One Knight Only

by Peter David

  Then Miss Basil looked up with renewed interest, because they were running a statement that Arthur had made earlier. It didn’t indicate exactly when he had spoken, but that didn’t matter to her. What she was fascinated by, instead, was the fact that she had never seen him look so scared. She couldn’t begin to count the number of times she had seen him thrust into battle, and never had he hung back. Arthur was simply not that sort of king; as far as he was concerned, it was the leader’s job to lead. She didn’t think the man had any concept of fear. Certainly personal jeopardy held no terror for him. He would risk his life in a heartbeat for what he thought was right, and if he should fall in the endeavor, then he would go to his grave confident that he had done well.

  But now she saw it in his eyes, for Miss Basil was more attuned to the eyes of others than anyone else who walked or crawled the earth. He spoke bravely, his words were strong, his demeanor was confident . . . but the concern was there, in his eyes, for her—if not anyone else—to see.

  The scene was clearly at the hospital, for there was no sign of the Presidential seal or some such behind him that would have indicated a White House location. Arthur was standing behind a podium, his manner grave, and he spoke softly but firmly while the words “recorded earlier” ran along the screen. “I want to assure the people of this great country,” he said, “that the First Lady is receiving the best care humanly possible. I have every confidence in these fine men of medicine,” and he nodded to the physicians on either side of him, “to do all they can for my wife. Furthermore, I have received letters and telegrams of support from thousands of you, and all of them are very . . . very much appreciated. In addition ...”

  He stopped. There was something in his voice that made Miss Basil sit up and watch the screen with rapt attention. Suddenly the concern was gone from his eyes, to be replaced by quiet, burning anger and more . . . a deep resolution, as if he’d made a decision. Again, it was subtleties that only a master of reading eyes could discern, but Miss Basil was one such.

  “In addition,” he said, and instead of looking at the reporters he was staring straight out of the TV screen, or so it seemed, although naturally he was just looking right into one of the cameras that was positioned dead center. “In addition, I received a very nice note from the Pope . . . who even now is praying in Saint Peter’s Basiliskos . . .”

  Miss Basil’s jaw dropped, even as an astounded smile touched her lips.

  “I’m sorry,” Arthur said in that same formal tone. “I meant to say ‘Basilica’ . . . not Basiliskos . . .”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Miss Basil.

  Carlos looked over to her. “What is it?”

  She chuckled softly. “Just . . . something I was not expecting to hear.”

  “Excuse me,” came a young female voice from behind them.

  Both Miss Basil and Carlos looked over to see a young woman approaching, looking rather concerned. She was not overly pretty, but not ugly, either. Just average. Average hair, average face, average average. “I was looking for my husband. He’s about this tall.” She indicated with her hand out, flat, and indicating a height of close to six feet. “He was wearing a—”

  “Ricky?” asked Miss Basil quietly.

  She blinked in surprise. “Yes!”

  “And you would be Rhonda.”

  Rhonda looked extremely pleased. “Yes! Yes, that’s right. He was by here? Was he . . . telling you about me?”

  For the briefest of instants, Miss Basil felt a slight wave of regret, but she quickly dismissed it from her mind. Regret was for mortals. The reason mortals ever regretted anything was because their time on earth was limited, and they were always concerned that—if they had done something wrong—they were not going to have the opportunity to get it right before shuffling off the mortal coil. Someone like Miss Basil, on the other hand, needn’t worry about such things. She had the luxury of undertaking every single permutation of any situation, and seeing what suited her best.

  “Yes. Yes, he was telling us about you.” She paused, and then patted the bar stool next to her. “Rhonda . . . sit down a moment.”

  “Is . . . is something wrong?” Rhonda started looking around, apparently under the impression that Ricky was nearby. Which, in a sense, he was; just not in any condition to respond to anyone.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Sit down.” She patted the bar stool once more. This time Rhonda did sit, but she was clearly puzzled as she cocked her head slightly and stared at Miss Basil.

  “Rhonda,” she said, and her head was moving from side to side ever so slowly. It was such a subtle move that Rhonda began imitating it without realizing it. “Rhonda, I need you to understand something: Ricky’s gone and he’s not coming back.”

  “What?” Rhonda’s voice was high with alarm, but the force of Miss Basil’s gaze kept her fixed in place.

  “If Ricky had stayed with you,” continued Miss Basil as if Rhonda had said nothing, “you would have had a life of nothing save for pain and misery.” Her green eyes became darker, and there was a flatness to them, but a hypnotic quality as well. “He was going to cheat on you, time and again. He was going to do so because he had no respect for you. And because he had no respect, he was going to abuse you in other manners. He was going to strike you, beat you. And you were going to lack the inner strength or resolve to do anything about it, because you have grown up believing that any man is better than no man. You likely would have had children with him—boys, with your luck—who would have followed their father’s example, seen how he treated you, and grown up not only feeling contempt for you, but for women in general. This is what your world would have been. You have been saved from it. Do not ask how, nor why. You will have the opportunity to begin a new life. Use the opportunity wisely, for it may not come again.”

  Rhonda’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming out. Finally she managed to say, “I . . . I don’t understand ...”

  “You need not understand. Just accept.”

  “But where’s Ricky?!” Her voice rose in alarm. “Where is he?”

  Miss Basil fought a smile. “He fell victim to a consuming passion.”

  Rhonda stared at her for a long moment, then pitched back her head, cupped her hands to her mouth, and called out, “Ricccccky! Riiiiickkkkyyy!” With one final, angry glance at Miss Basil, she jumped off the bar stool and headed away.

  “No gratitude,” sighed Miss Basil. “Simply no gratitude in the world. Carlos, I hate to drink and run, particularly since the former often precludes the latter . . . but please let the boss know I have to leave.”

  Carlos was dumbfounded. The business with Rhonda had already been forgotten, mostly because he was reluctant to dwell on it for too long. “But . . . didn’t you just get back?”

  “Yes, yes, I did. But someone has asked for my help, and frankly I’m so amazed that he did, I can’t pass it up.”

  The bartender didn’t bother glancing at Arthur’s image on the screen, because of course he didn’t realize that was who was being referred to. “But why would it be so amazing that he would ask for your help?”

  “Because,” said Miss Basil matter-of-factly, tossing the reply over her shoulder, “I killed his best friend.” And she headed off to her luxurious suite of rooms to pack.

  ARNIM SANDOVAL HAS been drinking heavily for the past several days.

  It is not something his lieutenants are accustomed to seeing. Actually, it is very much a surprise. They have seen him coordinate multilayered, multileveled strikes, pulled off with clockwork precision, and never show the slightest hint of strain or stress. But they do not question. They have sworn to live and die on the word of Arnim Sandoval, because they believe him the anointed of God. Among his men, he is called the Glowing One, for it is said, in certain lights, that one can actually see the celestial holy glow that surrounds him. It is his gift from on high.

  Arnim Sandoval knows that he will cease drinking soon. It is an indulgence, a luxury that he can ill afford. Matters h
ave come to a head in Trans-Sabal, but he was aware that would happen. It is not by coincidence that Arnim Sandoval is a master chess player. Indeed, it is becoming impossible for him to be challenged in a chess game, for he has long accustomed himself to thinking seven, eight moves ahead of his opponent.

  This American President, though . . . he has been different. Of all those walking the global stage, only this Arthur Penn has outthought him on several occasions. Thrown him off guard, drawn his attention in one direction while striking from another. Arnim Sandoval feels as if he should befriend him . . . or admire him . . . or kill him. He has not yet decided the ultimate direction the relationship will take.

  However, Arnim Sandoval needed to hurt him. And he has hurt him. The hurt does not ease the suffering of Arnim Sandoval himself, but he has at least been able to repay in kind some of what was done to him.

  Sleep has not come to him. Numbness has not come to him. Nothing except the emptiness, which all the hardship brought upon Arthur Penn cannot hope to erase.

  Arnim Sandoval endeavors to crawl inside the bottle.

  In years, he is a young man. In appearance, he looks far more aged than he is. The pressure has been building upon him. He knows he is right in what he does, and he trusts his god to guide him and succor him, and yet the losses he has experienced sting just as sharply.

  He stings back.

  The losses still throb.

  Arnim Sandoval rises from his desk. Muffled in the distance are the sounds of missiles. He does not know which country drops them, nor does he care. They are no threat to him. After he gets some rest, he will record a new video message and release it. He will make his followers proud.

  He staggers, braces himself, crosses the room, and rests his hands upon an urn.

  “I cannot rest,” he says to the urn. “Help me rest.”

  He finishes the bottle, staggers to his chair, and slumps back.

  He does not sleep.

  CHAPTRE THE SIXTH

  UNDER THE CLOAK of night, the water lapping gently against the bow of his boat, Percival anchored his schooner in what he believed to be a fairly secluded part of the island. Certainly he didn’t see any lights or signs of civilization. He checked his charts one more time, trying to make certain that he had indeed found the correct place, and hoping—not for the first time—that he had not been sold a bill of goods. The information had certainly seemed genuine, but those from whom he purchased it had not been the most reliable of sorts. Frankly, they seemed a bit shady, and he could just imagine his liege, Arthur, scolding him severely for bothering to waste any time (much less money) on such riffraff.

  But Percival had looked his primary source full in the eye and, concentrating the considerable force of his not-inestimable personality and strength of character, said, “If you are lying to me, I will come back for you, and I will find you, and I swear it will not go well for you at all.”

  His source had simply nodded his head, not seeming the least bit put off, and replied, “May I die if I am lying to you.”

  There are, of course, ways around such epithets, not the least of which is that people die whether they lie or not. It just happens. Well . . . not to everyone. But to most. Still, the sincerity and fervency was enough to marginally convince Percival, and so with considerably less money left in his pocket—but even more resolve—he had obtained the small but sturdy craft and set out. And now he had arrived at his destination . . .

  “. . . wherever that may be,” he said out loud with self-directed scorn. He surveyed the distance between the boat and the shore, and it really wasn’t much of anything. Percival wrapped his guns and gunbelt tightly in waterproof material and tucked them into his pack, which he then eased onto his back. He was wearing a wetsuit over his clothes as well for added protection, and within moments Percival had slid over the side of the boat and into the water. The water was warm, as befit the tropical environment, and with quick, sturdy strokes he paddled toward shore. Within moments he was on land, trying everything he could not to make any noise. The moon had darted behind clouds and didn’t seem the least bit interested in emerging from hiding. That didn’t bother Percival; he simply slid his night-vision goggles over his eyes, blinked a few times to adjust his sight, and then soldiered on. Percival then removed the pack from his back, holstered his guns, and slid the machete from its sheath strapped on to his back.

  Even though he was seeing his way through the red tint of the night-vision goggles, that couldn’t begin to disguise the beauty of the land through which he was passing. The verdure around him was thick and teaming with life, so dense that it was practically a jungle. He would have wagered that there were parts of the undergrowth that never saw sunlight, so covered were they by a canopy of branches.

  But it was inhabited, that much was for certain. It did not require any great leap of intuition, because Percival was making his way down a trail that had unquestionably been carved by human hands. However, he had to admit it was possible that the island had been inhabited at some point in the past, but no longer was. Although he kept the machete gripped firmly in his right hand, he thus far had no need to carve through the brush with it. The paths remained consistent and clear.

  He went on for some time like that, wrestling with his confusion and inner frustration, unsure of whether he was wasting his time or not. Wasting one’s time didn’t much matter when one has all the time that one could possibly require. Nevertheless, it was the principle of the thing that counted, and Percival felt that he was entirely too busy an individual to chase about on foolish outings.

  That was what he kept thinking until the path ahead of him opened up, the jungle ending . . . or at least the section of it that he was traversing was ending. To his surprise, he saw what appeared to be a small amphitheater, ringed by stone pillars. They were not carved or ornate in any way, but flat and featureless, standing anywhere from seven to ten feet high. It reminded him a bit of Stonehenge.

  With warrior’s senses honed by centuries of experience, Percival approached slowly, on the balls of his feet, ready to fight or fly as the case required. Still holding on to his blade with his right hand, his left hand hovered at the level of the gun hanging from his left hip, to be able to draw it as needed. Percival was an accomplished shot with either hand.

  Then he stopped. He started to feel something, a light-headedness, almost a giddiness. Instantly he recognized it, for it was a sensation like no other. It was the feeling, the very spoor, of the Grail. He had felt it coming off the dead man named Joshua, back in Peru. He felt it again here, only a hundred times stronger.

  It seemed to be coming from everywhere, all at once. Every cell in his brain was screaming at him to run now, to get out while he still could, and yet he not only did not flee, but instead continued his path forward on wavering legs. It was as if he had utterly lost control of his motor skills, as if he were being both pulled and pushed by some unholy . . . no, some holy force. Yes, it had to be holy. There was not a scintilla of evil hanging about it. It filled him with a joy and purity such as he had not experienced in over a thousand years, when he had last held the Grail in his trembling hands and brought the sanctified liquid within to his lips, thereby blessing and cursing himself at one and the same time. And now the power it had over him was even greater, having become all the stronger in the intervening centuries.

  Percival hadn’t even been aware anymore that he was still walking, and suddenly he found himself in the middle of the amphitheater. He stopped, stood there wavering, feeling he was in the absolute midst of the power, as if it were reaching up to him and embracing him, even though there was nothing around him.

  He heard soft cooing noises as from the throats of doves, but they were not remotely avian. Women were approaching him, and they were beautiful, and they were young, and they were smiling at him in ways that females had not done in years. It brought his mind, or what was left of his mind, to times of wild, orgiastic celebrations. Women would gyrate around him, moving toward h
im, their dark skin smooth and their bodies supple. Wild women, oftentimes Berbers, their thick lips drawn back in wolfish delight as their hands would play across the hardness of his body. They were nights that never seemed to end, that the dawns seemed to be stalled for many days so that the revels could continue beyond anything man thought possible. Musicians would be playing, and the smell of musk was everywhere. Once, once they had looked upon him and found him fair, those women, and he would regale them with tales of his adventures. And then he would leave Spain and return to Arthur out of a sense of duty, and in all the times that those women threw themselves upon him, he always resisted the ultimate temptation. Because he knew that he was meant for a destiny that required great control, great virtue, and great chastity. He could have avoided the women entirely, of course, but the sweet pain he endured from resisting their overtures stoked the fires of determination in his young heart, and told him that if he could withhold deploying his manhood despite the pleas of such as these, then he had the strength of character and self-control to accomplish anything. It was never an easy thing, for their caresses would set fire to his skin, and he could still taste on his mouth the salty passion of their kisses long after the coast of Spain was gone from sight.

  Those memories swarmed over him now, and these women were not Berbers, or Moors, but some of them were dark-skinned, and some of them less so, and they were willing and filled with joy to see him. And standing here, in the middle of his place of power, the torture of his endless existence faded into nothingness. His guns were gone and forgotten, as was his machete. His past had returned to him and he embraced it, and for the first time in ages his future was of no interest to him whatsoever.

  The women overwhelmed him, and the Percival who would have turned them away, who would have refused them, who would have prided himself on his self-control, was gone, long, long gone.