Read End of the Century for Free Online Page A

of,” the High King said at last. “You say the hill is shaped like the bob on a mason's plumb line, yes? Round on one side and coming to a point on the other?”
    Galaad nodded, dispirited, expecting some fresh mockery.
    â€œI know of such a place.”
    All eyes turned to the High King, and Galaad's mouth hung open, his jaw slack.
    â€œHave you ever been in Dumnonia?” Artor asked.
    â€œNo, majesty.” Galaad shook his head.
    â€œThere is an island there just as you describe,” the High King went on. “I saw it years ago, when I was in the area with the forces of Ambrosius.”
    â€œAnd was it then topped by a glass tower?” one of the captains asked.
    â€œNo,” Artor said, either not noticing the captain's ironic tone or choosing not to acknowledge it. “But in every other particular it coincides with this man's tale. The island is linked to the Dumnonian coast by a thin sliver of land, just as he says.”
    â€œYou're not suggesting that this man is telling the truth, are you?” Caradog asked, aghast.
    Artor offered his counselor a smile. “Apparitions appearing to men of Powys? Towers of glass?” He shrugged. “It seems difficult to credit, to say the least.” He paused, and then turned his attentions back to Galaad. “But I'd like to hear more about this, still and all. Galaad, was it?”
    Galaad nodded, eagerly, when he realized the High King was awaiting a response.
    â€œYou will stay here in the palace tonight as my guest. Does that suit you?”
    Galaad gaped, and then quickly nodded his assent. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, majesty.”
    â€œGood.” Artor rose to his feet and hung his sword once more at his belt. “Well, that's an end to it, gentles. I, for one, am starving.”
    With that, the High King turned on his heel and retreated from the audience chamber.
    Galaad stood stock still, unsure what to do, his hands gripped tightly on his bundle. Fortunate for him, as the rest of the captains filed out of the room, one of them, a tall, fair-haired man with clean-shaven cheek and chin, came to his rescue.
    â€œCome along, then,” the man said in well-formed Latin. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

ONLY TWO WEEKS REMAINED until the observance of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee, and London already swelled with well-wishers and dignitaries from all across the empire. Sandford Blank and Roxanne Bonaventure gazed idly out the windows as the four-wheeled “growler” cab rumbled through the thronged streets, while the police constable sat opposite them, stone-faced and unspeaking.
    The participants in the Jubilee procession, the jewel in the celebration's crown, had been gathering for weeks. The Colonial contingent were mostly encamped at Chelsea, while the premiers of the eleven self-governing colonies had been put up at the Cecil, the largest hotel in Europe. There were no rooms to let anywhere in the greater London area, nor would there be for weeks, even months, following the Jubilee.
    The city, never provincial, had taken on an even more cosmopolitan feel in recent weeks, with the parks and cafés, music halls and theaters crowded with a Babel of a hundred tongues, the more sedate tones of London attire enlivened by the introduction of the colorful silks and linens. Sikh businessmen rubbed elbows with Chinese diplomats, while Malay ladies exotic and serene fluttered their long lashes at Australian cattle ranchers, and West African policemen far from their usual rounds walked the streets ill at ease in the first boots they had ever worn.
    Union Flags fluttered from streetlamps and posts, draped from windowsills and awnings, and when the wind blew gave a sound like a flock of birds taking flight, the snapping flags closely approximating the flapping of wings. It had been ten years since the queen's Golden Jubilee, but if the preparations were any indication, this new celebration threatened