Almost a dozen rings carrying different gems also lay scattered near the grimoires.
The thief saw Aengus then. And when their eyes locked, the Arch Druid did not see a thief.
He saw something far more twisted.
Aengus turned his hard gaze to the obvious leader of the group.
“Do you know who I am?”
The other frowned, anger mingling with disbelief. “I do.”
“And I know you,” the Arch Druid said, his magic tingling, a call away. Battle charged the air. “Lleidr Corryn. Rol Macleod if I were to guess.”
“Very perceptive, Aengus Doughal. Although I doubt that was a guess.” The master thief gave a mock bow of little respect. “Why are you here? What would bring you from your chair in Caer Dathal to Longee of all places? To one of my homes away from home. As unwelcome as a rat at one of the High King’s balls.”
The men around Rol Macleod stood ready, waiting on his signal. Aengus cursed his luck. They were thieves and cutthroats, assassins and worse, all deadly and willing to die for their powerful leader. Only three Lleidr Corryn existed, master thieves who had earned privilege, rank, and a high level of protection among the wealthiest and most powerful people of Annwn. Kings, queens, and merchant princes—if they could afford the talents of a Lleidr Corryn, it often meant they could acquire through theft the most valued items of their desires.
Aengus and Aldric had just happened to stumble upon one of them.
And entered a terrible den of death.
“I am here for the books on your desk, Lleidr Corryn,” Aengus answered, maintaining a polite discourse. Posturing or threats would do no good here. “Keep the rings and gems. Keep the thief. He stole that which did not belong to him though.”
Rol Macleod smirked. “Bargaining already. Yet you bargain with which you do not possess. It is not you who decides the fate of the books, the rings, or the thief.” He paused, now considering the young man near his feet. “In fact, this… traitor… was once in my employ. A boy of skill. Instead, Ryorn Helyth took a different path, one from my mentorship. A path I did not give him leave to take.” The Lleidr Corryn returned his gaze to the ring. “Now he brings me gifts. And an Arch Druid far from his own home whose interest has piqued my interest.”
“How did you kill the woman your men were hauling out of here?” Aengus pressed, changing the direction of a conversation that threatened to spiral into death.
A flicker of surprise crossed the other’s face. “She was found dead, in the streets, with this deserter stealing these very rings right off her fingers.”
“You did not kill her then?”
“No. My men brought them here. As far as I could tell, natural causes.”
The Arch Druid had a sneaking suspicion rising within. “That does not bode well. I also followed a witc—”
“And who is that with you? A warrior?” Rol Macleod cut Aengus off, looking beyond to Aldric. “Given the fresh wound struck his face, it appears as if he was in a recent war. And the sword he has drawn—rare, one of great merit and loyalty. I know more than a few of the wealthy who would like to admire that sword in their own collections.”
“Take it from me if you can, thief,” Aldric spat, eyes challenging.
“I hope you possessed that kind of spirit as the fey slaughtered your fellow Templar Knights, warrior.”
Aengus prevented Aldric from making a huge mistake.
“In moments, this place will be dying in flame,” the Arch Druid said.
“I smell the smoke. And like the smoke, I have ways out of my own home,” Rol Macleod said. “Lok, lift the traitor up for me.”
The huge man who had kept Ryorn Helyth pinned to the floor pulled his charge up to his feet and held him before the Lleidr Corryn.
And in a blur, Ryorn Helyth lashed out at Rol Macleod.
The master thief twisted away, surprised but unharmed, even as Lok grabbed Ryorn Helyth once more. The young thief doubled over, fiddling with something.
And then yelled into the tower.
“Gwynt awr, Gwynt!”
Aengus had just enough time to raise his own magic, protecting Aldric as well. Wind blasted from Ryorn Helyth like a tornado, felling Lok as if a giant had struck the large man. Rol Macleod and his thieves and assassins were knocked aside too, the brunt of the sudden magic tossing aside even the most hardened men. Ryorn Helyth stood with shoulders back, eyes alight, the ring that had once been in possession of Rol Macleod now upon one of his fingers, glowing with a pulsing light.
He didn’t waste time. Given a free path to the desk, the thief was already rummaging for the rings next to the grimoires.
“Get out of here, Macleod! Take your men with you!” Aengus yelled.
The Lleidr Corryn didn’t have to be told twice. Giving a quick gesture all fled from the room and upward still, to the next floor. There were other ways out.
Aengus turned his attention back to the thief. Keeping his feet anchored to the immovable stone of the tower, he called below.
For the flames he knew were there.
Acting as a medium, the walls in the room came alive with the conflagration, every tower stone connected to one another and in turn to the fire. The Arch Druid called the blaze and its intense heat from below and brought it above, alive like fiery snakes writhing into the room.
“I am more powerful than you, Arch Druid,” the man who had once been Ryorn Helyth spat, his voice possessing a lilting feminine quality that bespoke the true creature within. “You believe the stone burns at your behest.” She paused, the gems on her fingers beginning to glow. “Care to cross me, the tower will die. And you in it.”
“I am prepared to die, witch,” Aengus admitted, bringing up his own magic. “If it means keeping those grimoires from you.”
“So be it. Annwn will burn. With you dead!”
The witch gestured with her now ring-laden fingers. The flames crawled across the floor, suddenly not under the Arch Druid’s control. He fought back, incanting, drawing upon his magic as well as that of the world. It was all he could do to withstand being incinerated, the witch far more powerful.
“Aldric! Go! Now!”
Ignoring the command, the warrior circled the room, seeking an advantage. Aengus could just make out the rage Aldric still carried for the fey, burning as angrily in his every movement as the flames he sought to find a way around. The sword in his hand glowing reddish yellow, the Templar Knight shortened his distance to the enemy. Seeing her danger, the witch brought a new spell, overlapping the first, directed at Aldric and his approach. Impotent, Aengus could only watch as magic erupted from the rings to throw the warrior into the burning stone of the wall. Aldric went limp. And before the Arch Druid could reach the warrior or prevent it, the witch had Aldric by the throat, cruel fingers pulsing with magic as she grinned darkly at Aengus.
“What now, Druid?” the witch hissed. “Care to lose your friend?”
“Your grimoires burn, witch,” Aengus growled.
Panicked, the witch looked to the desk, which had begun to burn.
“Vorrels! Now!”
And Paetyn and Kehndyl attacked.
Unleashed from their shadows, the two Vorrels coalesced into the room and leapt at the witch, feral claws extended, their rage louder than the fire about them. Caught by surprise and still holding onto Aldric, the witch had no time to counter. The Unseelie creatures ripped at the hands about the warrior’s neck, trying to free him, snapping sharp teeth at their enemy’s neck. Flames attacked them; wind tore at them. It didn’t matter. They would not let go. Hissing anger became screaming pain as bloody fingers bearing rings began to fall to the tower floor, the Vorrels not stopping until Aldric was free and every ring was lying on the ground.
The witch stumbled back against the wall, snarling her hate. She gave Aengus a look of absolute hatred.
Then the room darkened, a swirling murk rising out of the thief even as his body went limp to the floor. The last of the witch’s magic died. Ba
rely comprehending what had just happened, Aengus took command of the flames, even as he watched the shadow flee the room. The Arch Druid breathed relief. The witch would have to create or discover new rings to regain her power.
And a body to wear them.
“What just happened?” Aldric croaked, rubbing his throat and poised over the shaking body of Ryorn Helyth. “That shadow?”
“A very rare witch. One whose spirit lives in others.” Aengus knelt to the side of Ryorn Helyth, quickly gathering the rings as to not risk a sudden return of the witch. It would never happen anyway. The man shook, his muscles in a constant, singular spasm, fear in his young eyes and death on his breath. He would not live long. Aengus gripped the other’s hands and sent calm into the thief, perceiving the truth of Ryorn Helyth—his intent in stealing the grimoires, the identity of his new master, how the witch had caught him, and the unfortunate end that was now his to endure. And the saddest truth: there was nothing the Arch Druid could do to help.
In departing her host, the witch had magically killed him.
“Rest easy, young Ryorn Helyth,” Aengus soothed, still holding the other’s hands.
“Cannot. She… was in my head!” The young thief spat this out, rushed between clenched teeth.
“I am here. With you.”
“The books,” the thief stammered. “Give to. The Nix. Promise me.”
The Nix—an impossibility from another age.
“Promise. Me.”
Aengus nodded sadly. “I promise.”
The young man gripped the Arch Druid’s arm with a strength that spoke to his final urgency. “Promise.” Clenched teeth. “Promise again.”
“I swear on my title as Arch Druid of Caer Dathal the New.”
The young thief fought the death that came from within, magically put there by the witch. Panic grew in his eyes as his breathing came in erratic bursts—until his breathing stopped abruptly.
And Ryorn Helyth died in his arms.
* * * * *
Aengus Doughal looked upon Saith yn Col, still unsure of his promise.
The travel over the Snowdon and into the northern lands of Annwn had passed uneventful. The witch had not confronted them again. Aengus had only crossed one witch like the creature who had inhabited Ryorn Helyth, a woman able to hide in plain sight, capable of jumping from body to body. They were exceedingly rare and harder to kill, monsters of shadow and malice. She would never stop searching for the grimoires—Aengus knew that to be true given her patience in waiting for Caer Llion to fall—and it was for only that reason he considered fulfilling his promise to the dead thief.
The grimoires were a terrible threat. With its many hidden rooms and magically sealed vaults, Caer Dathal the New could house the books. But, he reflected, the witch knew he had them. She also knew where he called home.
And putting such deadly materials near other magic practitioners could be even more dangerous.
Time would tell, he guessed.
The Arch Druid pulled his horse to a stop, letting the gravity of the scene sink in. Caer Dathal of Old had been magnificent once, a bustling community living in one of the largest castle keeps in Annwn. It wasn’t without a bit of irony that Aengus had brought the very books that had helped lead to this place’s ruination. Caer Dathal of Old was a broken blight of stone, shattered beyond believability and almost as dark as the gathering clouds in the far east of Annwn.
Aldric rode up alongside him. The Vorrels also appeared in the shadows, the fey creatures alternating scouting duties.
Aengus knew they all could feel what he felt.
Ancient death, a cemetery of a forgotten era.
—Place. Is broken—
—Powerful creature. In ruins—
“Why are we here?” Aldric questioned, scanning the ruins.
“To fulfill a promise.” The Arch Druid offered his hand in leaving. “This is a promise that is meant for one and one only. It is here we part.” Aengus offered his hand. If Aldric was offended, he didn’t show it. The two men shook forearms, the grips firm but respectful. “There is more to you than you know, Aldric Martel,” the Arch Druid continued. “You hid from those Templar Knights who crossed our path in Caer Llion. And you hid your sword in Caer Llion, a marker of your heritage and your place in the hierarchy of Annwn. There is more going on than you have shared, of that there is little doubt. That said, I believe a man’s business is his own. There will always be a place for you at Caer Dathal.”
“That is kind of you. Thank you,” the Templar Knight said. “I wish I had more to offer in return.”
“Without you and the Vorrels, I would not have bested that witch.” Aengus looked into the sky. “I hope you will consider making a promise to yourself. Let one’s character decide whether or not you should value them. Make up your own mind. And let that mind be free of learned hatred. You are better than that.”
“No matter what you say, I still hate the fey, Arch Druid.”
Aengus nodded. “Not as much. There is hope for you still, Aldric.” He gave the other a solemn look. “Where will you go now?”
“To the other major cities here in the north, far away from—”
“Your past?” Aengus finished.
“I will find work somewhere. Swords are always needed.” The warrior smiled but it showed little warmth. “Safe travels to you, Arch Druid of Caer Dathal the New.”
“And to you, Aldric Martel.”
Aldric then gazed at the two Vorrels. “Keep him safe, you two killers.”
As the Templar Knight rode through the thick forest back to the main road, the Unseelie creatures looked at each other, puzzled. It was the first time Aldric had spoken a word to them—and about as much recognition they were likely to get for saving his life.
Long-held belief challenged by an enemy’s kindness was not easy.
Aldric now gone, Aengus stared hard once more upon the ruins of Saith yn Col. It was a dead lump of broken rock. He touched the bulk of the grimoires against his hip where he carried them in a leather pack, able to sense the putrid evil they possessed.
The days to come were going to be difficult ones.
“Scout ahead, my new friends,” Aengus said. “But be safe.”
The Vorrels sprang forward, more eager than hounds at hunt. It made the Arch Druid smile, his sadness gone momentarily. Paetyn and Kehndyl had gotten revenge for the death of their clan. By being true to themselves, they had proven to Aldric that not all fey—even the shadowy Unseelie—were evil. The pain the fey creatures felt at losing their other family members still existed but they were resilient. It was a pain that was all too human. And like Aldric, they would recover.
Aengus didn’t have the heart to tell them the witch was not dead.
At least he had kept the grimoires from her.
His mount responding to a click of the tongue, Aengus set after the Vorrels. They would locate one of the most dangerous creatures in Annwn. A relic centuries old. Thought long dead and buried beneath Saith yn Col.
And Aengus would keep his promise.
The White Rose Thief
Introduction
When I finished writing The Dark Thorn, I knew I would further explore its dangerous fey world of Annwn.
The White Rose Thief does that.
It is the story of Rosenwyn Whyte, a musician with a dark past, a woman possessed of talents that are coveted by the evil and powerful alike. A repentant thief, she is coerced to steal powerful magic from a creature thought dead.
Of course, things are not as they seem. I wanted to look at how being born different could affect a person’s life; I wanted to look at how those differences could push a person into a life they did not want--and possibly and ultimately save them.
I hope you enjoy the path Rosenwyn Whyte must tread.
The White Rose Thief
The final note of the crwth died in silence followed by raucous applause.
Rosenwyn Whyte lowered the stringed instrument and its bow, inclinin
g her head in polite recognition. The audience cheered all the more. She sat upon a slightly elevated stage at the Raging Drunk, the largest inn and tavern in Annwn’s northern city of Mur Castell, no other musicians accompanying her. Although larger than most, the Raging Drunk was like many such establishments she often played—smoky, loud, and the odor of crowded, unwashed humanity mingling with beer grown long sour. It attracted patrons from all castes, from the wealthy sitting in the upper balconies to the vagabonds who had managed to escape the notice of burly Byl Cornwyll, the owner. The Everwinter drove all of them inside, its snow and ice an indiscriminate hardship for all, while music and drunken fellowship offered the only solace.
The unnaturally long winter had been good to Rosenwyn though. Music helped people forget the terrible season, and music was her trade. This night, the crowd had been large. Money emptied from pockets to fill flagons with beer.
Not that Rosenwyn saw much of either.
“Yeh were a might amazin’ again, Rosie,” Byl Cornwyll said, having pushed his way from behind the bar through the crowd to tower over her.
“A great room, Byl, as usual.”
The owner of the Raging Drunk grinned, wringing his large hands on a damp bar towel that hung at his waist. A nervous habit, she noted, that made her smile. “That was one helluva rendition of The Ballad of Gor Dwallyn. Never heard its like sung. Found damnable tears in me eyes, ah did. Had to turn away.”
“You are too big a man to cry, Byl,” Rosenwyn said, smiling, tucking the crwth safely away within a padded carrying pouch.
“And yeh are too beautiful to play in holes like this,” the other said, winking. “Do yeh have plans for tomorrow night? Another go? If these people do not see me ask, they will burn the Drunk down, ah swear.”
“I will let you know later tonight,” she said, massaging the stress from her hands.
The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn: Preludes to The Everwinter Wraith (The Annwn Cycle) Page 11
