Avalon (48 page)

“High King of Heaven! Great of Might,” he cried, “hide me in the hollow of your Swift Sure Hand. In the hour of my torment and travail, defend me and preserve me!”

The gale howled like an enraged beast, lashing at the exposed flesh of his face and hands. He heard Moira scream, agonized and furious. The earth and sky seemed to change places and the Tor to spin on its axis. Still, he clung to the staff in the center of the sacred circle.

It took a moment for him to realize that the sound he heard was not Moira’s demented scream but the wind’s cold wail as it tore itself on St. Michael’s unyielding tower battlements.

Although the wind continued to assault him, he knew Moira was gone. Still, he waited, gazing into the storm-black night and listening for any sound that might betray his enemy’s presence. He heard nothing, save the empty, aching whine of the wind, and that was rapidly dwindling away.

Myrddin sat for a long time, pondering what had taken place. The enemy had been delivered into his hand. In revealing herself, she had revealed her true strength. Unable to resist his summons, she had tried to use it to her advantage. She had directed the full force of her dire power at him; he had faced it and survived. She was deadly dangerous, but far from invincible.

Towards dawn the gale, having exhausted itself, died away. The clouds thinned and then parted, allowing a thin, watery moonlight to illumine the hilltop; only then did he dare to move from the protection of the
chaim
.

Great Light
, he thought,
all praise to your glorious name! The power of your presence is sufficient to the day. Remember mercy, Lord, and do not hold your servant’s frailty against him. Rather, give me strength to face the trials ahead. So be it
!

Stepping to the perimeter, he bent to the first stone and removed it, breathing a prayer of thanksgiving as he lifted it from its place in the ring:

“
In praise of the Gifting Giver
,
In praise of the Shielding Son
,
In praise of the Quickening Spirit,
I am plucking up this stone of mercy,
the needful rock of thy salvation
.”

He did this for the other stones, too, each in turn until he had collected them all and replaced them in his nylon bag. Taking up his staff, he returned to the tower to scatter the embers he had awakened. He walked to the edge of the Tor and looked out over the still-dark hills. Overhead, stars glimmered dully in patches between the slowly dispersing clouds; away to the east, night was easing its grip on the land. He could make out the undulating landscape beneath the blue-gray sky.

Lifting his staff, he blessed the coming light. Then, gathering his cloak around him, Embries started down the hill. If he hurried he could be back in London before the city began to stir.

He tossed back the contents of the crystal glass, and quickly poured himself another — pouring rather more than he’d planned, but what the hell? It wasn’t as if he had a country to run anymore. The way things were going, he’d be lucky to hold on to his own parliamentary seat. He took a long pull on his drink and shoved the half-empty bottle aside; he walked the few paces to his chair and collapsed.

The visit from the King informing him that his government had failed was far and away the worst moment of his entire political career — a distinction previously held by the night he’d come third in a midterm by-election to a Socialist and a neo-Nazi. He’d been a young idealist then, and losing was part of the learning curve; it went with the job. Now, however, that humiliation was dwarfed by the great hulking failure of his inability to prevent desertion in the ranks the previous evening.

Shit, what a lousy day.

It had begun badly — actually, it had not properly begun at all. After an all-night disaster analysis and damage-control meeting involving the full cabinet and a host of advisors, he had emerged to receive the news of Donald Rothes’ death.

“Sorry, PM,” said his private secretary, darting up as Waring stepped into the lift; he needed a shower and a change of clothes. “We’ve had a call from Scotland Yard. I didn’t want to disturb you while you were —”

“Just tell me, for Chrissakes, Leonard. What’d they want?”

“Apparently, Donald Rothes’ body has been found floating in the —”

“Oh, bloody hell.” His stomach knotted into a hard lump.

“Would you like to speak to —”

“Get Martin to knock out a statement right away. Say we’ve just received word, and we are shocked and dismayed by this tragic and senseless… and so on. Tell him to be sure to say I will instruct the Home Office to make this a high-priority investigation. God that?”

As DeVries performed an about-face and headed away, Waring called after him. “How did it happen?”

“They’re not saying at the moment. I can put a call in if you want to speak to someone about it.”

“Later. Just get that statement out as soon as possible. I want it broadcast concurrently with news of Rothes’ demise.”

He went up to his rooms, took a quick hot shower, changed his clothes, and prepared for a long, hard day of media manipulation. As if losing his majority to that scumbag lord’s one-horse party wasn’t bad enough, he would now have to spend valuable airtime telling everyone how shocked and sorry he was that his dear Opposition colleague had gone and got himself killed. Served him right, the meddling, toffee-nosed git.

After a snatched breakfast of coffee and more coffee, he had summoned his constituency committee to an election-strategy planning session. He told them he wanted to hit the ground running as soon as the formalities were over. If he could steal a march on the Opposition — hell,
he
was the Opposition now! — catch them basking in the glow of their victory, he just possible might gain back some of the ground they’d stolen. In the next week, he wanted to transform his office into a lean, mean electioneering machine. He wanted that fat bastard Griffith to smell the smoke and feel the heat.

In his heart, he knew that the sooner he could devote his full attention to the campaign, the better he’d feel about the situation. Until then, there was just the little matter of receiving the official announcement from the King. When the call came at two o’clock, he accepted his fate with the fatalistic fortitude of a Stoic.

At two minutes to three, Waring stood in the vestibule and watched the King’s arrival on closed-circuit television. He saw the plum-colored Range Rover as it was waved through the crush of reporters and cameramen outside the high iron gates to Number Ten, he saw it pause at the blue security kiosk to be identified — and to allow the camera crews to get some good footage of the King’s arrival — before proceeding up the street and pausing again to wait for the antiterrorist barrier to be lowered.

Two junior aides were waiting for the King on the steps, along with the Downing Street head of security, who doubled as doorman, and opened the rear door of the vehicle. The day had deteriorated somewhat, and a dreary drizzle was leaking out of the low, dull clouds. One of Waring’s aides held an umbrella over the King, and he was conducted straightaway into Number Ten.

Waring turned from the TV screen, closed the door, and took his place beside his Deputy Prime Minister and private secretary. He stood with his hands clasped behind him, staring balefully from under his brows.

“Good afternoon, Prime Minister,” the King said, and a wave of revulsion licked up around Waring’s thighs and belly.

“Come to gloat, Your Royal Highness?” he replied, his voice thick with sarcasm. Deputy PM Angela Telford-Sykes looked abashed, but said nothing. “Get it over with.”

Give him credit, the King did not rile easily. Waring could even envy the young man’s calm dispassion. He stood looking crisp and cool, and very much in control of himself and the situation. Waring hated him all the more.

“In accordance with established precedent,” James said, “it is my right and duty to inform you that, owing to the failure of your government to maintain a voting majority, as Sovereign King of Britain, I am exercising the royal prerogative to dissolve the current Parliament.”

Although Waring knew the blow was coming, it still knocked the wind out of him. His face, already gray, grew ashen. “Go on then,” he muttered.

“As of this moment, Prime Minister Waring,” the King continued, “your government is no longer in power. In the fervent hope that a new government can be speedily formed, I instruct you, and will so instruct the leadership of the Opposition parties, to prepare for a general election to be held in six weeks’ time.”

Waring glared at the young man before him. An old boxer with his back to the wall, he went down swinging. “This won’t change anything,” he said thickly. “You won’t stop the referendum — it’s going ahead as planned.”

“I don’t want to stop the referendum,” the monarch replied. “Two weeks from now, I may not be King. That is for God and the country to decide. But I can tell you, Mr. Waring, that as of this moment you are no longer Prime Minister.”

Waring gave his chin a sharp downward thrust. “Was there anything else, Your Majesty?” He spoke the title like a curse.

“I have nothing more. Good day to you,” the King said; he nodded in the deputy PM’s direction and turned to the door. The security officer snapped to and saw him out, holding the umbrella while the police constable on permanent duty outside Downing Street opened the rear door of the car.

But instead of climbing into the vehicle, the King walked to the front gate to deliver a short announcement to the press. He said, “A few minutes ago, I officially dissolved Parliament. I have informed Mr. Waring of his government’s failure and have accordingly called for a general election to be held in six weeks.” He paused, as the camera flash lit up the dreary day. “This matter is concluded. I have nothing further to add.”

As he turned to make his way back to the Range Rover, a journalist called out, “What are you going to do now?”

The King half turned and called over his shoulder, “Why don’t you come to Hyde Park Corner tomorrow and find out?”

Waring watched the impromptu press conference on the closed-circuit television. Although the announcement of his government’s failure made him writhe with resentment, anything was better than standing another second beneath the insufferably superior, condescending gaze of the monarch.

Dismissing his deputy and aides, Waring had then gone directly into yet another meeting — with the Chief Whip and party chairman this time — to begin drawing up a preliminary election platform. It was after seven o’clock when that meeting broke up; and he allowed the Chief Whip, Nigel Sforza, and Albert Townsend, a party mogul, to talk him into dinner at the British Republic Party’s private bolthole, the Balthazar Club. Once there, they were joined by three junior members of the Chief Whip’s staff and Albert’s trophy wife, Francine.

Over steak and
pommes frites
they had made a valiant attempt at drowning their sorrows in Balthazar’s commendable claret. The effort fell short, however, and Waring was deposited back at Number Ten feeling only marginally better. Nigel had offered to keep him company; but the PM refused, saying he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and let this wretched day end.

That had been over two hours ago, and he was still awake and wallowing in his misery. He had tried to watch the evening’s news programs, which had been taped for him — but the continued dissection of his government’s failure and the dissolution of Parliament made him angry, so he gave it up. He decided to take a hot bath and try to go to bed.

He had unbuckled his belt when he heard the door close in the room he’d just left. Thinking it must be the night duty officer, he turned from the closet to see a woman appear in the bedroom doorway.

“Moira,” he said without enthusiasm, “don’t you ever knock?”

“I thought I’d surprise you, darling.”

“How’d you get in here? Who let you in?”

“The door was open, so I just came on up. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“I mean,” Waring said with exaggerated patience, “who saw you? Who’d you talk to?”

“Oh dear, we
are
anxious, aren’t we? Relax, my sweet, I was
très discret
.”

“Forgive me if I don’t ask you to stay,” Waring said bluntly. “I’ve been rather busier than I hoped to be the last two days. I’m beat.”

“Darling,” Moira said, purring, “I couldn’t stand the thought of you sitting up here alone feeling sorry for yourself. I came to cheer you up.”

Waring eyed her with guarded approval. She was wearing his favorite outfit: the red satin jacket with shimmering see-through blouse beneath and the short red skirt that showed off her long legs to devastating effect. Still, he was dead tired and disinclined to entertain her tonight; he was also miffed that she had taken so long to come around. He had called her weeks ago. Why did she have to show up tonight, of all nights?

“I’m sorry, Moira,” he said, softening a little; he didn’t really want to start a fight with her. “You’ve caught me at a bad time. I was just getting ready for bed.”

She moved into the room and stood seductively before him. “Great minds think alike, I hear.” She put her hands on his chest and brought her face close to his. Her perfume was subtle but intoxicating. “I’ve learned a new trick, darling.”

“Sorry, not tonight.” He removed her hands.

“You’re angry,” she said, pursing her lips in a pretty pout. “Is it because Moira kept you waiting?”

He stared at her, refusing to rise to the taunt. Gorgeous as ever — so cool and elegant, so clever. Once he had contemplated marrying her; she would have given his presidential image a shot in the arm. Now, however, he was glad he had resisted that particular temptation; she was too demanding, too unpredictable, too impulsive. He didn’t need any more loose cannons on the deck of his storm-tossed political ship.

“Thomas, darling, did you think I was a pet? That all you had to do was whistle and I’d come running?”

“I honestly don’t know what I was thinking,” replied Waring testily. “Right now, I could wish I’d never laid eyes on you.”