The Dark Thorn (52 page)

The coblynau broadened, his muscles straining beneath his armor. “You know little of our world, no matter if you are a knight, scion of Ardall.”

“The boy is right, Lord Faric,” Richard countered, crossing his arms. “What knowledge Bran lacks about Annwn you lack about our world. The Tuatha de Dannan have been absent from the land of their origin for a long time. Much has changed.”

“Still, the decision to go to battle against the army the Usurper has amassed is our own to make,” the Morrigan said.

“You already made that decision,” Bran pointed out.

The other lords grumbled their thoughts until it became a yelling match. Richard watched it all unfold. The bickering. The disagreement. The inability to come to a conclusion that would benefit all. These lords were the leaders of Annwn and they acted like many of those in his own world—selfish and unable to agree for the greater good. The voices of the lords grew louder until the entire tent was a cacophony of indecision and angst.

“Shut it!” a deep voice thundered.

Everyone turned to the Kreche. All grew silent.

“I am not from this world and yet I am firmly rooted within it,” the halfbreed said, his voice lowered now that he had their attention. “The King of Annwn may not be attacking you now but that is the least of your worries. The fight Philip brought to you will be an ant attack compared to what will happen if the men of
that other world
discover this one. The men in that world are greedy and corrupt. They possess power and machines you cannot fathom. When they come here—and they will come here, whether it be Philip or another—nothing you do will be able to stop your extermination.”

“And they
will
discover you if Philip goes through that portal,” Richard added.

The lords looked back and forth between one another.

“Now we listen to a halfbreed?” Lord Finnbhennach snorted. “As if he knows something of our ways?”

“Considering one of your own begot me, I say I have a say.”

Lord Finnbhennach grunted but said nothing.

“War is not an easy thing to entreat,” the Morrigan said, her presence commanding the others into silence. “If what you say is true about the Graal and the Usurper harnessing its power, what will that do for our odds in this?”

Richard shrugged. “I do not know. It could make each of his demon wolves and Templar Knights as if they were five? Ten? Not sure exactly.”

“That means if their army is fifty thousand strong…” Lord Eigion thought out loud.

“It is actually many times larger than that,” Richard said. “And growing daily.”

“What say you, Govannon? Lugh? Aife?” the Morrigan asked.

“The halfbreed speaks true,” the Mastersmith said. “All we have fought to maintain, the peace we have wished for so many millennia, will be for naught. No matter the dice odds, we must do what is right, not what is popular. Better now than even more outnumbered later.”

“The Rhedewyr are ready,” Aife agreed.

“Lord Faric?” the Queen asked.

The coblynau leader nodded, if barely agreeing.

“We are united,” the Queen said simply. “The future will be our own by our design.”

“If Philip is as arrogant as I think he is, it may be his undoing,” Richard said. “But first I must speak with the other knights.” Richard paused. “And get some clothes. Then we plan.”

“One moment, Knight McAllister,” Govannon said.

Richard, Bran, and the rest of the Seelie Court watched Govannon move to the side of the tent where his massive sledgehammer lay against a large pack. He opened the latter and, after rummaging within it, pulled a simple wooden box from its depths.

“If we fight,” he said, “Then young Ardall will need this.”

Richard watched as the Mastersmith opened the box before Bran. Inside, lying on soft crimson velvet, rested a gauntlet. The steel glove was short at the wrist, with metal fingers and a thumb. A menagerie of runes etched into its surface swirled.

Govannon had crafted a beautiful piece of artistry.

“Give me your left arm, Ardall,” the Mastersmith said. “Let me place it on.”

Bran did so. Govannon attached the gauntlet where the boy’s hand had once been. When the glove touched the stump, the runes came alive, azure fire like that of Arondight racing over its steel. The fingers twitched and then moved as wonder filled Bran’s face.

“But how…?” the boy began.

“The weapon you needed back in my Arendig Fawr armory had no reason to exist yet,” Govannon answered. “The reason being, of course, you still possessed your left hand. Is the gauntlet to your liking? Is it comfortable?”

“How does it stay on?” Bran asked, mesmerized.

“Magic, of course. Partly mine, partly your own. It is linked to Arondight, although the sword does not need to be called for the gauntlet to stay on. If you hold the sword in your new left hand, the blade can never be struck from your possession. The two magics work as one.”

Bran flexed his new steel fingers, grinning.

“A wonderful gift, Mastersmith,” the Morrigan said. “May it bode well on the morrow.”

The lords of the Seelie Court nodded and turned back to their own thoughts, contemplating the choice of the Queen to go to war and their role in it. Some nodded to Richard, others turned away. It was not difficult for him to understand how hard it had been for these leaders to subject their people to war. The lords were given the chance to face the cause of their centuries of hiding and fear. Philip had to pay for what he had done—for what he was planning on doing.

Richard flexed his arm, feeling it restored. Battle was coming and he would be in the thick of it on the field.

If he knew one thing, he
would
encounter Arawn there.

And enact vengeance for Elizabeth.

Within the Forest of Dean, Deirdre roamed the outskirts of the Tuatha de Dannan army, ignoring the stares that a human aroused, in search of her father.

While she had traveled with Richard, Bran, and Snedeker to Caer Llion, Lord Gerallt had gathered two companies of his most hardened warriors from Mochdrev Reach and brought them to the Seelie Court. The rest of their forces he left behind, to guard the stronghold and people he fought to protect. He had been displeased when he found out she had left Arendig Fawr to guide the knights; she had not repented her decision, making him all the angrier. Neither had spoken to each other since.

But, on the cusp of battle, Deirdre would not let the possible last words between them be those of anger.

“He will still be angry, I can tell you that!” Snedeker said, flying alongside her and annoying her more than usual.

“He gave me free will to aid the Morrigan and the fight against Caer Llion,” she said. “The knights are a part of that. I was best suited to take them. He has no say in the matter.”

“The knights almost
died
, by the way,” the fairy snorted.

“They were going with or without me.”

“And you received that awful burn.”

“Good thing the halfbreed came through the portal then and helped save Richard and Bran,” she said. “They in turn healed me, leaving me unwilling to put up with your sass. So watch it.”

The fairy cursed under his breath about redheads and their stubborn natures. Deirdre was happy he kept it to himself for a change. She slipped through the fey, thinking about two nights ago. The Kreche had come out of the darkness to set her toward the Forest of Dean with the Rhedewyr even as he went to confront Caer Llion to free the knights at the behest of Myrddin Emrys. She had only seen two halfbreeds in her life but the Kreche was easily the most impressive, the heart of a poet within the body of a behemoth. If it hadn’t been for his diversion, Richard and Bran would not have been freed.

“Why do you think the Heliwr hates me?” Snedeker interrupted suddenly.

“Never had a conversation with yourself, eh?”

“Hilarious, Red,” the fairy said, dripping sarcasm.

“Richard doesn’t hate you,” Deirdre said. “He simply has impatience for those who add nothing to life.”

“Hey, I add a lot to li—”

“As he sees it,” she cut him off. “Why do you even care, anyway?”

“The Lady is not pleased with me,” he said.

“How do you know that?”

“She mustn’t be,” the fairy said, glancing around him as if the Lady could hear. “I am not guiding her Heliwr, not that he has shown any interest in my help at all, of course.”

“Maybe you need to reach out with more sincerity.”

“He will probably fry me to ash,” Snedeker said. “Just for talking to him.”

“He could,” she said with a smile.

Snedeker rolled his eyes.

After she thought she had seen every quarter of the army, Deirdre came to the camp of Mochdrev Reach. Two hundred of her countrymen prepared for the battle, some men sharpening their weapons while others checked their armor. All shared a look on their faces that bespoke the fear of not knowing what was to come. Deirdre navigated through them, feeling the tension, and eventually found her father’s tent.

When she entered, Lord Gerallt stared hard at her before returning to the battle formation maps two hellyll members of the Long Hand shared with him in preparation for the next day.

“You should not be here, Deirdre,” he said, not meeting her gaze. “My time is precious now that Mochdrev Reach is in the thick of
your
decision.”

“Father, I—”

“You should not have left Arendig Fawr.”

“Father, I did what I thought I had to do,” Deirdre said.

“And almost got yourself killed.”

“For a very good cause.”

Lord Gerallt continued to speak to the two Long Hand soldiers as if she were not there. From where he sat on her shoulder, Snedeker tapped her shoulder with impatience. After she realized he would not respond, Deirdre walked up to his table.

“Why are you acting like this?” she asked.

When he didn’t look up, her anger got the best of her and she slammed her fist down on the closest map.

“Why?!”

Lord Gerallt gave her a chilly look, his round face ruddy, before he turned to the hellyll. “Leave us for a few moments, Everle and Vay. You too, Snedeker. I must speak in earnest with my wayward daughter. Alone.”

Giving Deirdre a dark look, the fairy flew from the tent along with the Long Hand warriors.

“Deirdre, you tax me all too often,” Lord Gerallt growled.

“You are not telling me everything,” she said. “You are never like this. There is something eating at you and I would know what it is.”

Lord Gerallt took a deep breath and looked away. Long moments passed. Deirdre waited, knowing she didn’t have a choice, but her father also had a habit of taking his time in formulating his words when they held import. As she watched, though, the man she had known all of her life changed from a confident military commander preparing for the worst battle he would likely ever be in to a man almost defeated and ashamed, wearing a mantle of hardship Deirdre rarely saw.

“Whatever it is, it cannot be horrible,” she encouraged.

“After John Lewis Hugo met you at the Rosemere, he came to find me within the castle,” Lord Gerallt said, taking a deep breath. “We spoke. At length. It will not please you to hear this but I gave him my oath you would be brought to Caer Llion to marry.”

“I knew that, father.”

“Even if it went against your wishes,” he added.

The support she had brought with her vanished. Deirdre didn’t know what to say. In all the years she had looked up to her father, especially after the death of her mother, she now felt she didn’t know him. At no time had he disrespected her in such a way.

It left her feeling hollow.

“You gave me no choice?” she asked. “You lied to me?”

“It was the only way to ensure our safety,” he said, still barely able to look at her. “When you spoke to the shade of your mother and grew adamant we visit Arendig Fawr, I didn’t believe the Seelie Court would rise again. I thought the only way to prevent death for our people would be to take the honorable path for all of the lives we oversee—and knowingly upset you most as a result, my daughter.” He paused. “I am ashamed by my actions. I was wrong to speak on your behalf.”

“How is taking the honorable path
right
?” Deirdre demanded, her disbelief replaced by wrath. “You betrayed my heart!”

“I regret not telling you sooner,” he said. “But now things have changed. I can no longer play both sides. And the innocent people of Mochdrev Reach may pay the price for it.”

Deirdre bit back a furious reply. She did not know what to think. In her mind, she knew her father had a difficult role to play in Annwn, one that required making difficult decisions. In her very depths though, she felt deceived by the man who had been her foundation for so many years.

When he had seemed so behind her for the last few days.

“You love him, do you not?” Lord Gerallt asked suddenly. “The knight, I mean?”

“I do,” she stammered, unable to hide her surprise. “I…cannot explain it. Richard McAllister is like no one else I have ever met. How did you know?”

“I may be old and fat but I’m not blind, Deirdre.”