The Dark Thorn (30 page)

“Doesn’t He?” Richard growled back.

Long minutes passed. Both men stared into the night.

“The bodach,” Bran said finally. “It won’t stop.”

“It won’t,” the knight said. “Once set upon prey, it will never give up.”

“And what if you aren’t there to protect me?” Bran asked. “Or Deirdre? Or Lugh?”

“If we rejoin the Seelie Court and it helps pull down the very stones of Caer Llion, your safety will not be an issue,” Richard said. “You will be free of harm.”

“Free until something else comes after me.”

The dying fire snapped, sending a coal shooting like a star into the night.

“That could happen to anyone,” Richard said. “You still have a choice.”

“And was Kegan’s son given a choice?”

“People die, Bran,” Richard said coldly. “The world is not all light and airy. Connal’s death is sad. But it does not make it your fault.”

Bran squeezed the Paladr box. “If I had the means to stop it, then I
am
at fault.”

“Bran, don’t be ridicu—”

“No!” Bran hissed, a fountain of repressed rage bursting forth. “Kegan holds silent vigil tonight over Connal’s grave because his son fought to protect
me
—to protect a stranger not even from his world! And he’s not the only one. How many died saving us from John Lewis Hugo and his minions?” Bran burned with conviction. “Saving me? And
you
?”

Richard stared hard at Bran. Seconds turned into minutes.

“You know, I’ve seen the way you look at her,” the knight said.

Bran knew exactly what Richard meant. Deirdre slept nearby. Bran could see her red hair and the easy fall of her chest. From the time he had first seen her in Dryvyd Wood, to riding with his hands about her waist, to staring at her across the table at the Seelie Court meeting, Bran was falling for her. He had never felt like this. Sadly, it was obvious she favored the knight for a reason Bran could not fathom. The way she looked at Richard when he wasn’t aware could not be denied. It couldn’t be how he treated her. The death of his wife had destroyed him. It had to be something else, something Bran was not.

“Becoming a knight won’t help you woo her,” Richard said, as if reading his thought.

“That is
not
the reason I do this!”

“Isn’t it?”

“I won’t let more blood spill at my account,” Bran said, turning the conversation away from Deirdre and gripping the box like a lifeline. “She has nothing to do with it. Will you help me or not?”

“I will,” Richard murmured. “If you are truly set on this.”

“Merle knew,” Bran whispered. “He knew it would come to this.”

“No,” Richard said stoically. “Merle knew the possibility could unfold. It is you and you alone who make this choice. You can turn away right now, leave it behind, forget it.”

“Can Kegan forget his son?” Bran said bitterly. “Can I?”

“No. I suppose not.”

“Unlike you, I want to be responsible for myself,” Bran said. “Right now I am no better than you on the street, asking for a free ticket, hoping others will take care of me while they foot the bill. No longer.”

“That’s it, huh?”

“I
have
to own my part in all of this. It is the only way.”

“There is more for you to hear,” Richard growled low, the dying embers of the fire mirrored in his eyes. “What you plan goes beyond responsibility into martyrdom. Once, long ago, the Church existed to educate and build safe communities, where people watched out for their neighbor in a savage world. This is true of Christianity, Catholicism, Islam, Buddhism—all of them. For centuries Christians mingled with Muslims who traded with Buddhists, and peace was maintained through mutual respect.

“But somewhere along the way, the relationships people held with other God-fearing people took on new, selfish undertones. Religion became something to fight over, despite the explicit instructions within doctrines to the contrary. Meaning and peace gave way to greed and fear. Hundreds of wars have been fought over it. The influence of religion is the main culprit for much of the death in our world. The Pope, his Cardinals, and even Archbishop Glenallen crave power and hope to see their Church expand and grow, just as Saint Peter ordered of them through the Vigilo. They are no better than Philip Plantagenet, extreme in their own beliefs.”

“What is your poin—” Bran started.

“Let me finish,” Richard said. “If you choose to take on the mantle of the Heliwr, you will have to walk a fine line between all of them—and maintain the balance between them and Annwn. The power you will possess will not be your power alone but that of two worlds—
needed
by two worlds. All will try to use you to their advantage, just like they tried with your father. Is that something you truly want? Can you even comprehend what I am saying?”

“I don’t know,” Bran admitted, his anger subsiding. “But I cannot keep relying on you. On others.”

“You are bent on this then?”

“I am. You convinced me. How do I become the Heliwr?”

“As I told you back in the Cadarn, I have no idea.”

Bran opened the box. The silver outline of the Paladr winked. He took it out and held it in his hand. The Paladr was warm, the edges of the acorn-like seed smooth against his palm. He hoped he was making the right choice.

The earlier whisper came again, a tickle of sentience.

Away. Upward.

“It wants me to go up into the mountains,” Bran said, surprised by the voice.

Richard undid his blankets as if to rise. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” Bran said. “I will do this alone.”

“I see,” Richard said simply, lying back down.

“If I don’t return by morning…”

“I will come looking for you, yes,” Richard offered. He sighed. “Good luck, boy. I can no more tell you what to do than the Church should. I hope you know what you are doing.”

Bran looked to where he knew the uppermost fringes of the mountains existed. He saw nothing. Fog swallowed the entirety of the Snowdon whole. It would be a long, dangerous climb in the middle of the night.

Bran fought his fear. It would do him no good.

With the camp long at his back and letting the whisper of the Paladr guide him, Bran followed a small deer trail and climbed over the boulder-strewn mountain, in search of answers he had to have.

The seed in his hand burned the entire time.

The Snowdon reared above, a massive presence; the Nharth swirled around him, faces lost in the mist. Even though the darkness of night hid most of the world, Bran had no trouble making his way; some aspect of the Paladr guided him, outlined the world in shades of gray as if it knew the land and every obstacle, bend in the path, and low-hanging tree branch. It called him onward, through a forest grown wild with pine and fir, the power of the witch oddly absent, and the heady odor of healthy life blending with the mineral tang of trickling water all around him.

Bran breathed in the cool night air. It would have been oddly relaxing, if not for the circumstances.

He was a long way from home, from the life he had once led. Speaking to Richard and hearing how the knight had fallen to such dark depths did nothing to dissuade Bran from his choice. He wanted to make something of his life. The death of Connal had been the final straw breaking his burdened back.

He would die before becoming a man he despised.

“Where you think you are going, treesqueak?”

A whir of wings flew passed and Snedeker hovered in the air before Bran.

“To find my own way in this world.”

“The woods at night can be quite dangerous, outworlder,” the fairy said, looking darkly about him as if another bodach would appear at any moment. “You should not be here alone. You are lucky I found you.”

“Fly back to camp,” Bran ordered, mostly annoyed.

“You command me not, hotpie,” Snedeker said, crossing his arms, the wood of his face stubborn. “I am more than a hundred years older than you. You would do well to listen to me. Do very well.”

“Have it your way then,” Bran said, moving a branch aside. “I can’t stop you.”

“Where are we going?”

“Now it’s
we
?”

“Yes, we,” Snedeker said.

“You are good at getting yourself into trouble, aren’t you?”

The fairy appraised Bran indignantly. Bran stared hard back at the creature and realized he didn’t know much about Snedeker other than the thievery he had attempted in the Cadarn.

“Did Deirdre send you after me?” Bran asked.

“Red doesn’t control me either,” Snedeker snorted. “Those who think they can quickly find I am less than agreeable.”

“I was told fairies were not to be trusted.”

“You keep poor company then.”

“How did you become friends with Deirdre?” Bran asked, truly curious.

“I wooed a woman.”

“Deirdre?”

Snedeker laughed, the twigs and moss of his body shaking. “You know nothing of fairies, do you, outworlder?”

“Of course I don’t! Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Settle down, meatsack. I will answer your question,” Snedeker said, flying alongside Bran’s head and peering into the forward darkness. “I am a fairy of the Oakwells, the most respected fairy clan in the eyes of the Lady. The summer is long and hot and has been burning for centuries. Food grows short at times. The Firewillows live closer than my clan to Rhuddlan Teivi where many humans live. I borrowed one of their maids—only one—who supplied their clan with milk, oh…two decades back, when Red was a young girl.”

“You
borrowed
a maid?”

Snedeker flew in front of Bran only to turn with scolding face.

“Yes. Borrowed.”

“What happened then? The humans come after you?”

“No, the Firewillows did,” Snedeker sputtered. “Even though they had plenty of milk, they would not share. Flaming slugs. They think they are the Lady’s favorites. Think they were there at the beginning of the Misty Isles, as her beloveds. The Oakwells know the truth!”

“Sounds like you hate the Firewillows a lot,” Bran said.

“They are sworn enemies,” Snedeker said. “As are the other clans.”

“So you left and ended up in Mochdrev Reach.”

“To bring my light and intelligence to Red’s life,” the fairy said snarkily.

The trail leveled off where a thick forest pushed its way toward the cliff Bran had just climbed above. Massive fir trees with trunks as big around as an elephant thrust into the cool night air, reminding Bran of black and white pictures of the Pacific Northwest’s Old Growth taken by early loggers in Seattle. No sound met his arrival; the forest slept with depthless surety. All around him the Nharth departed without provocation. The smell of dried needles and sap warmed sweet by the heat of day embraced Bran as he took the first few steps along the flat path, his way forward lost to the trees after several dozen feet.

In his hand, the Paladr goaded him gently to continue moving.

“Well, why did you attack that bodach?” Bran asked. “It seems a bit out of character from what you’ve told me so far.”

“Shhhh!” the fairy whispered.

As the two passed the outer fringe of a lea, Snedeker stopped Bran with a silent warning gesture and pointed through the foliage. In the middle of the moonlit meadow and glowing like incandescent silver strolled a tall white doe, her neck long and elegant, her legs taut with nervous chiseled muscle. No impurity marring its beauty, the deer radiated innocence, the most beautiful animal Bran had ever seen.

But the fairy did not point at the doe.

From the far side of the lea, a tall shadow unnatural to the growth around it stood in the darkness, a statue in the midnight of the Snowdon. Unexpected thick bile rose up Bran’s throat, and he wanted to vomit. Fighting the sick feeling that washed over him, the black outline of the entity solidified into a thin, tall man sitting upon a massive horse the color of damp ashes. The rider made no sound or movement. Branches grew out of the shadow’s head until Bran realized they were multi-pointed horns bleached of color and very sharp. Every second that passed, the sense of wrongness about the creature and its mount intensified, forcing Bran to barely breathe, barely move, barely think.

The reality of what bothered Bran about the apparition struck him like lightning. It was not a man straddling a horse.

It was a centaur, like the woman Aife.

But unlike the Horsemaster of the Seelie Court, sick power radiated from the horned fey across the meadow, the venom of the being infiltrating Bran. Trembling involuntarily, it was all Bran could do to not become ill.

“Cernunnos,” Snedeker whispered from Bran’s shoulder.

“Who?” he hissed.

“The Erlking of the Unseelie Court,” the fairy whimpered.

The centaur watched the doe graze the dewy grass, his eyes burning red like coals heated by bellows. The white deer seemed oblivious to what watched it, demurely feeding from the lea at its feet, its tiny tail flicking occasionally. A part of Bran wished to slink away—the nearby evil repellent to his heart—but he knelt, rooted in place, worry for the safety of the beautiful animal overcoming the instincts pounding in his blood to flee for his life.

With an achingly slow movement, Cernunnos pulled free a black bow as tall as a man; his other hand drew forth a feathered obsidian arrow. The head of the bolt flickered putrid green as he knocked it against the string. The Erlking of the Unseelie Court drew back the doe’s death with a steady hand, fixing one baleful eye along the arrow.

“No!” Bran shouted without heed.

The glowing doe leapt ten feet in the air just as Cernunnos let go the string. The arrow shot like a bullet but harmlessly into the ground where the deer had been a moment before. The doe hit the lea bounding away, a blur of silver arcing through the night.

In less than two seconds she was gone.

The Erlking of the Unseelie Court, looking where the doe had vanished, strode slowly into the meadow beneath the moonlight, the horse chest rippling powerfully. He was taller than any Rhedewyr Bran had seen. Lank black hair fell over toned chest and arms, power radiating from him. The flaming eyes set within a narrow angular face never deviated from Bran. The dark weight of eons hung about the Erlking. At his feet a black stain of creatures skulked—tusked boars, slinking weasels, and other beasts of the night, all bearing red feral eyes that burned at Bran like the Erlking’s own.