I
Kieron, Warlord of Valkyr, paced the polished floor angrily. The
flickering lights of the vast mirrored chamber glinted from the
jewels in his ceremonial harness and shimmered down the length of his
silver cape. For a moment, the star-king paused before the tall double
doors of beaten bronze, his strong hands toying with the hilt of his
sword. The towering Janizaries of the Palace Guard stood immobile on
either side of the arching doorway, their great axes resting on the
flagstones. It was as though the dark thoughts that coursed through
Kieron's mind were--to them--unthinkable. The huge warriors from the
heavy planets of the Pleiades were stolid, loyal, unimaginative. And
even a star-king did not dream of assaulting the closed portals of the
Emperor's chambers.
Kieron's fingers opened and closed spasmodically over the gem-crusted
pommel of his weapon; his dark eyes glittered with unspent fury.
Muttering an oath, he turned away from the silent door and resumed his
pacing. His companion, a brawny man in the plain battle harness of
Valkyr, watched him quietly from under bushy yellow brows. He stood
with his great arms folded over the plaits of grizzled yellow hair that
hung to his waist, his deeply-lined face framed by the loosened lacings
of a winged helmet. A huge sword hugged his naked thigh; a massive
blade with worn and sweat-stained hilt.
The lord of Valkyr paused in his angry pacing to glare at his aide.
"By the Great Destroyer, Nevitta! How long are we to stand this?"
"Patience, Kieron, patience." The old warrior spoke with the assurance
of lifelong familiarity. "They try us sorely, but we have waited three
weeks. A little longer can do no harm."
"Three weeks!" Kieron scowled at Nevitta. "Will they _drive_ us into
rebellion? Is that their intention? I swear I would not have taken this
from Gilmer himself!"
"The great Emperor would never have dealt with us so. The fighting men
of Valkyr were ever closest to his heart, Kieron. This is a way of
doing that smacks of a woman's hand." He spat on the polished floor.
"May the Seven Hells claim her!"
Kieron grunted shortly and turned again toward the silent door. Ivane!
Ivane the Fair ... Ivane the schemer. What devil's brew was she mixing
now? Intrigue had always been her weapon--and now that Gilmer was gone
and she stood by the Great Throne....
Kieron cursed her roundly under his breath. Nevitta spoke the truth.
There was Ivane's hand in this, as surely as the stars made Galaxies!
Three weeks wasted. Long weeks. Twenty-one full days since their ships
had touched the Imperial City. Days of fighting through the swarms of
dilettantes and favor-seekers that thronged the Imperial Palace. There
had been times when Kieron had wanted to cut a path through the fawning
dandies with his sword!
Gilmer of Kaidor lay dead a full year and still the new Court was a
madhouse of simpering sycophants. Petitions were being granted by the
score as the favorites collected their long-delayed largess from the
boy-Emperor Toran. And Kieron knew well enough that whatever favors
were granted came through the ambitious hands of the Consort Ivane.
She might not be allowed to wear the crown of an Empress without the
blood of the Thousand Emperors in her veins, but by now no one at Court
denied that she was the fountainhead of Imperial favor. Yet that wasn't
really enough for her, Kieron knew. Ivane dreamed of better things. And
because of all this hidden by-play, the old favorites of the warrior
Gilmer were snubbed and refused audience. A new inner circle was
building, and Kieron of Valkyr was not--it was plain to see--to be
included. He was prevented even from presenting his just complaints to
the Emperor Toran.
* * * * *
Other matters, he was told again and again, occupied His Imperial
Majesty's attention. Other matters! Kieron could feel the anger hot
and throbbing in his veins. What other matters could there be of more
importance to a sovereign than the loyalty of his finest fighting men?
Or if Toran was a fool as the courtiers privately claimed, then surely
Ivane had more intelligence than to keep a Warlord of the Outer Marches
cooling his heels in antechambers for three weeks! The Lady Ivane,
herself so proud, should know how near to rebellion were the warrior
peoples of the Periphery.
Under such deliberate provocations it was difficult to loyally ignore
the invitation of Freka of Kalgan to meet with the other star-kings in
grievance council. Rebellion was not alluring to one like Kieron who
had spent his boyhood fighting beside Gilmer, but there was a limit to
human endurance, and he was fast reaching it.
"Nevitta," Kieron spoke abruptly. "Were you able to find out anything
concerning the Lady Alys?"
The grizzled warrior shook his head. "Nothing but the common talk. It
is said that she has secluded herself, still mourning for Gilmer. You
know, Kieron, how the little princess loved her father."
The lord of Valkyr frowned thoughtfully. Yes, it was true enough that
Alys had loved Gilmer. He could remember her at the great Emperor's
side after the battle of Kaidor. Even the conquered interregnal lords
of that world had claimed that Gilmer would have surrendered the planet
if they had been able to capture his daughter. The bond between father
and daughter had been a close one. Possibly Alys _had_ secluded herself
to carry on with her mourning--but Kieron doubted it. That would not
have been Gilmer's way, nor his daughter's.
"Things would be different here," said Nevitta with feeling, "if the
little princess ruled instead of Toran."
Very different, thought Kieron. The foolish Toran bid fair to lose what
four generations of loyal fighters had built up out of the rubble of
the dark ages. Alys, the warrior princess, would add to the glory of
the Imperium, not detract from it. But perhaps he was prejudiced in her
favor, reflected Kieron. It was hard not to be.
He recalled her laughing eyes and her courage. A slim child, direct in
manner and bearing. Embarrassing him before his roaring Valkyrs with
her forthright protestations of love. The armies had worshipped her. A
lovely child--with pride of race written into her patrician face. But
compassionate, too. Gravely comforting the dying and the wounded with a
touch or a word.
Eight years had passed since bloody Kaidor. The child of twelve
would be a woman now. And, thought Kieron anxiously, a threat to the
ascendant power of the Consort Ivane....
* * * * *
The tall bronze doors swung open suddenly, and Kieron turned. But it
was not the Emperor who stood there framed in the archway, nor even the
Consort. It was the gem-bedecked figure of Landor, the First Lord of
Space.
Kieron snorted derisively. First Lord! The shades of the mighty
fighters who had carried that title through a thousand of Imperial
Earth's battles must have been sickened by young Toran's ... or
Ivane's ... choice of the mincing courtier who now stood before him.
The more cynical courtiers said that Landor had won his honors in
Ivane's bed, and Kieron could well believe it. Out in the vast
emptinesses of the Edge men lived by different standards. Out there
a woman was a woman--a thing to be loved or beaten, cherished or
enjoyed and cast off--but not a touchstone to wealth and power. Kieron
had loathed Landor on sight, and there was reason enough to believe
that the First Lord reciprocated most completely. It was not wise for
anyone, even a Warlord, to openly scorn the Consort's favorites--but
restraint was not one of the lord of Valkyr's virtues, though even
Nevitta warned him to take care. Assassination was a fine art in the
Imperial City, and one amply subsidized by the First Lord of Space.
"Well, Landor?" Kieron demanded, disdaining to use Landor's title.
Landor's smoothly handsome features showed no expression. The pale eyes
veiled like a serpent's.
"I regret," the First Lord of Space said easily, "that His Imperial
Majesty has retired for the night, Valkyr. Under the circumstances...."
He spread his slender hands in a gesture of helplessness.
The lie was obvious. Through the open doorway of the royal chambers
came the murmuring sound of laughter and the reedy melody of a
minstrel's pipes in the age-old ballad of _Lady Greensleeves_. Kieron
could hear Toran's uncertain voice singing:
"Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was all my joy,
And who but Lady Greensleeves?"
Kieron could imagine the boy--lolling foolishly before the glittering
Ivane, trying to win with verses what any man could have for a pledge
of loyalty to the Consort.
The Valkyr glared at Landor. "I'm not to be received, is that it? By
the Seven Hells, why don't you say what you mean?"
Landor's smile was scornful. "You outworlders! You should learn how to
behave, really. Perhaps later...."
"Later be damned!" snapped Kieron. "My people are starving _now_! Your
grubbing tax-gatherers are wringing us dry! How long do you think
they'll stand for it? How long do you imagine _I_ will stand for it?"
"Threats, Valkyr?" asked the First Lord, his eyes suddenly venomous.
"Threats against your Emperor? Men have been whipped to death for much
less."
"Not men of Valkyr," retorted Kieron.
"The men of Valkyr no longer hold the favored position they once did,
Kieron. I counsel you to remember that."
"True enough," Kieron replied scornfully. "Under Gilmer, fighting men
were the power of the Empire. Now Toran rules with the hands of
women ... and dancing masters."
* * * * *
The First Lord's face darkened at the insult. He laid a hand on the
hilt of his ornate sword, but the Valkyr's eyes remained insolent. The
huge Nevitta stirred, measuring the Pleiadene Janizaries at the door,
ready for trouble.
But Landor had no stomach for swordplay--particularly with as young and
supple a fighter as the Warlord of Valkyr. His own ready tongue was a
better weapon than steel. With an effort, he forced himself to smile.
It was a cold smile, pregnant with subtle danger.
"Harsh words, Valkyr. And unwise. I shall not forget them. I doubt
that you will be able to see His Majesty, since I do not believe the
tribulations of a planet of savages would concern him. You waste your
time here. If you have other business, you had better be about it."
It was Kieron's turn to feel the hot goad of anger. "Are those Toran's
words or Ivane's dancing master?"
"The Consort Ivane, of course, agrees. If your people cannot pay their
taxes, let them sell a few of their brats into service," Landor said
smoothly.
The die was cast, then, thought Kieron furiously. All hope for an
adjustment from Toran was gone and only one course lay open to him now.
"Nevitta! See that our men and horses are loaded tonight and the ships
made ready for space!"
Nevitta saluted and turned to go. He paused, looked insolently at the
First Lord, and deliberately spat on the floor. Then he was gone, his
spurs ringing metallically as he disappeared through the high curving
archway.
"Savage," muttered Landor.
"Savage enough to be loyal and worthy of any trust," said Kieron; "but
you would know nothing of that."