Prologue
“Work your magic on my son, cyborg maker,
and I will see you well rewarded.” Gawain, Obsidion’s ruler, stared down from
the Diamond Throne at his subject, Pak Song, the galaxy’s most renowned master
of bionic and robotic engineering.
Pak Song bowed to his king then met the old
man’s tortured gaze. “Cannot fix man who refuses to allow it, sire.”
Gawain’s left eyebrow rose. “Not even on
the order of your king?”
“With all due respect, sire, no. If patient
is unwilling, results are likely not what you’d like to see. Man’s state of
mind has much to do with how well he heals.”
Not even the direst threats or most
outrageous promises of reward could sway Pak Song. Once the cyborg maker backed
away from the Diamond Throne, King Gawain slumped forward, the weight of his
crown suddenly more than he could bear.
When Gawain thought of his beautiful second
son as he was now, so damaged he would only venture from his tower swathed in
leather from head to toe, the primitive hook that replaced one hand sparkling
silver against the all-encompassing black suit and hood, guilt and regret
practically prostrated him.
Arik was a monster. And Gawain had caused
him to be so. He choked back a sob, but not before it drew the attention of his
assembled courtiers. Quickly he reclaimed his composure and reminded himself
that none of this could be helped.
His memory took him back twelve years, when
he’d lain in bed, assured by the idiot doctors that he was about to die. He’d
had no choice but to ensure the succession of his eldest son by ordering that
Arik and his royal cousins be castrated according to the law, or by hiring
mercenaries to find and kill Arik once he’d fled from Obsidion to avoid the
surgeon’s laser knife.
Thank the gods that his hirelings had
failed in their duty to commit murder, and that his emissaries had been able to
find Arik after Tabor’s death and bring him home, sexually whole but horribly
maimed.
Thank the gods Arik fled before… Gawain let his gaze rest on the four royal eunuchs, his dead
brother’s sons who served him now as servants. Thank the gods Arik is not
like them.
Gawain realized no woman would willingly
take Arik as her mate, not with the scars he refused to allow the surgeons to
mitigate. The royal line would die with him, unless… “Summon the matchmaker,”
he shouted to his chief of staff.
* * * * *
“The lady Meredith, sire,” one of the royal
eunuchs announced an hour later as he prostrated himself on the floor in front
of Gawain.
Behind him stood Obsidion’s matchmaker,
garbed in rich black velvet, her eyes wide at the pageantry of the royal court.
She inclined her head, her manner more one of respect than obeisance. “How may
I serve you, your majesty?”
Can I do it? Could he sentence an innocent woman to look on Arik and his grievous scars
every day for the rest of her life? There was no question in Gawain’s mind.
Someday Arik would be king, and a king required a consort. Heirs. He cleared
his throat. “You will make a match for Crown Prince Arik.”
Shock was evident on the matchmaker’s
attractive, unlined face. “Yes, sire. But might I ask why the prince wouldn’t
prefer to choose a princess for himself?”
“Arik is…shy.” Would that this were
true.
Meredith hesitated a moment then nodded. “I
believe I can find a proper match for such a prize as your son. Tell me, what
sort of woman does your son desire?”
One who is blind to his scars. Gawain held back that thought. Better that the matchmaker not know
about those, even in the abstract. “A beauty, with the bearing of a princess.
Intelligent. A woman with uncommon tact and an ability to inspire the love of
her subjects.”
“What dowry do you expect?” Meredith’s
shrewd look reminded Gawain her business was matchmaking and that she was
successful enough at it to command high prices from her customers.
“The dowry is unimportant. My concern is to
see my son
“Work your magic on my son, cyborg maker,
and I will see you well rewarded.” Gawain, Obsidion’s ruler, stared down from
the Diamond Throne at his subject, Pak Song, the galaxy’s most renowned master
of bionic and robotic engineering.
Pak Song bowed to his king then met the old
man’s tortured gaze. “Cannot fix man who refuses to allow it, sire.”
Gawain’s left eyebrow rose. “Not even on
the order of your king?”
“With all due respect, sire, no. If patient
is unwilling, results are likely not what you’d like to see. Man’s state of
mind has much to do with how well he heals.”
Not even the direst threats or most
outrageous promises of reward could sway Pak Song. Once the cyborg maker backed
away from the Diamond Throne, King Gawain slumped forward, the weight of his
crown suddenly more than he could bear.
When Gawain thought of his beautiful second
son as he was now, so damaged he would only venture from his tower swathed in
leather from head to toe, the primitive hook that replaced one hand sparkling
silver against the all-encompassing black suit and hood, guilt and regret
practically prostrated him.
Arik was a monster. And Gawain had caused
him to be so. He choked back a sob, but not before it drew the attention of his
assembled courtiers. Quickly he reclaimed his composure and reminded himself
that none of this could be helped.
His memory took him back twelve years, when
he’d lain in bed, assured by the idiot doctors that he was about to die. He’d
had no choice but to ensure the succession of his eldest son by ordering that
Arik and his royal cousins be castrated according to the law, or by hiring
mercenaries to find and kill Arik once he’d fled from Obsidion to avoid the
surgeon’s laser knife.
Thank the gods that his hirelings had
failed in their duty to commit murder, and that his emissaries had been able to
find Arik after Tabor’s death and bring him home, sexually whole but horribly
maimed.
Thank the gods Arik fled before… Gawain let his gaze rest on the four royal eunuchs, his dead
brother’s sons who served him now as servants. Thank the gods Arik is not
like them.
Gawain realized no woman would willingly
take Arik as her mate, not with the scars he refused to allow the surgeons to
mitigate. The royal line would die with him, unless… “Summon the matchmaker,”
he shouted to his chief of staff.
* * * * *
“The lady Meredith, sire,” one of the royal
eunuchs announced an hour later as he prostrated himself on the floor in front
of Gawain.
Behind him stood Obsidion’s matchmaker,
garbed in rich black velvet, her eyes wide at the pageantry of the royal court.
She inclined her head, her manner more one of respect than obeisance. “How may
I serve you, your majesty?”
Can I do it? Could he sentence an innocent woman to look on Arik and his grievous scars
every day for the rest of her life? There was no question in Gawain’s mind.
Someday Arik would be king, and a king required a consort. Heirs. He cleared
his throat. “You will make a match for Crown Prince Arik.”
Shock was evident on the matchmaker’s
attractive, unlined face. “Yes, sire. But might I ask why the prince wouldn’t
prefer to choose a princess for himself?”
“Arik is…shy.” Would that this were
true.
Meredith hesitated a moment then nodded. “I
believe I can find a proper match for such a prize as your son. Tell me, what
sort of woman does your son desire?”
One who is blind to his scars. Gawain held back that thought. Better that the matchmaker not know
about those, even in the abstract. “A beauty, with the bearing of a princess.
Intelligent. A woman with uncommon tact and an ability to inspire the love of
her subjects.”
“What dowry do you expect?” Meredith’s
shrewd look reminded Gawain her business was matchmaking and that she was
successful enough at it to command high prices from her customers.
“The dowry is unimportant. My concern is to
see my son
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