Chapter 18

The message was loud and clear, but unlike with Dante, I couldn’t take this woman aside. There were too many people about, and all eyes were on us.

I’d managed to sleep on the biggest news story in the month of December. It wasn’t just my gallantry and the knighting that had made my story go viral. I mentioned before that I’d skipped one piece in The Guardian’s puff piece about me; it had been that my presumed-dead lover, Wendy Bailey, had recently been rescued off the coast of occupied Wales and was making an ‘astounding’ recovery. That word ‘astounding’ proved that they either hadn’t seen Wendy, or they were doing their job as good propagandists.

She got her own writeups from multiple news sources, of course, but I had only been, as the humans say, ‘egosurfing’ that morning.

There have been many strange coincidences and strokes of luck in my story. Perhaps the least credible detail in my recounting was that the reporters in attendance gave us reunited ‘lovers’ some space to meet up again.

For about five minutes. Once their collective decency was exhausted, the vultures descended, as if on some unseen signal. Smartphones and video cameras were shoved in our faces.

“Magpie, did you think you’d ever see her again?”

“Ms. Bailey, what are you thinking right now?”

“Have you ever been happier in your lives?”

“Magpie, have you popped the question yet?”

“They make such a cute couple!”

“Let’s have a kiss for the camera!”

I wasn’t about to do that, but Wendy had different ideas. She couldn’t pull me into her embrace with her willowy limbs, but she managed to plant one on my cheek. I’ve seen the picture since, and I looked completely shellshocked.

That kiss snapped me out of it, though. I pasted a smile on my face. “One at a time, please. To answer the first, no, I wasn’t expecting any of this; not the great honor my King has bestowed upon me, nor the chance to be reunited with anybody from back home.”

Wendy cleared her throat. “If I’d known my Soren was waiting for me on the other side, I’d have found a way to escape sooner.”

“And no, no questions have been popped,” I said. “Neither of us are ready for that sort of commitment yet.”

I scanned the ballroom; we were on the ground level, near the raised dais at the far side of the room. The Yeomen of the Guard were keeping the riffraff away from there, since King George and some bishop or other were seated up there. They were chatting away like old chums, which they likely were.

Hopefully, we wouldn’t qualify as riffraff. I wasn’t eager to give the press a show, but it was unavoidable; Wendy was in no shape for a quick escape.

“Don’t be scared, my dear,” I said, scooping her up in my arms as gently as I could. The poor thing weighed just about nothing, and I almost forgot that she’d just outed herself as a demonkin a minute before. My damn sympathy again.

The shutters of the cameras reminded me of machine gun fire. The press had loved that little maneuver.

“Soren? What the he-heck at are you doing?” stammered Wendy.

I didn’t respond, instead striding up the stairs to the dais. It seemed I was welcome, and our pursuers were not. A mundane human with a pike wasn’t worth much on a modern battlefield, but he could keep the fourth estate at bay.

“You know, Marlowe,” said King George with a slight grin, “a knight usually waits to be summoned by his king.”

“I was actually going to ask the bishop here for sanctuary.” I said, gingerly setting Wendy down. “Wendy, I’m sure you recognize King George.”

“We’ve met,” said the king, gracing her with a fatherly smile. “She was my appointment yesterday morning.”

The clergyman finally spoke up. He had a plain face, but a great bushy mustache that reminded me of a walrus, which distracted from that. Likely why he’d gone for the whiskers.

“She still isn’t well enough to be here,” he said.

“You’ve made your opinion clear, William,” said the King. “Her doctors say she’ll be fine for one night, as long as she sticks to the water and doesn’t overexert herself. Besides, this was the only chance these lovebirds would get to see one another for months. After what Wendy’s been through, I wouldn’t deny her that.”

“And I am so appreciative, Your Highness.” She ran a hand down my arm, the intimate gesture reminding me that frail or no, this was almost certainly Fera’s creature.

I nodded silently, trying to keep the irritation from my face. There were steps heading to a higher level on either side of the dais, but I’d been told that’s where His Majesty would be spending the night. The Yeomen weren’t likely to let me past for a quick interrogation.

So, I’d have to put on a brave face and suffer in silence. I took her hand in mine and tousled her hair. A few strands stuck to my hand. Our Father Below’s horns, she was falling to bits! Why Fera would bother employing this one was a mystery.

A quick look through Mimic Sight gave me an answer. The world went dark, lit only by the magical signatures of the wizards around us. Mr. Maki was a bright flare, while Dante looked like a struck match. Wendy definitely had a magical signature, but there was something warped and distended about it. It extended outside of her body, even though she wasn’t casting or using an affinity I could perceive. It also flickered, like a candle buffeted by an unseen wind.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I didn’t dawdle, since it didn’t seem polite to zone out around the king, much less with an enemy agent at my side. My guard was raised, though; harmless as she appeared, Wendy didn’t have to stand up straight to skewer me with a spell.

As I emerged from my haze, I saw that I hadn’t been quick enough. King George was scowling at me. “Well?”

I realized I didn’t have a reason to lie, exactly. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. My magical skill lets me see other users around, and I decided to see if there were any unknown wizards about.”

He nodded. “Given your recent history, I understand. Find anything?”

Wendy looked nervous as I considered my response. I paused a moment; might as well let Fera’s agent sweat a little. “Nobody we have to concern ourselves with. The Divine Blade is only a threat to the buffet table.”

King George chuckled at that. “Well, William, Soren, shall we get on with the ceremony? It won’t take long.”

“I’d like nothing more.” We could get this farce over with so I could focus on bigger issues.

The clergyman nodded, waving me over. “Would you mind giving us an assist before we draw everyone’s attention?”

I nodded, as he gestured for one of the Yeoman. He strode over, his face an unreadable mask. I was a bit taken aback as he handed me a fabricata sword, especially since drawing it to use and drawing it to surrender look very similar. A quick read of the larger runes reminded me of spells that modified gravitational fields.

“What’s this?”

The clergyman gave me a thin smile, his voice dropping. “As much as His Majesty would say otherwise, he is not a well man. This spell will lighten the sword enough that he should be able to lift it.”

I nodded, recalling the instruction sheet I’d been given. “A tap on each shoulder, right?”

“Yes, and don’t worry; this one is completely dull, as well.”

I gave it a quick jumpstart, charging the onboard battery with magical energy. In an instant, it felt like the sword would fly out of my hands. “Feels a bit odd to have a Vicar entrust me with a magical weapon. Whatever happened to the prescriptions against witchcraft?”

He shook his head, tsking me. “It sounds to me like you haven’t been going to your services! It is the official stance of the Church of England that the Lord our God has given magic to select people so that they might defend his children from the demonic onslaught.”

A convenient bit of theology, I thought. If the Enemy was so damned interested in humanity’s protection, I’d have thought He would have sent an army of angels against us.

Still, I nodded a silent agreement as I surrendered the gimmicked weapon to the Yeoman. I didn’t want to spend any more time with this William than I had to; there was the persistent stench of, ugh, holiness about him. Besides, staring at the crosses on his vestments was giving me a headache.

************

Dark Lord’s eyes, I hate pomp and circumstance. I’d been trapped on the dais for nearly an hour, and I hadn’t even gotten my award yet.

We didn’t get to the main event right away. There was ceremony to be followed, of course, and the king got to give a grand speech, as did the bishop. It turned out I was not the only one being honored that night.

I had, in my own self-centered way, assumed Mr. Maki had been sent along only as my escort. It seemed that was only a side benefit, since he was being awarded a medal for singlehandedly saving the HMS Gallant during the recent fighting in Sumatra. King George explained his reasoning, and that Mr. Maki had been nominated by nearly every member of the crew and the ship’s captain. Mr. Maki got to give his own speech, which I mostly tuned out.

I was too occupied with the slim woman at my side. Wendy strained to stay on her feet during the festivities, even with the assistance of her cane. Knowing that my kindness would somehow come back to bite me, I still slung an arm around her waist, allowing her to rest her full weight on me. Mariko would surely understand; she had her own disability to deal with, after all.

She might not understand the kiss on the cheek that followed, but I was confident I could talk sense into her.

I was roused from my half trance as King George’s voice echoed all around us. The old man had an assist from a microphone built into his suit’s lapel, where Mr. Maki’s sound-based affinity let him project through the whole room on his own.

“Soren Marlowe of Kent. Approach.”

“That’s my cue,” I said, releasing Wendy.

“Good luck,” she whispered back. The demonkin almost sounded sincere.

King George stood up from a red velvet chair, which looked to have been trucked in just for the occasion. He was steadier on his feet than he had been the morning before; whether his new strength came from drugs or sheer willpower, I could not be sure.

I’d had some instructions on what I was to do. I’d been offered the chance to give my own speech, but I’d turned it down. Instead, I knelt before him on one knee, as we’d gone over before. King George seemed happy to do the speechifying for the both of us.

“Soren Marlowe,” he said, “despite your youth, you have shown repeated and impressive gallantry in the face of hardship and danger. You were trapped behind enemy lines for months, but you managed to escape when we thought that everyone in Britain was lost. By all rights, you should have been given a rest, but that was not in the cards. At the Nagoya Academy of Magic, you went from being a low-grade wizard of little promise to one of the most preeminent combat wizards in the whole Anti-Demonic League.”

I gulped, but I managed to keep a straight face. Another attack of conscience.

“Your education was interrupted twice by the cowardly and deceitful Holy Brotherhood of Mankind, and both times you conquered them. By your efforts, you saved your classmates and dozens of orphans, as well as your headmaster and the top magical academy in the world. You are a worthy example to emulate for all who struggle in the face of the hated Grim Horde, but especially for a United Kingdom in need of heroes.”

Another gulp, and watching the video coverage later, one can see that I was unnerved about something.

“You are a bright spot; even if you had never fought a single battle, you give the people hope by simply existing. Your victories are simply greater glory, and a reminder to the people that extremism is never the answer, even in these harsh times. That is why it is my intense pleasure and honor to induct you as a Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. Do you accept?”

“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” I said.

“Do you swear to defend the people and lands of the United Kingdom and her overseas territories?”

“Yes,” I said, after too long a pause. Oaths do mean something to devils; perhaps a remnant of our old penchant for stealing men’s souls with contracts? Regardless, even if this was a formality for the press, it felt binding. This was another step away from the devil I had been, even if I knew deep down I was the rotten chap who’d burned King George’s island and laughed the whole time.

King George unsheathed the ensorcelled sword and tapped my shoulders in quick succession. The blunt edge tapped the side of my head as he switched sides, and he handed off the blade to a Yeoman as soon as the deed was done.

He wasn’t done yet, as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a large box. He opened it, revealing a cross-shaped emblem, showing my new rank.

I gulped again, praying to whoever would listen that I wouldn’t burst into flames the moment the Enemy’s symbol touched me. Still, there was nothing I could do to prevent it. It would take an act of the Enemy or Our Father Below.

“Then rise, Sir Soren Marlowe, and…”

I heard the crowd gasp before the meaty thud behind me. Wendy didn’t make so much as a peep as she collapsed onto her side, her head hitting the hard, tile floor of the dais before she stopped.

It seemed it was never my sincere prayers that were answered…