Caller of Lightning

by Eytan Kollin

  So why was he afraid now? He was approaching the Tower of London, anticipating a battle with those he had once believed to be fighting on his side, on the side of order and normalcy. Of his two apprentices from the last coming of the comet, one had rejected magic and retired to the country as a simple chemist, choosing to run. The other was a King, and oh, what he could have done . . .

  He had been betrayed before; perhaps that should not have bothered him. He had met many of these same people in this same place, the White Tower in the Tower of London, where he had shown them Hew Draper’s carving, explained most of its import to them, and shown them how to use the Manydoor. He had given them every weapon they now had trained on him. And still he feared, because still he had hope.

  This time, entering the Tower would be a very different experience. He would walk right in. He could not use the Manydoor, Monegumdór, not until he found a replacement handle, or the one stolen while he was in the Colonies. Instead, he must remove obstacles.

  He walked up to the main gates of the White Tower: The Tower of London. The name was misleading. The Tower of London was not just a singular tower jutting up into the night. It was a vast walled compound with more than a dozen towers in the two concentric walls surrounding the main “tower.” The White Tower had been built as the fortified new home of William the Conqueror. He hated it; it reminded him of the oppression of the conquering Normans. Walking to the front gates, he dropped his cloak to the ground, revealing resplendent robes of blue and red, clasped across the chest by a jade and black brooch: the same one he had taken back from Polly when she had thought she killed him.

  He touched the brooch lightly, muttering, “Eorlgewæde.” Wind swirled, nipping at his heels, then gusting up along his robes. Each tiny fiber of cloth welcomed in the wind, grabbing tiny gusts with errant strands, until finally the gusting settled to stillness. The breeze hadn’t departed, but rather had settled on him, an invisible secondary cloak.

  “Halt! Who goes there?” A voice carried from the entry to the tower. A single guard rushed out, but at the cry of Halt!, several more followed. Myrddin was immediately surrounded by guards wearing the red robes of the King’s personal force.

  “I am Merlin Ambrosius, known to some as Myrddin Wyllt, of Caledonensis, of Aurelianus, protector of England and Wizard of the court for his Majesty Arthur Pendragon.” One lesson he had learned over the years—a little theater never hurt and, with the comet directly overhead, he was at the height of his powers. He could put on a show. And a night like tonight, this was why he had gotten Geoffrey drunk and spun this story. He spread his arms wide. “Stand aside, or I will move you.”

  The guard laughed. “Right then. Nice to meet ya, Merlin. Off ya go, ya drunken sot, before we throw you in a cell!”

  “When the day comes that you talk of this night, tall tales told to your grandchildren, tell them that tonight was the night Merlin spared your life.” He tilted his palms upward as the guard laughed and in his deepest voice, declaimed, “Þunorrádstefn!”

  The wind swirled in his palms, invisibly, building more and more pressure as it spun so fast it left a vortex in the center of each of the tiny cyclones. As the guards watched in confusion, Merlin breathed deeply, dropping his palms, then exhaled as he slowly pushed his palms forward from his chest. The two invisible cyclones collapsed and a massive boom sounded. The shockwave caught the laughing guard full in the chest and knocked him backward off his feet. He slid along the ground, unconscious, coming to a gentle rest against the Tower’s wall.

  All three guards carrying crossbows leveled the weapons and loosed bolts at the mage. The bonded wind released from the threads of his robes, snapping the bolts as they struck him and grinding them to splinters just inches from his flesh.

  Enough guards had gathered, and close enough, that he was pretty sure he could hit them all with one spell. “Slæp.” A series of thumps sounded as the guards all hit the ground, fast asleep.

  He walked through the bailey, leaving the guards in the entry field, but stopped before he was even halfway to the White Tower. He shook his head, then tilted it to the side, listening. What he wanted was to the right. In the Salt Tower.

  Of course that’s where he put it. Of course. He shook his head and strode to a section of the castle he knew all too well.

  The Salt Tower entrance was protected by a locked gate and two guards—nothing more. The guards gladly opened the gate for the King, or so they believed, and then swiftly fell asleep. It was only when he entered the tower complex itself that he saw another living soul: a man tending to the lamps in the tower who paid him no heed.

  Myrddin had no problem finding his way through the Tower. He had been there when it was built, and he had been a regular visitor over the years, in one capacity or another. Myrddin moved down the darkened hallways, illuminating his own way just enough to avoid any hazards. As he came closer to the King’s inner sanctum, candles had already been lit, and their flickering light greeted him, showing him the way he already knew. Myrddin stopped in front of the doorway, took a deep, sad breath, and squared his shoulders. It was time to put an end to this.

  St. James's Palace

  London, England

  37

  No One Could Do More

  Ben, having successfully enlisted the aid of his man Peter, made his way towards St. James’s Palace with his servant by his side. The regular clicks of Ben’s cane sounded steadily on the cobblestones.

  Tap, Tap, Tap.

  The early evening air was crisp and chilly. From Craven Street, it was only a fifteen- or twenty-minute walk, for which Ben was extremely grateful. He had been trying to reserve his use of magic for any offensive or defensive maneuver he might have to engage in, rather than easing the discomfort of his leg and hip. He wasn’t sure the pain itself wasn’t costing him more than he could afford to lose, but no matter.

  “Mr. Franklin?” Peter asked.

  “Yes, Peter?”

  “Is this the only way to protect things? Are you sure we can’t tell someone else what is going on? Have them call everyone to account?”

  “Sadly, there is no one who could do more than we, which means we would be sad excuses for men if we opted to do less.”

  “There’s no one? Can’t we just tell everyone then?”

  “That,” said Ben, glancing up at the comet overhead, “would be lovely. But in England, there are no authorities to turn to that would actively work against the King.”

  “The people are not an authority?” Peter asked, surprise obvious in his tone.

  Ben paused and sighed. “I sometimes forget how insightful you can be. No, sadly. Not in the way we would need them to be. Politicking and back room bargaining? Englishmen can do that all day long. Acting to remove a king who is a menace to life and liberty? That is not a path they wish to follow again. Unfortunately for us, we seem to be the ones called to this action.”

  “I see that. I really do. I just guess I wish it wasn’t so.” Peter stood a little straighter. “But that is neither here nor there, is it? If no one else can stand against the King, then we stand for them, yeah?”

  “That is so,” agreed Ben. “And we stand as tall as we can. Or limp, in my case.”

  “So where is it that we are going?”

  “We, my friend, are going to St. James’s Palace. It is where the King holds court and is also where he and his mistress have each their own apartments. We hope that we will find what we are looking for there, and this business can be concluded.”

  “We’re looking for things that make power, like that key you had?”

  “Just so, just so.” Ben nodded.

  As they approached the palace, they were startled to hear a voice calling Ben’s name. “Benjamin Franklin! What in the world are you doing here?” Ben turned to see Sir John Pringle descending upon them.

  “Sir John, what a surprise!” Ben offered a little weakly. He subtly motioned for Peter to stand slightly back.

  “Are you headed
to St. James’s? If you are, I am happy for the company, for I head there myself!” Sir John was full of energy. “I imagine you are on your way to see William. He has been there nearly every time I have needed to visit. It is amazing how the King has taken to him—you must be so proud.”

  Ben blinked for a moment, then said, “Indeed, I had hoped I might be able to see him. Unfortunately, I do not have an official invitation. I was merely taking my chances. Should I not be so lucky, it is just a nice nightly walk for me and my man here.”

  “Then the good Lord is looking out for you, and your chance is right in front of you!” Sir John was overwhelming in his excitement and effervescence. He walked them directly into the palace, the guards not taking any notice of them. “I believe he has been frequenting the King’s Presence Chamber. Let’s see if we can locate him.”

  Sir John led them through the many halls and chambers of St. James’s with the certainty that only considerable familiarity would bring. Ben began to feel more than a little disquiet. “Sir John. You have much more familiarity than I would have expected. Is there something I don’t know?”

  “Why would there be anything you wouldn’t know, Ben?”

  “I am just surprised at the alacrity with which you are walking us through the palace. I thought we were friends, but this doesn’t feel very friendly.”

  “We are the best of friends!” Sir John laughed as he led them forward through gilded halls, past suits of armor and portraits of the long-dead. “The Royal Society operates under the King’s grant. Why would you think we didn’t communicate our findings to the King? Accept his benevolence, my friend, and the King will reward you.”

  Ben shot a warning glance to Peter, who nodded quietly in return.

  Sir John led them into an audience chamber. The room was two stories tall, with a six-foot-tall fireplace on the long wall interrupting the tan wallpaper and gold trim. Unlike the other rooms, there was less decoration in this room. Ben understood why it was called the Presence Chamber now. A dozen people milled about, talking, but there was no throne in the room.

  Peter tugged on Ben’s sleeve and whispered, “There’s Mr. William, just over there.”

  William was indeed there—dressed in his best finery, which still looked drab next to the white- and gold-fur trimmed velvet suit the King wore—in a private circle, talking to George the Second. Ben saw William gesture toward them, and the King turned to look at them. George lazily waved a white gloved hand and the man to his left politely, but rapidly, emptied the room of everyone but William, Sir John, Ben, and Peter.

  The King walked to the fireplace, resting a hand on the mantle. “I do not see, Benjamin Franklin, that you have brought any of the things I asked for to me. Your payment is due, and yet you do not remit. What can you mean? I did tell you what the penalty would be.”

  Ben bowed, then said, “I was unable to find these things. I told you I had them once, but they are no longer in my possession.”

  The King slapped his hand down on the marble mantle. “It is not what you currently possess. It is your knowledge. What do you know of the star metal that Merlin ferreted away? The Key was a piece of it, but there is considerably more. You must have some knowledge. I will have that knowledge. Now.”

  Ben raised his hands and took a step back.

  William bowed, and stayed bowed, while he interrupted his father’s protestations. “Your Majesty, forgive the interruption, what are you asking about? You and Mr. Penn only told me you sought my father.”

  King George turned to him, “You told us your father had possession of a key made of the star metal. I am aware that it was cast from artifacts that had been melted down. The Key does not account for all that was lost. In fact, it is only a tiny fraction of it. Though we cannot seize that lost metal, I am positive your father knows where the rest has gone.”

  “Oh,” said William, interrupting a second attempt at protestation from his father. “That. I know where that is. Why didn’t you ask me? The Assembly’s new bell and father’s Key were cast at the same foundry here in England. Mr. Loxley told us all about it when he gave father the Key.”

  The King’s eyes grew wide. “Where is this bell?”

  William looked from the King to the Ben, who shook his head, and then back to the King, “It is in Philadelphia. At the Assembly Hall.”

  “Gib mir deine stärke, Tyr,” King George muttered, then smiled at William. “Thank you, William. I knew you would be useful.” He waved his right hand toward him, sending a bolt of lightning smashing into William’s chest. William went flying sideways, crunching into the wall, then fell to the floor where he lay unmoving.

  “William!”

  Peter ran to the younger Franklin and knelt.

  “LUX!” Ben shouted as he ran forward. Lightning arced from both of his hands in great fiery bolts, sputtering with deadly intent and ripping apart the air between Ben and George.

  George the Second waved his left hand, and the white lightning jumped into his palm. It wrapped around his arms, lovingly pulsing around his body like a serpent, beginning to crackle. He threw back his head and laughed. “Fire from the heavens? You know nothing of the old gods. Before there was Christianity, there were the gods of the Hanovers.” He thrust his right hand forward. Ben flew up nearly to the ceiling as the lightning smashed into him. He hung there for a moment, then George swiftly lowered his hand, and Ben crashed to the floor, hard. He felt the floor hit the side of his head, then everything went black for just a second. Everything hurt and the world spun about as he lay there stunned.

  The King turned to Sir John, “I believe we are needed at the Tower. Who is that?” He paused and pointed to Peter, who carefully tended William and tried not to attract notice.

  “It’s just the Franklin slave, Majesty.” Sir John bowed, then went to the door of the chamber. He put his hand to the door, then said, “The tower is ready.”

  King George strode to the door as Sir John opened it. On the other side, Ben could just see the room in the Tower of London where he had seen the artifacts. Eight weeks of searching, assuming they would have moved them to keep the location hidden, and all along they were in the tower?? Ben groaned. Every muscle in his body hurt, and if that wasn’t enough, he had just sustained a major blow to his pride. Through the door there were flashes of light and a loud boom. George the Second and Sir John looked at each other, then Sir John ran through the entry. The King followed immediately behind him.

  The door shut, and the two men were gone.

  Peter ran to Ben, quickly assessing his injuries. Blood gushed from Ben’s nose and he seemed to have numerous broken ribs. His right arm and his right leg were both broken badly, and, when Peter tested it, Ben had no feeling in the fingers of his right hand. Peter sat down carefully and put a hand on his shoulder. He had seen far lesser injuries prove fatal many times.

  “Peter,” Ben said weakly, “help me up. We must hurry to the Tower.” There was a slight whistling gargle coming from his chest every time he breathed in.

  “Mr. Franklin, you are not going anywhere,” Peter said sorrowfully.

  Ben turned his head to the side. “I see. William?”

  “He’s fine. He’ll wake in no time,” Peter lied.

  The door George had departed through opened again. Peter’s shoulders slumped. He was prepared for it to be the King again, come back to finish the business, or perhaps the King’s Guard. Instead, it was an old woman in an unusually plain dress reminiscent of a mountain skirt and huge boots, like a soldier wore. She was clad the clothes of the working class yet carried the demeanor of gentility. White hair was tucked up under a cap, and she sported a kerchief and apron. She stomped into the room, squinting and looking down her nose at the scene. “Well. Isn’t this untidy.”

  Someone was holding the door open for her, he realized. It was . . . King?

  Peter gaped, “King, you young fool, where have you been? What have you done? Am I ever so glad to see you, but how—”


  King held a large black leather book in his hands. “I have work to do.” He glanced once more at Peter and Ben, a little balefully, as he flipped open the book. Ben’s breathing was ever more shallow, and his eyes drifted closed. “I must hurry.”

  The former Franklin slave knelt next to Ben, looking down to the Bible he held, and began to read the first Psalm: “Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful. But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night.” A golden glow began to surround King as he read, “And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of the water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper—”

  Peter backed away in awe, still on hands and knees. King continued and the glow spread, its soft light moving gently out to encompass Ben as well. The old woman turned to Peter, holding out her hand. “Come away now, young man. I am the Widow Eversleigh, and you are going to help an old woman stand steady.”

  Peter nodded and shuffled to his feet. He stood next to the widow, and she looped a hand through the crook of his arm. “Much better, thank you!”

  “How? How did this come to be?” Peter asked in hushed tones. “He can read now?”

  “Eh?” The widow glanced askew at Peter. “You believe that malarkey too? Pah. He’s a bright young boy. Just like my nephew Stephen, he only needed to be taught his letters and given a good Christian upbringing. And to read my Reggie’s secret notes, of course.”

  “In just a year, he’s come this far? I’m sorry, I have so many questions. He can use magic? Are you a witch?”

  “Ha! I’m sure there’s plenty as would like to call me a witch, but no. My family tends to the cloth, with the exception of my granny. Did I mention my darling nephew? He’s a vicar. What a good boy. Learned to tend his letters from me and his religion at Salisbury Cathedral. You know, even with the comet overhead, I don’t have the skill King has, nor the talent. My husband, God rest his soul, did though. Trained under Merlin himself. I listened carefully to my granny and learned hard everything she taught. It was simple enough to teach it to King, between what Reggie left me and my own family secret. Yes indeed.”