Read King's Test for Free Online Page A

here
by accident.
    The Warlord
doubled his fist, smashed it through the glass. Shards cut his flesh;
he didn't flinch or appear to notice. Impatiently, he brushed aside
precious jewels that had been gifts of a long-dead king. Sagan's
fingers closed over a battered, shapeless, well-worn leather
scrip—plain, without marking, and obviously ancient.
Reverently, he drew it forth, smoothed it out with his hand. Blood
from the cuts on his flesh smeared across the leather, Sagan ignored
it. His blood had fallen on it before, sanctified it.
    The vidscreen
beeped persistently; a lighted button flickered in the darkness of
his quarters. Snaga Ohme was on-line and waiting.
    Let him wait,
the Warlord thought. He has time, I do not.
    Carrying the
scrip, Sagan walked through his quarters, coming to stand before what
was presumed by everyone aboard, Admiral Aks included, to be a vault
holding the wealth of several major systems. A security device,
specially designed by the Warlord, prohibited entry. Five sharp
needles protruded from a pad located to the right of the door. The
five needles were arranged in a pattern that matched the scars of
five puncture wounds on the palm of the Warlord's right hand. The
wounds were fresh, their edges slightly inflamed; he'd used the
bloodsword during his battle aboard the Corasian vessel. Sagan
impaled his hand on the five needles.
    A virus
identical to the virus in his sword flowed into his veins. The virus
was deadly to anyone lacking Sagan's genetic structure, which meant
that the virus was deadly to anyone except the Warlord. The door slid
open. He entered; the door slid shut and locked. Sagan stood, not in
a vault, but in a chapel, whose existence, if it had been known,
would have meant his death.
    The darkness
inside the vault was intense, no artificial light permitted. Sagan
did not need light. He knew by touch and instinct the location of
every object in the chapel. Kneeling on a black silk cushion before
the black obsidian altar, the Warlord spread the battered scrip upon
the cold stone. His movements were deft, no wasted motion. Yet he was
unhurried, reverent, calm. He was almost tempted to stay, linger in
the soothing, incense-scented darkness until death took him.
    He heard,
through the sealed door, the insistent beep of the computer. Snaga
Ohme, the bomb. Sagan's weapon, the rulership of the galaxy. The
temptation to eternal rest passed swiftly.
    The Warlord's
hands ran over the altar, knowing exactly what he sought and where to
find it. He grasped a silver dagger whose hilt was an eight-pointed
star and slid it into a plain leather sheath, placed the sheath into
the scrip. Wrapping a silver chalice decorated with eight-pointed
stars in black velvet, he thrust it into the scrip. He lifted a
small, silver bowl, poured out the rare and costly oil it contained,
letting it run down the sides of the obsidian altar, and added the
bowl to the scrip.
    Finally, a small
rosewood box containing a starjewel, his starjewel, gone
unregarded for years, but important now for what it would be, not for
what it had been.
    Last on the
altar lay robes made of finest black velvet. Sagan lifted the fabric,
brought the hem to his lips, kissed it as he'd been taught. He thrust
the robes of a priest of the outlawed Order of Adamant into the
leather scrip that once belonged to Hugues de Payens, founder of the
Knights Templar, and cinched its drawstring tight.
    Rising, the
Warlord shoved the cushion aside with his booted foot. The vaults
door opened, and he walked out, making certain to seal it after him.
Soon, he thought grimly, I won't have to put up with this secretive
nonsense. Soon, I will do what I please. President Peter Robes and
the Galactic Congress be damned. Sagan walked over, sat down before
the vidscreen. Its digital clock reminded him of the waning minutes.
    "Yes, Ohme,
what is it? Be brief, I don't have much time."
    The Adonian's
handsome face appeared on screen. He was impeccably dressed in