The Dark Thorn

by Shawn Speakman

Cormac nodded. “The wizard is mostly impotent now, but he can be…unorthodox.”

  “It will be as you ask, Your Grace.”

  “You have the Lord and the Church on your side,” the Cardinal Vicar said. “Let no one stand in your way.”

  “I will not, your Eminence,” Finn Arne promised.

  “The jet will be ready when you arrive to the airstrip,” Cormac said. “Assemble your team. The centuries-long secret of the Vigilo cannot be discovered by this boy. Be the Shield you were meant to be. Do not delay.” The Cardinal paused. “And do not fail me.”

  Finn Arne rose, bowed, and left, fire in his lone eye.

  Cormac watched him go. Finn would see the job done now that his focus was in the right place. It had been years since the Kreche had last been observed in the city of Seattle, just as it had been years since the Heliwr strode the world. If the boy had been given the seed—if the old man had surfaced to gain his new champion—then Cormac and those of the Vigilo had to be prepared to counter the wizard and be ready to take advantage of it.

  But why had a fey creature from Annwn gone after the scion of Ardall?

  There was some element Cormac missed.

  He shook his head. With religious zealotry feverish in the Middle East and throughout the world, Cormac would do what was necessary to destroy it and other evils.

  To gain the power of the Heliwr would tip the scales in favor of the Church.

  And give Cormac a direct path to the papacy.

  Assured Finn Arne was gone, Cormac changed into his official robes and ventured into the bowels of the papal apartments. The light of overhead lamps dimmed with every floor he left. Down he went, each descended staircase a gripe to hips and knees, until he entered tunnels devoid of any light source and had to flip on a flashlight. Chill seeped from the stone, followed by damp and mold, strengthening until he had to breathe through his mouth. The bones of the city’s birth grew around him, decayed from millennia of dripping water and misuse.

  Navigating the slick floor, Cormac made his way toward the catacombs of St. Peters Basilica.

  Other passages met his approach, disappearing into darkness, but he ignored them. Cormac had used the tunnels for decades and knew where each led—a world forgotten by all but the academic. Now only rats lorded over the kingdom the Cardinal Vicar walked through. He hunkered within his robes for warmth. There was still a part of him that hated the indignity of traveling in such a way. Secrets were necessary, but thieves preying upon tourists above had it better. If the visit were unimportant, he’d have gone back to bed.

  Instead, he traveled to discover if all was well with the portal.

  The catacombs littered almost the entirety of the Vatican’s underpinnings, a 108-acre foundation of rotten stone, labyrinthine ways, and ancient tombs lost to dust. During the time of Jesus Christ, the Roman emperors built a rounded area surrounded by tiers of seats for equestrian events; it was in this circus where Saint Peter had been martyred, crucified, buried, and where the Basilica now stood. With the foundation of the Catholic Church rooted in Vatican Hill, the city grew and erected walls around the sacred grounds.

  But not solely built to keep invaders out, the Cardinal reflected.

  Leaving the close tunnel behind, Cormac entered a large cavern, the walls worn stone free of markings or ornamentation. In the middle of the room an ancient well surrounded by waist-high stone circled a fathomless black hole, its bucket and thick rope newer than its wooden crank. Three other passages left the room, disappearing into darkness.

  The only sound was Cormac’s breathing and the rustle of his robes.

  St. Peter’s Basilica was directly overhead.

  A chill passed through his body.

  Emanating from the passage on his left was a movement of icy air like the brush of clammy fingers against skin. In the depths of the tunnel a hundred yards away, an underground branch of the Tiber River ran. There in the subterranean depths, he knew a dark veil shimmered on the river’s bank, silver streaks of light flickering like a strobe light through bits of fog.

  He probed the darkened tunnel, hoping to hear nothing.

  “It is at peace, Cormac,” a voice like aged paper said.

  The Cardinal spun, reaching for the knife in the folds of his clothing.

  An old man stood at the entrance of another passage, his back crooked and bowed by excessive age beneath a crimson robe, tufts of white hair keeping his ears warm and not much else. There was no expression in his dark-skinned, leathery demeanor; eyes as pale as curdled milk gave no hint to what they no longer saw.

  “It is worthwhile to check from time to time, old friend,” Cormac grumbled.

  “It is,” Cardinal Seer Donato Javier Ramirez agreed. “And nice to be visited from such an honorable guest, even one who is so ready to wield a knife.” He turned his head upward and grinned. “Not only that, but to beat the sun in its rising as well. Interesting.”

  “You know too much in these depths for an old blind priest.”

  “I know much,” Donato said. “It is a lonely life, but life is a rarity here. It draws me.”

  “It is a life well suited for the Lord’s work, my old teacher,” Cormac said, grasping his shrunken friend’s frail hands. “You look well, Donato.”

  “I am,” the Cardinal Seer said, squeezing firmly back. “And the portal is well, I assure yeh, Cardinal Vicar.”

  “Nothing from the other side?”

  “The same as the day I first saw it,” Cardinal Ramirez said. “But I see much, yeh understand. A problem has arisen if yeh are here. One of the other portals?”

  “Seattle.”

  “Ahh. McAllister. Is he alive?”

  “He is. And the portal is safe,” Cormac answered. “There have been, however, some…interesting events.”

  “And yeh want to know if Annwn mirrors that knowledge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let us go then. No time to dilly-dally. Birds and worms, yeh understand?” Cardinal Ramirez cackled.

  The blind man led the Cardinal Vicar through rising passages, the air growing drier with each step. The walls evolved from rough-hewn stone to delicately carved friezes; embedded holes bore sarcophagi, and wooden caskets housed undisturbed remains. Some of the world’s most renowned men were buried in the catacombs, interred forever in the bowels of St. Peter’s.

  The Cardinal Seer did not deviate through the domain of the dead.

  They eventually came to a door with elaborate scrollwork, bands of rune-encrusted iron wrapping its thick timbers. The Seer whispered a word accompanied by a tender touch and the door swung open.

  Cormac stepped into warmth.

  A fire blazed from a hearth in the corner of the room, casting its glow over two plush chairs and a bed pushed up against the wall. Shelves containing books of various sizes and colors lined the other walls. A pedestal sat centered in the middle of the room, holding a Bible as old as any Cormac had seen.

  “Come in, come in. Make yehself comfortable.”

  “A humble man with a humble lifestyle. I envy you sometimes, Donato.”

  “I am well cared for, and I enjoy the peace here in a way those who live above me could never comprehend. When a man becomes my age, all he wishes is a warm meal, a soft bed, and well-read books.”

  “You still have so many of them?” The Vicar looked around. “But you’re—”

  “Blind? I know that, Cormac,” Donato said with amusement. “Rossi reads to me when he isn’t out carousing a young man’s life.”

  Donato had been one of Cormac’s earliest teachers, a man whose faith outshone his extensive scholarship. Despite his advanced age, the Cardinal Seer served the Church in a way only a handful of people had over the centuries, ultimately keeping the world safe from an unimaginable threat. The Cardinal Vicar had been one of the older man’s first projects—having come into Cormac’s life at its darkest hour—and it now appeared Ennio Rossi, the young knight of Rome’s portal, had become the Seer’s new crusade.


  “Where is the knight?” Cormac asked.

  “Eh, not quite sure. I have not heard him return, although with the many girlfriends he has, I doubt he had a hard time finding a place to sleep.”

  The Cardinal Seer moved to where black velvet draped a circular object hanging on the wall beside the bed. Reaching up with shriveled hands, Donato removed the shroud to reveal a round mirror with a wide silver frame that shone with an ethereal inner glow. Celtic runes of an ancient sect danced in the firelight; the glass of the mirror glimmered like ice. Cormac shivered. He had the impression of something dark looking back at him.

  “Care to join me?” Donato asked over his shoulder. “It has been some time since yeh’ve used the Fionúir Mirror.”

  “No, to do so always makes me ill,” Cormac said.

  The Seer chuckled. “I’ll sweep the surrounding countryside of Caer Llion. I doubt I will see anything. Philip is a weasel when it comes to privacy.”

  Cormac stood apart, watching. With only the snapping of the fire’s embers echoing in the room, the Seer stared with blind eyes into the mirror, beyond his own image. He breathed slower and his face slackened, becoming like a statue. The white film over his eyes faded and disappeared altogether to reveal eyes so brown they were almost black.

  Cormac shuddered. It was always a shock to observe it happen.

  Several minutes went by. Nothing happened.

  Then the depths of the mirror began to swirl, starting slowly but speeding to a pace that knotted Cormac’s stomach. The silver tint of the glass rippled through the colors of the rainbow, faster and faster, until they bled together into a blinding light like the sun. Cormac was forced to shield his eyes. Just as quickly, the light deadened to opaque like slushy snow. Cormac relaxed, black dots dancing in his eyes. For reasons he never understood, the loamy odor of the forest after a hard rain filled the chamber.

  Memories of his childhood in Ireland swirled through him, leaving nostalgia even as the mirror’s effects disappeared.

  Shaking a bit, the Cardinal Seer let out a deep, tired breath.

  “The Fionúir sees much,” Donato said, his eyes scanning the mirror, viewing features Cormac could not. “Looks peaceful. Caer Llion is as it has been for centuries—shrouded in mystery. The black mist surrounding the castle is as impenetrable as always. The curse tablets blind me even as I am blind here.”

  “Philip wants us to remain that way.”

  The Seer sighed. “Vanity, I suppose.”

  “Could be,” Cormac responded. “Or we are not meant to see his activities.”

  “He rarely ventures outside the castle walls. I’ve only caught him thrice. Now that he controls most of Annwn, there is no need for him to do so. The battles are few and far between.” The older man paused, musing. “Still, amazing he has been alive as long as he has. The Lord surely works in mysterious ways.”

  Cormac looked at the ancient Bible. “The answer for his longevity is what scares me.”

  Still bathed in the pale gray light, the Seer nodded. “Indeed.” He leaned a bit closer to the mirror. “The rest of the countryside appears as it has for me and my predecessors—the forests are thick and healthy and the water of the rivers clean in the lowlands. The mountainous regions of the Carn Cavall and Snowdon, however, are a different tale; with her magic, the witch wears down the upper forests and all who live within them. The fey suffer. Those who remain free struggle to remain so.”

  “What of the countryside where the Seattle portal exits?”

  The Seer took a few moments and frowned.

  “Nothing. Dryvyd Forest is empty.”

  “Continue to keep a close watch this week. The events in Seattle warrant it, I think.”

  “Will yeh share with me what has transpired?” “I cannot,” Cormac said sadly. “Not even with you, old friend.”

  The gray light emanating from the Fionúir Mirror went blank as Donato pulled away, the shimmering glass reflecting the room once more. Eyes returning to milky blindness, the Cardinal Seer swayed on his feet for a moment before steadying. “The Lord wishes to call me soon,” he said, rubbing his shrunken chest with a bony hand. He replaced the black cloth over the mirror. “It is time to find my replacement. My end comes, Cormac.”

  “Not too soon, I hope.”

  Donato allowed Cormac to guide him to the bed. “I will remain as strong as the Lord will allow me. Yeh know that.”

  “I do,” Cormac said.

  “Now leave me,” the Seer said curtly, sinking into the bed. “The effects of the mirror will wear off in time. Yeh have duties to perform. The sun is rising, and that bodes well on the day.”

  Cormac covered his old mentor. With a warm last look, he left the Cardinal Seer to his soft bed and warm chamber.

  Soft snores quickly followed him out the door.

  Donato was right; the Seer was getting old. But he had fire left inside, and Cormac hoped it would see him through at least a few more years.

  Rather than return to his residence, Cormac traveled upward through the catacombs of the Basilica, slipping through a secret passageway into the Sacred Grottos with its populace of dead Popes and dignified personages. He would begin his day early. By the time he reached the nave, others were already about, most administrative workers or priests, the day bustling with activity even as the sun rose. Soon Rome and St. Peter’s would be flooded with visitors, and Cormac would be busy with his daily duties.

  As leader of the Vigilo, it was another day of protecting the world from Annwn.

  At least Captain Arne was on his way to Seattle.

  A set of Swiss Guards saluted him as he passed into the vestibule, their traditional garb of blue and red stripes a blemish amidst the beautiful sculptures and paintings. He nodded to the two men politely, barely seeing them.

  How had the son of Ardall gotten involved in the affairs of the Vigilo? How did the world of Annwn fit in with it?

  And could the Cardinal Vicar use it to his advantage?

  Cormac would ensure answers were swift in coming.

  “Father, don’t make me do this!”

  Lord Gerallt Rhys of Mochdrev Reach ignored his daughter’s plea, which just infuriated Deirdre all the more. Rather than fight the implacable emotional wall her father had erected, she ended her protestations, knowing them futile. The two ascended the wide set of outdoor stairs leading from the keep to Merthyr Garden, the identical towers on either side sentinels to their approach. Lord Gerallt huffed loudly, barely able to overcome the long staircase or even continue the conversation. Deirdre wished it was not so. Her father was a proud man, as enraged as a cornered dragon when on the practice field, but over the years he had become portly, unfit for extended activity.

  That included speaking when walking to the garden.

  If she didn’t love him so much, Deirdre would have resented him for it. After all, a ruler had to have the strength and stamina to keep his people safe.

  Which should have included his daughter.

  After what seemed eons to Deirdre, they gained the hilltop where it leveled off into Merthyr Garden. A lone pathway lined with roses cut through the well-kept lawn. Trees of apple, cherry, and pear stood proudly groomed while the sweetness of ripening fruit filled the air. On the outskirts, rows of herbs and vegetables yielded the food used by many of the Reach’s citizens.

  The place was sacred to Deirdre. The Merthyr Garden also happened to be the resting place for Lady Lorelei Rhys.

  Lord Gerallt didn’t stop. He continued up the gentle rise until the pathway ended. There, away from the flora of the garden and open to the sky, the Rosemere greeted them, the wide pool contained by short marble blocks, the waters allowed to flow freely down to the castle below by two troughs. It was not the focal point of the hill, though. From the middle of the Rosemere, a thick, thorny vine grew, twining around a soaring, ancient snag where rose blossoms larger than all others splashed crimson.

  Nothing stirred where the ashes of her mother had been sown.
r />   With his breath caught, Lord Gerallt stared at the Rosemere for a long time.

  “Does she…still love me?”

  It nearly broke Deirdre’s heart to hear the sorrow in his voice. The anger she carried melted away.

  “She does,” she lied. “Although even that fades now.”

  Lord Gerallt looked about to weep, his gaze still fixed where the remains of his wife lay bequeathed. Deirdre felt his pain. Finally, he turned to his daughter and, with an encouraging smile that rang false, gripped her thin shoulders gently.

  “You must see him,” he said quietly.

  “Father, you know what he plans fo—”

  “Dearest, please understand,” Lord Gerallt cut in. “The situation is perilous. Mochdrev Reach is on the edge of two kingdoms, in shadow, between the hammer of Caer Llion and the anvil of the Carn Cavall. Lord John Lewis Hugo merely wishes an audience today. It may mean nothing.”

  “He’s not a lord at all,” Deirdre said darkly.

  “No, he isn’t. He is an outworlder,” he replied. “But he is also wickedly smart and absolutely ruthless.”

  “My wishes mean nothing then?”

  “Ruling is a hardship unto itself, Deirdre. Sometimes it is harder to do what is best. You will loathe me for saying this, but sometimes that includes marrying into situations you may not like for the betterment of all.”

  “I would rather fight and die,” she spat, her anger stoked anew.

  Lord Gerallt frowned. “And you can speak for those innocents here, at Mochdrev Reach?”

  “You rule them.”

  “I do. I also must protect them from harm.”

  “But not your daughter, apparently.”

  Frustration reddened Lord Gerallt’s face. “You don’t mean that.”

  Deirdre looked away and said nothing.

  “It would be but a thought for that witch, the Cailleach, to extend her power here and reduce these crops to ash. Not only the Tuatha de Dannan in the Carn Cavall would suffer then. And know this: Philip Plantagenet would steal you away anyway. The Reach would lie in ruins like so many other principalities, and Caer Llion would rule our people. Only the war with the Tuatha de Dannan keeps Philip’s eyes from our direction. If you challenge that and bring attention to the Reach, he will use your refusal as a reason to put a garrison of his Red Crosses here. Everything you love would be gone. Do you not see that, Deirdre?”