The Dark Thorn

Cardinal Cormac Pell O’Connor sat in the warm glow of several lamps and placed the phone receiver back onto its cradle.

He was not pleased.

Through the arched window, the silver light of the pregnant moon bathed the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica and its neighboring Vatican buildings in frosty relief against a sky of diamond chips. Rome had a peaceful majesty at night that transcended its hectic daytime hours. It was rare for the Cardinal to watch the sleeping city with nothing but the tranquil view—he tended to retire early and, as so many others, rose with the sun—but it was rarer still to sleep within his Vatican City apartment and be awakened by a phone call made half a world away with such dire complications to his life.

Cormac sensed turbulent days ahead.

Picking up the receiver again, he dialed four numbers into the old phone. The click of connecting lines followed by a loud squeal met his ear.

He sighed and hung up once more.

The Cardinal leaned back in his chair, waiting and thinking, the simple red robe he had thrown on a smear like drying blood in the window’s mirrored image. Rome glimmered outside but his superimposed ghost image stared back, face carved deep with wrinkles and hawkish blue eyes surrounded by heavy bags of darkness. The man within the glass looked haggard. He barely recognized his own reflection anymore, his disheveled red hair whitening, the apparition exuding weariness and grown older than he could account for.

But a fire still blazed in his heart despite the early hour, a driving need to fulfill his duty.

There just never seemed to be enough time.

Cormac turned away from the aging man, thinking how best to counter the information he now possessed. The call from the archbishop watching over the Seattle portal disturbed him; it forced his hand in a way with which he was not entirely comfortable.

The consequences of his decision could undo him and the power he had spent a lifetime acquiring.

The possible dominion likely gained though made it worth it.

While waiting for his summons to be answered, he picked up a framed photo that sat at the corner of his desk. Black and white, it displayed a smiling middle-aged man bearing a striking resemblance to Cormac, his arms wrapped around the shoulders of a woman and a girl in her teenage years. In front of the trio stood a grinning boy, his hair chaotic.

The background desert met the horizon and nothing else.

The Cardinal smiled sadly, remembering. The Middle East had been a harsh climate filled with a hardened people; Cormac had been a boy on the adventure of a lifetime, bringing the Word to new regions around the world.

The Cardinal Vicar of the Vatican barely remembered that boy.

The day to come would be like all others—filled with a mass, multiple meetings with delegates from around the world, and writing letters of import for the Church and its denizens. The Cardinal Vicar oversaw the daily spiritual operations of the diocese of Rome, a position once held by the Pope before his duties expanded to encompass the wellbeing of the greater Catholic world. Cormac was one of the youngest Cardinal Vicars in the history of the Church, and at fifty-eight years of age, he still had several decades to bring light to the darkest places.

After twenty minutes, a sharp knock came at his office door.

Cormac straightened, letting the full authority of his mantle settle back on his shoulders before clearing his throat.

“Enter please.”

The door opened and a tall man with short blonde hair strode into the room. Unlike the Vatican Swiss Guards he commanded, Finn Arne wore black pants with matching thick sweater devoid of symbols. The dead orb of his left eye peered at the Cardinal like a phantom moon. No evidence of disrupted sleep touched him. He was a captain with daily duties similar to all Swiss Guard but like the Vicar, Finn Arne had secret functions he carried out.

“Captain Arne,” Cormac greeted.

The visitor inclined his head and sat in one of the offered chairs. “Your Eminence.”

“It is early,” the Cardinal said. “I apologize for waking you.”

“The Lord knows neither sun nor moon,” Finn said, his accent shadowed by Germanic. “How may I best serve you, Cardinal Vicar?”

“I have received a disheartening phone call.”

“From?”

“Seattle, Washington, in the United States.” Cormac folded his hands within the sleeves of his robe. “There has been a breach of the portal there.”

Finn frowned. “You seem rather unworried.”

“It was contained. The knight did his duty.”

“I see,” Finn said, smiling. “Then what has stolen me from my warm bed?”

In his many years serving the Church, Cormac had never met a more bold and coldly calculating man than Finn Arne. He was the best trained of hundreds of Swiss Guards who protected the Pope. He had a predisposition to moral flexibility, making him a useful tool. His appetite for young women every night took him, however, down an unholy path Cormac had a hard time overlooking. Finn knew this but made no apology for it.

Cormac knew the captain’s warm bed had a warmer female body still in it.

“The attacked is the son of Ardall,” Cormac replied instead.

The smile dropped from Finn’s mouth.

“Do I have your attention now?” Cormac questioned, gratified at the captain’s change.

Finn Arne sat straighter. “Does His Eminence know?”

“The Pope has other pressing matters to contend with. It is best he know nothing of this—at least, not until it is finished.”

“And the others?” Finn Arne asked.

Cormac thought about the Vigilo. The other Cardinals were all devout and strong, entrusted with most Vatican secrets. The Pope led the Vigilo but the Vicar was its true leader. It oversaw the portals, prepared for any attempt by those on the other side to return from Annwn. The Church led the Yn Saith knights as best it could despite the machinations of the old wizard, but over the centuries the Vigilo had lost much of its power. Cormac breathed deep. Beyond this new situation there was an opportunity to gain a power the Church had had only once in its long past.

Including the other Cardinals could disrupt what chance Cormac had of gaining that power.

Finn Arne would know the truth, as would the Seer.

That would be it.

Cormac returned the man’s icy stare. “You alone will know of this.”

“The portal here is safe?”

“It is. Cardinal Seer Ramirez and Ennio Rossi protect it. If it were not safe, I would know.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Bring young Ardall here,” Cormac ordered. “This must be done discreetly and quickly.”

“How did you learn of this? Certainly not from McAllister.”

“From a spy in the employ of Archbishop Glenallen at my behest. I have had a certain bookstore in Seattle watched for some time now. Even if the old man avoids capture in one of his places of business, the Vigilo knows what transpires there,” the Cardinal said. “I have spies in all places, Captain. Never forget that.”

“Did the knight remove—”

“The boy’s memory? No, he did not,” Cormac grunted. “There is more going on here than what lies on the surface.”

“What of McAllister, should I encounter him?”

Cormac fought the distaste in his mouth. Richard McAllister. He was one of the older knights, a man whose past haunted him. While Cormac knew that past to be a hard one, the knight had lost the capacity to rise above it, for the role he was asked to play. He was an infected wound the Church could not afford to turn gangrenous.

“He should pose no threat. Of the seven Yn Saith, he is the weakest. I doubt he has the constitution to challenge you or your men. Leave him be. His time of reckoning is coming.”

“Then I will fly at once.” Finn Arne pushed away from his chair.

“Sit down, Finn,” Cormac commanded sharply.

The captain lowered back into his chair, his dead eye an agate in a harsh face.

“Be wary, Captain,” the Cardinal said. “Don’t run back to your warm bed too quickly. There are other forces along the Seattle waterfront you should be reminded of. The Kreche still lives and the old wizard is adept at calling on aid from all quarters.”

“The Kreche…” Finn Arne scowled.

“It lives longer than most halfbreeds, nigh on ninety years now,” Cormac reiterated. “It is not a factor to be taken lightly, Captain Arne, especially if Myrddin Emrys is pressed into a fight.”

“I will be cautious, Your Grace.”

“One more thing,” the Cardinal said, leaning forward. “The Ardall boy may have a seed of some kind on his person. It will be unlike anything you have seen before. Search his home, search his person. Search anywhere you think it could be and bring it to me unchanged.”

“You believe the old man has plans for the boy then.”

Cormac nodded. “The wizard is mostly impotent now, but he can be…unorthodox.”

“It will be as you ask, Your Grace.”

“You have the Lord and the Church on your side,” the Cardinal Vicar said. “Let no one stand in your way.”

“I will not, your Eminence,” Finn Arne promised.

“The jet will be ready when you arrive to the airstrip,” Cormac said. “Assemble your team. The centuries-long secret of the Vigilo cannot be discovered by this boy. Be the Shield you were meant to be. Do not delay.” The Cardinal paused. “And do not fail me.”

Finn Arne rose, bowed, and left, fire in his lone eye.

Cormac watched him go. Finn would see the job done now that his focus was in the right place. It had been years since the Kreche had last been observed in the city of Seattle, just as it had been years since the Heliwr strode the world. If the boy had been given the seed—if the old man had surfaced to gain his new champion—then Cormac and those of the Vigilo had to be prepared to counter the wizard and be ready to take advantage of it.

But why had a fey creature from Annwn gone after the scion of Ardall?

There was some element Cormac missed.

He shook his head. With religious zealotry feverish in the Middle East and throughout the world, Cormac would do what was necessary to destroy it and other evils.

To gain the power of the Heliwr would tip the scales in favor of the Church.

And give Cormac a direct path to the papacy.

Assured Finn Arne was gone, Cormac changed into his official robes and ventured into the bowels of the papal apartments. The light of overhead lamps dimmed with every floor he left. Down he went, each descended staircase a gripe to hips and knees, until he entered tunnels devoid of any light source and had to flip on a flashlight. Chill seeped from the stone, followed by damp and mold, strengthening until he had to breathe through his mouth. The bones of the city’s birth grew around him, decayed from millennia of dripping water and misuse.

Navigating the slick floor, Cormac made his way toward the catacombs of St. Peters Basilica.

Other passages met his approach, disappearing into darkness, but he ignored them. Cormac had used the tunnels for decades and knew where each led—a world forgotten by all but the academic. Now only rats lorded over the kingdom the Cardinal Vicar walked through. He hunkered within his robes for warmth. There was still a part of him that hated the indignity of traveling in such a way. Secrets were necessary, but thieves preying upon tourists above had it better. If the visit were unimportant, he’d have gone back to bed.

Instead, he traveled to discover if all was well with the portal.

The catacombs littered almost the entirety of the Vatican’s underpinnings, a 108-acre foundation of rotten stone, labyrinthine ways, and ancient tombs lost to dust. During the time of Jesus Christ, the Roman emperors built a rounded area surrounded by tiers of seats for equestrian events; it was in this circus where Saint Peter had been martyred, crucified, buried, and where the Basilica now stood. With the foundation of the Catholic Church rooted in Vatican Hill, the city grew and erected walls around the sacred grounds.

But not solely built to keep invaders out, the Cardinal reflected.

Leaving the close tunnel behind, Cormac entered a large cavern, the walls worn stone free of markings or ornamentation. In the middle of the room an ancient well surrounded by waist-high stone circled a fathomless black hole, its bucket and thick rope newer than its wooden crank. Three other passages left the room, disappearing into darkness.

The only sound was Cormac’s breathing and the rustle of his robes.

St. Peter’s Basilica was directly overhead.

A chill passed through his body.

Emanating from the passage on his left was a movement of icy air like the brush of clammy fingers against skin. In the depths of the tunnel a hundred yards away, an underground branch of the Tiber River ran. There in the subterranean depths, he knew a dark veil shimmered on the river’s bank, silver streaks of light flickering like a strobe light through bits of fog.

He probed the darkened tunnel, hoping to hear nothing.

“It is at peace, Cormac,” a voice like aged paper said.

The Cardinal spun, reaching for the knife in the folds of his clothing.

An old man stood at the entrance of another passage, his back crooked and bowed by excessive age beneath a crimson robe, tufts of white hair keeping his ears warm and not much else. There was no expression in his dark-skinned, leathery demeanor; eyes as pale as curdled milk gave no hint to what they no longer saw.

“It is worthwhile to check from time to time, old friend,” Cormac grumbled.

“It is,” Cardinal Seer Donato Javier Ramirez agreed. “And nice to be visited from such an honorable guest, even one who is so ready to wield a knife.” He turned his head upward and grinned. “Not only that, but to beat the sun in its rising as well. Interesting.”

“You know too much in these depths for an old blind priest.”

“I know much,” Donato said. “It is a lonely life, but life is a rarity here. It draws me.”

“It is a life well suited for the Lord’s work, my old teacher,” Cormac said, grasping his shrunken friend’s frail hands. “You look well, Donato.”

“I am,” the Cardinal Seer said, squeezing firmly back. “And the portal is well, I assure yeh, Cardinal Vicar.”

“Nothing from the other side?”

“The same as the day I first saw it,” Cardinal Ramirez said. “But I see much, yeh understand. A problem has arisen if yeh are here. One of the other portals?”

“Seattle.”

“Ahh. McAllister. Is he alive?”

“He is. And the portal is safe,” Cormac answered. “There have been, however, some…interesting events.”

“And yeh want to know if Annwn mirrors that knowledge?”

“Yes.”

“Let us go then. No time to dilly-dally. Birds and worms, yeh understand?” Cardinal Ramirez cackled.

The blind man led the Cardinal Vicar through rising passages, the air growing drier with each step. The walls evolved from rough-hewn stone to delicately carved friezes; embedded holes bore sarcophagi, and wooden caskets housed undisturbed remains. Some of the world’s most renowned men were buried in the catacombs, interred forever in the bowels of St. Peter’s.

The Cardinal Seer did not deviate through the domain of the dead.

They eventually came to a door with elaborate scrollwork, bands of rune-encrusted iron wrapping its thick timbers. The Seer whispered a word accompanied by a tender touch and the door swung open.

Cormac stepped into warmth.

A fire blazed from a hearth in the corner of the room, casting its glow over two plush chairs and a bed pushed up against the wall. Shelves containing books of various sizes and colors lined the other walls. A pedestal sat centered in the middle of the room, holding a Bible as old as any Cormac had seen.

“Come in, come in. Make yehself comfortable.”

“A humble man with a humble lifestyle. I envy you sometimes, Donato.”

“I am well cared for, and I enjoy the peace here in a way those who live above me could never comprehend. When a man becomes my age, all he wishes is a warm meal, a soft bed, and well-read books.”

“You still have so many of them?” The Vicar looked around. “But you’re—”

“Blind? I know that, Cormac,” Donato said with amusement. “Rossi reads to me when he isn’t out carousing a young man’s life.”

Donato had been one of Cormac’s earliest teachers, a man whose faith outshone his extensive scholarship. Despite his advanced age, the Cardinal Seer served the Church in a way only a handful of people had over the centuries, ultimately keeping the world safe from an unimaginable threat. The Cardinal Vicar had been one of the older man’s first projects—having come into Cormac’s life at its darkest hour—and it now appeared Ennio Rossi, the young knight of Rome’s portal, had become the Seer’s new crusade.

“Where is the knight?” Cormac asked.

“Eh, not quite sure. I have not heard him return, although with the many girlfriends he has, I doubt he had a hard time finding a place to sleep.”

The Cardinal Seer moved to where black velvet draped a circular object hanging on the wall beside the bed. Reaching up with shriveled hands, Donato removed the shroud to reveal a round mirror with a wide silver frame that shone with an ethereal inner glow. Celtic runes of an ancient sect danced in the firelight; the glass of the mirror glimmered like ice. Cormac shivered. He had the impression of something dark looking back at him.

“Care to join me?” Donato asked over his shoulder. “It has been some time since yeh’ve used the Fionúir Mirror.”

“No, to do so always makes me ill,” Cormac said.

The Seer chuckled. “I’ll sweep the surrounding countryside of Caer Llion. I doubt I will see anything. Philip is a weasel when it comes to privacy.”

Cormac stood apart, watching. With only the snapping of the fire’s embers echoing in the room, the Seer stared with blind eyes into the mirror, beyond his own image. He breathed slower and his face slackened, becoming like a statue. The white film over his eyes faded and disappeared altogether to reveal eyes so brown they were almost black.

Cormac shuddered. It was always a shock to observe it happen.

Several minutes went by. Nothing happened.

Then the depths of the mirror began to swirl, starting slowly but speeding to a pace that knotted Cormac’s stomach. The silver tint of the glass rippled through the colors of the rainbow, faster and faster, until they bled together into a blinding light like the sun. Cormac was forced to shield his eyes. Just as quickly, the light deadened to opaque like slushy snow. Cormac relaxed, black dots dancing in his eyes. For reasons he never understood, the loamy odor of the forest after a hard rain filled the chamber.

Memories of his childhood in Ireland swirled through him, leaving nostalgia even as the mirror’s effects disappeared.

Shaking a bit, the Cardinal Seer let out a deep, tired breath.

“The Fionúir sees much,” Donato said, his eyes scanning the mirror, viewing features Cormac could not. “Looks peaceful. Caer Llion is as it has been for centuries—shrouded in mystery. The black mist surrounding the castle is as impenetrable as always. The curse tablets blind me even as I am blind here.”

“Philip wants us to remain that way.”

The Seer sighed. “Vanity, I suppose.”

“Could be,” Cormac responded. “Or we are not meant to see his activities.”

“He rarely ventures outside the castle walls. I’ve only caught him thrice. Now that he controls most of Annwn, there is no need for him to do so. The battles are few and far between.” The older man paused, musing. “Still, amazing he has been alive as long as he has. The Lord surely works in mysterious ways.”

Cormac looked at the ancient Bible. “The answer for his longevity is what scares me.”

Still bathed in the pale gray light, the Seer nodded. “Indeed.” He leaned a bit closer to the mirror. “The rest of the countryside appears as it has for me and my predecessors—the forests are thick and healthy and the water of the rivers clean in the lowlands. The mountainous regions of the Carn Cavall and Snowdon, however, are a different tale; with her magic, the witch wears down the upper forests and all who live within them. The fey suffer. Those who remain free struggle to remain so.”

“What of the countryside where the Seattle portal exits?”

The Seer took a few moments and frowned.

“Nothing. Dryvyd Forest is empty.”

“Continue to keep a close watch this week. The events in Seattle warrant it, I think.”

“Will yeh share with me what has transpired?” “I cannot,” Cormac said sadly. “Not even with you, old friend.”

The gray light emanating from the Fionúir Mirror went blank as Donato pulled away, the shimmering glass reflecting the room once more. Eyes returning to milky blindness, the Cardinal Seer swayed on his feet for a moment before steadying. “The Lord wishes to call me soon,” he said, rubbing his shrunken chest with a bony hand. He replaced the black cloth over the mirror. “It is time to find my replacement. My end comes, Cormac.”

“Not too soon, I hope.”

Donato allowed Cormac to guide him to the bed. “I will remain as strong as the Lord will allow me. Yeh know that.”

“I do,” Cormac said.

“Now leave me,” the Seer said curtly, sinking into the bed. “The effects of the mirror will wear off in time. Yeh have duties to perform. The sun is rising, and that bodes well on the day.”

Cormac covered his old mentor. With a warm last look, he left the Cardinal Seer to his soft bed and warm chamber.

Soft snores quickly followed him out the door.

Donato was right; the Seer was getting old. But he had fire left inside, and Cormac hoped it would see him through at least a few more years.

Rather than return to his residence, Cormac traveled upward through the catacombs of the Basilica, slipping through a secret passageway into the Sacred Grottos with its populace of dead Popes and dignified personages. He would begin his day early. By the time he reached the nave, others were already about, most administrative workers or priests, the day bustling with activity even as the sun rose. Soon Rome and St. Peter’s would be flooded with visitors, and Cormac would be busy with his daily duties.

As leader of the Vigilo, it was another day of protecting the world from Annwn.

At least Captain Arne was on his way to Seattle.

A set of Swiss Guards saluted him as he passed into the vestibule, their traditional garb of blue and red stripes a blemish amidst the beautiful sculptures and paintings. He nodded to the two men politely, barely seeing them.

How had the son of Ardall gotten involved in the affairs of the Vigilo? How did the world of Annwn fit in with it?

And could the Cardinal Vicar use it to his advantage?

Cormac would ensure answers were swift in coming.





“Father, don’t make me do this!”

Lord Gerallt Rhys of Mochdrev Reach ignored his daughter’s plea, which just infuriated Deirdre all the more. Rather than fight the implacable emotional wall her father had erected, she ended her protestations, knowing them futile. The two ascended the wide set of outdoor stairs leading from the keep to Merthyr Garden, the identical towers on either side sentinels to their approach. Lord Gerallt huffed loudly, barely able to overcome the long staircase or even continue the conversation. Deirdre wished it was not so. Her father was a proud man, as enraged as a cornered dragon when on the practice field, but over the years he had become portly, unfit for extended activity.

That included speaking when walking to the garden.

If she didn’t love him so much, Deirdre would have resented him for it. After all, a ruler had to have the strength and stamina to keep his people safe.

Which should have included his daughter.

After what seemed eons to Deirdre, they gained the hilltop where it leveled off into Merthyr Garden. A lone pathway lined with roses cut through the well-kept lawn. Trees of apple, cherry, and pear stood proudly groomed while the sweetness of ripening fruit filled the air. On the outskirts, rows of herbs and vegetables yielded the food used by many of the Reach’s citizens.

The place was sacred to Deirdre. The Merthyr Garden also happened to be the resting place for Lady Lorelei Rhys.

Lord Gerallt didn’t stop. He continued up the gentle rise until the pathway ended. There, away from the flora of the garden and open to the sky, the Rosemere greeted them, the wide pool contained by short marble blocks, the waters allowed to flow freely down to the castle below by two troughs. It was not the focal point of the hill, though. From the middle of the Rosemere, a thick, thorny vine grew, twining around a soaring, ancient snag where rose blossoms larger than all others splashed crimson.

Nothing stirred where the ashes of her mother had been sown.

With his breath caught, Lord Gerallt stared at the Rosemere for a long time.

“Does she…still love me?”

It nearly broke Deirdre’s heart to hear the sorrow in his voice. The anger she carried melted away.

“She does,” she lied. “Although even that fades now.”

Lord Gerallt looked about to weep, his gaze still fixed where the remains of his wife lay bequeathed. Deirdre felt his pain. Finally, he turned to his daughter and, with an encouraging smile that rang false, gripped her thin shoulders gently.

“You must see him,” he said quietly.

“Father, you know what he plans fo—”

“Dearest, please understand,” Lord Gerallt cut in. “The situation is perilous. Mochdrev Reach is on the edge of two kingdoms, in shadow, between the hammer of Caer Llion and the anvil of the Carn Cavall. Lord John Lewis Hugo merely wishes an audience today. It may mean nothing.”

“He’s not a lord at all,” Deirdre said darkly.

“No, he isn’t. He is an outworlder,” he replied. “But he is also wickedly smart and absolutely ruthless.”

“My wishes mean nothing then?”

“Ruling is a hardship unto itself, Deirdre. Sometimes it is harder to do what is best. You will loathe me for saying this, but sometimes that includes marrying into situations you may not like for the betterment of all.”

“I would rather fight and die,” she spat, her anger stoked anew.

Lord Gerallt frowned. “And you can speak for those innocents here, at Mochdrev Reach?”

“You rule them.”

“I do. I also must protect them from harm.”

“But not your daughter, apparently.”

Frustration reddened Lord Gerallt’s face. “You don’t mean that.”

Deirdre looked away and said nothing.

“It would be but a thought for that witch, the Cailleach, to extend her power here and reduce these crops to ash. Not only the Tuatha de Dannan in the Carn Cavall would suffer then. And know this: Philip Plantagenet would steal you away anyway. The Reach would lie in ruins like so many other principalities, and Caer Llion would rule our people. Only the war with the Tuatha de Dannan keeps Philip’s eyes from our direction. If you challenge that and bring attention to the Reach, he will use your refusal as a reason to put a garrison of his Red Crosses here. Everything you love would be gone. Do you not see that, Deirdre?”

“You would be a king before a father?” Deirdre asked pointedly.

“A good king must be,” he said. “No matter how much it pains him to say it.”

Despite the panic growing inside her, the hurt that Deirdre caused her father stabbed at her heart. This was not his doing. It didn’t matter though. She saw no way out of the situation that did not involve ruining either her life or those living in Mochdrev Reach.

“Regardless, Lord Hugo may not be seeking what rumors have brought here,” Lord Gerallt continued. “Out of respect for you, he asked to see you where you wish. I understand why you chose the Rosemere. This place…it has power for you. You came here as a little girl; you seek guidance here still. If there is a place in Mochdrev Reach that may protect you, this is it. Hopefully the respect he has shown bodes well. Or…”

“Or what, Father?”

“I would rather not think on it.”

Deirdre nodded, sadly understanding. So much depended on her. She knew it. She was Lord Gerallt’s oldest child. At twenty-three years old and unwilling to embrace the duties other women of the Reach preferred, she was unmarried—not because she wanted to be alone but because she had not met the right man. She preferred to spend her time in study, on the practice field with men twice her age, or tracking in the south plains.

It was a good life, one of her devising. Now that life was being drastically altered without her leave.

Just like when her mother died.

At that moment, a man dressed in black robes bearing the silver lion crest of Caer Llion strode into Merthyr Garden, two Templar Knights in white trailing him. Deirdre had not yet met John Lewis Hugo, but she knew him instantly. First advisor to Philip Plantagenet, the outworlder walked with a commanding arrogance that set Deirdre’s teeth on edge. The right side of his face was a ruined black mask, burned traumatically, melted like wax. People said it had happened while fighting one of the most powerful fey lords, when he and his High King had first entered Annwn centuries earlier.

Deirdre knew she hated him immediately.

With a word to his Red Crosses to remain behind, John Lewis Hugo approached like he had already won a great prize.

“Lord Gerallt, your garden is beautiful,” John Lewis Hugo greeted, smiling as best he could, the charred right side of his face making it difficult. “I trust you have had sufficient time to speak to your daughter?”

“I have, your lordship.”

“Thank you for the welcome. Your household is not lacking when it comes to pleasantries.” John Lewis Hugo bowed but he did so shallowly. He then turned his eye on Deirdre. “I would imagine that has a great deal to do with you, my lady. It has been far too long. You have grown into the beauty I knew you would.”

“We’ve met, my lord?” Deirdre asked, confused.

“When you were quite young,” John Lewis Hugo said. He turned to Lord Gerallt. “Please leave us. I will speak to Lady Deirdre alone.”

Lord Gerallt gave his daughter a quick warning look before leaving the garden, making his way back to the castle.

“You know the reason for my coming?” John Lewis Hugo asked.

“I do.”

John Lewis Hugo turned his gaze upon the Rosemere, hands behind his back. She didn’t like the way he looked at the resting place of her mother, a mixture of interest and irritation. It was a long time before he spoke.

“I understand you communicate with your mother here,” he said finally.

“I come to be near her sometimes, yes.”

“Then you don’t speak to her as we are speaking now?”

Deirdre tried to keep calm. Philip and his advisor had invaded Annwn with one intention: destroy the Tuatha de Dannan with sword and flame, and bring their one god to fill the void. To display interest in fey, magic, or anything associated with the Celtic religions of old would be a death penalty. That included speaking to witches long dead.

“Pay no mind,” he said simply, noticing her apprehension. “The High King may wish to see his father’s crusade fulfilled and his Templar Knights spread to all corners of Annwn, but I am far more pragmatic. How you choose to spend your time in worship is your affair. If that includes speaking to your mother here in this magical pool, so be it.”

Deirdre knew she could not trust him. Like a snake, he was capable of striking without a moment’s notice.

“Mochdrev Reach is a great city, an important castle,” John Lewis Hugo said, his eyes—one blue and the other milky white but alive—staring up at the tall towers. “Once, the Reach did not exist—this was just a lone hill with a single oak at its pinnacle lording over these lands. A battle found its way to the plains south of here, as they have everywhere in Annwn, elves against humans. These elves fought valiantly but were continuously pushed through the plains to these hills. Here they stood, through trickery. To create a diversion and save their people, two elven brothers lured the human army up a southern draw while their brethren fled. The brothers fought side by side at the top of this very hill, unyielding. They slew hundreds, alone, buying the time their nation needed, before a sea of cowardly arrows cut them down.

“It is said the hillside wept at their courage and sacrifice. This spring is the result of that day, their blood the origin of the ancient rose bush.”

“I know the history of my own people,” Deirdre said.

“You know your people killed those brothers then,” John Lewis Hugo said, turning toward her with a coldness she had not seen in another before. “Outright. And settled these hills to form the Reach?” He paused, the darkness suddenly gone. “We share a great deal in common, my lady. We both have fought the fey. We hail from the same shores. True, your ancestors were the first to Annwn, and settled here long before the High King and I arrived centuries ago. You are part of a proud history here in Annwn, and a member of a prouder family. It is the High King’s wish to meld our two peoples into one, uniting against the common enemy.”

There it was. Deirdre didn’t know what to say. John Lewis Hugo had worked in the marriage proposal so smoothly she hadn’t seen it coming.

“You mean marriage,” she said. “To drag us into war.”

John Lewis Hugo stood stoic. “You must consider that. Although I sincerely doubt the High King would bring his might against fellow kinsmen.”

“I simply do not understand why anyone must war with another.”

“It is in the very heart of man to wage war, Lady Deirdre,” John Lewis Hugo said. “It is unchangeable. While I do not care for the deities those of Annwn pray to, I do care about the overall outcome of Annwn’s future. That future has Caer Llion as the capital of the whole continent, with the High King’s Lord at its head.”

“He isn’t my Lord,” she pointed out.

“Indeed,” John Lewis Hugo said. “Your people fled the Misty Isles before the Christian God drove the gods of old from those shores. Still, it is time for the High King to marry, to have a family, to produce an heir. It is a great honor that he looks upon you with favor—and it would be folly for Mochdrev Reach to ignore him.”

The veiled threat shot dread directly into Deirdre’s heart.

“There are many more worthy women,” she countered. “Women who would be better matches for Philip Plantagenet.”

John Lewis Hugo smiled. “Do not be so quick to dismiss yourself, Lady Deirdre. There is a strength that shines within you like the summer sun. Redheads are powerful creatures, always have been. They command respect from men and women alike. It has ever been so with the Celtic people. Even the Tuatha de Dannan respect a redheaded human. That makes you unique.” The charred face came closer to her own. “Desirable even. To some.”

With his hot breath on her cheek, madness filled Deirdre. The High King’s advisor did not stop there. John Lewis Hugo traced a long, cool finger down the side of her cheek, his touch alien. The desire to flee, to fight, to do anything that removed the inappropriate caress overcame Deirdre, but she was rooted in place, unable to move. Panic set in. Deep in his eyes, madness flickered. He did not want her, not in a sexual way. He enjoyed making her fear; he enjoyed watching that fear manifest and seeing how she reacted to it. Deirdre understood immediately that John Lewis Hugo was far darker and more evil than anyone she had ever encountered.

Just when she thought she would break the spell and lash out, the High King’s advisor withdrew.

“Indeed, you are powerful,” he said smoothly as if nothing had happened. “In one month you will present yourself to the court at Caer Llion. Bring whatever retinue you deem fit for a queen of Annwn. I am pleased we understand one another and I hope to serve you further. I wish you a good day, Lady Deirdre.”

At that, John Lewis Hugo turned on his heels and left Merthyr Garden, the two Templar Knights following him back to the castle keep and likely returning to Caer Llion.

Trembling with wrath, Deirdre watched them go. It was as she had feared. Philip Plantagenet wished for a bride, and for reasons she could not fathom, he had chosen her. It would not happen. Not if she had her way. Deirdre had never met the High King, but if he was anything like John Lewis Hugo, she wanted no part of him.

The fire she had banked for her father’s benefit roared back to life, lending her strength. Deirdre needed advice from someone she could trust.

She needed ages of wisdom.

Deirdre stepped to the edge of the Rosemere, eyeing the ancient rose bush, and began to hum. It was a rich melody, one of the oldest, a call for the dead. She anchored herself to Annwn, drawing on its life as well as that within her. She grew weak, the life force she possessed being slowly drained to conduct the magic, but she stood resolute as she had so many times before.

Her request did not take long to be answered. The Merthyr Garden fell away. So too did the azure of the sky and the crimson of the rose blooms, the world reduced to shades of gray.

Instead the water of the Rosemere flickered and swirled, sluggish at first but picking up speed as it circled the dead tree at its center.

Then the world sunk in on itself, absorbing the light of the day and inversing it until a shape as dark as midnight hovered on the surface of the water. It stood proud as it rose into the air, a true form coalescing into a woman draped in folds of a black cloak, floating as though in a breeze. A cowl tried to hold red locks of long hair from a white chiseled countenance, but strands of it flitted wildly across her mien. It was a beautiful face, one Deirdre knew well. As she breathed in the odor of rotting mulch and darkness, the gray eyes of the shade peered at her.

—Child—

The voice was inside her head, spectral, the sweetness Deirdre remembered replaced by dryness. Even now, after so long, a part of her yearned to step forward into the pool and embrace the woman, but she held her ground, knowing the danger.

“I am here, Mother,” she said.

—You have the stink of corruption on your flesh—Deirdre didn’t know what her mother meant, then remembered John Lewis Hugo touching her cheek and felt revulsion all over again.

“Yes, I do.”

—You have been kept alive to enact great harm—

The shade’s emotionless voice penetrated deep into Deirdre.

“What do you mean, Mother?”

—What would you know of me, Child—

Deirdre paused, unsure how to proceed. In death, there were events hidden from her mother, both past and future. Never had she pronounced such a dire prediction. The dead also rarely spoke linearly—a question could lead to a wholly different avenue of discussion—the riddles maddening to unravel.

“Who wants me alive? What harm?” Deirdre pleaded anyway. “Mother, do you mean Philip Plantagenet? John Lewis Hugo? Who?”

—A lord of shadows is in the world once more, stirring evil—

“A lord? I don’t understand!”

—I know not, Child. It is not for me to know. Or you—

Deirdre frowned, thinking.

“What am I to do about this marriage proposal?” she asked instead, hoping for the help she had come for.

—You will love, Child. It will be the love of your life—

She almost laughed. “With Philip Plantagenet?”

—The lives of the Outworlder King and my Child are intertwined like vines, to be cut at the harvest—

“No…that cannot be, Mother!”

The Rosemere hissed at her vehemence. The dead did not like being angered once called. Deirdre stood her ground. They could not harm her, not unless she disengaged from the pool or stepped within its boundaries to enter their world.

Deirdre took a deep breath.

“I refuse to believe I will be with Plantagenet,” she said. “That is not my destiny.”

—A destiny is dark until the present sheds light on it—

“Mother, what am I to do?”

—Nothing you desire will come to be. Only what you fear will come to pass—

“You are saying I cannot prevent what comes?”

—Look here. Death—

In her mind’s eye, she saw a vision. Smoke blew across a battlefield littered with bodies of the dead and dying. The scene possessed no sound, but Deirdre imagined wailing on the air. Bloodied twisted creatures milled among bodies of men and Tuatha de Dannan alike, their limbs unnaturally angled by savage intention. She was in the battle, being pulled away from a fire that was being swallowed by darkness. Then an unknown man cradled her, but his attention was drawn to the sky where a brilliant fire burned the heavens.

—Death—

The vision changed.

Darkness surrounded her, suffocating her, until she realized she was in the depths of a great mountain honeycombed with labyrinthine passageways. She was not alone, though. A creature stalked her, its baleful red eyes fixed on her but also not fixed on her, its body as insubstantial as smoke but deadlier than any beast Deirdre had encountered or read about. She ran but it chased, impossibly fast, until the very stone walls collapsed and true night suffocated her scream.

—Death—

It changed again.

In warrens beneath a domed castle filled with art more ornate than any she had ever seen, caskets in walls housed the dead. The dank smell of ages mixed with the sweet odor of nearby water, where magic coated the air. Two old men wearing priestly robes wielded swords to defend all they knew. Whether they survived the Templar Knights attempting to kill them or if they failed, she knew it did not matter; the other world burned, and it spread into Annwn, consuming Mochdrev Reach, her people, and all she loved.

Unbidden tears stung Deirdre’s eyes.

The vision blackened to nothing. Deirdre opened her eyes and looked at her mother as she peered back. Her gray orbs seemed to be mirrors into Deirdre’s soul.

“What does this all mean?” she asked, trembling.

—My time has come. Follow your heart. No matter your choice, Child—

“No, Mother. Don’t go.”

Deirdre wanted to reach out. The apparition instead slipped back into the Rosemere, her figure disintegrating like ash in water. The pool stopped churning. The smell of decaying life dissipated. As the day brightened about her, the buzzing of bees and the songs of birds in the Merthyr Garden returned with stunning clarity.

With sunshine warming her, Deirdre stood staring where the shade of her mother had vanished. It happened just that quickly. She already missed her. She also knew little from the meeting. The riddles her mother spoke rarely came to fruition the way Deirdre expected, even if there was a bit of truth in them. More questions swirled inside her than when she had called the shade. With whom would Deirdre fall in love? How did the false king play into the future of her life? And how would the visions she had been shown come—or not come—to pass?

She had no answers.

The one thing she did know was that the life she knew was drastically changing, and there was nothing she could do about it.

“I thought you would be talking to her forever!”

Deirdre spun.

Sitting on the soft blossom petals of a nearby rose bush, Snedeker stared at her, stick arms crossed, a frown tugging at his wood and moss features, his gossamer wings irritably fluttering.

“You should not be here!” Deirdre hissed, angry all over again. “I told you to stay out of sight until the sun set. If John Lewis Hugo caught you here—”

“Yes, yes, your father would feed me to the cat,” Snedeker opined. “What he doesn’t know is I’d kill that cat with three quic—”

“And kill the rest of us!”

“Boghoggery, settle down, Red!” Snedeker grumped, launching from the rose blossom and flying toward her. “I won’t actually kill the cat.”

“Wait right there,” Deirdre said, observing her fairy friend closer. “You are entirely too happy. And your little pack looks to be a burden. What do you have?”

Guilt crossed the fairy’s wooden features.

“Nothing!”

“You lie,” she said. “I can always tell when you lie.”

“Are you sure you aren’t a witch?”

“Out with it!”

Annoyance crossing his face, Snedeker pulled a ruby the size of a thumbnail from the sack on his back.

“Where did you get that?!”

“From the coach that brought that pompous burned ass! It was encrusted with them and other jewels.” He hefted the ruby. “This one was mostly loose anyway, Red. Mostly. Isn’t it beautiful, how the sun…”

Deirdre ignored the rest of what the fairy said. It was the only way she kept from throttling him. If the High King knew a member of the Tuatha de Dannan was within the Reach, it would spell certain doom for them all. She might be bringing war to her father’s kingdom, but at least it would be on her terms and not that of a thieving fairy.

“You must put it back. Now.”

“I think not,” the fairy said quickly. “They are leaving. And besides, I have merely borrowed it.”

“Knowing you, you’ve borrowed it until its owners are long dead and dust.”

“Just so.”

Deirdre sighed. “The damage is done. Give it to a family with many children in town. Don’t let them see you. By giving it away, I hope you learn a lesson.”

The fairy didn’t budge, hovering in midair.

“Snedeker…”

“All right, all right. Swampmutton.”

As the fairy flew away, his shoulders a bit slumped, Deirdre looked up at the mountains that grew at Mochdrev Reach’s northern border and thought about what the shade of her mother had said. The line of jagged peaks known as the Snowdon burst from the older, rounded hills of the Carn Cavall, not unlike the emotions that swirled within her. Her mother had been a powerful witch before she died; she knew much of what was to come. The vision of the Tuatha de Dannan dead on the battlefield could mean only one thing—the fey had chosen to fight Caer Llion. And the man Deirdre would fall in love with? It couldn’t be Philip Plantagenet. But who? Another outworlder? The man holding her in the vision? And more importantly: when would this come to pass?

It no longer mattered, she thought. And it no longer mattered what the High King of Annwn, his advisor, or even her father wished. Deirdre knew she would rather die than succumb to a boot heel, particularly one from Caer Llion.

Because the Tuatha de Dannan felt the same.

Deirdre turned back to the Rosemere. Its waters were at peace but she was not. Those who knew her knew that when her mind was made up, nothing would change it. Stubborn like an ox bull, her father often said. He was right. No one was going to tell her what to do, especially a man who had proclaimed himself High King long ago and would use that power to steal Deirdre away from all she knew and loved.

She would not let it happen—come what may for Mochdrev Reach and those who lived within its walls. She had to stand and fight, no matter the consequences. No matter where that stand would take her.

Deirdre left to find her father.

Lord Gerallt would be the first to know.