“Just so.”
Deirdre sighed. “The damage is done. Give it to a family with many children in town. Don’t let them see you. By giving it away, I hope you learn a lesson.”
The fairy didn’t budge, hovering in midair.
“Snedeker…”
“All right, all right. Swampmutton.”
As the fairy flew away, his shoulders a bit slumped, Deirdre looked up at the mountains that grew at Mochdrev Reach’s northern border and thought about what the shade of her mother had said. The line of jagged peaks known as the Snowdon burst from the older, rounded hills of the Carn Cavall, not unlike the emotions that swirled within her. Her mother had been a powerful witch before she died; she knew much of what was to come. The vision of the Tuatha de Dannan dead on the battlefield could mean only one thing—the fey had chosen to fight Caer Llion. And the man Deirdre would fall in love with? It couldn’t be Philip Plantagenet. But who? Another outworlder? The man holding her in the vision? And more importantly: when would this come to pass?
It no longer mattered, she thought. And it no longer mattered what the High King of Annwn, his advisor, or even her father wished. Deirdre knew she would rather die than succumb to a boot heel, particularly one from Caer Llion.
Because the Tuatha de Dannan felt the same.
Deirdre turned back to the Rosemere. Its waters were at peace but she was not. Those who knew her knew that when her mind was made up, nothing would change it. Stubborn like an ox bull, her father often said. He was right. No one was going to tell her what to do, especially a man who had proclaimed himself High King long ago and would use that power to steal Deirdre away from all she knew and loved.
She would not let it happen—come what may for Mochdrev Reach and those who lived within its walls. She had to stand and fight, no matter the consequences. No matter where that stand would take her.
Deirdre left to find her father.
Lord Gerallt would be the first to know.
With a cascade thundering behind him, Richard sat on the edge of the Waterfall Garden Park pool in contemplative reflection, waiting for the tourists and vagabonds to leave.
It would not be long now.
Mist from the falls swirled at his back, icy and persistent, but he barely felt it. The events of the previous night played over and over in his mind, lead chains weighing on him. The fairies from the portal had attacked Merle’s assistant, cajoling a cu sith into dastardly service. If Richard had not been there, Bran would have been killed. It had been the obvious culmination of an orchestrated plan, one set into motion specifically against the boy for reasons the knight could not fathom.
Richard had intervened and in the process had exposed his secret.
Now the boy knew about Arondight.
Why had the attack come against this new bookseller of Old World Tales? Had Richard made the right choice in not removing his memory?
The knight exhaled angrily. He only had an answer for the latter concern. It was necessary, of course. Bran retaining his memory meant the only ally Richard had in convincing the boy that Merle was a danger and not to be trusted.
Nearby the portal throbbed, a chilly reminder he was right.
The knight pulled his coat close. He knew one thing.
Bran was lucky to be alive.
As the cold wind captured vagrant leaves and sent them spinning outside the iron-barred walls of the park, a man wearing a black overcoat with collar held tight and a broad-rimmed hat entered the secluded Waterfall Garden and waited in the shadows. Richard ground his boot into the concrete, annoyed. He knew the man, hated him. Richard also knew the Churchman had found him for a reason and that reason went beyond coincidence.
Once the last straggler left the park, the man approached, his thick-fingered hands folded over a paunch that rarely missed a meal.
“Archbishop Louis Glenallen, find another soul to torment,” Richard said darkly.
Righteousness peered at the knight. “How unfortunate you yet live, McAllister.”
“Why are you here?”
“I know of the attack,” the Churchman said. “I know you failed. Again.”
“Here to gauge my faith, huh?” Richard questioned. “Want to offer me some absolution, some penance, in your hallowed box of confession?”
“Not at all,” Archbishop Glenallen replied. “I know, just as you do, that a lifetime of confession and Hail Marys could never erase the pain that erodes your soul. No, I’m not here to offer you salvation. I want to know how the attack happened, and why you didn’t do your job?”
“Your Church no longer holds power over the Yn Saith.”
“Ah yes,” the archbishop snorted. “The covenant the sorcerer made with the Seven. A more foolish man this world has never known. The truth is, the Church does what he, and you apparently, can no longer do—protect the world from evil.”
“Your arrogance and ignorance is startling.”
“Is it, now? There was once a young man,” Archbishop Glenallen began. “He carried right in his heart, accepted Arondight—the great sword forged by Govannon and later discovered by Lancelot of the Lake—and vouched with blood the safety of a city, of an entire world. This young man had a soul that was old. But he was idealistic and desired to have all that the world offered. Pride became his enemy. Going against the advice of his elders, against the wisdom of ages wrought, he married. He thought he could have it all—the duty that God had bestowed as well as the earthly treasures of the heart.
“Some might call that arrogant, McAllister. Some might say that man’s presumption is a grave ignorance of and above itself.”
“That man was a fool,” Richard said coldly. “And no longer exists.”
“You are right. He is lost.” The archbishop shook his head. “God only forgives those who repent their wrath, their sins.”
Richard said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“Nevertheless,” the archbishop continued. “There is no reason why we shouldn’t work together as needed now. Our roles are the same; we merely go about it differently. I maintain a large diocese with thousands of souls, but I am also responsible to the Vigilo for the portal, just as you are. I have no ulterior motive, no reason to lie to you. There is far too much evil in the hearts of men, but think how evil would spread if God-fearing people realized they shared the world with myth and fairy tale. That mankind was not alone and creatures not mentioned in the Bible existed. The Church and its knights can work together, as long as there is need. Right now, I believe there is such a need; your actions have made it so, I think.”
“You chastise me, bring up painful memories, and then you ask for my help?” Richard snapped with disgust. “Do you know how fork-tongued you are?”
Archbishop Glenallen darkened. “As usual, you have no idea to whom you are speaking. I know a boy was attacked. And not only that, but you did not remove his memory of it. I want to know the why of it.”
Richard cursed silently.
“Yes, that’s right. I know fairies called upon the cu sith you failed in stopping several months ago,” the archbishop said. “Why did they attack the boy though? Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” Richard admitted. He stood and jammed his hands in his pockets. “He was walking in Pioneer Square feeding his homeless friends. He is safe. That’s all I know. The creatures are dead. I missed my chance to alter the boy’s memories. What else is there to know?”
“The question is how did you know he was in danger?”
The knight darkened.
“Say nothing more,” Archbishop Glenallen said. “I know you were following him.”
“Spies, eh? I suppose you have already notified your superiors.”
“I have.”
Richard wanted to beat the man within an inch of his life. With the Church conniving, it would complicate his own efforts to discover why Merle had chosen Bran and for what end.
“Does that disappoint you, knight?” the fat man asked.
“Only you d
o, Glenallen.”
“Hmm,” Archbishop Glenallen mumbled. “And what of the wizard? Does he have any ideas about this?”
“I have not spoken to him of it,” Richard said. “Or with the others. I have not put as much stock in the attack as you have, apparently.”
“You would not have followed him if you did not.”
“I have no allegiance to the Church, but don’t believe for one second that it means I am in league with Myrddin Emrys. The man is a liar, a cheat, and has brought me nothing but pain.”
“You are his puppet.”
“To say I hate him would be a vast understatement,” Richard pointed out.
“And yet the boy returned to Old World Tales. Clearly he does not feel the same way,” the archbishop said, smiling without humor. “That is problematic, don’t you think, McAllister?”
“Leave me in peace, Glenallen,” Richard sighed. “I tire of you.”
“Whenever Annwn reaches into this world, there is a reason behind it,” Archbishop Glenallen continued. “The Church demands that you fulfill your duty to its utmost. It’s why God chose you. Mankind deserves to be kept safe.”
“Even from Church charlatans?” Richard chided. “The blood on Church hands reddens even your own.” The archbishop immediately turned a deep, explosive shade, but the knight held up his hand. “What? Are you going to have me killed if I don’t do what I am told? When will the Church realize it no longer has authority over the portals? Over the Seven? Over me?”
The imposing man stepped close to Richard, fire in his eyes.
“What happens when a man not only forsakes his Church but that of God as well, McAllister?” He leaned in closer. “What if it happens to a knight of the Vigilo? How long do you think such a knight has to live? The Church has no need to dispose of you; the fey coming through the portal and your lack of faith will do it as assuredly as it did your own wife.”
The point drove into Richard like a stake. Fury came crashing over him, urgent in its need. It didn’t matter if killing the archbishop would reduce the knight to everything he hated about the Church—Richard had much to repent for, and what was one more thing?—and Louis Glenallen was a stain on the very tapestry the knight defended every day of his life. Glenallen would not be missed in the larger scheme of the world, and Richard would be purged from his duties by death.
Arondight was a will away from fierily materializing.
The archbishop saw his danger and took several steps backward. “Regardless of what transpired last night, your faithlessness could get us all killed,” Archbishop Glenallen snarled, but fear had overtaken his beady eyes. “Fulfill your role, and make it not so.”
Before Richard could reply, the Churchman fled.
Louis Glenallen vanished into the streets, undoubtedly returning to his safe haven of St. James Cathedral. The white stone twin towers of the Church’s Seattle bastion would not hold the answers the knight sought. They would have to come from elsewhere.
Richard began removing his shoes and socks.
He knew where to begin looking.
Finally with no one around, Richard placed his naked feet into the Waterfall Garden pool and closed his eyes. He shivered involuntarily, the icy water stabbing him like hundreds of needles. It was always difficult in the colder months. As the eddying cold numbed his toes, the knight focused on the water—its feel, its fluidity, and its ability to transform all things. It was the molecule of life and change, and it reveled in its freedom to roam. Richard joined with it, the water cool on his soul. For a moment he was released from his guilt, his inner turmoil, his inadequacy, and Richard realized sadly that he had always felt this free twelve years earlier.
Traveling with the water, the pounding of the waterfall ceased.
The world darkened.
He concentrated on Arondight—not to call forth the fabled sword, but to be drawn to it.
The disorientation ended suddenly with birdsong, the sweet scent of growing grass, and the warmth of the sun on his face.
Richard opened his eyes to Annwn.
The decadence of Seattle and its claustrophobic buildings disappeared, replaced by a small isle in the middle of an expansive lake bordered by verdant green hills. In the distance, the jagged peaks of the Snowdon loomed. Richard sat in an emerald carpet, the grass and clover tickling his exposed feet, a dream made real. Rhododendrons, lilacs, pennyroyal, and other bushes grew wild and free amidst moss-covered rocks. The sweet smell of virgin nature coupled with air not of the sea intoxicated the knight, and he looked out over the day in silent thanks, the rippling water of the lake glimmering like sapphires under the sun.
The memory of autumn fading, Richard sat up and glanced around.
At the apex of the isle the remnants of a fortress rose against the sky, its stone crumbling from age and neglect. Much of the inner courtyard and keep had long since fallen into itself, leaving the walls and towers to stand alone. Richard knew not who had built the castle, but it had existed for centuries. Along the circumference of the shore a barricade of crooked briars grew, the vines thick like tree trunks. Thorns as large as axe heads protruded from them, deadly and sharp, glistening with a greenish venom he was told would kill on contact. If anyone could pass the Aughisky—the loch fey beast warding the isle—the wall would end any access.
The only other prominent feature of the island grew near the knight—an oak tree as large as the castle with leaves as golden as the dawn.
Richard gained his feet and walked up the hill.
The oak ruled the whole of the isle like a lord. It was ancient and knotted with branches reaching in all directions, the trunk massive and its roots buried deep. Finches and other birds darted among the foliage and ferns beneath, singing their song to the day, while insects lazily drifted on the air.
Despite knowing the tree was as deadly as the wall of thorns, Richard wanted nothing more than to lie down in its serene shadows and sleep forever.
Circling the tree, seven bluestone blocks erupted from the earth like rib bones, each chiseled with druidic symbols. On the one closest him, Arondight glittered, the sword resting point-down on the diagonal face, its runes winking at Richard as if in greeting. The other blocks also bore weapons as unique as the one Merle had given Richard at his knighthood—a battleaxe, war hammer, heavy gauntlets, dagger, spear, and diamond-shaped mace.
The earth beneath his bare feet thrummed with power as he neared the great tree. At his approach, the roots and branches tensed, ready to protect the relics on the rune-written blocks.
“Achlesydd,” Richard soothed, calling the tree by name.
The oak relaxed, recognizing him as a Knight of the Yn Saith.
“What’s on your mind, Rick?”
Richard turned. A sandy-haired man with finely chiseled cheekbones and an average build stood nearby, his feet as bare as Richard’s own, his blue eyes inquisitive. He wore denim jeans and a coat that offered protection from elements not present in Annwn.
“Alastair,” Richard greeted. “It’s been many months. You look well.”
A smile brought life to Alastair Finley. “Life is good. Quiet. The family grows and I’ve gotten quite a lot of research done the last few months. How are you?”
“I am here,” Richard said simply. “The family is well then?”
“Yeah, all is good,” Alastair replied, looking away. “The kids grow like weeds. Mark actually likes school and Maddy is able to stand now.”
The knight of the Betws-y-coed fairy glen in Wales lived a peaceful life with wife and children, his portal one of the oldest and relatively inactive due to its odd entrance placement in Annwn. He was a good man, fair in all things. In another lifetime the two knights would likely have been close friends, their scholarly background a common bond. But Alastair enjoyed a life the other knights chose not to embrace and one Richard had lost, leaving an unbridgeable gulf between them.
A ghostly shimmer formed a few feet away, solidifying into a short, heavyset Italian man w
ho hugged his barrel chest closely as if trying to stay warm.
“Damnable snow and ice,” he bellowed. “I hate Chicago in the fall and winter.”
“Sal, you hate everything,” Alastair said.
“You’re tellin’ me,” Sal grumbled. “What the hell did I have to traipse outside in this weather for?”
The other two men ignored Sal.
Soon other forms coalesced in the afternoon sunshine. In all, six men and one woman stood on the isle near the grandiose oak—the summoning bringing them from diverse countries, different cultures, and unique backgrounds.
They were the Knights of the Yn Saith.
“Thank you all for coming,” Richard said. “I know during this time of year it is a test of will to answer a calling.”
“We know you would not do so if it were not necessary, Richard,” James St. Albans said, his British accent thick. “No need to apologize.”
“I find this meeting a little odd. The Paris portal has been quiet,” Arnaud Lovel said. Fat pushed at the boundaries of the Parisian’s clothing. “I’ve not had reason to leave my home in many months.”
“That’s apparent,” Sal grunted.
Arnaud ignored the insult. Richard shared all the details of the previous night—the cait sith’s entry, the escape of the fairies, the cu sith and its attack on Bran, the visit by Archbishop Glenallen, and how Rome was aware of everything that had transpired.
“The cait sith mentioned the fairies being the end of the Word,” Richard finished.
“A Pope can die,” Danica Roderick said, her sleek blonde hair almost white in the sunlight. “But it does not end the Word. Or the Church.”
“It would have to be something else,” Richard agreed.
“Whatever it is, it isn’t affecting the rest of us,” James said, his long-fingered hand stroking his short goatee. “Like Arnaud said. The gateway in London has been peaceful for at least a year.”
“The same in Vienna, Danica? Rome, Ennio? Sal?”
Everyone nodded agreement.
Richard frowned. Ever since his knighthood, creatures of varying sizes, shapes, intellects, and purposes had come through, an unbroken stream of dissent. It seemed he was the only knight having to deal with it.
The Dark Thorn Page 7
