The Dark Thorn

The cold night enveloped Bran when he stepped from Old World Tales.

He could still turn back. It would not be a hard thing; he owed no one anything. Merle had a sense of urgency Bran did not question, but there had to be another avenue he could go by that did not involve entering Annwn. Life on the streets was exceedingly real, and Bran had confronted his fear numerous times there, but what he felt now bordered on insanity. Sadly, no alternate option presented itself. The part of Bran that questioned his decision wanted to retreat back to his warm bed and pull the covers over his head.

It was a large step to believe Annwn existed.

A larger one to step into it.

Wearing a warm coat, Bran hiked his backpack higher on his shoulder. He had to go, he realized. The opportunity to discover who had tried to kill him and what had truly happened to his father gripped him in a way he had never experienced. Questions long-carried would not be denied. They were embers blown into flame, and each step he took down the street was one closer to answers.

Richard led Bran and Merle on a direct path, barely contained annoyance in every aspect of his bearing.

“Do I call you Merle or something else?” Bran asked.

“I have gone by Merle for so long, to call me anything else would be wrong.”

Richard snorted. “Are you sure about the boy in all of this, old man?”

“I am, Richard,” Merle replied. “You will see.”

“Like you saw with me?” the knight said darkly.

Merle ignored the rebuke; Richard continued on. Bran wondered about their dynamic. It was apparent the two shared a stressful history, one in which the knight blamed the wizard for a terrible past event. Richard clearly did not trust Merle.

Should Bran? What had he gotten into?

After traversing two blocks, Richard brought them to a halt across the street from the triangular park fronting the Underground Tour. The downtown skyscrapers above rose stark against the half moon and star field, the city like a graveyard. It left him on edge. He had no idea what to expect. Every shadow was capable of hiding an attacker.

He had to be ready for anything.

“How did my father die? Really?” Bran asked Merle.

“In Ireland, as you already know, I believe,” the bookstore owner answered. “Your father was killed by an explosion. Your mother was lost at the same time. I never discovered who did it; for some reason it has been hidden from my sight. Another will acts against my own.”

Bran breathed in cold air, afraid to ask. “Did he die doing his duty? Being this Heliwr?”

“He did,” the bookseller said with obvious regret.

“Merle,” Richard growled. “If I go, who protects the portal?”

“I have made arrangements,” Merle said. “It will be safe. I move chess pieces into defensive positions as well as anyone.”

Richard looked away.

A different aspect bothered Bran. “How did you know I was—”

“Special?” Merle interrupted. “I’ve seen it before, Bran. It was how you carried yourself. When you accept who you are, the world will open up for you in ways I can’t explain. You will have to experience it for yourself.”

“Now you sound like a new-age pagan,” Bran said.

“I am who I am, Bran. No more, no less.”

“You can’t be thinking of making this boy the new Heliwr,” the knight accused.

“Never has a knighthood passed from father to son, Richard,” Merle said, eyes scanning the night. “You know this.”

Bran kept up with the other two men. They were walking across the street, their footfalls echoing, the knight bringing up the rear, when Merle jerked to a halt. He scanned the gloom, eyes probing. Across the street, the park triangle opened up, its tall totem pole a beacon of muted colorful paint. Nothing moved. It was a dead world.

“What?” Bran whispered.

“Richard. Arondight,” Merle ordered.

The knight didn’t question. Concentration filled his face.

Seconds passed. Nothing happened.

Merle raised a questioning eyebrow.

A grimace tightening his face, Richard fought a pain Bran could not see until the sword flared to sudden life in his hand, the silver hilt and steel of the blade catching the moon’s glow and accentuating it in the dark.

As if drawn by the weapon, a man wearing a sable coat and matching uniform emerged from behind the pergola into the light of the lamps, an ink stain given life. Coming to a stop at the street curb, he waited as if he had expected their coming. Both hands buried in pockets that bulged with suggestion, he gave Richard a snide grin despite the knight and the azure flame of Arondight moving protectively in front of Merle and Bran.

One eye in the middle-aged man’s chiseled face lay dead. The other held fiery purpose.

“Finn Arne,” Merle hailed. “You are a long way from home.”

“Indeed,” the other replied in a worn German accent. “First time to Seattle. But it appears you beat me here.”

“What do you want?” Merle asked icily.

“I suspect you know,” Fine Arne said, looking at Bran. “You’ve done half my work, it appears.”

“This young man has no business with you or your betters, Captain.”

“Betters? Cute, wizard,” Finn Arne replied. “That’s not what I hear. The boy has been requested to appear in Rome. He will be coming with me.”

“No,” Richard growled. “He won’t.”

“Why Rome?” Bran asked, looking at the newcomer.

“Stay silent, young sir,” Merle whispered, gripping his shoulder.

“The Cardinal Vicar of the Diocese of Rome wishes to see you, Bran Ardall,” Finn Arne said in a bored voice. “It has been ordained by the Catholic Church.”

“I know you are under orders, Captain,” Merle intoned, stepping forward. “And I know you take those orders as gospel. As well you should. In this situation, however, letting the young man pass and carry out his future will protect the Church more surely than a visit to Rome.”

“Hand the boy over, wizard,” Finn sneered. “Or we will take him at consequence.”

“Try it, Arne,” Richard countered.

“You might believe you have authority here, McAllister, but you’d be wrong,” the man snarled. “And from what I know, I doubt you can maintain that sword long enough to put up much of a fight anyway.”

“That’s what the last dead fey thought,” Richard threatened.

“This is your choice then, Myrddin Emrys?” Finn Arne asked. “To make this difficult?”

“Life is difficult. No reason for it not to be so now,” Merle said, pushing up coat sleeves to free his hands and forearms. “In this matter, your Vigilo leaders are very wrong.”

“You posture fake power,” Finn Arne countered flatly. “Your time is over.”

The wizard said nothing.

“Very well. I tried civility,” Finn Arne said, pulling two handguns and aiming at the knight. Other men wearing similar uniforms coalesced from alleys and behind corners on cue, all pointing weapons at the three men. “The hard way then, Myrddin Emrys.”

“Looks that way,” Merle said.

The men closed ranks, silent and well practiced. The impulse to flee swept over Bran. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he realized with certainty that he had nowhere to go. The soldiers moved to corner them, a wide semi-circle tightening its trap.

Unlike the knight and wizard, Bran was helpless.

He wondered anew at his choice to enter Annwn.

“Lose the sword, McAllister,” Finn menaced. “Now.”

Richard brought Arondight up and cleaved the air with its blade, blue fire erupting along its runes and lancing out in a broad arc. Flames incinerated the air. The ring of magic swept up Finn Arne and those close to him, sending them flying. The other soldiers did not wait. Even as their leader landed with a curse, the dozen untouched fighters unleashed gunfire at Richard, the reports shattering the night. Richard brought his fire up again, a wall of protection; even as Bran ducked, the bullets never struck, turned aside by Arondight.

“Run!” Richard roared

“Run, Bran!” Merle pushed.

As the knight maintained the impenetrable circle of fire, Bran stumbled after Richard, half dragged by the bookseller as they crossed the street toward the Pioneer Park triangle. The cacophony of gunfire echoed all around them, the smell of gunpowder heavy and pungent on the chill air. Bran looked everywhere, hoping for the police. No one came. Finn Arne had regained his feet and, while roaring commands, fired his handguns with deafening accuracy as the bullets fought to reach untouchable marks.

Free of the trap set by Finn Arne, Merle peeled away from Richard and pulled Bran with him behind the safety of the ancient pergola, its iron and surrounding maple trees shielding them.

“Now listen to me, Bran,” Merle demanded. “When you and Richard—”

“Do not move,” a thick Italian voice ordered from behind.

As the two men turned to confront their assailant, black feathers and talons landed upon the soldier’s face, screeching venom. It was Arrow Jack. Like a tornado of hate, the merlin tore at the exposed flesh of cheeks, forehead, and eyes, shredding all in bloody anguish. The soldier dropped his guns and ran, arms flailing above his head, while the bold bird winged away to find more prey.

“Now, when you two enter the portal—”

“Wait.” Panic seized Bran. “You aren’t coming into Annwn?!”

“I cannot,” Merle said, grasping Bran’s shoulders with steel. “I am needed here. There are balances to be maintained, futures to be watched from afar. You both will go, accompanied by my Arrow Jack.”

“But I have questions—”

“No time,” Merle cut Bran short. “You will make your way. Stay true and the path you take will be the right one. Listen to your heart. Listen to Richard. He has gained much experience through life’s trials.”

“I don’t think—”

“It is as I’ve foreseen,” Merle finished. “You will be strong like your father.”

As Bran pulled away, confusion warring with the anger of being deceived, gunfire erupted into the pergola. Bran quelled a scream. Richard charged across the street, bellowing his rage at the fighters, Arondight a flaming shield. The light of the sword grew dimmer, though, as the warriors, under the direction of Arne, struggled to tighten another noose. Richard fought to stay between his two charges and their foes, but Bran could tell the knight was growing tired.

He either did not have control of Arondight, or its power was finite.

“This is your last chance to turn back, to ignore your destiny, to make your father proud even in death,” Merle shouted at Bran. “It is a choice you must make.”

Richard stood over them suddenly, a pillar of wild magic. He knocked another burst of gunfire from the air and sent another arc of fire at the soldiers, Arondight as fierce as its owner.

“All right,” Bran agreed.

“We must go. Now!” Richard roared.

“Take this,” Merle shouted over the din. He shoved a tiny, square wooden box at Bran, its top carved with a glimmering Celtic knot. “Use it only when you feel you want protection.”

“What about you?” Bran screamed, shoving the box into a jeans pocket.

“I’m not impotent,” Merle said and winked. “Now go!”

Richard did not wait. He hauled Bran across Yesler Way and back over First Avenue. Merle stayed with them, also exposed to the wrath of Finn Arne, their only safety behind the knight’s fiery shield. When the three men came to a new alley opening, Merle nodded at Bran before darting into the protected darkness. Bran watched him go, worried for the old man but more worried about his own predicament.

“The stairway down, at the corner,” Richard pointed out.

Arondight vanished then, the protective fire gone.

Darkness swallowed the street. Before the soldiers could take advantage, Richard grabbed Bran, threw him into the alley, and pressed him against the brick of the building. Bran hit the wall hard. They were cut off from their destination as Finn Arne and his men moved to capture them, the captain the only man Bran could see.

“Damn it!” Richard exclaimed.

“McAllister!” Finn Arne yelled with eager mockery. “The old man may have the ability to disappear. You do not. Give the lad up. There is nowhere for you to go. Your wizard has left you, as has the ability he knighted you with.”

“You do not command me,” Richard bellowed. “Or the boy.”

“No?” the captain said, leveling both handguns at the knight. “Those who hold the weapons make the rules. Or didn’t you know that?”

Bran huddled behind the knight. The alley was like pitch, the shadowy outlines of dumpsters and a far-off van their only possible protection. They were pinned—certainly not able to gain the stairs Richard had pointed at.

Then a quiver ran through the bricks at his back.

“I don’t want to have to kill a knight!” Finn Arne shouted, clearly frustrated.

“You won’t have to,” Richard snapped.

In a blur of massive movement that blocked out even the weak starlight and made Bran flinch involuntarily, a creature as large as an elevator dropped between the knight and the captain from the rooftops above, thundering the street upon its landing. Screams of fear and curses mixed with the strobe flashes of renewed gunfire. Snarling with demonic ferocity, Finn Arne leveled his own gunfire at the two-legged beast, its blunted face and thick body mere yards away. Bran couldn’t believe what he saw. With lank oily hair falling from a balding pate and around sharply pointed ears, the obsidian hulk raged and, with one huge fist the size of a cinder block, struck Finn Arne in the chest.

The captain flew across the street, as though a crushed gnat. When he landed on the steel bench, his backbone and ribs snapped sickeningly in the night—the strike a killing blow.

In response, the fighters advanced despite the lack of effect their weapons had on the powerful beast. The massive protector remained fixed in his spot, shielding his face and chest with his arms, blocking the alley and its occupants from harm.

“I got this, Rick,” it rumbled. “Get your glow rod workin’ and get outta here.”

“No, I won’t leave you to them, Kreche!” Richard shouted.

Dozens of bullets struck the muscled mass of Kreche with deadened thwacks, each adding to its pain. Bran didn’t know what creature the newcomer was or how it could withstand such an assault, but he knew it was only a matter of time before it was overwhelmed.

“Can’t do this forever,” Kreche grimaced.

The being’s need bolstered Richard somehow. Where a downtrodden and lost man had just stood, a righteous knight replaced him once more.

Arondight exploded into existence.

“Go,” Kreche hissed.

On the heels of the knight, Bran stepped out of the alley, the fire of Arondight protecting them once more. Ten men bore down on them, their weapons automatic ferocity. The soldiers were not going to quit, even with their leader gone.

As he stepped clear, Bran saw the bleeding holes littering the beast’s deeply muscled chest and arms. It breathed heavily, its strong jaw clenched. Black ichor bled down a noseless flat face where a bullet had grazed its brow between nub horns. Bran didn’t know how the behemoth still stood, but he no longer took it for granted.

“Thank you,” Bran said, gazing into its black beady eyes.

“Make it count, scion of Ardall,” it grunted. “Farewell.”

Richard sent his fire hurtling toward most of the men before running from cover with Bran, trying to make it to the staircase. Once again, Arondight held off their attackers. Bullets ricocheted off of the brick buildings around them but could not hit their mark. The knight kept them safe, at least for the moment.

Bran looked backward as they ran, and was taken aback.

In the yellow lamplight, Finn Arne had returned, barking orders at those men still on their feet, as if nothing had happened to him.

Bran and Richard gained the stairway cut into the sidewalk, inky blackness below, as the sound of closing police sirens chased after them. His feet barely hitting the narrow stairs, Bran plunged downward. Richard came after, Arondight lighting their way. With Finn Arne screaming above, Richard slammed into the door at the base of the staircase. It buckled under his weight and they were through.

The world below embraced him with dank coolness.

“How did that captain survive that punch?!”

“He’s unique,” Richard answered hotly, moving through the tunnel’s gloom as quickly as he could. “I’ll explain later.”

“What about that thing?”

“The Kreche can take care of himself,” the knight snorted. “Nothing can withstand him, nothing in this world anyway. Those Church soldiers will flee or die for it.”

The underground opened up to Bran, a world lost to another age—broken stone and brick in dusty piles, ancient corroded steel beams, glass and old faded signs in the corners. The light bulbs above dark, Arondight offered the only illumination. Disorienting shadows flitted about them like elusive companions. Bran moved among them through the passageways.

Arrow Jack shot past Bran, sending electricity coursing through him. The bird flew ahead, having escaped the mayhem.

“Why would the Church want me?”

“Lapdogs of the Church,” Richard corrected. “Who knows why they want anything.”

“You mean—”

“Yes,” Richard grated. “I don’t know. All I know is the Cardinal Vicar wants you as badly as the Lord of Annwn apparently.”

“I don’t understand!”

“Well, I don’t get it either!” Richard thundered.

“Where is this portal?”

“We’ll find it sooner if you shut up,” Richard shot back.

They moved down the dead corridors, the walls close. Several twists and corners later, they stood before a glassless window that looked into what appeared to be an old bank. Richard left the corridor and moved into the shell of the building; the ancient vault door hung off its hinges and dust coated everything. Trash from the turn of the century filled all corners; ancient spider webs hung from the beams, caked in grime. Richard ignored it all and moved deeper into darkness.

The world Bran knew disappeared with every step.

In the middle of the concrete floor a hole opened, stairs leading into a depthless gaping maw waiting to swallow them. Holding Arondight high like a torch, Richard made his way down carefully, unperturbed by the rotten odors emanating from the hole. Into what appeared to be a basement of Old Seattle, Bran followed, the air a chill ghost on his skin.

They entered an empty square room made of jagged, worn red brick, uncluttered by the refuse that had marked the floors above.

None of that mattered to him.

In the center of the wall in front of him, the bricks had fallen away to reveal a hole in the earthy clay, shimmering with fog. Arondight could not penetrate its depths. Emerald ivy grew around the opening, its vines pushing the brick free, nature destroying what man had built. Bran had been expecting something more grandiose—more magical—a gate bearing carved Celtic runes or a tunnel leading into the earth. The portal was instead a swirling void.

Then a breeze as soft as goose down nudged his cheeks, filled with the mingled smells of dewy grass, growing trees, and intoxicating flowers.

“How can this exist here?” Bran breathed, dumbfounded.

“A sorcerer named Tathal Ennis created it, meant to hide it for his own personal gain. He was attempting to import items from Annwn and sell them to the highest bidder in Europe. The Church discovered the portal after Seattle’s Great Fire and hunted him down, but with no luck. Once a portal is opened it cannot be closed, and clever spells in the room above help keep people from venturing here.”

Bran looked back to the portal. He didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t panic,” Richard ordered. “There is more for you to know once we are on the other side. Keep moving forward once you step in.”

“What’s it like?”

“You’ll see,” the knight said before murmuring. “So will I.”

Arrow Jack flew in ahead of the two men. Bran took a deep breath. As Merle had said, there was no turning back.

With Richard in the lead, Bran entered the portal.





“I have returned from Mochdrev Reach, my king.”

Philip Plantagenet ignored the entrance of John Lewis Hugo and stared out the uppermost window of Idyll Tower, watching dawn come alive as the Harp of Tiertu attempted to soothe his stress. It didn’t help. He had seen thousands of sunrises grace Annwn, each one carving the peaks of the distant Carn Cavall Mountains from the night sky and burning away the gray fog from the Forest of Dean east of Caer Llion, but no sunrise during his centuries living in the land of the Tuatha de Dannan had brought such high stress—and such promise.

He rubbed the reddish stubble along his jaw, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep. It was a critical time and much demanded his attention.

“Welcome back, old friend,” Philip greeted finally, silencing the self-playing fey harp with a thought and turning to his long-time advisor. “I trust your trip was uneventful?”

“It was, thankfully,” John said, half of his face a hideous mask Philip had never grown accustomed to viewing. “Meeting with Lord Gerallt and his daughter went as planned. As I knew it would. The lord gave his blessing in private. Lady Deirdre is ordered to court in one month and will bring her retinue. And my king… she is a beautiful woman, strong of spirit and body. She will produce you a fine heir, one worthy of two worlds. You both will unite two peoples.”

“I am still not entirely sure it is the right time for me to marry, to have children,” Philip thought out loud, crossing his arms. “There is much work left. My father ordered the destruction of the Tuatha de Dannan and the annexation of Annwn. That has not yet happened. Does your use of the cauldron truly portend the time is now? Are you sure she is the right woman?”

“I am,” John said. “Marrying the daughter of Mochdrev Reach will unify the peoples from Britain. With the additional might, you will crush the Tuatha de Dannan and fulfill King Henry’s crusade. Is that not the trust you have been charged?”

It was, of course. Philip turned back to the sunrise. There was still a part of him that resented leaving his war unfinished, putting individual happiness before completing his father’s commandment. A man had his duty first; what came after was his alone. Over the eight centuries of his war, many women had enjoyed the pleasure of his sheets, all of them broomed from his royal suite just as quickly. None had produced children. John blamed it on use of the relic: such a potent magic rendering Philip impotent. Stoppage of its use—or so John believed—would lead to the heirs his long family line required.

Philip did not question his advisor. But his purpose in Annwn was yet to be finished, and it remained a festering wound to his honor.

“What did Gerallt’s daughter say?” he asked finally.

“She is angry, as is usually the case with arranged marriages,” John said. “Yet she knows her obligation to Caer Llion, and it will lend her the strength to do what is right.”

Philip wondered. If he did marry Lord Gerallt’s daughter, Mochdrev Reach would become a powerful new asset to his empire. The breadth of Annwn he had already conquered was vast but the populace sparse, particularly in the south. The men and women of the Reach were the descendents of the first humans to enter Annwn, coming to the sacred isle with the fey long before Philip had been born. He knew his history. He also knew countries could not be conquered without consolidation of force, and that meant bringing the Reach into his army and plan. John was right. The best way to do so was through marriage.

“My king,” John said, hands folded before him. “Gwawl, son of Clud, requests an audience. He can wait if it pleases you.”

“Are the preparations complete for Annwn’s newest visitors?”

“They are,” his advisor answered. “Master Goronwy and his hounds will lead a large company of Templars to the portal. The Cailleach has agreed to go for her normal price, of course. It should be enough.”

“The hag should be more than a match for the knight,” Philip said. “You are sure the boy and knight will enter Annwn?”

John did not answer but instead stepped to the middle of the room where the Cauldron of Pwyll sat upon its granite pedestal, the water in its silver mouth flat like ice. The rest of the study was much as it had been for most of Philip’s life—a refuge for the High King of Annwn. The room held many of the possessions he brought with him from London, but it had also become a journal of his time in the Sacred Isle. On one wall, opposite the world map of his birth, a map of Annwn hung, its breadth exposed for easy viewing. Shelves lined the other walls, filled with tomes from the library at Oxford, his own personal writings, and the combined knowledge of the dead rebel druids from the university at Caer Dathal. Rugs, ornate chairs, an oak desk buffed to a deep gloss, and acquired magical artifacts filled out the room.

“You look tired,” Philip said.

“The cauldron…taxes me, my king,” John said, touching the silver lip of the wide bowl. Philip observed the ruined mess that was the left side of John’s face, as it had been for centuries. The unpolluted childhood friend of Philip had vanished long before, the sad consequence of imprisoning one of the most fearful and powerful fey lords. “I am but a shadow of my other’s former self,” John admitted.

“You have given much. It is not in vain, I assure you.”

“Thank you,” John said. “What of the Lord of Arberth?”

“I care not about Gwawl,” Philip said, disinterested. “He is as demanding as he is ugly. Why has he come, especially at this early hour?”

“He would not say, my king.”

Philip gazed at the burgeoning morning. He had far more urgent items of interest to cater to. The demon wizard had acted as the witch had estimated. While Philip hated using fey creatures to lure the unsuspecting knight and boy, it was a necessary evil. Plans he and John had orchestrated were nearing completion—and it was time to reap the reward.

“Let him wait,” Philip commanded. “The day I have wanted for centuries has finally come, and it deserves my attention fully.”

“Yes it does, my king. Our efforts now begun, however, cannot be stopped. Separating a knight from his portal is a battle won, but I worry if the boy gets free, it could cost us the war.”

“I know your apprehension. Action has ever been the doctrine of my father’s vision, and its time is now, John, after all of these centuries. Whether the boy lives or dies, it will be to our benefit. Are you not confident in the portents of the witch? In your own auguries?”

“I am, but Myrddin Emrys is…wily. He could have pulled wool over my eyes.”

“The wizard is wily, indeed,” Philip agreed. “Like playing gwyddbwyll against the worthiest of opponents. And for your sake I hope you can see through that wool. If what you have seen is true, I have the advantage. The Heliwr is nigh to gracing two worlds again after almost a decade, and as he does so I will rule him.”

“The Templar Knights are assembled in the northern courtyard, my king,” John reminded.

“The cauldron then, one more time.”

Without word, John placed both hands upon the cauldron’s rim and stared into it, furrowed concentration twisting his face. A ghostly film stole across both of his eyes, even as the depths of the bowl stirred with a brackish glow that illuminated John with wicked intent.

“What do you see?” Philip questioned impatiently.

John remained bent over the water. “I see a merlin, flying against the azure sky, its wings darkening the land beneath with shadows. Those shadows fall over Caer Llion.”

“Is it Myrddin Emrys?”

“Difficult to know, my king,” John replied, squinting into the light. “But I do not believe so. It feels not like the wizard. More… free. Less intelligent.” John paused. “I now see a seed sprouting from soil as black as midnight, growing into a warped tree of daggers and deep roots. It stands alone, powerful, unfettered—but sad, the forest encircling it unwilling to encroach upon its presence. Red eyes from the dark. Red eyes.”

“The hawthorn tree. Am I anywhere near it?”

“No, my king.”

Philip darkened. It was not what he had hoped.

“Night, as terrible as the dawn,” John continued. “It falls over the enormous dome in Rome where a raven sits upon a cross, lording over all from the gloom.”

“A merlin. Now a raven,” Philip mused. “Do you at least know the raven’s significance?”

“I do not,” John replied. “The raven is an animal of great power. A defiler.”

“The Church is that defiler, needing direction,” Philip said. “Where is our prey now? The knight and the boy should be our focus.”

John clutched the sides of the bowl with white-knuckled hands, beads of sweat springing to life upon his brow. “They will emerge within Dryvyd Wood when the sun rises and will be far from the safety of the portal by midday, my king. The Shield and the men of the Church who challenged them have not followed. A halfbreed intervened and caused great damage to them.”

“Good. Good. Come back to me now, John.”

The cauldron glow faded, leaving the advisor’s mismatched eyes clear but circled by dark exhaustion.

“When the time comes, will you have the strength to blind the Vatican?” Philip asked.

“It will not pose a challenge,” John answered, straightening.

“I hope not.”

“I could never dishonor your father and brothers that way.”

Philip looked back out the window, the sun rising from its bed to paint the world in color. Those of his immediate family were dead long centuries past, their remains lost to antiquity, their desires dust with the exception of Philip. King Henry II of England had been a man of vision and power—one who sacrificed his family for gain. As a boy living in the trades quarter of London, Philip had not known his unique parentage. It was not until he had been brought before his true father and begun his secret education with Master Wace of Bayeux that he left his apprenticeship and embraced a greater calling, his existence as an outsider made clear.

The mantle Philip carried had finally ripened to fruition.

“I want you to lead the Cailleach, the Houndmaster, and the Templar Knights,” Philip ordered. “I want the boy brought directly to the dungeons to begin his new life.”

“What of the knight with him? He is a grave threat.”

“He will be broken like the boy—and made an asset.”

“He could also undo your plans, my king.”

“If what you say is true, this knight is near broken anyway,” Philip countered. “He is the weakest of the Yn Saith.”

“He is,” John said, looking away. “But I still feel—”

“Your true feelings are known.”

“The knight is not necessary,” John finished. “Kill him and concentrate on the boy.”

“I do not care for your tone, John,” Philip said darkly. “Use of the cauldron has warped your logic. Imagine the power our army would acquire with the Heliwr and a knight of the Yn Saith at its head. Imagine the authority we would hold over the Church and its governments. The ability to end the Tuatha de Dannan and shape both worlds in the Godly image intended.” Philip paused. “One thing I have learned these great many years, my friend, is usurped power is power acquired. I mean to have it rather than lose it.”

“I have to concede attaining the services of Arondight would be a great boon to your efforts,” John said. “But the risk remains severe.”

“The sword of Lancelot is a prize beyond any I now possess,” Philip remarked. “Give the knight to Duthan Loikfh. The Fomorian is the best at what he does.”

“And the boy, my king?”

“He may not be as hard to persuade as you think, John,” Philip said. “If what you’ve seen it true, he is a wanderer, lost, looking for direction. He has never had the finery we have had for so long. He may join us willingly if given those things his life has lacked as a street pauper.”

“Indeed,” John said. “I also still worry of the Tuatha de Dannan.”

“What of them? I control Annwn.”

“Right now, my king,” John pointed out. “But the fey have yet to be defeated.”

“They are fractured, weak,” Philip said. “The strength of the Templar Knights has grown as that of the Tuatha de Dannan has diminished. If not for the Carn Cavall Mountains, Snowdon, and the Nharth who shield them both, the war would be long been over.”

“Master Wace would preach caution. The Seelie Court—”

“The various courts are broken, leaderless,” Philip countered. “But you are wise to fear the possibility. Caer Llion will not be left unguarded. Have faith in that, John.”

“I do, my king. Our work is nearly finished.”

“Not finished, John,” Philip said, already thinking ahead. “Only just begun.”

John nodded stoically.

“Be sure the Cailleach is given payment,” Philip said. “She will need fresh breeding materials for the army. No reason to anger her as before.”

“A lowborn child from town will be given upon our return,” John assured.

“Leave now,” Philip commanded. “And I’ve changed my mind. Take Gwawl with you. He would do well to witness our new strength, and what we do to our enemies—a little reminder for his rebellious nature. Include Evinnysan; Fodor, son of Ervyll; and Sanddev, along with some of the pets from the dungeons. Take the boy and the knight alive. I want their reeducation to begin in earnest and in health.”

John nodded but lingered.

Philip stared at him hard. “Something else?”

“If the boy escapes, we will have to release the bodach to hunt him—to kill him. He and the knight cannot be left to their own devices. And releasing such a powerful tool weakens our burgeoning strength, no matter how slight.”

“See that it does not come to that,” Philip asserted.

“Your will is my will, my king.” John bowed low and left.

Alone once more, Philip breathed in the warming morning air and gazed over the land. He was happy John had left. The marriage his advisor hoped for, while practical, did not interest him this day. Instead he thought of the trap.

John had little cause to worry. The Cailleach would be a hardship the knight would not overcome. She was highly intelligent and too powerful, even for one bearing Arondight.

The High King turned back to his table and the unrolled floor plans of the Vatican and its catacombs he had attained two centuries earlier. The ghost of a memory surfaced unheeded: his father, grown old from family machinations, standing in an altogether different crypt near a tiny royal sarcophagus. The buried boy—Philip’s older brother, William—had been murdered during infancy by evil banished from Britain centuries before. Sorrow trailed down the face of Henry II, moved to tears by a long-held angry grief. That day he proposed a life to Philip different from any other. With several heirs in front of Philip, Henry II decided to make a weapon out of a son who would never have vast amounts of wealth or significant title. The King of England offered him a new world, but one only a man with courage, conviction, and the Lord’s grace could attain.

Philip lost the dwindling remnants of his boyhood that day. He had been thirteen.

The classic and military education Master Wace gave Philip granted him the tools to enact what was needed—a wealthy world awaiting conquest, ripe with possibility.

The sounds of the new day caught up with the sun, the town below his window and the castle around him coming to life.

Philip smiled. After centuries of fighting, Annwn was his.

The world of his birth would not be far behind.