Chosen Ones by Alister E. McGrath Page B

a look on his face that he intended to be appropriately humble, but which Julia would have recognized as smug. “Of course, the precise formula is a secret known only to me—and the other great minds of Albion, of course.” Anaximander smiled. “Of course, Lord Peter.
    The Jackal, the Leopard, and the Wolf are most favorably impressed by your abilities. Not only are you a man of great intel igence, but you have shown great wisdom and distinction.” He dipped his head in a brief bow.
    “You flatter me, sir,” said Peter, who real y was quite flattered. Anaximander smiled again.
    “I do not seek to flatter you, Lord Peter. I only tel you what I observe and what I myself have been told.
    The Lady Julia spoke of sharing knowledge, and I confess that our great lords are most eager to learn more of your secrets.”
    “The secrets are not mine to give,” started Peter, but Anaximander leaned in closer and breathed softly in his ear.
    “The lords would make you a prince of this land.” He drew out the word “prince,” letting it rol , sparkling, over his tongue. The sound of it fil ed Peter with glittering images—images foreign to the lonely life of a schoolboy he’d left behind in England.
    Images of glory, of riches, of dominion over everyone who had teased and brutalized him at school. His eyes were wide and his gaze was far away.
    Anaximander brought him back to the moment by repeating the word.
    “A prince, Peter.”

    Peter’s eyes snapped back to the red-robed figure before him. “Gunpowder is simple, real y,” he said, and, grasping a quil laid out on the table, sketched a brief formula on a sheet of paper. He passed it to Anaximander, who smiled as he took it in his hand.
    “Aedyn is fortunate indeed to have such a wise leader to guide it into the future!” He rose and bowed low, then turned on his heel and left the library.
    Peter returned to his own apartment in high spirits. He was walking on air, delighted at being part of such a wise and advanced civilization. A prince of this civilization!
    Julia was stil shaking as she returned to the bedchamber. As she walked she mul ed over the conversation she had just overheard—a rebel ious band of slaves, a new weapon to defeat them…and then there were the two Chosen Ones, cal ed from another world. This was al becoming exceptional y difficult.
    She flopped onto the bed, wondering if a good cry might help and determining that tears were probably beneath an emissary of Albion. Oh, it was al wrong, she’d messed it al up! She never should have pretended, never should have come here in the first place, never should have paid attention to that wretched monk in the garden!
    And then, in spite of al her determination, the tears came after al . She heaved great, noisy sobs into the pil ows, gasping as hot tears poured out of her eyes. And it was at this moment that the slaves came in to lay out the afternoon meal.
    Some people have been given the great gift of looking pretty when they cry. They become al the more lovely as delicate tears stream gently down their cheeks. Julia was not one of these fortunate few. Her blonde hair was plastered messily to one side of her face and the other lined with the folds of the blankets. Her cheeks were a bright, splotchy pink and her eyes a deeply unfortunate red.
    The slaves of the castle had been absolutely forbidden, on pain of death, to speak with the fair strangers. But when confronted with such an unfortunate sight—with a young woman who has suddenly been transformed into a very young, very unhappy girl, their orders ceased to mean a thing.
    They both started forward, the tal er of the two grasping Julia into a hard embrace.
    The slave, a woman, smel ed of the same fruit Julia had encountered in the meadow beyond the mountain pass, and she was unaccountably reminded of her mother. She buried her face into the slave’s shoulder and gave a few shuddery breaths as she tried to stop crying and look