Simon Green - The Man with the Golden Torc

"Penelope Creighton?"

"You have got to be kidding! She’s slept with more women than I have! Don’t your people do even basic research anymore?"

"Well…are you at least seeing anyone at the moment, Edwin?"

I considered telling her about Silicon Lily but rose above the temptation. "No one special, Grandmother," I said.

"I hope you’re being…careful, Edwin," said Alistair in an even more snotty voice than usual. "You know how the family feels about bastards."

I looked at him for a moment, and then said, "I’m always careful, Alistair."

"After all," said Alistair, "whoever you eventually settle on, she has to be acceptable to the family."

"Like you, Alistair?" I said.

Martha decided to change the subject again. "You have been summoned back to the Hall, Edwin, because I have a very important and very urgent mission for you."

"I had sort of gathered that," I said. "Can I just ask what could be so important that I had to be dragged all the way back here just to discuss it? What was wrong with the usual channels?"

"It’s a matter of security," said Martha. "It has to be you, because everyone else is busy. Busier than ever before. You can see the boards; the whole family is stretched to its limits. And you saw what just happened in the Sanctity. Once, such an attack would have been unthinkable, but now the whole family is under threat. All our best efforts have to go into defending the family and identifying our attackers. The mission I have for you now, Edwin, is your chance to prove your worth at last and come back to the bosom of the family. Carry out this mission successfully, and you will have earned a seat on the council." She paused, considering her words carefully. "Some of us have come to believe that there is a traitor, perhaps at the very heart of the family. I am no longer sure whom I can trust. Even my own council has become…divided, and quarrelsome, of late. As an outsider, you might see things the rest of us cannot. Prove yourself with this mission, Edwin. I would value your voice in my council."

I just stood there and looked at her. I really hadn’t expected that. The council was where family policy was decided. Where all the decisions that mattered were made. It had honestly never even occurred to me that I might end up on it some day. I wasn’t even sure I wanted such an honour, or such responsibility, but I had to admit I was tempted. If only so I could use my new exalted position to identify and help others like myself in the family.

"What’s the mission?" I said flatly.

The Matriarch smiled briefly for the first time. "Your mission is to take the Soul of Albion back to Stonehenge and rebury it under the main sacrificial altar, where it belongs. Once it is back in place, the Soul will be safe again. The Stones will protect it. In the wrong hands, the Soul could bring down England, and perhaps even the Droods."

I was nodding even as she spoke. This had to be what Jacob and I had overheard them discussing, on his dead television.

Martha called to half a dozen armed guards, who brought forward a great oaken chest sealed with solid silver bars and cold iron padlocks. On top of which the whole casket practically crackled with protective spells. The guards couldn’t have handled it more respectfully if it had been filled to the brim with nitroglycerin. They placed the casket very carefully at Martha’s feet, and then almost tripped over each other as they backed away from it, at speed. Martha gave them one of her best icy looks and undid the bands and padlocks with a Word. 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 legendary Soul of Albion."

"And then my mission turns into a suicide run," I said, nodding slowly. "No wonder you felt the need to bribe me with the offer of a place on the council. The odds are you’re sending me to my death."

"But will you do it?" said the Matriarch. "For the family, and for England?"

"Of course," I said. "Anything for England."