They snapped open, one after the other, and the defence spells
immediately started warming up, until Martha shut them down with a quick
gesture. The casket lid opened by itself, and Martha reached in and drew out a
small silver jewel box, no bigger than her hand.
She turned the delicate key in its lock, and the box opened to
reveal a bed of red plush velvet and on it the Soul of Albion. A polished
crystal sphere, no bigger than my thumb, it blazed with unearthly fires. It was
impossibly, heartstoppingly beautiful, almost painful to the eyes, like the
platonic ideal of every gem or jewel or precious stone that ever was. All across
the War Room people stopped what they were doing and looked around, sensing the
presence of something new and wonderful in their midst.
The Soul is supposed to have fallen to Earth from the stars some
three thousand years ago, but there are more legends about the Soul than you can
shake a grimoire at. Terribly beautiful, impossibly powerful, linked forever to
the land in which it fell. Martha snapped the lid of the jewel box shut, cutting
off the brilliant light, and we all breathed a little more easily again. While
its light blazed, it was almost impossible to think of anything but the Soul.
Martha glared around her, and everyone quickly got back to work again. She
locked the box and handed it to me. I accepted it gingerly. It felt strangely
light, almost insubstantial in my hand. I slipped it into my jacket pocket,
taking my hand away from the box as quickly as possible. On the whole, I think
I’d have felt safer carrying a backpack nuke with the timer already running.
"As long as the Soul of Albion remains in that box, it is
protected by powerful masking spells," said Martha. "And the lead lining should
shield you from most of the Soul’s destructive radiation."
"Oh, good," I said. "I feel so much safer now."
Long and long ago, so far back that history becomes legend and
myth, someone used the Soul to perform a mighty magic, and now as long as the
Soul of Albion rests in its appointed place within the great circle of standing
stones that is Stonehenge, England is safe from all threats of invasion. (There
is another legend, about three royal Crowns of Anglia, but that was always just
a diversion.) King Harold unearthed the Soul and took it with him to Hastings in
1066, thinking it would help him stand off William of Normandy, the fool. After
the battle, William the Conqueror personally oversaw the returning of the Soul
to Stonehenge, and no one had moved it since.
Until now.
"I have to ask," I said. "Who the hell thought it was a good
idea to bring the Soul of Albion all the way here in the first place? And have
they been given a really good slapping?"
Alistair sniffed and did his best to look down his nose at me.
"That concerns policy, Edwin. You don’t need to know. Suffice to say…there were
security issues involved."
"However," Martha said quickly, "given the recent attacks on the
Hall and now the Heart itself, it has been decided that the Soul should be
returned to its rightful place, and the sooner the better. Originally, your
uncle James was to have performed this mission. That’s why we called him back
from the Amazon jungles. But we all feel that under…current circumstances, the
movements of a major agent like the Gray Fox are bound to be more clearly
monitored than usual. If any of our enemies discovered he was heading for
Stonehenge, they might draw some very accurate conclusions. On the other hand, a
fairly minor, semi-rogue operative such as yourself might well slip under their
radar and go unnoticed."
"Spell out the catch for me," I said. "Just so I can be sure
I’ve got it right."
"I would have thought it was obvious," said Martha, meeting my
gaze unflinchingly. "If you are noticed, and your mission deduced, the odds are
that every bad thing in the world will come for you, desperate for a chance to
get their hands on the
immediately started warming up, until Martha shut them down with a quick
gesture. The casket lid opened by itself, and Martha reached in and drew out a
small silver jewel box, no bigger than her hand.
She turned the delicate key in its lock, and the box opened to
reveal a bed of red plush velvet and on it the Soul of Albion. A polished
crystal sphere, no bigger than my thumb, it blazed with unearthly fires. It was
impossibly, heartstoppingly beautiful, almost painful to the eyes, like the
platonic ideal of every gem or jewel or precious stone that ever was. All across
the War Room people stopped what they were doing and looked around, sensing the
presence of something new and wonderful in their midst.
The Soul is supposed to have fallen to Earth from the stars some
three thousand years ago, but there are more legends about the Soul than you can
shake a grimoire at. Terribly beautiful, impossibly powerful, linked forever to
the land in which it fell. Martha snapped the lid of the jewel box shut, cutting
off the brilliant light, and we all breathed a little more easily again. While
its light blazed, it was almost impossible to think of anything but the Soul.
Martha glared around her, and everyone quickly got back to work again. She
locked the box and handed it to me. I accepted it gingerly. It felt strangely
light, almost insubstantial in my hand. I slipped it into my jacket pocket,
taking my hand away from the box as quickly as possible. On the whole, I think
I’d have felt safer carrying a backpack nuke with the timer already running.
"As long as the Soul of Albion remains in that box, it is
protected by powerful masking spells," said Martha. "And the lead lining should
shield you from most of the Soul’s destructive radiation."
"Oh, good," I said. "I feel so much safer now."
Long and long ago, so far back that history becomes legend and
myth, someone used the Soul to perform a mighty magic, and now as long as the
Soul of Albion rests in its appointed place within the great circle of standing
stones that is Stonehenge, England is safe from all threats of invasion. (There
is another legend, about three royal Crowns of Anglia, but that was always just
a diversion.) King Harold unearthed the Soul and took it with him to Hastings in
1066, thinking it would help him stand off William of Normandy, the fool. After
the battle, William the Conqueror personally oversaw the returning of the Soul
to Stonehenge, and no one had moved it since.
Until now.
"I have to ask," I said. "Who the hell thought it was a good
idea to bring the Soul of Albion all the way here in the first place? And have
they been given a really good slapping?"
Alistair sniffed and did his best to look down his nose at me.
"That concerns policy, Edwin. You don’t need to know. Suffice to say…there were
security issues involved."
"However," Martha said quickly, "given the recent attacks on the
Hall and now the Heart itself, it has been decided that the Soul should be
returned to its rightful place, and the sooner the better. Originally, your
uncle James was to have performed this mission. That’s why we called him back
from the Amazon jungles. But we all feel that under…current circumstances, the
movements of a major agent like the Gray Fox are bound to be more clearly
monitored than usual. If any of our enemies discovered he was heading for
Stonehenge, they might draw some very accurate conclusions. On the other hand, a
fairly minor, semi-rogue operative such as yourself might well slip under their
radar and go unnoticed."
"Spell out the catch for me," I said. "Just so I can be sure
I’ve got it right."
"I would have thought it was obvious," said Martha, meeting my
gaze unflinchingly. "If you are noticed, and your mission deduced, the odds are
that every bad thing in the world will come for you, desperate for a chance to
get their hands on the
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