“Do I seem foolish to you?” The Fallen King asked. “Here in my rags, my filth, my little puppet, gibbering to whoever will give me the time?”
He raised his hands over his head as if he were invoking a deity. “I am the Fallen King. The end of the path. You are the Fool—the zero, the nothing, straining at the precipice, the little dog yapping at your feet. You are nothing. Nothing but an idea, a starting point in Gaia's great dream. Ripe for seduction, ripe for destruction.”
He leaned over and gave me a beady, intense look. “You, Wedd. The screech owl will make mincemeat out of you.”
I felt a cold shock run through me as he called out my name.
“Do you remain huddled on the edge? Stroll blindly to your doom?”
I turned back to the door of the delicatessen to hurry inside to avoid further confrontation or another fainting spell.
“Or do you leap forward to what comes next...” he yelled as the door to the shop closed behind me.
Inside, the young woman behind the counter greeted me. I ordered my ham sandwich and waited nervously while she filled my order. I was simultaneously weirded out and irritated that the ragged prophet caused me such anxiety.
How would I ever be able to face down foes on a mission if a dirty man on a wooden box chased me away?
Still, I definitely wasn't looking forward to going back out there for more and wondered if the delicatessen's business had fallen off since he began hanging out there. The shop girl finished ringing me up and handed me a sack with my sandwich. I thanked her and turned back to the door, but I couldn't make myself go back out to the square. I chewed my lip and looked out the front windows for the right time to make a break for it.
It was then I saw a familiar spiky haired blond head, complete with jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket sauntering down Antiqua Way, headed in the direction of The Horned God. There was Sevenoir! I rushed out the door and hurried to join him.
He looked up with a start as I ran up to him. “Where's the fire, Wedd?”
“Sorry. I was just a little weirded out by that creepy prophet on the box.”
Sevenoir laughed heartily until he realized the depth of my upset. He asked me what had happened. I explained, best as I could, what the Fallen King had said to me.
“Never mind him. He says weird shite to everyone,” Sevenoir placated me. “It's his job. Now, am I to understand you're planning to join me in a liquid lunch at the pub? Good girl.”
I followed Sevenoir into The Horned God, which smelled of hardwood, old beer, and people. Dozens of patrons were in the pub for a noontime break. In the center of the main floor was an elaborate free-standing wooden bar area, complete with stools on each of the sides. It was carved from polished oak, the wood darkened from the touch of many fingers over the years. In the center of the bar proper, two bartenders served the patrons.
On the side nearest us, the bartender was a young woman with a short strawberry-blonde pixie cut. She had on a strapless green dress with gossamer, fake fairy wings springing from her back and looked like a younger, reddish-haired cousin of Kylie Minogue. Apparently, Sevenoir wasn’t the only one with an affection for out-of-season Halloween costume pieces.
The back bar, or perhaps more accurately, center bar was also carved of oak, with shelves holding the many varieties of spirits the pub had for sale. Etched glass panes were inserted in the upper portion, which were backlit, and globed lights hung along the top railing, giving the room a cheerful atmosphere. Along the sides of the room were sectioned tables and chairs, affording the patrons comfort and privacy while they enjoyed their beverages.
All in all, it looked like a quintessentially British pub and an enjoyable place to spend some time. I pushed down guilty feelings at being here in the middle of the day. I wasn’t used to how central pubs were to English life yet but realized that for a Londoner, there was nothing strange about going to one for lunch.
Sevenoir strode directly to the center bar. He waved to two patrons seated at the front of it and joined them, lifting a hand to get the bartender’s attention. I realized as I walked closer, that one of the patrons was none other than the girl who'd helped me find Temple Hall after I passed out in the Fallen King's square the first time. Sevenoir introduced me to her and her companion, then ordered himself a pint. Her name was Zamira Vata, and the older man beside her with a thin mustache, wearing an off-white linen suit with a green shirt, was another Templar agent named Konrad Engel. Zamira recognized me as well from the previous Friday and greeted me warmly.
“Bloody hell, who decided to make London the capital of the secret world? They'll be out of Stella soon at this rate,” Zamira commented with irritation, surveying the crowded pub, as she motioned me to grab a stool next to them at the bar.
She and Engel appeared to be old pals and batted back and forth at each other verbally a mile a minute, discussing everything from the current management of the Templars to the politics of the Council of Venice. Sevenoir chimed in occasionally with a droll comment or a scoff. I wondered briefly if I'd be chastised for being seen in the same vicinity as the three of them since they didn't seem to have any particular awe of the organization I was trying so hard to find my place in.
“Want a beer?” the bartender asked me. It was hard to hear her over the dull roar of the tourists and locals as they laughed and chatted in the nearby booths. The pub seemed pretty full for a lunchtime crowd.
I shook my head no, and I asked for a cola instead, then opened my bag, and began to eat my sandwich. I wouldn't be good for anything this afternoon if I had a beer with my lunch. I took a bite, and Sevenoir glanced over at me suspiciously. What now? I stopped chewing and looked back at him questioningly. Was he concerned I was eating my sandwich in the pub? The waitress from the other night had said it wasn’t a problem.
“I despise the sound of other people eating,” he explained briefly. “But I can’t hear you.” I nodded my understanding and took pains to continue to chew quietly.
Beside me, Zamira launched into what seemed to be a long-standing argument with Engel.
“What I'm saying is that there aren't really any shades of gray in this Secret War. It's us against them, bloods, and the last soldier standing wins the war and rewrites history.”
Sevenoir looked over at me again and rolled his eyes. He'd heard this discussion before, apparently. Engel contemplated her statement for a moment, then asked, “I see. So what about those who fight on our side but for different reasons?”
“There's right reasons, and there's wrong reasons. We're right, they're wrong,” she said.
“Oh, how comforting to know the New Templars have got it all sorted,” Engel said, his German accent and slight slur of the words making it difficult to understand him.
“Shades of grey only does one thing, mate. It makes everything charcoal.”
“Mhm. In your world, then, the Illuminati and the Dragon, they are our enemies?” he asked.
“Well, we already fight them, yeah?” Zamira stated.
“No, no, no. We play with them, following carefully established written rules that leave no one dead, only slightly disoriented and no worse for wear. I would not call this a conflict between mortal enemies.”
“Right. So we tolerate them, but that still don't make them in the right,” she said with irritation.
“And already you are making compromises, Fräulein Vata. Hmm? Shades of grey? Hmm? You see how slippery the road?” Engel said with satisfaction.
Zamira crossed her arms over her chest. “Smartass.”
Engel chuckled and turned to me. “And what about you, Fräulein Mallory?”
I gulped down the bite of my sandwich before answering. “I just got here this week to start my training.”
“Another new Templar,” he said, slapping his forehead. He turned in his seat to Sevenoir, who had just purchased his second pint.
I was puzzled by his reaction. Engel was obviously a Templar too, so why did he seem less than excited about add
ing to the ranks.
“Aren’t you glad that there are people interested in joining?” I asked.
Engel put his pint on the bar and turned to me. “It isn’t that I despise your desire to become a Templar, Fräulein. You simply don’t understand much yet. As I’ve been trying to tell Fräulein Vata, when you dig under the red, green, and blue uniforms, you find fanatics who are led around by the noses by three factions that are not as different as they may seem.”
He stood up, warming to his topic.
Zamira rolled her eyes and put her hand on my arm. “Oh, now you’ve done it. We’re about to hear the lecture.”
“The Templars would have you believe they’re different than the Illuminati or the Dragon. There is bad blood between the organizations that in some cases goes back centuries. But the disputes are political, not substantive. Our leadership has never forgiven the Illuminati for worming their way into the New World, even though their origins are revealed by the pyramid you see on their uniforms. The Dragon, on the other hand, is a wild card. They are unchallenged in the Far East, and their particular brand of Zen chaos is spreading like a virus to every liberal bleeding heart who prefers meditation to ritual.”
Zamira shook her head and threw up her hands. “See what I mean?”
Engel ignored her, picked up his pint, and took a swig. “But underneath it all, the organizations themselves are like triplets, separated from their mother’s breast. They are more alike than not. They thrive on creating dominion through imbalance. We Templars may pride ourselves on our conviction to do right, but we are also intolerant and have a zeal for the work that borders on the religious.”
Engel pointed a finger at me. “But you young Bees are becoming quite the fly in the ointment in the old balances of power. Make no mistake, Fräulein Mallory. All of the factions are very clear that history is written by the winners. And so, winning becomes more important than anything or anyone. And what better way to win than to fill your ranks with agents who don’t die anymore?”
I could feel my face warming as he spoke. His words filled me with confusion. How dare Engel say such things about his own faction? Where was his loyalty?
He looked at my red face and chuckled. “I see Fräulein Mallory is cut from the same cloth as Fräulein Vata. They’re both a couple of idealists, Sevenoir, as though there were still ideals to strive for.”
Sevenoir made no comment and tipped his own glass back for a swallow.
Engel gestured at me with his glass and leaned over to me conspiratorially. “Now I am an embarrassment to our organization, but once I was a diplomat.”
I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms across my body, fuming. That he was considered an embarrassment to the Templars, I had no doubt.
He shook his head and wobbled a bit on his stool. “As if Templars could wage diplomacy other than by jackboot.” He and Sevenoir clinked pint glasses at that statement and Engel took a deep swallow of his beer.
“Just ‘cause you've become old and bitter don't mean you have to take us all down with you,” Zamira retorted, pointing to herself and me. “Everything is changing mate. It's not just the Templars anymore; it's the New Templars, independent of heritage, skin color or gender.”
Engel clucked his tongue back at her, shaking his head sadly. “Oh, the naiveté of youth. It is heartbreaking. My heart is literally breaking apart. Listen, you can hear it.”
“Oh, fuck off, Konrad,” Zamira said, laughing.
“Right then,” Sevenoir said, emptying his pint glass and setting it on the bar with a bang. “It's time for Wedd and me to be off unless we want to feel the wrath of Herr Lethe.” He gave a stomp and an exaggerated salute to our two companions and turned on his heel, heading out the way we'd come in. I quickly drank the rest of my cola, said my goodbyes, tossed my sandwich bag and wrapper in a rubbish bin, and ran out of the pub after him.
I had to scramble a little to catch up. Sevenoir had set a brisk pace back to Temple Hall. I was careful to move to the right when we walked past the courtyard where the Fallen King lingered.
“Why do you do that?” I asked him when I caught up and stepped alongside.
“Do what?”
“Hang out with someone like Konrad. Do you pay no attention to the impression you leave people with about the Templars? There were all kinds of people in the pub. Talking to someone like him…It's like you don’t care about being a Templar at all. Like you're not Templar material.”
He looked at me dumbfounded for a nanosecond, then threw back his head and laughed heartily. The rabbit ears wobbled, and he quickly moved his hand up to stabilize them, running the drama of the action.
“You…you…you've been here all of, what, three days, you’ve caused a tremendous uproar by sneaking down into a locked temple ruin, and you have the gall to try to instruct me on how to adequately represent the Templars?”
He was laughing at me still, but with open irritation now. “How little you understand, and yet you want to judge. My ancestor Hugues de Payens was the co-founder and first Grandmaster of the Order of the Knights Templar. I am Templar material quite simply by breathing. You, on the other hand…” He stopped and gestured dismissively at me while quirking his eyebrow.
Suddenly, I was overly aware of the people on the street watching us and of the odd pair we made, standing out in the intersection of Antiqua and Ealdwic Park. Sevenoir in his Billy Idol ensemble and rabbit ears, and me in my gray and maroon fleece hoodie, over my leggings and bright red sneakers, arguing in the middle of the street.
Paralyzed by shame, I couldn’t respond. I was so confused, but I felt weirdly responsible, like a little sister chasing an older sibling down to call them in the house for dinner. I didn’t like it.
He shook his head in disgust at me. “Mind your own bloody behavior and leave me out of it.” Sevenoir took off again down the street, double time. Sighing, I jogged after him.
As we entered the Crucible, Brigadier Lethe yelled at us and pointed at his watch. “Really pushing it to the last few moments, I see. Wedd, what did I tell you about following Sevenoir’s lead? When I say one hour, I mean one hour.”
Sevenoir took his customary stool in front of the bar, but I could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was angry about what I had said.
“Made it with one minute to spare,” the bartender said to me on my way by, giving me a thumbs up and a wink. Now, at least I understood why Sevenoir had set such a brisk pace on our way back from The Horned God. Thank goodness we were one minute early instead of the other way around.
I set my bag down and joined Lethe on the practice floor and schooled my face in what I hoped was an expression of patient interest, while I awaited his direction for the afternoon’s practice.
Inside, however, I was in turmoil. I felt bad about what I’d said to Sevenoir. Despite my frustration with his cavalier attitude and his incomplete assistance to me at the Agartha portal, overall he’d been helpful and even sort of protective down in the underground temple. I certainly was glad to see him after the Fallen King accosted me again. He’d even introduced me to his friends. In return, I had called him out in the middle of the street. Shame flooded me. I owed him an apology at least.
Also, he had a point. Was I Templar material? I thought I was. It had been my goal for so long to come to Temple Hall that I was a little set adrift now that I was here. Certainly, I wanted to prove myself worthy of being a Templar, but what did that mean exactly?
If I asked Brigadier Lethe, he would no doubt say that meant shutting my mouth and practicing hard in the Crucible. I had been doing that, sort of. Dame Julia would probably say it meant keeping up propriety and tradition and not running off on cockamamie adventures. I realized that subconsciously my criticism of Sevenoir probably came from a desire to do that, but trying to control him was wrong of me. I could only fix myself.
What would Richard Sonnac say would prove me worthy of being a Templar? That would show I wasn’t squandering my chance?
&nb
sp; I contemplated that as Lethe reached into a weapon case and handed me a practice shotgun and a dozen shells, and sent me down to the ranged target practice area. I put in my earplugs and practiced carefully, but my mind continued to spin as I thought about what I’d said to Sevenoir. By the time I ran out of shells, I felt lower than a piece of gum on the bottom of a shoe. I owed him an apology as soon as I could get a minute alone with him.
“Where is your head, soldier?” Lethe asked from behind me. I jerked with a start as I hadn’t heard him approach.
Lowering the barrel of the shotgun, I turned to him and took out my earplugs and put them in my hoodie pockets. “What do you mean?”
“Your form is improving, but you’ve been practicing that shot for the last 10 minutes. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but you’ve got something else on your mind.”
I hung my head. Tears of shame started to well up, and I took a deep breath to hold them back. I didn’t want to cry in front of Brigadier Lethe. “I just want to be worthy of being a Templar, sir,” I responded, my throat tight.
“And you’re worried that you’ll be found wanting?” he asked gruffly.
I nodded. “I also said something to Sevenoir that I’m ashamed of,” I admitted.
“Hmm.” Lethe stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then his face fell back into its customary scowl. “Well, that’s enough practice for today. Gather your things and get yourself sorted out. Next time your body is on this floor, I want your head here too.”
I thanked Lethe for his time and hurried to put the practice shotgun back in its case. I grabbed my bag and ran up to the bar, but by the time I got there, Sevenoir was nowhere to be found.
My shoulders slumped.
The bartender looked up from where he was washing glasses. “Do you need a drink?”
I shook my head no and turned to the door.
“You might be able to find him at The Horned God,” the bartender said. As I looked back around, he gave me a wink. I realized that Sevenoir might have told him what had happened.
London Underground: An Unofficial Legend of The Secret World (Unofficial Legends of The Secret World Book 2) Page 14