The Dark Thorn (23 page)

Bran looked as surprised as Deirdre had felt two days earlier upon arriving.

“Arendig Fawr,” Deirdre introduced.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bran said.

“It’s the home of the Queen,” she said. “The city goes deep into the mountain and far above in the trees. Most of the conclaves are protected by natural formations in these mountains, like this. The Snowdon is filled with secrets, ones of which Caer Llion has no knowledge. Thousands live here, thousands who depend on the Morrigan to keep them safe.”

“There are so many here, so many fairy folk.”

“Tuatha de Dannan, Bran. Fey. Calling them fairy folk is a slight.”

“That’s right!” Snedeker said.

“What you see here is what Caer Llion would see destroyed—all of it,” Deirdre said, ignoring the fairy. “The buildings. The people. The very way of life the fey live. He has tried for centuries—and failed.”

“Maybe Philip can be stopped then,” Bran said mysteriously.

With Snedeker taking to the air, Deirdre slid off of Willowyn and did not answer. She hoped the lord of Caer Llion could be stopped too. The warriors who had rescued Richard and Bran faded into the populace. Belenus hurried off toward the gaping hole at the base of the cliff, leaving his stallion in the care of Connal and Kearney. The clurichauns guided the other Rhedewyr away like prattling mothers.

“Kegan, time is required to prepare quarters for our guest,” the Morrigan commanded, dismounting her own steed.

“With haste, my Queen,” Kegan said, bowing.

“Not too much, I hope.”

“Wait,” Bran shouted after the departing leader. “I want to see Richard.”

“In good time,” the Morrigan said.

Deirdre nodded to Bran. “You are truly safe now.”

“Thank you,” he said, dismounting.

“No. Thank Willowyn,” she said with a smile as she patted the Rhedewyr. “I must care for her. I am sure we will see one another soon.”

Bran stood there awkwardly, hands in pockets, just staring at Deirdre. He said nothing. She felt heat rise into her cheeks and grew uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Come, lad,” Kegan said, lightly grabbing Bran’s elbow. “Let us find a meal, ye and I, before ye fall in love.”

Deirdre watched the outworlder blush as well. Bran flashed her a smile; she returned it, though she didn’t like how it felt. She watched as Kegan guided Bran to a series of huts nearby where fires offered tantalizing aromas of what they cooked.

When they were gone, Deirdre turned to Snedeker, who also watched Bran disappear.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked pointedly.

“Nothing! Nothing!”

“You have been interested in that boy since we saved him,” she said. “Could barely take your eyes off of him. Why?”

“No reason,” the fairy said, wriggling in the air. “Never seen an outworlder is all.”

“Other than John Lewis Hugo?” Deirdre said. When Snedeker didn’t respond and just kept staring after Bran, she sighed. “I don’t know what you are up to but I don’t like it.”

“There is something magical about him.”

“Well, keep an eye on him if it makes you happy,” Deirdre growled in warning. “Just leave him be. He already doesn’t like you, I can tell.”

“I am an acquired taste, Red, you know that,” Snedeker snorted.

Deirdre strode away from the fairy, muttering below her breath. She had better things to do than argue with Snedeker. Leaving Willowyn momentarily with the guards at the entrance to the Cadarn, she traveled into the mountain toward the healing quarters, her eyes adjusting to the sudden gloom. She made her way upward, the stone steps worn from centuries of use, the walls chiseled smooth and carved with faintly glowing runes by great artisans. She would visit the knight and, if he looked to survive, gauge how best to proceed with her father.

Once gaining the healing quarters, she was directed to a lone room where the knight had been moved.

She was not prepared for what she saw.

The knight lay on a bed, naked, his clothing cut away and revealing the damage the demon wolves had done. It left a lump in her throat. Purpling bruises covered most of his body as if he had been pummeled by Fomorians, and tiny gashes of varying sizes littered his skin, a heady balm preventing them from bleeding. Two larger rents along his ribcage were bandaged, but they were already crimson. A waxy sheen of sweat coated his skin. He appeared to be dead if not for his shallow breathing and the attention he still received from the healers.

Belenus and his ancient aid looked up. The Morrigan stood at the back of the room, still wearing her armor and deep in thought.

“How is he?” Deirdre asked.

“McAllister may yet live,” Belenus said, his wizened face reflective. “Aerten has worked hard but the morning will tell. We have put him in a healing sleep. He has been gravely injured, and the halfbreeds that attacked him possess a venom that even now courses through his body. We have countered it the best we can with the life magic of the Tuatha de Dannan. He will heal quickly if it is meant to be, but that remains to be seen. It would help if he was whole of spirit, but we sense a deeper pain in his being that cannot be healed and which might become his undoing.”

“What do you mean?” the Queen asked.

“He has a wounded spirit,” Aerten said, shrugging. “It slowly kills him anyway.”

“I see,” the Morrigan said. “If his condition changes notify me.”

Belenus nodded as the Queen left the room.

Deirdre sat on the bed next to the knight. She had not gotten a good look at him during the battle, but what she saw intrigued her. He was a handsome man, she thought. The wavy black hair and pale skin. The length of his body and muscle tone. The chiseled cheekbones and strong jawline. Belenus was right though. There was even in slumber a darkness that pervaded his soul, one even she could sense. She found herself reaching out and brushing his clammy cheek with a gentle touch. His eyelids fluttered but did not open.

She sat there a few moments, staring at the knight, willing him to live.

Then she sat a few moments longer.

The void burned the man, its flames caustic memories, and he was lost.

The things he once remembered as arms throbbed pain, unresponsive and leaden. Dark fire licked his soul, unceasing. He was powerless to prevent it. Pairs of crimson eyes blinked at him, watching him, cruelty and demonic malevolence in their depths. More memories. Nothing made sense, the torture driving paranoia along his nerves like lightning.

He didn’t know who he was. He didn’t care.

He reviled himself, but he knew not why. He pushed the memories away. It didn’t matter. Within his being, angry hornets buzzed, filling him with hate. Heat bloomed inside, and he knew the demon eyes danced with glee, slavering their wickedness in all-consuming madness. Part of their essence entered him and he cried out. He knew he was sickened by the past. It no longer bothered him. It made up who he had become. Worms slipped through his dreams, eating their way out, and the place his heart had been was empty, the disease having started there.

He failed to remember why it began. Wailing punctuated the void, sorrow so raw it crushed him deeper into despair. He had cried that way once.

Then a song of growing things dulled the chaos, until a foreign sound intruded upon his suffering, out of place in his dismal world.

It was the sound of a fairy manically screaming.

Memories flooded back as if a dam broken. The fey. Seattle. Old World Tales. Merle. The sword Arondight. Elizabeth. Louis Glenallen. Annwn. John Lewis Hugo. Bran and Arrow Jack. The flood of demon wolves as it broke like a tidal wave upon him, rending claws and evil teeth ripping at his exposed flesh.

He broke the surface of clarity.

He was Richard McAllister, Knight of the Yn Saith.

He lived. And he hated himself for it.

Richard opened his eyes, blinking wildly to clear his sleep away, disoriented from the nightmares. It was night, the circular window across from him allowing moonlight to infiltrate the room. He lay in a soft bed, the covers pulled up to his chest. A hint of lavender mixed with earthy herbs he could not identify clung about him. He tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t; he then realized bandages bound his chest tightly.

“Let go of me, you prattstick!” the fairy yelled.

Richard found the reason for his awakening. Bran lay on a bed of his own, his fingers gripping the stick-like figure of a fairy. The fey creature struggled in the fast grip like an overly large dragonfly caught in a trap. Bran held on despite the fairy’s fit. For the first time, Richard wondered where he was, how long he had been asleep, and what had transpired since the attack at Dryvyd Wood.

“What were you doing, Snedeker?” Bran hissed.

“Nothing, tosser!” the fairy growled, squirming. “Release me!”

“It was up to no good, boy,” Richard muttered.

Bran sat up, clearly surprised. He maintained his hold on the fairy. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

“I’ll live,” Richard said, wincing from a flurry of pain as he sat up. “If barely.”

“You should lay back down. Rest.”

“Mother hen now too, eh?” Richard glowered. “Mind your business.”

The fairy had stopped fighting, realizing the struggle was futile or hoping the boy would grow lax for an escape. Bran held the creature up so Richard could see it.

“What was this thing doing?” the boy asked.

“Why ask me? Ask it.”

With his free hand, Bran pulled free the box he had tried to use in Dryvyd Wood before the demon wolves fell upon them. It was the size of a jeweler’s box. In the glow of the moon, an image of a silver knot on its wooden lid shimmered in the dark. Richard knew exactly what it was and what it heralded.

He cursed Merle all the more.

At the appearance of the box, Snedeker fought harder. “Get that thing away from me!” the fairy screamed. “I do not want it!”

“Have you opened it, boy?” Richard asked.

“No, I haven’t,” Bran replied. “Merle said to use it when I wanted protection.”

“Use what though? Do you even know?”

“I guess I just assumed—”

“Never assume,” Richard cut Bran off. “Not here. Ever.”

“No one does this to an Oakwell fairy!” Snedeker screamed. “When I am free, I will destroy you both with a word from the Lady of the Lake and the authority she has besto—”

“Shut up, fairy,” the knight growled. “Before I pull your wings off and really give you something to cry about.”

Snedeker quieted but continued to rail against his prison.

“I told you, Bran,” Richard admonished. “Don’t trust Merle.”

“Do
you
know what is in the box?”

“I do. And you should throw it away right now.”

Bran sat still, pondering what Richard said. The knight looked about the room. The walls seemed to be cut from the very rock of a mountain, but they were carved with elegant care, the lines simple and smooth. The furniture was built likewise and covered with colored silk. It was most certainly a conclave of the Tuatha de Dannan. The knight probed his body then, determining how much damage had been done. He seemed whole. The demon wolves had inflicted grave wounds on him, but he was still intact.

“Where are we?” Richard asked finally.

“Arendig Fawr, as of two days ago.”

“How?”

“The Morrigan and her fey saved us from John Lewis Hugo while you were passed out,” Bran explained, still looking at the box.

“Oh, just
open it
already,” Richard said. “It won’t harm you. Not yet, anyway.”

Bran gave Richard a quick look before doing as he suggested. Pressed into a lush bed of red silk, an acorn-like seed rested, tiny veins of silver streaking the wood. Even in the pale light Richard could see it. It was a beautiful object, but one the knight knew to be very dangerous. After a few moments, the silver of the seed pulsed with a ghost light like a slow heartbeat, one that did not make a sound.

“What is it?” Bran questioned, mesmerized.

“A very special seed,” Richard said. “And I bet that little bastard was trying to steal it.”

“I want nothing to do with that thing, tosserpig,” Snedeker spat. “Why in the fires of the Erlking would I want a stupid seed like that one? When I am free, you both will suff—”

“Why were you after this?!” Bran asked anew, shaking the fairy again.

“I just wanted to see it!” the fey screamed. “Not steal it!”

“Why did you want to see it?” the boy asked. “Tell me! Or so help me I’ll feed you to the closest dog I can find.”

“I will kill any flea-bitten mongrel you send at me, including you!”

Bran shook the fairy with more vehemence. Richard withheld a smile. The boy was as tough and vindictive as the streets could make him.

“It called to me!” the fairy whined at last.

“Called to you? When? Now?”

“Back in Dryvyd Wood, when you were trussed up with the Fomorian!” the fairy revealed finally. “It pulsed magic like none I have ever felt. I just wanted a peek, a peek I say!”

Bran frowned. “What does it mean, Richard?”

“Fairy, I never want to see you again,” Richard rumbled, ignoring the question. “If I do, the only thing flying will be your ash upon the wind. Got it?”