Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

Madness Maze, as your ancestor did before you?"
    Lewis smiled tiredly. "Even if they did open up the Maze again, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't put me anywhere near the top of the list. Besides; I'm not sure I'd want to do it. Whether you believe the legend or the history, one thing is clear about Owen's life. The Maze might have made him superhuman, but it sure as hell didn't make him happy."
    "What about duty?" said the robot.
    "What about it?" said Lewis. "I did everything that was ever asked of me, and more. I gave my life to duty, and to honor. And it didn't make me happy, either."
    "Perhaps some things are more important than being happy," said the robot.
    "Perhaps. Send me home. I'm tired, and I want to go home."
    Once again, the teleport happened faster than human senses could experience, and Lewis was standing in the doorway to the Shub Embassy on Logres, looking out on the empty Row. He sighed, and stepped out into the street, and the door closed silently behind him. His gravity sled was still waiting for him.
    Lewis stepped aboard, and ascended slowly into the sky. Wondering how much of the truth he would tell, to Douglas and the House and Humanity. Just how much truth they could stand. And how much . . .
    would only be cruel.
    From the shadows of an alleyway farther down the street, Finn Durandal watched Lewis go. When the Deathstalker was safely out of sight, Finn walked calmly down Ambassadors' Row, and stopped before the door to Shub's Embassy. He waited a while, but it didn't open before him. He knocked loudly, and then stood there with folded arms, with the air of someone prepared to stand there forever, if that was what it took. The door swung open and a blank-faced robot stood before him, blocking the way.
    "Why would you speak with Lewis, and not with me?" Finn said bluntly.
    "Because he is the Deathstalker. And Humanity's Champion. He came to us from King and Parliament."
    Finn sniffed dismissively. "He won't be Champion much longer. And the rest is just a name; nothing more. He isn't even a direct descendant of the blessed Owen; just a distant cousin. His grandparents only took the Deathstalker name because Robert and Constance asked them to. I would have thought you'd have known that."
    "We knew that," said the robot. "We know many things, sir Durandal."
    "Either way; Lewis is on his way out, while I am very definitely on my way up. Sooner than you think, I will have influence and then power beyond your imagination. Assuming that AIs have such a thing. I will be Champion. I will be King, and more. You support me, when I need it, and I promise you access to the Madness Maze. Who else will do that for you?"
    "So far, only you," said the robot. "We have watched you with interest, sir Durandal. Come inside, and we will discuss this further. It might be that there are areas of mutual interest, where we could be of use
    to each other. Perhaps we can use each other, to get what we each want."
    "Of course," said Finn, stepping forward as the robot stepped back. "I'm sure we can find things to agree on. Common interest, and the like."
    "All that lives is holy," said the robot.
    "So I'm told," said Finn.
    Douglas Campbell put aside his Crown and kingly robes when he went to see Donal Corcoran, the only survivor of the Terror's arrival. He had a strong feeling that the official trappings of King and Speaker wouldn't get him anywhere with a man who everybody agreed was now as crazy as a bag of weasels.
    No one was quite sure exactly what was wrong with Donal Corcoran. Two doctors had actually threatened to fight a duel over their diagnoses, until Douglas had his men forcibly separate them.
    Corcoran exhibited definite symptoms of hysteria, delusion, depression, compulsive-obsessive disorders, mania, and mood swings so rapid you could get serious whiplash just trying to follow them. His intellect was intact, but strangely warped, his thoughts often chasing abruptly off in directions that even the most experienced scientific observers had trouble following. His emotions were clearly out of control. He laughed and cried a lot, sometimes simultaneously, for no obvious reason, and his reactions to some people and conditions could be violently extreme. To himself, as well as others. The doctors doped him with every medication under the sun, to no useful effect. He could be quiet and calm and lucid; and then the theories he expressed on the possible nature of the Terror gave even the most hardened analysts