The Dark Thorn (8 page)

The place was sacred to Deirdre. The Merthyr Garden also happened to be the resting place for Lady Lorelei Rhys.

Lord Gerallt didn’t stop. He continued up the gentle rise until the pathway ended. There, away from the flora of the garden and open to the sky, the Rosemere greeted them, the wide pool contained by short marble blocks, the waters allowed to flow freely down to the castle below by two troughs. It was not the focal point of the hill, though. From the middle of the Rosemere, a thick, thorny vine grew, twining around a soaring, ancient snag where rose blossoms larger than all others splashed crimson.

Nothing stirred where the ashes of her mother had been sown.

With his breath caught, Lord Gerallt stared at the Rosemere for a long time.

“Does she…still love me?”

It nearly broke Deirdre’s heart to hear the sorrow in his voice. The anger she carried melted away.

“She does,” she lied. “Although even that fades now.”

Lord Gerallt looked about to weep, his gaze still fixed where the remains of his wife lay bequeathed. Deirdre felt his pain. Finally, he turned to his daughter and, with an encouraging smile that rang false, gripped her thin shoulders gently.

“You must see him,” he said quietly.

“Father, you know what he plans fo—”

“Dearest, please understand,” Lord Gerallt cut in. “The situation is perilous. Mochdrev Reach is on the edge of two kingdoms, in shadow, between the hammer of Caer Llion and the anvil of the Carn Cavall. Lord John Lewis Hugo merely wishes an audience today. It may mean nothing.”

“He’s not a lord at all,” Deirdre said darkly.

“No, he isn’t. He is an outworlder,” he replied. “But he is also wickedly smart and absolutely ruthless.”

“My wishes mean nothing then?”

“Ruling is a hardship unto itself, Deirdre. Sometimes it is harder to do what is best. You will loathe me for saying this, but
sometimes
that includes marrying into situations you may not like for the betterment of all.”

“I would rather fight and die,” she spat, her anger stoked anew.

Lord Gerallt frowned. “And you can speak for those innocents here, at Mochdrev Reach?”

“You rule them.”

“I do. I also must protect them from harm.”

“But not your daughter, apparently.”

Frustration reddened Lord Gerallt’s face. “You don’t mean that.”

Deirdre looked away and said nothing.

“It would be but a thought for that witch, the Cailleach, to extend her power here and reduce these crops to ash. Not only the Tuatha de Dannan in the Carn Cavall would suffer then. And know this: Philip Plantagenet would steal you away anyway. The Reach would lie in ruins like so many other principalities, and Caer Llion would rule our people. Only the war with the Tuatha de Dannan keeps Philip’s eyes from our direction. If you challenge that and bring attention to the Reach, he will use your refusal as a reason to put a garrison of his Red Crosses here. Everything you love would be gone. Do you not see that, Deirdre?”

“You would be a king before a father?” Deirdre asked pointedly.

“A good king must be,” he said. “No matter how much it pains him to say it.”

Despite the panic growing inside her, the hurt that Deirdre caused her father stabbed at her heart. This was not his doing. It didn’t matter though. She saw no way out of the situation that did not involve ruining either her life or those living in Mochdrev Reach.

“Regardless, Lord Hugo may not be seeking what rumors have brought here,” Lord Gerallt continued. “Out of respect for you, he asked to see you where you wish. I understand why you chose the Rosemere. This place…it has power for you. You came here as a little girl; you seek guidance here still. If there is a place in Mochdrev Reach that may protect you, this is it. Hopefully the respect he has shown bodes well. Or…”

“Or what, Father?”

“I would rather not think on it.”

Deirdre nodded, sadly understanding. So much depended on her. She knew it. She was Lord Gerallt’s oldest child. At twenty-three years old and unwilling to embrace the duties other women of the Reach preferred, she was unmarried—not because she wanted to be alone but because she had not met the right man. She preferred to spend her time in study, on the practice field with men twice her age, or tracking in the south plains.

It was a good life, one of her devising. Now that life was being drastically altered without her leave.

Just like when her mother died.

At that moment, a man dressed in black robes bearing the silver lion crest of Caer Llion strode into Merthyr Garden, two Templar Knights in white trailing him. Deirdre had not yet met John Lewis Hugo, but she knew him instantly. First advisor to Philip Plantagenet, the outworlder walked with a commanding arrogance that set Deirdre’s teeth on edge. The right side of his face was a ruined black mask, burned traumatically, melted like wax. People said it had happened while fighting one of the most powerful fey lords, when he and his High King had first entered Annwn centuries earlier.

Deirdre knew she hated him immediately.

With a word to his Red Crosses to remain behind, John Lewis Hugo approached like he had already won a great prize.

“Lord Gerallt, your garden is beautiful,” John Lewis Hugo greeted, smiling as best he could, the charred right side of his face making it difficult. “I trust you have had sufficient time to speak to your daughter?”

“I have, your lordship.”

“Thank you for the welcome. Your household is not lacking when it comes to pleasantries.” John Lewis Hugo bowed but he did so shallowly. He then turned his eye on Deirdre. “I would imagine that has a great deal to do with you, my lady. It has been far too long. You have grown into the beauty I knew you would.”

“We’ve met, my lord?” Deirdre asked, confused.

“When you were quite young,” John Lewis Hugo said. He turned to Lord Gerallt. “Please leave us. I will speak to Lady Deirdre alone.”

Lord Gerallt gave his daughter a quick warning look before leaving the garden, making his way back to the castle.

“You know the reason for my coming?” John Lewis Hugo asked.

“I do.”

John Lewis Hugo turned his gaze upon the Rosemere, hands behind his back. She didn’t like the way he looked at the resting place of her mother, a mixture of interest and irritation. It was a long time before he spoke.

“I understand you communicate with your mother here,” he said finally.

“I come to be near her sometimes, yes.”

“Then you don’t speak to her as we are speaking now?”

Deirdre tried to keep calm. Philip and his advisor had invaded Annwn with one intention: destroy the Tuatha de Dannan with sword and flame, and bring their one god to fill the void. To display interest in fey, magic, or anything associated with the Celtic religions of old would be a death penalty. That included speaking to witches long dead.

“Pay no mind,” he said simply, noticing her apprehension. “The High King may wish to see his father’s crusade fulfilled and his Templar Knights spread to all corners of Annwn, but I am far more pragmatic. How you choose to spend your time in worship is your affair. If that includes speaking to your mother here in this magical pool, so be it.”

Deirdre knew she could not trust him. Like a snake, he was capable of striking without a moment’s notice.

“Mochdrev Reach is a great city, an important castle,” John Lewis Hugo said, his eyes—one blue and the other milky white but alive—staring up at the tall towers. “Once, the Reach did not exist—this was just a lone hill with a single oak at its pinnacle lording over these lands. A battle found its way to the plains south of here, as they have everywhere in Annwn, elves against humans. These elves fought valiantly but were continuously pushed through the plains to these hills. Here they stood, through trickery. To create a diversion and save their people, two elven brothers lured the human army up a southern draw while their brethren fled. The brothers fought side by side at the top of this very hill, unyielding. They slew hundreds, alone, buying the time their nation needed, before a sea of cowardly arrows cut them down.

“It is said the hillside wept at their courage and sacrifice. This spring is the result of that day, their blood the origin of the ancient rose bush.”

“I know the history of my own people,” Deirdre said.

“You know your people killed those brothers then,” John Lewis Hugo said, turning toward her with a coldness she had not seen in another before. “Outright. And settled these hills to form the Reach?” He paused, the darkness suddenly gone. “We share a great deal in common, my lady. We both have fought the fey. We hail from the same shores. True, your ancestors were the first to Annwn, and settled here long before the High King and I arrived centuries ago. You are part of a proud history here in Annwn, and a member of a prouder family. It is the High King’s wish to meld our two peoples into one, uniting against the common enemy.”

There it was. Deirdre didn’t know what to say. John Lewis Hugo had worked in the marriage proposal so smoothly she hadn’t seen it coming.

“You mean marriage,” she said. “To drag us into war.”

John Lewis Hugo stood stoic. “You must consider that. Although I sincerely doubt the High King would bring his might against fellow kinsmen.”

“I simply do not understand why anyone must war with another.”

“It is in the very heart of man to wage war, Lady Deirdre,” John Lewis Hugo said. “It is unchangeable. While I do not care for the deities those of Annwn pray to, I do care about the overall outcome of Annwn’s future. That future has Caer Llion as the capital of the whole continent, with the High King’s Lord at its head.”

“He isn’t my Lord,” she pointed out.

“Indeed,” John Lewis Hugo said. “Your people fled the Misty Isles before the Christian God drove the gods of old from those shores. Still, it is time for the High King to marry, to have a family, to produce an heir. It is a great honor that he looks upon you with favor—and it would be folly for Mochdrev Reach to ignore him.”

The veiled threat shot dread directly into Deirdre’s heart.

“There are many more worthy women,” she countered. “Women who would be better matches for Philip Plantagenet.”

John Lewis Hugo smiled. “Do not be so quick to dismiss yourself, Lady Deirdre. There is a strength that shines within you like the summer sun. Redheads are powerful creatures, always have been. They command respect from men and women alike. It has ever been so with the Celtic people. Even the Tuatha de Dannan respect a redheaded human. That makes you unique.” The charred face came closer to her own. “Desirable even. To some.”

With his hot breath on her cheek, madness filled Deirdre. The High King’s advisor did not stop there. John Lewis Hugo traced a long, cool finger down the side of her cheek, his touch alien. The desire to flee, to fight, to do anything that removed the inappropriate caress overcame Deirdre, but she was rooted in place, unable to move. Panic set in. Deep in his eyes, madness flickered. He did not want her, not in a sexual way. He enjoyed making her fear; he enjoyed watching that fear manifest and seeing how she reacted to it. Deirdre understood immediately that John Lewis Hugo was far darker and more evil than anyone she had ever encountered.

Just when she thought she would break the spell and lash out, the High King’s advisor withdrew.

“Indeed, you
are
powerful,” he said smoothly as if nothing had happened. “In one month you will present yourself to the court at Caer Llion. Bring whatever retinue you deem fit for a queen of Annwn. I am pleased we understand one another and I hope to serve you further. I wish you a good day, Lady Deirdre.”

At that, John Lewis Hugo turned on his heels and left Merthyr Garden, the two Templar Knights following him back to the castle keep and likely returning to Caer Llion.

Trembling with wrath, Deirdre watched them go. It was as she had feared. Philip Plantagenet wished for a bride, and for reasons she could not fathom, he had chosen her. It would not happen. Not if she had her way. Deirdre had never met the High King, but if he was anything like John Lewis Hugo, she wanted no part of him.

The fire she had banked for her father’s benefit roared back to life, lending her strength. Deirdre needed advice from someone she could trust.

She needed ages of wisdom.

Deirdre stepped to the edge of the Rosemere, eyeing the ancient rose bush, and began to hum. It was a rich melody, one of the oldest, a call for the dead. She anchored herself to Annwn, drawing on its life as well as that within her. She grew weak, the life force she possessed being slowly drained to conduct the magic, but she stood resolute as she had so many times before.

Her request did not take long to be answered. The Merthyr Garden fell away. So too did the azure of the sky and the crimson of the rose blooms, the world reduced to shades of gray.

Instead the water of the Rosemere flickered and swirled, sluggish at first but picking up speed as it circled the dead tree at its center.

Then the world sunk in on itself, absorbing the light of the day and inversing it until a shape as dark as midnight hovered on the surface of the water. It stood proud as it rose into the air, a true form coalescing into a woman draped in folds of a black cloak, floating as though in a breeze. A cowl tried to hold red locks of long hair from a white chiseled countenance, but strands of it flitted wildly across her mien. It was a beautiful face, one Deirdre knew well. As she breathed in the odor of rotting mulch and darkness, the gray eyes of the shade peered at her.

—Child—

The voice was inside her head, spectral, the sweetness Deirdre remembered replaced by dryness. Even now, after so long, a part of her yearned to step forward into the pool and embrace the woman, but she held her ground, knowing the danger.

“I am here, Mother,” she said.

—You have the stink of corruption on your flesh—Deirdre didn’t know what her mother meant, then remembered John Lewis Hugo touching her cheek and felt revulsion all over again.

“Yes, I do.”

—You have been kept alive to enact great harm—

The shade’s emotionless voice penetrated deep into Deirdre.