The Dark Thorn

Standing next to Pope Clement XV, Cormac clutched a Bible over his red and white vestment as if it were a lifeline, fighting the anger threatening to overwhelm him.

The problem was he didn’t know if he wanted to be saved.

He wanted to laugh like a madman.

“To celebrate this solemn time, we are united in Christ, who died and too rose from the dead,’’ the pontiff said, his voice echoing in the low-ceiled tomb. ‘‘Cardinal Donato Javier Ramirez has now passed over from death to life through the blessings that he received in his association with Christ.’’

Cormac barely heard a word, the wheels of reprisal spinning. The closed coffin of Donato rested to the side of a hole chiseled into the rock far beneath St. Peter’s Basilica. Cormac could not take his eyes from it. The Bible favored by Donato lay on the casket, and baptismal water the Pope had sprinkled shined in the candlelight. The Vigilo were deep within Vatican Hill in a series of secret rooms few knew existed, below even the Sacred Grotto where more than ninety Popes and other distinguished dead lay interred. The funeral was the first Mass conducted in these depths during his Cardinalship and the proper forms were being witnessed.

The Pope conducted the private requiem, beginning with the Introit and orchestrating each rite with the respect Donato deserved.

Cormac hated that he couldn’t keep his oldest friend safe.

After an opening reading by Cardinal Villenza, Clement cleared his throat to read from the New Testament.

“‘Let no one keep defrauding you of your prize by delighting in self-abasement and the worship of angels, taking his stand on visions he has seen, inflated without cause by his fleshly mind, and not holding fast to the head, from whom the entire body, being supplied and held together by the joints and ligaments, grows with a growth which is from God,’” Clement orated, his deep voice echoing, before looking at the members of the Vigilo. “In this letter to the Colossians, Paul reminds us all to renounce other worldly gods, maintain our focus on the work of the Lord, and deny evil that which takes our heart from Him. Cardinal Ramirez knew this better than anyone. He led a long life with the basic but fundamental insight of not only looking to Christ for salvation but protecting His flock from Annwn and those who would remove the focus of our faith.”

Clement began the Sanctus then. The Vigilo joined him like they had the previous prayers, their voices raised together.

The Cardinal Vicar welcomed the bit of solace the familiar chant gave.

With the appeal to God finished, Clement turned to Cormac. The Cardinal Vicar stepped forward and opened his Bible. The pages turned at once to the Gospel of Mark, bookmarked with the thick silken red ribbon. Tracing each familiar verse, Cormac stopped at the appropriate one, his voice shaky but growing in steadfast strength.

“The Passover Supper as told by Mark,” Cormac started. “Jesus offered His disciples bread and, after blessing it, He gave it to them, saying, ‘Take this, this is my body.’ The Lord then took a cup of wine, thanked God, and shared His cup with the others. ‘This is My blood of the covenant, which is poured out of many. Truly I say to you, I will never again drink of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God.’” Cormac closed the Bible. “Donato is released to the glory of our Lord. He is now exalted and safe from sin, just as he kept us safe for the entirety of his days. Donato was a tireless man, given vast energy by the Lord no matter how many decades passed; he used his boundless wisdom to enrich our lives in the Lord and see the doctrine Saint Peter entrusted the Vigilo carried out as it was decreed.”

Cormac swallowed hard. “In his duty, the Cardinal Seer was the type of rock the Lord charged Saint Peter with being—growing the flock and keeping it safe.

“Let us pray the Angus Dei.”

When they were done with the Angus Dei, Cormac nodded to the pontiff.

Clement turned to face each Cardinal.

“Let us take Communion.”

As the members of the Vigilo knelt to the cold stone, the Pope offered each a wheaten wafer and a lone sip of wine from a golden chalice as he repeated the tradition with his Cardinals. Cormac accepted the offering from Christ, but it was like wet ash in his mouth. The man responsible for the strength Cormac carried had been murdered, taken from the world by an insidious evil wishing the Church blind, the very role of Seer used against Donato through the Fionúir Mirror.

He had died saving Cormac.

God had a plan Donato had shared in the chamber before his death.

It was not the only time he had reiterated that belief…Cormac had been twenty years old, a young priest in an ancient Church. Long gone from his native home of Ireland and finished helping his parents in the Middle East, Cormac had been studying and working in the Vatican for two years. The time was very different then, the ruin of the Second World War behind them, and Catholicism under Pope John XIII waning in popularity to a liberal cultural explosion in the world. But the Baroque and Renaissance beauty permeated St. Peter’s Basilica as it had for centuries, and the arms of Bernini’s colonnade permanently welcomed people into the bosom of the Catholic Church.

The Lord could be seen in every piece of artwork around Cormac until he absorbed the beauty and humility like a sponge.

Sitting on a bench in the nave of the Basilica and ignoring the wide-eyed tourists, Cormac read the Historia Brittonum for his studies. Sunshine from the dome fell over the massive bronze baldacchino while marble statues set into the walls watched from eternally frozen positions those who milled below.

The spot was one of his favorite places to read and think, despite the noise.

White robes swirled to a stop before Cormac.

Lowering the book, he glanced up.

“A word with you, young O’Connor,” an older man said in lilted Spanish, his robes those of a Bishop, his coal-like eyes staring sadly at Cormac. “I was told I might find you here.”

“I am at your service, Bishop…?”

“Bishop Donato Javier Ramirez, of the Vatican Archives,” he said as he handed Cormac a browned letter, already opened, from the folds of his robe.

“A missive for me?” Cormac asked, taking the letter.

“I am afraid so, my son.”

Cormac frowned. Red inked Arabic markings voided multiple stamps on the envelope, his name and the Vatican address labeled in scrawled calligraphic script, the dry paper light as a feather in his hand. Cormac paused. He often received letters from his father and family in the Middle East, who worked hard to convert the Islamic peoples to Christianity, but what he held was not written in his father’s hand.

One end was slit open, the actual letter cradled inside.

Cormac removed and unfolded the letter—and upon reading it had a mixture of disbelief, heart-stopping sorrow, and rage sweep through him like the angriest of storms.

The world blurred.

His heart hammered.

A paralyzed scream exploded in his head.

The letter notified His Eminence Pope John XIII in two short paragraphs that fanatical Shiite purists in the city of Kut had murdered Cormac’s father, mother, and sister.

The foundation of Cormac crumbled.

“This cannot be…” he shook his head. “Cannot…”

The Bishop sat beside him and firmly gripped the young man’s hands, praying to the Lord for guidance even as the first spark of furious ire lit inside Cormac.

“God has a plan, my son,” Bishop Ramirez finished. “Always.”

It took two weeks for the bodies of his family to be returned. The mass conducted in Ireland was a closed-casket affair; the whole village witnessed the ceremony and burial of his family. Cormac stood alone, aloof, his childhood home foreign and lost forever. As their coffins were slowly lowered into the peaty soil, the crisp wind of the Isles chilled cheeks to the numbness his heart already carried. He let them go, vowing to keep the pain of their deaths rooted in his being.

For years afterward, Donato mentored Cormac to view the Lord as the way to enact world change—that not all people different from the Church were evil but merely misguided.

After four decades, he remembered that day as if it were yesterday.

As he stood within the cold catacombs, he laid to rest one of his best friends and a second father, a man murdered by extreme hate just as his first had been.

It was hard for Cormac to see the plan God had put into play.

The final communion given, Clement stepped forward and baptized the coffin of the Cardinal Seer once more. He removed the Bible, left the cross in the center of the oak box, and stepped away. Cardinals Villenza and Tucci slowly lowered Donato into the chiseled hole until the coffin came to its final place of rest. For Cormac, it was hard to watch. Despite Donato carrying humility to the end, the Seer deserved a grand majestic Mass in the beautiful nave and halls above rather than a small funeral in the depths of the Basilica. But the role of Seer came with restrictions, and the world had to remain ignorant of Annwn and all of those who kept its existence secret.

“Until we also come to the Lord’s doorstep,” Clement said, forming the cross over his heart. “The Catholic Church and the Vigilo say farewell to you, Cardinal Seer Donato Javier Ramirez.”

The Vigilo also made the sign of the cross.

Cormac helped the others move a plain stone slab featuring a simple rose carved in relief with opened petals, his name, and the dates of his birth, service, and death. As the casket disappeared from view, tears burned. The boom of the stone fitting snuggly into place echoed like the final strike of a clock tower bell that would never ring again.

The Pope looked to Cormac.

The Cardinal Vicar stepped to the head of the tomb. “Lord, grant him eternal rest, and may perpetual light shine upon him within your vaunted love. Amen.”

The Vigilo repeated the final prayer. With a sad nod, Clement left the room, his robes a whisper. The Cardinals also left, some sharing words of solace with Cormac, others stopping to squeeze his hands in faith and sharing of grief.

After they left, the catacomb room returned to cold silence.

Cormac knelt at the foot of the tomb and wept.

It was a long time before he left.

With a bright lantern held high and midnight having come and gone, Cormac entered the depths of the Vatican once more, this time leading Swiss Guard Captain Finn Arne and his team of soldiers.

After the burial of Donato, Cormac and the Vigilo had spent a somber dinner remembering the Cardinal Seer. Eventually discussion changed to Annwn and the evil festering there. The Fionúir Mirror had been covered by its shroud and would remain so without a Seer, the Church blind to Annwn—and Philip Plantagenet. Names of possible candidates for the role went long into the night. They settled on no one. It would be some time before they found a man sharing the convictions and doctrine of the Vigilo to take on the mantle of Cardinal Seer.

Unable to sleep and the murder of Donato galvanizing him, Cormac enacted plans known to be heretical.

“If I may say, your Lordship, you seem quite tired. Is all well?”

“You may not say, Finn,” Cormac warned. “You have more pressing matters to worry about than my feelings.”

Finn Arne shrugged beside Cormac, a dark tool of fortune as they descended into the depths of Italy. Dressed entirely in black lightweight clothing and a number of pistols, knives, and semi-automatic rifles belted to his person, the Captain of the Swiss Guard watched Cormac with a dead eye alongside one burning with confidence. Two dozen armed soldiers of the Swiss Guard followed, allowed to pass through the Sacred Grotto where pontiffs of ages past were buried and into the secret catacombs beneath, armed like their captain. According to Finn, the guards were well trained and discretionary for the right price, the hardest men to have walked the Holy See.

“You have briefed your men of what they might encounter?”

“I have,” Finn replied. “They are the best in the Guard. Several of them were in Seattle with me and have shared what they experienced with the others.”

“Let’s hope the best is enough,” Cormac muttered. “And they all lack family?”

“Not so much a cousin among them, your Grace.”

“Good. Good. I want you to find him, Finn. No excuses. Observe Caer Llion if you have the chance but do not return without Ardall.”

“With the trackers and firepower assembled at my back, it will be done.”

“Do not underestimate McAllister again,” Cormac warned sternly. “He has almost as many tricks as the wizard.” He paused. “There are also those you should turn from, fey creatures who possess far more power than any of you. Do not enter into contest like you did with the Kreche. Stealth will serve you better until you find Ardall. The longer you stay hidden from those who exist in Annwn, the better chance you will have of completing what I ask of you.”

“As you have said already.”

“You are sure you can track the boy?”

“With certainty. There are three men in this group who track.” Finn patted the pack on his hip. “The map you’ve supplied will also guide us. When we gain the Carn Cavall, we will ferret him out and bring him to Rome.”

Pleased, Cormac nodded. He had spent hours in the chamber of the Seer, pouring over archives of information to help better direct the captain once he arrived in Annwn. After Cormac notified the pontiff of Donato’s murder, Clement had also bequeathed what knowledge he possessed as Pope. With that information and the journals of Donato to aid him, Cormac spent a sleepless night studying Annwn and, having witnessed the path McAllister and Ardall had taken after fleeing Dryvyd Wood, put Finn on the trail to gain what the Cardinal Vicar desired.

Even from the grave, Donato would help bring death to his killers. Through Finn, Cormac would control the Heliwr and use him to hunt those responsible for the murder of the Cardinal Seer.

“Kill the knight if you must,” Cormac commanded. “Richard McAllister has become a serious liability. He has deviated from his role and in so doing has corrupted his purpose the Vigilo and the Catholic Church entrusted him.”

“If all is equal, McAllister will pose no threat,” Finn said, eagerness gleaming in his one good eye. “Not this time.”

“Do not worry about Myrddin Emrys,” Cormac acknowledged. “Without his power he is merely an old man and he cannot aid the boy. Destroy McAllister first. The boy will be yours after that. Bring him straight here, to me. No one else need know of this excursion.”

“It will be done, your Lordship,” Finn said. “I will not fail again.”

Cormac leaned in closely. “Do this, and you will have whatever you wish.”

Avarice twinkled in the depths of Finn’s good eye.

The air grew chillier the deeper the men delved, every level producing older and older carved sarcophagi and tombs dating back centuries, their artwork eroded by age. After coming to a large four-door intersection, Cormac paused, bringing the group to a halt, emotion coursing through him. The right doorway led to the chamber Donato had once called home, the place of his death. Instead Cormac walked through the opposite doorway. Damper air rushed over his cheeks. He stole through the hundreds of yards of twisting corridors, leading many into a world only seen by a few, the sound of moving water growing stronger with every step he took.

Coming to a gaping black doorway, Cormac entered a new cavern. Wet minerals tinged the air. Four lanterns bolted into the low ceiling cast yellow light in a wide circle until snuffed by a cocoon of darkness, the illumination encapsulating a sandy bank where the movement of an underground branch of the Tiber River passed black as an oil slick. Near the shore, two rectangular stones erupted and were carved with hundreds of glowing white runes between which flashes of silver lightning arced within a shimmering void.

Ennio Rossi, his dark eyes haggard but back straight, waited by the portal, his hands thrust into his pants pockets.

Cormac gave the knight a cordial nod. “Captain Arne, Ennio Rossi here will see you and your men through to Annwn.”

“Bearer of Prydwen,” Ennio greeted Finn. “Shield of Mother Church.”

“Knight of the Seven, it is with great honor we meet,” Finn said, removing his eye from the portal. “My men are prepared for what is to come once through the portal. Expect our return soon.”

Ennio deferred his gaze and stepped aside.

“Kneel, Swiss Guard of the Vatican,” the Cardinal Vicar ordered.

Cormac blessed the group of soldiers for a safe return, but his thoughts were of Ennio. The knight remained hesitant to break the canon handed to him by the Church and Myrddin Emrys. No one was meant to pass either direction—not fairy creature, not man. Only the Heliwr had the ability to do so, and even the Unfettered Knight did so at great peril of spilling the long-held secret of the Vigilo. But the death of Donato had reinforced the need to enter Annwn, and without the Heliwr, Ennio knew he had no other choice.

When the prayer was finished, Cormac turned to Finn. “Remember what I told you,” Cormac said, mostly so Ennio would hear. “Stealth is your weapon, not might of arms. Spy on Caer Llion, watch for any army being built. Return as quickly as you can.”

Finn nodded, his face set stone, and entered the swirling portal. The men under his command followed their captain as well, disappearing as if through a veil of falling water. None turned back; none deviated. After seconds, Finn and his group of heavily armed warriors had disappeared from Rome.

The portal glimmered as it had for centuries, as if nothing had happened.

“Well done, Ennio Rossi,” Cormac said, pleased.

“If the others find out…”

“They will not,” Cormac assured. “The only one to possibly find out is Knight Richard McAllister and I promise, he will welcome the aid.”

Ennio looked at the portal. “Why do you think Richard went into Annwn?”

“I don’t know,” Cormac lied. “Perhaps it is Myrddin Emr—”

“Merle has never sent a portal knight into Annwn.”

“That you know of,” Cormac corrected. “Without a Heliwr, anything is possible.”

At the mention of the Heliwr, Ennio averted his eyes from the Cardinal Vicar and crossed his arms. Tension formed a rift between them. He knew Ennio did not tell him all that transpired in his role as knight, had not even told Donato everything. The Knights of the Yn Saith were close, able to communicate over the vast distances that separated them, and that bond and the knowledge that came from it remained an annoyance to the Church. If Ennio knew why McAllister had entered Annwn with Ardall, he wasn’t sharing.

“Whatever transpires, Ennio, we must be vigilant.”

“I will fulfill my responsibility,” the knight answered.

“As the Cardinal Seer saw in his mirror, odd elements are swarming around Caer Llion. Evil grows there. Creatures not seen before are ravaging the countryside, and we fear Plantagenet is sending his machinations into this world. The loss of a portal knight is a grave concern to the Vigilo.”

Ennio frowned. “Richard would never join—”

“He has had a hard life, my son,” Cormac said, sowing doubt. “We know not his reason for entering Annwn and must be wary.”

Ennio stayed silent, but Cormac saw his arrow had struck true.

“Be prepared for the worst if it comes to that,” Cormac said. “The Guard has already been doubled in the chambers of the Basilica above. Hundreds more are near to calling. With you warding the portal, a large force at your back and the corridors upward so narrow, we should be able to contain any attempt by Plantagenet to enter Rome.”

“When the Captain comes back through, I will notify you,” Ennio said. “And if it comes to it, I can bring this cavern down around the portal so that no one can enter.”

Cormac nodded politely, turned, and made his way up into the Basilica again and out through the façade into Italy’s cold air. Plans he had set into motion were out of his hands now. The Pope wanted results; Cormac would give them.

And become favored for his next appointment.

Pontiff of the Catholic Church.

He sighed, suddenly tired. The loss of Donato drove him stronger than any papal authority, but he was still just a man. Myrddin Emrys could not be trusted, his knights lacking the conscience to do what was right. With Finn Arne acting as the Cardinal Vicar’s extension, the Heliwr would be his and when that happened, Plantagenet would die along with those who had joined him in Annwn.

And any heretical enemies of the Church.

When Cormac crawled into bed, sleep came on swift wings.





“My king, there is nothing I can do,” John Lewis Hugo said, his voice low.

“Nothing you can do?!” Philip raged. “Nothing you can do?!”

John did not answer, his mask of ruined flesh impassive. Philip fought the urge to pin his oldest friend against the stairwell wall and beat him senseless. Caer Llion brooded like its king. Sunrise had not yet come, the corridors vacant of staff. It suited Philip. The spiraling staircase unfolded downward from his suites, the passage chilly and empty of servants. Whenever he ventured into the warrens beneath the castle he preferred no one to know. Gauging the progress of the witch, no matter how distasteful, had become of singular importance. The time to lead the crusade into the world of his birth was nigh upon him—the end of the war in Annwn his father had ordained and the beginning of his true calling.

Now his longtime friend and most powerful ally informed him that McAllister and Ardall were out of reach—out of reach!

“Answer me!” Philip commanded.

“My king, you know as well as I the cauldron has limits,” the advisor said. “Once the knight and his charge fled into the lower reaches of the Snowdon and into the Nharth, they became and continue to be outside the range of my magical ability.”

Philip mastered his frustration, if barely. The stairwell they descended opened into the expanse of the Great Hall where two Templar Knights snapped to attention from their post at the main entrance, the enormous banner of the Plantagenet House hanging above them, its roaring golden lion staring down with authority from a crimson field. Not capturing the knight and the boy rankled him. He wanted to add their power to his own. Philip had instead been forced to undo the magic chains binding the bodach for centuries and unleash the predatory Unseelie creature upon the boy. The smoke-like beast had sniffed Ardall’s coat and bounded from the castle like a sable bolt shot from a crossbow. The bodach was now within the Snowdon hunting. Or feasting on the dead.

It irked Philip that he didn’t know which. John hadn’t been able to view what transpired in the Snowdon and the Carn Cavall, leaving Philip in the dark.

Passing carved stone statues of stoic knights and ancient tapestries depicting victorious battles from his Annwn arrival, Philip and John traveled deeper into the castle and took a broad staircase down, its steps worn from ages of passing feet. Caer Llion had been built upon a large abutment of rock overlooking the sea, long before Philip was even born, and he had taken it as his main capital after invading Annwn. Over the centuries, he had fortified his new holding and conquered most of the island. By bribing the Cailleach to keep it eternally summer, the economy of the land grew as his people multiplied. With the growth of the great northern cities of Caer Dathal, Mur Castell, and Velen Rhyd in Gwynedd, Philip strengthened his rule and most of Annwn was quelled. His land, his rule.

With Philip watching the hall, John opened a secret passageway set behind a large wall-hung tapestry, its thickly woven fabric obscuring the entrance into the dungeons. Philip flinched as cool air mixed with the tang of human waste and unwashed bodies swept over him. He pushed down the bile rising in his throat; he hated going into the dungeons almost as much as he hated the fey and their ilk.

“What have you seen in the cauldron then?” Philip questioned.

The wall grinding to a close behind them, John mumbled a combination of words until a blue flame materialized in the air to light their way down the staircase. “Before the sun set last evening while you met with the lords, I traveled over the breadth of Annwn. The fey are moving. Thousands of Merrow have come ashore near Mynyw at Porth Cleis, armed and ready for spending long days on land. Up the coast, many of the buggane have left the ruins of Caer Harlech, heading toward the Snowdon. Both groups have entered the Nharth mists. There may be other fey joining them, but I cannot view the entirety of Annwn every moment.”

“Mobilizing.”

“Mobilizing,” John agreed. “And there are others.”

Philip frowned. “Others?”

“Lord Gerallt and his daughter have vanished. My spies know not where they have gone, but they are no longer in Mochdrev Reach. I believe they have betrayed Caer Llion,” John said, gliding like a stain down the stairwell. “The Morrigan could be drawing these groups together for an offensive of some kind, one that would put our current plans at risk.”

“You are certain of this? About Lord Gerallt joining the Tuatha?”

“It makes sense, my king,” John said. “Mochdrev Reach has ever had ties to the Carn Cavall, playing both sides to remain at peace. Lord Gerallt offered his daughter, but apparently she is stronger than even I observed when I met her.”

“You have been wrong another time, John,” Philip said, angry all over again with his advisor. “And you wanted me to marry that traitorous whore? Redheaded bitch. I want Lord Gerallt dead. His daughter dead. The Reach made a Templar garrison!”

“The boy and the knight could be driving the resistance.”

“If the bodach does what you say it will, there are no worries,” Philip said.

“The bodach is formidable. But the power of the knight, combined with members of the Seelie Court, could withstand it.” John paused. “I think we should reconsider our plans. I think it would behoove us to sweep the Snowdon clear before proceeding into the portal, my king. It is apparent the Seelie Court is not as weak as we had once thought.”

Anger that had been smoldering reignited. In one swift motion Philip gripped his old friend by his black robe, fists wanting to fling the advisor down the staircase.

“You tell me all of this now!” Philip yelled.

Surprise on John’s face became a dark cloud, his eyes hard like black agates of hatred. The friend Philip knew disappeared; in his place a terrifying creature stared back.

“Do not forget what I have become, my king.”

Philip let John go but did not retreat beneath his hot gaze.

“My king,” John said softly, his hate gone as quickly as it had come. “The choice will always be your own. I have done what I can to advise you with the knowledge I gained under Master Wace as well as that gleaned from the fey creature Arawn, whose being I trapped and consumed. War is uncertain. Once forces begin moving, the enemy counters. That is the nature of such endeavors. We must embrace all tangible probabilities, analyze them, to make the wisest course of action.”

Philip stared hard at John. “We shall not deviate from my cause.”

“Of course we will not, my king.”

“We must leave behind a larger force than planned to maintain all that we have gained,” Philip thought aloud. “Protect all that we have fought for.”

“That would be wise,” John said. “Master Wace would agree.”

Philip backed away from his advisor and took a steadying breath. Rarely had they come to such angst-ridden moments in the past. He and John had always been close, despite the change made to rid Annwn of Arawn—a terrible and powerful fey lord. Other than the brief pleasures afforded him by a woman, Philip let no one but John near him. Together they had begun this conquest and together they would finish it.

“And the portal is secure?” he asked.

“It is,” John said evenly. “The Templar Knights command every crag and trail. Nothing will prevent our entrance when the time is right.”

“That is well,” Philip commended. “I want to lead my army through the portal myself, without disruption. And I want you following right behind. I loathe Annwn. It is time we returned to the world of our birth—as conquerors.”

“It will be so, my king.”

“Is our way clear?” Philip questioned. “On the other side?”

“I cannot see within the Vatican,” John answered. “But the catacombs beneath are empty of all but the dead and the knight.”

“And what of him?”

“The whelp knows not what comes,” John assured. “He is not even there half the time, carousing in inns and pubs with brew and women. Such a sinful world, ripe for our purposes. With the Cardinal Seer dead and the knight preoccupied by his flesh, when we enter the Vatican to reclaim your birthright, my pets will carve a way past the curse tablets and into the heart of the very Basilica itself. We will gain the Vault and the relics that lie within. With their power added to our own, we will crush the resistance here. Then the cleanse shall begin in that world as well.”

“As it should, a long time in the coming,” Philip acknowledged.

“What of the Morrigan, my king?”

“I want eyes patrolling the sky,” Philip commanded. “Send the griffins into the Snowdon today at sunrise, reporting back in short intervals. They have bred like rabbits, and sacrificing a few will give a greater understanding of what the Morrigan is planning. Regardless of her design, it will be moot if Caer Llion is made aware in time.”

“In whose keeping will you leaveCaer Llion?”

Philip had spent great amount of time considering that very point. The last few days had seen many meetings. Not all of the lords under his banner were trustworthy. With no heir due to the affects of the magic that kept him young, Philip did not have anyone to trust.

“Lord Evinnysan,” Philip ventured.

“The wisest choice of the group I think.”

“Not smart enough to take the throne, vicious enough to protect my interests,” Philip continued. “He will need to be watched.”

“Much will need to be watched other than the Morrigan and Caer Llion,” John said, turning down a new staircase where the air grew damp. “You should be made aware, my king, that a flock of griffins attacked a young dragon. It survived, if barely, winging back to its kin.”

“And you worry that could motivate Tal Ebolyon?”

“Long has Latobius remained separate from the Seelie Court,” John said. “Even if the dragon lord lends his power to the Morrigan, the griffins will protect the air. We have nothing to fear from that dying race. Their time passed with the shadow of the wind.”

“Watch them anyway,” Philip ordered, blocking the way. “Remember what Master Wace always taught during war seminar?”

“Overconfidence kills a leader.”

Philip moved on. Master Wace of Bayeux. Centuries had passed since Philip and John had studied with their mentor in a tall tower rising just outside Oxford. The Master had given fourteen years of his life teaching tactics in warfare, philosophy from the far east and Greek antiquity, the history and politics of Europe and the Isles, and the intricacies of the Church and its followers. When Philip was young he had longed to be part of the family his father Henry II denied him, but growing into manhood under the tutelage of Master Wace had opened his eyes to the hypocrisy in the world—starting with his own kin. The bickering of his father and brother Richard over northern France, his father banishing Philip’s mother to the Tower of London, the attempt by John to claim the crown while Richard fought in the Third Crusade—the sin of greed and jealousy drove wedges between his family members and the Word of the Church.

Philip promised he would never succumb to the sinful vicissitudes that had ruined his family and those he had seen in the poverty-stricken streets of London.

He repressed a snort.

The Seelie Court quarreled like his family.

Now, having lived longer than any of his father’s descendents, he meant to finish what God and Henry II had ordained all those centuries earlier.

Bring religious order to the world—with the sword, if necessary.

The staircase ended and both men stepped into a vast empty cavern, their footfalls echoing off the foundation of the castle. Of the four available doorways, John selected the one on their right, away from the dungeons, his flame above lighting their way.

“Will the Cailleach be ready with the strap bags?” Philip asked.

“She will. Enough cattle hide has been acquired to make it so.”

“It is almost time then.”

“Lord Gwawl and the rest have sworn their allegiance,” John said. “And given of their men and resources.”

“Give them the bags then,” Philip said. “Test them and ensure the water works. Explain what the bags are for. Do not tell them where they came from. I doubt any of them will turn on me after they realize the power I possess and control.”

John nodded and continued onward.

“And if they do challenge me,” Philip added. “They will be fed to the halfbreeds.”

The staircase continued to wind down, but the stone of the walls changed from mortared blocks to slick rock, cut from the natural lay of the land. The corridors were ancient, having been there since the Celtic gods and goddesses had entered Annwn to escape their persecution from the Isles. Philip possessed it all now, to use as his whim dictated.

After what seemed an eternity walking in the clammy depths, they came to a locked door, one newly fashioned from thick oak and banded in unforgiving iron. A giant Fomorian stood guard, his broad shoulders filling up much of the hallway. He bowed, his eyes lost behind the visor of a helmet. A giant sword lay propped against the wall nearby.

“My king, the witch may not appreciate our visit to these depths,” John said.

“I pay her price,” Philip said. “She will do as I tell her or she will be fed to her creations.”

John shrugged. He produced a key from the folds of his robe, and upon opening the door, he stepped by the Fomorian into the subterranean.

The Mhydew spread out as far as Philip could see, a lake as black as obsidian, its depths lost to the imagination and the air filled with the rancorous combination of minerals and feces. The blue flame rose high, revealing giant cones of rock clinging to the ceiling like dozens of teeth frozen in place. In the middle of the lake, a pyramid of organized stone jutted, and at its apex his ancient prize sat, catching dripping water from the ceiling that overflowed into the cache below. Flickering torches set into wall sconces faintly lit their area and that was all.

The Mhydew was a dark world of sharp points and cutting edges, shut away from the emerald lush grasses and hills of Annwn above. Every time Philip entered the immense cavern he felt small and insignificant.

He hated the feeling.

Along the shore, dozens of men and women bound to the rock by thick chains poured water from the lake into large leather flasks with stoppers and straps. With grime-covered skin, hair, and clothing, they looked like nothing human. Disgust rose up within Philip. They were those of his subjects who had broken the law, from murder to petty thievery to sodomy. For their transgressions they had been blinded by red-hot pokers, tongues cut from their mouths, and brought here to serve. Some died quickly, the fire to live extinguished as soon as they entered the Mhydew; some served the witch in other ways he no longer wanted to know about.

Either way, there were always others ready to fill the shackles; lawbreakers were all too easily found in Annwn.

One of them reached out and touched his foot then.

Philip drew the sword his father had given him but instead kicked violently out, slashing the blind woman along her cheek with the heel of his boot. Initially stunned and grunting with pain, she crawled to the lake and lapped at the water.

The wound healed immediately, a scar forming until even that disappeared beneath the dirty, blood-smeared face.

“They learn quickly,” Philip observed.

“Even dogs can learn at a rapid rate, my king,” John pointed out.

Philip supposed they could. “The witch watches them still?”

“Through some art of her own design, yes,” John answered. “The fulfillment of your plan is upon us. The contraptions work splendidly.”

Philip picked one of thousands from the cavern floor, observing it. It was almost as large as a horse stomach, several pieces of cowhide stitched tightly together. Two straps hung limply from the leather sack while a cork closed off a long reed tube.

“The army will be invincible,” Philip breathed.

“It will indeed, my king.”

“What of the last few regiments?”

“The last batches are growing. The griffins currently roost nearby the portal and the houndmaster curtails the bloodlust of the wolves with some staff fashioned by the witch. Even the death rate among the maulls has dropped considerably, and many are growing to destructive maturity. With your lords having gathered and the efforts of the witch coming to fruition, your army is on the cusp of completion.”

Philip had waited a long time to hear John say those words.

Chilling screams of lust echoed from a staircase leading to the breeding pens in another cavern. The foul odor Philip had barely grown accustomed to wafted into the Mhydew from that dark exit.

“The Cailleach enjoys her work,” John observed.

“Too much,” Philip said with distaste.

“It is the only way,” John assured. “Turning sin against the sinners has a certain poetic justice to it, do you not think?”

Philip didn’t answer. He hated the abominations almost as much as he needed them.

“My king?”

“I want the witch at our side, John,” Philip said. “I want her to be in full control of the army we have built.”

“Whispers and rumors already swirl surrounding the halfbreeds,” John said. “My foray into Dryvyd Wood set the men under Lord Gwawl at unease. Rumors have spread. I think it wise to hide the creatures as long as possible.”

“That is why the witch is so important,” Philip said. “There will come a time when we will unleash the full army onto the world and those same men will be thanking it. Until then…”

“I will speak to the Cailleach now.”

“Watch the plains. If Ardall and the knight appear, I want to know about it. And ensure the security of Caer Llion and our supply train. To be cut off from the castle while battling in the world of our birth would be unfortunate indeed.” Philip paused, looking at the center of the lake. “See to it this room is more securely guarded as well. Place Templar Knights you trust implicitly. I want nothing to go awry, and our power here must not be disturbed or stolen as we transition from this world to that one. To lose the relic would be a great loss. Your head, in fact.”

John nodded, seemingly unafraid of the threat.

“Make it happen,” Philip said sternly. “Failure is not an option.”

John bowed and vanished into the breeding caverns.

Philip watched his adviser leave. John had changed. When they had been young in that first century after imprisoning Arawn, John had been strong but sanguine, able to see the positive in any negative, able to take advantage of it. But over the years he had become darker, less than the friend Philip remembered. The hardship of ruling, no doubt. The earlier anger that had fed Philip now faded. He would speak to his old friend about it soon. John deserved any pleasure he desired; Philip would make sure his oldest advisor took advantage of their spoils.

The slaves on the shore continued their slow task.

Philip grinned.

He was going to succeed where his family had failed.

The kitchens of Caer Llion would be waking soon, their rising bread and simmering stews filling the needs of his people. He decided his own needs could wait. He would visit the Cathedral and pray for strength and victory before breaking his fast. He wanted to cleanse his soul. It was time the lords, after all of these centuries, discovered exactly what he planned, but he wished to do it with the filth of the Mhydew washed from him in all ways.

Philip raised the sword he had carried all of his adult days. Exquisite care had gone into Hauteclere, the fabled blade of Olivier de Vienne, one of the peers of Charlemagne. It had been in the Plantagenet family for centuries. The crystal embedded in the hilt glimmered at him where it met the golden curving cross guard, the torchlight slicking the blade with blood.

Philip thought that appropriate.

Standing in the presence of the relic that had made his existence eight centuries after his birth possible, he was reminded of the appeal Saint Peter had made to the Gentiles—to bring them within the fold of the Church and teach them the grace of the Lord.

Philip would do the same to the heathens of two worlds.

And sit upon one throne forever.