The Dark Thorn (25 page)

Richard observed one of the Rhedewyr cantering toward Bran, a tall chestnut mare with a flowing black mane and tail. The horse pranced to a slow trot as it grew near and stopped to nuzzle Bran with affection.

“You see, lad,” Kegan said. “Smart.”

“Willowyn,” Bran breathed, smiling. The boy looked around as if seeking someone but disappointment quickly filled his face.

“I am surprised at the amount of humans among the Tuatha de Dannan,” Richard said.

“All are ancestors of the Misty Isles,” the clurichaun sniffed. “Philip brought thousands of men and women and hundreds of those Templar Knights with him. Over the centuries not all of their children embraced the rule of the Usurper. Those who cannot tolerate him come to us—out of a change or safety or any number of other reasons.”

“How can you know they aren’t spies sent by Philip?”

“There
is
no way, knight,” Kegan acknowledged. “Other than the Nharth. Those in the mountain fog know much about a person.”

Richard watched the Rhedewyr, thinking. They would be an integral part of what was to come. He would have to speak to the Morrigan about them. There were things he and Bran would need if what he thought came to pass.

It would require sacrifice.

It would not come easily.

Hoping he would be strong enough for the gathering Seelie Court, Richard finished his breakfast and tried to enjoy the innocence of the Awenau.

He knew that innocence would not last.

Richard watched the lords of the Seelie Court take seats around the Cylch Table.

The Sarn Throne stood empty next to him, the Morrigan yet to arrive. Dozens of orbs chased away the shadows from the uppermost chamber of the Cadarn, the soft light illuminating colorful banners of the fey nations that hung from the rock ceiling. The cool air bore a hint of crushed lilac and earthy minerals. Foot-wide waterfalls trickled down hewn rock at four different places, the water vanishing below. Despite the care that had gone into creating such a beautiful room from solid rock—and the elegant curve of powerful runes carved into the walls to keep the concerns of Seelie Court secret—Richard failed to find any solace.

The memories John Lewis Hugo had invoked lingered.

And angered him.

Since walking Arendig Fawr and feeling stronger, Richard turned his thoughts to his capture. The advisor for Philip Plantagenet knew intimate chinks in the knight’s armor, had used them to compromise the faith Richard used to maintain Arondight. How John Lewis Hugo knew of Elizabeth the knight did not know, but it had neutralized his escape from the demon wolves.

Even now, Richard was unsure if he could call Arondight.

He closed his eyes briefly, and saw the dead vision of her.

Stares from the summoned lords prickled him back to reality. He met each with stern authority, hiding the turmoil within. He would not show weakness.

The lords were as different as the lands they warded, governed by petty bickering and centuries-long squabbles. Lord Eigion of the Merrow, his skin near translucent and neck gills pulsing faintly, continually fought Lord n’Hagr of the Buggane to keep the coastal ogre-like people of Caer Harlech from destroying the fish populations of the sea. Unapologetic for her nakedness, Horsemaster Aife stared hard at Lugh of the Long Hand—the defender of Arendig Fawr and bearer of the magical spear Areadbhar—for the occasional ill treatment of the Rhedewyr. Beside Lugh sat Mastersmith Govannon, his meaty hands folded on the table, an outcast living in the outskirts of the city. On the other side slumped Caswallawn, barely cognizant in his perpetual drunken stupor, as Lord Finnbhennach glowered over all, his broad frame mammoth even seated, his bullish horns gleaming where they erupted from black skin.

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.”