The Dark Thorn

Richard hung from the cell wall by chains, in absolute misery.

The Fomorian stoked the fire pit for what must have been the hundredth time, heating several irons to white-hot intensity. Richard had no idea how much time had lapsed. It didn’t matter. It was the torment that splintered his awareness, left him unsure of every instance the giant rammed a hot poker into his abdomen, broke a bone, or slashed him with a knife. Overcoming the pain skewed his understanding; every agony pushed him toward oblivion. But with every splash of water into his mouth from the Holy Grail he was reborn, brought back to his situation, forced to endure more torture.

Physically, he was fine, his injuries healed. Emotionally he was coming undone from the inside out, his mind sundering.

He was being driven mad.

Arawn had no interest in keeping Richard alive. The knight had brought Bran Ardall to Annwn as a worthy consolation. Whether Richard died or joined Arawn, it did not matter. Either way, the knight was not an obstacle—and Arawn had won.

His left arm broken and the Fomorian set to return with his next evil deed, Richard cursed himself. The Holy Grail. He had seen it with his own eyes. It had been within his grasp in the lake. The Grail was a source of unimaginable power. In the hands of Arawn and Philip, it made whatever army they raised a thousand times more powerful.

The Dark Thorn had called him to the cavern because the lake was a powerful mirror. If Richard had thought about why the magic had called him to the lake, he would have investigated further. If he had spent more time investigating, Caer Llion would have been deprived of the Holy Grail, a weapon Plantagenet planned on using against two worlds.

If he had taken the Grail from Annwn, the war would be over.

If he only had a chance to confront Arawn and kill the creature responsible for Richard killing his wife…If. If. If.

Just as the Fomorian pulled a glowing dagger from the fire, the door to the cell opened. Richard raised his tired head to view the newcomer.

Bran stood in the doorway, alone.

Richard blinked, unsure if what he was seeing was real or the result of maddened hope. The Fomorian torturer turned, alerted by Richard’s look. Blunted pale features peeled back in a ferocious snarl and it charged Bran with the dagger raised high.

With Arondight glowing in his hand, Bran waited for the giant.

“Run, Bran!” Richard roared.

Before the giant could finish crossing the room, it fell forward, tripped, and crashed to the stone, the knife flying out of its hand and air whooshing from its lungs.

“Now, Ardall!” a voice screamed in the cell.

Bran unleashed the magic of Arondight. The fire stabbed the Fomorian in its back and pinned it to the ground, incandescent flames unyielding as they inundated the huge creature. The giant roared in pain. Bran did not let up. A curling hand reached up but Bran ignored it, his eyes focused and filled with wrath.

Richard could not believe what he saw. Roaring as flesh burned away and the smell of charred meat saturating the room, the Fomorian pleaded with frying eyes to be let free, to survive.

Bran did not yield.

The giant struggled on until its protestations weakened. Movements slowing until only smoke rose, the Fomorian finally stilled.

Bran ended the torrent of flaming magic. The torturer lay unmoving. A surge of adrenaline rushed into Richard. Snedeker flew into the cell to hover before the prisoner.

“Today luck is with you, McAllister,” the fairy said. “What did that asscudgel do to you? Are you alive?”

“No,” Richard said. “But I’ll live.”

Caswallawn materialized suddenly in front of him. He fought the manacles that held the knight. Richard tried to gather himself. With his arm still broken and his mind and body weak from the repeated torture, he knew he would have to get ready for an attempt to escape Caer Llion. No matter how Caswallawn had broken into the castle—a distraction from the sounds rumbling above—there would be Templars after them as soon as Richard and Bran were discovered gone.

He knew one thing. His broken arm would not stop him from unleashing hell.

Finally freed by Caswallawn, Richard moved past the dead Fomorian toward the door.

“What are you—”

“Doing here?” Caswallawn finished, parts of his body in flux. “Is it not obvious?”

“But how did you know where we were?”

“I have followed you from Arendig Fawr, at request of the Queen,” Caswallawn whispered, pausing at the door to peek out quickly. “We will speak of my time after this night.”

“Time to go, knights,” Snedeker said, whirring ahead.

“We must free the others imprisoned here,” Bran said.

“I have already done so,” Caswallawn said. “Hear the chaos above? Better luck in escaping we will find if the guards are trying to capture all of you.”

“What happened to your arm?” Snedeker asked.

“Never mind,” Richard spat, looking at Bran’s stump. “Bran, grab that leather bag.”

On the floor beside the dead giant lay the soccer ball-size pouch holding the water from the Grail. Letting Arondight vanish, Bran entered the room and grabbed the bag. He then held it out to Richard.

“Don’t give it to me, dammit!” Richard grimaced. “Just carry it.”

“Take a drink,” Bran insisted.

“No! It’s our proof!”

Bran slung the leather pouch over his shoulder, its contents sloshing, and called Arondight once he stepped out of the room.

“What takes place above?” Richard asked weakly.

“You will see,” Snedeker answered. “At times, even I am smarter than the smartest.”

“A diversion,” Caswallawn said simply. “Let us move.”

The four entered the torchlit hallway. Two Templar guards at either end of the corridor slumped lifeless to the stone—weapons not drawn, throats cut, surprised horror freezing their features. Richard moved down the hallway, following the lead of Caswallawn up a new flight of stairs. With every step the sounds of the above conflict grew until it permeated their entire world. Calling the Dark Thorn, Richard put more weight on it rather than Bran as they moved through the castle. Bran would need freedom to use Arondight soon judging by the battle raging above. Caswallawn wrapped his invisibility cloak closer and crept on until they climbed another set of stairs, eyes alert, making no sound, the promise of war ahead.

Snedeker kept ahead, a tiny scout, watching for enemies. There weren’t any. Around nearly every corner more guards lay dead, the effective deeds of Caswallawn.

Just as Richard thought the invisible lord had killed everyone in the castle, four soldiers appeared, weapons drawn, surprise etching their faces.

Bran did not hesitate. With Caswallawn flattening against the wall, the boy sent the blue fire of his sword into the Templar Knights. They scattered like leaves on the breeze, bits of fire hungrily fighting for purchase as they screamed in terror. Caswallawn was on them like a sleek cat, knives opening the exposed neck arteries between chain mail and helmets.

In a matter of seconds, all four were dead.

Saying nothing, Richard and the others stepped over the bodies on their way upward. After what felt an eternity, Caswallawn edged into a passage where a door, flanked by thick lead plates bearing faintly pulsing green Celtic runes, waited.

He pushed through into the cool night air.

Into a courtyard of chaos.

Caer Llion loomed overhead. Yelling echoed, conflict all too close. Across from them a giant hole gaped in the outer wall of Caer Llion; through it, dozens of Templar Knights streamed from the plains without, scrambling beyond his view, focused on what had entered the castle. Richard kept himself pressed against the tower wall, propped up by his staff, trying to become one with the shadows. The others did the same.

The battle taking place nearby gave him pause; he did not know where to go now.

Arrow Jack swooped out of the night, screeching.

“How do we get out?” Richard screamed to Caswallawn. “The hole,” Caswallawn said. “And slowly. We are gravely outnumbered.”

The invisible lord moved from the door along the rounded tower wall. Richard followed Bran, sweating freely, nausea from the pain sickening him. As they came around the corner, the melee across the courtyard came into view, and Richard nearly stopped in his tracks.

In the midst of the castle warriors, a massive creature stood above all, thick and heavily muscled, destruction raining down from its enormous fists even as spears and arrows punctured its body like a pincushion. Horn-like nubs grew from a rounded head where lank dark hair hung. The juggernaut roared at all quarters while pummeling those adversaries who came too close. The carnage at its feet was complete, bodies twisted and broken from its rage.

“The Kreche,” Richard breathed.

“Halfbreed,” Caswallawn rumbled. “Doing his job.”

Richard stood thunderstruck. The Kreche must have come all the way from Seattle. Had Merle known what transpired in Caer Llion at all times? Had he known Richard and Bran had been captured? That Richard would be tortured and Bran would lose his hand? If so, Merle had a lot to answer for.

But sending the Kreche had been a Godsend.

Richard turned back to the battle. He did not worry for the Kreche. If bullets could not take it down, the medieval weapons of Annwn surely would not.

“What of Deirdre? And the Rhedewyr?”

“She has already made her way to the Morrigan,” Caswallawn answered. “So must we.”

The lord whistled loudly, the sound shattering the din. The Kreche spun, staring directly at Richard and those with him. It took a final roaring swipe at those who attacked him, scattering the warriors like gnats, and then charged across the courtyard, the ground thundering.

The warriors of Caer Llion chased after but lagged behind. Caswallawn was already nowhere in sight, invisible once more.

“Get ready, Rick,” the Kreche bellowed as he closed in. “Carrying you out of here.”

The Kreche rolled over the last of those who stood in his way until he picked Richard and Bran up in his massive arms like rag dolls without missing a step. The breath flew from Richard as the rushing wind of their flight increased.

He let the Dark Thorn dissolve as the world eddied.

“We go now,” the Kreche rumbled. “Keep your head down.”

Richard did, tucked in the left arm of the Kreche like a football. Arrows and spears zipped by as they approached the broken wall. More warriors gathered there, swords and axes drawn as if trying to build a new wall of flesh to keep the prisoners from escaping. The Kreche gave them no mind. He leapt through as if nothing could hurt him. At the last moment the warriors of Caer Llion gave way from terror or died on impact, the heavy muscles of the Kreche unforgiving and the force in which the beast ran into the hole decimating all in its path. When the Kreche hit the ground beyond, his legs tirelessly pumped through those who tried to stop them until nothing but open ground spread into the dark.

The night embraced them as they ran into it.

Richard protected his broken arm and slept.

As the pink tinge of morning light peeked through breaks in canopy foliage, Richard awoke to a new day and to freedom.

He glanced around at the plains. Caer Llion was long behind them now, the orange glow of the army’s campfires outside its walls a memory. No one was about; the stars were giving way to day. The Kreche still carried him and Bran, the halfbreed a machine, unstoppable, despite the dozens of arrows sticking from his body like a porcupine. After about an hour he took them across a wide river and into a part of the land that gently sloped upward where rounded mounds slowly gave rise to trees that thickened into a forest, blotting out the sky.

Richard perked up to get a better view. A hellyll wearing the armor of the Long Hand stood poised with a spear pointed directly at the Kreche.

“I have come with the two knights,” the Kreche rumbled.

The guard lowered his weapon. “Follow me.”

The Kreche lowered Bran to the ground. The boy stretched the kinks out of his muscles while looking at his absent hand. Richard remained in the cradling arms of the Kreche, not sure what to say to Bran about his amputation. He had warned Bran about Merle and about coming to Annwn. In his heart, though, Richard felt pain for him. Bran had learned his lesson the hardest of ways and had paid the gravest of costs.

With the Kreche unwilling to put Richard down and Snedeker hovering nearby like a nurse of some sort, the hellyll guard brought them through a screen of trees into an open forest encompassing thousands of warriors, each fully armed and armored for war, each watching the Kreche with a mixture of open curiosity and fear. Upon first glance Richard thought they were all hellyll, but as they made their way through the throng he realized they were dozens of fey—merrow, sprites, clurichauns, leprechauns, wood nymphs, fairies, minotaurs, bugganes, coblynau, and many more.

The Queen of the Tuatha de Dannan had called for war.

And that call had been answered.

As the Kreche carried Richard deeper into the forest, a pointed sweeping tent grew out of the land, its height almost as tall as the trees around it. The pavilion was a huge construction of thick silk and ornate planning, shimmering beneath the lightening sky and blending in with the green foliage and brown bark. Fey came and went from it, the center of command.

Guards waited stoically at the wide entrance.

They nodded access to the Kreche.

When Richard, Bran, Snedeker, and the Kreche entered, dozens of eyes shifted toward them. Orbs hung high within the interior of the tent, casting warm white light over the gathered Lords of the Seelie Court. The Morrigan stood before a map displayed on a broad oak table, the leader of the Tuatha de Dannan wearing sleek black armor, her eyes hard. Horsemaster Aife and Lord n’Hagr stood near her, listening to what she said. To the side Lord Eigion spoke to two other merrow and the stocky coblynau Lord Faric, grandson of Lord Fafnir of Caer Glain. Lord Finnbhennach and four very tall minotaurs discussed their armor with Mastersmith Govannon, who examined the steel and straps with diligence. Kegan looked up from a plush divan where he whittled a piece of wood into the shape of a Rhedewyr and honest happiness covered his features at seeing them. Deirdre and her father, Lord Gerallt, were also present, standing apart.

Out of all those who had been present at the Seelie Court meeting, only Lord Caswallawn was absent, unable to keep up with the Kreche while fleeing Caer Llion.

“You found them,” the Queen said, nodding her approval.

When the monstrosity put Richard down upon the soft rugs, the Morrigan called for Belenus immediately. The ancient healer appeared from the depths of the tent and rushed to his side, the wizened old man’s eyes soulful and worried. He immediately began to probe for injuries.

“Stay your place, healer. I have a broken arm,” Richard said. “Bran. The bag.”

“You need aid,” the Morrigan asserted.

Bran unslung the leather sack he had taken. He gave it to Richard who uncorked it and drank from its contents.

The change was instantaneous. Richard felt vitality flow into him. The broken arm, at an odd angle and purpled down its length, straightened itself, the bruising vanishing as the bones grew back together on their own. The smaller wounds, bruises, and the weariness on Richard melted like ice under the sun. After seconds, no injuries or scars marred him.

Those around him stared in awe, and whispers filled the tent.

“Welcome back to the living, Rick,” the Kreche rumbled.

Richard took a deep breath. “Thank you, old friend.”

“How can this be?” Kegan breathed.

“Deirdre, come here,” Richard commanded.

She gave her father an uncertain look but went over to Richard anyway, the burn damage done to her back and arm hindering her movements despite the aid she had already received.

“Drink,” Richard ordered.

Deirdre gripped the pouch uncertainly but did as she was told. Surprise came over her face the moment the water hit her lips. She returned the bag in order to lower her tunic and the bandaging that covered the deep burns she had sustained. The skin of her back, once melted and blistered, smoothed until all remnants became healthy pale skin.

Richard handed the pouch to the Queen. “The water in that bag has been blessed and consecrated by the power of the Word’s savior, from the chalice of the Holy Grail itself.”

“The Graal,” the Morrigan murmured. “How did it come to the Usurper?”

“I do not know, although it does explain his longevity,” Richard said. “But I do know this, and the entire Seelie Court must listen. When Bran and I snuck into Caer Llion we entered through a small cave carved from the rock of the cliff face by a hidden spring beneath the castle. That spring forms a small lake, and at its heart glimmered some kind of object that captured the dripping water and fed it into the pool. At the time I had no idea what it was. When the Templar Knights of Caer Llion attacked Bran and me, we could not defeat them. They captured us easily. Every time we ended their threat with force, they rose to come at us again. Burns, broken bones, didn’t matter. These warriors were invincible.”

“But how?” Lord n’Hagr questioned.

Richard pointed at the bag in the hands of the Queen. “Each of them had one of those.”

The members of the Seelie Court shared looks of concern.

“My cattle,” Lord Finnbhennach muttered.

“Exactly right,” Richard said. “The griffins did pick clean your cattle but not for the reasons we thought. The griffins stole their hides so that they could be cured and become thousands of those leather bags.” Richard let what he was saying sink in. “Somehow Philip has taken the power of the Grail and given it to his warriors and, undoubtedly, his entire army. It explains how the halfbreeds we’ve seen survived their infancy when they would normally die natural deaths, and how those warriors could rise against Bran and me beneath the castle and be just as strong after being hit with all the magic we possess.”

“So when you tried to find this Cauldron of Pwyll Philip spoke of…” Bran started.

“I found the lake,” Richard said. “I focused on a powerful mirror. The lake we saw beneath Caer Llion is a mirror of sorts with the most powerful relic in our existence at its heart.”

“Philip admitted he had it,” Bran said. “The Holy Grail, I mean. He healed me with it.”

“What else did he say?” the Morrigan pressed.

“He intends to attack my world,” Bran answered. “He is crazed. Extreme. Says he is doing the Word’s work in destroying sin. Says he will prove to the world the Word is real.”

“And in so doing destroy two worlds,” the Kreche growled.

“The army began marching yesterday,” Lugh said, gripping his spear. “Moving east.”

“East?” Richard frowned. “Why east?”

“There is a portal within the Forest of Dean near Aber Gwy, directly to our south,” the Queen replied, her demeanor grown cold. “It is a two-day march from Caer Llion. Philip and his force will be there late tomorrow.”

“Where does it lead?” Bran asked.

“Rome,” Richard said. “The heart of the old Empire.”

The room went silent. Richard could hardly comprehend Philip’s choice but it made sense. Annwn’s despot intended to attack the Holy See and the birthplace of Catholicism. It was the center for organized Christianity the world ‘round. When he brought his army into that ancient city, it would give him a huge platform like none the world had seen. The amount of exposure would be overwhelming. Governments would yield to the invading force, not because they condoned terrorism but because the revelation of the Holy Grail would give them pause. And with the dark creatures Philip used at the head of his army, the foundations of what it meant to be Christian would crumble, the belief that humanity was God’s only creation destroying the belief of millions of people. The opposite of what Philip hoped would occur. Anarchy would ensue. It would devastate the world and destroy Annwn in the resulting violence.

“Philip has no intention of attacking the remnants of the Seelie Court,” Richard said. “He instead will start a war worse than any that has come before it.”

“He must be stopped! Killed!” Deirdre exclaimed.

“This is not our battle,” Lord Faric argued. “The Queen called upon the might of the Seelie Court to protect what is our own, thinking the wayward king would attempt to bring his army against the Tuatha de Dannan. That is no longer happening. The coblynau protect what is their own and no more. Without that need, I do not see why we should place our people in harm’s way. My grandfather would not be pleased. I say we let Philip leave, once more take control of Annwn, and defend the portals from future entrance.”

“You can’t do that!” Bran thundered. “Philip plans on leading this army directly into my world. Are you all so shortsighted? He will rouse others in my world, and when that happens all is dead here, no matter how you guard your portals.” Bran looked to Richard. “You have to tell them this is true!”

The coblynau broadened, his muscles straining beneath his armor. “You know little of our world, no matter if you are a knight, scion of Ardall.”

“The boy is right, Lord Faric,” Richard countered, crossing his arms. “What knowledge Bran lacks about Annwn you lack about our world. The Tuatha de Dannan have been absent from the land of their origin for a long time. Much has changed.”

“Still, the decision to go to battle against the army the Usurper has amassed is our own to make,” the Morrigan said.

“You already made that decision,” Bran pointed out.

The other lords grumbled their thoughts until it became a yelling match. Richard watched it all unfold. The bickering. The disagreement. The inability to come to a conclusion that would benefit all. These lords were the leaders of Annwn and they acted like many of those in his own world—selfish and unable to agree for the greater good. The voices of the lords grew louder until the entire tent was a cacophony of indecision and angst.

“Shut it!” a deep voice thundered.

Everyone turned to the Kreche. All grew silent.

“I am not from this world and yet I am firmly rooted within it,” the halfbreed said, his voice lowered now that he had their attention. “The King of Annwn may not be attacking you now but that is the least of your worries. The fight Philip brought to you will be an ant attack compared to what will happen if the men of that other world discover this one. The men in that world are greedy and corrupt. They possess power and machines you cannot fathom. When they come here—and they will come here, whether it be Philip or another—nothing you do will be able to stop your extermination.”

“And they will discover you if Philip goes through that portal,” Richard added.

The lords looked back and forth between one another.

“Now we listen to a halfbreed?” Lord Finnbhennach snorted. “As if he knows something of our ways?”

“Considering one of your own begot me, I say I have a say.”

Lord Finnbhennach grunted but said nothing.

“War is not an easy thing to entreat,” the Morrigan said, her presence commanding the others into silence. “If what you say is true about the Graal and the Usurper harnessing its power, what will that do for our odds in this?”

Richard shrugged. “I do not know. It could make each of his demon wolves and Templar Knights as if they were five? Ten? Not sure exactly.”

“That means if their army is fifty thousand strong…” Lord Eigion thought out loud.

“It is actually many times larger than that,” Richard said. “And growing daily.”

“What say you, Govannon? Lugh? Aife?” the Morrigan asked.

“The halfbreed speaks true,” the Mastersmith said. “All we have fought to maintain, the peace we have wished for so many millennia, will be for naught. No matter the dice odds, we must do what is right, not what is popular. Better now than even more outnumbered later.”

“The Rhedewyr are ready,” Aife agreed.

“Lord Faric?” the Queen asked.

The coblynau leader nodded, if barely agreeing.

“We are united,” the Queen said simply. “The future will be our own by our design.”

“If Philip is as arrogant as I think he is, it may be his undoing,” Richard said. “But first I must speak with the other knights.” Richard paused. “And get some clothes. Then we plan.”

“One moment, Knight McAllister,” Govannon said.

Richard, Bran, and the rest of the Seelie Court watched Govannon move to the side of the tent where his massive sledgehammer lay against a large pack. He opened the latter and, after rummaging within it, pulled a simple wooden box from its depths.

“If we fight,” he said, “Then young Ardall will need this.”

Richard watched as the Mastersmith opened the box before Bran. Inside, lying on soft crimson velvet, rested a gauntlet. The steel glove was short at the wrist, with metal fingers and a thumb. A menagerie of runes etched into its surface swirled.

Govannon had crafted a beautiful piece of artistry.

“Give me your left arm, Ardall,” the Mastersmith said. “Let me place it on.”

Bran did so. Govannon attached the gauntlet where the boy’s hand had once been. When the glove touched the stump, the runes came alive, azure fire like that of Arondight racing over its steel. The fingers twitched and then moved as wonder filled Bran’s face.

“But how…?” the boy began.

“The weapon you needed back in my Arendig Fawr armory had no reason to exist yet,” Govannon answered. “The reason being, of course, you still possessed your left hand. Is the gauntlet to your liking? Is it comfortable?”

“How does it stay on?” Bran asked, mesmerized.

“Magic, of course. Partly mine, partly your own. It is linked to Arondight, although the sword does not need to be called for the gauntlet to stay on. If you hold the sword in your new left hand, the blade can never be struck from your possession. The two magics work as one.”

Bran flexed his new steel fingers, grinning.

“A wonderful gift, Mastersmith,” the Morrigan said. “May it bode well on the morrow.”

The lords of the Seelie Court nodded and turned back to their own thoughts, contemplating the choice of the Queen to go to war and their role in it. Some nodded to Richard, others turned away. It was not difficult for him to understand how hard it had been for these leaders to subject their people to war. The lords were given the chance to face the cause of their centuries of hiding and fear. Philip had to pay for what he had done—for what he was planning on doing.

Richard flexed his arm, feeling it restored. Battle was coming and he would be in the thick of it on the field.

If he knew one thing, he would encounter Arawn there.

And enact vengeance for Elizabeth.





Within the Forest of Dean, Deirdre roamed the outskirts of the Tuatha de Dannan army, ignoring the stares that a human aroused, in search of her father.

While she had traveled with Richard, Bran, and Snedeker to Caer Llion, Lord Gerallt had gathered two companies of his most hardened warriors from Mochdrev Reach and brought them to the Seelie Court. The rest of their forces he left behind, to guard the stronghold and people he fought to protect. He had been displeased when he found out she had left Arendig Fawr to guide the knights; she had not repented her decision, making him all the angrier. Neither had spoken to each other since.

But, on the cusp of battle, Deirdre would not let the possible last words between them be those of anger.

“He will still be angry, I can tell you that!” Snedeker said, flying alongside her and annoying her more than usual.

“He gave me free will to aid the Morrigan and the fight against Caer Llion,” she said. “The knights are a part of that. I was best suited to take them. He has no say in the matter.”

“The knights almost died, by the way,” the fairy snorted.

“They were going with or without me.”

“And you received that awful burn.”

“Good thing the halfbreed came through the portal then and helped save Richard and Bran,” she said. “They in turn healed me, leaving me unwilling to put up with your sass. So watch it.”

The fairy cursed under his breath about redheads and their stubborn natures. Deirdre was happy he kept it to himself for a change. She slipped through the fey, thinking about two nights ago. The Kreche had come out of the darkness to set her toward the Forest of Dean with the Rhedewyr even as he went to confront Caer Llion to free the knights at the behest of Myrddin Emrys. She had only seen two halfbreeds in her life but the Kreche was easily the most impressive, the heart of a poet within the body of a behemoth. If it hadn’t been for his diversion, Richard and Bran would not have been freed.

“Why do you think the Heliwr hates me?” Snedeker interrupted suddenly.

“Never had a conversation with yourself, eh?”

“Hilarious, Red,” the fairy said, dripping sarcasm.

“Richard doesn’t hate you,” Deirdre said. “He simply has impatience for those who add nothing to life.”

“Hey, I add a lot to li—”

“As he sees it,” she cut him off. “Why do you even care, anyway?”

“The Lady is not pleased with me,” he said.

“How do you know that?”

“She mustn’t be,” the fairy said, glancing around him as if the Lady could hear. “I am not guiding her Heliwr, not that he has shown any interest in my help at all, of course.”

“Maybe you need to reach out with more sincerity.”

“He will probably fry me to ash,” Snedeker said. “Just for talking to him.”

“He could,” she said with a smile.

Snedeker rolled his eyes.

After she thought she had seen every quarter of the army, Deirdre came to the camp of Mochdrev Reach. Two hundred of her countrymen prepared for the battle, some men sharpening their weapons while others checked their armor. All shared a look on their faces that bespoke the fear of not knowing what was to come. Deirdre navigated through them, feeling the tension, and eventually found her father’s tent.

When she entered, Lord Gerallt stared hard at her before returning to the battle formation maps two hellyll members of the Long Hand shared with him in preparation for the next day.

“You should not be here, Deirdre,” he said, not meeting her gaze. “My time is precious now that Mochdrev Reach is in the thick of your decision.”

“Father, I—”

“You should not have left Arendig Fawr.”

“Father, I did what I thought I had to do,” Deirdre said.

“And almost got yourself killed.”

“For a very good cause.”

Lord Gerallt continued to speak to the two Long Hand soldiers as if she were not there. From where he sat on her shoulder, Snedeker tapped her shoulder with impatience. After she realized he would not respond, Deirdre walked up to his table.

“Why are you acting like this?” she asked.

When he didn’t look up, her anger got the best of her and she slammed her fist down on the closest map.

“Why?!”

Lord Gerallt gave her a chilly look, his round face ruddy, before he turned to the hellyll. “Leave us for a few moments, Everle and Vay. You too, Snedeker. I must speak in earnest with my wayward daughter. Alone.”

Giving Deirdre a dark look, the fairy flew from the tent along with the Long Hand warriors.

“Deirdre, you tax me all too often,” Lord Gerallt growled.

“You are not telling me everything,” she said. “You are never like this. There is something eating at you and I would know what it is.”

Lord Gerallt took a deep breath and looked away. Long moments passed. Deirdre waited, knowing she didn’t have a choice, but her father also had a habit of taking his time in formulating his words when they held import. As she watched, though, the man she had known all of her life changed from a confident military commander preparing for the worst battle he would likely ever be in to a man almost defeated and ashamed, wearing a mantle of hardship Deirdre rarely saw.

“Whatever it is, it cannot be horrible,” she encouraged.

“After John Lewis Hugo met you at the Rosemere, he came to find me within the castle,” Lord Gerallt said, taking a deep breath. “We spoke. At length. It will not please you to hear this but I gave him my oath you would be brought to Caer Llion to marry.”

“I knew that, father.”

“Even if it went against your wishes,” he added.

The support she had brought with her vanished. Deirdre didn’t know what to say. In all the years she had looked up to her father, especially after the death of her mother, she now felt she didn’t know him. At no time had he disrespected her in such a way.

It left her feeling hollow.

“You gave me no choice?” she asked. “You lied to me?”

“It was the only way to ensure our safety,” he said, still barely able to look at her. “When you spoke to the shade of your mother and grew adamant we visit Arendig Fawr, I didn’t believe the Seelie Court would rise again. I thought the only way to prevent death for our people would be to take the honorable path for all of the lives we oversee—and knowingly upset you most as a result, my daughter.” He paused. “I am ashamed by my actions. I was wrong to speak on your behalf.”

“How is taking the honorable path right?” Deirdre demanded, her disbelief replaced by wrath. “You betrayed my heart!”

“I regret not telling you sooner,” he said. “But now things have changed. I can no longer play both sides. And the innocent people of Mochdrev Reach may pay the price for it.”

Deirdre bit back a furious reply. She did not know what to think. In her mind, she knew her father had a difficult role to play in Annwn, one that required making difficult decisions. In her very depths though, she felt deceived by the man who had been her foundation for so many years.

When he had seemed so behind her for the last few days.

“You love him, do you not?” Lord Gerallt asked suddenly. “The knight, I mean?”

“I do,” she stammered, unable to hide her surprise. “I…cannot explain it. Richard McAllister is like no one else I have ever met. How did you know?”

“I may be old and fat but I’m not blind, Deirdre.”

Embarrassment overrode her anger, but only for a moment.

“Would he tell you to protect the many?” Lord Gerallt continued. “Or do what made you happy?”

“He would never advocate being untrue to myself.”

“Are you sure?” he asked sadly. “Why do you think he is so dark, Deirdre? I know his kind, all too well. Men become like him by betraying the deepest chambers of their hearts with selfishness. He is ashamed of his life in some way.” He paused. “I did not want to be like McAllister, to destroy a part of myself or the love I have for you. Guilt will follow me to the end of my days, despite not fulfilling my oath to Caer Llion. For that, I apologize, and shall be judged accordingly in the afterlife. It is McAllister’s role to give up his life to protect the lives of millions between our two worlds. I am sure he would tell you to do the noble thing as well.”

The knight would at that, no matter how much it galled her.

“I know why you did it, even if I do not agree,” Deirdre said. “I guess we both have lied to one another these last days.”

“Your mother had a saying,” he said. “‘Forgive love its transgressions, for it forgives just as readily.’”

Deirdre nodded. “I like it.”

“As do I.”

Missing her mother terribly at that moment, Deirdre looked around the tent, the realization of what was to come settling on her like heavy armor. Preparations for battle were everywhere. On the morrow, death would come to many within the Forest of Dean. Centuries of tension would bleed upon the field. Coldness settled in her belly. She fought its uncertainty.

“Tomorrow I want you to not be involved in the battle,” Lord Gerallt said as if reading her thoughts.

“I will be part of the fight,” she stated adamantly.

“I thought you might say that. Stubborn like your father,” Lord Gerallt said as he walked around the table to stand before her. He gripped her hands warmly but the smile he often displayed was buried beneath the gravity of his words. “I must further complete my knowledge of the Morrigan’s battle plans but, before you go, know that I love you. You have been strong for a great many. Tomorrow will not be pleasant. Come what may and despite our decisions, we are still bound by love. I hope you can forgive me.”

“I already have, father,” she said, giving him a kiss.

“Keep that fairy out of trouble,” he said, his smile finally returned.

She returned it. “I will try.”

Lord Gerallt nodded, and after asking the hellyll to return, continued his study of the maps and the fey techniques for battle.

Deirdre left to care for Willowyn.

After preparing Willowyn and several other Rhedewyr mounts for the next day’s war, Deirdre walked through the moonlight to find Richard.

The sun had long since set, the members of the Seelie Court adjourning to their own areas. It was an army larger than any she had seen in her life; many of the Tuatha de Dannan could not sleep, still roaming the Forest of Dean in nervous anticipation. Deirdre felt the same way. With Snedeker flying ahead of her, she navigated clurichauns, spriggans, cait siths, and other fey in search of the Heliwr, hoping to see him one last time before conflict tore them apart.

After Lugh of the Long Hand pointed out the direction Richard had gone, she found him alone in a glen, just east of the army. It didn’t take long. An ink stain in the shadows, he leaned against an enormous fir tree, looking upward through a break in the canopy at the stars.

She approached on silent feet, unsure of what to say.

“You should not have found me,” Richard said, turning, wearing new clothing. “Your father needs you right now more than he ever has.”

“That may be,” she said defiantly. “Snedeker wishes to speak to you though.”

Richard followed her gaze to the fairy who flew to hover before the knight.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Snedeker folded his arms, staring directly at the knight, his wings a blur in the silver moonlight. “The Lady requested I be your guide,” he said.

“Yes. I know that, fairy.”

“Look, let us cut the tail off the cat as my gramps used to say,” Snedeker sneered, pointing at Richard. “I gave my promise to the Lady I would guide you in your duty. You do remember what duty is, right?”

Richard studied the fey creature darkly. “That tongue will be your death one day, Snedeker.”

“As long as it is not tomorrow. I want to talk abo—”

“Being my guide as the Lady ordained, I know,” Richard interrupted. “Then do your job.”

Snedeker looked confused. “But I thought you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“It is not my role to make you fulfill your role,” Richard pointed out. “Watch my back tomorrow and do what I tell you, and maybe you will impress me. You can prove yourself that way.”

Snedeker nodded.

“Tomorrow we hunt John Lewis Hugo,” the knight continued. “You will be my eyes above the battle. Together we will find him. And kill him.”

“What of Philip Plantagenet?” Deirdre asked, thinking it odd Richard failed to mention the Usurper in his plans. “Would he not be a better target?”

“Philip will meet his end. John Lewis Hugo is the one I want. In this my guide can prove his worth if he has the courage,” Richard said. He then eyed the fairy. “Leave us now, Snedeker. Wait for my return in the Morrigan’s camp tonight.”

Snedeker gave Deirdre an inquisitive look before darting through the night back toward the camp.

In a moment he had vanished.

“I meant what I said,” Richard said. “You should not be here.”

“It makes you…uncomfortable,” she said, moving to stand before him.

“It does.”

“Because you care for me?” she asked, staring into his eyes.

“Not the way you want.”

Deirdre found herself looking at her boots, thinking about the failed kiss. Richard said nothing either. The night shrunk around them, the moonlight highlighting the tension on their faces. She thought about her mother and her assertion Deirdre would meet the love of her life soon. What she felt for Richard was strong, his life intriguing, the depth of his soul a mystery. Even now she wanted to reach out, to lessen his pain, to find peace for him in their sharing.

“What happened to you?” she asked finally. “My father says only a man who regrets what he has done can have so much pain.”

“You don’t really want to know, lady of Mochdrev Reach.”

“I do,” she pressed.

The night seemed to coalesce around Richard, the darkness under his eyes growing, the sorrow permeating every line of his face. The stars moved overhead as time passed. Deirdre waited, knowing if she said anything he might run.

“My wife was an amazing woman. I killed her,” Richard stated flatly. “When I was in Caer Llion, John Lewis Hugo revealed the role he played in that murder. Tomorrow I plan on correcting it.”

“You did not really kill her?” Deirdre prodded, hoping.

“I was tricked, but it was my blade that slid through her chest,” he answered. “I can still feel it, still have the odor of that night in my nose, still see the look of betrayal in her eyes as her light faded from them. I was meant to protect the people of Seattle. But I could not protect my very own wife from myself.”

Horror filled Deirdre. Richard had killed his wife. Saddened by what he had gone through, understanding dawned. He would carry the hardship for the rest of his life.

All she could do was be there for him.

“Self-hatred has eaten my soul,” he said. “Now revenge rules it. I’m not sure I’m capable of loving again.”

“I see,” Deirdre said. “Then my mother was wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I do not believe it. One day you will love again.”

“I am a broken shell of a man, Deirdre,” Richard said. “I have been for so many years I don’t know anything different. You would do better to embrace young Ardall. He is quite smitten with you. As for me, tomorrow a part of the pain I carry will be silenced forever. Or I will die.”

“You felt nothing when we kissed?”

“Nothing.”

Her heart sank. Unfamiliar tears stung her eyes. She suddenly felt a fool. For days she had hoped to trap his heart but in turn had only hurt her own.

“I am sorry that causes you pain,” he said. “As I said, Bran wou—”

“I do not want Bran Ardall,” she breathed, aggravated. “I am in love with you.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered finally.

Crossing her arms, Deirdre said nothing. There was nothing to say. When Richard moved to console her, she turned away, hiding her shimmering eyes.

“Leave me be,” she sighed.

Richard gave her a final silent look before he turned and walked from the glen. His fading footsteps were the saddest thing she had ever heard.

Deirdre let him go.

She didn’t want him to see her tears.