Anna braced herself with an outstretched arm to avoid bumping Brenden or any of the copious amounts of communications gear in the APC's fighting compartment. It was dark, it was cramped, and she was apprehensive. These conspired with the sudden slewing and lurching of the buttoned up vehicle to keep her stomach at a rolling boil. She was sure the concern registering on Brenden's face was mirrored in her own. More to occupy time than to gain information, she asked, "Do you have any idea where we're going?"

Brenden managed a rueful smile. "I overheard part Colonel Pike's orders. He used a code-word reserved for 'August Personages.' That's a couple of steps above VIP status. I think some very important people are being rousted out of bed even as we speak."

Anna nodded. A large bump forced her to devote her attention to avoiding bodily injury. After the ride once more calmed to the merely kidney-jarring, she responded. "Colonel Pike took charge quickly enough. A terrible tragedy, but if that was what I think it was. . ."

Brenden finished her thought. "Dame Anna, it that was what we both think it was, then, then perhaps we have a chance. Couldn't you just feel the hope it radiated, the possibilities?" Brenden smiled and shifted his weight just so to bring himself to the edge of her psychological space. Brenden could be at turns one of the most infuriating and most charming men in the world. Both postures were, to some degree, tools he had developed over his career, first for the CIA and now as Storm Knight and MI-6 operative. Now, he played low-level psychological games to calm and comfort Anna. Even knowing it for what it was, Anna relaxed some; Brenden had the gift. Besides, after four years of traipsing the world with the enigmatic spook, she knew his heart was in the right place. After that, the two lapsed into silence. Of course, it was mere superstitious folly to really believe that speaking openly of good omens would void them, but given the strange nature of the world these days, why take chances? Brenden's abstracted look and quick, quirky smile echoed Anna's train of thought.

Forty-five uncomfortable minutes later, the APC lurched to a halt. Brenden and Anna clambered out, blinking as harsh artificial lighting assaulted their now sensitive eyes. The five vehicles of the convoy were in some sort of enclosed parking garage, probably underground. Shiro and Alain were exiting the APC behind them, and familiar oaths indicated Conn and the Colour Sergeant were squeezing out of the hatch of the vehicle in front of them. The hatch designers apparently had not considered Conn-sized individuals. Eventually, Conn wriggled out, joining his compatriots and several large, grim soldiers carrying large, grim weapons.

Colonel Pike stuck his head out of the lead APC and swiveled to face the Storm Knights. "You will please follow Major Jenkins." A small, dapper man stepped forward and nodded to the somewhat befuddled group. In short order, the six were led into something far too lavish to be called a conference room, and far too tasteful to be a board room. Anna tried to scope the place out without being too obvious. It called to mind the drawing room of an exclusive gentlemen's club from some historical novel. She looked down at her badly scuffed and worn boots standing incongruously on a rich burgundy carpet most likely worth its weight in gold. The Colour Sergeant looked acutely uncomfortable in his present surroundings; this was well beyond the run of Victorian NCO clubs. Brenden fingered a bullet hole in the disreputable leather jacket that had taken him through four years of war and muttered about a fashion faux pas to freeze the heart of a protocol officer. Only Alain seemed unconcerned or unaware.

Four Royal Marines in dress uniforms swept the hallway beyond for bugs or bombs or both. A fifth man in Ayslish garb stared into space. "Checking for wards, I shouldn't wonder," Alain whispered to Anna. Alain is not unobservant, just. . . focused. Exceptionally focused. I know this. Anna never could figure out why Alain's insights continued to surprise her. After a few minutes, one of the Marines strode over to Major Jenkins, nodded, and left. The other four searchers followed smartly.

Major Jenkins coughed discreetly, focusing the attention of the group on him. "We have a few minutes before the audience can begin. There are barbers awaiting you down the hall, and suitable clothing has been arranged. If you would take the doorway to your right, please."

The primping and pampering the six received over the next twenty minutes was a thing to remember for all times. If, in the course of it, they noticed their weapons, all their weapons, were discreetly removed, well, it went unremarked upon.

Brenden found himself in formal evening wear. He was adjusting his top hat and patting various parts of his person, unpleasantly aware that he was completely unarmed for the first time in years, when Colour Sergeant Black strode in. He looked fully every inch the image of martial splendor; crimson jacket with white trim, black pants bloused into mirror-polished boots, and several pounds of brass buttons and gold braid. Even his mutton chops were just so. Conn looked only slightly less impressive with fine linen tunic and trousers, gilded cuirass, wolfskin cloak, and otterskin boots when he entered moments later. He continued to hold the bundle closely. Shiro's top hat and tails were twin to Brenden's own. Alain was . . . Alain. She wore a pewter grey silk dress and bouffant sleeves. It did set off her white hair and navy blue skin very nicely. An elaborate ruby tiara gleamed from under long, snowy tresses. Of course, Alain would have turned heads in sackcloth and ashes. It was anybody's guess as to whether she realized this or not. Or cared. At least it wasn't the spiderweb gown she had worn to Brenden's rehearsal dinner. Finally, Anna made her entrance, looking not very much at ease in a black and purple floor length evening gown. It did suit her, when she stopped fidgeting long enough for Brenden to make an appraisal. How they got her to wear an underwire he did not want to know.

Six Grenadier Guards filed in the room along one wall. Across from them, six Ayslish Home Guardsmen took up station. The four Royal Marines and Major Jenkins slid into position at the back wall. "Here we go," muttered Brenden sotto voce.

"Quiet, man," replied Black automatically.

The two Great Ladies entered the room simultaneously, but the herald who preceded them gave precedence to the Queen, announcing, "Lady Pella Ardinay, Leader of the Free Peoples of Aysle," then, " Her Majesty, Elizabeth II, by grace of God Queen of Great Britain and Northern Ireland." Interesting compromise. Wonder if the herald gave home court advantage. What would happen in Oxford? Brenden, who, since being elevated to the peerage, had immersed himself in the fine points of protocol, keenly followed the ceremony. Following the lead of the guardsmen, he bowed deeply once to a spot between the Great Ladies. The others followed suit in their own fashion: Dame Anna and Alain curtsied, Conn knelt, Shiro bowed, and Colour Sergeant Black snapped to attention. The short form for HM? Politeness or politics? Lady Ardinay jettisoned most of her titles a cosm and a lifetime ago. Did HM cut short her own resume as a kindness or so as not to look silly given England's inferior position?

Her Majesty spoke first. "In these most difficult times, you have served our realms faithfully and well. It would seem that Destiny has thrust its burden on you once more." The Queen then turned to Major Jenkins. "We have need of haste; please bring in our special advisors."

The Major saluted, then nodded to the four Royal Marines. They exited, returning shortly with two men, both of whom must have been just turned out of their beds without the benefit of the expert grooming the Storm Knights had received. One figure the Storm Knights immediately recognized; the rotund figure of the wizard Casper Babbage was well known to them -- Alain and Anna had studied with him for a time, and Alain kept up an irregular correspondence. He smiled and inclined his head to the Storm Knights as he was brought before the Great Ladies. The other man was a Core Earther of about fifty, judging from the thinning hair. His myopic peer and slightly abstracted air labeled him a scholar of some sort. He was introduced as Professor Douglas Westwood of Cambridge University and the Imperial Museum. Brenden noted without surprise that the short form of ceremony and protocol seemed to be in effect.

Lady Ardinay now spoke. "Conn, please surrender your burden to Professor Westwood." Conn did so. The Core Earther took the bundle with the careful deliberation of a mother picking up her newborn. The professor carefully unwrapped the bundle. It was a stunning example of the sword-smith's art. "Oh, my." He produced a jeweler's eyepiece from his jacket and began poring over the blade. "Oh my, indeed."

The Queen, to the surprise of most in the room, took the time to explain to the Storm Knights, "Professor Westwood is both a scholar of Arthurian lore and an acknowledged expert in archaic weapons at the museum. It was he who proposed the search."

Search? Commandos and wizards and spooks, oh my. Did the War Cabinet send out organized teams to look for artifacts? Brenden managed with effort to keep surprise from registering on his face.

Still no one spoke the name foremost on everyone's mind. All eyes gravitated to the professor, who paid scant heed. After two or three minutes, Casper Babbage gently nudged him. He looked at Babbage, adjusted his wire rims, and turned to the Great Ladies.

"Is it what we seek?" asked the Queen.

Anna noticed she had forgotten to breathe. She corrected the error.

The professor started to answer, found his voice came out in an unacceptable squeak, cleared his throat, and started again. "Your Majesty, the blade is straight and double-edged, and the grip is suitable for hand-and-a-half use. I cannot place it as coming from a particular era or location. Certainly, the blade is of amazing quality." He bent the three and a half foot blade eight inches out of true with some effort. It sprang back like a willow bough. "It is damascened in blue and red. It resembles no steel of which I am aware. If there is a beating pattern on the blade, I cannot discern it. The patterns in the pommel-stone and quillons do match some of the legends. I would need to examine the tang before giving a more conclusive report." The professor trailed off, as if afraid to come to a definitive conclusion.

Casper Babbage spoke up. "Your Majesty, Lady. Even from a cursory glance, I can say with certainty it is an object of power." Several of the Storm Knights nodded; they knew Casper Babbage to have intimate experience with eternity shards.

This seemed to give new wind to Professor Westwood's sails. "Yes. Ma'am, while I cannot make out individual hammer marks on the blade, I see none of the telltale signs of milling or machine fabrication found on the several forgeries I have evaluated. In my best opinion, this is indeed . . . Excalibur." In a small voice, he added, "They did not die in vain."

Even expected, the words drew involuntary gasps from most in the room, the two Great Ladies not excepted. They turned to one another and nodded in some unspoken agreement. The Queen turned to the Storm Knights. "Lord Lewellyn," she prompted.

Brenden took a step forward and again bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Over the past half year, we have had several reports, yours included, of people unknowingly traveling to Avalon. We sought sure paths, but found them warded and shut against us and our need. Are you willing to seek out these paths and again journey to the Pendragon's realm of legend and dream?"

"I would be honored to do so." Of course, since I now work for MI-6, you could just order me to go, but it is nice to be asked.

"We are pleased. Dame Anna?"

"Yes, your Majesty." It was more an affirmation of willingness than a response to the prompt.

"We name you our Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to the court of the Pendragon." Anna's jaw swung open. "In addition, such an Ambassador should have rank suitable to speak with one monarch's voice to another, Countess."

Anna became aware that her jaw would not gape wider. Her cheeks and forehead flushed spectacularly as she shut it. "I . . . I am honored beyond words," she managed at last.

"I bid you seek the aid of the Pendragon, for this is truly the hour of our greatest need. You are granted leave to enter into any agreement necessary to secure his aid, save one: The House of Windsor will not yield its claim to the House of Pendragon." Speaking to her personal representative, the Queen eschewed the use of the Royal plural.

"I understand, Ma'am."

Next, Lady Ardinay spoke gently to Conn. "Conn Dragonslayer, will you journey with Lady Shaffer and bear the sword Excalibur to its rightful owner as token of our peoples?"

"Duty and Honor permit no less, my Lady."

"I have given thanks many times to the gods of Honor that the Free Peoples have been blessed with a champion who embodies Honor as greatly as Tolwyn of House Tancred. That there be two such in the realm is a boon beyond measure." Conn flushed right up to his eyebrows at this singular praise. Lady Ardinay turned to Alain. "I can lay no claim on you, Alain Mirandoor, but I ask as a favor in the name of the Free Peoples--"

"To travel to the land where dwells Merlin. . ." murmured the elf. The interruption was, technically speaking, a breach of etiquette, but Pella Ardinay took no offense; the forms and usages of royalty were means to fortify the heart and sustain courage, not an end in themselves. The far away look in Alain's eyes told the story well enough. Casper Babbage was fairly green with envy; the once-Core Earther knew full well that the Asylish axiom wash had returned to life several potent enchantments which were mysteries of awe and wonder to the most learned Asylish mages. This, in a world which otherwise barely eked out cantrips crippled by religious mysticism. The locations of these magical wonders of the world led those who studied magic and legend to whisper the name of Western Myth's greatest sorcerer with hushed reverence. Conn relaxed slightly at Alain's answer; even he could not be in two places at once.

"Montgomery Black," spoke the Queen in a voice of authority.

The Colour Sergeant, who had assumed parade rest, again snapped to attention and saluted. While deeply impressed with the gravity and solemnity of the occasion, Brenden could not help the stray thought Sergeant Black's action engendered: I wonder how many Victorian career NCO's have tennis elbow. Then, somewhat more germanely, No rank? A personal appeal, then. Neat. Bypasses sticky chain-of-command issues and goes to the heart of Victorian duty and personal honor.

"Ma'am?" asked the Colour Sergeant in the strained voice only obtainable by career NCO's addressing superiors so far up the chain of command as to be among choirs of angels.

"Our embassy has need of bold and dauntless soldiers. Will you, for the sake of all we hold dear, aid Lady Shaffer in this undertaking?" The Queen's gaze remained steady on Montgomery Black, who averted his eyes.

Quietly, the Victorian NCO gave his answer. "Her Majesty's wishes are my command. For the honor of the Regiment." Strong emotions played across his face, vying with one another for several seconds before he mastered them. Brenden wished he could have put name to them all, but it was obvious that the NCO was deeply moved, almost overwhelmed, in fact, by a personal appeal from a sovereign.

This left only the Storm Knight known as Shiro. Surreptitiously, the other Knights' eyes turned to him. The Queen and Lady Ardinay remained silent. Shiro realized it fell to him to speak. Do the job up front for an unspecified fee? Not my style, but my perspective employer has resources the mega-corps can never hope to match, no matter how big they get: Power wedded to tradition. Yes. The reward, if claimed at the right time and in the right manner, could be worth more than any fee I could ever hope to command. Perhaps enough to topple Kanawa, if the scale is ever close to balanced. Besides, the others have kept me alive, without charge. My service as investment for protection. Is that not the heart of the feudal system? Surely I can turn this into profit and revenge on my enemies. "I will go."

"Excellent. Lord Lewellyn?"

"Yes, Your Majesty?" Another surprise?

"In addition to whatever duties are assigned you by the Service,---" Intelligence gathering. I can see it now: 'A Report on the Military Potential of Avalon and Its Effect on the Correlation of Forces in England.' Stalin once asked how many divisions the Pope fielded. If I live, I have to figure out how many lances Arthur can send to us. How many men is that name worth just by itself? In how many regiments is reckoned the worth of Merlin? Of Launcelot? Whatever I say, some REMF is going to tear it up. 'Lord Lewellyn, how can you justify this accounting, when you did not adhere to standard practices?' "---you will safeguard Lady Shaffer, act as translator at need, and aid her in whatever way she deems necessary."

Anna's the boss. I can live with that. "I understand, Ma'am." It makes sense. If chivalry is the big deal we think, you wouldn't want the spook in charge, not when he's scoping out the lay of the land. They also might be somewhat more forgiving of a woman who goofs the customs and might not dicker as hard. Conn and the rest of us will, with luck, keep away any iron hat-types who want to move things beyond the 'chivalric and romantic love' stage so she doesn't have to castrate them herself. Besides, if things go sour, they can always blame it on the messenger and shoot him. Only problem is the messenger is me.

"While there is great need for speed and stealth, whatever resources are ours to command are at your disposal."

On cue, the herald spoke once more. "The Right Reverend Charles Halliday, Archbishop of Canterbury." While the archbishop was dressed only in collar and sweater, and his portly frame and florid features did not make for an imposing presence, wisdom rode on his brow.

The Queen turned to the archbishop. "Most Reverend Sir, would you please lend your blessings to this undertaking?"

"With pleasure, Your Majesty." After a brief rite, he beckoned forth Brenden. "How goes it with you, my son?" asked the archbishop as Brenden kneeled before him. "Does the married life agree with you?" At Brenden's nod, he added, "Domestic felicity is especially important for you." The archbishop's amusement was genuine and benign; having presided at the wedding of Lord Lewellyn and Dame Alice Hargraves nee Little, he was well aware of Lady Lewellyn's peccadillo. He spoke a short prayer in Latin, then anointed Brenden's brow. "Your talents are considerable, Lord Lewellyn. May God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost guide your words and deeds while you act in defense of the realm and our world."

Lady Shaffer and Color Sergeant Black followed suit while a high priest of Dunad appeared and blessed Conn and Alain. Only Shiro remained aloof. These words are not meant for me, he thought disdainfully. My luck is my own.