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  She smiles, and for just a moment her eyes seem to flash with yellow and slits. “So we have a bargain, then.”

  He nods.

  She stretches out her hand, extends one long finger, and draws it across her outstretched palm, leaving a thin ribbon of blood across it. Arthur hesitates only a moment, then withdraws Excalibur from its scabbard. The sword sings as it is pulled, and usually the song it makes is a tune of joy as it anticipates battle. But this time it is a mournful song, funereal, like a dirge. It knows. Arthur slides his palm along the blade ever so carefully, ever so gently. Too hard and it will slice through his hand, sending the upper portion splattering to the floor. A moment later, he too has a line of blood upon his palm.

  She extends hers upright, and he presses his against hers. “Let the gods see that freely, and of my own will, by this agreement I am bound. I am bound. I am bound,” she says.

  Staring into her eyes, which now look normal and human again, Arthur likewise intones, “Let the gods see that freely, and of my own will, by this agreement I am bound. I am bound. I am bound.” And then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “May the gods have mercy on us all.”

  She laughs at that then, laughs loud and long. Arthur would like to know what is so funny, but does not ask, nor does she volunteer the information. He suspects that he most likely would not want to know.

  CHAPTRE THE ELEVENTH

  THE ENTIRE STAFF of the White House looked as if they’d been in a head-on collision with a truck. As Arthur walked briskly through the corridors, those who would have once called out, “Good evening, Mr. President,” mumbled or nodded or in some other way indicated that they knew he was there, but sullenness and solemnity was the order of the day.

  Surprisingly, the hardest to deal with was Mrs. Jenkins. She looked up at Arthur from her desk, her eyes red. He wondered how long she’d been crying, and how recently she’d stopped. He tried to think of what to say, and “Be strong” came out of his mouth. But it sounded insincere and foolish, and he regretted it the moment the words were out. Nevertheless, she smiled and nodded as if this was the best advice in the world, and he mused over the fact that sometimes it didn’t matter what one said as long as one said something.

  He was not remotely surprised to find the Vice President waiting for him in the Oval Office. Stockwell rose to meet him, and without preamble, said, “Take it back.”

  Arthur blinked at him in polite confusion. “You know, Terrance, of all the things I thought you’d say first, somehow that wasn’t among them.”

  “Take it back, Mr. President. The resignation. Take it back.”

  “I think simply ‘Arthur’ will do, don’t you?” asked Arthur, circling around to his desk. He was about to sit down, and then stopped and looked at the vacant chair. He stepped around it, his hands resting on the back. “I think this is yours now. Probably wouldn’t be appropriate for me to be sitting here. I believe a swearing-in ceremony is already being scheduled for you, so you’d best clear your immediate calendar.”

  “Sir,” Stockwell said, and his fists were trembling as if he was trying greatly to maintain control. “You’ve been through a great deal recently. People will understand.”

  “The people.”

  “Yes.”

  “They will understand.”

  “Yes, sir, they will,” said Stockwell firmly, nodding his head.

  “Terrance, I interrupted their favorite television shows to inform them of my decision,” Arthur said patiently. “The only thing that made that event palatable to them was that they witnessed history. If I recant, they’ll never forgive me.”

  His face tight, Stockwell said, “You seem to think this is funny, sir.”

  The rain was coming down harder, and Arthur was certain there was some definite sleet in there. Well, it was certainly the season for it. If he’d been an overly fanciful individual, or extremely full of himself, he would have thought that the gods were weeping over this day’s events. Then again, it was far more likely that—if they were indeed sobbing—it was because some child had just starved to death in an impoverished nation without having the slightest chance to make his or her mark upon the world. The decisions of well-fed, well-off adults . . . why should these things be of the slightest interest to whatever divine beings there might be?

  “Terrance,” said Arthur, his voice very soft and tinged with sadness. “The first thing they teach you in leadership school—be you president of a country, monarch of a realm, or captain of a garrison—is that the quality of the decision you make is of far less importance than the fact that you make it and stick to it. Better to hold to a decision that might be bad than vacillate over whether the contrary notion might be good.”

  It was as if Stockwell had only heard the part he wanted to hear. Pointing a finger like a hunting dog discerning where a shot duck had fallen, Stockwell said, “Then you admit it might be a bad decision.”

  “It might be,” allowed Arthur. “Time . . . and my successor . . . will tell.”

  Stockwell was shaking his head vehemently, moving about the Oval Office as if he had misplaced his car keys and was scolding himself while trying to locate them. “If you resign, I’ll resign.”

  “Terrance, don’t be absurd,” Arthur told him, feeling a flash of impatience. “We both know that you’ve always believed yourself more fit for this office than I ever was. Who knows? Perhaps you’ll prove to be right.”

  He turned to face Arthur. “I make no bones about wanting the office, sir. But this isn’t how I wanted it.”

  It was all Arthur could do to suppress a laugh, and he wasn’t entirely successful. “What, you only wanted it over my dead body? If I throw myself off the top of the White House, will that satisfy your sense of decorum?”

  “That’s not the . . .” He gestured out the rain-splattered windows as if indicating the whole of the American population. “They will never accept me in the capacity of commander in chief. They’ll believe I acquired the office through questionable means . . .”

  “Balderdash,” Arthur said firmly, slapping his open palms on the desktop. “There’s no confusion here, Terrance. No misread ballots, no court decisions, no split between the popular and electoral vote. The Constitution could not be more clear. A president resigns, the vice president takes over.”

  “But they will see me as the man who—”

  “No!” Arthur cut him off, even more forcefully than before. “See, that’s where you’re going wrong, Terrance. It’s not about the man. It’s about the office. The man leaving this office may be leaving with a smear on his escutcheon, if that is how some choose to perceive it. But the office itself remains intact and pure and undiminished. So stop complaining about it or acting as if you can’t appreciate it because it’s being ‘handed’ to you or somesuch. Besides,” and he smiled wanly, “the people of this country have memories like sieves. It’ll take them no time at all to judge you not by how you came into the office, but what you did with it once you had it. And I have every confidence that you will do right by it . . . even if you have trouble believing that yourself.”

  For a long moment, Stockwell said nothing. Then he drew himself up, looked Arthur in the eye . . . and saluted.

  “I disagree with every fiber of my being with the decision you’ve made, sir,” Stockwell told him, sounding very formal. “But I shall defend your right to make that decision, and—until such time as the people speak with their voice in a future election—I shall see myself as the caretaker of the presidency you began.”

  “I don’t see how I could leave it in better hands.” Stockwell extended his hand, and Arthur took it and shook it firmly. It was the first moment of genuine warmth that had passed between the two men in all their political history.

  “I certainly hope you’re not expecting me to hug you, sir,” said Stockwell stiffly.

  “It didn’t cross my mind, Terrance.”

  “Because some would consider this an overly emotional moment, but I have not, nor shall I
ever be, a hugger.”

  “You needn’t concern yourself,” Arthur assured him.

  “Good. And know this, Mr. Presi—sir—that if there is ever anything I can do to accommodate you . . . anything at all that’s within my power . . . you need but ask, and it’s yours.”

  It was a promise that Stockwell would have great reason to regret before the year was out, but at the time he intended it sincerely, and Arthur smiled and took the promise in the spirit that it was meant.

  “Well . . . Terrance . . . I just have a few things I’d like to attend to here, if you don’t mind,” said Arthur.

  “Not at all. There’s just one other thing, sir. I suspect it’s something I’m going to be getting a considerable number of questions about.”

  “Yes?” Arthur’s eyebrow was cocked questioningly, but he had a suspicion that he knew what Stockwell was going to ask. It turned out he was correct.

  “You said . . . you were going to ‘get the bastard.’ In reference to Sandoval . . .”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “You didn’t say how.”

  “Yes, I know.” He gave it a moment’s thought. “And it’s your belief that you’re going to be asked about this?”

  “Knowing the press corps as I do, I would say it’s a certainty.”

  “Well then . . . I think an old army man such as yourself should be able to appreciate what I’m about to say . . .”

  But Stockwell was ahead of him. “Don’t ask, don’t tell?”

  Arthur nodded.

  Pondering this, Stockwell said—as if testing the words to see if they carried credibility—“You were speaking from a sense of anger and rhetoric more than any specific plan of attack. My belief is that it’s your hope, eventually, to act in some sort of diplomatic capacity, speaking against the evils of terrorism, and in that way bring down the Sandovals of this world.”

  Arthur patted Stockwell on the shoulder. “I have a feeling you’re going to do just fine in the job, Terrance. Just fine.”

  FRED BAUMANN STOOD on the street in front of the White House, staring at it through the fence that ringed the perimeter. He saw the lights burning long into the night, drew his coat more tightly around himself against the inclement weather that pounded upon him.

  His deadline was half an hour away, but he was confident he was going to be able to file his story in time. It was almost entirely written in his head. But he wanted one long moment of atmosphere that he could add to it. One long moment of simply looking at that great sanctuary that had housed president after president for years.

  And would now house one less.

  At which point, Baumann knew exactly what his lead sentence was going to be.

  “The bad guys won one tonight,” he said, trying to determine how that sounded as a lead, and deciding that it was pretty darned good. He took one more look at the White House, and just for a moment fancied that he could actually see Arthur in one of the windows. Idiot, he thought, and headed off to write his story.

  RON CORDOBA COULDN’T remember when he’d started drinking that evening. Now that he was deep into an alcoholic haze, he wasn’t sure when, if ever, he was going to stop. At that point it was his intention to drink until he couldn’t remember anything at all.

  The rain from earlier had tapered off, and he wandered out into the Rose Garden. The grass was slippery, and Ron was barely capable of supporting himself, and yet somehow he managed to stagger over to the statue of Merlin until he was a foot away, glaring at it balefully. He was in his shirtsleeves, the wind cutting through him, but he didn’t feel it.

  “It’s all your fault, you little shit,” he said, although his words were slurred and it came out more, “Sallerfall, yalilshid.” The thing was, he wasn’t sure why it was Merlin’s fault . . . but something just told him that it was. His resentment toward the mute statue grew and grew, and he wanted to speak, but the rage was so great that it rendered him inarticulate. So instead he aimed a great kick at the statue, lashed out, missed clean, and wound up flat on his back, staring up at the night sky.

  And there he lay until a female voice said, “Oh, my God. Oh, Jesus. Ron! Ron, what the hell are you doing out here?”

  He forced his eyes open and looked up. Nellie Porter was staring down at him, her eyes wide, utter confusion in her face.

  “Stretching m’legs,” he managed to say.

  “Oh, Jesus,” she said again, and reached down to grip his arm. She stood uncertainly on her heels, trying to haul Ron up, but it was like trying to lift a bag of bricks, and in short order the inevitable happened: Her feet went out from under her and she wound up flat on her ass on the wet lawn. As she clambered back to standing, the commotion was enough to prompt several members of the Secret Service to come out to the Rose Garden and see what was going on. They looked extremely puzzled. She couldn’t blame them; she was in the middle of this mess and didn’t understand it any more than they did.

  “All his fault . . . all his fault,” Ron kept saying as she hauled him up. Then he focused his bleary vision on Nellie, smiled lopsidedly, and said, “Y’know ... I always thought you were damned attractive. Wanted to go out with you. Or stay in. Or . . . anything.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Is that a fact,” she said, pausing where she was and shifting Ron as his body sagged against hers.

  He nodded vehemently. “Yeah. Y’know why I didn’t? Job. Damned job. Working day and night.” He coughed deeply, wiped his arm in an unglamorous fashion under his nose, and then once again said roughly, “All his fault. All . . . his fault.” Nellie simply figured that he was referring to Arthur, and Ron’s effectively being out of a job. And this was what she kept thinking as the statue of Merlin stared unblinkingly after them when they were escorted into warmer climes.

  ARTHUR WAS SEATED at Gwen’s bedside, listening to the steady beeping of the monitors, when he heard someone behind him. He’d always had a gift for recognizing footfalls behind him; indeed, it was a knack that had saved his life on one or two occasions. This time was not life threatening. Without turning, he said, “Good evening, Nellie.”

  There was no response, and for a moment he wondered if he wasn’t losing his touch. He turned and, no, sure enough, there was Nellie. She looked rather bedraggled. “You look like you were wrestling a wet cocker spaniel,” he observed.

  Still she said nothing, just stared at him unblinkingly. “Yes?” he finally prompted.

  “I just . . .” She let out an unsteady breath.

  “You just what?”

  Instead of continuing the sentence, she pointed at Gwen and said, “I hope she never wakes up.”

  The words were harsh, the tone angry, and Arthur was taken aback by the vehemence of both. “Nellie, you don’t mean that . . .”

  “Oh, the hell I don’t,” she said fiercely, and she approached Arthur, looking for all the world as if she wanted to hit him. “The last thing she would have wanted you to do was quit. And when you mentioned her name, it was like . . . like you were doing it because of her.”

  “Partly, I am . . .”

  “Don’t you say that,” snarled Nellie. “I know her!”

  “As do I, what with my being her husband and all—”

  “So what? I spent more time with her in the past few years than you ever have.” Nellie’s voice choked; she was fighting back tears. Arthur instinctively reached out to her, but just as instinctively she stepped back, distancing herself. “I know her likes and dislikes, I know the woman who’s lying there, and I’m telling you that she’d hate you forever for doing what you did and blaming her for it.”

  “I didn’t blame her, Nellie. There’s no fault involved . . .”

  “Bullshit! You left this country knowing beyond any question that if Gwen hadn’t been shot, you’d still be president! You’re walking out on us because of what happened to her! You’re blaming her, and if you say otherwise, then you’re just being a chickenshit asshole!”

  The anger had exploded out
of her, and it left her breathless and aching, and Arthur just sat there, staring at her sadly.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered finally.

  “Yeah, well,” and she wiped those damned tears from her face, “save it for being sorry for yourself. You’ll have more than enough time to do it.”

  She turned and started to walk away, but stopped when Arthur called after her, “I’ll need someone to continue handling Gwen’s affairs. She still gets tons of letters, and probably will for the foreseeable future. It’s a bit outside your job parameters, but I was wondering if you’d care to stay on with her . . . with us . . . in a sort of caretaker capacity.”

  Nellie turned, looked back at him as if he were crazy, and said, “I hope to hell you didn’t think I was going to have it any other way.”

  “Of course not,” Arthur said immediately.

  She walked away then, and Arthur again called after her, “How did the back of your clothes get soaked?”

  “Go to hell,” she called back, and moments later Arthur was once again alone with the unmoving, comatose Gwen.

  He sighed, crossed his legs, and asked, “So . . . how was your day?”

  No answer was immediately forthcoming.

  CHAPTRE THE TWELFTH

  WASHINGTON HAD A crisp feeling in the morning air as Fred Baumann headed for the press room, tossing back the mandatory third cup of coffee that morning. He had his morning rhythms down so perfectly that the slightest variation could throw him off for an entire day. He’d have that third cup, then he’d pick up the morning edition of the Daily News, which would be on his desk waiting for him, then he’d have his morning sit-down on the can, after which he’d head off to the morning press briefing. Most days of the year, those were pretty routine affairs. This morning, however, was certainly not going to be one of those days. It excited him in a way, but also saddened him greatly. He couldn’t help but feel that, not only did Arthur deserve better, but the whole damned country deserved better.