beneath her.
"We were just given the report," the centurion continued.
"The enemy has emerged from hyperspace. They're within
instrument, though not visual, range. You have time, but you
should hurry, my lady."
Seeing that Maigrey wasn't moving, the centurion laid the
suit across the back of a chair, set the helmet on top of it, and
turned to retrieve the boots and other gear. "I've arranged for
you to be in Dion's squadron, my lady. I thought you would
Prefer that."

376
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Maigrey's lips moved and, after a moment, coherent lan-
guage came out. "What's your name, centurion?"
"I am called Marcus, my lady."
"Marcus, you heard your lord's command. You've signed
your own death warrant. Why are you doing this for me?"
"Begging your ladyship's pardon"—Marcus glanced at her
gravely—"but I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing this for my
lord. You'll be able to help him out there, won't you, my lady."
"Yes," Maigrey answered, though it hadn't been a question.
"Yes, assuredly."
"Many men will give their lives for my lord this day,"
Marcus said, with a peculiar smile. "I'm just doing it a little
differently, that's all."
Drums sounded, the heart-stopping noise terrifying and
exhilarating. Sagan didn't like sirens sounding the call to
battle. He stationed drummers on every deck. The beat of the
drum acted on modern man as it had acted on his ancient
ancestors—it stirred the blood, quickened the pulse. The
lights dimmed, power was being channeled to where it was
needed most, all nonessential equipment would be shut down,
including the galleys. It would be cold meals from now on, for
those lucky enough to have time to eat.
"There's the signal, my lady. I'll leave you to dress."
Maigrey reached out, grasped hold of the helmet, and held
it in hands that had no feeling in the fingers. She could hear
the boom of blast doors slamming shut.
"I'm sorry I won't be able to take you to the flight deck, my
lady. But I shouldn't be found away from my post."
"I know where it is, thank you," Maigrey murmured. "Level
sixteen."
"Blue Squadron." Marcus, standing at the door, paused.
He wasn't a young man, Maigrey noted. He must have
served Sagan long and well for many years. She saw herself,
reflected in his clear brown eyes.
"Blue seems appropriate, doesn't it, my lady? Almost as if
God Himself had chosen it."
Maigrey looked down at the blue velvet dress. "Yes," she
said softly, "as if God Himself."
"Good flying, my lady." Marcus saluted.
"God be with you," she replied, more from force of habit
than because she knew what she saying. But when she spoke,
she saw the centurion bow his head as if to receive a
benediction. The door opened, and he was gone.

THE LOST KING
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The door slid shut. Except for the centurion on the bed who
yvould be unconscious for a long, long time, Maigrey was
alone. The drums beat, commanding haste. Fingers shaking,
she swiftly stripped off the blue velvet dress. Looking at it long
and hard, she rolled it into a ball and tossed it heedlessly into
a corner of her room.
Whatever happened, she would never wear that dress
again.
Blue Squadron, she repeated to herself, wriggling into the
lightweight flight suit. She studied herself critically in the
mirror. Fortunately, the suit was bulky and hid her shape.
With the helmet covering her face and head, the commlink
mechanizing her voice, no one would ever suspect.
"Blue Squadron," she repeated, her excitement mounting.
Hurriedly she twisted the long, pale hair into a braid. "Well,
it isn't Gold, but it'll do. Lord help us all! It'll do!"

Chapter -w*- Eight
And dream and dream that I am home again!
James Elroy Flecker, "Brumana"
The din in the hangar deck was appalling, overwhelming.
Huge winches, hauling the spaceplanes into position, rum-
bled, screeched, and whined. Bouts of hammering and the
hissing of laserwelds were punctuations and accompaniments
to shouted commands, shouted demands to repeat the com-
mands, and fluent cursing in any number of languages. Droids
squeaked and beeped and were in the right place at the wrong
time and were kicked and cursed and sent away and ordered
back and appeared to look on all this human confusion with a
certain metallic smugness. Amid the confusion, some of the
pilots stood in small knots, talking together while waiting for
their planes; others stood by themselves, thinking last
thoughts of someone far away. Some conferred with their crew
chiefs. Others walked around the plane, inspecting it, going
over it in minute detail, for when it came right down to it, for
all the sophisticated technology, their lives might depend on a
bolt staying bolted.
The pilots were tense, but it was a good tension laced with
excitement and eagerness. After months of boring space
travel, enlivened only by the occasional police action and
endless maneuvers, anything—even the prospect of being
blown to cosmic dust—was a welcome change. They tolerated
the infernal noise level, yelling to be heard over it, putting on
their helmets and speaking through their commlinks, or just
shaking their heads in exasperation and walking off. One pilot,
however, was having difficulty restraining herself from danc-
ing.
Swathed in the bulky flight suit, her head encased in the
helmet that she dared not remove, Maigrey was lost and
378

THE LOST KING
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confused, fearful that someone would discover who she was
and whisk her back to Sagan, and she couldn't ever remember
being happier. It was as if she heard, after years of banish-
ment, the anthem of a beloved homeland. She was in such a
flurry, she had to force herself to calm down and spent a few
moments in silent prayer and meditation. It would never do
for her to give herself away by inadvertently lowering the
guard on her thoughts, allowing Sagan to discover her. Hope-
fully he would be too busy with his own numberless respon-
sibilities to pay any attention to a woman he must assume was
fuming safely in her own quarters.
Now, where was Blue Squadron?
It is a basic rule that if you're ever somewhere you're not
supposed to be and you don't want to get caught being there,
you must look like you belong. Walk purposefully and swiftly
and always carry something in your hand. Picking up a stray
clipboard a crew chief had left lying around, Maigrey tucked it
under her arm and began shoving through the crowd, mutter-
ing imprecations at anyone who got in her way and darting
swift glances left and right in search of her squadron. This was
rapidly getting her nowhere, however. Blue Squadron was not
to be seen, and time was running out.
"Hey," she demanded angrily, stopping to confront a flus-
tered mechanic. "Did they relocate Blue Squadron?"
"Where the hell you been?" The mechanic glared at her.
"Sure they relocated it. What did you expect? Bay Six." He
gestured with a greasy thumb.
Nodding her thanks, Maigrey congratulated herself on her
ploy and hurried to Bay Six. Ducking beneath the wing of a
Scimitar, she stepped out into the open and nearly ran her
helmet right into Sagan's broad shouldered back.
Maigrey retreated, hiding in the shadow of a winch, and
leaned weakly against a girder until she was able to breathe
again and convince her heart it belonged in her chest and not
in her throat.
"It's what you get for being so smug," she said to herself,
sweat rolling down her forehead, dribbling down her neck and
into her suit. She didn't dare remove the helmet to wipe it
away. "Of course, that was why they relocated Blue Squadron.
Dion's flying in it. Marcus told you that, if you'd been paying
attention. But now,""she added, heart rate and blood pressure
returning to near normal, "what the devil is Sagan doing
here?"

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MARGARET WEIS	1
A large crowd was gathered around the Warlord. It was easy
to keep out of sight. Hovering on the fringes, Maigrey saw a
flaming patch of red-gold and recognized Dion. And then she
saw why Sagan was down here when, with the enemy in sight,
he should have been ten other more important places. The
serpent was bombarding Eve with yet another apple.
Maigrey drew in a deep breath of longing, let it out with a
sigh that fogged up her helmet. She wasn't the only one. Every
pilot standing around Bay Six was gazing with envy and desire
at the glistening, sleekly shining, newly redesigned and
modified Scimitar. Maigrey, in her studies, had come across
this updated version in the files, but she had no idea the
Warlord had built a prototype.
"I test flew it," she overheard one pilot say to another. "It's
a beauty. Got more moves than a six-legged dancing girl."
"Why's the Warlord giving it to a kid?"
"Not a kid. The kid. That's the true heir. The one we're
gonna set back on the throne." The men put their heads
together, their voices dropping.
Damn, Maigrey thought, was everyone on this ship talking
sedition? She edged her way closer to overhear.
"I'm glad I'm not in Blue Squadron. They're being sent out
to babysit. The Warlord wants to let the kid get close enough
to the fire to feel the heat but not get scorched."
The two walked away, continuing on to their own urgent
duties. The crowd was dispersing, the Warlord hurrying olf,
probably heading for his own spaceplane. Maigrey had read
about the Bloodspear, as he called it, and she longed to see it.
It was a plane designed to function like the bloodsword,
operating off the pilot's mental and physical impulses. The
plane literally became a pilot's additional appendage, reacting
directly to a thought instead of wasting time translating
thought into motion. Sagan would be out there fighting,
leading the battle, and—
"I'll be babysitting!" Maigrey sighed. Well, she was a
Guardian, after all. Her hand stole to the starjewel she wore
concealed beneath the flight suit. She had pledged her life to
her king. She would do her duty. Perhaps this was why God
had brought her here.
"Spoilsport," she muttered, and went off to find plane
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"You the substitute for Captain Hefter?"
"Yeah." Maigrey nodded, going through the routine of
checking out the aircraft. Blue Squadron, it turned out, was
one of the last to take off. Surreptitiously she watched Dion
climb into the cockpit, his face illuminated by excitement. She
wished she could speak to him, but she didn't dare risk it. Eve
and the serpent were getting far too chummy.
"What's the matter with the captain?" asked the crew
chief.
"Mumps."
"Mumps? At his age?" The crew chief shook his head.
"He was swelled up so, he couldn't get his helmet on."
"That a fact? Hey, you're feelin' all right, ain't you, Capt'n—
Capt'n— What's your name?"
"Penthesilea."
Maigrey hoped devoutly she hadn't come across a flight
mechanic who was also heavily into the Trojan Wars. Sagan
would recognize the name, but he was—please God—far
away.
The man shrugged.
"I ain't even gonna try to pronounce that one, Capt'n. There
something wrong with your voice?"
"Laryngitis," Maigrey said huskily. "Slight touch. I'll be
fine. Things look good here. Guess I'll go aboard."
"Good flying, Capt'n." The crew chief touched his hat in
respect. "What did you say that name was again?"
"Penthesilea."
"That's a strange one."
Shaking his head, the crew chief walked off to the front of
the Scimitar to confer with one of his men.
Penthesilea. An Amazon queen who had brought her
women to fight for Troy. Inside the plane, Maigrey relaxed
into the pilot's seat, shut the hatch, sealed it, and began to
believe she might actually pull this off. She'd never been
inside a Scimitar before, but she'd spent her months on
Phoenix preparing for just such a moment. She'd read every
scrap of information, played through all the simulations. It
wouldn't take her long at all to get accustomed to the feel of the
plane in flight. Humming to herself the triumphal march from
Aida, she activated the computer, introduced herself as Cap-

382
MARGARET WEIS	1
tain Penthesilea, and began running through the preflight
checks.
Penthesilea. She was rather pleased with herself for using
that name—her old code name. It had come glibly to her
tongue; she hadn't thought, until the crew chief asked the
question, what she would give as an alias. Everything on board
checked out. There was nothing to do now but sit and wait for
the command.
Penthesilea. The Amazon queen stands on the walls of Troy,
taunting the Greek hero, Achilles, on the field of battle below.
Her women shout for her to come down; she is in the line of
fire. But Penthesilea has come to the siege of Troy for the
honor and the glory, as has Achilles, and she scorns the pleas
that she return to safety. Achilles draws his bow and fires at
her, but even as he looses the arrow, he knows that he will slay
the only woman he could ever love.
Funny, it had been years since she's thought about that old
legend. Maigrey was suddenly extremely annoyed with herself
that she'd thought of it now.
Dion eased himself into the cockpit of the new Scimitar and
looked around with delight.
"I wish Tusk could see this," he said before he thought, and
he immediately felt a twinge, like a toothache, only this pain
was in his conscience, not his molars.
"It's all Tusk's fault anyway," he muttered.
"Repeat the command, sir. That is not in my files. Repeat
the command, sir."
"Sorry, computer. Just ignore it. It wasn't a command. I was
talking to myself."
"Yes, sir. Will you be doing that often, sir?"
"No, computer. This was an accident. It slipped out. Now
let's go through the preflight check."
"I've already done that, sir."
"Oh. And, uh, does everything . . . check out?"
"Of course, sir. What didn't, I fixed. "
"What do you mean, what didn't, you fixed? What didn't?
What did you fix?"
"I assure you, sir, the matter was trivial. You do not need to
concern yourself. It is my duty to take care of such routine
emergencies and keep you free from worry, sir."
Dion wondered just what a "routine emergency" might be

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but decided not to ask. He felt somewhat intimidated by this
cold, impersonal, and authoritative computer and decided he
would ask the Warlord to have it reprogrammed. He'd prefer
something with more personality, like XJ-27, which brought
his mind back to Tusk again.
"What are we waiting for?" Dion demanded irritably.
"The signal to take oif, sir. We're one of the last squadrons to
leave, sir."
"Well ... is there any way I can find out what's happen-
ing?" Dion had the feeling the war was going to end without
him ever having been in it.
"Yes, sir. Visual on this monitor. Audio on this channel."
Dion looked and listened, but all he saw was a confusing
blob of blips converging, dispersing, appearing, and disap-
pearing. The audio was loud and equally confusing to him,
though he supposed it must be making sense to somebody. He
asked himself, suddenly, if he should really be going out there.
It had all been exciting, like a game, when Lord Sagan took
him to this shining new plane. Dion had seen the looks of envy
on the faces of the other pilots, the carefully expressionless
faces on the men of his squadron. He had exulted in his heady
status, but now—listening to the tense, cool voices of men
fighting for their very lives, fighting to keep a heinous enemy
from their doorstep—Dion felt ashamed, inexperienced, and
frightened.
"I don't belong here! This is crazy. Sure, I've flown before,
but not as much as I led Sagan to believe. Why didn't I tell him
the truth? Or maybe he knew the truth. He seems to know
everything. Maybe this is a test. Another one of his goddam
tests!"
"Sir, your pulse rate has climbed to an unacceptable level.
Blood pressure and body temperature are both rising, sir. If
you will look at the EKG monitor on your left—"
"I don't need to look at it! I wouldn't know what it meant,
anyway! Damn it, when are we going to get out of here? Can't
you cool it off in this cockpit?"
"My readings indicate that the temperature is quite com-
fortable for those of your species. And I must insist, sir, that
you take steps to lower your pulse rate immediately. Other-
wise I shall have to declare you unfit for duty."
"All right, all right."
Dion remembered Platus's training in meditation tech-
niques. Leaning back, drawing in a breath, he let it out slowly

384
MARGARET WEIS	1
through pursed lips, drew in another, and tried to send his fear
out along with the impure air. That worked, to a certain
extent. But what worked even better was the thought of what
XJ would be saying right now to this fascist computer. Dion
grinned and felt better.
"Tusk understands. It just caught him by surprise, me being
a king and all. I guess he never really believed in it. I wish I
could have stayed and talked to him back on Vangelis. We'd
have worked everything out. But I had my duty to the
Warlord. Tusk's a soldier. He understands. I'm sure he
understands."
Was it your duty that kept you from visiting Tusk and Link
and General Dixter and the others on Defiant? a part of him
replied.
"I wanted to, I really did."
That was more true than he knew. Dion was lonely,
desperately lonely on board Phoenix. Seeing Tusk had made
his loneliness worse. He remembered with longing and regret
the fun of being with Tusk and Link; of drinking stale beer in
that hot, smelly cafe; of listening to the two try to outdo each
other in tales of heroism; of watching them flirt—more or less
successfully—with the local women. He remembered warmth,
camaraderie, good-natured teasing about his flaming red hair.
"Are you doing it again, sir?"
"Doing what, computer?"
"Talking to yourself, sir?"
"Yes, and if you don't like it, you can short yourself out!"
"My internal security systems prevent me from carrying out
that order, sir."
Outlaws. Deserters. A failed, broken-down general. Hardly
suitable companions for the heir to the galactic empire. Sagan
had never said so in those words, but by talking to Dion about
how a prince should be "a fox to discover the snares and a lion
to terrify the wolves," the young man understood that he was
being raised a lion and the lion always travels alone.
He recalled another passage Sagan had quoted to him:
"Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are
ungrateful, fickle, false, cowards, covetous, and as long as you
succeed they are yours entirely. . . ."An ancient writer on
statecraft named Machiavelli had said that. Dion found it
strange that Platus had never required the boy to read him.
Of course, you couldn't quite call Dixter fickle or false, or
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quite accepted such a cynical view. Certainly Platus wouldn't
have. But then, Platus had believed in man, not in God. Sagan
believed in God. And himself.
Dion sighed. "I don't have faith in God, man, or myself!"
"We have received the signal to take off, sir. Please sit back
and relax. I am programmed to handle everything. Is your seat
belt properly fastened, sir? We cannot lift off unless your seat
belt—"
"It's fastened, damn it! You're handling everything? Just
what the hell do I get to do?" Dion shouted.
"Hell? Repeat the command, sir. That is not in my files.
Repeat the command, sir."

Chapter	Nine
A horrid front of dreadful length and dazzling arms . . .
John Milton, Paradise Lost
"General Dixter! You look terrible, sir, begging the general's
pardon. Can I get you something?"
"Thank you, Rian. Bennett and the ship's surgeon between
them have taken care of me."
"Nola's right, sir," Tusk added. "You should be in bed.
There's nothing much going on now—"
"I'm shot full of stimulus. If I went back to bed I'd float about
three meters off of it. I've been to the bridge, spoken to
Captain Williams."
"Have you noticed that he smiles all the time?" Tusk
demanded of no one in particular.
"He has lovely eyes and very nice teeth," Nola commented.
"What do his teeth have to do with anything? They're
probably not his, anyway."
"Oh, nothing." Nola shrugged and grinned, crinkling the
spray of freckles that spattered across her nose. "Except maybe
that's why he smiles a lot. To show off his teeth."
"I know where I'd like to see his teeth." Tusk's fist clenched.
"Comin' out the other side of his head. Jeez, Nola, why do you
always have to—"
"That will do, Tusca," cut in Dixter, wiping his hand across
his sweating face. He swayed where he stood. Bennett hurried
solicitously to his side, but the general irritably waved his aide
away and latched on to a control panel to steady himself. "I'm
calling a meeting of all pilots and their crews, now."
"Here, sir?"
"Yes, here," Dixter said, smiling faintly. The knuckles on the
hand holding on to the control panel were chalk white. "I
doubt seriously if you could pry me loose. "
386

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The mercenaries on Defiant had been given access to two
flight decks—Charlie and Delta. The decks were adjacent, but
when the ship was cleared for action and the blast doors were
in place, the decks were cut off from each other, the mercenary
force split cleanly in two. Captain Williams had offered
Dixter's people the use of berths aboard Defiant—there were
extras available, since the usual contingent of fighter pilots had
been transferred to other ships of the fleet. The general firmly
and politely turned down the offer. He didn't like having his
people spread out all over the ship, for one thing. He didn't
like the fact that the doors to these berths could be sealed shut
at the captain's command, for another. Dixter and his troops
bivouacked on the hangar decks, much to the disgust of the
Defiant's flight crews.
Dixter had accepted Williams's offer of updated equipment
and parts for his planes. The mercenaries either did the repairs
and modifications themselves, or in cases where the equip-
ment was unfamiliar, they breathed down the backs of the
mechanics installing it. Tusk threw XJ into a state of near
meltdown by dropping casual comments on the wonders of the
new on-board computer systems the Warlord had developed
and hinted broadly that he was considering having one in-
stalled. XJ spent nine-tenths of its time in its remote, prowling
its perimeters, keeping a paranoid eye on the mechanics and
zapping any who inadvertently came too near.
The humans and aliens of Dixter's Outlaws, as they came to
call themselves, spent their time on board Defiant tinkering
with their planes, cooking, gambling, squabbling among them-
selves or with the flight crews, and loving. Nola Rian had
signed on as Tusk's gunner.
"You don't think I'm brave enough, do you?" Nola had said,
with a toss of the short brown curls, when this subject first
came under discussion.
"Of course I do. I've seen you in action, remember? It's
just—"
"Then you don't think I can learn to operate the gun. This
sophisticated equipment is too complicated for a girl from a
backwater planet."
"Come off it, Nola! I could teach you to operate the gun.
Nothing to it. It's just that it's going to be dangerous. It's not
only the Corasians we're gonna have to watch, it's the Warlord,
too. Dixter doesn't trust him. Neither do I. The Starlady
warned us—"

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MARGARET WEIS	1
"The Starlady? She's wonderful, isn't she, Tusk? So tall and
slender and regal-looking, with hair like morning mist. If I
were tall and slender would you take me with you?"
"Damn it, Nola, you come up with the weirdest notions.
I don't want you tall and slender. I like you short and pudgy.
Well, you know what I mean. Why do you do this to me? I
don't want you along because I don't want anything to happen
to you, you little fool!"
"Well, I feel the same way! I don't want you to go because
I don't want anything to happen to you!"
"But it's my job, Nola—"
"And if you hired me, it'd be my job, too. And we'd be
together. But, if you don't want me because I'm short and
pudgy-—"
"I never said that—"
"—other people happen to think differently. Link's already
asked if I'd be interested in being his co-pilot."
"His co-pilot! That bastard doesn't have room for a co-pilot.
His ego's so big it takes up the whole cockpit!"
Which, of course, settled everything. The only one left to
convince had been XJ, who was totally opposed to having a
female gunner until Tusk assured him that Nola was working
for nothing, after which assurance the computer came up with
all kinds of statistics proving that the female of the human
species reacted better under stress than the male.
When the enemy was sighted, the alert was sounded, but
Defiant was not yet on full alert status. The ship was hanging
back, out of the forefront of the battle. There had been
considerable activity around the Defiant's hull, work crews
swarming over it day and night, seeming to be trying desper-
ately to affect repairs. There was nothing at all wrong with
Defiant, but Sagan hoped the Corasians would think there
was. Though he didn't expect them to remove the ship from
their calculations altogether—the aliens were too intelligent
for that old trick—the Warlord did hope that they would at
least refigure the equation and come up with the wrong
answer.
"As you know, for we've gone over the game plan, we're to
sit out the first half," Dixter told his assembled Outlaws.
"When the enemy's been knocked around pretty good and
they've used up—hopefully—all their substitutes and their
time-outs, then we go in."

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"I don't like it, sir!" This was Colonel Glicka, the alien with
the tentacles who'd been at the meeting. "I think it's a trap.
The Warlord's going to leave us cooped up here to be
slaughtered like pigs in a barrel."
"Pigs in a barrel?" Link said, nudging Nola, who giggled.
"It's the only way the translator knew how to translate the
metaphor," Tusk snapped.
"Metaphor!" Link whistled. "Wow, this boy's been to
college."
"Damn it, Link, I'm— Sorry, sir."
Tusk caught Dixter's stern eye and subsided, squatting back
down on the desk and contenting himself with glowering at the
handsome, grinning Link. Nola shook out her curls, glanced at
Tusk from beneath a fringe of dark lashes, and giggled again.
"It's a classic battle plan, people. One used successfully by
Philip of Macedon against the Greeks, more recently by Zachis
Zelben against the off-worlders in System Qsub046. You hit
the enemy with a solid front. They push and suddenly the
front's middle begins to give and sag, drawing the enemy in
deeper and deeper with a planned retreat. When the enemy's
trapped in the center, you bring up your left and right flanks,
send in reinforcements. I hope that translated all right? It's
like catching a cat in a sack. We're the strings."
He glanced at the alien, who wiggled a tentacle but still
looked unhappy. The mercenaries said nothing, but exchanged
grim glances. They knew that the cat was, in reality, a tiger and
they were trying to catch it in a very small bag.
"Understood? Any questions? Then, dismissed. Go to your
planes and await my signal. Tusk, a word." The general
motioned. Tusk loped forward.
"I'll take care of Nola," called out the irrepressible Link.
"Don't hurry back."
"I'll wait for you, Tusk. Right here," Nola said.
Smiling at Tusk, she deliberately shrugged off Link's encir-
cling arm.
Man, Tusk thought, a guy never knows where he stands.
Maybe that was the attraction. After all, I don't really like
short, pudgy women. . . .
"Yes, sir?"
The general relinquished his hold on the control panel and,
glancing at the Defiant's work crews, who were still busy
around the planes, Dixter drew Tusk to one side.

390
MARGARET WEIS	1
"Tusk, I'll be relaying commands to you and the others from
the bridge. Pass the word: Be careful going out and coming
back. Got that?"
"Yes, sir. Do you really think he's going to try something,
sir? The Warlord gave us a pardon, after all, and, I mean,
whatever else Derek Sagan may be, he's known to be just and
honorable. He keeps his word. I think we're worried about
nothing."
Dixter glanced over the mercenary's shoulder and saw Nola,
waiting for Tusk, her face cheerful and smiling. She and Tusk
both knew about the Adonian, Snaga Ohme. The other
mercenaries, if they didn't know the Adonian weapons dealer
by now, knew about the torpedo launcher. They all know that
something big was coming down.
"You're right, Tusk," the general said, forcing his aching
facial muscles into a smile. He clapped the mercenary on the
back. "It's the space sickness. Or maybe it's these stimulants.
I'm jumping at my own shadow. But just let's be safe, okay?
Don't take orders from anyone but me."
"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"No, go ahead. You've got someone waiting for you."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Tusk grinned, saluted, and
hurried off.
Dixter watched the young man rejoin the young woman,
saw their arms steal around each other, their heads lean
together. He could almost hear Tusk's voice whispering, "The
old man sure is jumpy!"
Tusk doesn't know—none of them know—that this is all my
fault, Dixter reflected. Why the devil couldn't I have left well
enough alone? But, no, I had to go snooping around. Ah, well,
the general reminded himself. Perhaps it wouldn't have made
any difference anyway. In Sagan's eyes, we had probably
doomed ourselves simply by being on that planet.
Sir. It was Bennett, hovering.
"Yes, Bennett?"
Captain Williams's compliments, sir, and would you come
to the bridge?"
Bennett's tone was approving. Captain Wililams had been
extremely respectful and polite. The captain may have been
the scion of a corrupt and rotting system of government, he
may be hand in glove with the Warlord, which—as Bennett

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knew—his general considered tantamount to being hand in
glove with the powers of darkness, but Captain Williams, at
least, knew how to talk to a general.
"Bennett, did you ever notice that Captain Williams smiles
a lot?" General Dixter asked, wending his way through the
corridors of Conquest.
"Captain Williams has exceptionally fine teeth, sir."
So does a shark, John Dixter thought.
Lord Sagan watched, from his white, spearheaded fighter,
squadron after squadron lift in deadly grace from Phoenix and
the other two ships of the line. Each fighter shot out in perfect
formation, with the exception of one in the last squadron-
Blue Squadron. The Warlord saw Dion's plane operating
smoothly; he would have been vastly surprised otherwise. He
had programmed the computer to do everything, including
making certain the boy's nose was wiped.
It was another plane in the squadron that was behaving
oddly—number six. When leaving the flight deck, it had gone
into a forward roll, nearly crashing against Phoenix's hull! The
pilot's skillful handling had saved the plane, but Sagan was
inserting a note into his computer to put that pilot on report.
He stared at the Scimitar closely. There was definitely some-
thing odd about that plane! Something . . . familiar.
"My lord," came the communication. "All squadrons away.
Red Squadron and Green have both engaged the enemy."
The Warlord shifted his attention to the battle being fought
before his eyes. Other citizen generals would have remained
on Phoenix, observing the battle on a gigantic lighted com-
puter screen, seeing the planes as small blips, and issuing
orders accordingly. Lord Sagan had tried such a command post
once, after President Robes had assured him that a citizen
general was far too valuable to his galaxy to risk losing him in
battle. Sagan had ended by putting his fist through the screen
and ordering his fighter.
If he had been Philip of Macedon, he would have been
sitting on his horse atop a high ridge, watching the heave and
surge of bodies below. As it was, his fighter was positioned
high in space, his escorts hanging motionless at his side,
watching the small sparks—the divine sparks, as Maigrey
would have said—flare and flicker or flare and burst and die.

392
MARGARET WEIS	1
The dance, from his sealed-off and closed-up vantage point,
was performed in eerie silence.
Would it make a difference, Sagan wondered briefly, if we
heard the screams of the dying? Would wars end if we had to
listen? He supposed not. Philip had certainly heard enough
screams during his lifetime as a conqueror. And at the end,
he'd heard his own.
Sagan shook his head. The Warlord's philosophic musings
were cut short. The Corasian mothership was in sight.
The huge, black, ugly, missile-shaped vessel floated ponder-
ously into view, visible only in that she was a blot against the
stars. Corasians have no need for lights. They don't have eyes,
can't see, and do not waste energy lighting a ship. The
Corasians operated strictly by computer signal, computer
command. It had been the computer which gave the aliens the
means to conquer the stars.
"Mothership" was a term used in a literal sense. This terrible
black egg would hatch a swarm of deadly offspring. Corasians
are not creative. Creativity implies one mind thinking differ-
ently from another. The Corasians are a collective mind. Each
entity thinks the same as every other. They are completely
equal; there is no authority because there is no need for
authority. All have the same goal, determined collectively in
response to the collective need. If the goal is to build
computers, the collective body builds computers. If the goal is
to take over a planet, the collective body takes over a planet.
If the goal is to kill, the collective body kills.
The Corasians, therefore, have never developed a battle
strategy. Hordes rarely have need for one. They conquer by
sheer force of numbers, by overrunning and beating down any
opposition, by sending wave after wave of the collective body
in to the attack until the enemy gives way out of sheer
exhaustion. Sagan had planned his own strategy to react to this
type of mindless assault. It should work. As far as Sagan could
see, the overall design of the enemy ship itself hadn't changed
in seventeen years and the flood of reports he received from
his analysts aboard Phoenix indicated few modifications made
to the vessel. Yet the Warlord had the feeling—call it the
instinct of the warrior—that something was about to go wrong.
The enemy had waited seventeen years before attacking . . .
for what?
For that.
Sagan's visual sighting and the instrument sightings aboard

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Phoenix occurred almost simultaneously. He understood what
was happening in an instant; the reports of his analysts merely
confirmed his fears.
The Corasians weren't streaming out of the mothership in
erratic mobs. They were flying out in disciplined order in
groups, and in the center of each group of small black dots,
which were the fighters, was a large black blob, which was,
according to the computers on board Phoenix, a gigantic
computer—a brain. The collective body had split and become
innumerable collective bodies, and apparently each body had
its own brain. Each body would be able to think for itself and
act accordingly. Instead of commanding "Kill," the brain could
command "Kill this way," or "Kill that way," which is, in
warfare, the definition of strategy.
This is what they had been working on for years. It had
taken a creative mind to design it—a mind the Corasians didn't
possess, a mind like the one that belonged to a former
university professor, Peter Robes.
The Warlord placed his palm on a control pad from which
protruded five needles in a circular pattern. The needles
inserted into the flesh in exactly the same manner as those of
the bloodsword and with almost the same effect. Sagan could
operate this plane by his brain's impulses. He drove the
needles into his palm.
"By God, I'll live through this," Derek Sagan vowed,
watching the Corasians spread out in organized groups, taking
up formations, "just to have the satisfaction, Peter Robes, of
making you wish I hadn't!"
Sagan felt the plane become another part of his physical
body, another appendage like his hand or his foot. Unlike the
bloodsword, the spaceplane had its own energy source and
didn't completely sap the body's. Of course, it took a toll, just
as performing any strenuous exertion takes a mental and a
physical toll. Thus the need for discipline.
Having sworn his oath, the Warlord prayed to God to grant
him the strength and the wisdom to live to fulfill it.
Sagan wasn't disappointed. The faith of the priest's son was
rewarded. He had an idea.
"Computer," the Warlord said, his gaze fixed on the brains
of the enemy. "Analyze and report on the following ..."

Chapter -wf- Ten
Meanwhile war arose, and fields were fought in Heaven . . .
John Milton, Paradise Lost
One of the galaxy's most skilled pilots, a pilot whose exploits
even then were legend, had just received a sharp reprimand
from her squadron leader. Maigrey bit her lip and mumbled
something into her commlink about a computer malfunction.
"Oh, shut up," she said crossly to the computer, which was
indignantly denying such an accusation.
Who would have guessed the controls on the Scimitar would
be so blasted sensitive? She had meant to go up, but not quite
that far up—a move that had nearly caused her to crash into
the belly of Phoenix. Her skill had saved her, but only barely.
Maigrey's face beneath her helmet flushed hotly and she
thanked God that Sagan hadn't been around to witness that
little maneuver. At least now she knew better.
Once she was accustomed to flying it, she discovered that
the short-range Scimitar handled quite well and she paid the
Warlord a mental compliment that was not without a certain
amount of pain. They had spent many pleasant hours, years
ago, designing their own ideal spaceplanes. She recognized
many of Sagan's old ideas and one or two of her own in this
model.
That brought a sigh, and she quickly shifted her mind back
from a shattered past to a dismal present. Maigrey glanced
over at Dion's plane—Blue Four. He was flying perfectly, yet
she had the distinct impression something was wrong with
him. This impression didn't come from any power of the Blood
Royal, it was simply there, a part of her. She wondered if she
was beginning to experience maternal feelings.
Blue Six." The squadron leader. "You're out of formation! Is
something wrong?"
394

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"No, sir, Squadron Leader. Sorry, sir. Just keyed up for
action, sir."
"Stuck back in the rear, I doubt if we'll see much of that!
Stay alert, Six."
Squadron Leader did not sound at all happy. Maigrey
couldn't blame him. She was receiving reports that the enemy
was in visual range, but you couldn't prove it by her. Babysit-
ting. Glancing back at Dion's ship, Maigrey sighed again. She
was a Guardian, after all. She had pledged her life to her king.
She wished she could see what was going on!
Maigrey was about to instruct her computer to provide a
visual of the enemy formation, realized she didn't need to. She
saw the enemy, suddenly and clearly, through Sagan's eyes.
She saw and she understood, just as did the Warlord, the
change in Corasian tactics. His idea came to her clearly—their
gravest danger could be their only hope. But it had to be
proven, it had to be risked. Of course, he was going to attempt
it alone. She recalled lines of the poet, John Milton.
Wherefore do I assume
These royalties, . . .
Refusing to accept as great a share
Of hazard as of honour. . . .
Proud as Lucifer, so the saying went. Maigrey looked again
at Dion's plane, her soul writhing in an agony of indeci-
sion. There was something wrong, she knew it. The boy was
too quiet, his computer—so far—had done all the talking.
Maigrey was tempted to ask him to connect with the blood-
sword. They could communicate that way, their thoughts
revealed to each other. But she swallowed the words before
they reached her lips. She didn't dare. That would reveal
herself to everyone, and Sagan was quite capable of locking
a tractor beam on her and having her dragged back to the
ship.
I'm a Guardian. I should stay here and keep an eye on him,
she thought. But then again, defending your king didn't
necessarily mean tripping along at his heels, being prepared to
fling your body in front of his. Sometimes it means being in the
vanguard of his army. . . .
As Squadron Leader said, Dion certainly wasn't going to be
in any danger back here. And he had the rest of the squadron
to watch out for him, to babysit.

396
MARGARET WEIS	1
"Six! Where the devil do you think you're going? Get back
in formation. That's an order. Six! Blue Six! I'm bringing you
up on charges, Six! This is cowardice! Desertion in the face of
the enemy!"
"You want your pound of flesh, Squadron Leader," Maigrey
murmured, "you'll have to stand in line!"
Dion, sitting in his shining toy, had just realized what it
meant to be a king—or perhaps "puppet king" would be a
better choice of words. He was to be shut up in a prison—a
prison that was wonderful and filled with marvels—and he was
to be given everything he could ever want. He was to be given
it. And he would take it and be happy or his prison would
become a tomb, his jailer his executioner.
"Maigrey tried to tell me. I wouldn't listen, I wouldn't
believe. I didn't want to believe! I wanted to think that he was
truly doing for me what he claimed. I wanted to think he
respected me. And this—this is what I get!"
"I do not understand your disparaging tone, sir," the
computer said. "This spaceplane is equipped with the very
latest in technology, much of it added within the last few days,
as I was myself, and all designed to keep you safe and sound,
sir. I might venture to state, sir, that you are far better
protected here than you were in your mother's womb."
Dion began to laugh. "Having been born in a palace in the
midst of a revolution, I'll grant you that one, computer. Hey,
what's happening? Where's that guy going? Squadron Leader,
Six is-—"
"I will handle all communications between yourself and
Squadron Leader, sir, " the computer said, cutting Dion off in
mid-report. "As for Six, pay no attention to it. The pilot
appears to have gone berserk."
Dion tried turning the plane—a small experiment.
"I'm afraid I cannot allow you to make that maneuver, sir.
That would be leaving formation, and we do not want to leave
formation, do we, sir?"
Platus had been an acknowledged genius with computers.
He'd passed much of his ability on to Dion. The young man sat
back in the pilot's chair and pondered, staring grimly at the
computer.
So then. Dion made up his mind. It was to be murder.

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Sagan flew through "dark destruction." He did not travel, as
Maigrey had assumed he would, alone, but took two of his men
with him, sending another back to Phoenix with an urgent
message for Admiral Aks—a message the Warlord wanted
delivered in person, a message he didn't want intercepted by
the enemy. The Warlord's target was one of the brains of the
Corasian fleet. Analysis had confirmed what Sagan had
surmised—knock out the brain and there was every possibility
that the body would flop about aimlessly. Of course, they
would still be faced with a horde, but the Warlord would far
rather fight a mindless horde than an organized and disci-
plined army.
Unfortunately, reaching the brain would be like trying to
reach the queen of a colony of fire ants. Sagan could count on
getting stung, perhaps to death.
But the Warlord was not suicidal. Nor did he make the
decision to attempt this himself out of misplaced heroics.
Because of his unique mind-controlled spaceplane, he had
the best chance to succeed. If this mission proved successful,
he could then afford to change his strategy, perhaps send in the
forces he was holding in reserve, their only goal to knock out
the brains. But Sagan first had to determine if, as he had said
once to Maigrey, "the sport was worth the candle."
Corasian fighters are small and compact. They do not need
to accommodate the body of a pilot, because the plane
is—literally—the pilot's body. Corasians have no survival
instinct. When told to kill, they latch on to an enemy and hang
on with mindless ferocity, attacking mercilessly until either
the enemy dies or they do. Even when guided by the brains,
the Corasians were slow to react and slow to maneuver.
Sudden, unlooked-for moves rattled them completely. A pilot
fighting the Corasians has the advantage of superior reaction
time and creative mind but, over the long duration of a battle,
these grow weak when fatigue and despair set in, when you
seem to be battling the leaves of the trees of a never-ending
forest.
Sagan rarely allowed himself to give way to fatigue and
never to despair. His plane could react in the instant of a
thought. Flying with him were two of the finest pilots in the
galaxy. Yes, they had a chance. As a gambler, he wouldn't have
laid any money on it, but they had a chance.

398
MARGARET WEIS	1
The Warlord waited until he saw one of the heavily ar-
mored, lumbering brains take up a fixed position in the center
of the battle zone.
"There's the target," he instructed his wingmen. "We'll go
down on top of it."
The Warlord's spearheaded plane dropped from the black-
ness. The wingmen were slower, having been caught off guard
by his sudden descent.
"Close formation," Sagan snapped, and the wingmen pulled
in tighter, their planes rocketing toward what continued to
look like a small black patch cut out of starry space.
They swooped into the front lines, into the swirling melee of
wheeling planes and crisscrossing tracer fire and exploding
rockets. Three Corasian fighters, attracted by the technology
of the Warlord's unusual spaceplane, attempted to entangle
Sagan in what was known as a "web"—three interlocking
tractor beams capable of paralyzing a small fighter, allowing
the Corasians to drag it and its helpless pilot back to the
mothership. Knowing what fate awaited him there, a pilot
caught in a web would invariably either self-destruct or
request his comrades to shoot him.
The Corasian spiders trying to catch this particular fly
discovered too late they had made a mistake. Sagan vaporized
them. The two wingmen soared behind their leader through
three puffs of smoke and flame. The wingmen had not even
fired.
Ignoring the battle, the Warlord held steadfastly to his goal
and soon left the main assault behind. He was well past the
front line of the fighting, deep among the enemy ranks. And as
he suspected, the brain was capable of analyzing his attack. It
had determined him to be a threat. A ring of fighters protec-
tively encircling the brain leapt to the attack.
Sagan spared a glance at his computer. It was transmitting
vast quantities of data on the enemy brains including three-
dimensional renderings of the structure and the interior. The
brain was shaped like a huge and ugly bell and contained banks
of computers operated by Corasians in their robot bodies. Its
central power source was located right in the center. There
was little chance of hitting it, therefore, from the round top or
the curved sides of the energy-shielded bell.
"The brain's weakness is at the bottom," the computer
reported, confirming for Sagan what he saw on the screen. "A

THE LOST KING
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large hatch located there"—visually enhanced on the screen—
"provides the only means of entrance and egress. That partic-
ular portion of the brain is not shielded." The computer
rotated the diagram. "An attack coming from directly beneath
the brain and centered on the hatch itself, which is the only
portion not shielded, has a chance of succeeding. The hatch is
approximately one meter in diameter."
"Defense systems?"
"Yes, sir. Gun emplacements around the hatch—"
"I see!" snapped the Warlord. "What kind of firepower
would it take to penetrate the shields?"
"Working." The computer hummed to itself for several tense
seconds, then returned, "The shields are extremely strong, sir.
Perhaps concentrated lascannon fire, sir, from Phoenix—"
"—would take out everything, including our own forces."
He could pull back his planes, turn to the big guns. But
Sagan had run those calculations both through the computer
and his own mind. If he pulled back the fighters, the Corasian
mothership would enter the game, moving up to pound the
Warlord's fleet. He would counterattack, of course, but . . .
massive and ugly, the Corasian mothership could absorb
unbelievable punishment. Sagan had calculated he must lose
two ships of the line immediately, without being able to inflict
anywhere close to corresponding damage on the enemy. After
that, it would be a matter of constant bombardment until
Phoenix either fell victim to a lucky shot or ran so low on
energy that life-support would fail. Those who had survived
the battle would die horribly of asphyxiation.
So all the Warlord had to do was blow up a hatch one meter
in diameter surrounded by guns.
"Computer, transmit all of that information by my private
code back to Phoenix. And add this: Fighters forming outer
defensive perimeter around the brain are converging on us,
leaving the brain unguarded. I judge there to be about twenty.
I suggest, therefore, that a feint made by one squadron would
draw off the defenders and allow another squadron to pene-
trate the unguarded perimeter and attack. This strategy may
work only the first few times it is attempted, for I submit that
the Corasian computers have undoubtedly developed the
ability to 'learn' from their mistakes."
The Warlord paused. There were still some few seconds
until he would join with the enemy.

400
MARGARET WEIS	1
"Computer, my personal log, uncoded and Send a copy by
'accident,' to the main files. 'In the event of my death, this
message is to be transmitted to the marshals, to the members
of the Congress of the Commonwealth, and to the news media.
I, Derek Sagan, accuse Peter Robes, President of the Repub-
lic, of being a traitor to the people. I submit that he 'leaked'
technological secrets to the Corasians, that he knew of their
preparations for war and did nothing to stop them, that he
deliberately invited this attack on the galaxy.
'"What his motives might be, I can only venture to guess,
but I further submit that a war causes people to rally around
their leader and, in their fear, assign him whatever powers he
wants. I have little doubt but that President Robes will
demand virtual dictatorial power in order to deal with the
threat. I further submit that the galaxy's greatest danger is not
from without, but from within."'
Within twenty-four hours, everyone on board Phoenix
would have read that message. Sagan had little time for
elation, however. Within twenty-four hours, unless he found
some way to stop the enemy, everyone on board Phoenix
would likely be dead.
The Corasians struck with fury, their intent now not to
capture but to kill. The Scimitars rolled and twisted and
dodged, always swinging back in to maintain battle formation,
forming a wedge—the Warlord on the point—that pushed
steadily toward the target. Then one wingman was gone,
exploding in a ball of fire that took out two Corasians with him.
Sagan's screen showed him the enemy—small blips that
dove down on him with all the finesse of a pack of wild dogs.
Zigzagging in and out of the swarm, he kept up almost constant
fire; they were jammed so closely together it was impossible
not to hit something.
But it was like removing water from a bucket drop by drop.
A sudden silence on his commlink let him know he'd lost his
other wingman. He was closer to the target and getting closer
all the time, and the number of the blips surrounding him had
decreased markedly. There were only four left, two in front of
him and two circling around behind him. But these four had
him and there wasn't—Sagan realized with cold anger—a
damn thing he could do about it.
The red light on his panel flashed its warning that the enemy
had him in their sights. He was caught. It was maddening,
frustrating that all his grand designs and plans should end in

THE LOST KING
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such ignominy. He feinted, dove, twisted. The enemy clung to
him like evil hornets. At least he had the satisfaction of
knowing he had chosen his own fate. Wellington's officers,
protesting their general's refusal to seek safety during the
battle of Waterloo, had pleaded with him.
"Sir, what are your orders for us if you are killed?"
"Follow my example," was the general's answer.
Follow my example.
Gritting his teeth, bracing himself for the blast that would
reduce his body to specks of blood and fragments of charred
bone and burned flesh, Sagan fired at the Corasians in front of
him and commended his soul to God.
A powerful explosion rocked his ship. The Corasian blew
apart in a blinding flash, but that alone couldn't account for the
jolt he'd just taken. And Sagan's plane wasn't, according to his
instruments readings, hit. He knocked out the second enemy
diving down for its attack, and was preparing to turn his
attention to the two behind him when he realized, looking at
his screen, that there weren't two blips behind him. There was
only one, and it, according to the data, was a friend.
Sort of.
My lord, came the voice in his mind.
Sagan blinked away a trickle of sweat running into his eyes.
My lady.
Blue Squadron was so far from the fighting that they could
barely see what was going on. They heard, from the reports,
that their planes were sustaining heavy casualties and it was
difficult to tell if the current retreat was the one that had been
planned or if it was truly a rout.
Squadron Leader spent his time filing a detailed report on
the insane behavior of pilot number six. The others in the
squadron maintained a grim, tense silence, knowing well why
they were there, who was the cause of it, and resenting him
bitterly.
Dion, meanwhile, toyed with the computer.
"Sir, I think you should know that I am aware of what you
are attempting to do and I consider it my duty to tell you that
you are wasting your time and mine. There is no possible way
that you can get rid of me, sir. Nor do you really want to, sir,
for if I go, then all functions of this spaceplane will cease to
operate."

402
MARGARET WEIS	1
"Now, that's not quite true, computer," Dion said softly,
continuing to work. "You see, you told me that you were a new
modification, only been added a few days ago. I've come to the
conclusion that you're like a virus that's been injected into
the system. I think it's possible that I can remove you and the
plane's original computer will be around to take over after
you're gone. Hey, what are you doing?"
"I've sent a distress signal, sir, to Squadron Leader. Forgive
me for saying so, sir, but you are obviously unhinged."
"Blue Four!" It was Squadron Leader, sounding angry and
exasperated. "Now what's your problem?"
"I wish to report that—" the computer began.
Dion depressed a key, sat back, and waited.
"That ..." The computer blinked frantically, trying to save
itself. "Unfit—" it whispered, and died.
Everything went dark for a split second, but before Dion
had time to panic or to consider that he might have made a
terrifying error, all systems switched back on.
"Blue Four, what the hell—"
"Everything back to normal, sir," the computer reported,
but Dion thought he noticed a subtle difference in the tone of
the mechanical voice.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Your computer, sir."
There was no doubt about it. Dion could hear it. Respect!
Programmed, perhaps, but respect!
"Blue Four, respond! That's an order!"
"You'll obey my commands, computer?" Dion intended to
make certain.
"That is my primary function, sir," the computer said,
sounding slightly puzzled. "I trust I've given you no cause to
doubt—"
"No! None! None at all," Dion hastened to reassure it. "Uh,
this is Blue Four reporting, Squadron Leader. An electrical
malfunction, but it's been repaired."
"What's happened to your computer, Blue Four? It's sup-
posed to be responding. "
"Knocked it right out, sir. But, as I said, it's all been
repaired—"
"Blue Four! I'm ordering you to report back to Phoenix—"
"Computer, shut off the transmission."
"Shutting off, sir."
"Now"—Dion took the controls—"let's go find some action!"

THE LOST KING
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"Blue Four? Name of a name!" Squadron Leader swore
savagely. "Has everybody in this squadron lost their fuckin'
minds?"
"Blue Two to Squadron Leader. What's going on, sir? I just
saw the kid head out—"
"The damn kid's shut down his computer and he's going off
the devil knows where."
"Should we go after him, sir?"
"Hell, yes, we go after him! You heard the Warlord's orders.
And you better hope," Squadron Leader muttered beneath his
breath, his plane soaring to catch Dion's, "that if anything
happens to that kid it happens to us first."

Chapter	Eleven
I could not love thee, Dear, so much . . .
Richard Lovelace, "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars"
You owe me one, my lord.
I have no time for games, my lady.
I'm not playing games, my lord. I'm in deadly earnest, and
if you think about it, you'll understand why.
The Scimitar and the spearheaded plane of the Warlord's
spiraled upward, both noting that other enemy planes, having
been alerted to the danger, were being called back from the
front lines to deal with an annoyance in the rear.
Maigrey held her breath. Sagan's thoughts were dark and
jagged-edged. He was facing defeat. The action he contem-
plated was risky, desperate; it would probably mean his death,
an empty sacrifice. He would be robbed, even of his glory.
Derek Sagan, defeated by the Corasians, a loser. History
never deals kindly with losers.
"What are your orders . . . Commander?" Maigrey re-
quested out loud.
His pain, his fear, his anger ... his regret touched her.
Long ago, when they had been close, very close, his pain had
been her pain, her joy had been his joy. A tear slid down her
cheek. Following the path of the scar, it seeped into the corner
of her mouth.
"Just keep out of my way, lady. And stop sniveling!" His
voice thundered in her headset.
Maigrey could see the target on her own computer screen,
but she could see it more clearly in his mind. And how the
devil did he expect her to blow her nose beneath her helmet?
"Don't be a fool, Sagan. You can't take it alone. Let me go
ahead of you and knock out the gun emplacements."
404

THE LOST KING
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The Corasians were zooming in; Sagan was turning, prepar-
ing to make his run at the target.
"Go ahead . . . Gold Two."
Another tear, her eyes swam. Their old squadron, two of
them left, was making its final run. The last flight of the
Guardians. And no one would ever know. This was foolish,
undisciplined. Swallowing her tears, indulging in one more
sniff (she could almost hear him grit his teeth), Maigrey dove
down on the enemy.
A Corasian fighter appeared on her left, visible both on her
screen and out of the corner of her eye. She paid no attention
to it, trusting to her partner. A briefly seen flash confirmed her
faith.
"We're even, lady."
This was an old game of the squadron's. It had become a
joke; they owed their lives to each other countless times over.
And then one day the joke hadn't been funny.
Maigrey was beneath the bell (or on top of it, considering
that there was neither up nor down out here). The enemy's
guns had her in their sights and were swiveling around to bear.
"Beginning my run."
"I'm with you, my lady."
His voice was soft, hypnotic in her ears or in her mind or in
both; she heard it yet she didn't hear it. A strange and
awesome sensation crept over her. She was herself and she was
him. He was himself and he was her. They were one and they
were two—all barriers down, souls, minds flowing together.
Light meeting darkness, creating a third force with a nature
both terrible and beautiful.
It was her skill that flew the plane, his keen eye that found
the target, his hand that fired, her hand that guided. Shells
burst around her, but she was invincible. Nothing could harm
her. She had the target in her sights but it seemed to her
dazzled mind that the gun emplacements dissolved and van-
ished before the energy bolts from her guns ever struck it.
Swiftly she pulled out, away from the enemy. Sagan was
right behind her, and she was with him, guiding his plane,
waiting breathlessly until the precise moment to strike.
Two Corasians were diving down on Sagan. Maigrey
couldn't consciously remember firing, but they blew apart,
both of them, and it was as if they had done so at her express
command. Sagan had seen them but paid no attention to them.
It was not that he had confidence in his partner; he no longer

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MARGARET WEIS	1
had a partner. They were an entity. He continued his run,
drawing closer and closer, and Maigrey wanted to scream from
the tension, but she only breathed, "Now!" and he fired, or
perhaps not.
Sagan's plane was blown backward by the force of the
explosion that tore the hatch from the brain. The concussive
blast nearly caused him to lose consciousness, but Maigrey was
there to strengthen his limp hands and infuse her mind into
his. He came to himself, regained control, and the two sped
away. A second explosion—much larger than the first—tore
the heart out of the brain.
Corasian fighters swarmed around them, but it was sud-
denly a swarm that had lost all guidance. Some of the enemy
ground to a halt—waiting, perhaps, for instructions that would
never come. Others continued the attack but with a mindless
fanaticism that made them easy targets. Others appeared to
have no idea where they were or why they were here and
drifted about aimlessly. The solid fist had opened, and there
was a chance, now, that Sagan and his forces could cut off the
wriggling fingers.
But the Guardians had hit only one arm of the multi-limbed
monster. The battle continued to rage; the planned retreat was
going well. Rather too well.
Sagan needed to see, to think. He soared far out beyond the
battle lines, Maigrey following him. Those few Corasians
chasing them gave up and turned back, seeking other, slower,
easier prey.
Maigrey said nothing. Absorbed completely in planning his
new strategy, Sagan appeared to have forgotten her existence.
She was just as glad. The strange and awful sensation, that
"enhancement" or whatever it had been, was fading, draining
from her like blood from a severed artery. She was suddenly
shaking and exhausted and chilled to the bone. She couldn't
breathe and nearly yanked off the smothering helmet.
"Aks! Did you see that?"
"We saw the explosion, my lord. And we're receiving the
data you transmitted now. Congratulations, my—"
"Belay that nonsense! I'm shifting strategy. Stop the retreat!
Strengthen the front lines, throw everything we've got at the
enemy. Keep them busy, Aks!"
"Yes, my lord."
"Alert the reserves, including the mercenaries. Send them
after the brain. I'm coming in."

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"Yes, my lord."
The Warlord broke off the transmission. He glanced out his
viewscreen at the Scimitar hovering at his wingtip, and his
eyes narrowed.
"My lord." Maigrey's voice was calm and sounded strange,
unrecognizable, even to her. "Final count: you owe me two.
When you return to Phoenix, you will find one of your Honor
Guards, a man named Marcus, has been placed under arrest
and is awaiting execution for disobeying your orders. He's a
good soldier. I ask that you set him free with a full and
complete pardon."
"So that's how you managed to escape. I know this Marcus.
He is, as you say, a good soldier and one I would hate to lose.
Very well, my lady, I grant your request. And the other life I
owe you?"
"My own. Let me go, Sagan. You've got the boy. I can't
matter to you now."
"And where will you go, Lady Maigrey?"
"Back there. To the fighting. They need me. I'm a good
pilot." There was no life in her voice, in her thoughts. There
was, it seemed, no life left in her.
"Don't be a fool, my lady. Your plane's taken damage; you
wouldn't last ten minutes." He paused, probing her mind.
"But that's what you want, isn't it? You're afraid, my lady.
You're scared. That was just a taste of what we could accom-
plish together, you and I! Of the power we could control!
Just a taste. And you liked it, didn't you, my lady? You want
more!"
She didn't respond. Everything was so still between them it
seemed he could hear her breathe, hear the beating of her
heart.
"This debt I owe you, Lady Maigrey, is like the genie's last
wish. You shouldn't squander it."
"What do you mean, my lord?"
"I mean, my lady, that there are other lives in your
keeping—lives besides your own. Lives that, perhaps, mean
more to you than your own. And now, my lady, I have no time
left to waste on you."
The Warlord's white, spearheaded plane sailed swift and
true for Phoenix. He left her behind. The choice was hers.
Maigrey, after a moment's bitter struggle, cursed God and
followed him.

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•<> K.-
Dion found the action. And it wasn't exactly what he'd had
in mind.
He was surrounded. There were so many of the enemy,
coming at him from so many different directions, that he
couldn't count them. He fired and fired until his hands ached
from the physical strain of operating the guns. He stared at
the target screen, trying desperately to align the blips in the
little box as he'd been taught, but his eyes burned from
fatigue, the box wobbled and seemed to expand and elongate
in his blurred vision. The blips were in and out too fast. He
couldn't react quickly enough. The ship took hit after hit and
shivered and shook around him.
"Number four shield can't hold, sir," the computer reported
in its stupid, mindless calm. "Number two is down. I'm
effecting repairs-—"
"Don't bother," Dion said through lips that had gone numb.
He couldn't move his mouth, he couldn't move his hands, and
he understood now the terrible meaning of the term "scared
stiff."
He was going to die, horribly, awfully. Blown apart out here
in the cold void.
"You got yourself into one hell of a mess, kid!"
Squadron Leader's exasperated voice rang in Dion's ears and
he nearly wept in relief.
The enemy blips on his screen were joined by other blips,
friendly blips, and the enemy blips began to disappear. Dion's
courage returned, now that he wasn't alone. He began to
return the fire.
"This is Blue Two. Enemy coming in, Squadron Leader."
"I see them. There's too many. Pull ba—"
The scream tore through Dion's head, seeming to rip out his
brains—the high-pitched, gurgling wail of a man dying in slow
agony. It was mercifully ended, cut short by a shattering
explosion, but the screaming went on and on.
It was Dion. He was screaming and he couldn't make
himself stop. Blue Two was saying something, yelling some-
thing, but it made no sense, and then Blue Two was gone.
Debris slammed into Dion's ship, and he was rolling over and
over, spiraling through the blackness.
"Take the helm, sir," the computer commanded.
Dion had quit screaming; he had no voice left. His throat

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was raw. He tasted blood in his mouth. But the silent scream
went on inside him. He stared at the panel in front of him, at
the wildly flashing red alarm lights, at the stars outside the
viewscreen that were revolving madly, and he was stable and
it was the world beyond that was spinning out of control.
"Take the helm—"
"I can't," Dion whispered. His hands fell limply in his lap.
He stared out the viewport. Nothing made sense. He had no
idea what any of these myriad dials were telling him. The
flashing lights were painful to his eyes and he squinched the
lids tightly shut. "I don't know how."
"Shall I take over, then, sir?"
"Yes."
The word was inaudible. Shivering, Dion curled up in the
pilot's chair, his knees to his chin, his arms dangling between
his legs. He couldn't breathe for dry, heaving sobs.
The computer took command of the plane, brought it back
under control. But it had no idea where to go.
Four Corasians, spotting it, had a place for it.
"And that's
it, General Dixter said, speaking from the
bridge of Defiant, talking to his people in the hangar bays
through a two-way vid hookup. "Our orders have been
changed. We go after these 'brains,' as the Warlord calls them.
You've seen the diagrams. You know how and where to hit
them. I won't ask for questions because I couldn't answer
them. You know as much as I do."
The mercenaries were silent, an ominous silence. Then.
Link, stirring, voiced their opinion. "I don't like it, sir. It's a
suicide run."
There were murmurs of assent.
"Each of you is an independent operator." Captain Williams
cut in, appearing on the screen. "You are free to leave."
The contrast between the two generals was marked. Dixter's
uniform was rumpled as usual. Tusk wondered how the
general managed it. Uniforms that Bennett had pressed until
the creases were so sharp they were practically lethal wilted
the moment John Dixter put them on. He never buttoned the
collar and would have neglected to put on his stars and medals
(worn unofficially)", but that Bennett insisted. By contrast,
Captain Williams's black, red-trimmed uniform was immacu-
late, not a thread out of place. He stood stiff and rigid as if he

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MARGARET WEIS	1
expected the Warlord to call an inspection any moment. And
the captain wasn't, Tusk noted, smiling.
"None of you mercenaries has to be here," Williams stated.
"You can leave now—"
"—like the cowardly scum we are. Right, Captain?" Tusk
demanded.
"The Warlord has conferred upon you a compliment. He has
given you this assignment because you're—"
"—expendable," Link shouted.
Captain Williams regarded them with cold, grave contempt.
"Our men are the ones currently expending their lives while
you sit here safely on your—"
"That will do, people. " Dixter came back on the screen, his
face was flushed red. His people could hear the anger and em-
barrassment in his voice. The mercenaries exchanged covert
glances, looking and feeling like small children who had been
rude to a great-aunt. Most appeared ashamed; a few, however,
remained sullen.
"Well, then, Captain," Nola sang out, shaking her curls and
grinning—undaunted—at Williams, "I guess we better come
to your rescue."
There was laughter and cheering.
"Yeah, we'll go out there and take care of 'em!" they
shouted. "Don't worry, Capt'n Williams! We'll bring your
babies home!"
The captain broke off the communication. The mercenaries
were dispersing, hurrying to their planes. Tusk put his arm
around Nola and hugged her tight.
"Thanks, Rian."
"You looked like a whipped pup. I had to say something. I
think you're all half-scared of that man. But he puts his
trousers on one leg at a time, same as you do," Nola teased.
"First his teeth, then his trousers. I think you just want to
get into his trousers, that's what I think."
There was no cutting edge in Tusk's remark. It was half-
hearted, dispirited. Nola, missing that spirit, crowded closer.
"It's going to be easy, Tusk. Nothing to it. After all, the
Warlord and the Starlady took out one of those things and
there was only two of them. We'll have Link and all the
others."
Tusk didn't tell her about the Blood Royal, about the
phenomenal power. He didn't tell her about the Golden
squadron, about a group of pilots whose exploits were, to this
day, legendary.

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"Yeah," he said at last, with a light laugh. "It's gonna be
simple. So simple that I think XJ can handle the guns. Look,
Nola, I'm worried about the general. I don't like leavin' him
here, alone, with that toothy bastard on the bridge. Why don't
you go up there with him?"
"He's not alone. He's got Bennett—"
"Bennett!" Tusk snorted. "What help's he gonna be if
something goes wrong? He might slice up a few men with the
sharp crease on his pants leg—"
"Tusk, stop it. I'm going with you." Holding on to his arm,
using it to pull herself up, Nola stood on tiptoe and planted a
kiss on his ear. "Besides, XJ's got all the calculations worked
out for the change in life-support with me aboard. You know
how upset he'd get if he had to refigure all that again."
"Yeah," Tusk said, but he wasn't happy. He started heading
for his plane.
Nola moved around to stand in front of the mercenary,
blocking his way. "Tusk," she said, looking into the dark brown
eyes, "you don't think I'm going to be a liability to you, do you?
That's not the reason you're trying to get rid of me?"
Tusk reached out, put his hands on her arms. "Nola, I'll be
honest. It's gonna be like Link said, a suicide run—"
"I know. And would you rather face death together or
apart?"
Tusk paused a moment, thinking. When he spoke, he knew
at last he meant it. "You give me . . . something, Nola. I
don't know what. All I know is that when I'm with you I can do
things I never thought I could do. If there's any way to beat
this thing, it'll take us together to do it. And I guess if we gotta
go out, we'll go out together."
"Tusk, you smooth-talker! Jeez, no wonder you never
manage to hang on to women!" Link, coming up from behind
deftly slid his arm around Nola's waist. "Stick with me,
sweetheart. I'll show you the galaxy."
Nola gently, firmly pushed Link s arm away, entwined her
hand in Tusk's. "I love you!" she whispered.
Tusk shook his head and sighed, softly.

Chapter 	 Twelve
. . . Loved I not Honor more.
Richard Lovelace, "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars"
"XJ, you infernal—!" Tusk ignored the ladder, swung down
through the hatch, and dropped lightly onto the deck below.
"XJ!" he shouted in a rage. "What did they do to my plane?"
The interior of the spaceplane was dark; the computer—
conserving energy—had shut all systems down. It was unbear-
ably hot and stuffy inside. Tusk beat on the bulkheads,
stamped on the deck with his heavy combat boots.
Slowly, the lights flickered on, cool air began to circulate
through the cabin. Nola, uncertain that she wanted to get
involved in this domestic squabble, waited at the top of the
open hatch, affecting to be deeply interested in watching Link,
who was next to them, ready his spaceplane for takeoff.
"Ah, " XJ said, "I see you've noticed the new paint job. We're
regulation now!"
"Regulation if we were in the Galactic Democratic Republic
Air Corps! Which we're not!" That was the gist of Tusk's
sentence, after it had been filtered through the foul language.
The pilot was frothing at the mouth. Nola began to hum loudly
to herself.
"You even had them paint my goddam number back on,
you—you misbegotten son of a vacuum tube—!"
"Vacuum tube!" The computer, shocked senseless, turned
up its volume to the max. A high-pitched whine shrilled
through the Scimitar. Tusk howled and clapped his hands over
his ears.
"If this wasn't an emergency," XJ reverberated over the
tooth-jarring sound, "I'd shut you down and let you roast!"
The altercation resounded throughout the hangar deck.
People were turning to stare at them. Several began laughing.
412

THE LOST KING
413-
Flushing deeply, her freckles completely disappearing, Nola
slithered down the ladder into the Scimitar.
"—and"—XJ dealt a final, triumphant blow—"there was no
charge for the paint!"
Tusk gabbled, his mouth working. His eyes were bloodshot;
sweat beaded on the black skin. Nola quickly put her hand
over his mouth.
"Tusk! Everyone's laughing at us!"
Her remonstrance was unnecessary. The mercenary seemed
to have lost completely the power of coherent speech.
"It's all right, XJ!" Nola called out. "The shock threw him off,
but Tusk's thought it over now and he thinks it was a ... a
brilliant move on your part. Here, he'll tell you himself. Tusk,
say something." Tentatively, Nola moved her hand.
"No charge for the paint!" Tusk hissed through clenched
teeth. Nola quickly muffled him.
"What was that?" XJ snapped suspiciously.
"He said, 'No charge for the paint!' He's ecstatic,
really . . . overwhelmed. Words can't begin to express—"
"I could think of a few that could!" Tusk managed to snarl.
Nola gripped his mouth tighter.
"—express his deep appreciation to you, XJ. He's speech-
less!" Nola gave Tusk a warning glance. "Aren't you?"
"Yeah!" Tusk muttered, breathing heavily. "Speechless."
"Well, if that's the way you really feel—" The computer,
mollified, turned down the volume.
Tusk headed for the bridge, noticed Nola wasn't following.
"Where you going?"
"Up in the bubble, where it's quiet." She grinned at him.
"Wait a minute, Rian." Tusk caught hold of her hand. "Take
care of yourself."
"I'll be taking Care of both our selves! Bye."
Placing her fingers on her lips, she kissed them, then
transferred the kiss to him. Tusk was inclined to make the kiss
much more interesting, but Nola wriggled out of his grasp.
Laughing, she dashed up the ladder and was out the hatch
before he could catch her. He could hear the bubble that
covered the gun turret swing open, hear her settling into her
seat.
Tusk, sighing again, slid down the ladder into the cockpit.
"I was going through my files," XJ-27 stated, "and I can't find
where this Nola Rian of yours listed her next-of-kin. Could you
ask—"

414
MARGARET WEIS	1
"Shut up!" Tusk yelled savagely, striking the computer a
blow that split his knuckles. "Just shut up!" Sucking the blood
from his hand, he began his preflight check.
"Sorry," XJ said.
It wasn't until later, when the signal was given and the
mercenaries were finally spaceborne, that Tusk realized it was
the first time he'd ever known the computer to apologize.
He took it as a bad sign.
"Damn! Would you look at that! Makes me want to puke."
Link's voice echoed in Tusk's headset. The pilot peered
through his viewport into the blackness. He could see plenty
of things that made him want to throw up—planes exploding,
the great dark hulk of the Corasian mothership moving
ponderously closer—but nothing else out of the ordinary for a
battle zone. "What? Where?"
"Right forty-five. That gorgeous spaceplane being hauled off
by those bastards!"
Tusk saw, finally, and he whistled. "That Scimitar's a beauty,
all right. Must be a prototype. I've never seen one like it."
"Let's take it away from them, Captain Tusca," came the
synthesized voice of an alien, the number three man in the
squadron.
"Negative. Get serious. First, we're under orders to hit
those brain things, and second, how're you gonna take it away?
Ask 'em real nice to let you have it? They'll let you have it, all
right. Between the eyes."	<
The Corasians, noting they were under hostile surveillance,
continued towing away their prize, but they had brought their
guns to bear on the approaching mercenaries.
"There's only four of them," Nola pointed out from the gun
turret, "and six of us."
"Red Squadron, keep back, outta range," Tusk ordered.
"You're a good shot, Rian, but not that good. We'd take the
Scimitar out, too!"
"That's an idea, Tusk! Aim for the Scimitar. Blow it up! That
way they wouldn't get hold of it!"
"Negative, Link. The pilot might still be alive."
"If he is, he'll thank us!" Link's tone was grim.
"He should have a chance to put in his vote. XJ, see if you
can raise that Scimitar."

THE LOST KING
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"Sure thing. Hey, dude in the fancy plane—"
"Shit! You don't talk to one of the Warlord's pilots like that.
Let me do it!" Tusk wrested the commlink from the computer.
"Scimitar prototype. This is—" Swallowing hard, the pilot gave
his old Air Corps number, now painted in shining red on the
side of his plane. "I can see that you're in trouble." The
mercenary paused, perplexed, wondering how to continue.
Would you like us to blow you upP just didn't seem tactful.
"Uh ... is there anything we can do to help?"
"Tusk?" came a voice in his headset. "Is that you?"
"Dion?" Tusk gasped.
"Maybe it's a trick," Link warned.
"That's the kid," the computer said. "Voice analysis
confirms."
"Dion! Are you hurt? How bad?"
"They died, Tusk. They all died. I heard them ..."
"What's the matter with him? He sounds funny. XJ, run
damage assessment on that plane. Kid, are you hurt?"
"Some superficial damage," the computer reported. "One
shield's about gone, but nothing penetrated. The kid can't be
injured too badly. Probably shaken up—"
"Sounds like he's in shock," Nola guessed.
"Sagan was right, Tusk." The boy's voice was empty, lethar-
gic. "'Kings are made, not born.' I've let them down—
Platus . . . your father. All those who died for me. I heard
them die. And it was my fault."
"My God!" Link gave a low, ominous whistle.
"We're the ones who let you down, kid." Tusk was desper-
ate, couldn't think of anything else to say. "Me. Dixter. The
Warlord. The Starlady. All of us. It was too much, too soon.
I'm a total bastard, kid. I'm sorry for the way I acted—"
"Tusk, we got company comin'. Comin' in, Mach five.
Whatta we do?" Link's voice softened. "Give the word. I'll take
care of it. One shot. He'll never know."
"No!" Tusk shouted harshly.
"I don't feel any better about it than you do, old friend, but
think about what he'll face if he's still alive when those
monsters get him aboard that ship."
Tusk knew. He knew better than Link, for Danha Tusca had
fought the Corasians and he'd told his stories to his son. The
mercenary swallowed and wiped sweat from his face. "XJ. Put
me through to the Warlord."

416
MARGARET WEIS	1
"Oh, sure," the computer retorted. "And next I'll patch you
through to the President. Who else would you like to talk to?
The Secretary of Galactic Affairs? or the Treasury Depart—"
Tusk gnashed his teeth. "Listen to me, you—"
"Calmly," Nola hinted.
The mercenary snapped his mouth shut, drew a deep
breath, and slowly let it out. "You know, XJ, I wouldn't have
even asked that of another computer. But a computer who
once raided Sagan's personal files, a computer who got me a
free paint job, a computer who figured out that Dion was
king— Well, I figure a computer like that could get hold of
God Himself if it had to!"
"Oh, screw it!" XJ muttered. "Hang on a minute till I
unravel their new codes—"
Tusk breathed a sigh, but he was too worried to feel elated
at his victory. Another bad sign.
"Red Squadron, this is Squadron Leader. We've got a new
objective. I've called for the Warlord. We're gonna keep track
of the Scimitar till we hear from him. Kid, can you hear me?
We're gonna stay with you—"
His words were interrupted by an explosion. A Corasian was
diving straight for them. Tusk swerved and dodged, hearing
overhead the whirring of motors, the hissing sound of Nola's
lasguns firing at the enemy.
Over the commotion, Tusk listened anxiously for the boy's
reply, but there was only silence.
Prior to his arrival on Phoenix, the Warlord had advised the
crew that his spaceplane had sustained damage, as had that of
his number two man. The deck was cleared for a crash landing,
a wise precaution that proved unnecessary. Sagan brought his
plane in and set it down without incident.
His number two man wasn't quite so fortunate. The Scimitar
literally fell apart on landing, skidded across the hangar deck,
and crashed into a girder. Rescue bots went into action,
putting out fires, ripping off the hatch, preparing to extricate
an injured pilot. The crew was amazed when the pilot climbed
out of the cockpit unhurt, still more amazed when the pilot
yanked off 'his' helmet and shook out a long braid of pale hair
that fell limply down the back of the flight suit.
The flight crews immediately set to work repairing the

THE LOST KING
417-
damage the planes had sustained, exclaiming over the amount
and the extent, marveling that either one of the pilots had
survived.
The two met in the corridor outside the hangar deck.
"A three-point landing, my lady, does not mean that you
take out the deck, the bulkhead, and the overhead," was
Sagan's first comment.
Maigrey's hair was damp with sweat and straggled over her
face. Blood from a cut on her forehead trickled down into one
eyebrow. Tears made tracks in the grime on her face. She
didn't bother to glance at Sagan, but stared straight into a wall.
"Am I being sent back to my cell, my lord?"
"No, my lady. I can't afford to lose any more of my men.
You'll come with me to the bridge where I can— Well, what is
it, Aks?" The admiral rounded a corner. He must have been
waiting to meet them. The Warlord halted, impatience ex-
pressed in every line of his body. "Have the mercenaries gone
out? Are the 'brains' under attack?"
"Yes, my lord, but—"
"What, Aks? Don't stand there dithering!"
The admiral was staring at Maigrey, his eyes wide. "I—I was
going to report, my lord, that the . . . uh . . . lady has
escaped. ..." His voice trailed away.
"Report noted." The Warlord resumed walking, nearly
running the admiral down. Sagan's strides were long and
rapid. Noting Maigrey lagging wearily behind, he caught hold
of her by the arm to hurry her along. Angrily, she started to
jerk her elbow free of his grasp when she suddenly gasped and
came to a stop.
"What now, my lady?" Sagan snapped. He had nearly
dragged the woman off her feet. She didn't seem to hear, but
stumbled against him like one suddenly gone blind.
"Very bad news, my lord." Admiral Aks was hurrying to
catch up. He licked his tongue over his lips as if he would like
to sweeten bitter words. "The mercenary, Tusca, has been
trying to reach you. It seems young Starfire broke away from
the squadron and got himself into trouble—"
Sagan swore vilely, viciously—an unusual break in the man's
iron discipline and one indication, to those who knew him
well, of nerves stretched taut, of stress taking its toll on body
and mind.
"The Corasians have him," Maigrey whispered, seeing in

418
MARGARET WEIS	1
her mind the four enemy fighters locking their tractor beams
onto the unresisting Scimitar. Blinking, she came back from
the awful vision to stare at Sagan. "It's that damn plane you
gave him! That technological wonder! You might as well have
given him to them!"
The Warlord said nothing.
Maigrey broke free of his grip. Backing a step away from
him, she looked up into his face. He had removed his helmet,
but he might well have kept it on. It seemed she looked into
steel.
"Or maybe you did give him to them! That's it, isn't it, my
lord? Dion isn't turning out to be the puppet you thought. He's
got a mind of his own, a will of his own. He wants to be king!"
Maigrey turned on her heel, started back down the corridor,
back toward the hangar deck. "I'm going after him."
Sagan took a step to follow. She heard his footfall and
whirled to face him. The bloodsword flared blue in her hands.
"So help me God, my lord—try to stop me and I'll kill you."
She was poised, calm, and resolute. There was no doubting
her words. Sagan held perfectly still, his hands raised where
she could see them.
"Admiral Aks." The Warlord turned his head slightly.
"My lord."
"The second Bloodspear is available?"
"It can be made so at once, my lord—"
"Good. Have it readied"—the Warlord spoke with grim
irony—"for my lady."
"Yes, my lord!" Aks murmured.
"I'll be going out in mine. Aks, I'm leaving you in command.
You have my orders."
"But, my lord! I was going to tell you! The mothership is
moving up to—"
"Deal with it, Aks." The Warlord strode past Maigrey, who
watched him warily, keeping on her guard. He paused,
standing so near her that the heat from the weapon began to
melt and blacken the fabric of his flight suit.
"My lady," he said coldly, "I'll meet you in hell!"
Turning, he continued walking down the corridor, heading
back toward the hangar deck.
Maigrey straightened, shut down the blade, and replaced it
in its scabbard. Wearily, she dragged the hair out of her face,
wiped her hand across her eyes and forehead—smearing the
blood and grime—and started to follow the Warlord.

THE LOST KING
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The corridor suddenly slanted, the walls shook. Maigrey
stumbled backward, Admiral Aks fell to his knees.
Phoenix was under attack.
■<> «c>.
Tusk's squadron clung tenaciously to Dion's Scimitar. The
Corasians kept the plane in tow, dragging it nearer and nearer
the mothership. Wave after wave of enemy fighters dove at
Red Squadron, trying to dislodge them from their position.
Nola kept up a constant stream of fire; she could feel the heat
from the lasgun through her gloves.
She'd been scared, at first; there were so many, it seemed
hopeless. But now her fear was gone. She didn't feel anything.
She was too tired. The situation wasn't hopeless to her
anymore. It just simply wasn't real. It was all happening to
someone else—to someone whose arm muscles were going
limp from fatigue, whose hands ached from the strain, whose
eyes hurt from the constant, blinding flares of exploding death.
Nola, watching this person, felt a moment's brief pity for her.
Below, Tusk fought controls that jumped and bucked and
threatened to tear his arms from their sockets. His flight suit
was soaked with sweat; he would have traded a starjewel for a
drink of cool water. Above him, the gun's firing was so constant
that he didn't even hear it anymore, couldn't remember a time
when he hadn't heard it. The nightmare flight went on and on.
Corasians materialized out of the blackness, their planes
forever coming at him. He couldn't see Red Squadron any-
more—if it still existed. He dimly remembered hearing death
screams, registered that it was someone he knew, but he
couldn't think, couldn't care.
"Hang on, Tusk!" Link's voice, ragged with fatigue, was
somehow still cocky. "It's just you and me now."
Time and again, the two pilots fought off attack, their only
hope of staying alive resting with each other. Constant tracer
fire lit the interior of the Scimitar bright as if they'd come up
on a sun.
"My new paint job!" the computer mourned.
A Corasian popped up in front of them. Laser fire seared
into the Scimitar. The plane rocked. Tusk was slammed
violently against his restraining straps, nearly breaking his
right shoulder.
"One more hit like that," XJ shouted, "and you can kiss that
left shield good-bye!"

420
MARGARET WEIS	1
"Keep quiet a moment," Tusk ordered. He licked perspira-
tion from his lips, wondering why his heart was beating
painfully and his mouth felt as if he'd been chewing on his
socks. "What's wrong? Something's wrong, XJ! I can hear it!"
"No, you can't," the computer said slowly. "It's the gun. It's
quit firing. Shield's gone—"
"Nola!" Tusk fumbled at the restraining straps.
"Are you insane? Sit down, you maniac! That fighter's
coming back around! I've got the guns under control. Rian's
not dead. The bubble wasn't penetrated. I can register a
heartbeat and she's breathing. If you want to keep her alive,
you better pull yourself together!"
Tusk subsided, reluctantly, back into his seat. He stared out
the viewport that was smeared with carbon scoring, making it
practically impossible to see anything. "The kid! Where's the
kid?"
"Lost him," XJ said quietly. "About fifteen minutes ago,
during that last attack. There was nothing you could do."
The guns, manned by the computer, began firing. The
Corasian dodged the tracer fire and dove in on them.
"Link!" Tusk shouted desperately.
"Got one of my own!" Link gasped. "I—"
There was a shattering explosion. The spaceplane rocked.
"Are we hit?" Tusk demanded.
"No," XJ said, its audio awed. "It was the enemy. They're
both . . . gone."
"Tusca. Mendaharin Tusca," came a voice over the merce-
nary's headset.
Tusk was so relieved he nearly broke down and cried.
But—recognizing the voice—he kept himself under strict
control.
"Tusca here, sir."
"'My lord,' not 'sir'!" hissed the scandalized XJ.
Two planes came into partial view through his filthy view-
port. Sleek and smooth, shaped like spearheads, they were
glorious light in the midst of darkness, calm in the center of
chaos, life-bringers to the dead. Tusk had to remind himself
that it was Derek Sagan.
"The boy, sir." Tusk tasted defeat. "We lost him. I'm sorry."
"I can see him, Tusca," said a cool, feminine voice. "I have
him in my mind."
"There's something wrong with him. I don't think he's
hurt—at least not physically. He was talkin' real funny—"

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"We're going after him," the Warlord said. "You needn't
worry about him. You are to be commended for your bravery,
Captain Tusca, you and . . . ?"
"Link, sir," came the mercenary's cocky reply.
"I note both planes have taken extensive damage. Captain
Link will no doubt want to return to Defiant, but you, Tusca,
might want to consider returning to Phoenix."
"Sir?" Tusk couldn't think. Exhaustion was seeping in,
taking over his mind and body.
The Warlord's voice sounded exasperated. "The enemy
brains have nearly been eliminated or their effectiveness
reduced. It appears that we are on the verge of winning this
battle. I'm offering you a commission, Mendaharin Tusca. In
my personal command."
A low whistle came from the computer.
"Shut up!" Tusk ordered. "No—not you, sir. I was talking to
my—my partner. Uh, thank you, sir—that is, my lord. It's not
that I don't appreciate the honor, but I'm under General
Dixter's command and . . . and I'm saying this real bad, but
I guess I'll go back to Defiant—"
"Consider your decision well, young man." The Warlord's
voice was grim, ominous. "My offer will not be repeated."
Tusk felt a chill grip his bowels, cramp his stomach.
"I understand, my lord. Thank you. But it wouldn't work
out."
"You are much like your father, Tusca," Lady Maigrey said.
"Indeed he is," Lord Sagan added. "Danha Tusca suffered
from a misguided sense of loyalty. Apparently it runs in the
family."
"Thank the Creator. Farewell, Mendaharin Tusca. God be
with you."
"Yeah. You, too, my lady," Tusk said.
The communication ended abruptly. The two gleaming
white planes vanished, winking out of his line of sight. In a
moment he could see them again, but they were distant and
bright and cold as the other stars in the heavens.
"Link, we're heading back to Defiant." Tusk disentangled
himself from his restraining harness. "Take over the controls,
XJ. I'm going to check on Nola. Nothing fancy. That goes for
you, too, Link! Just get us back in one piece."
"Nothing fancy for me, old friend. I'm played out. Say, Tusk.
I gotta tell you. That was a pretty great thing you did, turning
down the Warlord—"

422
MARGARET WEIS	1
"Great!" XJ was furious. "You can't eat 'great'! I say he's a big
dope! You're a big dope, Men Da Ha Rin Tusca! We coulda
made our fortunes! The Warlord would've given you a com-
mand of your own, probably made you a colonel. I could've
had a new plane—like that one of the kid's—"
"Leave me alone, will you?" Tusk clambered up the ladder,
snagging the emergency medkit on his way. "I'm worried
about Nola."
"Oh, yeah? If you're so worried about her, why didn't you
take Sagan up on his offer?" the computer demanded. "She
could be getting class medical treatment now!"
"I wish I had!" Tusk stuck his head back through the hatch
to shake his fist at the computer. "The Warlord purged all
XJ-27 models!"
The word "purge" stuck in Tusk's throat. A chill crept up the
back of his spine. Stupid. It's nothing. Someone standing on
my grave. The mercenary shook himself out of it.
"I don't believe it!" XJ squeaked.
"Yep. Scrap heap. One of the mechanics aboard Defiant told
me. Something about too much independent thinking."
Tusk pulled himself up into the bubble. Nola lay sprawled in
the gunner's seat. Her flight suit was covered with blood.
Splinters of metal filled the gun turret. A quick glance showed
Tusk that the hit had torn a hole through the body of the
spaceplane, not penetrating the bubble, but sending metal
fragments whizzing around like thrown daggers.
Cutting away Nola's flight suit, Tusk sealed the wounds with
plastiskin and managed to stop the bleeding, but he knew she
suffered head injuries and there wasn't a damn thing he could
do about that. He gave her a fix to alleviate shock. Cradling her
in his arms, he sank down on the fragment-strewn floor of the
gun turret and stared out the bubble.
The ranks of the enemy were obviously thinned, although
numerous dogfights continued to rage. The mother ship was
launching a barrage of lascannon fire and torpedoes into the
hull of Phoenix. Another cruiser was coming up to support her.
Defiant had pulled back, out of the action. Tusk could see long
lines of the mercenaries returning to the ship.
"I can't comprehend it!" XJ's audio was tbin and tinny
sounding. "The tragedy! My fellow computers. Purged! Maybe
I'm the last survivor—"
"God, we can only hope so!" Tusk smoothed back the

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blood-gummed curls from Nola's ashen face. "XJ, contact
Defiant. Get in touch with Dixter."
Tusk could hear the computer raising the ship. He couldn't
hear the response; something up in the turret had broken
loose and was rattling loudly.
"Dixter's not available," XJ reported.
"Not available?" There was the chill again. "I don't like this.
Are all our people going back?"
"Where the hell else they gonna go?" XJ demanded. "Half of
'em are shot up. The other half got barely enough fuel to make
it that far. Besides, Dixter's on that ship—somewhere."
Tusk shifted Nola slightly. Easing his lasgun out of its
holster, he examined it, made sure it was fully charged, and
laid it across his knees.
"Let's be careful going in there, XJ. Real careful."

Chapter	Thirteen
Who shall tempt . . . the dark, unbottomed, infinite abyss?
John Milton, Paradise Lost
The white, spearheaded planes mingled with the debris of a
wrecked brain. The battle had changed in nature and scope.
The Corasian mothership, seeing defeat being snatched from
the jaws of victory, had moved up to challenge Phoenix. The
Warlord's ship was taking grueling punishment and was being
forced to endure it without returning a shot, fearful of hitting
its own planes.
Scimitars dove at the mothership, darting through withering
fire to inflict what small amount of damage they could on the
enemy's heavily shielded black hull. How the Corasian com-
puters were analyzing this bizarre strategy was anyone's guess.
Certainly it would be impossible for the "body" to comprehend
that the Warlord was risking victory in order to protect the
one.
Maigrey herself wondered at Sagan's motives. Knowing him
as she did, she found it difficult to accept that he would throw
away everything he'd worked so long and hard to achieve in
order to rescue the boy. He must have some ulterior design,
some stratagem in mind, but—aside from using the fighters as
cover for their own assault on the enemy—Maigrey couldn't
discern Sagan's plans. The exhilarating and frightening bond
that had joined them when they fought the brain had been
broken, cleaved in two.
Where they were going, in the dark night they were
entering, they would have only each other. Sagan was furious
at Maigrey. She was wary and suspicious of him. Their minds
were shielded as heavily as their planes. Neither could
penetrate the other; they communicated through mechanical
424

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means. Unless something changed, they were walking into
certain death.
Maigrey knew it and wondered uneasily how she felt about
it. She didn't trust herself. She had sought this final escape into
oblivion for so long! And, she had to admit, she would rather
die than experience that terrifying "joining" again. She also
had to admit she would rather die because she longed for that
joining with every fiber of her being.
With such power as the enhancement brought them, he and
she could rule the universe and no one could stop them.
Whenever she relived that moment, pleasurable pain, like
liquid fire, burned in her veins, constricted her heart, and
snatched at her breath. Her hands shook, her body trembled,
and she longed to cry out that she was with him, they were one
as they had been one so long ago. Only not even then, not in
their youth, had they experienced power as they had known
together in those flame-tinged moments of battle against the
enemy.
Maturity. Age and the wisdom it brings. Definitive goals.
Reality taking the place of airy and insubstantial dreams. Cold
steel emerging from the ashes of youth's hot passions.
"What about the boy, my lady?"
Sagan had not spoken to her since they had left Tusca, and
his voice jolted through her like electricity. Her spaceplane,
guided by her mind, reacted, shivering like a leaf in a wind.
Angry at herself, she latched on to discipline firmly, as a
drowning man clings to a piece of wood.
"Dion won't respond to my attempts to raise him."
"Nor to mine."
"But I'm able to touch his mind through the ring. He can
understand me, my lord."
"What's his mental state?"
"Not good. Frightened, guilt-ridden, overwhelmed by ev-
erything that's happened to him. Just what you might expect
from someone captured and wounded by the enemy. And
then, of course, there are the Corasians. ..."
"Spare me your wit, lady."
"I count myself at fault, my lord. I forgot what it was to be
young . . . if I ever really knew."
"Are you through wallowing?" Sagan demanded.
Maigrey couldn't help smiling, and felt better. "Yes, my
lord."

426
MARGARET WEIS	1
"Good. Contact the boy and instruct him to connect with the
bloodsword. He's not to use it, he's not to fight them. The
Corasians will want to keep him alive; they'll need to know
everything they can about his plane. Tell him to submit to
them, but to keep his hand firmly attached to the sword. They
won't be able to wrest it away."
No, the bloodsword could never be taken from a living
person. It could be removed only from a corpse. Maigrey
knew how Corasians "questioned" those they captured.
"We'll be able to keep in contact with him through the
sword, even if he loses consciousness," Sagan continued. "I
don't suppose that brother of yours taught the boy any
techniques to withstand torture."
"I seriously doubt it."
"Then instruct the boy to use meditation, submerge his
mind, sink beneath the pain. The bloodsword will aid him, but
you don't need to tell him so."
"There's a danger in that, my lord. We might not get him
back," Maigrey pointed out.
"That will be my problem."
"He may not listen to me."
"That problem, my lady, is yours."
Dion sat in the pilot's seat, staring at the hull of the
mothership looming closer, staring at the beak-nosed planes
towing him nearer and nearer, staring at it all and seeing none
of it. His gaze had turned inward and the dark horrors he saw
in his own soul made those without pale by comparison.
Dion . . .
The voice came from the ring, his mother's ring that he wore
around his neck. It seemed to him that the voice had been
calling to him a long time, trying to penetrate despair's infinite
shadow. He was sick of the voice. It irritated him, a pricking of
pain that disturbed his comfortable numbness. Dion reached
up his hand, slowly and lethargically wrapping cold fingers
around the ring of flame, ready to jerk it off, snap the chain,
throw it from him.
Dion, we're here. We're with you. The Guardians, we're
here to protect our king.
"King!" Dion laughed. "King of cowards! King of fools!" His
hand closed over the ring. "I failed the test. I know it now. You
just didn't want to tell me."

THE LOST KING
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No, you haven't failed. Not yet.
"Not yet? I suppose you're going to say this is another one!
Another test to pass! What this time? Courage? I've flunked
that. Maybe stamina, fortitude? See how much pain I can
endure? I've flunked that, too. I've had enough."
All your life you will he tested, Dion. Some you'll pass, some
you'll fail. You'll learn from both. If you have the courage to
keep fighting, put your hand on the hilt of the bloodsword.
Don't resist your captors. You can't win against them. Submit
to them. It will be terrible for you, but center your mind on us
and we will come to you.
Dion blinked; cognizance returned. The black hull of the
mothership filled the viewport. The spiders were bringing him
to their queen. Her huge gaping maw opened wide to suck
him inside, suck him dry. It was dark inside—horribly,
unbelievably dark. Fear crackled through him; the will to live
had returned, and with it debilitating panic.
God, I'm such a coward!
Your hand on the sword! came the urgent voice in his mind.
Your hand on the sword.
The plane was moving more rapidly now, or perhaps
movement just seemed swifter because of the nearness of the
mothership. Dion thought for a moment he couldn't obey the
voice. The right hand that grasped the necklace was paralyzed.
But fear proved friend as well as foe. Adrenaline loosened his
fingers, moved his shaking hand to the sword. He withdrew
the hilt from the scabbard. The plane's interior lights shone on
the five sharp needles protruding from the side of the hand-
grip. The darkness outside the plane grew thicker and denser.
The needles gleamed.
The lady's words sounded good, but he didn't believe them.
She was only offering him an excuse. He had only to drop the
sword and he would die—die a hero.
Angrily, tears welling up in his eyes, Dion jabbed the needles
into the palm of his hand. The pain was intense, the virus
streamed into his bloodstream, and he cried out, but he held on
to the sword tightly.
The maw absorbed him and boomed shut behind him, and
all the lights in the universe went out.

428
MARGARET WEIS	1
"He's done it, my lord," Maigrey said wearily. "He's taken
the bloodsword."
"Yes, I can sense him now. His mental attitude isn't good."
"No, he's too young to know that sometimes it takes more
courage to live than to die."
"A lesson I hope you've taken to heart, my lady."
"I'm going in there for him, my lord."
"But you're going in there with me, my lady."
"I'll be right at your side, my lord, you may be certain of
that."
"I hope so, for your sake, my lady. I wouldn't trust you
anywhere else . . . say at my back, for instance. Start your
ri¥n."
Maigrey's plane rocketed out from behind the brain, soaring
upward with such ferocious speed that she didn't pay any
attention to where she was going and two Scimitars had to
scramble to get out of her way. She attacked the Corasian
mothership wildly, blindly, not remembering that this was a
feint. She needed to vent her rage, wanted most desperately
to destroy something. She was only sorry she couldn't do it
with her bare hands.
Explosions bursting around her plane literally knocked
sense back into her. Her plane rocked and bucked and began
to spin. Instinct screamed to her to bring it back under control.
Maigrey yanked the needles from her hand, fearing she
wouldn't have the discipline to remain attached to the plane.
The computer automatically took over, and Maigrey had to
force herself to shut down all systems, including the plane's
life-support, and rely solely on those in her helmet and flight
suit. For a terrifying few moments, she spun wildly. The other
fighters had been warned to watch for the maneuver and to
keep clear, but it seemed to Maigrey that she must careen
either into one of them or the enemy.
The dead ship routine. They'd used it before, but never
against Corasians. Maigrey couldn't stand it. Her hand hov-
ered over the controls; she was within a centimeter of snatch-
ing them up and inserting the needles into her flesh. A
bone-jarring thud and then a jolt. The spin stopped, nearly
jarring the teeth out of her head.
Glancing to her left, fearful to move too much, Maigrey saw
Sagan's plane tumbling wildly through space and saw it, too,
come to an abrupt and sudden stop as an enemy tractor beam
locked on to it. Slowly, like her plane, Sagan's was being

THE LOST KING
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dragged inside the mothership. Maigrey started to breathe a
sigh, but caught herself. She didn't dare make even that much
noise. The Corasians had opened the city gates and were
wheeling in the wooden horse. Hiding inside, she had to be
very, very quiet.
Closing her eyes, Maigrey banished fear, banished anger,
banished love. She centered herself and then she pulled
herself from her body and walked into her mind and took all
visible, outward signs of life with her.

Chapter -wf- Fourteen
Character is what you are in the dark.
Earl Mac Rauch, Buckaroo Banzai
Blazing flame and hideous night. The creatures plucked at
Dion with steel pincers, gouged and tore his flesh, and herded
him before them like a sheep to the slaughterhouse. Their
horrid bodies burned inside plastic shells—that fire was the
only light and he'd rather be struck blind than look at it any
longer. He stumbled through a corridor and down another,
some part of his mind registering where he was going, where
he'd been, acting on old instinct, acting according to how
Platus had taught him. He held on to the bloodsword tightly.
Synthesized voices questioned him: Tell us how the plane
operates. Tell us this, tell us that!
He couldn't. He wasn't being heroic. He didn't know. His
mind had shut down. He couldn't have told them how a
dry-cell battery operated.
Claws gripped him, lifted him, and he was lying on a steel
table in a small room, lit only by the fire of their bodies.
Tell us, yes? Now, you tell us!
Clamps closed over his wrist and ankles. A whirring,
buzzing sound went off near his right ear. He twisted his head
to see, fear churning inside him. His Captor's pincerlike hand
had been removed. In its place was a razor-edged round saw
blade. Dion couldn't cry out. He grasped the bloodsword
tightly, but it wasn't going to matter.
The saw blade zinged, lowered, and cut off his arm.
A thin filament of consciousness attached Maigrey to reality.
She felt the spaceplane settle and was aware of noise, aware
430

THE LOST KING	431-
that sensor probes were investigating the plane, confirming—
no doubt—the presence of a human corpse. Slowly, she
brought herself back to life, steadily increasing her heartbeats
per minute, agonizing in silence at the tingling pain of blood
resuming its flow. These were the tense moments, the mo-
ments when you were helpless. If the sensors were still on,
still registering, the enemy would know they'd been tricked,
know that what seemed dead was really very much alive.
Maigrey opened her eyes, looked—without moving her
head, without moving a muscle—out the viewport. She could
see the red-orangish glow given off by the Corasians trundling
about, the flaming molten mass of body and mind encased in
clear plastisteel robots. Impulse energy operated the hands
that had taken their civilization from crawling across the
ground to blazing paths among the stars.
Corasians are not particularly frightening to look at unless
you've seen the robot body suddenly open wide, the burning
molten mass slide out and go in search of food. Maigrey had
seen it; she'd seen the Corasians devour trees, plants, humans,
anything with life energy. She counted six of them in this area,
surrounding her plane, and she shuddered.
Moving slowly, with excessive caution and in absolute
silence, Maigrey inserted the needles that were the plane's
controls back into her palm. The spaceplane—all parts of
it—were now a part of her, an extension of herself. The
Corasians apparently suspected nothing.
The last time she'd flown the dead plane routine had been,
what—eighteen years ago? During the so-called Battle of the
Celestial Throne. A well-meaning scientist had programmed
several million droids on his particular planet to have only one
object—that of making human life forms absolutely happy. The
droids attempted to do just that, but had eventually come to
the unfortunate conclusion that the only truly happy human
was a dead human. Even then the frustrated droids weren't
certain humans were happy, but at least they didn't appear to
have any more complaints. The droids set out to bring
happiness to the galaxy.
Maigrey picked up two disrupter grenades in her left hand
and, fumbling at them awkwardly, managed to align the
switches so that she could operate each with a flick of her
thumb. She paused a moment to concentrate her mental
processes and to hope, briefly, that somewhere on this god-
forsaken ship Derek Sagan was doing the same thing. Maigrey

432
MARGARET WEIS	1
couldn't spare the time or the mental discipline needed to try
to link up with him.
Swift as her thought, the hatch whirred open. Maigrey
flicked on the grenades, bobbed up out of the hatch, tossed the
grenades, and dove back down, closing the hatch behind her.
Two near simultaneous explosions rocked the plane and pelted
it with plastisteel debris and blobs of molten, flaming Cora-
sian.
Maigrey opened her eyes and raised her head. Another
grenade was in her hand, but she didn't need it, apparently.
Everything had gone dark.
"An understatement," Maigrey muttered, shaken.
It was a darkness unlike any she had ever before encoun-
tered, a darkness that had no memory of light, could not even
imagine light. The darkness blotted out sight, seemed capable
of blotting out existence. Maigrey's hands groped for the
reassurance of the control panel of the plane. She wouldn't
have been much surprised if it had been swallowed up.
She found the switch for the interior lights and flipped them
on, but they made her feel horribly exposed. Hastily, she
made her instrument readings, then shut off the lights again.
The atmosphere was safe to breathe. Corasians, in their robot
bodies, could exist anywhere under any conditions. On board
their ship, they didn't need oxygen-rich air, but their human-
copied computers and other instruments—as well as their
prisoners—did.
She removed the controls from her hand, feeling a reluc-
tance to detach herself from the protection of the spaceplane.
It was this damn darkness. It was unnerving. But she couldn't
stay here forever. Those explosions were bound to have set off
alarms. Hurriedly she removed her helmet and wriggled out of
the bulky flight suit.
Beneath it, she wore a black, lightweight body armor that fit
almost skin tight. It would not stop a direct laser hit; that
wasn't necessary. The shielding capability of the bloodsword
provided that. The armor offered protection against flying
debris and projectile weapons, however, and it allowed her
freedom of movement—something Maigrey had the distinct
feeling she was going to need.
On her breast sparkled the Star of the Guardians.
The light of the starjewel always gleamed more brightly
when in complete darkness. It glistened radiantly now, with a

THE LOST KING
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dazzling blue-white brilliance. Maigrey closed her hand over
it, starting to hide it away beneath the body armor. But she
found the light comforting. The enemy was bound to discover
her with or without a beacon.
Her fingers lingered on the starjewel, and Sagan's voice
came to her mind.
My lady?
Maigrey closed her eyes, weak with a relief she was
extremely careful to keep hidden. Adrenaline, apparently, had
reestablished the link between them.
My lord!
Where are you?
God only knows. No, I take that back. He probably doesn't.
I can't see a damn thing now, but before the lights went out it
looked as if I was in some sort of salvage hangar—where they
bring planes to scavenge.
I'm in the same type of place. I have the impression I'm near
you, my lady. Can you sense Dion?
Yes. I can sense him and you, my lord. You seem to be
nearer to me than he is. The boy's some distance away
and . . . and he's in terrible pain, Sagan. They're torturing
him.
The quicker we move, the quicker we'll reach him. For the
time being, we must concentrate on each other. Our thoughts
link us and will guide us together.
Like iron to a magnet, Maigrey thought.
Set your plane's controls to self-destruct in thirty minutes if
you don't return to give the shutdown command.
So, that's your strategy. That's how you plan to destroy the
mothership and us, too, if we don't succeed. Maigrey rigged
the computer. Sagan's thoughts came to her. "Mark five, four,
three, two, one." She repeated the countdown and on "one"
set the computer's clock to read 1800, ticking downward. Her
inner clock in her brain registered and began ticking along
with the computer.
1799. 1798.
Before leaving, Maigrey inserted the needles of the blood-
sword into her right palm. In her left, she could either carry a
lasgun or a grenade. She'd never been that good a shot with
her left hand, and so opted for the grenade. Pulling herself up
out of the hatch, she dropped down over the side and landed
heavily on the deck below.
The darkness was a living, breathing entity. It wrapped

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MARGARET WEIS	1
around her, smothered her. It had weight and form, and she
involuntarily stooped and ducked her head, though she knew
perfectly well that she was standing in a vast, wide-open
hangar. The starjewel shone brightly but did not illuminate.
She activated the bloodsword. Guided by its pulsating light,
she made her way through the wreckage.
Cables, like snakes, wrapped around her ankles or dangled
from the overhead. Sharp bits of twisted metal jutted up out of
the wrecked deck. She moved as quickly as she could by the
sword's dim light, not daring to cause it to shine brighter for
fear of expending too much of her own energy. Consequently
she stumbled and tripped and once stepped in a sticky
substance that clung to her boot.
"Dead Corasian!" Maigrey almost gagged and, with a final
lunge, reached a doorway.
Here she halted to catch her breath, shake her hair out of
her face, and reconnoiter.
A long, wide corridor with smooth decks designed to
accommodate the wheeled robots stretched off to her right and
to her left. Sagan was to her left, she sensed, and moving
toward her. Dion was somewhere to her left and straight
ahead, within the heart of the ship.
The corridor was empty, and Maigrey was puzzled. She had
expected Corasians to be whizzing to the hangar deck to
investigate the explosion. But then she considered. No, why
would they? To them it must seem nothing more than a
malfunction of one of the dead planes they'd salvaged. As for
loss of life, a few cells of the massive body had simply winked
out. The enemy had other, more urgent problems—such as
the attacking fighters, the bombardment of Phoenix, and the
torturing of captured pilots.
Dion was still linked to the bloodsword. Through it, Mai-
grey shared his pain and fear and suffering. It was dreadful,
and it took all of her discipline to shove it into a corner of her
being and firmly ignore it. Risking a little more light so that
she could see where she was going, she began moving rapidly,
warily, down the corridor.
Nothing blocked her way; the deck remained level, the
corridor bent around at a slight angle. She was moving nearer
and nearer Sagan; she could feel, in fact, his mounting
impatience for her to reach him. The corridor took a sharp turn
to the right. She followed it and nearly collided with two
Corasians emerging from a doorway.

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Maigrey had the advantage. Although taken by surprise at
the enemy's sudden appearance, she had been expecting
trouble and was prepared to fight. The Corasians were caught
with their wheels locked, as the saying goes.
The bloodsword slashed a blue streak and a robot head went
hurtling through the air, struck a wall, and blew up. Maigrey's
return stroke cleaved the plastisteel body of the second
Corasian, but not, apparently, before it had found time to
sound the alarm. Klaxons dinned in her ears. She could sense
Sagan fuming.
You're wasting time, my lady!
What the hell was I supposed to do?
The first Corasian had toppled over. Still alive, it was unable
to operate its body and was rolling helplessly about like an
overturned turtle. The second, however, had broken free of its
split case and was oozing out of the plastisteel. Its orange, fiery
mass moved at alarming speed, slithering across the deck for
her feet.
Maigrey slashed at it with her sword and was astounded to
see it keep coming. If anything, it flamed more strongly!
"Sagan!" she gasped, stumbling backward.
Change the polarity! Negative energy! Switch to the shield!
Of course. She should have thought of that. But then it'd
been seventeen years and she'd never actually fought one of
these creatures face to face.
Maigrey activated the sword's shielding beam and, at its
touch, the Corasian blackened and hissed and began to smoke.
To your left, my lady! Sagan instructed. I've found a
corridor that leads to the boy! Swiftly!
Maigrey dashed down the passageway and saw, suddenly, to
her right, another corridor opening into hers. It was lit by
orange light reflecting off the metal walls—an orange light that
was growing rapidly brighter. She could hear the whirring and
clicking of robot bodies. To reach Sagan, Maigrey would have
to pass the opening of the corridor. She would be an easy
target, with no hope of cover.
I see them, my lady. Come to me.
Side by side. I'll be with you. Trust.
There was no time, no choice. She caught her breath and
lunged forward, running headlong down the corridor, straight
toward the approaching enemy. Flicking on the grenade, she
hurled it into the corridor as she sped past. The shattering
explosion nearly blew her off her feet. She was thrown up

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MARGARET WEIS	1
against a bulkhead. Pushing herself away from it, shaken but
unhurt, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, that she had
killed some but not all. The orange light was still hideously
bright. The robots fired. Flaming bolts flared around her. A
flash of pain tore through the flesh of her left arm.
The iron to the magnet.
A strong hand caught hold of her and pulled her close within
the circle of a protecting arm. Sagan raised his sword, the
shield activated, deflecting the blasts. Maigrey pressed her
body against his, giving him room to maneuver the sword,
careful to deactivate her own. Sagan's arm tightened around
her almost convulsively. In a moment, they would have to
fight. He would release her and she would take up her position
at his side. But for this brief instant they were once again each
other's best comfort, each other's best hope.
Maigrey could hear his heart beating in his chest, feel the
lean hard muscles of his thighs taut against her, the bone and
sinew and muscle of his encircling arm. And the enhancement
came back, enveloping them, surging through them, bursting
around them like a glittering shower of stars.
Well, she thought shakily, so it hadn't been adrenaline that
had linked them after all.
"Across the corridor!" he ordered, somewhat breathlessly,
and almost shoved her away from him.
Maigrey acted on the split-second of his thought and was
ready. Her bloodsword flared to life. Sagan leapt forward,
charging the enemies, and Maigrey was at his side. She never
touched one, she swore it, but a concussive blast shattered the
plastisteel robot bodies bearing down on them and suddenly
the corridor was silent and intensely, blindingly dark.
Maigrey caught a sobbing breath and waited impatiently for
her eyes to adjust, although she knew it wouldn't make any
difference. It would still be just as dark. A flash of pain that
wasn't her own made her flinch.
"Dion!" she whispered. "We're . . . losing him!"
Sagan caught her by the elbow. "This way. Down the
corridor. I found it . . ." He, too, was short of breath.
. . before you brought the . . . army down us."
Another passageway opened up to their right and Maigrey
felt, like a cool wind blowing against her cheek, a sense of the
boy emanating from it.

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But, behind them, the darkness was growing steadily
brighter.
They ran for it. Maigrey's legs ached, her breath burned in
her throat and tore through her lungs. The mystical power, it
seemed, enhanced the mind but not the body, and there was
only so much strength the mind could lend to muscles that had
been doing their duty for forty-plus years and seemed to think
they deserved better than this.
The knowledge that they were nearing Dion and her own
determination not to let Sagan know she was in any way weak
spurred Maigrey to keep up with the Warlord nearly step for
step. If she noted that he was running slower than he used to
or heard him begin to labor for breath himself, she was too
scared, too exhausted to register the fact.
"Stop!" Sagan came to a halt so suddenly that Maigrey
stumbled into him. He steadied her, his arm around her waist.
"Listen, I hear him."
Maigrey leaned against the Warlord, straining to hear above
the pounding of blood in her ears. It wasn't a cry, but it might
have been a silent scream. She wasn't certain whether she
heard it in her head or in her heart.
"There!" She pointed down the corridor to a half-open door
on their right. "That room."
"The one with the bright orange glow," Sagan said.
The light behind them was growing brighter, now that they
had stopped, and she could hear, too, the whirring of wheels.
"Can you see him, my lady?"
Maigrey closed her eyes, trying to calm her fear and
excitement enough to concentrate. The vision came to her
almost immediately, however. She'd forgotten about the en-
hancement.
"He's lying on a steel table, like a surgical table. There are
four . . . no . . . seven Corasians in the room with him.
Two at the foot of the table, two on his left, one on his right,
and two at the head. His feet are toward the door."
"Four will have their backs to us." Sagan reached to his belt,
detached a lasgun, and handed it to her. "Aim high. I hope to
God the boy won't sit up."
"I don't think he can," Maigrey murmured. She glanced at
the gun and shook her head. "I'm not a very good shot, you
know."

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MARGARET WEIS	1
Sagan looked down at her. She could see the starjewel
glitter in his eyes that were darker than the darkness. "I don't
think it will matter," he said, and she felt the power heave and
surge and tremble between them.
Maigrey reached for the gun. Their hands touched. A
burning sensation shot through her arm, hurting her worse
than the Corasian laser. She snatched back her hand.
"And don't forget to change the polarization," Sagan admon-
ished.
"I wasn't going to!" Maigrey snapped, trying to convince
herself that she was telling the truth, though she knew she was
so keyed up and strung out that she would never have
remembered. Hurriedly, hands shaking, she reset the gun and
gripped it tightly.
Back pressed against the wall, hoping to escape immediate
observation if one of the enemy happened to stick its sensors
out the door, she eased forward. Sagan was by her side, a
grenade in his left hand. Maigrey saw that he wore several
attached to his belt and she cursed herself for not remember-
ing to do the same.
After all, it'd been seventeen years!
Reaching the door, she paused, drew a deep breath, then
lunged into the room. A quick glance showed her the boy still
lying on the table. She raised the gun and fired four times in
rapid succession, aiming high and in the general direction of
those she was supposed to take out. Plastisteel exploded.
Maigrey had a vague impression of a blast in the corridor
behind her.
The four Corasians were no longer standing around the
table; two were lying dead at her feet, a third was helpless, and
a fourth was crawling out of its shell. Maigrey fired twice more
and ran into the room.
Sagan plunged after her, the two never speaking but
reacting to each other's thoughts, moving together in a chaotic
dance to a music only they could hear.
Maigrey fired at the two standing at Dion's head. Sagan's
sword whistled. He cut down the one standing on the far side
of the steel table. Another Corasian that Maigrey hadn't seen
emerged suddenly from behind some sort of diabolical ma-
chine.
Left! his thought came to her.
She turned, set her foot on a piece of something, and lost
her balance. Her shot went wide. The Corasian aimed for her,

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point-blank. Sagan lunged at it, caught hold of the robotic
body in his hands, lifted it, and hurled it against the machine.
Fire spurted, electricity crackled, smoke spewed out.
And, for the moment, they were safe.
1040 and ticking.

Chapter -**>©a*- Fifteen
Bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh.
Genesis 2:23
Maigrey ran for the boy. Sagan returned to guard the
doorway.
Metal clamps secured Dion's hands and feet. Maigrey sliced
through them with her sword, casting Dion worried glances as
she worked. The bloodsword's blade burned with an eerie
luminescence, giving the boy's pallid face a whitish blue cast,
turning the red-golden hair purple. A black stream of blood
trickled from Dion's mouth, but, Maigrey determined swiftly,
it didn't come from any internal injury. In the extremity of his
pain, he'd bitten through his tongue. She could find no other
wounds on his body.
Mental torture. The Corasians had developed it into an art
form. After all, if the mind thinks its body's limbs are being
hacked off, what's the difference if they're not? Don't want to
damage tomorrow night's dinner; let's keep the meat intact,
the juices flowing.
Maigrey laid her hand on Dion's forehead. The boy shivered
at her touch and tossed his head, crying out frantically.
"Dion!" she said, trying to be gentle, yet conscious of the
fact that the orange glow in the corridor was growing steadily
brighter. "Dion, it's Lady Maigrey. Hush, there, it's all right."
"You sound like his nursemaid! Get him on his feet!" Sagan
growled. He tossed a grenade. A flare of white light, an
explosion, and the orange glow dimmed again.
"Dion!" Maigrey pleaded. Putting her arms beneath his
shoulders, she raised the young man to a sitting position. He
shook his head groggily and groaned in pain. "Dion"—
Maigrey s voice grew stern—"you're all right. It's in your
mind. There s nothing wrong with you."
440

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441-
Dion's eyes flew open, looked swiftly, wildly, at his right
arm. He appeared puzzled, then stared at her. Maigrey saw
the terror in his eyes and her heart ached for him, but he was
going to be a lot more terrified if they didn't get out of here.
"Dion—" she began.
Sagan shoved her roughly aside. "Guard the door," he
commanded, thrusting a grenade into her hand. "That's the
last one."
Maigrey ran to the door and peered out. The corridor was
dark in one direction; an orange glow, like a setting sun or a
raging fire, lit the other. The Corasians were being cautious,
waiting. They could have stormed the room, but why bother?
The "meat" would be forced to come to them eventually. It
occurred to her, too, that there probably weren't many of the
enemy left on board. They would be forced to ration both
supplies and energy this far from their home base, and so
undoubtedly operated with the barest number of crew possi-
ble. Not that this mattered a lot. It only took one to kill you.
Maigrey glanced back over her shoulder, saw Sagan grab
Dion by the collar of his flight suit, drag him from the table,
and force him to stand. The boy's legs collapsed and he
crumpled to the deck in a heap.
"Get up, boy. You look just like that Guardian of yours—
Platus—groveling at my feet!"
Dion was awake, aiert, the blue eyes glittering in the
sword's light as brightly as the starjewel. Slowly, hand on the
steel table, he pulled himself to his feet. His eyes never left
Sagan's.
"Platus didn't grovel!" Dion's voice was thick; he spit blood.
I saw him. He faced you—"
"The Starfires, then. The blood of your father runs in your
veins, runs piss-yellow!" Sagan laid his hand on the boy's
shoulder.
"Why did you come for me, then?" Dion cried.
"Because I need a warm, living body with red hair and the
Starfire eyes and genes and chromosomes. Whether or not
that body has a backbone isn't my concern."
The Warlord gave Dion a shove that sent the boy stumbling
across the deck toward the door. Maigrey caught him as he
reeled into her. She saw tears in his eyes.
"Snap out of it!" Maigrey gave him a shake.
900 and still counting.
Maigrey took hold of one of Dion's arms; Sagan had the

442
MARGARET WEIS	1
other. Together, they guided the boy down the corridor. Dion
walked like a blind man, uncaring, letting them take him
where they would. "You didn't have to be that rough on him,
my lord."
"I suppose I could have wakened him with a kiss, my lady,
but at the moment it didn't occur to me. Here they come. Get
behind us, boy!"
Dion's head snapped up. "I can light," he said, and raised his
bloodsword.
The Warlord heard the dullness in the tone and cast the
young man a keen, speculative glance. "Good," was his only
comment.
The orange glow burst upon them, fiery bolts whizzed
around them. Maigrey hurled the last grenade. They flattened
themselves against a wall, braced for the explosion, and when
it came, jumped forward and dashed down the corridor before
the debris had settled.
Dion moved in time with them, the bloodsword connecting
their minds, playing its mystical music. The three slashed at
anything that still glowed or moved. But that had been their
last grenade. The exhilaration of the shared power could
support the spirit but not the flesh.
The light of Maigrey's bloodsword was growing dim. She
was losing energy. Sagan's sword, too, wasn't flaring as
brightly. The breath whistled through his clenched teeth, and
he winced when he swung the blade and paused to massage his
shoulder. Dion fought numbly, the look on his face the look of
one who walks in his sleep.
We're finished, thought Maigrey. We can't survive another
onslaught. The darkness will close over us, enfold us, peaceful,
restful. . . .
Darkness. Maigrey looked around. She was in darkness.
They were standing in the corridor that led to the hangar
decks, to their planes, to escape, and it was dark.
"Shut down the swords," came Sagan's command, and
Maigrey reacted a split-second before he spoke. "Conserve
your energy."
The light of the bloodswords gone, the starjewel gleamed
brilliantly. Seeing Sagan's stern gaze fixed on it, Maigrey
tucked the Star of the Guardians away beneath her body
armor. The darkness around them was now complete and
absolute.

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"This is weird," Maigrey whispered. She thought, all in all,
she preferred the enemy.
"How did you leave your plane, my lady?"
"As you ordered me, my lord. It'll blow in"—she was too
distracted to calculate—"however many seconds we have left."
"779. What about your plane, boy? Where's the Scimitar?"
"I don't know. I can't remember," Dion said dispiritedly.
Maigrey heard the sound of a blow, not a gentle one.
Dion staggered back against her and she caught him and
shoved him upright. Taut and tense, unnerved by the smoth-
ering darkness and the seconds beating faster than her heart,
she was tempted to slap him herself.
"You have to!" Sagan said, his breathing labored. "You told
me once that Platus taught you to take note of your surround-
ings. It was apparently the only worthwhile thing he ever did
teach you. You'd better make use of it!"
Dion was silent. Maigrey, standing near him, could feel his
body tremble.
"Down this corridor. Second hangar we'll come to on our
right."
They activated the swords for light and protection and began
to move stealthily down the passageway, Maigrey taking the
front, Dion in the middle, Sagan walking behind, guarding
the rear. Maigrey glided warily past each doorway, prepared to
see it flung open; ready for the sudden attack.
Nothing. 598.
"This is it," called Dion.
They flattened themselves against the wall. Sagan motioned
and Maigrey cautiously, sword at the ready, slid to the
entryway and twisted her head around to peer inside. Cool air
flowed from it, lifting her hair, drying the sweat on her scalp
and temples.
"The plane's there. The hangar's empty. No sign of the
enemy."
500.
"Then let's get the hell outta here," Dion said, scowling. He
started forward.
Maigrey heard a click, the sound coming from somewhere
near her ankle.
That was why there were no Corasians in sight.
She hurled herself at the boy and knocked him backward as
far as she could carry him. Maigrey landed on top of Dion and

444
MARGARET WEIS	1
felt a heavy weight smash down across her. A strong hand
pressed her head down flat, covered her face and eyes.
A sheet of flame shot out into the corridor. The intense heat
seared the lungs; noxious fumes poisoned the air.
"Run!" Sagan grunted.
Twisting to his feet, he dragged Maigrey up and propelled
her forward. Shaken from the fall and dizzy from the fumes,
she pressed her hand over her nose and mouth and staggered
into the hangar. The air in here was cool, and she gasped for
breath. The bomb had burst outward, avoiding damage to the
coveted spaceplane.
439.
Sagan helped Dion into the hangar.
"Go on ahead," he commanded the stunned boy, "and get
the plane started."
Dion nodded wordlessly and ran past Maigrey, heading for
the Scimitar. She looked him over as he went by her. He
seemed unhurt, but she noted that he was rubbing the back of
his head with his hand.
I hit him pretty hard, she reflected ruefully.
Maigrey glanced out the hangar. The orange glow could be
dimly seen reflecting off the steel walls of the corridor—the
Corasians coming to see the results of their booby trap. Sagan
was searching for the controls to shut the doors. Sword ready,
Maigrey took her place by his side.
350.
Sagan found the controls. Copied from the human ships the
Corasians had scavenged, the mechanism was familiar and
easy to operate. The doors rumbled shut and the Warlord
slashed at the controls with his sword, effectively putting them
out of commission.
Maigrey sighed, and shut off the bloodsword. The darkness
that enveloped her now was welcome—cool shade to one
sweltering in blazing sun. Strength ebbed from her body,
every muscle ached, and it was going to take an effort to make
it to the plane. She should feel elated, but she didn't. She was
drained. Unable to see in the darkness, she tripped and fell
headlong over something unknown. Sagan caught hold of her
arm, supported her, steadied her.
His grip was strong, almost painful.
"Thank you, my lord. I'm all right now," she said, keeping
careful control of her voice. "You can let go of me."
Instead of releasing her, his hand tightened. He drew her

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close, drew her to warmth and strength, a fast-beating heart
and deep, quick breathing.
Maigrey hesitated, knowing that this was a seduction not of
the body but of the soul. She saw in his mind what he wanted
from her, what he wanted her to give him. She saw clearly
what he could give to her.
A galaxy, with its billions of people, all looking to her in
adoration, hailing her their queen.
Maigrey struggled, not against him, but against herself. His
lips brushed the scar on her cheek; his chin, unshaven, was
rough against her skin.
To rule was wrong, it wasn't her right; she hadn't been born
to it.
That didn't mean she didn't deserve it. That didn't mean she
couldn't take it.
Maigrey clasped her arms around the Warlord's body,
pressing close to him, almost as though she would crawl inside
him, become part of his flesh and blood and bone.
Sagan's mouth crushed against hers, drawing out her breath,
her life.
300.
Something sharp was piercing her flesh—the edges of the
starjewel. Drawing back from Sagan to catch her breath,
she reached to break the chain around her neck, snatch off the
necklace. Her hand closed over it.
A brilliant white light flared around her, nearly blinding her.
"I might have known," said a young and bitter voice.
The lights of the spaceplane illuminated the hangar with a
harsh, artificial radiance that threw everything into sharp
relief—white and black, seen and unseen, visible and lost in
darkness. Maigrey freed herself from Sagan's embrace and
twisted around. The Warlord let her go, but kept his hand on
her shoulder, kept her near.
Dion stood in front of them, his arms crossed across his
chest, his blue eyes wide and rimmed with white, his face pale
and bloodless.
"Guardians! Old comrades! Pah!" The boy spit blood. "You
were lovers!"
230 seconds.
Their lives were ticking away and they stood immobile.
225 seconds.
"I told you to start up the plane, boy," Derek Sagan said.
"Don't call me 'boy'!' Dion flashed. "My name is Starfire,

446
MARGARET WEIS	1
Dion Starfire!" He threw back his head proudly; the mane of
red-golden hair glistened in the shining light. "And I am your
king!"
His words echoed in the silent hangar. Maigrey clasped the
starjewel tightly, welcoming the scourge, the sharp points
pressing into her flesh. She stepped away from Sagan. His
hand lingered on her shoulder an instant. Maigrey tensed, her
body stiffened, and he let her go. Glancing at him, she saw his
lip curled in a sneer. His shadowed gaze was fixed on Dion.
"King? You're a whelp, a pup, and you'll do what I tell you
to do." The Warlord strode forward. "We have barely enough
time to escape. You may have cost us our lives, boy—"
Dion's bloodsword flared. The young man stepped in front
of the Warlord, blocking his path.
189 seconds.
Sagan activated his sword. He wasn't going to kill, Maigrey
knew. He was going to maim. A royal heir missing an arm or
a leg, his eyes slashed to eternal darkness, would be useful to
him still.
The Warlord raised his sword. Dion moved clumsily to
block the blow. Maigrey, forgotten, slid her sword noiselessly
back into its scabbard. Clenching her fists together, concen-
trating all the enhanced strength of mind and body, she lunged
forward and clubbed Sagan on the back of the neck, right
above the shoulder.
At the last moment, he was aware of her and tried to swing
around to defend himself, but she had the advantage. The
blow felled him; he sprawled unconscious at Maigrey's feet.
"You should have never let me get behind you, my lord."
Maigrey glanced up at Dion, who was staring at her, open-
mouthed.
"He'll be all right. We don't have much time. Help me carry
him to the plane."
"We could . . . leave him." Dion was white to the lips.
"We'd never get back onto Phoenix without him," Maigrey
returned.
100.
Between them, they dragged the Warlord to the plane and
pushed and shoved and hoisted him on board.
"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

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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 Cora-
sians, 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
fall 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.

448
MARGARET WEIS	1
A sound came from behind her. Maigrey turned, feaifully,
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!"

Chapter •<*>©««>• Sixteen
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
lightning. 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
449

450
MARGARET WEIS	1
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 ar-
ranged, as was usual with the Blood Royal. Admittedly, from
what Sagan's heard, Starfire had died bravely, fighting over-
whelming 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 corner
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,

THE LOST KING
451-
wrenching 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, touch-
ing 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.

452
MARGARET WEIS	1
"The enemy," Sagan said.
Maigrey jumped, and refocused 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.
Yom 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 prison-
r>
ers.
"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! I"—the boy's voice rattled in his throat—
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 PhoenixF
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,

THE LOST KING
453-
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 impa-
tiently. 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 concen-
trated 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.
Maigrey 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.
There's 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.
I'm 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 the mercenaries. But it could save her king.

454
MARGARET WEIS	1
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 emer-
gency 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.
Or it had been, once.
"Emergency distress signal sent, sir."
A docking bay door yawned wide to receive them. Maigrey
could see a flurry of activity inside. They wouldn't know the
nature of the emergency and there'd be medics and crash
squads and fire details. Chaos. Confusion. And Phoenix had
undergone heavy shelling, had doubtless sustained serious
damage. The Warlord's full attention would be claimed the
moment he set foot on deck.
No, it wouldn't.
Maigrey closed her eyes.
I'll have to kill him this time.

Chapter	Seventeen
The end is where we start from.
T. S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"
Emergency personnel in their ungainly, protective suits
swarmed over the plane when it was safely down. The Warlord
lifted the top hatch, and men peered into the cockpit. Their
faces, dimly seen through the panels of the huge helmets they
wore, registered extreme astonishment at the sight of their
Warlord seated in the prototype Scimitar.
"Get that thing out of my face!" Sagan snarled, shoving aside
a man waving a radiation detector at him. The Warlord rose
from his seat, obviously glad to stretch to his full height.
"Admiral Aks!" A lieutenant was shouting into a commlink.
"Lord Sagan's arrived safely, sir! Yes, sir. Docking bay sixteen.
Yes, sir. I'll relay the message, sir."
The emergency crews were scattering, disappearing to
attend to some other pressing duty. Red lights were flashing,
Maigrey could hear the distant sound of drums.
The lieutenant's head popped up in the viewport. "My lord,
Admiral Aks requests your presence on the bridge. As quickly
as possible, my lord. "
Sagan released the side hatch and started to exit. "I'm on my
way. First, send this message to Defiant—"
The harsh sound of weeping interrupted him. Maigrey
turned, the Warlord glanced around. Dion was bent double,
head buried in his arms, sobbing. His body shook; he could
scarcely draw a breath.
Disgust darkened Sagan's face. His lips twisted in a sneer.
He seems to have inherited your weakness for tears, my lady.
Lieutenant, send for Dr. Giesk."
"I'll stay here with him until help comes," Maigrey offered.
She tasted despair like gall in her mouth.
455

456
MARGARET WEIS	1
The Warlord paused and looked at her, intently, steadily,
and Maigrey could have sworn, in that instant, that he knew
everything. If so, he must be triumphant, she thought and
couldn't help but avert her gaze, biting her lip to keep from
screaming in frustration.
He turned without a word. When she was able to risk
looking after him, she saw him striding across the hangar
deck.
"Is he gone?" came a clear, cool voice.
Astonished, Maigrey whirled around. Dion lifted himself up
out of his seat. There wasn't a trace of a tear on his face.
"You're all right?" Maigrey gasped.
"No, but I notice that doesn't seem to stop anybody
around here." Dion drew a deep breath. "I'll fly this plane to
Defiant."
"My God, child, I'm glad you're . . . you're not ordinary!"
It was all she could think of to say. "You'll have to leave
quickly, while there's no one in the hangar. Give John
my . . . my love"—Dixter would understand, he always
understood—"and godspeed, young man!" She added fer-
vently. "Godspeed!"
Dion caught hold of her. "Come with me! Give John Dixter
your love yourself! We've tricked the Warlord. We'll be away
from here before he knows we're gone!"
Maigrey recalled the look Sagan'd given her before he left.
"He'll know," she said.
"Lady, please—"
"You have your duty, Your Majesty, and I have mine. Yours
is to your people. Mine is to you."
Dion's blue eyes flared beneath the flaming hair, the reddish
brows creased, the underlip thrust out. He was a Starfire, and
they were accustomed to having everything they wanted. He
was afraid, too. The fear must twist inside him. He didn't want
to go by himself.
"Our duty isn't easy sometimes, Dion, but it must be done.
It's what we were born to do." Maigrey clasped his hand and
held it fast. "You won't be alone, Dion."
The struggle was brief and bitter. When it ended, the boy's
lips had tightened into a straight, dark line.
"I'll be alone. I'll always be alone. It's what I was born to."
Dion released her hand. "God be with you, at least, Guardian.
If that's what you want."
Maigrey backed away.

THE LOST KING
457-
Dion sealed shut the hatch and did not look at her again.
Through the viewscreen she could see him—face set and rigid,
the blue eyes a sheet of ice, jaw hard and clenched. The
red-golden hair burned like living flame.
Dion was a Starfire, and they were kings.

Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my excellent friend and science
adviser, Gary Pack, for his creation of the bloodsword and the
really horrible and terrifying new weapon featured in the next
book.
I would like to thank Janet Pack for moral support, even if
she didn't know who wrote "I love my truck"!
I would like to thank Patrick Price and his mother, Camille
Chasteen, for their translation of the French language in this
text and John Hefter for the translation of the Latin.
I would like to thank my wonderful friend and co-author (on
most everything except this), Tracy Hickman, for his overall
help and inspiration.
458

Two Special Previews—
King's Test, Volume Two of
Star of the Guardians
by Margaret Weis
and
Dragon Wing, Volume One of
The Death Gate Cycle
by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
On the following pages are two exciting
previews of upcoming novels by premier
science fiction and fantasy storytellers,
Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman.

In King's Test—the second volume of the
Star of the Guardians series by Margaret
Weis—Dion, Maigrey, and Sagan continue
their deadly trial of God . . . and each other.
Only one will rule the Republic. The following
scene gives us a look at Sagan's deadly plans
for Dion.

Outside, in the passageway that ran parallel to the
hangar-deck, the Warlord waited—silent, patient. The
corridor was dark, he'd ordered the lights shut down. It
was empty, he'd sent his retinue about their business.
Sagan leaned up against a wall, crossed his arms across
his chest, counseled patience, and waited.
A door leading from the hangar-deck opened noise-
lessly: a lithe figure was briefly outlined against the light
behind her. Pale hair gleamed with an almost hallowed
radiance.
Quiet as the shadows around him, the Warlord strode
across the corridor.
Maigrey was aware of him, her hand went to the
bloodsword but Sagan's was faster. His fingers closed
over her forearm with a crushing grip and he shoved her
back, hard, against the steel wall.
"So, my lady, you gave the boy his courage. Dion is
gone?"
The light of the starjewel was the only light in the
corridor. The bluish-white brilliance illuminated Mai-
grey's face. The skin was translucent, lifeless; the gray
eyes dark and empty, sighted in on a battle to death. Her
eyes narrowed.
"Yes, he's gone," she said warily.
"To Defiant, to warn John Dixter of my treachery?"
Sagan almost smiled.

"I'm not certain. I hope so, my lord." Maigrey stared
at him in sudden understanding. "There was nothing
wrong with the communications aboard the spaceplane,
was there, my lord?"
"Nothing that I couldn't have fixed, my lady."
Sagan could faintly see blood pulse in the livid scar on
her cheek. The tense muscles that held the bloodsword
relaxed in his grip.
"Naturally, my lord, since you were the one who
broke it. The message about the mercenaries being held
prisoner on Defiant was a ruse."
"Not exactly, my lady." Sagan reached out his hand,
touched the scar on her cheek with his fingers. He felt
her tremble at his touch. She tried to draw away from
him but there was nowhere to go. He had her backed up
against the wall. "Captain Williams has these orders,
given before I left: If the Corasians are defeated, John
Dixter is to be taken prisoner and immediately exe-
cuted. The mercenaries who survived the battle with the
Corasians are to be killed the moment they return—So
help me, lady, try that again and I'll break your arm!"
Maigrey, breathing heavily, subsided back against the
wall. The Warlord regarded her grimly, intently, and
when certain that she was once more under control—if
not his control than at least her own—he continued.
"You will be pleased to know, Maigrey, that Williams
bungled those orders. Dixter has excaped and joined his
people. The mercenaries have barricaded themselves on
two hangar-decks. They are currently under siege."
Maigrey jerked her arm free of his grip. "You've sent
Dion headlong into a raging battle! You knew that when
you baited him!"
"The bloodiest kind of battle, my lady. Men trapped,
cornered, fighting for their lives."

"What is this, my lord, another test? This one could
get him killed!"
"Yes, my lady another test . . . but not for Dion."
Sagan continued to regard her gravely, opening his
mind, opening his heart. Maigrey listened and under-
stood, stared at him in bewildered disbelief.
"You're testing God!"
"If this boy is truly the Lord's anointed"—Sagan's lip
curled slightly—"then He will watch out for him."
Wincing in pain, the Warlord flexed his arms, reached
around to massage the back of his neck.
"Come now, my lord! I didn't hit you that hard." But
she knew how he felt. Every bone, every muscle in her
body ached. We're getting old, she thought. Wearily,
she slumped back against the wall, returned the blood-
sword to its scabbard. But she kept her eyes on him.
The two stood in silence, watching each other, wary of
the least move, the indrawn breath, the flicker of an eye.
"You're going to try to go after him, aren't you?" Sagan
said. He reached out his hand, took hold of the starjewel
she wore around her neck, studied it with a contemptu-
ous air. "You're going to play Guardian ..."
He was near, too near, as near as he'd been to her
aboard the Corasian vessel. What had happened there
had been a mistake, but a natural one. They'd both been
in danger, they'd depended on each other, they'd de-
feated their enemies, triumphed, as they had triumphed
together so long ago. She could feel the heat of his body,
the flame of the shared power. He was so close to her
now, she could feel the vibrations of the strong, steady
beating of his heart.
Closing her eyes to him, Maigrey wrenched the
starjewel—the Star of the Guardian—from his grasp,
held it clasped fast in her hand.
His breath was warm on her chilled skin. She pressed

back against the wall, averted her face. His hand
touched her cheek, the terrible scar slashing down from
her temple to the corner of her lip.
"You're going to try to get away from me, mother that
sniveling boy, rescue an old lover, when—together—we
could have so much ..."
Red emergency lights flooded the chamber. Drum
rolls broke the silence, beating the tattoo, sounding the
call to man battle stations.
A centurion, one of Sagan's own personal guard, came
clattering down the corridor. Finding his lord and the
lady in extremely close proximity, the guard skidded to
a halt, coughed in embarrassment, and looked as if he
wished the ship's hull would crack open and suck him
into deep space.
"Well, what is it?" the Warlord snapped, turning away
from Maigrey.
She sighed, held onto the jewel tightly, its eight sharp
points piercing the flesh of her palm.
The centurion kept his eyes fixed firmly on the wall,
"A Corasian warship is bearing down on us, my lord.
Admiral Aks respectfully requests your presence on the
bridge."
"I'll inform the admiral that I am coming. You escort
my lady back to her prison cell."
The Warlord started down the corridor, checked his
stride. Glancing back, he put his hand to his bruised
neck. "No, on second thought, my lady, I'll be damned
if I let you out of my sight. Ever again."

This second scene gives us an irresistible
taste of the world of Dragon Wing, the first
novel in The Death Gate Cycle, and the plots
surrounding even the most knowledgeable of
men who live there.

Coming close to Hugh the Hand, the courier raised
his lantern and stared quizzically into the assassin's face,
inviting question or comment. The Hand saw no need to
waste his breath in asking questions he knew would not
be answered and so stared back at the courier in silence.
The courier, slightly nonplussed, started to say some-
thing, changed his mind, and softly exhaled the breath
he had drawn in to speak.
Abruptly, he turned on his heel and gestured to the
assassin to follow. Hugh fell into step behind his guide.
The courier led the way to a place that Hugh soon came
to recognize, from early and dark childhood memories,
as a Kir monastery.
It was ancient and had obviously been long aban-
doned. The flagstones of the courtyard were cracked and
in many cases missing entirely. Coralite had grown over
much of the standing outer structures that had been
formed of the rare granite the Kir favored over the more
common coralite. A chill wind whistled through the
abandoned dwellings where no light shone and had
probably not shone for centuries. Bare trees creaked and
dry leaves crunched beneath Hugh's boots.
Having been raised by the grim and dour order of Kir
monks, the Hand knew the location of every monastery
on the Volkaran Isles. He could not remember hearing of
any that had ever been abandoned and the mystery of
where he was and why he had been brought here
deepened.

The courier came to a baked clay door that stood at the
bottom of a tall turret. An iron key, worn on a ribbon
around the courier's neck, unlocked the door. The Hand
peered upward, but could not see a glimmer of light in
any of the windows. The door swung open silently—an
indication that someone was accustomed to coming here
frequently. Gliding inside, the courier indicated with a
wave of his hand that Hugh was to follow. When both
were in the cold and drafty building, the courier once
again locked the door, tucking the key back inside the
bosom of his tunic.
"This way," said the courier. The direction was not
necessary—there was only one possible way for them to
go and that was up. A spiral staircase led them round and
round the interior of the turret. Hugh counted three
levels, each marked by a clay door. The Hand, surrep-
titiously testing each as they ascended, noted all were
locked.
On the fourth level, at another clay door, the iron key
again made an appearance. A long narrow corridor,
darker than the Lords of Night, ran straight and true
before them. The courier's booted footsteps rang on the
stone. Hugh, accustomed by habit to treading silently in
his soft-soled, supple leather boots, made no more noise
than if he had been the man's shadow.
They passed six doors by Hugh's count—-three on his
left and three on his right—before the courier raised a
warning hand and they stopped at the seventh. Once
again, the iron key was produced. It grated in the lock
and the door slid open.
"Enter," said the courier, standing to one side.
Hugh did as he was told. He was not surprised to hear
the door shut behind him. No sound of a key turning in
the lock, however. There was no light in the room but
the soft glow given off by the coralite-outside. The faint

shimmer illuminated the room well enough for the
Hand's sharp eyes. He stood still a moment, closely
inspecting his surroundings. He was, he discovered, not
alone.
The Hand felt no fear. His fingers, beneath his cloak,
were clasped around the hilt of his dagger, but that was
only common sense in a situation like this. Hugh was a
businessman and he recognized the setting of a business
discussion when he saw it.
The other person in the room was adept at hiding. He
was silent and kept himself concealed in the shadows.
Hugh didn't see the person or hear him, but he knew
with every instinct that had kept him alive through forty
harsh and bitter cycles that there was someone else
present. The Hand sniffed the air.
"Are you an animal? Can you smell me?" queried the
voice—a male voice, deep and resonant. "Is that how
you knew I was in the room?"
"Yeah, an animal," said Hugh shortly.
"And what if I had attacked you?" The figure moved
over to stand by the window. He was outlined in Hugh's
vision by the faint radiance of the coralite. The Hand saw
that his interrogator was a tall man clad in a cape whose
hem he could hear dragging across the floor. The man's
head and face were covered by chain mail; only the eyes
were visible. But the Hand knew his suspicions had
been correct. He knew to whom he was talking.
Hugh drew forth his dagger. "A hand's breadth of steel
in your heart, Your Majesty."
"I am wearing a mail vest," said Stephen, King of the
Volkaran Isles and the Uylandia Cluster. He was, seem-
ingly, not surprised that Hugh recognized him.
A corner of the assassin's thin lips twitched. "The
chain mail does not cover your armpit, Majesty. Lift
your elbow." Stepping forward, Hugh placed thin, long

fingers in the gap between the body armor and that
covering the arm. "One thrust of my dagger, there—"
Hugh shrugged.
Stephen did not flinch at the touch. "I must mention
that to my armorer."
Hugh shook his head. "Do what you will, Majesty, if a
man's determined to kill you then you're dead. And if
that's why you've brought me here, I can only offer you
this advice: Decide whether you want your corpse
burned or buried."
"This from an expert," said Stephen, and Hugh could
hear the sneer if he could not see it on the man's helmed
face.
"I assume Your Majesty requires an expert since
you've gone to all this trouble."
The king turned to face the window. He had seen
almost fifty cycles, but he was well-built and strong and
able to withstand incredible hardships. Some whispered
he slept in his armor, to keep his body hard. Certainly,
considering his wife's reputed character, he might also
welcome the protection.
"Yes, you are an expert. The best in the kingdom, I am
told."
Stephen fell silent. The Hand was adept at reading the
words men speak with their bodies, not with their
tongues. Though the king might have thought he was
masking his turbulent inner emotions quite well, Hugh
saw the fingers of the left hand close in upon themselves,
heard the silvery clinking of the chain mail as a tremor
shook the man's body.
So it often was with men making their minds up to
murder.
"You also have a peculiar conceit, Hugh the Hand,"
said Stephen, abruptly breaking his long pause. "You
advertise yourself as a Hand of Justice, of Retribution.

You kill those who allegedly have wronged others, those
who are above the law, those whom—supposedly—my
law cannot touch."
There was anger in the voice, and a challenge.
Stephen was obviously piqued, but Hugh knew that the
warring clans of Volkaran and Uylandia were currently
being held together only by a mortar composed of fear
and greed and he did not figure it worth his while to
argue the point with a king who undoubtedly knew it as
well.
"Why do you do this?" Stephen persisted. "Is it some
sort of attempt at honor?"
"Honor? Your Majesty talks like an elflord! Honor
won't buy you a cheap meal at a bad inn in Therpes."
"Ah, the money?"
"The money. Any knife-in-the-back killer can be
had for the price of a plate of stew. That's fine for those
who just want their man dead. But those who've been
wronged, those who've suffered at the hands of
another— they want the one who brought them grief to
suffer himself. They want him to know, before he dies,
who brought about his destruction. They want him to
experience the pain and the terror of his victim. And for
this satisfaction, they're willing to pay a high price."
"I am told the risks you take are quite extraordinary;
that you even challenge your victim to fair combat."
"If the customer wants it."
"And is willing to pay."
Hugh shrugged. The statement was too obvious for
comment. The conversation was pointless, meaningless.
The Hand knew his own reputation, his own worth. He
didn't need to hear it recited back to him. But he was
used to it. It was all part of business. Like any other
customer, Stephen was trying to talk his way into

committing this act. It amused the Hand to note that a
king in this situation behaved no differently from his
humblest subject.
Stephen had turned and was staring out the window,
his gloved hand—fist clenched—resting on the ledge.
Hugh waited patiently, in silence.
"I don't understand. Why should those who hire you
want to give a person who had wronged them the chance
to fight for his life?"
"Because in this they're doubly revenged. For then,
it's not my hand that strikes the killer down, Your
Majesty, but the hands of his ancestors, who no longer
protect him."
"Do you believe this?" Stephen turned to face him;
Hugh could see the moonlight flash on the chain mail
covering the man's head and shoulders.
Hugh raised an eyebrow. His hand moved to stroke
the braided, silky strands of beard that hung from his
chin. The question had never before been asked of him.
It proved, so he supposed, that kings were different from
their subjects—at least this one was. The Hand moved to
the window to stand next to Stephen. The assassin's gaze
was drawn to a small courtyard below them. Covered
over by coralite, it glowed eerily in the darkness and he
could see, by the soft blue light, the figure of a man
standing in the center. The man wore a black hood. He
held in his hand a sharp-edged sword. At his feet stood
a block of stone.
"The only things I believe in, Your Majesty, are my
wits and my skill. " Twisting the ends of his beard, Hugh
smiled. "So I'm to have no choice. I either accept this job
or else, is that it?"
"You have a choice. When I have described the job to
you, you may either take it or refuse to do so."

"At which point my head parts company from my
shoulders."
"The man you see is the Royal Executioner. He is
skilled in his work. Death will be quick, clean. Far
better than what you were facing. That much, at least, I
owe you for your time." Stephen turned to face Hugh,
the eyes in the shadow of the chain mail helm were dark
and empty, lit by nothing within, reflecting no light from
without. "I must take precautions. I cannot expect you to
accept this task without knowing its nature, yet to reveal
it to you is to place myself at your mercy. I dare not
permit you to remain alive, knowing what you will
shortly know."
"If I refuse, I'm disposed of by night, in the dark, no
witnesses. If I accept, I'm entangled in the same web in
which Your Majesty currently finds himself twisting."
"What more do you expect? You are, after all, nothing
but a murderer," Stephen said coldly.
"And you, Your Majesty, are nothing more than a man
who wants to hire a murderer." Bowing with an ironic
flourish, Hugh turned on his heel.
"Where are you going?" Stephen demanded.
"If Your Majesty will excuse me, I'm late for an
engagement. I should've been in hell an hour previous."
The Hand walked toward the door.
"Damn you! I've offered you your life!"
Hugh didn't even bother to turn around. He sounded
weary and exasperated. "The price is too low. My life's
worth nothing. I don't value it. In exchange, you want
me to accept a job so dangerous you've got to trap me to
force me to take it? Better to meet death on my own
terms than Your Majesty's."
Hugh flung open the door. The king's courier stood
facing him, blocking his way out. At his feet stood the
glowlamp and it cast its radiance upward, illuminating a
face that was ethereal in its delicacy and beauty.

He's a courier? And I'm a Sartan, thought Hugh.
"Ten thousand barls," said the young man.
Hugh's hand went to the braided beard, twisting it
thoughtfully. His eyes glanced sideways at Stephen, who
had come up behind him.
"Douse that light," commanded the king. "Is this
necessary, Trian?"
"Your Majesty"—Trian spoke with respect and pa-
tience, but it was the tone of one friend advising
another, not the tone of a servant deferring to a
master—"he is the best. There is no one else to whom
we can entrust this. We have gone to considerable
trouble to acquire him. We can't afford to lose him. If
Your Majesty will remember, I warned you from the
beginning—"
"Yes, I remember!" Stephen snapped. He stood silent,
inwardly fuming. He would undoubtedly like nothing
better than to order his "courier" to march the assassin to
the block. The king would probably, at this moment,
enjoy wielding the executioner's blade himself. The
courier gently drew an iron screen over the light, leaving
them in darkness "Very well!" the king snarled.
"Ten thousand barls?" Hugh couldn't believe it.
"Yes," answered Trian. "When the job is done."
"Half now. Half when the job is done."
"Your life now! The barls then!" Stephen hissed
through clenched teeth.
Hugh took a step forward toward the door. The young
man, still blocking his way, shot a warning glance at the
king.
"Half now!" Stephen's words were a gasp.
Hugh, bowing in acquiescence, turned back to face
the king.
"Who's the victim?"

Stephen drew a deep breath. Hugh heard a clicking,
catching choke in the king's throat, a sound vaguely
similar to the rattle in the throats of the dying.
"My ten-year-old son," said the king.

In Star of the Guardians, Margaret Weis finally has
the chance to go solo on a series years in the making.
Fast-paced and action-packed, Star of the Guardians is
story-telling on an inter-galactic scale.
Read King's Test, the first volume in the series, on sale
March 1991, wherever Bantam Spectra books are sold.
Of course, Margaret Weis will continue to develop new
projects with her co-author, Tracy Hickman. Known for
their involving stories set on imaginative worlds and
peopled with well-drawn characters, the two have
reached a new height with their series, The Death Gate
Cycle. This magnificent series takes place in a world long
ago sundered into four separate worlds. It is the tale of
the powerful magicians capable of such an act and the
men who would repair the damage. Finally, it is the
story of those people who live in these four worlds—the
realms of sky, stone, fire, and sea—and have only
legends to tell them how it all began.
Read Dragon Wing, the first novel in Margaret Weis and
Tracy Hickman's Death Gate Cycle series, on sale in
paperback in October 1990, wherever Bantam Spectra
Books are sold.

Discover the dazzling worlds created by
two masters of high fantasy!
Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
THE DARKSWORD TRILOGY
Forging the Darksword
Doom of the Darksword
Triumph of the Darksword
These are the adventures of the angry young Joram, born into a
world where his lack of magic ability must be kept secret, or it
is an instant death sentence. He and the catalyst Saryon forge
the magic-absorbing darksword. Joined by the young mage Mo-
siah and the trickster Simkin, they embark on a perilous journey
and are soon faced with the greatest challenge of their people's
history.
And don't miss the gaming guide set in the Darksword uni-
verse: Darksword Adventures
ROSE OF THE PROPHET
The Will of the Wanderer
The Paladin of the Night
The Prophet of Akhran
The Great War of the Gods comes to two enemy tribes when
Akhran the Wanderer, God of the Desert, proclaims that the
two clans be bonded by the marriage of Prince Khardan to
Princess Zohra. It takes more than marriage, however, to foil
Quar, the God of Reality, Greed and Law, and it falls to Khardan
and Zohra to discover what power can stop a god. This is their
story.
THE DEATH GATE CYCLE
Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman's most ambitious work yet,
The Death Gate Cycle tells the tale of a world sundered into four
realms—earth, air, fire and water—and the deadly gateway that
connects them all. The world was severed so long ago that only
the few who have traversed the four worlds know they all exist—
and not even they have unraveled all the secrets of the Death
Gate. This seven volume epic begins with Dragon Wing, a
Bantam Spectra hardcover. Watch for volume 2, Elven Star,
coming in October!
On sale now wherever
Bantam Spectra books are sold

"Attanasio swizzles words like galaxies in a highball glass,
using the dictionary as a launch pad."
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
The Mindbending Worlds of the
RADIX TETRAD
by A. A. Attanasio
RADIX
"An instant classic."—The Washington Post
Book World
The awe-inspiring tale of a young man's journey of self-discov-
ery from a life on the streets to near-godhood.
IN OTHER WORLDS
"Brilliant. .. Exuberantly entertaining."
—Library Journal
The story of one man's rebirth into a far future where, using
his strange new powers, he undertakes a dazzling odyssey down
the twisted pathways of time to save his world from cosmic
devastation.
ARC OF THE DREAM
"A kaleidoscopic adventure, a potent piece of storytelling."
—Roger Zelazny
A being of unimaginable power trapped in a continuum too
small to contain it touches—and changes forever—the lives of
four people who go on a quest to save the earth.
THE LAST LEGENDS OF EARTH
"As complex and spellbinding a bit of science-fiction
storytelling as I've ever come across."
—Minneapolis Star-Tribune
A gripping tale of struggle against alien control by the last
remnants of humanity, reanimated in the far future by two all-
powerful alien rivals.
On Sale Now Wherever Bantam Spectra Books Are Sold

Love
Power
Intrigue
Murder
POLAR CITY BLUES
by Katharine Ken-
author of The Dragon Revenant
When a peculiar rash of murders hits Polar City—a
frontier town at the top of a distant, far future world—
no one is quite sure what to make of them, or how
they are connected. But as the bodies mount up, a
strange pattern begins to form. With odd bits of evi-
dence that make no sense, a down-and-out psychic,
his alien sidekick, a slum clinic doctor and a retired
Space Navy officer start putting the pieces together.
Suddenly it becomes clear that they're not just dealing
with murder—but with a life-form no one had ever
seen before, and a case for attempted genocide that no
one would be willing to believe!
Written in a crisp, quick prose with dashes of
hard-edged detail and crackling humor, Polar
City Blues is a step in a whole new direction for
acclaimed fantasy author Katherine Kerr.
A Bantam Spectra Book
Don't miss it!

MARGARET WEIS worked as a book editor before
teaming up with Tracy Hickman to write the
Dragonlance® novels, and the Darksword and Rose
of the Prophet trilogies. She lives in a renovated barn
in Wisconsin, where she is working on the next Star
of the Guardians book and, with Hickman, on
succeeding volumes in their seven-novel Death Gate
Cycle—all to be published by Bantam Spectra.