The Dark Thorn (13 page)

“I don’t believe you.”

“It is what it is, Richard,” Merle said, certainty in his eyes. “And all I know is, I am afraid. She is a puzzle piece in this. I wish I was wrong and could say differently. I know the pain you carry better than you realize. I think by going you will understand it better—what transpired between you and Elizabeth, and possibly even find a bit of solace.” He paused. “And you must leave this night, to make the difference two worlds need.”

Bran looked to Richard. The knight stared back hard. He felt trapped once more. Years earlier the old wizard had convinced him to join the Yn Saith as a graduate student. It had led to a life of darkness, sorrow, and regret. The anger from Merle bringing up the death of Elizabeth had evolved to unsettled curiosity, though—as Merle undoubtedly knew it would—and the knight could not quell the swell of it. Answers he had been at a loss for years could be his. But that knowledge would come at a price, as it always did with trusting Merle.

Duty to do what was right collided with his self-loathing and hatred of the bookseller. There was only one choice the knight could make though, and he was not happy about it.

Richard turned to Bran.

“When can you be ready to leave, boy?”

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.