The Dark Thorn

The new day brought Bran cramped muscles, the odor of fresh horse dung, and a headache as strong as the leather bonds handcuffing him.

He stirred from false sleep, the nightlong pain racking his body heralding the morning. Around him the camp awakened, warriors rising to gather their bedrolls and possessions, preparing to leave. Bran took small note of the activity, the misery of being shackled to a pole for the night foremost in his thoughts. Other than his pack and coat being taken from him, Bran had not been touched; John Lewis Hugo had ordered his men to ignore the two prisoners under penalty of death.

Now with the golden aura of the rising sun spreading through the forest, Bran wondered anew what he had gotten himself into.

He looked over at Richard. The knight lay nearby where the giant had dropped him, similarly bound but unconscious, his bloody clothing hiding the wounds beneath. Richard breathed shallow, and it was harder for Bran to discern than the night before.

Trying to relieve a throbbing ache near his groin, Bran shifted his weight around on the pole. It didn’t help. Ever since the demon wolves had swarmed him, the pain had intensified.

Worried he was wounded, Bran looked down.

As before, there was nothing amiss.

“Awake, are we.”

Bran twisted to see John Lewis Hugo staring down at him.

“You know,” the leader said. “None of this would be necessary if I felt you would listen to truth and not flee. Your knight lies there. Dying. Broken. Why? Because centuries of lies precede this moment.”

Bran ignored him as he had the previous night.

“Still stubborn, I see,” John Lewis Hugo observed. “It is common in your world, from what I understand. The knight and his wizard in particular. Fools. Made a fool out of you also, did they not? They fail to tell you all. Does that not anger you?”

Bran turned away. The man echoed Richard’s warnings.

“That’s right,” John Lewis Hugo continued. “I see you know of what I speak. Myrddin Emrys hides much. There are factions everywhere, each trying to gain the advantage. The wizard represents one such group and he meddles, twists lies to truths to achieve an agenda. What does the wizard know of this world?”

“He says your king is a tyrant,” Bran said finally.

“And Myrddin is so wise, having not visited Annwn in centuries?”

Bran didn’t know what to say. Merle had coerced Bran to enter Annwn and yet had not come, his intentions riddled with mystery. Merle had also left Bran with a knight incapable of maintaining his power. It raised questions he did not have the answers for.

“I know you feel gratitude toward Myrddin Emrys,” John Lewis Hugo said. “It is only natural given your situation.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Everything,” John Lewis Hugo said. “Those who are lost can be found. Those who desire a path have it offered. There are those who ensure the sheep are shepherded by sheer will. Philip Plantagenet is one such shepherd. You are too if we have surmised rightly, if you are given the chance of course. The High King extends his welcome to you and offers a place at his side. No more sleeping out in the open; no more worrying about when your next meal will take place.”

Bran flushed angrily. “You have been spying on me.”

“We leave nothing to chance, Bran Ardall.”

“If that is true, then why try to kill me?”

“Is that what the knight and his master told you?” John Lewis Hugo clucked. “Do not be so quick to trust McAllister. He has failed a great many times in his life. Care he does not fail you.”

“I’m here because a cu sith attacked me,” Bran said. “I wanted answers.”

“I know not of what you speak,” the deformed man said. “If you were attacked at some point, I surely do not know from what quarter. We have watched you but nothing more. You were not harmed yesterday even by the demon wolves. Think on it. How can that be, if I wished you dead?”

“If this isn’t about me, then let me go.”

“I could,” John Lewis Hugo answered. “But my king commands your presence, and I do not trust you to not flee out of ignorance. You therefore are an enigma, but one the High King believes can serve a purpose.”

“And what would that be?” Bran asked darkly.

“That is for him to explain,” John Lewis Hugo answered before rising and leaving.

As the scarred man barked further orders, Bran looked to Richard. The knight lay unmoved, broken, the physical damage minor compared to that within. John Lewis Hugo had used Richard’s painful past to an advantage. At one time, Richard had a wife. She had been killed. That death was tied to the knight in some way. Bran did not know more than that. Yet Richard distrusted Merle just as John Lewis Hugo and his king did. Could Bran be on the wrong side of things? Or did the severely scarred advisor weave lies to suit his agenda?

Like his cramped muscles, the questions would not leave him.

The group broke camp. After the giants picked up the poles bearing the fettered prisoners, John Lewis Hugo traveled east through the new morning. The Templar Knights and remaining men led by Lord Gwawl surrounded Bran and Richard, their eyes hard and proud. The houndmaster scouted far ahead with his canines while the Cailleach remained behind to maintain control over the demon wolves that brought up the rear. The ache from being carried like a slung pig grew worse as the day progressed, the swaying motion tightening his bonds to agony. The dawn stretched to mid-morning as the forest thinned, the larger oak and maple trees giving way to beech and alder. Through breaks in the woodland, Bran caught glimpses of rolling verdant hills broken with white eruptions of granite, the stone like shattered bones through emerald skin. Atop one of the higher hillocks, the ruins of what had once been a great castle stood, its walls, towers, and buildings crumbled beneath the onslaught of time. It looked like one of the paintings Merle had in his bookstore, a remnant from an age long past.

Bran wondered why John Lewis Hugo led them within the shadows of the forest when it would have been easier and quicker traveling out on the plain.

He found his gaze focused on the mounted Evinnysan.

“Boy, do not look at me so,” Evinnysan growled, his green eyes flashing hatred. “Or I’ll shove this here sword up your cave.”

The men around him laughed, mean glee in their eyes.

Richard moaned then, his eyelids fluttering.

“Give him aid!” Bran pleaded.

“Why ever would I want to do something that helpful?” John Lewis Hugo replied. “You should be thankful the High King has not thrown you in with the knight’s lot.”

Lord Gwawl frowned. “Was the knight meant to not be—?”

“Harmed?” John Lewis Hugo finished. “No, no he wasn’t. But not everything goes to plan. I will explain this to the king. None of you will be culpable.” He stared at each man around him. “But the boy must go to Caer Llion—unharmed.”

Bran turned from the mocking stare of Lord Gwawl.

“My Lord,” Gwawl continued. “The wolf things you brought…”

“Ahh yes, the demon wolves,” John Lewis Hugo intoned. “They are terrifying, a small part of a much larger force. If you are worried about your men fearing or spreading rumors, let them. It might make them sharper than they were yesterday.”

“I think—”

“That is your problem right there, Gwawl,” John Lewis Hugo said angrily. “You think too much.”

“You sent my men to die in that cursed forest,” Gwawl countered, before spitting on the ground. “While the Red Crosses of Caer Llion watched from safety.”

“Be careful of whom you offend, Lord.”

Lord Gwawl fell quiet but crimson anger spread over his face.

“The wolves will speed your king’s vision,” John Lewis Hugo added. “They can infiltrate into the harsh conditions in the Carn Cavall and will travel far from this world. That is all you need know. I suppose what you are really worried about is, yes, they will keep you and your fellow lords in their place.”

“Unnatural beasts,” Evinnysan spat.

“You don’t have to like them, Evinnysan,” John Lewis Hugo replied with rancor. “You just have to do what you are told.”

A howl erupted behind them, silencing the lords like a death stroke. As quickly as it had come it was silenced. John Lewis Hugo gave his companions a dark look and, kicking his horse into action, rode back the way they had come. The warriors around Bran did not keep their misgivings silent.

“That one was killed fast. Perhaps they are not so difficult to kill.”

“Unnatural to bring such creatures into the world.”

“Who does the king think he is, creating those beasts?”

“They are fierce. Should send them into Snowdon against the Morrigan.”

“What else are they breeding beneath Caer Llion?”

Each opinion varied, the warriors chattered on as they entered a darker patch of Dryvyd Wood; the dappled sunshine vanished. The mystery of Annwn, with its foreign setting, frightening creatures, and hardened men, heightened Bran’s anxiety. He had no weapon, no ability to protect himself. He had not understood the danger of Annwn. He had hoped for answers, even adventure. He had been an ass. The growing realization he could die in a foreign world at any moment now stung like shards of steel.

Bran might not see Seattle again.

Those he knew in the Bricks would never know his fate.

The pain at his groin intensifying suddenly, he pushed the thoughts away angrily. Thinking that way about death did him no good. He sighed and shifted his weight, trying to alleviate some of the bound pain. He would confront what came with the same hard reality he had faced on the streets and relent to nothing.

That’s when, from a brambly bush nearby, Bran saw emerald eyes staring at him.

He blinked, the ache in his body replaced by surprise. The eyes followed him from an oval face coated in colors of the forest, inquisitive and alert as they watched the captive and those around him. The rest of her was hidden from view, but curly red hair framed a young face. On a branch next to her a fairy sat, its body composed of sticks and moss fused together, a natural camouflage.

Bran was so astonished by the two he almost cried out.

The woman shook her head—and just as quickly vanished.

A screech in the trees above caught his attention. Arrow Jack jabbered down at Bran, the feathers of the merlin ruffled. Several warriors shot annoyed cursory glances upward and made warding signs of evil. Richard had mentioned the bird would be their guide. That had not worked out well. Arrow Jack continued his screaming though as if warning the world of impending doom.

Bran kept his eyes open, looking for the girl.

She did not appear.

“Who you looking for?” Evinnysan mocked. “I see nobody.”

The man next to Evinnysan laughed—just as an arrow sprouted from his chest.

Dazed, the warrior slid out of his saddle, a dead sack gurgling to the ground. Lord Gwawl, Evinnysan, and the men around them shouted in shock as they drew weapons, the ring of steel thick. They had little time to react. The forest erupted as men and women wearing leather charged from the thick brush and trees, attacking the mounted men with swords and axes. Steel upon steel rang, and the sounds of men grunting, screaming, and dying filled the air.

Fear gripped Bran even as the world tilted crazily. The giant carrying him collapsed, struck down. Bran landed hard, his head slamming into the damp forest floor, the world spinning in and out of darkness. Through the haze he saw the giant that carried Richard drop as well, two massive crossbow bolts shot through its neck at awkward angles, the wounds pumping black blood into the day.

Before Bran could attempt to free himself, calloused fingers tugged at his ropes.

“Be still, lad, don’t make the knots tighter,” the voice chided.

Bran turned to face a small man the size of a barrel, eyes as black as coal fixed on his freedom. Bran took in his rescuer. Wavy black hair streaked with gray matched his beard; the brown leather of his tunic was belted tight and displayed half a dozen knives and a coiled whip. He looked armed for war and fully capable of carrying it out.

“Who are you?” Bran finally stammered.

“Does it matter?”

In seconds his rescuer cut the bonds imprisoning Bran’s hands and, moments later, those of his feet as well. Nearby two other smallish men bearing a resemblance to the other freed Richard, the knight a bloody rag doll. Around them two separate groups attacked, slicing in like swords thrust at the same time to divide Bran and Richard from the warriors of John Lewis Hugo at the front and the demon wolves at their back. All the while arrows flew from hidden bowmen in the forest, the shafts striking with unerring precision those warriors who got too close to Bran, the knight, and the three little men who aided them.

Adrenaline pumping life back into his numb limbs, Bran gained his feet only to be dragged away from the conflict, Richard carried right behind him.

“Get them!” John Lewis Hugo screamed from the melee.

The Templar Knights redoubled their efforts, hacking into their foes, but the lithe men and women of the forest were steadfast, a wall of will.

The raging battle faded behind Bran.

About a hundred yards away, he burst from thick foliage into the outer fringe of the expansive plain, the brush limited and trees sporadic. Fierce women on bareback horses confronted him, their various weapons drawn and glinting in the sunshine, most wearing sleeveless jerkins the color of dried mud and short green riding pants. The few men were similarly prepared for war, while nearby an ancient man with white hair above pointed ears stood weaponless, his face wrinkled like a prune.

Several dozen horses waited, mounts for those who fought.

In their midst, a centaur towered over the rest and stared down at Bran. Eyes as blue as ocean depths burned with authoritarian conviction. She held a long ash bow with a knocked arrow. The horse end of the creature was pristine white and powerfully built; the woman half sat naked and proud where she began just below the belly button, her arms and shoulders toned, long blonde braids hanging over pert tanned breasts.

“Got ‘em, Aife, my dear,” the tiny man said.

“Where is the Queen, Kegan?” the centaur questioned.

“Perhaps the halfbreeds were more difficult to dispatch.”

“If true, our time has come,” Aife grunted. “Belenus, look to the knight.”

The stooped old man knelt at the side of Richard, his fingers probing the knight’s limp body with precise movements of gnarled fingers. Richard moaned, his body moving weakly as if warding off the attack that had already wounded him. Belenus ignored the protestations of his patient, his concentration absolute.

“Belenus…?” Aife pressed.

“He is badly wounded, Huntress,” the healer answered. “The quicker we return to Arendig Fawr, the better chance he will have to live.”

“Conall. Kearney. Give the knight to me,” the centaur ordered.

“Wait!” Bran protested. “Who are you? What are you doing?”

“We are those who save your life, human,” Aife said icily.

The gnomish men who had freed Richard lifted him as Aife rode up. A shimmer coalesced around her, rippling like waves in crystal water. When it cleared the centaur had vanished. Instead Aife stood upon naked human legs while behind the white horse she had been a part had regained its head, pawing the earth and shaking its mane.

Aife knelt and lifted Richard free, closing her eyes.

The same flickering of light occurred again, and once more woman and horse were joined, the knight cradled to her chest.

“Horse the boy now,” Aife commanded. “We must cross the Tywi River with all possible speed.”

“What of Morrigan?” Kegan asked.

“She is able, Horsemaster,” Aife retorted before galloping northward.

“Know how to ride?” Kegan asked Bran.

“No,” Bran stammered.

“Nothing like learning on the fly, says I.”

“I’ll take him,” a feminine voice said.

Bran turned to behold the redhead he had seen earlier breaking from the trees of Dryvyd Wood. She moved with grace, each step quick and certain, her loose-fitting dark green clothing splattered with blackish blood like the sword she held. The woman barely gave him a glance, her eyes round and green as she passed to meet a chocolate mare that whinnied at her approach.

“Willowyn,” she greeted.

The fairy darted from the forest then to hover among them all. “Ashrot, Deirdre! Outworlder or no outworlder. Let’s go, let’s go!”

“Ride hard, Lady of Mochdrev Reach,” Kegan said as she mounted.

“Like the wind,” Deirdre said.

Kegan made a makeshift stirrup with his linked hands. “Up you go, lad.”

“I don’t—”

“Now!”

Bran stepped into it and Kegan boosted him up with more strength Bran thought the Horsemaster could possess. He settled in behind the woman, still unsure. The fairy followed, giving Bran what he thought to be a dirty look before flying ahead.

“You had better not let go,” Kegan said with a wink. He turned to the redhead. “Aife is already making for the river and the city. We will follow anon.”

“Ready?” Deirdre questioned over her shoulder.

Bran gripped her hips loosely. “Where are you taking me?”

“Away.”

Before Bran could ask more, the quivering muscles beneath him leapt into motion, hooves pounding the soft ground. Bran threw his arms around the rider’s waist from sheer fear.

As they entered the plain’s rolling expanse, a horn blew behind them, its blast deep and penetrating.

The sound of the fight faded quickly.

Willowyn carried her two riders northward, her gait powerful and even. The fairy was nowhere to be seen. Bran’s extremities came back to life in painful alarm as he held tight. Even as the realization of his freedom stole over him, he wondered if he had merely left one ill only to embrace another.

Willowyn galloped on.

And the Carn Cavall loomed, a hazy smear of promise on the horizon.





Cormac stared hard at Finn Arne, nearly at a loss for words. The captain gazed back across the desk like a statue, his report finished.

The events in Seattle had not gone as Cormac had hoped. Not at all. The Ardall boy had escaped, aided by McAllister and the wizard, able to flee into the portal with help from that monstrous halfbreed that lived along the pier. The company of Swiss Guard Finn had taken with him lay broken, several of them severely burned, others sustaining broken ribs, legs, or arms. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to set them free from authorities. Finn bore no wounds, the Shield of Arthur bequeathed by the Vigilo protecting him from harm.

Cormac wanted to throttle Finn Arne, shield or no shield.

The Cardinal Vicar fought to maintain his composure. But he saw what failure had done to the captain. It infuriated Finn Arne that McAllister had bested him.

Cormac would use that vengeance to gain advantage.

Donato Javier Ramirez, the Cardinal Seer, sat in a ridged high-backed wood chair, his presence almost invisible. Cormac needed his long-time friend in the room more than ever.

“I am more than disappointed, Captain,” Cormac said finally.

“Understandably, Your Eminence.”

Cormac chose his words carefully. “Do you wish to make atonement for your failure?”

“More than anything.”

Long moments passed. “I will call on you this evening. Leave us.”

Finn Arne vanished from the room, leaving the two Cardinals in privacy. Alone with his mentor, Cormac dropped his guard and let the stress he felt out.

“My old friend, this is intolerable!”

“Patience,” the Cardinal Seer said. “Remember the Lord’s will.”

Cormac nodded absentmindedly, frowning into space.

“Cormac Pell O’Connor,” Donato prodded. The Cardinal Vicar looked up. “Got yer attention, I see. Yeh have always been an academic and political student. I’ve seen ambition drive yeh to yer current position. But let me remind yeh of one thing, the most certain thing I have learned in my long life. God has a plan beyond any that yeh may have. To rebel against it for yer own desires is evil’s purpose.”

“I wonder if I will feel the same once I enter the twilight of my own life,” Cormac sighed.

“Twilight, my boy? Twilight can come at any time, regardless of age.”

“I suppose you are right,” Cormac said, not truly believing it. “The others should be gathered by now. Shall we proceed and relate what trouble I’ve started?”

Donato barked a weak laugh and rose on legs grown far too spindly. Holding the withered arm of his oldest friend, Cormac guided Donato out of the room and down the polished hallways of the Vatican, the weight of ages pressing in around them. The two men had walked these same steps countless times, but he knew few such walks remained. Donato only had a few years left. Cormac didn’t want to think on it, but he knew it was coming.

And after would be a darker world.

After navigating the Papal Apartment passages, the men passed two Swiss Guards and, closing an oak door behind them, entered the personal audience chamber of Pope Clement XV.

Cormac knew he would have to play his best game.

“Greetings Cardinal Ramirez, Cardinal O’Connor,” Pope Clement XV welcomed in heavily accented German. “I trust this meeting is as important as its urgency hints at.”

Cormac helped Donato sit at the room’s circular table before finding his own seat. Seven other Cardinals, each from various parts of the world, filled polished oak chairs of their own and nodded to the Cardinal Vicar—some out of amity, others obligatory respect. No windows or vents were set in the walls; it was a private room for meetings of clandestine import. Three chandeliers cast light, the paintings of past pontiffs dead centuries past mingling with life-size statues carved of Saint Peter, Saint James, and the Virgin Mary. Above it all and hanging from a large cross mounted on the back wall, Jesus peered down on the gathered in twisted agony, the wood glowing with a waxy ethereal sheen.

The Cardinals, all of whom were men over fifty and part of the Vigilo, were dressed in similar loose-fitting crimson robes. Pope Clement XV, who wore a simple white robe with gold stitching, sat in the largest and most ornate chair at the table.

“We have what could become a dire situation, Your Holiness,” Cormac began.

“What has transpired?”

Cormac related all he knew about Bran Ardall, what had transpired in Seattle, where the boy had gone and with whom, and what the appearance of the son of the last Heliwr could mean.

When he had finished, a pall of tension filled the room.

“You failed then, in more ways than one,” Clement said darkly.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Cormac said. “The Ardall boy is in Annwn.”

“And you chose not to inform me of this before you lost him?”

The Cardinal Vicar met the hard stare. “At the time, Your Holiness, we barely knew what was transpiring. Archbishop Glenallen in Seattle saw to the knight, but we were unsure about the boy. No Heliwr in the history of the Church has been born of the previous owner of the title. And with the developments in the Middle East and the wars taking precedence there, I didn’t want to draw your attention away from what you are trying to achieve with the extremists.”

“I see,” Clement said with distaste. “I will address that line of thought later. Continue.”

“The boy is in Annwn, as I said,” Cormac resumed. “The Cardinal Seer observed that the High King of Annwn sent a group to capture him. I think the attack on the boy in Seattle was to somehow draw him to Annwn so he could be detained.”

“Could not the attack be retribution for some grievance by Charles Ardall long since passed?” Cardinal Villenza argued, his pate balding and jowls heavy.

“It could,” Cormac admitted. “But Philip Plantagenet knew to send his Templar Knights to the portal at a specific time—and John Lewis Hugo kept the boy alive once captured. No, the anticipation of the boy coming through the portal is the key. And if someone wanted him gone, why go to such lengths to keep him alive?”

“Templar Knights,” Cardinal Tucci spat. “Those the Church failed to kill are a disgrace.”

“The wizard was also a part of this,” Cormac reminded.

“If Myrddin Emrys has taken interest in the son of Ardall, it stands to reason the child is of importance, possibly to us as well,” the Pope said.

The Cardinals murmured interest among one another. The Cardinal Vicar remained noncommittal, his own desires kept private. To control the Heliwr was to have unlimited power. If Bran Ardall had been chosen to become the next Unfettered Knight, the boy would be vulnerable to persuasion. The wizard undoubtedly knew this and had already poisoned that prospect. The Vigilo would have to find a way to gain the champion and once again regain an authority to shape the world.

“Another problem to consider,” Cormac added. “The events in Annwn are unsettling, true, but the implications could bring that battle into the Vatican—into this world. If Philip were to pollute and gain the Heliwr, it could be disastrous. It could destroy us.”

“Is the knight in place not capable of protecting the portal?” Clement asked.

“Ennio Rossi,” Cardinal Villenza said. “As we saw with Bruno Ricci two decades ago, even a knight can be bested.”

“McAllister,” Clement snorted. “Even a knight can betray.”

“What Cardinal Villenza suggests is we prepare the Vatican for the worst,” Cormac continued. “The walls that surround the Basilica and the Papal Grounds were built not only to protect the work established by Saint Peter but to contain those on the other side of the gateway. The catacombs lend time to counter any threat that could force its way through the portal and into the Basilica. I believe we should address our defenses.”

“Is there really a threat though?” the Pope countered. “Cardinal Seer?”

Donato leaned forward in his chair, his milky eyes serene. “There is, my Cardinal brethren. Last eve, as I looked into Annwn, terrible things I saw. Philip and his legion of Templar Knights have grown strong and as yeh know, both hate the Catholic Church. Most of Annwn has fallen. But that is not all. Twisted things helped overcome the Ardall boy’s knight protector—some kind of human melding with feral animal. Never before I have seen halfbreed beings such as these, nor have my predecessors documented their existence. The Morrigan saw them destroyed with her arts, but if more exist they could pose a problem.”

“The boy is no longer in Philip’s control then?” the Pope questioned.

“No, both he and the knight were saved by the Morrigan,” the Seer said. “They make way toward the Carn Cavall as we sit here.”

“What is McAllister doing there?” Cardinal Villenza asked.

Silence again filled the room. No one knew.

“And you still cannot view Caer Llion, Seer?” Clement asked.

“Not at all, Yer Holiness,” Donato answered. “The curse tablets set into its walls and very foundations prevent my sight. I am as blind to Caer Llion as I am to these walls.”

“These creatures came from the castle?”

“I have combed the land. They are nowhere else. Created in Caer Llion, I say.”

“This could be nothing to us,” Cardinal Tucci said.

“History has taught much in this instance,” Cormac interrupted. “Men like Philip—the men of his family—are not satiated with the power they accrue. He will never stop, of that you can be sure. He may have these halfbreeds to war with his rebellious fey left in the mountains. But in time, he will turn his gaze this way.”

“Then we have two problems,” Clement summarized. “There is the boy to consider, and what rises from Caer Llion.”

“If these halfbreeds are part of a larger scheme, we must be ready,” Cormac agreed.

“Suggestions, Cardinal Vicar?” Clement asked.

“Fortify our defenses here. Order the portal Archbishops to prepare their knights. And keep an eye on Annwn. If the worst comes, the Vatican must be ready to evacuate everyone who resides, works, or visits. The Swiss Guard will be pivotal for that role.”

“Make it happen,” the Pope ordered. “All of it. The job of the Vigilo is to protect the Word of God and ensure its expansion. If those of this world realized there was another world with many of the fey they have thought mere mythology, pagan influence would ruin thousands of years of doctrine and belief. That cannot be allowed to happen. Give the knights what they need. We must be steadfast to prevent Annwn from ever returning to our shores.” He paused. “And if battle comes it will be one we are prepared for. Understood?”

The Cardinals nodded in unison.

“If you hear of anything else, notify me immediately—unconditionally,” the Pope ordered. “Now, excuse Cardinal O’Connor, Cardinal Ramirez, and myself.”

The sound of their robes a long whisper, the Cardinals left.

“I asked the others to leave; this will not concern them,” Clement said darkly. “It has always been my stance to leave Annwn to its own devices as long as it did not attempt a return. That threat has become palpable, in my mind at least. Do you agree?” Both Cormac and Donato nodded. “I am pleased you both agree and I am sure you will do what is right—do what is necessary.”

“I have been thinking the same, Your Holiness,” Cormac said.

“Cormac, you and Donato have been friends a long time,” Clement said, staring hard at the Cardinal Vicar. “What is said to one the other hears. You both have been steadfast and strong in my support. But you anger me, Cormac. As the leader of the Catholic Church, I demand to know what is going on at all times. The events in Iran, Iraq, and the East Bank do hold much of my attention, and much of my duty is pomp, but it is also my role and none other to oversee the entirety of our faith, and that includes protecting Rome.” He paused. “There are many secrets the Vigilo are not privy to yet that I am aware of, knowledge that can benefit situations the Church finds itself in. Don’t forget that.”

“It will not happen again, Your Holiness,” Cormac replied, biting his tongue.

“Now, I know the knight below is inexperienced,” the Pope stated. “Is that a worry?”

“He is quite capable,” Donato answered. “Young and strong.”

“Ennio Rossi will aid us in what must be done,” Cormac added. “Of that, I promise you.”

“Good. Good,” Clement said, rising. “Do what must be done. That is all.”

“Holy Father,” Cormac said, bowing in farewell.

As Cormac helped Donato from the room, the hot gaze of the Pope pressed into his back like a knife. The Cardinal Vicar grinned. Despite having done his duty by informing the Pope of Ardall, the Heliwr could yet still be within his grasp.

He hoped Ennio Rossi would be receptive to what Cormac had in mind for Finn Arne.

“It is time we spoke to Ennio,” Donato breathed.

“It is indeed, my old friend,” Cormac agreed. “And find where Annwn is hiding Bran Ardall.”

“This must be done, Ennio,” Donato urged.

The young knight sat on the edge of the Seer’s bed, his eyes betraying distrust. Cormac stood nearby, more and more irritated with each passing second. The wavy-haired knight shot glances at the Cardinal Vicar, skepticism captured in his uncomfortable posture. Donato tried to curtail such feelings, his papery hands squeezing those of the young man with emphasis.

“Yeh know I would not ask yeh of this if it were not of great import.”

Ennio nodded. “I know, Cardinal Ramirez.”

Impatience crept into Cormac. Ennio Rossi was a strong knight but youth made him unpredictable. He was unable to see the gray from the black and white of Myrddin Emrys. The Cardinal Vicar and Seer would have to make a strong case for Ennio to follow their plan.

Trying to hide his contempt, Cormac gazed to the far wall where the black shroud hid the Fionúir Mirror, a stain in an otherwise warm room.

It waited for Cormac like a ghost, a cold promise.

He turned to the knight. “If all things were equal, Ennio, there would be no need.”

“It goes against all I have been taught,” the Italian responded. “I trust you both, whereas the others would never agree to what you are asking. I believe, however, this passes boundaries that should not be crossed.”

“It is an odd situation,” Donato agreed. “Cardinal O’Connor and I cannot even explain the last time a person from this world entered Annwn not by accident. Myrddin Emrys stresses the need for the two worlds to remain separate, just as the Church does. But this is a situation that could lead to a much larger war—a war of cataclysmic proportions for all involved. Trust me, son, this is something we must stop at all costs.”

“Who exactly are you sending in?” Ennio asked.

“You will meet them. Good God-fearing men, no worries,” Cormac assured.

Ennio nodded, the lack of enthusiasm written on his face. Cormac didn’t blame him. For centuries ever since Myrddin Emrys had given the knights their power, there had been a tenuous relationship between the Church and those who guarded the portals. But the boy was not allowing his betters to aid in his decision-making. Cormac grew angrier at the thought. Although the knight could best him easily with the Arthurian-bestowed knife Carnwennan, the desire to grab Ennio by the shirt and shake him until teeth rattled persisted.

“It will be done then,” Ennio said. He did not look happy about it.

“It is the right choice,” Donato assured.

“Are you ready, Seer?” Cormac asked before Ennio could change his mind.

The frail man took a deep breath, weighing his decision.

“Donato?” Cormac pressed.

“Yeh will be coming with me this time, I warrant?”

“I will. I have to.”

“Let us find Bran Ardall then,” Donato said wearily. “Before yer distaste for using the mirror or my part to play in it ruins our convictions.”

They approached the mirror together, Ennio watching from the bed. Donato was slow, but his milky eyes were wide open and ready for what must be done. Cormac had few close people in his life, but the relationship he had with Donato gave him an insight into the Cardinal Seer others might miss. Donato was tired. If he began to falter, Cormac would be there for the Seer, certain reprimand or not, to try the next day instead.

“Stand next to me, Cormac,” the Seer ordered as he pulled the black cloth free of the mirror and dropped it to the rug-littered floor. “I will guide us. Keep your thoughts firmly fixed on me to start. If you do, there should not be a problem.”

“I remember.”

The Seer took a deep breath. Cormac did the same.

Flames from the hearth swirled in the depths of the Fionúir Mirror as if it contained an inner fire of its own. In the reflection Cormac watched the milky eyes of his friend drain and become darkest brown. Light from the glass then washed over him, enveloping him, first gray and then lightening like a sun breaking through fog. The room vanished; the mirror disappeared. The Cardinal Vicar remained focused on his mentor, embracing the tingling sensation, and never deviating from Donato’s command.

Suddenly free from his body, Cormac chased the soul of Donato into Annwn.

The light softened, and a mixture of earth colors infiltrated the swirling gray, darkening. Lines solidified. Shapes formed. Soon Cormac stared at a lush forest beneath crystal blue sky. No sounds came to him, no smells intruded. His other senses were gone.

—Dryvyd Wood—

The voice of Donato echoed in his head.

—Where was the Ardall boy captured?—

The view spun dizzyingly, sickening Cormac. As if they were birds on the wing, they flew between the branches of gnarled, malformed trees, into the heart of the forest, where the luminescence of the sky gave way beneath a thick canopy of blackened leaves.

Donato brought them to a halt amidst nightmare. Rotting and bloated carcasses of twisted creatures littered the torn up mulch of the forest floor, their faces frozen in angry death. The things were halfbreeds as the Cardinal Seer had said, a cross between something human and something animal. Fire had reduced them to charred flesh in places, their bones exposed to the air and blackened. Cormac knew how the creatures had met their deaths; the power of McAllister could not be ignored.

—The capture occurred here, Cormac—

The grisly scene suffocated the Cardinal Vicar. The ill-bred beasts presented a large problem for the Church. In the past, halfbreeds were very rare, the incompatibility of the fey and humanity making it difficult. Most died after conception or were stillborn. The few survivors, like the Kreche in Seattle, were usually hunted and destroyed. If Philip had found a way to breed these evil monstrosities and use them in his war, how many of them existed? Were they being bred in Caer Llion? What other abominations could the despot of Annwn be creating?

In a small way, Cormac admired Philip for destroying the pagan influence that took so much away from God. But he also knew Philip would never be content. Spying on Annwn in this manner gave the Church the knowledge it needed to decide how to protect itself.

The world spiraled again and Donato sped them through the forest to the outskirts of a vast plain. Dead men, horses, and more halfbreeds littered the ground, rotted and exposed.

—The Morrigan ambushed the Templar Knights here. With the boy and the knight, she fled northward across the plains and into the foothills of the mountains—

—Can you find the boy now?—

The view in his mind spun wildly as the mirror zoomed into the heights of the sky and flew northward. Cormac saw Snowdon breaking out of the ancient Carn Cavall like pikes out of lumpy shields. The remaining fey who rebelled against Philip roamed free in those environs, the Carn Cavall the last bastion of freedom in Annwn. He saw drained rivers entering lakes mostly dried, thick forests of pine, ash, and oak slowly dying, boulders and rocky cliffs.

At one time it had been a lush world, filled with teeming wildlife and vibrant health.

It had since been reduced to the longest of droughts.

—The seasons witch remains with Philip?—

—She took part in the battle for the boy, Cormac—

Donato sped them up toward Snowdon until a wall of gray prevented their view.

—This is where the boy was taken?—

—Or where they will be soon. The Carn Cavall is a large range, and the Nharth of the forest hide much from me with their magic. Philip as well, no doubt. All I know is the boy came this way and there are no other refuges for them to find solace—

Cormac pondered this.

On foot, it was a start for an experienced tracker.

—Show me Caer Llion—

The mountains vanished. The same sickening feeling overwhelmed Cormac as they moved southward at excessive speeds. The view slowly solidified into the massive battlements, towers and walls of a large castle lording over a town grown up around its foundations. Smoke rose from hundreds of chimneys until the steady breeze carried it away, the town an anthill of activity and expanding life. Beyond and to the south, the expanse of the ocean rolled into white cliffs where a variety of sea birds kited in the wind to dive for food.

The kingdom Philip had forged seemed oblivious to the boot heel of the tyrant. As long as the men and women embraced Philip, they were safe from persecution.

The Tuatha de Dannan could not make that statement. They fought the son of Henry II and had become the hunted.

—Caer Llion, Cormac—

—Go in closer—

—We will not be allowed—

Donato pushed forward anyway. Just when Cormac could make out significant details inside the open-air windows of the castle, a black mist swallowed his vision and grew thick like molasses, repelling the two men. Dizziness rolled over Cormac in waves, the need to retch food not in his stomach strong and urgent.

Donato pulled their vantage back quickly.

The feeling of being torn from the inside subsided to a dull ache.

—I forgot what that is like, Donato. Philip is there?—

—Most likely. He rarely leaves—

—What about his right hand?—

—John Lewis Hugo leaves often. Battles. Political intrigue. Pure sin—

Just as Cormac was about to ask after Philip’s advisor, a spear entered his mind, shredding coherant thought.

He wanted to scream. Malignant darkness cut into the thoughts of the Cardinal Vicar while encircling his throat with thick-roped malice. The Cardinal tossed up what strength he had but could not stop it, his mind choked by an unseen force. The migraine grew as if someone poured flaming gasoline on it. Never had the mirror inflicted this kind of pain in the past. His mind being torn apart, Cormac could feel Donato struggling too. He realized they were being attacked, an unfamiliar mind strangling both Cardinals, the glee from their assailant thick and repugnant. It was an evil Cormac had never encountered before, crushing in its wickedness, reveling in its power to destroy the men it had ensnared.

Donato!

Cormac tried to scream. Nothing happened.

Then the pain vanished, the noose pried loose by Donato with warm feelings of love born of family for Cormac. Years of using the mirror giving him a small advantage, the Cardinal Seer gave his once-student a mental shove away from the evil entity toward their world—away from the harm that accosted them.

Cormac tumbled free of the mirror.

Time slowed, darkness absolute.

When he became aware again, Cormac panted real air, trying to regain control over his muscles. He pushed his body up off of the cold stone of the floor and, opening his eyes, looked to Donato.

Fear twisting his features, Ennio crouched over the Seer.

Donato did not breathe.

Cormac fought his weakness and crawled to the side of Donato. His irises, which had been white in life, were obsidian orbs staring at the ceiling, the leathery skin of his face shrunken against gaunt cheeks. Nothing stirred about the man—no rise and fall of his bony chest, no movement in his limbs.

The Cardinal Seer was dead.

Cormac held the empty shell of Donato Javier Ramirez. Tears swept away his vision. He choked back the urge to scream. Something in Annwn had done this. As a last gift, the Cardinal Seer spent the last of his life to throw Cormac out of the mirror and away from harm, embracing his own death so Cormac may live.

Dark emotions rolled through Cormac and two certainties shook him.

The Vatican was now blind to what transpired in Annwn. And Cormac had lost his longest and oldest friend.

“What happened?” Ennio mewed.

“You will do this thing I ask of you, Ennio,” Cormac murmured, ignoring the knight.

Ennio swallowed hard. “I will, Cardinal Vicar.”

Cormac nodded and clutched the dead Seer close. That night, he would call Finn Arne to his chamber and prepare him to become the instrument he needed. It would be easy. The captain burned for a chance to confront McAllister again. Once the son of Ardall was his, the Church would regain the Heliwr—with Cormac as his superior. When that happened, the person responsible for killing his oldest friend would suffer unlike anyone in the history of the world.

Sorrow rolled down his cheeks.

Donato was dead.

And as when he learned of his murdered family, Cormac wept vengeance.





Slowly gaining the Carn Cavall, Deirdre rode upon Willowyn with Bran at her back when the faces in the mist quizzically materialized, just as she knew they would.

“Deirdre…?” Bran said uncertainly.

“It is all right, Bran, they mean you no harm. They are merely curious.”

“What are they?”

“The Nharth,” Deirdre said. The Morrigan, Kegan, and the other fey members in their group ignored them. “The Nharth are friends. Even in the hottest days, they cloak the strongholds of the Tuatha de Dannan, a magical wall to keep the prying eyes of Caer Llion and elsewhere out. When they gather in one place, this fog forms.”

Bran looked closer, now as curious as the Nharth. Deirdre just shook her head. The outworlder still sat behind her but his death grip about her waist had lessened, his safety finally realized. It had come to Deirdre long before, but in its place a pervasive sadness grew. Whereas the plains of Mochdrev Reach were vibrant, the forest now around her died slowly. Fir trees once thick and green were dusty and browned, the evil power of the Cailleach more pronounced. Fog swirled in and out of the branches and the path they were on, hiding most of the ill effects, the colors washed out, brushed over with gray paint. Few animals stirred around them. The heat of the day grew despite the fog, unnatural. Streams reduced to a trickle as they ran toward the plains and the Rhedewyr—all angles and powerful grace—drank from them at rest stops while their riders stretched legs and kept an eye on possible pursuit.

Deirdre took a deep breath, free of Caer Llion and John Lewis Hugo—at least for the moment. She and her father had come to the Tuatha de Dannan city of Arendig Fawr two days earlier to discover what options lay before them. She had insisted on going; Lord Gerallt had agreed as long as he had final say in matters. The Morrigan had been gracious, offering what meager aid she could to those who would defy Philip Plantagenet.

Lord Gerallt and Deirdre had been arguing about their course of action when the two outworlders had entered Annwn.

The whispers from the Nharth began when Deirdre and Bran could no longer see a dozen feet away. The voices were not heard as much felt, a touch of breath on skin, a kiss of ghost lips on the nape of the neck. More faces came into view to disappear just as quickly. Deirdre sat her mount, still unused to the foreign appraisal. The Nharth came in all shapes and sizes, some with horns, single eyes, or almost-human features. More appeared in the misty shadows like smoke given substance, curious glances mingling with animosity. Hundreds visited but all vanished, the beings as insubstantial as the fog around them.

“They are like ghosts,” Bran said. “Creepy.”

“The Nharth are merely different,” she said. “As I said, nothing to worry about.”

“Where are you taking me? And where is Richard?”

“Arendig Fawr,” she said, looking at Bran. “The Queen’s capital. The knight is there right now, with healers. John Lewis Hugo and those halfbreeds hurt him deeply. I don’t know how or why he—or you for that matter—are still alive.”

As the Nharth slowly dissipated into nothingness once more, Deirdre watched Bran rub his wrists where he had been bound. Crimson welts cut deep into them. He said nothing. Deirdre at least respected the boy, no matter where he came from. The outworlder had taken almost as severe a whipping as his companion. Bruises darkened his skin where scrapes and cuts did not, many of them probably lasting for weeks. Like the knight, he would also have to see a healer.

“Ye seem to be faring better, lad,” Kegan said, his own horse a step beside Willowyn.

“I am, thanks to being free.”

“Hungry?”

Before he could reply, Kegan tossed him a green apple from his sack and handed him a knife. Deirdre hid her amusement at how voracious Bran began cutting into the fruit.

“Gonna cut his thumb off for sure,” Snedeker snickered from the air.

“Quiet, you,” Deirdre chided.

“It will take days to heal those bruises, I think,” Kegan said, pointing at Bran’s wounds and ignoring the fairy. “The Dark One wanted ye badly, it seems. Thankfully the Morrigan kept ye from him at all costs.”

Deirdre caught the Queen of the Tuatha de Dannan looking their way. She was a tall woman, armored in blood-spattered onyx plate that appeared lighter than it probably was, her limbs lithe, raven black hair pulled back from white cheekbones. Deirdre had only met her twice now. More concerned by their safety, the Morrigan had not yet spoken to Bran. She was a soul made of steel, the wisdom of ages in her unlined face. Power radiated from her being and even from a distance it made Deirdre feel small and inconsequential.

“She took a great risk ye know,” Kegan said, also noticing the attention.

“What do you mean?” Bran questioned.

“We are the hunted, lad. Have been for ages. The Dark One and his ilk have warred and spread from your world throughout this one, and the peace we desired so long ago—the peace we wanted to find upon fleeing your world—has become a wisp of smoke. Now they control all but these mountains and even the weather. We strike, we plunder, we survive, and we disappear to do it again. Saving ye and the knight exposed us. We will have to watch paths for months now, even more than already done.”

“Why would she care?” Bran asked, perplexed. “Richard and I are nothing to you.”

“Why does anyone do what they do?” Deirdre noted, shrugging. “Because they feel it to be the right thing, of course. And usually advantageous.”

“I read about a Morrigan once,” Bran said. “In my world.”

“From what I understand, we are a source of false tales in your world,” Kegan laughed. “Time has erased us like a footprint in a stream. But I am real, am I not?”

“All too real,” Bran replied.

Kegan grinned. “First time ye’ve ridden, eh?”

“It is. The pain in my ass grows worse every time I have to get back on.”

“Then walk,” Deirdre said, grinning.

“It will become easier,” Kegan said, smiling at the redhead. “Imagine my sons and I. We have to climb the mane like a rope in order to mount the Rhedewyr.”

“With my luck lately I’ll fall off and break my neck,” Bran said.

“Where there is a will, young Bran. Where there is a will,” Kegan said. “Getting thrown is not the worst that could happen. My father told a tale of my grandfather’s grandfather who, in his drunken dotage, fell off his horse and lost a leg. The hoof severed it right off.” Kegan made a quick slicing motion. “Stay on and ye will not have that problem.”

“Can I ask you a question, Kegan?” Bran asked.

“Always, lad.”

“What are you exactly?”

The Horsemaster looked quizzically at Deirdre and burst with a loud guffaw.

“I am what I am,” Kegan chuckled. “I imagine ye want to know I am a clurichaun.”

Bran frowned. “Is that like a leprechaun?”

“No, no, nothing of the sort!” Kegan said indignantly. “No, I actually work for my bed and meals, lad. Lazy imps the leprechauns, the lot o’ them.”

Willowyn brought Deirdre and Bran to the Morrigan, who had decided to wait on her own steed at the side of the trail, her piercing blue eyes never deviating from them. Deirdre knew Bran felt the power of the Queen too; the outworlder shrank a bit as they grew closer.

“Kegan, ride ahead,” the Morrigan said simply, her lips thin.

“My Queen,” the Horsemaster said with a nod, leaving.

“Are you well?” she asked both Deirdre and Bran.

“Better,” Deirdre responded for both of them. “Thank you.”

“I apologize for not speaking with you sooner,” the Queen said, looking only at Bran. “There were…matters of safety and the wounded to consider. It is important we cover our passage fully and I oversee it personally. To make a mistake would be dire indeed.” She then noted Bran’s wounds. “You have been injured but you are strong—more so than you probably think. Like the Lady of Mochdrev Reach here. It takes such people to survive, what you have and what is to come. Has your ride been comfortable?”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as I am not tied up,” Bran said.

“Very true,” the Morrigan agreed. “No one likes to be under the yoke, do they, Deirdre?”

“Aye, Queen.”

“You are taking me to Arendig Fawr?” Bran asked.

“Worry not that you have exchanged one captor for another. You are as free as the birds in the trees and can leave at any time, with our helpful guidance of course,” she stressed. “We are indeed going to Arendig Fawr. Those of the Tuatha de Dannan who will not live beneath foreign rule are spread out over these mountains in conclaves to not give our foe the chance at a single death strike. It is in this way we assure our way of life. Arendig Fawr is the center of our people, for the moment at least.”

“And where did the other outworlder go?” Deirdre asked.

“Assuredly Aife has already made it to Arendig Fawr and McAllister is being treated as I speak to you.”

“So you know him?” Bran asked, clearly shocked.

“Never met him,” the Queen admitted. “But the Yn Saith are known to us.”

“Then why save us? If anything, we have endangered you all.”

The mien of the Morrigan darkened. “Innocents shall not suffer under Philip, no matter who they are. And the vaunted High King of Annwn has interest in you that goes beyond mere curiosity. If he wanted you dead, you would be. He captured you for a reason and it could not have boded well for his enemies. That means the fey living in these mountains. That means me.”

“I see,” Bran said, looking uncertainly at Deirdre. “I was told by John Lewis Hugo the king wanted to share his side of things and then let me go.”

“Wanted to talk to you while shackled to that Fomorian, no doubt,” the Morrigan scoffed. “Sent the Houndmaster and the Cailleach, two of his most powerful, after you? Aye, sounds like to me Philip had a lot to speak on.”

“How did you find us?” Bran asked.

“We have spies who watch those who leave Caer Llion,” the Morrigan answered. “Knew John Lewis Hugo leaving meant importance. But Arrow Jack also warned us. The merlin is quite resourceful. Even now he is helping to watch our back trail to ensure we are not being followed.”

“You understand him?”

“One must listen to hear,” the Morrigan said.

“Sounds familiar,” Bran said. “Merle said that to me once.”

“Myrddin Emrys,” the Morrigan sighed. “A wiser man you will not meet. You do well to listen. He has aided the Tuatha de Dannan over the ages. It is hard finding allies in this war but he has ever been one.”

Deirdre looked to the Queen but didn’t say anything. The redhead had spoken to the Morrigan at length about Mochdrev Reach joining the cause of the Tuatha de Dannan. It had caused a rift with her father but it was necessary. The Queen had offered protection for a time but there was more to discuss after saving the outworders. At least the Morrigan was open to adding allies, especially human ones, and that gave Deirdre hope.

“I overheard many of the men around Lord Gwawl say they don’t agree with Philip,” Bran offered. “They all hate the demon wolves. Perhaps you have more allies than you know?”

“Gwawl,” the Queen growled. “Always a snake, that one. He sides with power rather than honor, what is right. It is hard to see those we once called friends side with an enemy who wishes our destruction.”

“Mochdrev Reach is an ally of the Tuatha de Dannan,” Deirdre finally spoke up with a certainty that surprised even her.

“That remains to be seen, Lady Deirdre. Your sire has yet to make that clear,” the Morrigan said. She turned back to Bran. “The last true ally we had came from your world—the last Heliwr.”

“The last Heliwr?”

“The Unfettered Knight,” the Morrigan said. “The last being Charles Ardall.”

“My father,” Bran echoed. “You knew him? Knew I was his son?”

“Aye. Arrow Jack said as much,” the Queen said. “Charles Ardall visited these same mountains several times in the past.”

Deirdre had not heard anything about Bran’s parentage. The knowledge surprised her. It seemed the appearance of the knight and Bran could not therefore be happenstance. She didn’t know why they were in Annwn, but if the knight survived his wounds there was a chance they would consider joining the Seelie Court against Caer Llion.

And help sway Lord Gerallt to join Arendig Fawr.

“You favor your father a great deal,” the Morrigan said. “In many ways.”

“I didn’t know him well. He died when I was young.”

“He was strong and kind, a rare man who never made a mockery of the world, the kind who leaves it a better place than when he entered it. I know very few I can say that about, but he was one of them.”

“Why did he come here?”

“Why does any Heliwr come into Annwn? To make amends.”

“I don’t know what that means, to be a Heliwr,” Bran confessed.

“I see. The wizard is playing the game close to his heart,” the Morrigan said. “The Heliwr is the Unfettered Knight—not chained to govern any portal between the two worlds. Whenever a crossing occurs from either world, the Heliwr is responsible for setting it right again if one of the Yn Saith fail.”

“Well, who is the Heliwr now?” Deirdre asked.

“There is not one.”

“So my father…hunted people down, then?” Bran asked. “Like a bounty hunter?”

“Aye, and when other mischief transpired,” the Queen replied. “But now is not the time to speak of such things. Deirdre has no wish to hear a history lesson, methinks. We can make Arendig Fawr before nightfall. There is much we must discuss in the presence of McAllister and the remnants of the Seelie Court. You are safe for now. Relax and enjoy the ride.”

The Morrigan trotted away but turned back suddenly. “These demon wolves you speak of. Did it sound like there were more of them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I see,” the Queen said.

With the Morrigan leading, the group continued through the rugged terrain of the Carn Cavall. Deirdre guided Willowyn as a quiet Bran finished his apple. She wondered about the outworlders again. The visions her shade mother had shared included her tie to some outworlder. Could Bran be the one her mother had spoken about? Could Richard McAllister? She did not know. The two had come into Annwn for unknown reasons. Were those reasons linked to her life? Could her mother be that clairvoyant? Whatever the case, events had gone tragically awry for them. Was John Lewis Hugo tracking them? Was Richard dying? What would Bran do if the knight did die? The Morrigan seemed fairly certain the knight would recover. If he did, Deirdre wondered how the outworlders would shape her future.

The afternoon wore on as the sun arced the sky. The land died the farther they traveled. One moment broad meadows filled with long browning grasses and lazy insects surrounded her; the next she passed under what once had been enormous waterfalls, now dried to a small trickle. Fewer and fewer forest animals watched them, emaciated and furtive. No birdsong lent music to the day. The peaks of Snowdon loomed, only its uppermost crags still covered in glacier.

As Snedeker sat on her shoulder and Deirdre thought about how she would convince her father to join those in the Seelie Court, Bran touched her arm from behind.

“So, how did you get involved in all of this?” he asked.

“Not the shortest of stories,” Deirdre answered, wondering how much she should tell him. “I live in a city called Mochdrev Reach, out in the plains south of the Carn Cavall. My ancestors aided the Tuatha de Dannan when they fled the persecution of the Misty Isles, choosing to settle apart from the fey. When Philip Plantagenet arrived with his Templar Knights, the Reach kept apart from both groups, autonomous.

“That separation is coming to an end,” she continued. “Philip Plantagenet has taken over much of Annwn and now wants to marry the Reach with his city of Caer Llion. It would bring the two separate groups of humans together, undoubtedly as a single force to fight the Tuatha de Dannan here, in the Carn Cavall.”

“By marry you mean…Philip marrying you?”

“As you can imagine, I’m not too keen on the idea,” Deirdre said.

“You shouldn’t be,” Bran said, frowning.

Still staring at the outworlder, Snedeker grunted darkly on her shoulder.

“I would rather choose love than have it forced on me,” she said. “My father, the lord of Mochdrev Reach, is at Arendig Fawr right now to discover with the Morrigan if there is anything that can be done, if we should join with the fey and defy Plantagenet or if we should be absorbed by Caer Llion to keep our people out of harm’s way.”

“Tough choices,” Bran said. “I would imagine you are hoping to not be married to the High King, although war can’t be much better.” Deirdre gritted her teeth at the thought of the forced marriage. “On the streets where I have lived most of my life, the main lesson I have learned is to knock the bully down. Knock the bully down, and they leave you alone.”

“It’s a bit different when thousands of your people are in danger if you want to knock the bully down,” Deirdre said, suddenly taking up her father’s argument.

“Better than you wedded to a tyrant though, right?” Bran asked.

“You are sweet to say so. And yes, that’s how I feel.”

“I would fight to keep you from that cracknettle, Red,” the fairy sniffed. “He will never lay his hands on you if I have my way.”

“Thank you, Snedeker,” Deirdre said, hiding a grin from the earnest fairy.

“And you are friends with a fairy?” Bran asked. “That seems a bit odd.”

“Mind your own business, hotsquirt,” Snedeker shot back, his wings shaking irritably while pointing a twiggy finger at Bran. “I seem to recall a certain fairy helping with your freedom!”

“Okay, okay, don’t get all pissy with me,” Bran said. “Jeez.”

The fairy crossed his wooden arms, watching Bran darkly.

“Yes, Snedeker and I are friends, even if he is a bit temperamental at times,” Deirdre said, giving the fairy a reproachful look. “Have been friends now for years. He is prone to thievery, but he has always been there when I needed him.”

“Cat’s right, I have!” Snedeker glowered.

“Well, I hope something can be done,” Bran said. “About Philip, I mean.”

Deirdre fell silent. She hoped that as well.

The company continued into the mountains, the sun waning to the west. Other trails met their own, disappearing into the forests in varying directions. Deirdre took a deep breath. She didn’t know what she had gotten herself into with Caer Llion but she was happy to be as far away from there as possible. Snedeker remained on her shoulder, watching Bran closely with a look of disgust on his mossy face. Deirdre found it odd the fairy was taking such an interest in Bran, but Snedeker had always been a bit odd.

As she thought more on Bran, the mists and trees thinned to reveal Arendig Fawr.

The city grew at the base of a sheer rock wall that thrust into the purpling evening sky, its heights lost in obscurity, its size, construction, and collection of fey awesome. In its shadow, fey intermingled with one another—ogres, leprechauns, cu sith, Fomorians, brownies, cait sith, fairies from different clans, and countless unknown others. All roamed free, most giving Deirdre and Bran quick glances of curiosity, entering and leaving large huts grown from living trees, vines, and flowers that blended with the forest. Through the foliage and hundreds of buildings, Deirdre could just make out the giant set of stone doors standing open and leading to the Cadarn, tiny gnarled trees growing from the rock face above the black maw. Somewhere to the north the roar of a waterfall thundered.

Bran looked as surprised as Deirdre had felt two days earlier upon arriving.

“Arendig Fawr,” Deirdre introduced.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bran said.

“It’s the home of the Queen,” she said. “The city goes deep into the mountain and far above in the trees. Most of the conclaves are protected by natural formations in these mountains, like this. The Snowdon is filled with secrets, ones of which Caer Llion has no knowledge. Thousands live here, thousands who depend on the Morrigan to keep them safe.”

“There are so many here, so many fairy folk.”

“Tuatha de Dannan, Bran. Fey. Calling them fairy folk is a slight.”

“That’s right!” Snedeker said.

“What you see here is what Caer Llion would see destroyed—all of it,” Deirdre said, ignoring the fairy. “The buildings. The people. The very way of life the fey live. He has tried for centuries—and failed.”

“Maybe Philip can be stopped then,” Bran said mysteriously.

With Snedeker taking to the air, Deirdre slid off of Willowyn and did not answer. She hoped the lord of Caer Llion could be stopped too. The warriors who had rescued Richard and Bran faded into the populace. Belenus hurried off toward the gaping hole at the base of the cliff, leaving his stallion in the care of Connal and Kearney. The clurichauns guided the other Rhedewyr away like prattling mothers.

“Kegan, time is required to prepare quarters for our guest,” the Morrigan commanded, dismounting her own steed.

“With haste, my Queen,” Kegan said, bowing.

“Not too much, I hope.”

“Wait,” Bran shouted after the departing leader. “I want to see Richard.”

“In good time,” the Morrigan said.

Deirdre nodded to Bran. “You are truly safe now.”

“Thank you,” he said, dismounting.

“No. Thank Willowyn,” she said with a smile as she patted the Rhedewyr. “I must care for her. I am sure we will see one another soon.”

Bran stood there awkwardly, hands in pockets, just staring at Deirdre. He said nothing. She felt heat rise into her cheeks and grew uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Come, lad,” Kegan said, lightly grabbing Bran’s elbow. “Let us find a meal, ye and I, before ye fall in love.”

Deirdre watched the outworlder blush as well. Bran flashed her a smile; she returned it, though she didn’t like how it felt. She watched as Kegan guided Bran to a series of huts nearby where fires offered tantalizing aromas of what they cooked.

When they were gone, Deirdre turned to Snedeker, who also watched Bran disappear.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked pointedly.

“Nothing! Nothing!”

“You have been interested in that boy since we saved him,” she said. “Could barely take your eyes off of him. Why?”

“No reason,” the fairy said, wriggling in the air. “Never seen an outworlder is all.”

“Other than John Lewis Hugo?” Deirdre said. When Snedeker didn’t respond and just kept staring after Bran, she sighed. “I don’t know what you are up to but I don’t like it.”

“There is something magical about him.”

“Well, keep an eye on him if it makes you happy,” Deirdre growled in warning. “Just leave him be. He already doesn’t like you, I can tell.”

“I am an acquired taste, Red, you know that,” Snedeker snorted.

Deirdre strode away from the fairy, muttering below her breath. She had better things to do than argue with Snedeker. Leaving Willowyn momentarily with the guards at the entrance to the Cadarn, she traveled into the mountain toward the healing quarters, her eyes adjusting to the sudden gloom. She made her way upward, the stone steps worn from centuries of use, the walls chiseled smooth and carved with faintly glowing runes by great artisans. She would visit the knight and, if he looked to survive, gauge how best to proceed with her father.

Once gaining the healing quarters, she was directed to a lone room where the knight had been moved.

She was not prepared for what she saw.

The knight lay on a bed, naked, his clothing cut away and revealing the damage the demon wolves had done. It left a lump in her throat. Purpling bruises covered most of his body as if he had been pummeled by Fomorians, and tiny gashes of varying sizes littered his skin, a heady balm preventing them from bleeding. Two larger rents along his ribcage were bandaged, but they were already crimson. A waxy sheen of sweat coated his skin. He appeared to be dead if not for his shallow breathing and the attention he still received from the healers.

Belenus and his ancient aid looked up. The Morrigan stood at the back of the room, still wearing her armor and deep in thought.

“How is he?” Deirdre asked.

“McAllister may yet live,” Belenus said, his wizened face reflective. “Aerten has worked hard but the morning will tell. We have put him in a healing sleep. He has been gravely injured, and the halfbreeds that attacked him possess a venom that even now courses through his body. We have countered it the best we can with the life magic of the Tuatha de Dannan. He will heal quickly if it is meant to be, but that remains to be seen. It would help if he was whole of spirit, but we sense a deeper pain in his being that cannot be healed and which might become his undoing.”

“What do you mean?” the Queen asked.

“He has a wounded spirit,” Aerten said, shrugging. “It slowly kills him anyway.”

“I see,” the Morrigan said. “If his condition changes notify me.”

Belenus nodded as the Queen left the room.

Deirdre sat on the bed next to the knight. She had not gotten a good look at him during the battle, but what she saw intrigued her. He was a handsome man, she thought. The wavy black hair and pale skin. The length of his body and muscle tone. The chiseled cheekbones and strong jawline. Belenus was right though. There was even in slumber a darkness that pervaded his soul, one even she could sense. She found herself reaching out and brushing his clammy cheek with a gentle touch. His eyelids fluttered but did not open.

She sat there a few moments, staring at the knight, willing him to live.

Then she sat a few moments longer.