A bearded human and a woman sharing his fiery red hair and fierce eyes stood near the wall of the room. The Tuatha de Dannan gave them distrustful stares as well.
Six thrones, including the guest seat for Bran, remained empty—lords who had been killed, lords who had joined Philip.
And lords who chose to ignore the Morrigan.
Richard shifted in his seat, which sent a fresh burst of agony through his middle. The wounds were healing. Richard knew he still suffered internal bruising though. His healers assured him that too would fade with time, but Richard knew he had no time to give.
In calling the Seelie Court, the Morrigan had other intentions.
The Queen deemed Bran important to the meeting, inviting him to sit in with the Court. No matter how much Richard hated involving the boy, he could not ignore the wishes of the Morrigan anymore than he could order the Pope. That afternoon, he had learned more about the battle at Dryvyd Wood and his rescue as well as what else the boy had done while in Arendig Fawr. It was obvious the Queen of the Seelie Court saw something in Bran Richard did not.
Merle had as well. Giving the Paladr to Bran had begun indoctrination into a role the boy would not understand—until it was too late.
Richard remembered the day he had accepted Arondight…Springtime had finally arrived in Seattle. Richard sat on a bench in the Quad at the University of Washington in his first year of graduate studies, his shaggy hair midnight black and pale forearms absorbing the first sunshine of the year. Ancient cherry trees bloomed around him, breezes sending a pink petal storm upon the air, while gargoyles—weathered from decades of sitting on the oldest buildings of the school—stared down at him, some wearing gas masks marking the turbulent time of their creation. The day infused winter-heavy hearts with the giddy possibility of summer, and Richard was no different.
Sitting with legs crossed, he absorbed The Once and Future King.
“Interesting choice, nose in a book on this beautiful day.”
Richard dipped the novel and shielded his eyes to view an old man, his beard white and skin tanned to the depths of its wrinkles. Both hands in khaki pockets and his white collared shirt gleaming, he had a scholarly appeal, an empty pipe hanging from his mouth like an afterthought.
Richard liked him instantly.
“Is my book the interesting choice or choosing to read outside?” Richard asked.
“Both, I think.”
“It beats grading papers, that’s for sure.”
“May I?” the older man questioned, indicating the empty side of the bench.
Richard nodded and scooted over a bit.
“T.H. White,” the man observed as he sat, removing his pipe and holding it like a cherished thing. “A very good writer. Took many liberties with the lives of Arthur and Lancelot and the rest, though I suppose he had his reasons. Many other writers have done the same—Bede, Gildas, Nennius, Geoffrey of Monmoth, Wace, de Troyes, Mallory. Even Tennyson, Twain and Bradley. All have it right; all have it wrong.”
“I’ve read most of them, as part of my undergrad work,” Richard said, turning the book over and looking at the cover. “This is an infinitely easier read but just as engaging—maybe more so with its relevance to World War II.”
“So you prefer the easier trod path then?”
“Sometimes,” Richard admitted. “When it makes sense.”
“Did you graduate in four years?”
Richard peered closer at the old man. Icy blue eyes stared back, unflinching.
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude but who are you?”
“Four years? Five years? Longer?”
“Five,” Richard replied, perplexed but intrigued. “I was biochem for a while but my heart wasn’t in lab work. I finished with an English Literature degree.”
“Then you do not take the easier path when it matters?”
“No, I suppose I don’t. I could have graduated on time with a degree I would not have been happy with—and saved money and time just to do something I would have hated. I could have started a life, made money, had a family, and become prey of the system.” Richard paused, suddenly wondering why he was telling this stranger anything about his life. “Anyway, The Once and Future King is not as simple as it may appear; it’s a literary commentary on how mankind fails to bring about a government that does not take advantage of its people.”
“Ultimate power corrupts ultimately,” the man said. “No matter if it is totalitarian or socialist or democracies run by hierarchal laws—’might by right’ or ‘might for right’ or ‘right for right.’”
“Right,” Richard said, grinning. “You’ve read it then. Any merit in it? That mankind will never be truly free of tyranny unless it abolishes all government?”
“I believe quite strongly in what White had to say,” the bearded man said. “Sadly there are those in humanity who will never be satiated, who are moved by evil—from the vagabond to the leader of a country and all between. Mankind is flawed. No form of government can account for that. It offers belief in a utopia that is unattainable. Gotten to Lancelot’s portrayal yet?”
“Just,” Richard said. “He is…a very imperfect character. Nothing like the romantic ideal boys aspire to be and girls hope to marry. Desperate to prove himself. Angry and ugly to boot.”
“Yes, he was imperfect,” the white-haired man said, tamping fragrant tobacco into his pipe. “Of course, just another fabrication to suit the writer. Lancelot was anything but ugly. Interesting idea though. I enjoy subtexts very much.”
“Are you a professor here at the University?” Richard asked, closing the book.
“No, no, but that would be an honor, too,” the old man chuckled. “I sell ancient and rare books. Why don’t you come down to my bookstore tomorrow in Pioneer Square. It’s on First, near Yesler. There are a few items there I think you might be interested in.”
“I’ll try,” Richard said, knowing he would not go.
“Good day then, sir,” the man said, lighting his pipe. “Be sure to enjoy it. A nice day like today should be treasured, particularly in Seattle. See you tomorrow.”
The bookseller left, retreating beneath a rain of broken pink blossoms.
Richard shook his head and reopened the book.
The conversation with the old man lingered with Richard that night. The next day he bussed to the bookstore and made a choice that had changed his life forever.
That choice had now led him to Annwn.
Movement in the Cadarn tunnel caught his eye. Bran materialized from the darkness and entered the chamber, Kegan at his side and Arrow Jack an obsidian blur flying to the back of the empty seat next to Richard. He returned the earnest stare of Bran. Distrust from the argument stressed the air between them. Richard offered the empty guest seat next to him. Bran took it as the clurichaun sat next to Horsemaster Aife.
The Morrigan entered the room then, red silk swirling from her black gown, her pale angular face stern, exotic eyes hard as obsidian. The lords rose, all eyes on the Queen. Two fairies hovered above each of her bare shoulders, awaiting any orders she may give. She was tall, thin, and regal, each movement graceful as she gained the Sarn Throne, her stare fixed upon her supplicants around the table as the fairies first organized the wayward trails of crimson silk and then settled on the throne much like Arrow Jack had on the chair now occupied by Bran.
The odd menagerie of lords bowed to the Queen before returning to their seats.
The chamber doors closed with a silent whoosh of air.
“Greetings to you, Lords of the Seelie Court,” the Morrigan said, her voice firm and controlled. “I know some have traveled great distances in a short amount of time. It is not without purpose. You have been gathered to help address recent events that do not bode well for your peoples and the future of Annwn.”
“We are honored to return to Arendig Fawr, Queen,” n’Hagr baritoned, two canine teeth overlapping his upper lip like yellow daggers. “It has been too long.”
“
As the four empty thrones note, some of our brethren have perished, embraced Philip’s rule, or neglected to answer my calling,” the Queen said. “Of the last, Lord Fafnir has sent no word and Lord Latobius declined the invitation out of care for an ill child.”
“Sick dragon, eh?” Lugh muttered. “Unappreciative traitor.”
“Lord Latobius has all to lose and nothing to gain,” Eigion argued.
“Latobius has not been a part of the Seelie Court for centuries,” Lugh countered, staring hard at the lithe merman. “He knows not what is given him so freely. The Nharth watch the trails; the blood of the Long Hand reject attack. Tal Ebolyon is kept safe by others. What does he give in return? Nothing. Let him rot. Lord Fafnir as well.”
“The Tuatha de Dannan are fractured,” Govannon said simply.
“What you all say is true,” the Morrigan interrupted. “But even the Snowdon will be unable to defend the upper conclaves of the coblynau and dragons—just as Arendig Fawr and those you lord over are safe. War is coming for us all. If we are to have any chance at surviving and ending the reign of the Usurper, we need them.”
“Need them for what?” Caswallawn slurred. “For centuries, no aid. Nothing. Did they help protect my lands, my people?” The drunk slammed his fist down on the table. “No! I agree with Lugh—traitors, both of them.”
“Lord Caswallawn, your rancor is on your breath,” the Queen quipped angrily. “Still your tongue. You dishonor my guests.”
Caswallawn fell silent under her icy gaze.
“Why have you gathered us, Queen?” Lord Finnbhennach asked.
“There are events transpiring none of us can ignore. That I cannot ignore,” the Morrigan replied, touching each person in the room with her eyes. “We have been at war now for eight centuries, longer if you consider our last days in the Misty Isles. Slowly we have lost our place in Annwn and every day we retreat further—retreat from what we are. Philip Plantagenet controls more than just land; he controls our very lives.
“Mastersmith Govannon is right,” she continued. “The Court is fractured, weakened. Every sunrise our enemy grows stronger and we remain unchanged, unable to form a cohesive battle against Caer Llion. In time, far sooner than later, our Court will be ferreted out, and when that happens, each of our peoples will die in succession.” She paused, her features cold and certain. “Unless we of the Seelie Court unite—and attack.”
“Under the Rhyfel Banner,” Lord Eigion said.
“Finally,” Caswallawn mumbled, sitting straighter.
“Pardon me, Queen, but is that not an impossibility?” the human man appealed, scratching his red beard. “I know I lack the experience the rest of you possess—being human without an immortal life has that disadvantage—but the Seelie Court has been undone for millennia. By your own admission we lack the might of Lords Fafnir and Latobius. Not to mention that of Lord Gwawl and others who flocked to Philip. How can the Seelie Court raise a banner of war without them?”
“The threat of Caer Llion grows, Lord Gerallt,” the Morrigan addressed the room. “You know this as well as I. Philip and John Lewis Hugo move new pieces upon the gwyddebwyll board, pieces never before seen. Lords once friends are gathering at Caer Llion, their might added to the Templar Knights for purposes not entirely clear. Lord Gerallt has the right of it though; this will not be the Seelie Court of old. Too many seats here are empty. We will therefore leverage the new pieces delivered to us, with hope of renewing the Seelie Court and countering the dark elements set in motion against us.”
“Queen, why did we not do this a decade ago? A century ago?” n’Hagr rumbled.
“Lord Finnbhennach,” the Morrigan gestured. “If you please.”
The horned man grabbed a canvas sack from behind his seat and withdrew a limp carcass as black as pitch. The dead creature was that of a lynx, tawny muscle beneath shiny fur—but all resemblance to the cat ended there. Where four paws should have been, large talons like those of a bird sprouted; instead of a whiskered feline face it had the head of an eagle, its beak sharp even in death. With a long wingspan of sable feathers dangling freely from its upper shoulder blades, Lord Finnbhennach tossed the halfbreed on the Cylch Table with disgust.
“Lords, take a long look,” the Morrigan requested.
“What is it?” Aife asked.
Lugh leaned forward. “Some aberration of nature?”
“Worse,” Richard said, breaking his silence. “Far worse.”
The table turned to the knight. He stared back, unperturbed by the attention.
“You have the right of it, Knight Richard McAllister,” the Queen said. “It is a new fey halfbreed, a cross between cliff eagles and highland cait sith.”
“Like small griffins?” Lord Gerallt said.
“Aye, griffins,” Lord Finnbhennach agreed. “With some dark art, Caer Llion has bred these foul creatures. Like rutting cats, they multiply at an astonishing rate. In the skies they are like swallows, blotting out even the noonday sky, deadly. I lost an entire herd of my best cattle to these.” The lord pounded the table with a massive fist in emphasis. “My best cattle! Meat and milk for some of you here. Nothing but strewn skeletons, picked clean.”
“I do not see the link between the halfbreed and Caer Llion,” Lord Eigion said, gesturing mildly with a webbed hand. “We know nothing at all.”
“We know Philip is involved,” Richard countered.
“How, knight?” the merrow asked.
Richard looked to the Morrigan who nodded back. “When Bran Ardall and I came through the portal into Dryvyd Wood, we were met by unwelcome company. The Usurper sent his advisor, witch, and houndmaster to capture us, but he also sent some kind of halfbreeds—part wolves, part human. You know how difficult it is for these types of creatures to mate naturally and survive—only a handful have ever done it. If Philip has managed to produce these demon wolves, this griffin is more than likely his as well.”
“I killed more than three dozen demon wolves freeing our guests,” the Queen admitted. “They did not die easily. They are unlike anything I have seen.”
“Then we should attack them now, end this threat,” Caswallawn maintained.
“There is more, Lord Caswallawn,” the Morrigan said.
“There is,” Lord Finnbhennach continued. “The Usurper is drawing all possible resources to Caer Llion—grain, fruit, weapons, men, other supplies. My scouts watch day and night, and every day there is more to fear.”
“The High King requested a marriage alliance with Mochdrev Reach, where my daughter Deirdre and I hail,” Lord Gerallt said. “Plantagenet is indeed drawing what might he can to Caer Llion. I can only assume it is to move against you all here.”
“Lord Gerallt and Lady Deirdre are here offering their support if we rally our own,” the Morrigan said, nodding to them. “There is goodness in human hearts yet.”
“Philip is planning something large,” Deirdre confirmed.
“What that something is, Lady Deirdre, we do not know,” the Morrigan added. “But if the lord of Caer Llion intends to escalate the assault on the Tuatha de Dannan, our survival might depend on gathering what remains of the Seelie Court and countering him as soon as possible.”
“Lord Fafnir and Lord Latobius will not support that,” Lugh said.
“Without their might, we risk annihilation,” the Queen agreed.
“If they did not heed the summons…?”
“They will,” the Morrigan said. “Sitting to my left is Richard McAllister, knight of the Dryvyd Wood gateway and friend to the Seelie Court. With him is Bran Ardall, the scion of Charles Ardall, the last Heliwr. They entered Annwn with the intent to discover who tried to kill young Ardall in his native city by an assassin cu sith, only to become prisoners of John Lewis Hugo. There is more to this than I can see, events that do not mesh with what we know to be true; our visitors are intertwined in this madness as we are and have just as much to lose.
“As already observed, both Lord Fafnir and Lord Latobius have
chosen to disregard the summons I sent them,” the Morrigan continued. “It will take an actual visit from a source both of the wayward lords respect to realize the error of their dismissal; it will take a strong voice to persuade Lord Latobius and especially Lord Fafnir of our mutual enemy—to convince them to leave their mountaintop dens and mobilize for war.”
“Who will go then?” Govannon questioned. “If not you, my Queen.”
“I have chosen McAllister to do what I could not.”
The Lords of the Seelie Court looked at each other and at Richard. No one spoke.
“Will you do this thing I ask of you, knight?” the Queen asked.
Richard met her stern gaze. He had known the Morrigan planned to use him in some way, the request he attend the meeting nonnegotiable. What the Queen of the Tuatha de Dannan advocated made sense; Knights of the Seven held noble status among the Seelie Court and would be given opportunities others would not. No matter how much he wished to walk away from the madness, a part of his heart beat to maintain his knighthood and duty. He may have never met the lords in question—only read about them in ancient books Merle kept safe—but what he knew put him in a strong position. At the very least, the coblynau of Caer Glain would respect Arondight for its past.
If he succeeded, the prospect of gaining a favor from the Queen could not be ignored.
“I will do as you command, Queen.”
“And young Ardall?” she said, looking at the boy. “What of you?”
The Dark Thorn Page 19
