Free King's Sacrifice by Margaret Weis

yet he could still feel its chill touch. "None of this is
what I expected," he murmured. "Being a king . . . The
lies, the deception. And when I do tell the truth, I'm never
permitted to tell all of it. I'm not certain I even know what the
truth is, anymore."
    Sagan eyed him.
"What did you say, Your Majesty?"
    Dion regarded
him, blue eyes reflecting back golden armor. "Nothing important.
Nothing you would understand. What is your counsel, my lord?"
    "We escaped
destruction this time," Sagan said grimly, "but just
barely. We will not be so fortunate again. That is what Abdiel is
telling us. That is his warning."
    "Warning?"
Dion stared at him.
    "Of course!
Don't tell me that even now, you don't understand. This"—Sagan
pointed to the cold, dead hand—"was no blunder on his
part. He flaunts his abilities, signs his name to his work."
    "But . . .
why?"
    "Because he
knows the debilitating power of fear."
    Turning, Sagan
again clasped his hands behind his back, beneath the red cloak
trimmed in gold. He walked over to the viewscreen, looked out at the
fleet of ships. Destroyers, carriers, torpedo boats, support
vessels—a vast armada surrounding the Warlord and his king with
an impenetrable ring of steel and fire.
    Dion followed
his gaze, his thoughts. "Against all this—one frail old
man." He shook the mane of red-golden hair. "I'm not afraid
of him."
    "I am, Your
Majesty," Sagan said quietly.
    He left the
viewscreen, crossed the carpeted deck to the computer. Dion noticed,
for the first time, that the Warlord was limping slightly, favoring
his right leg.
    Sagan caught the
boy's glance. "A pulled muscle."
    He depressed a
key on the computer. The dead hand vanished.
    "And what
do you suggest we do, my lord?"
    Dion asked the
question, but he already knew the answer, knew the reason why he'd
been requested to return, knew the reason why Rykilth and DiLuna and
Olefsky were on board Phoenix II.
    "We go to
war," said Sagan.

Chapter Six
    Commune with
your own heart . . . and be still.
    Prayer Book,
1662 , Psalms 4:4

    The Council of
War among the allies gathered on Phoenix lasted three days,
Standard Military lime. The Council's purpose had been to plan the
war, but it spent much of its time attempting to convince His Majesty
of the need to seize the crown, instead of, as Rykilth put it,
"Standing around politely, waiting for it to be handed to you."
    They had to
convince Dion, because the one weapon the allies wanted, desperately
needed, was in the king's possession—the space-rotation bomb.
Given to him, albeit under duress, by Lord Sagan.
    The king sat in
on every meeting, listened attentively to every argument, asked
questions to clarify some point, but then said nothing more. What he
was thinking, what he was deciding, no one knew. Certainly not Sagan,
whose frustration and anger were growing more apparent every SMD that
passed.
    "I believe
you will be owing me some money, Rykilth," rumbled Olefsky,
giving the vapor-breather a nudge that nearly deflated his protective
spacesuit. "The kinglet has proved stronger than you thought."
    The three were
in the war room alone together. Sagan had, once again, pressed the
king for a decision. Dion had, once again, refused to commit himself.
The Warlord had stormed out of the Council meeting in rage. His
Majesty himself had left shortly after. Bear Olefsky had ordered
lunch.
    "I cannot
understand why Sagan keeps up this pretence," Rykilth commented
through his translator.
    The words of his
language swirled and writhed like the fog in his helm. Always
shifting, sometimes thickening or thinning depending on his body's
needs, the mist obscured the vapor-breather's face, making it
difficult for most humans to communicate comfortably with him. An eye
would suddenly appear, staring at them from the fog, then vanish in
the mist and only the toothless mouth could be seen.
    The mechanical
voice of the translator flattened out all emotion. Those accustomed
to dealing with