Circles of Seven Read online

  The light switched off. At the bottom of the enclosure sat a small white button, like those on the cuffs of a man’s long-sleeved dress shirt.

  Ashley tilted Apollo back and peered into the enclosure. “Karen, didn’t you use the blue button?”

  “Yeah. The blue one. Just like last time.”

  Ashley squeezed her lips together and shook her head. “The spectrum encoder must be on the fritz.”

  “Could be. I’ll ask Larry.”

  Walter mouthed, “Larry?” but Ashley ignored him.

  “No,” Karen continued. “Larry says it’s on your side. It’s the decoder, not the encoder.”

  Ashley shook her head again. “No way. I checked it this morning. Put Larry on.” She turned Apollo, bringing the door of the rectangle to the front, and placed a finger on her left ear pad. “Larry. It’s Ashley. What’s the deal with the spectrum translator?”

  An electronic voice sputtered, “You’re the genius, Ashley. If you think it’s the encoder, then why don’t you fix it yourself?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Larry. I’ll have Karen bust you down to a Windows machine faster than you can say Microsoft.”

  “You programmed me. If you don’t believe what I’m telling you, you’re calling yourself a liar.”

  Ashley slapped her palm against her forehead. “Oh, why did I have to go and put a logic booster in his AI unit?”

  Walter grinned. He thought Larry was a hoot. “AI? Artificial Intelligence?”

  Ashley opened the door to the glass rectangle. “Yeah. Larry’s almost like a real person. Sometimes he gets on my nerves.”

  “A talking computer with an attitude problem? Haven’t I seen that in a dozen B-grade, sci-fi flicks?”

  “Of course. Where do you think I got the idea?” She picked up the button, but it crumbled and fell in a tiny pile of glittering dust. “Oh, no! The bonding factor must be way off!”

  A new voice broke in. “Excuse me.” A female flight attendant peered at them from the aisle surrounded by several wide-eyed adults and children.

  Ashley brushed the button dust away and smiled at the attendant. “Yes?”

  The tall brunette smiled. “Some of our passengers saw you playing with that toy. It’s a long flight, so they were wondering if you could explain how it works and maybe let them try it out.”

  Walter flashed a wide grin and leaned back with his hands behind his head. “I’m sure Ashley would love to explain her little toy!”

  Ashley cleared her throat and held the device up with both hands. “This is an antimatter, tachion reversal engine made by Stalworth Enterprises. Lots of fun, but you have to be qualified to use it. I’ll have to lecture you in quantum physics and antimatter theory for at least two hours and then give you a thorough written exam.” She glanced around at the onlookers. “Who’s up for that?”

  The crowd began to disperse, several people shaking their heads and laughing, but one little old man who smelled strongly of cheap cigars and used gym socks stayed put. With his wispy gray hair blowing in the draft of the plane’s circulating air, he nodded slowly. “It’s been a while since I wrote my doctoral dissertation on antimatter theory, but I’m willing to spend a few hours polishing up what I remember.”

  Walter got up and squeezed past his sleeping neighbor. He motioned for the little old man to sit, then strolled down the aisle, grinning back at Ashley. Her face had wrinkled into a tight, red fire alarm. “Have fun,” he called. “I’m going to find another comic book.”

  “Walter!”

  After hiring a van and driver in Yeovil, Billy, Bonnie, and Professor Hamilton endured the short drive back to Cadbury Castle. They rode in physical comfort, though not in peace. The chauffeur, a leather-skinned man in his seventies, battled verbally with the professor over every subject that could possibly concern an English citizen, from the value of the British pound versus the Euro, to the congestion tax in London, to the importance of the royal family in government. They disagreed on everything, the driver rattling on in a cockney accent and the professor responding in the quiet dignity of an Oxford sophisticate.

  The chauffeur flicked his tweed driver’s cap higher on his brow. “I mean it’s so bleed’n obvious, innit? The queen’s useful as a nine-bob note, all dolled up wit’ nowhere to go.”

  “But you must understand, my good fellow, that Her Majesty is more than merely a cultural icon; she represents the hopes of all England. She is the symbol of our past and our future. And, trust me, the future of the monarchy is getting brighter every day.”

  As the two talked in the front, Billy told Bonnie about the burglars, the sword battle, and the strange microchip-embedded cloaks, although he had to keep his voice down to protect their secrets and lean close to her ear to compete with the incessant chatter.

  When they arrived at Cadbury Castle, they searched for the body of the man Hartanna had killed, following directions she had provided. They found him on a steep slope in a dense thicket about a hundred yards from the grassy field. Like Billy’s nighttime attacker, this one wore a black hood and robe coated with wire mesh.

  Kneeling on the surrounding undergrowth, the professor stripped off the hood to reveal a tawny-faced man with high cheekbones and a short, trimmed beard. He looked a few years older than the previous attacker, but he still seemed young, too young to die in the service of this “New Table” conspiracy.

  The professor sighed. “Another sacrificial lamb, I’m afraid.”

  Bonnie stepped away from the body and folded her hands behind her back. “Sacrificial lamb? What do you mean?”

  The professor draped the hood over the man’s face. “Whoever is sending these men into battle must know they are too inexperienced to deal with fire-breathing dragons and a paladin who wields Excalibur.”

  Billy shoved his gloved hands into his coat pockets, a hot flush surging into his cheeks.

  The professor rubbed his fingers along the man’s black cloak. “The microchips in this garment,” he continued, “may explain the mystery.”

  The professor and Billy removed the cloak and draped it over the dead body. The professor then stood and flipped open his cell phone. “Please excuse me while I make a call.” He walked up the slope and stood behind a pair of oak trees.

  Crouching next to the body, Billy picked up a stick and twisted it into the ground. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the morbid scene, a dead, young man covered in the funeral trappings of shimmering black. Although he didn’t know how Hartanna had killed the man, his crumpled body gave evidence that she may have crushed his bones. Perhaps his strange robe protected him from her streams of fire, and she resorted to bashing him with her powerful tail.

  The professor returned, clipping the cell phone on his belt. “If we take the cloaks with us, our pursuers might be able to track us enroute, so I called one of my compatriots to arrange for their transport to Sir Patrick’s residence. He will also take care of the corpse. If the chips don’t identify him, perhaps his fingerprints will.” He motioned toward the path leading to his rental car. “We must hurry to Sir Patrick’s. Clefspeare’s life hangs in the balance.”

  Without the Cockney cabby around, the trip to Glastonbury was much more peaceful. Bonnie related her flight across the Atlantic and gave more details about the ambush in the forest. She was a masterful storyteller, providing Billy with vivid images painted in bright colors across the canvas of his mind. He drank in every word, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, sometimes peeking at Bonnie to catch her facial expressions while she untied her braids and brushed out her hair. Her excited eyes were always fun to watch as they widened and narrowed with the highs and lows of her tale.

  After the story, Billy had a hard time concentrating on anything. Thoughts of Clefspeare kept bursting into his mind. He tried to shoo them away, arguing in favor of indifference. This dragon wasn’t really his father anymore; he was a . . . a dragon. Dragons could take care of themselves, couldn’t they? Clefspeare didn’t really need an
yone to watch out for him . . . or to rescue him. Not really. His arguments barely made a dent in his anxiety. The shivers running up and down his spine proved that he wasn’t very good at lying to himself.

  When they arrived in the outskirts of Glastonbury, they drove along a narrow road that meandered into a beautiful rural setting: perfectly manicured lawns the size of a dozen football fields bordered by meticulously trimmed hedges intermingled with tall, robust oaks. Far in the distance a green hill stood alone amidst the lush, flat fields. On its apex, a tall monument towered over the valley, like a stone shepherd standing erect and vigilant. The protruding hill seemed out of place, high and steep in a land of low-lying farms.

  “That’s the Glastonbury Tor,” the professor explained. “A very strange landmark, filled with mysteries and legends. My favorite story involves two natural springs that flow from a chasm under the hill. One deposits a reddish sediment, an iron compound of some kind, while the other leaves a white residue, calcium carbonate, I believe. After your mission, I should like to visit Chalice Well Gardens where the red spring emerges, and there I will explain the legend.”

  After driving to the end of the narrow road, they followed a long, winding driveway leading into one of the magnificent fields of green. Autumn flowers—myriad pansies and chrysanthemums of purple and yellow—lined the pristine, brick path, as though a colorful carpet of greeting had rolled out in anticipation of their arrival.

  The professor pulled the car to a stop in front of a wrought iron gate bordered by two massive stone columns that looked like totem poles, each one chiseled with eight gruesome faces, vertically stacked. The face on the top level looked more feminine than the seven below, and they all scowled with equal malevolence, as though they had been placed there to discourage visitors.

  The gate opened by itself, apparently monitored from within, though there wasn’t a trace of a hidden camera or any telltale cables. Billy wondered if the eyes of one of those ugly totem faces doubled as the eyes for a security guard inside the house. He also wondered at the professor’s strange countenance, troubled and distant, as though he were doing battle in his mind.

  The professor drove forward, following the driveway up a hill toward a palatial mansion at the top, a modern-day castle, complete with at least three turrets and a short drawbridge that lay open over a narrow moat.

  “Sir Patrick’s residence.” The professor nodded toward the massive house.

  At the foot of the drawbridge, he stopped the car. “We walk from here.”

  Billy and Bonnie climbed out and joined the professor at the edge of the moat. With a huge castle standing against a sparkling blue sky and a pristine lawn of emerald green spreading out toward a distant forest, the atmosphere crackled with the feel of old England. Billy could almost see armored knights riding muscular steeds on endless fields of grass and stones. Dragons flew into the misty woods in the distance, carrying glittering gems to their caves, always wary of trailing treasure hunters who might be seeking their lairs.

  The chime from the professor’s cell phone brought Billy back to the twenty-first century.

  “Charles Hamilton speaking. . . . Yes, Marilyn, we’ve just arrived. We have quite a story to tell you. You see— . . . Yes, I am able to meet them. . . . No, I think I should introduce William and Bonnie to Sir Patrick first. I have plenty of time to do that and still make it to Heathrow. . . . What? . . . Yes, I understand, but I must tell you about Clefspeare. He— . . . Very well. . . . Good-bye.”

  The professor pressed a button on his phone and eyed the screen. “How strange!”

  Billy leaned over to take a look. “What’s up, Prof?”

  “No caller ID. Your mother must have called from a blocked line. I wanted to tell her about your father’s capture, but she cut our conversation short. She didn’t even ask to greet you.”

  Billy reached for the phone. “Here. Let me call her cell.” He punched in the numbers and waited through eight rings before shaking his head and handing the phone back to his teacher. “Nothing. The battery might be dead. But I thought I’d at least get her voice mail.”

  “I don’t think it was an imposter. Her voice was quite clear.” The professor clipped the phone back on his belt. “In any case, her vehicle has broken down, so she is unable to meet Miss Stalworth and Mr. Foley at the airport. She is trying to procure a replacement, but the rental company says it will be several hours before they can accommodate her.”

  “So we have to go to London?”

  “Not ‘we.’ I will go. We will meet Sir Patrick, and he and I will explain your mission. Because of the loss of secrecy, it’s important that we prepare you as soon as possible.” He turned and gazed at the driveway behind them, and Billy followed his line of sight. The twin totem poles at the bottom of the hill kept watch over the quiet country road in the distance, and their eerie vigilance gave Billy a shiver. The professor continued. “I have a feeling that even more trouble lurks, but I cannot say why. We must be on our guard and trust no one but those who have proven their love and loyalty.”

  Palin slid each of his feet backwards a step, biting the inside of his cheek and keeping his eyes glued to the cave’s theatric display. The colorful aura over the floor chasm floated like a levitated tapestry. The swirling colors painted a photo of a lonely figure standing on a remote hilltop, a solitary woman in a desolate field. “I see our agent,” Palin said, “but is this the past? The future?”

  Morgan swept one arm across the front of the luminescent screen, and the scene began moving as though a movie director had called, “Action!” She trained her dark eyes on the display, her lips barely moving as she spoke. “The recent past, Palin, only a few minutes ago. Our number eight has completed part of her assignment. Listen.”

  A middle-aged woman with an angular jaw held a cellular telephone like it was a beloved musical instrument. Her throat grew taut as she pursed her lips to create a precise sound, like a flutist searching for the perfect note. Her voice played in time with the vibrating aura, distorting the view. “Wait. I’m glad you made it, but please hold your story until later. Listen, my car broke down, and the rental company said it might be several hours before they can get another one to me. Can you meet Ashley and Walter at the airport? There’s no way I can make it in time.”

  After the phone exchange ended, the display’s colors melted into their previous pattern of twisting ribbons. Morgan waved her long, slender arm toward the halo again, and the glow faded to bright white. “Now that we have arranged for Merlin to separate from Arthur, our real work can begin. Our knights must be in position when the boy king steps into our realm. He has no idea what he’ll be facing, and Merlin won’t be around to whisper any last-minute poems in his ear.”

  Morgan’s dark form slowly shrank, her bare feet hovering inches off the ground. Although her body maintained human proportions, she stiffened, and her shriveling skin seemed to morph into shiny, black porcelain. After shrinking to about a foot tall, her body suddenly began shaking. Her arms and head thickened, and her nose stretched to a hardened point. When the shaking ceased, a raven stood in her place, its feathers puffed out to double its size. With another quick shake, the black feathers smoothed out, making the bird indiscernible from other ravens.

  With a low-pitched “Caw!” the raven flew up to Palin and landed on his shoulder. It croaked into his ear. “Soon I will send you back again to the sixth circle, where you will await your turn to meet the young king. I know how you yearn to get your revenge, but you will follow my instructions to the letter. Understand?”

  Palin just nodded, sweat pouring down his cheeks.

  “Good. And now I must pay a visit to my friend, Sir Patrick.”

  The raven flapped its coal black wings and zipped through the cave entrance, vanishing in mid-flight.

  Billy and Bonnie followed the professor up a short flight of stairs to a marble-tiled porch that skirted the entire wing of the huge mansion. With the professor marching at a brisk pace, the younger
pair had to quicken their stride to keep up, their shoes squeaking on the walkway’s tactile floor.

  As they passed one of the many tall white columns, Billy rubbed a finger across its smooth, mirrored surface. He glanced from side to side. Something about this place bugged him. It felt like they were being watched, like those weird totem poles out front had unseen cousins probing them with camera eyes.

  Bonnie tugged his sleeve. “What’s wrong? You’re as nervous as a politician hooked to a lie detector.”

  Billy kept his voice low. “Yeah. I feel like something’s not right, like we’re being watched.”

  “We probably are. A place like this must have lots of security.”

  “Yeah,” Billy said, letting his voice grow a bit louder, “this guy must be rolling in cash. If he’s one of the good guys, why is he wasting money on a marble-coated castle?”

  The professor stopped at the massive front entryway, a solid oak door with carved panels and a stained glass window near the top. “Your judgment is premature, William. I suggest that you withdraw your comment and wait for further evidence of Sir Patrick’s character.” He grasped the huge doorknocker just below the glass panel and gave three loud bangs.

  After a few seconds the door swung open revealing a gray-haired man dressed in faded blue jeans and an Oxford University sweatshirt. In one arm he carried a young, dark-skinned child, a smiling, walnut-eyed boy who looked to be about a year old. The man’s youthful complexion belied his gray hair. His smile exuded the vigor of a teenager, yet the gravity of his brown eyes made him appear as old as England itself.