Fall of Knight (12 page)

The Cardinal let out a most undignified yelp, but didn’t budge an inch. Instead he remained frozen as the blade came to a halt more than two feet short of him. Despite the fact that the sword never came near him, the menace was unmistakable.

Arthur, however, spoke with no trace of anger, as if wielding a lethal blade was the most routine thing in the world for him…which, Ron Cordoba knew, it very much was. “I would think that you, a man of prayer, would know the power of wishes…and that they should be used judiciously. Which is a roundabout way of saying that you should have a care what you wish for, lest you get it. Now…I believe that you have been given your answer. You will be departing this place without the Grail. You will, however, have a gift of far greater importance: Something brand-new to think about. My people and I have no intention of trying to diminish your god. On the other hand, we see no reason to lie about certain truths that we have in our possession, merely to spare your feelings or the feelings of your followers. If your beliefs are good and true, they will sustain you no matter what anyone says. If they are insufficient to sustain you, well…” and with one smooth move, Arthur reversed the sword and slid it back into its scabbard. As was always the case when the mighty blade was sheathed, the entire weapon hanging upon his hip disappeared. This action brought gasps from the assembled press corps, who were having a difficult time believing what they were seeing.

“…that,” continued Arthur, “is hardly my problem now, is it.” Without waiting for the Cardinal to reply, Arthur looked at the reporters, said, “I believe this audience is now at an end. I will answer no questions, if for no other reason than that I believe they’ve already all been answered. Good day gentlemen, ladies.”

As they exited the Mural Room, with Percival and Gwen directly behind him, the sound of the reporters shouting practically with one voice, throwing a blistering barrage of questions at Ron, filled the air. As a frantic Ron tried to sort through the chaos, Arthur said with remarkable cheer, “
That
went well, don’t you think?”

“Do you think so, Highness?” Percival asked casually.

“You still have the Grail, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s your answer there then, isn’t it.”

As they made their way briskly down the hallway, Secret Service men in front and behind them, Gwen said, “Arthur, you don’t seriously think that went well, do you? My God, you just dissed the entire Christian world!”

“I dissed no one. I simply said what I knew to be true…”

“You don’t know it to be true!” Gwen protested, as they walked into the Lincoln Bedroom. “You think it to be true! But you don’t know for sure. No one knows for sure!”

“It’s true.”

They stopped and stared in amazement. Merlin was seated in a chair at the far end of the room.

Seeing that an intruder had apparently materialized out of nowhere, despite the apparent youth of the person in question, the Secret Service quickly advanced on Merlin. “These boys must be new,” Merlin said with a smirk, and he raised a hand.

“Merlin, no! Gentlemen, I know this lad. Back off, please.”

They ceased heading toward Merlin, but one of them turned to Arthur, and said, “Sir, regulations clearly state—”

“What do regulations say about you being turned into squirrels?” Merlin asked innocently.

“That’s enough, Merlin. On my authority, gentlemen, please.”

The Secret Service men eyed Merlin suspiciously, then left the room without ever looking away from him…as if they expected him to pull a weapon out of his pocket at any time. The moment the door was closed, Arthur placed his hands on his hips, and said to Merlin, “I thought you were out of my life forever.”

“And what gave you that idea?”

“Probably,” said Gwen, “it was the way you said to him, ‘I’m out of your life forever.’”

“Did I ask you? Did I?” Merlin nodded in acknowledgment toward Percival. “Evening, Percival.”

“Hail and well met, Merlin Demonspawn.”

“See?” said Merlin approvingly. “Some people still know how to greet a wizard.”

“Yes, because the standard, ‘Oh God, please don’t transform us into jellyfish’ lacks a certain charm,” said Gwen.

Merlin fired her an annoyed look, but Arthur walked between the two of them and actually smiled down at the boy mage. “You give me more grief than any ten other men, but damn, it’s still good to see you, Merlin. What brings you here?”

“I go where I wish and do as I wish. It’s a privilege I’ve earned through time, learning, and sheer tenacity. I’m here because you, oh King, are going to need counsel. My counsel.”

“Is Arthur in trouble?” Gwen said, and before Merlin could respond, she added in a slightly pleading tone, “Merlin…I know you’ve never been a big fan of mine. I mean, yes, there have been times when you’ve tolerated me more than other times…especially when I saved your life…” He made a face when she said that, not wishing to be reminded of it or even to acknowledge it if he could help it. “The point is, when all is said and done…we both care about Arthur, and both want the best for him. So please…tell us what’s going on?”

For a long moment, Merlin was quiet. Then he shrugged, and simply said, “I’ve been paying attention to the news. I saw this conflict brewing. I knew there were going to be some problems. So I decided I’d best be served here instead of anywhere else. That’s really all there is to it.”

Arthur had never been more certain that Merlin was lying. But he had nothing upon which to base that other than vague suspicion, and so he simply extended a hand, and said, “It’s good to have you back then, Merlin.”

Merlin put out his own, much smaller hand, which seemed to disappear into Arthur’s palm. “It’s good to be back, Wart.” Then, as if annoyed by the sentiment, he pulled his hand away and shoved it into his pocket. “And by the way, what I said before was true: I do know that the Grail predates the Christian savior. Of course, if you think I’m going to be stupid enough to step in front of an army of reporters and make such pronouncements, you can simply forget it. I’m a wizard. I’m all about subtleties. There’s nothing remotely subtle about being part of a declaration that ends with the phrase, ‘Film at eleven!’ And frankly”—and he stabbed a finger at Arthur—“I think you were dumb as a post to share your opinion on this matter—valid or no—with the world at large. You have absolutely no idea of the firestorm you’ve unleashed.”

“I’ve survived firestorms before, Merlin.”

“Actually, you’ve been mortally wounded by them. I take it you have no overwhelming desire to go back to healing in a cave for a thousand years.”

“Not especially, no.”

“Then prepare yourself, Arthur. Because matters are going to get far worse before they’re going to get better…presuming they ever do.”

“But why?” Arthur demanded, eyeing Merlin suspiciously. “I keep thinking there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Of course there are things I’m not telling you. The sheer volume of things I know that I don’t tell you could sink an ocean liner. I’m doing you a favor, Wart. I’m declining to subject you to everything that I have to deal with. Now try being grateful for once.”

Arthur nodded, but nevertheless his every instinct warned him there was more going on in this business then Merlin’s standard contrariness. There were other forces at work, forces that Merlin clearly did not want to bring up. There was only one reason that he could truly discern for that: Merlin, like any wizard, was superstitious. He believed that the mere mention of certain things…especially powerful and deadly things…could engender bad luck and disaster, and hasten the arrival of whatever it was one was trying to stave off. So if there was something that Merlin was reluctant to discuss…

…it was because he was afraid of it.

A
RTHUR COOPERATED FULLY
with the Senate hearing investigating his claims, and naturally his cooperation only made it harder for them, not easier.

The problem was that the committee handling the investigation couldn’t decide what side of the question they wanted to come down on. There was concern that, if they took his assertions and demonstrations at face value, they might come across like madmen to the many skeptics who still believed that Arthur was trying to have off the American people for some bizarre reason. There were definitely skeptics. It didn’t matter how many times the “Excalibur footage” was aired. It didn’t matter that many specialists—from film special effects experts to Las Vegas magicians—went over the footage of the vanishing sword practically molecule by molecule, and still couldn’t come to any sort of consensus. Some maintained it was a hoax for no other reason than that they couldn’t figure out how it had been “faked.” They rejected the fundamental notion that it was genuine magic with a genuine relic and instead became obsessed with discovering how the entire procedure had been a sham.

In short, no one wanted to be the ramrod in investigating—with all seriousness and a straight face—the alleged scam perpetrated by Arthur, King of the Britons, upon the American voting public that had no idea it was electing a mythical ruler for its president.

On the other hand, if Arthur’s claim was to be dismissed out of hand, then it begged the obvious question: What the hell were they investigating? If Arthur had simply lost his mind and was making demented claims, then certainly that wasn’t the business of the United States Congress. Rather it was the personal business of his immediate family to seek out psychiatric help. Since Arthur was serving in no official capacity for the United States government, there was no basis upon which to investigate him further.

Nor did the aspect regarding Gwen’s amazing recovery offer any guidance. Words such as “miraculous” and “inexplicable” were bandied about by an assortment of experts. But not a single one was prepared to state uncategorically that the only way Gwen could have recovered was through something as divine as the intervention of the fabled Holy Grail. The closest they came was the head of traumatic injuries at Washington General, who simply shrugged, and said, “Makes as much sense as anything else.”

The result was that when it came to questioning both Arthur and Gwen, the committee was cautious to the point of complete ineffectiveness. They shied away from pressing Arthur on matters of his past and did not push for details when he explained about the “great quest” through which he—or more correctly, Percival—had come into the possession of the Grail. The press howled that details stemming from the investigation were sketchy at best, pathetic at worst. Editorial cartoonists had a field day, depicting such images as the committee lobbing actual powder puffs Arthur’s way.

Percival was never called at all. The committee wanted no part of the notion of calling a large black man a liar and a madman.

Meanwhile the situation outside the White House began to spiral out of control, so much so that a furious President Stockwell was called in to meet with the joint chiefs in the Situation Room. Stockwell was already fuming as a result of the calamitous press conference with the Cardinal. He was hearing about it from every church head and every leader of every country in the world where the predominant religion was Christianity. As he took a seat at the head of the table in the Situation Room, he felt as if he had turned into a broken record. He had run out of different ways to say that he did not agree with Arthur’s position, that he himself had absolute faith in the divinity of Jesus Christ, and that his own belief in the savior and God had never wavered in the slightest. Which was, of course, a gargantuan lie. Stockwell had lost count of the times when witnessing the evils that men were capable of perpetuating upon each other had led him to wonder how any sort of benevolent deity could allow such atrocities. His own faith was actually hanging by the thinnest of threads. But it was hardly the time for candor.

The reports he was getting from his people were hardly cheering news. It seemed to come at him from all sides, rapid-fire descriptions of impending doom.

“All major traffic arteries into DC are clogged…”

“No hotel or motel space to be had anywhere. People are camping out. Waste disposal is becoming a problem…”

“Massive security risks…”

“Flooding in through the airports…”

“People are walking along the Beltway to get to the White House…”

It wasn’t as if they had to describe it to him: It was all right there, up on the screens. Footage taken from news feeds and satellite photos. With cars sitting piled up and unmoving, people were approaching on foot, threading their way through stopped cars like something out of a doomsday-themed movie. There was no longer a crowd outside the White House. It was an assemblage that made the Million-Man March look like an elementary school outing. The National Guard had been called in, and barricades had been set up of necessity, since some people had tried to clamber over the fence and nearly gotten themselves shot by the Secret Service for their trouble. Still, the Guard was outnumbered by a thousand to one, and if the crowd made a dedicated and determined push—if they became desperate enough or greedy enough or whatever—there was little doubt that they could overwhelm all security. At least, they could do so initially. But when they came stampeding across the White House lawn, they would be met with everything from sharpshooters to machine-gun fire.

“We could have a bloodbath on the front lawn,” Stockwell said tonelessly, scarcely able to believe what he was being faced with.

The Joint Chiefs nodded as one. “That is what it could come to, Mr. President—”

“The hell it will,” Stockwell said. “I am not about to see photographs of the military mowing down United States citizens being circulated throughout the world. Gentlemen, there’s an obvious answer to this. For as long as former President Penn is here, they’re going to keep coming. But if he leaves, they leave.”

“Where do we take him, sir?” asked one of the Joint Chiefs. “As you can see…his home is not an option.”

Sure enough, one of the screens was showing the situation outside Arthur’s home in Avalon. It was not dissimilar from what was going on in Washington: people trying to get there in anticipation of Arthur and Gwen’s return so that they could seek their own miracles from the Holy Grail. The only saving grace was that there was just one major road leading to Arthur’s seaside residence, and the military had already moved in and cut it off. No one was able to get within a mile of Arthur’s home.

But it was impossible to determine just how long that situation would last as well. What if people got the bright idea to try and approach from the ocean? It was only a matter of time before navy vessels patrolling the waters would wind up shooting on, and sinking, desperate people.

“The terrible truth is simple, which is what makes it so terrible,” Stockwell said as if talking to himself. “This country is filled with desperate people. People who feel they have absolutely nothing to lose. The prospect of going up against our own military personnel isn’t going to deter them. Which means we’re going to be asking soldiers—twenty-year-old kids—to open fire on soccer moms. I don’t know which would be worse…if they carry out the order, or if they don’t. In the end, this could blossom into the single largest incident of Americans killing Americans since the Civil War. And call me crazy, gentlemen…but unlike the president who oversaw that little showdown, I don’t think I’m going to be having any monuments erected to me to honor my participation.”

“So what are you saying, Mr. President?” asked the secretary of defense. “I mean, we can’t just put President Penn back on his yacht and let him sail off to sea. Now that the world’s eyes are on him, other sailing vessels will track him down. Potentially hostile vessels.”

“Wasn’t that a risk when he was sailing around with no Secret Service protection?”

“Yes, but an acceptable risk. As you know, we were keeping tabs on him despite the public denials. There were regular flybys, monitoring devices hidden on the ship to keep tabs on its whereabouts. We all knew that Mrs. Penn had recovered, but we simply kept it quiet as an issue of national security.”

“Is it possible that the photos came as a result of some sort of leak in our own security system?” Stockwell demanded, but before anyone could respond, he shook it off. “Forget that. It doesn’t matter right now. We’ve plenty of time to check the open barn door to find out how the horse escaped. For now…you’re right,” he reluctantly admitted. “If the last thing we need is Americans firing on Americans in a riot situation, the second-to-last thing we need is a former president being taken prisoner by a hostile country…or, knowing him, pirates or something. He can’t stay here. He can’t go to his home. Camp David would just generate the same sorts of mob scenes.” He drummed his fingers and stood. Everyone else naturally sprang to his or her feet. “Gentlemen, I don’t care where we stash him at his point. Find someplace yourselves. Hell, ask him if you have to. But find a place.”

“Mr. President…”

It had been Ron who had spoken up. He had remained silent for the entire meeting, probably because he knew that he had assumed a prominent place on Stockwell’s shit list. Like an angry lizard, Stockwell turned and fixed an unblinking stare upon him. “Yes, Ron?”

“I believe…I know of a place that’s secure.”

“Really. And why haven’t you mentioned it sooner?”

“Because,” Cordoba admitted, “I wasn’t entirely sure you’d believe me.”

Slowly, Stockwell sat back down. Everyone else did as well. Stockwell, leaning forward, interlaced his fingers, and said, “Right now…you’d be amazed what I’d believe. Try me.”

T
HE MOOD IN
the Lincoln Bedroom was grim. Arthur, Gwen, and Percival watched CNN in silence as the scenes of growing insanity were portrayed in glorious and nauseating detail.

“Shut it off,” Gwen said finally, lowering her gaze so she wouldn’t have to look at it.

“To what end?” asked Percival. “If we turn off the set, we’ll just hear the noise outside. It’s a clear night; sound is carrying nicely.”

“We have to get out of here,” said Arthur. “That’s all there is to it. We have to leave the building.”

“Like Elvis.”

“Yes, Gwen. Just like Elvis,” Arthur agreed firmly, then cast an inquiring glance toward Percival. Percival shook his head slightly, and mouthed,
I’ll explain later.

There was a knock at the door and, moments later, a distinguished and affable-looking black man in his early fifties entered the room, pushing a rolling cart with several covered plates upon it, along with a bottle of wine and a carafe of water. “Good evening, Brady,” Arthur said.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” replied Brady. He had been one of the head stewards for as long as anyone could remember, reliable for his impeccable service and discretion. He went about setting up the food.

“Things getting a bit exciting outside, aren’t they, Brady,” asked Gwen.

“Yes, ma’am. They are.”

Brady continued on about his business, and his surprisingly taciturn manner caught Arthur’s attention.

“What’s Merlin’s feelings on all this?” asked Percival.

Gwen shrugged. “The great mentor and advisor has been locked in his room meditating.”

“So Merlin shows up…and then vanishes?”

“Yup. Guess it’s a wash.”

N
IMUE!”

Merlin was shouting into the full bathtub, and when he got no response, turned and bellowed into the sink that he’d also filled with water. For good measure he’d also filled up the bidet and a washing basin, plus naturally he also had the toilet to bear his wrath. “Nimue!” he kept calling, moving from one container of water to another to another. “Stop playing around! This is serious business! You can’t just show up out of nowhere, drop a warning about the Spear, and vanish! If you care at all about Arthur or me, then you’ll give me more information than—”

“Is…everything all right in here?”

He turned and saw a couple of Secret Service men standing in the doorway of the bathroom, looking around suspiciously. They hadn’t drawn their weapons, but their hands were hovering in the general direction of the inside of their jackets.

“Why wouldn’t everything be fine?” Merlin demanded. “Who the blazes are you?”

“Agents Castor,” one of them indicated himself, and then the other, “and Pollux, sir.”

“We heard you shouting,” said Pollux. “We thought perhaps you weren’t alone.”

“Well, obviously, I am. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“Did you lose something?” The Secret Service men clearly weren’t sure how to address Merlin. His size and apparent age certainly seemed to indicate the inevitable slight condescension adults normally use toward children. But there was nothing remotely childlike in Merlin’s manner or deportment, underscoring the feeling of “wrongness” that people invariably got when interacting with him for any length of time.

“Not something. Someone.” With a sigh of exasperation, Merlin said to them with the full knowledge that they wouldn’t have the slightest notion of what he was talking about, “I’m trying to find the Lady of the Lake. But she’s not showing herself.”

“There’s no lake in here, sir,” said Castor.

“Yes, I know there’s no lake here,” Merlin said pityingly. “She can show up out of any body of water.”

“Well then, sir, you might be better off checking the Potomac.”

It was difficult for Merlin to tell whether the agent was yanking him around or not. “Not likely. She tends to prefer more stationary bodies of water rather than anything with a strong current.”

The two agents exchanged a look. “The Reflecting Pool?” said Pollux.

“Just what I was thinking. The reflecting pool near the Washington Monument.”

Merlin’s mouth opened, then shut without saying anything at first. He stared at them for a moment more, then said, “My God…that’s…a good idea. That’s…extraordinarily good.”