Read The Dark Thorn Online

Authors: Shawn Speakman

Tags: #fantasy, #fae, #magic, #church

The Dark Thorn (10 page)

BOOK: The Dark Thorn
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“You chastise me, bring up painful memories, and then you ask for my help?” Richard snapped with disgust. “Do you know how fork-tongued you are?”

Archbishop Glenallen darkened. “As usual, you have
no
idea to whom you are speaking. I know a boy was attacked. And not only that, but you did not remove his memory of it. I want to know the why of it.”

Richard cursed silently.

“Yes, that’s right. I know fairies called upon the cu sith you failed in stopping several months ago,” the archbishop said. “Why did they attack the boy though? Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” Richard admitted. He stood and jammed his hands in his pockets. “He was walking in Pioneer Square feeding his homeless friends. He is safe. That’s all I know. The creatures are dead. I missed my chance to alter the boy’s memories. What else is there to know?”

“The question is how did you know he was in danger?”

The knight darkened.

“Say nothing more,” Archbishop Glenallen said. “I know you were following him.”

“Spies, eh? I suppose you have already notified your superiors.”

“I have.”

Richard wanted to beat the man within an inch of his life. With the Church conniving, it would complicate his own efforts to discover why Merle had chosen Bran and for what end.

“Does that disappoint you,
knight
?” the fat man asked.

“Only you do, Glenallen.”

“Hmm,” Archbishop Glenallen mumbled. “And what of the wizard? Does he have any ideas about this?”

“I have not spoken to him of it,” Richard said. “Or with the others. I have not put as much stock in the attack as you have, apparently.”

“You would not have followed him if you did not.”

“I have no allegiance to the Church, but don’t believe for one second that it means I am in league with Myrddin Emrys. The man is a liar, a cheat, and has brought me nothing but pain.”

“You are his puppet.”

“To say I hate him would be a vast understatement,” Richard pointed out.

“And yet the boy returned to Old World Tales. Clearly he does not feel the same way,” the archbishop said, smiling without humor. “That is problematic, don’t you think, McAllister?”

“Leave me in peace, Glenallen,” Richard sighed. “I tire of you.”

“Whenever Annwn reaches into this world, there is a reason behind it,” Archbishop Glenallen continued. “The Church demands that you fulfill your duty to its utmost. It’s why God chose you. Mankind deserves to be kept safe.”

“Even from Church charlatans?” Richard chided. “The blood on Church hands reddens even your own.” The archbishop immediately turned a deep, explosive shade, but the knight held up his hand. “What? Are you going to have me killed if I don’t do what I am told? When will the Church realize it no longer has authority over the portals? Over the Seven? Over me?”

The imposing man stepped close to Richard, fire in his eyes.

“What happens when a man not only forsakes his Church but that of God as well, McAllister?” He leaned in closer. “What if it happens to a knight of the Vigilo? How long do you think such a knight has to live? The Church has no need to dispose of you; the fey coming through the portal and your lack of faith will do it as assuredly as it did your own wife.”

The point drove into Richard like a stake. Fury came crashing over him, urgent in its need. It didn’t matter if killing the archbishop would reduce the knight to everything he hated about the Church—Richard had much to repent for, and what was one more thing?—and Louis Glenallen was a stain on the very tapestry the knight defended every day of his life. Glenallen would not be missed in the larger scheme of the world, and Richard would be purged from his duties by death.

Arondight was a will away from fierily materializing.

The archbishop saw his danger and took several steps backward. “Regardless of what transpired last night, your faithlessness could get us all killed,” Archbishop Glenallen snarled, but fear had overtaken his beady eyes. “Fulfill your role, and make it not so.”

Before Richard could reply, the Churchman fled.

Louis Glenallen vanished into the streets, undoubtedly returning to his safe haven of St. James Cathedral. The white stone twin towers of the Church’s Seattle bastion would not hold the answers the knight sought. They would have to come from elsewhere.

Richard began removing his shoes and socks.

He knew where to begin looking.

Finally with no one around, Richard placed his naked feet into the Waterfall Garden pool and closed his eyes. He shivered involuntarily, the icy water stabbing him like hundreds of needles. It was always difficult in the colder months. As the eddying cold numbed his toes, the knight focused on the water—its feel, its fluidity, and its ability to transform all things. It was the molecule of life and change, and it reveled in its freedom to roam. Richard joined with it, the water cool on his soul. For a moment he was released from his guilt, his inner turmoil, his inadequacy, and Richard realized sadly that he had always felt this free twelve years earlier.

Traveling with the water, the pounding of the waterfall ceased.

The world darkened.

He concentrated on Arondight—not to call forth the fabled sword, but to be drawn to it.

The disorientation ended suddenly with birdsong, the sweet scent of growing grass, and the warmth of the sun on his face.

Richard opened his eyes to Annwn.

The decadence of Seattle and its claustrophobic buildings disappeared, replaced by a small isle in the middle of an expansive lake bordered by verdant green hills. In the distance, the jagged peaks of the Snowdon loomed. Richard sat in an emerald carpet, the grass and clover tickling his exposed feet, a dream made real. Rhododendrons, lilacs, pennyroyal, and other bushes grew wild and free amidst moss-covered rocks. The sweet smell of virgin nature coupled with air not of the sea intoxicated the knight, and he looked out over the day in silent thanks, the rippling water of the lake glimmering like sapphires under the sun.

The memory of autumn fading, Richard sat up and glanced around.

At the apex of the isle the remnants of a fortress rose against the sky, its stone crumbling from age and neglect. Much of the inner courtyard and keep had long since fallen into itself, leaving the walls and towers to stand alone. Richard knew not who had built the castle, but it had existed for centuries. Along the circumference of the shore a barricade of crooked briars grew, the vines thick like tree trunks. Thorns as large as axe heads protruded from them, deadly and sharp, glistening with a greenish venom he was told would kill on contact. If anyone could pass the Aughisky—the loch fey beast warding the isle—the wall would end any access.

The only other prominent feature of the island grew near the knight—an oak tree as large as the castle with leaves as golden as the dawn.

Richard gained his feet and walked up the hill.

The oak ruled the whole of the isle like a lord. It was ancient and knotted with branches reaching in all directions, the trunk massive and its roots buried deep. Finches and other birds darted among the foliage and ferns beneath, singing their song to the day, while insects lazily drifted on the air.

Despite knowing the tree was as deadly as the wall of thorns, Richard wanted nothing more than to lie down in its serene shadows and sleep forever.

Circling the tree, seven bluestone blocks erupted from the earth like rib bones, each chiseled with druidic symbols. On the one closest him, Arondight glittered, the sword resting point-down on the diagonal face, its runes winking at Richard as if in greeting. The other blocks also bore weapons as unique as the one Merle had given Richard at his knighthood—a battleaxe, war hammer, heavy gauntlets, dagger, spear, and diamond-shaped mace.

The earth beneath his bare feet thrummed with power as he neared the great tree. At his approach, the roots and branches tensed, ready to protect the relics on the rune-written blocks.

“Achlesydd,” Richard soothed, calling the tree by name.

The oak relaxed, recognizing him as a Knight of the Yn Saith.

“What’s on your mind, Rick?”

Richard turned. A sandy-haired man with finely chiseled cheekbones and an average build stood nearby, his feet as bare as Richard’s own, his blue eyes inquisitive. He wore denim jeans and a coat that offered protection from elements not present in Annwn.

“Alastair,” Richard greeted. “It’s been many months. You look well.”

A smile brought life to Alastair Finley. “Life is good. Quiet. The family grows and I’ve gotten quite a lot of research done the last few months. How are you?”

“I am here,” Richard said simply. “The family is well then?”

“Yeah, all is good,” Alastair replied, looking away. “The kids grow like weeds. Mark actually likes school and Maddy is able to stand now.”

The knight of the Betws-y-coed fairy glen in Wales lived a peaceful life with wife and children, his portal one of the oldest and relatively inactive due to its odd entrance placement in Annwn. He was a good man, fair in all things. In another lifetime the two knights would likely have been close friends, their scholarly background a common bond. But Alastair enjoyed a life the other knights chose not to embrace and one Richard had lost, leaving an unbridgeable gulf between them.

A ghostly shimmer formed a few feet away, solidifying into a short, heavyset Italian man who hugged his barrel chest closely as if trying to stay warm.

“Damnable snow and ice,” he bellowed. “I
hate
Chicago in the fall and winter.”

“Sal, you hate everything,” Alastair said.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Sal grumbled. “What the
hell
did I have to traipse outside in this weather for?”

The other two men ignored Sal.

Soon other forms coalesced in the afternoon sunshine. In all, six men and one woman stood on the isle near the grandiose oak—the summoning bringing them from diverse countries, different cultures, and unique backgrounds.

They were the Knights of the Yn Saith.

“Thank you all for coming,” Richard said. “I know during this time of year it is a test of will to answer a calling.”

“We know you would not do so if it were not necessary, Richard,” James St. Albans said, his British accent thick. “No need to apologize.”

“I find this meeting a little odd. The Paris portal has been quiet,” Arnaud Lovel said. Fat pushed at the boundaries of the Parisian’s clothing. “I’ve not had reason to leave my home in many months.”

“That’s apparent,” Sal grunted.

Arnaud ignored the insult. Richard shared all the details of the previous night—the cait sith’s entry, the escape of the fairies, the cu sith and its attack on Bran, the visit by Archbishop Glenallen, and how Rome was aware of everything that had transpired.

“The cait sith mentioned the fairies being the end of the Word,” Richard finished.

“A Pope can die,” Danica Roderick said, her sleek blonde hair almost white in the sunlight. “But it does not end the Word. Or the Church.”

“It would have to be something else,” Richard agreed.

“Whatever it is, it isn’t affecting the rest of us,” James said, his long-fingered hand stroking his short goatee. “Like Arnaud said. The gateway in London has been peaceful for at least a year.”

“The same in Vienna, Danica? Rome, Ennio? Sal?”

Everyone nodded agreement.

Richard frowned. Ever since his knighthood, creatures of varying sizes, shapes, intellects, and purposes had come through, an unbroken stream of dissent. It seemed he was the only knight having to deal with it.

“The calm before the storm,” Richard murmured. “Testing me.”

“Huh?” Sal asked.

“Lulling us into false security.”

“Smokin’ something, more the like, Rick,” Sal grunted.

“It is our role to keep this world safe, Sal,” Richard growled, suddenly angry. “It requires looking at all possibilities. Or perhaps you aren’t capable of doing that, eh?”

“Look,” the Chicago knight snapped. “If you had stopped the cu sith from coming through in the first place, none of this would be happening!”

“Sal!” Danica shouted.

“No. He’s right,” Richard said. “I am the weak link among us, no matter if I like it or agree with it.”

“That’s right,” Sal rumbled.

The other knights glared at Sal. He stared back unperturbed.

“If the Lord of Annwn moves against one of the portals, it makes sense for it to be against the weakest link,” James said. “No offense, Richard.”

“Not only that,” Arnaud added. “But how does this boy figure in?”

“He was attacked. That much is clear,” James said. “The question is who in Annwn wants him dead? Wants Richard possibly dead? And why?”

“Without the Heliwr, finding answers is difficult,” Danica noted.

“Only one of us may know more,” Alistair said, glancing at Ennio Rossi, the youngest of the knights.

“Well, pup? Got anything to add?” Sal asked.

“You’ve been quiet, Ennio,” Danica prodded.

Tall and handsome, Ennio shrank inwardly like a mouse confronted by cats.

“I know you have friends in the Vatican, Ennio,” Richard assured. “And I am sure even a few are good people. But Church leaders are like all in established hierarchies—they look for advantage and use it to gain more power. At
our
expense. You will not be betraying anyone by sharing what you know.”

“The Church has taken a keen interest in what happened,” Ennio said finally. The other knights nodded encouragement. “I know the Vigilo is aware of what took place in Seattle. The Cardinal Seer said as much when he warned me to watch the gateway with extra attention.”

“The Cardinal Seer,” Sal said. “If he knows, then the Cardinal Vicar knows…possibly even the Pope. O’Connor and the Seer are as thick as thieves.”

“The Vicar is a fair man,” Ennio blurted.

“No, Ennio,” Alastair said. “The Cardinal Vicar sees the position of Pontiff near his grasp and seeks any advantage to gain it. If he knows more about what is going on, he’s going to play the cards the best way to ensure he benefits from it. Have no doubt about that. It is important for us to know what he knows to better gauge our response.”

BOOK: The Dark Thorn
11.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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