King's Sacrifice Read online

  Kings Sacrifice

  Star of the Guardians, Book 3

  Margaret Weis

  Acknowledgments

  To Gary Pack, who is now currently in the employ of Xris, and who is responsible for developing much of the cyborg's technology.

  To Nicole Harsh, Maigrey's swordmistress, who was concerned about milady's exercise regimen.

  To our "special agent" Mike Gibbons, FBI, who has worked with Xris.

  To friend, author, and poet, Michael Williams, who didn't know he was also a starship captain.

  To my daughter Elizabeth, for being very patient and for keeping her music turned down.

  To John Hefter, who is now a prior in the abbey of St. Francis.

  To the later Mary Renault, whose wonderful historic novels have provided ideas, pleasure and thought. These include The Mask of Apollo, (Bantam Books, 1966) and The King Must Die (Bantam Books, 1958).

  To Van Gelis, whose music provided inspiration, particularly Heaven and Hell, 1975 RCA Limited.

  To Steve Youll, for his fantastic covers, Jamie Warren for cover design and both of them for their support.

  To Amy Stout, editor and friend, not necessarily in that order.

  And to Dave Cole, one of the most caring copy editors ever.

  ... if you will believe with me that the soul is immortal and able to endure all good and ill, we shall keep always to the upward way and in all things pursue justice with the help of wisdom. Then we shall be at peace with Heaven and with ourselves, both during our sojourn here and when, like victors in the Games collecting gifts from their friends, we receive the prize of justice; and so, not here only, but in the journey of a thousand years of which I have told you, we shall fare well.

  Plato, The Republic

  Book One

  Dion was, indeed, at this time extremely young in years, but of all the scholars that attended Plato he was the quickest and aptest to learn, and the most prompt and eager to practise the lessons of virtue, as Plato himself reports of him, and his own actions sufficiently testify.

  "Dion," Plutarch's Lives of Illustrious Men, Volume III

  ... if you will believe with me that the soul is immortal and able to endure all good and ill, we shall keep always to the upward way and in all things pursue justice with the help of wisdom. Then we shall be at peace with Heaven and with ourselves, both during our sojourn here and when, like victors in the Games collecting gifts from their friends, we receive the prize of justice; and so, not here only, but in the journey of a thousand years of which I have told you, we shall fare well.

  Plato, The Republic

  Chapter One

  "This is a stem

  Of that victorious stock; and let us fear

  The native mightiness and fate of him."

  William Shakespeare,

  King Henry V, Act II, Scene 4

  "Welcome to Galaxy in Depth, the program that discusses the news of today with those who are making it. I am your host, James M. Warden. I am pleased to introduce to you a young man who undoubtedly needs no introduction, a young man who has created an intergalactic sensation. His Royal Highness Dion Starfire."

  The robotcam panned left from the rugged, erudite features of GBC's popular news commentator James M. Warden to a young man clad in a military-cut suit of black with short black jacket, high collar, red piping on the cuffs and collar. He wore no medals, epaulets, or insignia except for a small Scimitar pin on the left collar and a brooch that was the face of a lion. Red hair the color of an exploding sun framed the pale, serious face, tumbled shoulder length over the black suit of clothes. Intense eyes of a vibrant cobalt-blue showed well on the vidscreens and the robotcam zoomed in on them frequently, to the intense and swooning delight of millions of this young man's followers.

  He sat at ease, poised, confident, unlike many others who had faced an interview with the incisive reporter.

  "I am pleased to be here, Mr. Warden," replied the young man in a rich, melodious voice that flowed out of the vidscreens of billions, including that of the President of the Galactic Democratic Republic, Peter Robes. "Thank you for inviting me."

  " 'Thank you for inviting me,' " mimicked President Peter Robes with a sneer. "I wonder if he knows Sagan did everything in his power to keep his puppet off this stage?"

  The President paced about an elegantly furnished room in his residence, a residence known publicly as the Common House, because he fashioned himself a "common" man, a man of the people. But when the people were too much for their president, he fled to the Common House, which was located on a tightly secured plot of land as far from civilization as possible and where not one of "the people" could possibly set foot.

  "Dion is no puppet," remarked an extremely old man, clad in loose-flowing magenta garments, who sat huddled in a chair, shivering as with a chill. "That is what makes him so dangerous. Mistaking him for one will prove costly, for both you and Sagan. Do sit down, Peter. You are annoying me."

  The room was extremely warm; the heat had been turned up expressly to benefit the elderly man. President Peter Robes mopped his forehead with a handkerchief—careful not to disturb the plastiskin smoothness—and shed his suit coat. Tossing it to a waiting servbot, he subsided into a chair next to that of the old man, and glared at the vidscreen.

  "Only a short while ago, no one had ever heard of Dion Starfire." James M. Warden swiveled in his chair to face his intergalactic audience. "Then one night a young man walked into the home of the Adonian Snaga Ohme, stood in front of the most powerful people in the galaxy, and announced to them that he was their king.

  "Since then, backed by the support of Derek Sagan, one of the wealthiest, most powerful, and most feared men in the galaxy, Dion Starfire has traveled throughout the various star systems, and everywhere he goes, he brings turmoil and unrest."

  Warden turned to face his guest. "Your critics charge you with inciting the people to riot and rebellion in an attempt to overthrow the government. How do you answer those charges, Your Majesty?"

  "I am not the one who incites the people to rebellion," said Dion quietly. "When I go before them, I say very little. Instead, I listen—something no one's done in a long, long time. And the angry voices I hear are the voices of the people, demanding change."

  He leaned forward, hands gesturing eloquently, his tone earnest, intense. "The government of Peter Robes is corrupt from the top down. The contagion has spread from the President throughout the Congress until it now infests every governmental body. Where is the federal agent who cannot be bribed? Where is the Congressman who does not devote all his time and effort to assisting the rich and influential, letting the poor and helpless suffer? The people want change, but they feel powerless to alter a system so rank with disease that it contaminates all who enter it."

  "And you are the prince who will ride to their rescue?" asked Warden with a slight smile.

  "I am their king," Dion replied gravely, with dignity.

  Warden raised an eyebrow. "But, Your Majesty, Peter Robes has been duly elected and reelected President by the democratic process, by these very same people."

  Now it was Dion who smiled, charmingly. "I recall one newsman making the comment on election night that Peter Robes had, once again, 'got his money's worth.' I believe that was how you put it, wasn't it, Mr. Warden?"

  Warden gave a rueful chuckle. "Very good, Your Majesty." He swiveled back to the audience. "We'll break now for a word from our sponsors."

  "The boy is good," President Robes stated grudgingly.

  "What do you expect?" asked the old man with a shrug. "He's Blood Royal, and he's been well coached."

  "You're making a mistake, Abdiel. Not letting me confront the boy publicly."

  "And give his claim credence? In the
act of refuting it, you acknowledge it. He's baiting you into doing that very thing. No, my dear, far better to keep yourself aloof as you would from any other fed that catches the public fancy."

  "But he isn't a fad. You said yourself he was dangerous. We could implicate him in the murder. You were at Ohme's that night. You could come forward and tell—"

  "Would that be wise, do you think, my dear?"

  Abdiel's interruption was soft. Reaching out with his left hand, he took hold of the President's right hand, turned it to the light. Five swollen, fiery red marks, clearly visible on Robes's palm, corresponded to five sharp small needles protruding from the palm of the old man.

  The fingers on Robes's hand twitched, his arm stiffened.

  "Would you want it known publicly, my dear, that you and I have formed a—shall we say—liaison?" Abdiel caressed gently Peter Robes's hand. "Would you have it known publicly that the Order of Dark Lightning wis not destroyed during the Revolution? That one member still exists? People would start to ask questions. I think you might find them difficult to answer, particularly die one question on everyone's lips—how and why did Snaga Ohme die?"

  The President shuddered, swallowed, and swiftly jerked his hand away from that of the old man's. "The public know how Snaga Ohme died. Sagan murdered him, of course, to obtain the space-rotation bomb. The Grand Jury brought an indictment. The Warlord's a hunted criminal, rot to mention a damned rebel."

  Abdiel said nothing, shook his head, smiled to himself, and hunched deeper into his robes.

  Robes glanced sideways, nervously, at the old man and ran his finger around his collar and loosened his tie. His shirt was soaked with sweat.

  "If it comes to that," he said accusingly, "you took a chance yourself that night, Abdiel, going to Ohme's, showing yourself before that crowd. Your arrival might have been recorded."

  "Nonsense," Abdiel answered crisply, his gaze fixed on the vidscreen. "No trace of me exists anywhere that I do not want it to exist. Ohme's elaborate security devices carry no record of my presence. Only three people know I was ever there and, like you, they dare not admit it. To all the rest, I was one too many glasses of champagne. Hush, now, Peter, my dear."

  The program returned. Warden continued.

  "You claim to be the son of the late Crown Prince Augustus and his wife, Princess Semele Starfire. Your parentage has been proven through genetic testing. For those of us who have forgotten our history lessons, would you explain to us, Your Majesty, your relationship to the late king, Amodius Starfire?"

  "He was my uncle. He died childless. On his death, his younger brother, my father, would have succeeded to the throne. Since my father, too, is dead, I am next in line."

  "Let's be honest, Your Majesty. You are next in line to a throne that doesn't exist."

  "According to the polls," Dion replied coolly, "there are many who believe it should."

  James Warden sat back in his chair. "You are backed by one of the richest, most powerful Warlords in the galaxy. You've said numerous times that you believe you have a mandate from heaven. Why don't you go to war to claim your rightful inheritance?"

  "I will not make war upon my own people."

  "And yet, Your Majesty, reliable sources report that you have in your possession one of the most destructive weapons ever created, a weapon that some speculate could tear a hole in the fabric of the universe—a space-rotation bomb."

  "I am certain you will understand that, for reasons of security, I can neither confirm nor deny such a report."

  James Warden shook his head. "You are a king without a crown. You refuse to go to war to gain it. There are those who are saying this is all a publicity stunt."

  "One day, I will be king."

  Dion spoke with a quiet, firm conviction that impressed even the cynical newsman.

  "How, Your Majesty?"

  "My people will rise up, like a tidal wave, and sweep away the remains of this corrupt, unsanctioned, and illegal government."

  "Peacefully?" Wardens tone was skeptical.

  "Peacefully."

  "With a warmonger such as Derek Sagan behind you? How can we believe you are sincere, Your Majesty?"

  "Derek Sagan is of the Blood Royal, a distant cousin of mine, in fact. He has acknowledged me his liege lord and pledged his allegiance to me."

  "Derek Sagan was involved in the overthrow of the monarchy. He was, many believe, responsible for the death of the king, your uncle. For eighteen years, Derek Sagan went about the galaxy systematically rounding up and killing those known as the Guardians. He has been implicated in the murder of the Adonian Snaga Ohme. How can we trust such a man? How can you?"

  Warden paused for dramatic effect.

  "Do you trust Derek Sagan, Your Majesty?"

  The robotcam zeroed in on Dion. His blue eyes deepened in color and intensity, but his facial expression remained unchanged, his voice level and calm.

  "Lord Sagan has done many things in his past that I do not condone, though perhaps I have come to understand his reasons for doing them. But I believe Derek Sagan to be innocent of the murder of the king to whom he had pledged his loyalty. He pledged the same oath to me. Yes, Mr. Warden. I trust him."

  Warden appeared dubious. "Eyewitness accounts would have us believe otherwise, Your Majesty."

  "It is the victor who writes the history, Mr. Warden."

  The news commentator turned again to the audience. "Food for thought, ladies and gentlemen. And now, we'll break for local station identification. When we return, we will discuss with His Majesty what is being called the Miracle on Mahab 73."

  "He's lying through his teeth." Robes tugged again at his necktie, finally jerked it off.

  "What? About trusting Sagan? No, you are wrong there, Peter. Dion trusts Sagan more than he trusts himself. And that, my dear," Abdiel remarked complacently, "is the crack in his armor that will prove his undoing. It is time for you to act. You're slipping in the polls badly, Peter. Three systems, those belonging to DiLuna, Rykilth, and Olefsky, are on the verge of open rebellion—"

  Robes jumped to his feet, began to again pace the room.

  "What do you expect? The economy's in a shambles. The galaxy's on the verge of civil war. Half the Congress is away trying to prevent their systems from seceding. Six members of my Cabinet are going on trial for corruption, and I'll be damned lucky if I'm not implicated. Every important issue's tied up in committee. I can't get anything accomplished—"

  "Stop fooling with them, Peter."

  Robes ceased his pacing. He turned to look at Abdiel. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean stop fooling with them. You don't need them anymore, Peter, my dear."

  "Need who?" Robes was reluctant to understand.

  Abdiel shrugged. "The Congress, the Cabinet, the . . . people. They've served you well enough. You've been president eighteen years."

  Robes went the color of a dead fish's underbelly. "You're . . . saying I should step down . . . turn over the government to this—this—" He made a feeble gesture at the vidscreen. The interview had resumed.

  "Tell us, Your Majesty, about the healing of the child on Mahab 73."

  "I have nothing to say concerning that incident except that the press blew it out of proportion."

  "But, Your Majesty—"

  Abdiel made a motion, and the vidscreen shut itself off.

  "On the contrary, Peter. I want you to take charge. This intergalactic emergency offers you the perfect opportunity. Nations seceding. War threatening. The Constitution gives you certain powers and you simply take the rest that you need."

  "But the media? They'll chew me up and spit me out—"

  Abdiel sighed delicately. "I'm not telling you to rush out and seize control tonight, my dear. It must be carefully thought out, done in stages. When all is over, the public and the media will be groveling at your feet. You can be king yourself, if you like."

  "You have a plan?"

  "Of course. That's why I came to see you."

  R
obes smiled, relaxed. "What is it?"

  Abdiel gestured to the chair beside him, "Come sit down, Peter. Come sit near me." He spread his hand, the needles embedded in the palm flashed in the light.

  Peter Robes's gaze fastened on the needles. He licked dry lips, backed up against a desk, and began rubbing the palm of his own hand against his thigh.

  "Just . . . tell me your plan."

  "You must rid the galaxy, once and for all, of the Blood Royal. Most especially, you must rid yourself of this boy-king."

  "Murder, again." Robes shook his head, swallowed hard. "No. I'd be suspected. You know that. It would ruin me."

  Abdiel motioned again. The needles flashed. "Come sit beside me, Peter. Let us talk, be comfortable."

  Robes attempted to back up farther, but the solid, massive desk prevented him. His gaze was fixed on the old man.

  Robes's lips trembled, his body shook. "No, I won't."

  Abdiel's lidless eyes stared into him. The bald head, with its nodes and nodules and flaking patches of decaying skin oscillated and thrust slightly, menacingly forward.

  "You are refusing me, Peter?"

  "Yes!" Robes gasped.

  "Why?"

  "You know why." Robes spoke feverishly, like a man in delirium, or a man being tortured, who has reached the limit of his endurance. "In the beginning I was clean. I meant well. My intentions—Abdiel, you knew my intentions! I believed in the people, in democratic rule. I believed in myself!" He paused, struggled for breath. "Now, look at me. Wallowing in the mire you created! Coated in filth, slime, blood.

  "You"—Robes pointed a shaking finger—"you, Abdiel. You've dragged me down, deeper and deeper. It started with a he. Just a little he. Then a bribe to cover the lie. Another he to conceal the bribe, and another bribe. You wound your coils around me, pulled me down, dragging me under an inch at a time.

  "And then the night of the Revolution. The murder of the king, the slaughter of the Guardians, the destruction of the priests! You, all your doing! I knew nothing!"