The Dark Thorn

Richard watched the lords of the Seelie Court take seats around the Cylch Table.

The Sarn Throne stood empty next to him, the Morrigan yet to arrive. Dozens of orbs chased away the shadows from the uppermost chamber of the Cadarn, the soft light illuminating colorful banners of the fey nations that hung from the rock ceiling. The cool air bore a hint of crushed lilac and earthy minerals. Foot-wide waterfalls trickled down hewn rock at four different places, the water vanishing below. Despite the care that had gone into creating such a beautiful room from solid rock—and the elegant curve of powerful runes carved into the walls to keep the concerns of Seelie Court secret—Richard failed to find any solace.

The memories John Lewis Hugo had invoked lingered.

And angered him.

Since walking Arendig Fawr and feeling stronger, Richard turned his thoughts to his capture. The advisor for Philip Plantagenet knew intimate chinks in the knight’s armor, had used them to compromise the faith Richard used to maintain Arondight. How John Lewis Hugo knew of Elizabeth the knight did not know, but it had neutralized his escape from the demon wolves.

Even now, Richard was unsure if he could call Arondight.

He closed his eyes briefly, and saw the dead vision of her.

Stares from the summoned lords prickled him back to reality. He met each with stern authority, hiding the turmoil within. He would not show weakness.

The lords were as different as the lands they warded, governed by petty bickering and centuries-long squabbles. Lord Eigion of the Merrow, his skin near translucent and neck gills pulsing faintly, continually fought Lord n’Hagr of the Buggane to keep the coastal ogre-like people of Caer Harlech from destroying the fish populations of the sea. Unapologetic for her nakedness, Horsemaster Aife stared hard at Lugh of the Long Hand—the defender of Arendig Fawr and bearer of the magical spear Areadbhar—for the occasional ill treatment of the Rhedewyr. Beside Lugh sat Mastersmith Govannon, his meaty hands folded on the table, an outcast living in the outskirts of the city. On the other side slumped Caswallawn, barely cognizant in his perpetual drunken stupor, as Lord Finnbhennach glowered over all, his broad frame mammoth even seated, his bullish horns gleaming where they erupted from black skin.

A bearded human and a woman sharing his fiery red hair and fierce eyes stood near the wall of the room. The Tuatha de Dannan gave them distrustful stares as well.

Six thrones, including the guest seat for Bran, remained empty—lords who had been killed, lords who had joined Philip.

And lords who chose to ignore the Morrigan.

Richard shifted in his seat, which sent a fresh burst of agony through his middle. The wounds were healing. Richard knew he still suffered internal bruising though. His healers assured him that too would fade with time, but Richard knew he had no time to give.

In calling the Seelie Court, the Morrigan had other intentions.

The Queen deemed Bran important to the meeting, inviting him to sit in with the Court. No matter how much Richard hated involving the boy, he could not ignore the wishes of the Morrigan anymore than he could order the Pope. That afternoon, he had learned more about the battle at Dryvyd Wood and his rescue as well as what else the boy had done while in Arendig Fawr. It was obvious the Queen of the Seelie Court saw something in Bran Richard did not.

Merle had as well. Giving the Paladr to Bran had begun indoctrination into a role the boy would not understand—until it was too late.

Richard remembered the day he had accepted Arondight…Springtime had finally arrived in Seattle. Richard sat on a bench in the Quad at the University of Washington in his first year of graduate studies, his shaggy hair midnight black and pale forearms absorbing the first sunshine of the year. Ancient cherry trees bloomed around him, breezes sending a pink petal storm upon the air, while gargoyles—weathered from decades of sitting on the oldest buildings of the school—stared down at him, some wearing gas masks marking the turbulent time of their creation. The day infused winter-heavy hearts with the giddy possibility of summer, and Richard was no different.

Sitting with legs crossed, he absorbed The Once and Future King.

“Interesting choice, nose in a book on this beautiful day.”

Richard dipped the novel and shielded his eyes to view an old man, his beard white and skin tanned to the depths of its wrinkles. Both hands in khaki pockets and his white collared shirt gleaming, he had a scholarly appeal, an empty pipe hanging from his mouth like an afterthought.

Richard liked him instantly.

“Is my book the interesting choice or choosing to read outside?” Richard asked.

“Both, I think.”

“It beats grading papers, that’s for sure.”

“May I?” the older man questioned, indicating the empty side of the bench.

Richard nodded and scooted over a bit.

“T.H. White,” the man observed as he sat, removing his pipe and holding it like a cherished thing. “A very good writer. Took many liberties with the lives of Arthur and Lancelot and the rest, though I suppose he had his reasons. Many other writers have done the same—Bede, Gildas, Nennius, Geoffrey of Monmoth, Wace, de Troyes, Mallory. Even Tennyson, Twain and Bradley. All have it right; all have it wrong.”

“I’ve read most of them, as part of my undergrad work,” Richard said, turning the book over and looking at the cover. “This is an infinitely easier read but just as engaging—maybe more so with its relevance to World War II.”

“So you prefer the easier trod path then?”

“Sometimes,” Richard admitted. “When it makes sense.”

“Did you graduate in four years?”

Richard peered closer at the old man. Icy blue eyes stared back, unflinching.

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude but who are you?”

“Four years? Five years? Longer?”

“Five,” Richard replied, perplexed but intrigued. “I was biochem for a while but my heart wasn’t in lab work. I finished with an English Literature degree.”

“Then you do not take the easier path when it matters?”

“No, I suppose I don’t. I could have graduated on time with a degree I would not have been happy with—and saved money and time just to do something I would have hated. I could have started a life, made money, had a family, and become prey of the system.” Richard paused, suddenly wondering why he was telling this stranger anything about his life. “Anyway, The Once and Future King is not as simple as it may appear; it’s a literary commentary on how mankind fails to bring about a government that does not take advantage of its people.”

“Ultimate power corrupts ultimately,” the man said. “No matter if it is totalitarian or socialist or democracies run by hierarchal laws—’might by right’ or ‘might for right’ or ‘right for right.’”

“Right,” Richard said, grinning. “You’ve read it then. Any merit in it? That mankind will never be truly free of tyranny unless it abolishes all government?”

“I believe quite strongly in what White had to say,” the bearded man said. “Sadly there are those in humanity who will never be satiated, who are moved by evil—from the vagabond to the leader of a country and all between. Mankind is flawed. No form of government can account for that. It offers belief in a utopia that is unattainable. Gotten to Lancelot’s portrayal yet?”

“Just,” Richard said. “He is…a very imperfect character. Nothing like the romantic ideal boys aspire to be and girls hope to marry. Desperate to prove himself. Angry and ugly to boot.”

“Yes, he was imperfect,” the white-haired man said, tamping fragrant tobacco into his pipe. “Of course, just another fabrication to suit the writer. Lancelot was anything but ugly. Interesting idea though. I enjoy subtexts very much.”

“Are you a professor here at the University?” Richard asked, closing the book.

“No, no, but that would be an honor, too,” the old man chuckled. “I sell ancient and rare books. Why don’t you come down to my bookstore tomorrow in Pioneer Square. It’s on First, near Yesler. There are a few items there I think you might be interested in.”

“I’ll try,” Richard said, knowing he would not go.

“Good day then, sir,” the man said, lighting his pipe. “Be sure to enjoy it. A nice day like today should be treasured, particularly in Seattle. See you tomorrow.”

The bookseller left, retreating beneath a rain of broken pink blossoms.

Richard shook his head and reopened the book.

The conversation with the old man lingered with Richard that night. The next day he bussed to the bookstore and made a choice that had changed his life forever.

That choice had now led him to Annwn.

Movement in the Cadarn tunnel caught his eye. Bran materialized from the darkness and entered the chamber, Kegan at his side and Arrow Jack an obsidian blur flying to the back of the empty seat next to Richard. He returned the earnest stare of Bran. Distrust from the argument stressed the air between them. Richard offered the empty guest seat next to him. Bran took it as the clurichaun sat next to Horsemaster Aife.

The Morrigan entered the room then, red silk swirling from her black gown, her pale angular face stern, exotic eyes hard as obsidian. The lords rose, all eyes on the Queen. Two fairies hovered above each of her bare shoulders, awaiting any orders she may give. She was tall, thin, and regal, each movement graceful as she gained the Sarn Throne, her stare fixed upon her supplicants around the table as the fairies first organized the wayward trails of crimson silk and then settled on the throne much like Arrow Jack had on the chair now occupied by Bran.

The odd menagerie of lords bowed to the Queen before returning to their seats.

The chamber doors closed with a silent whoosh of air.

“Greetings to you, Lords of the Seelie Court,” the Morrigan said, her voice firm and controlled. “I know some have traveled great distances in a short amount of time. It is not without purpose. You have been gathered to help address recent events that do not bode well for your peoples and the future of Annwn.”

“We are honored to return to Arendig Fawr, Queen,” n’Hagr baritoned, two canine teeth overlapping his upper lip like yellow daggers. “It has been too long.”

“As the four empty thrones note, some of our brethren have perished, embraced Philip’s rule, or neglected to answer my calling,” the Queen said. “Of the last, Lord Fafnir has sent no word and Lord Latobius declined the invitation out of care for an ill child.”

“Sick dragon, eh?” Lugh muttered. “Unappreciative traitor.”

“Lord Latobius has all to lose and nothing to gain,” Eigion argued.

“Latobius has not been a part of the Seelie Court for centuries,” Lugh countered, staring hard at the lithe merman. “He knows not what is given him so freely. The Nharth watch the trails; the blood of the Long Hand reject attack. Tal Ebolyon is kept safe by others. What does he give in return? Nothing. Let him rot. Lord Fafnir as well.”

“The Tuatha de Dannan are fractured,” Govannon said simply.

“What you all say is true,” the Morrigan interrupted. “But even the Snowdon will be unable to defend the upper conclaves of the coblynau and dragons—just as Arendig Fawr and those you lord over are safe. War is coming for us all. If we are to have any chance at surviving and ending the reign of the Usurper, we need them.”

“Need them for what?” Caswallawn slurred. “For centuries, no aid. Nothing. Did they help protect my lands, my people?” The drunk slammed his fist down on the table. “No! I agree with Lugh—traitors, both of them.”

“Lord Caswallawn, your rancor is on your breath,” the Queen quipped angrily. “Still your tongue. You dishonor my guests.”

Caswallawn fell silent under her icy gaze.

“Why have you gathered us, Queen?” Lord Finnbhennach asked.

“There are events transpiring none of us can ignore. That I cannot ignore,” the Morrigan replied, touching each person in the room with her eyes. “We have been at war now for eight centuries, longer if you consider our last days in the Misty Isles. Slowly we have lost our place in Annwn and every day we retreat further—retreat from what we are. Philip Plantagenet controls more than just land; he controls our very lives.

“Mastersmith Govannon is right,” she continued. “The Court is fractured, weakened. Every sunrise our enemy grows stronger and we remain unchanged, unable to form a cohesive battle against Caer Llion. In time, far sooner than later, our Court will be ferreted out, and when that happens, each of our peoples will die in succession.” She paused, her features cold and certain. “Unless we of the Seelie Court unite—and attack.”

“Under the Rhyfel Banner,” Lord Eigion said.

“Finally,” Caswallawn mumbled, sitting straighter.

“Pardon me, Queen, but is that not an impossibility?” the human man appealed, scratching his red beard. “I know I lack the experience the rest of you possess—being human without an immortal life has that disadvantage—but the Seelie Court has been undone for millennia. By your own admission we lack the might of Lords Fafnir and Latobius. Not to mention that of Lord Gwawl and others who flocked to Philip. How can the Seelie Court raise a banner of war without them?”

“The threat of Caer Llion grows, Lord Gerallt,” the Morrigan addressed the room. “You know this as well as I. Philip and John Lewis Hugo move new pieces upon the gwyddebwyll board, pieces never before seen. Lords once friends are gathering at Caer Llion, their might added to the Templar Knights for purposes not entirely clear. Lord Gerallt has the right of it though; this will not be the Seelie Court of old. Too many seats here are empty. We will therefore leverage the new pieces delivered to us, with hope of renewing the Seelie Court and countering the dark elements set in motion against us.”

“Queen, why did we not do this a decade ago? A century ago?” n’Hagr rumbled.

“Lord Finnbhennach,” the Morrigan gestured. “If you please.”

The horned man grabbed a canvas sack from behind his seat and withdrew a limp carcass as black as pitch. The dead creature was that of a lynx, tawny muscle beneath shiny fur—but all resemblance to the cat ended there. Where four paws should have been, large talons like those of a bird sprouted; instead of a whiskered feline face it had the head of an eagle, its beak sharp even in death. With a long wingspan of sable feathers dangling freely from its upper shoulder blades, Lord Finnbhennach tossed the halfbreed on the Cylch Table with disgust.

“Lords, take a long look,” the Morrigan requested.

“What is it?” Aife asked.

Lugh leaned forward. “Some aberration of nature?”

“Worse,” Richard said, breaking his silence. “Far worse.”

The table turned to the knight. He stared back, unperturbed by the attention.

“You have the right of it, Knight Richard McAllister,” the Queen said. “It is a new fey halfbreed, a cross between cliff eagles and highland cait sith.”

“Like small griffins?” Lord Gerallt said.

“Aye, griffins,” Lord Finnbhennach agreed. “With some dark art, Caer Llion has bred these foul creatures. Like rutting cats, they multiply at an astonishing rate. In the skies they are like swallows, blotting out even the noonday sky, deadly. I lost an entire herd of my best cattle to these.” The lord pounded the table with a massive fist in emphasis. “My best cattle! Meat and milk for some of you here. Nothing but strewn skeletons, picked clean.”

“I do not see the link between the halfbreed and Caer Llion,” Lord Eigion said, gesturing mildly with a webbed hand. “We know nothing at all.”

“We know Philip is involved,” Richard countered.

“How, knight?” the merrow asked.

Richard looked to the Morrigan who nodded back. “When Bran Ardall and I came through the portal into Dryvyd Wood, we were met by unwelcome company. The Usurper sent his advisor, witch, and houndmaster to capture us, but he also sent some kind of halfbreeds—part wolves, part human. You know how difficult it is for these types of creatures to mate naturally and survive—only a handful have ever done it. If Philip has managed to produce these demon wolves, this griffin is more than likely his as well.”

“I killed more than three dozen demon wolves freeing our guests,” the Queen admitted. “They did not die easily. They are unlike anything I have seen.”

“Then we should attack them now, end this threat,” Caswallawn maintained.

“There is more, Lord Caswallawn,” the Morrigan said.

“There is,” Lord Finnbhennach continued. “The Usurper is drawing all possible resources to Caer Llion—grain, fruit, weapons, men, other supplies. My scouts watch day and night, and every day there is more to fear.”

“The High King requested a marriage alliance with Mochdrev Reach, where my daughter Deirdre and I hail,” Lord Gerallt said. “Plantagenet is indeed drawing what might he can to Caer Llion. I can only assume it is to move against you all here.”

“Lord Gerallt and Lady Deirdre are here offering their support if we rally our own,” the Morrigan said, nodding to them. “There is goodness in human hearts yet.”

“Philip is planning something large,” Deirdre confirmed.

“What that something is, Lady Deirdre, we do not know,” the Morrigan added. “But if the lord of Caer Llion intends to escalate the assault on the Tuatha de Dannan, our survival might depend on gathering what remains of the Seelie Court and countering him as soon as possible.”

“Lord Fafnir and Lord Latobius will not support that,” Lugh said.

“Without their might, we risk annihilation,” the Queen agreed.

“If they did not heed the summons…?”

“They will,” the Morrigan said. “Sitting to my left is Richard McAllister, knight of the Dryvyd Wood gateway and friend to the Seelie Court. With him is Bran Ardall, the scion of Charles Ardall, the last Heliwr. They entered Annwn with the intent to discover who tried to kill young Ardall in his native city by an assassin cu sith, only to become prisoners of John Lewis Hugo. There is more to this than I can see, events that do not mesh with what we know to be true; our visitors are intertwined in this madness as we are and have just as much to lose.

“As already observed, both Lord Fafnir and Lord Latobius have chosen to disregard the summons I sent them,” the Morrigan continued. “It will take an actual visit from a source both of the wayward lords respect to realize the error of their dismissal; it will take a strong voice to persuade Lord Latobius and especially Lord Fafnir of our mutual enemy—to convince them to leave their mountaintop dens and mobilize for war.”

“Who will go then?” Govannon questioned. “If not you, my Queen.”

“I have chosen McAllister to do what I could not.”

The Lords of the Seelie Court looked at each other and at Richard. No one spoke.

“Will you do this thing I ask of you, knight?” the Queen asked.

Richard met her stern gaze. He had known the Morrigan planned to use him in some way, the request he attend the meeting nonnegotiable. What the Queen of the Tuatha de Dannan advocated made sense; Knights of the Seven held noble status among the Seelie Court and would be given opportunities others would not. No matter how much he wished to walk away from the madness, a part of his heart beat to maintain his knighthood and duty. He may have never met the lords in question—only read about them in ancient books Merle kept safe—but what he knew put him in a strong position. At the very least, the coblynau of Caer Glain would respect Arondight for its past.

If he succeeded, the prospect of gaining a favor from the Queen could not be ignored.

“I will do as you command, Queen.”

“And young Ardall?” she said, looking at the boy. “What of you?”

Richard beheld Bran. Uncertainty deadened the eyes of the boy. It was a choice Bran had to make on his own, one the knight would not influence.

“Home is not an option, is it?” Bran asked Richard.

“It is if you wish to put yourself at risk,” Richard replied quietly. “I may not want you intertwined with what lies in that box, but what Merle said in Seattle is true. Whoever wants you dead will try until it is done.”

Bran stared at the dead griffin on the table before looking to the daughter of Lord Gerallt. Richard did not like the look. The boy truly had gotten himself into more trouble than he’d be able to handle if he had become infatuated with the lady of Mochdrev Reach.

When Richard glanced at her, he was surprised to find Deirdre had eyes only for him.

“I go where Richard goes,” Bran said simply.

“I have every faith Richard and Ardall will return the two Lords of Snowdon to Arendig Fawr along with all the might of the coblynau and dragons,” the Morrigan submitted. “The Seelie Court will be strong once more. Lugh will accompany the knight and his charge on their journey, choosing six warriors from the Long Hand for protection and answering any battle preparation questions Lord Fafnir or Lord Latobius may have. Kegan and one of his sons will share responsibility for the Rhedewyr mounts needed for the trip.”

“See to it, Lord Lugh, the Rhedewyr are not ridden to their deaths,” Aife said with threatening scorn. “Sacrifice them to gain Tal Ebolyon like you did last year at Caer Vyrridin, and I will not be pleased.”

“I will ride them as I deem fit,” Lugh said coldly. “You command me not.”

“If it means regaining my kingdom all the quicker, then let nothing stand in our way—including how we ride the Rhedewyr,” Caswallawn growled. “They will live. This is war!”

“Revenge clouds your judgment, Lord Caswallawn, as does Govannon’s ale,” Aife said, flushing with ire.

Caswallawn stood, as did Lugh, lightning in their eyes.

“All Horsemaster Aife requests is to ride the Rhedewyr with care,” n’Hagr growled.

“What do you know of restraint when you fish the ocean dead, n’Hagr,” Lord Eigion spat, his gills flaring pink in anger.

The room erupted into chaos. Each lord other than Govannon and Kegan were screaming at one another, pointing fingers, gesturing wildly. Richard looked to the Queen for guidance but she sat impervious on her throne, watching the bickering with cold eyes. Beyond her taut, pale features sadness emanated, centuries of worry weighing down the long-lived fey woman.

It became obvious it would take more than the Snowdon lords to unite the Seelie Court.

“Listen to yourselves!” Bran thundered.

The chamber emptied of noise, all eyes turned to the boy.

“You face death and you yell at one another?!” Bran roared, eyes flashing.

“Speak not of what you do not know, lad,” Caswallawn said, loathing twisting his soured cheeks. “Son of Ardall or not, you know nothing of us, of our trials. I lost my kingdom, my people, and all that I am to one such as you. For centuries I have waited for the opportunity to strike back at the outworlders. Now is the time, and sacrifices must be made!”

“Easy for you to say, someone who has nothing to sacrifice!” Aife shouted.

“I know petty bickering when I hear it,” Bran shot back. “I may not know you but that much I know.”

“Then you know nothing,” Caswallawn snarled.

“I’m surprised you know anything, other than the bottom of a beer keg.”

The room went deathly still. Tension tightened about everyone like a noose. Richard placed a steadying hand on Bran’s forearm while shielding him from any possible harm.

“Insolent fool!” Caswallawn hissed. “How dare—”

“Sit down, Caswallawn,” the Morrigan roared, her fairies fluttering behind.

“Bran Ardall is right,” Richard said, his hard eyes warning Caswallawn away. “None of you have the right to demand anything from one another. What you face is far more dire than the seeds of these arguments.” Richard turned to Aife. “Horsemaster, the clurichaun and I will ensure the Rhedewyr are kept sound. Of that I promise.”

“You are going to pin all of our hopes on these outworlders?” Cawallawn spat.

“There will be much to sacrifice,” the Morrigan interceded. “From all of you. For you, Caswallawn, I demand patience. Not all outworlders are thieves of lives like Philip, just as not all drunks are wise.”

Color drained from Caswallawn and he sat down.

“And what of the other knights?” Govannon asked. “Are they able to help?”

Richard pursed his lips. “They cannot. I will speak to them once we finish here, to warn them of what is coming. They fulfill the role handed them, guarding the portals with their lives. To leave their post and come here would leave the portals undefended.”

“But you are here,” Lord Gerallt pointed out.

“The portal is guarded, by one more than a match for anything to come through it,” Richard said. “Bran Ardall can attest to that.”

“And of Myrddin Emrys?” Lord Eigion inquired.

“He is weak,” Caswallawn scoffed. “Powerless.”

“Of that, Caswallawn is correct,” Richard agreed. “The wizard is as he has been for centuries—unable to perform even the smallest aspect of his craft. If he attempted magic, he very well could lose control unleashing dire consequences for the world. He cannot help in this.”

Silence pervaded the chamber. The uneasy truce between the lords lingered.

“It is settled,” the Morrigan said, rising from the Sarn Throne with elegant resolve. “On the morrow, Lord Lugh will lead Richard McAllister into the Snowdon, to speak with Caer Glain and Tal Ebolyon. With the sun you will leave Arendig Fawr and return the Seelie Court to its former prominence. Caer Llion will feel the might of our resolve once more. Please gather what might remains in each of you; McAllister will not fail us, and the need to move quickly once he returns will be tantamount.”

The lords of the Seelie Court stood and bowed, an act Richard found more perfunctory than meaningful. The Queen stepped from her dais and strode through the opening double doors of the chamber, her fairy companions following on the air behind her. Lord Finnbhennach threw the dead griffin back into its bag, and with a polite nod of gleaming white bull horns to Richard, also left the room, his tall, heavily muscled frame only covered by a kilt. The other lords and the clurichaun followed, some casting approving glances at Richard and Bran, others ignoring them entirely. After a few minutes, Richard was alone with Bran and Arrow Jack.

“That was a brave thing you did,” Richard said.

“Not so sure about that,” Bran said. “Why did you keep using my last name?”

Richard stood, feeling tired. “The name Ardall holds much weight here. Your father is still greatly respected. Some of these lords, and in particular those we go to meet, will view you as an acquisition of power, one that can tip the scales in their favor against Philip. They see an Ardall and have hope.”

“But I’m not anyone. I’m not the Heliwr.”

“They have a perception, no matter the truth,” Richard said. “I hope it will be enough.”

“You used me then.”

“I’d say the Morrigan used you by your invitation,” Richard mused. “I am averting a larger threat, hoping to avert a larger war with a smaller one. If the Tuatha will unite to attack Philip, perhaps that will alter any possibility of Philip attacking through the portals, if that’s even his intent.”

“You are getting us involved in a way that might kill us.”

“Life changes our direction sometimes,” Richard breathed. “You could die walking down the stairs of the Cadarn. The future is not a sure thing—not in love or dreams or promises. Never forget that.”

Bran did not look convinced.

“Trust me,” Richard said. “I accepted the wishes of the Morrigan for a reason. It serves us and in the end will protect us in another problem we face.”

“What do you mean?”

“We will talk in the morning,” Richard answered. “I am tired.”

Bran muttered something unintelligible under his breath but didn’t give Richard another look. He walked through the chamber doors into the environs of the Cadarn, Arrow Jack flying after.

The tunnel swallowed them both, leaving the knight alone.

He sighed. The boy echoed a growing fear in the knight. Richard risked their lives even as he questioned his ability to control Arondight. Journeying into the reaches of Snowdon aided the Seelie Court but also diverted him from facing his inadequacy to call the power of his fabled blade as well as his uncertainty of knowing how to break into Caer Llion. He hoped the trip into the mountains would give time to overcome both problems.

Richard peered up at the numerous fey banners hanging from the ceiling, the orbs lighting their every color.

And never felt such sure darkness.





The foggy morning clung to Arendig Fawr like a hoarded blanket.

Richard stood outside of the Cadarn with Bran, the grogginess of early waking leaving him grouchy. Kegan had woken them but not returned, still visiting the Morrigan inside the mountain. Nearby, six black-haired warriors of the Long Hand ignored him as they prepared their Rhedewyr for the journey, the dark elvish hellyll lithe and powerful in white and gold armor, their slanted dark eyes stern above chiseled high cheekbones. The city slept, cradled in gray gloom, only a few risers mingling between the darkened buildings and peering at the gathering warriors with wary glances.

Arrow Jack sat perched on a tree growing from the rock cliff, watching all.

From the Awenau path, Deirdre led her mount and two other Rhedewyr out of the forest shadows, her fiery hair hidden by the cowl of an ashen cloak. While her steed held its head high, the accompanying horses plodded like decrepit old men.

“Are you coming?” Bran asked her.

“Good morn,” Deirdre said. “I am. And so is Willowyn, of course.”

“I know you wish to aid us, Lady,” Richard said. “But I do not remember the Queen asking you to be a part of our journey into the Snowdon.”

Deirdre stared hard at Richard, her green eyes flashing even as they punctured his soul. “My father, Lord Gerallt, wishes it,” she said. “If my people are to go to war with the Tuatha de Dannan against Caer Llion, I will express his wishes to Caer Glain and Tal Ebolyon. Mochdrev Reach will be represented.”

Richard sighed. She gave him a final pert smile before turning to Bran.

“This is Westryl,” she introduced. “Your Rhedewyr.”

“Mine?”

“You did not think we would be riding double again, did you?”

The boy flushed. Richard didn’t like the look he gave the girl. If Bran spent more time fawning over the redhead than focusing on survival, he may not make it back home.

“I guess I hadn’t considered it,” Bran said.

“Westryl is a bit spirited,” she said, flashing a smile and patting the horse. “But so are you, standing up to Caswallawn the way you did. Westryl will keep you safe just as I would.”

“I think I’ll manage.” Bran cupped the nose of Westryl, who stared at him with deep, sorrowful eyes. “Why so sad, Westryl?”

“Westryl lost his rider a few days ago, as did Lyrian here,” Deirdre said, introducing Richard to the second mount. “Both are Orphaned and having a hard time of it.”

“Their riders died rescuing us, Bran,” Richard added.

“They did,” Deirdre continued sadly. “Seven became orphaned in Dryvyd Wood alone, as Kearney explained to me. The Orphaned are a sad aspect of being at war with Caer Llion. They bond with a single rider and carry him or her until their end. When a rider dies, the Rhedewyr become stripped of identity and, wallowing in loss, usually die within two moons. Sometimes they bond with another, but more likely die from heartbreak.”

Richard patted Lyrian. The power in the massive Rhedewyr reverberated through the magnificent animal. The knight felt bad his freedom had come at such a high cost.

“You fit in better now,” Deirdre said, noting Bran’s new clothing.

The boy shifted uncomfortably, the new shirt, tunic, pants, and boots Kegan had supplied fitting loose beneath his cloak. If the lord of Caer Llion meant to recapture them, it would be more difficult if they blended in with the surrounding fey.

Out of the foggy woodland, Lugh materialized, leading two dozen more hellyll into the clearing. The defender of Arendig Fawr spoke low as he gestured south toward the plains and Dryvyd Wood, his warriors listening intently. The group separated into three equally sized groups then and faded into the ether, leaving their leader to walk toward Richard alone. He carried Areadbhar, his spear, its long-bladed burnished steel tip glowing like enflamed silver.

“What’s going on?” Richard asked.

“The Nharth have warned the Morrigan of an intruder,” Lugh said, standing solid alongside his spear. “I have dispatched the Long Hand to investigate.”

“What could it be?”

“It is probably a wayward Nordman or a lost banshee, but caution warrants care, especially after your rescue and journey to Arendig Fawr. Whatever it is, it will either be guided back to the plains or killed outright.”

Richard nodded to the dark elf as Kegan and his son Connal emerged from the Cadarn. The Morrigan, Lord Eigion, and Horsemaster Aife followed to stop at the open doorway, speaking in low tones.

“We are prepared to leave now, Knight McAllister,” Kegan said, hiking up a large bag on his back. “Best to leave before others wake.”

“We must make one stop first,” Richard said.

“Where are we going?” Bran asked.

“You’ll see.”

The knight and the boy traveled west out of Arendig Fawr, beyond the outlying homes of its denizens. Birds chirped, heralding the new day, while the fog began to burn off. It would be another hot day. Kegan, Deirdre, Lugh, and the hellyll warriors were left behind to complete the preparations. Soon they would be on their way to the dungeons of Caer Glain and Lord Fafnir, and there was much left to do.

“We go to Mastersmith Govannon,” the knight replied finally. “You cannot go into the heights of the Snowdon weaponless. From what I learned while speaking with the Morrigan, the Mastersmith will have something for you. He always does.”

Eagerness lit Bran’s face. Richard hoped the Queen wasn’t making a mistake.

After ten minutes of walking, smoke tickled his nose. They moved out of the forest into a meadow where the only stone building Richard had seen in Arendig Fawr sat backed up against the cliff, the structure made of finely cut gray-black stone blocks in the shape of a castle turret that seemed to absorb the sunlight. A massive chimney sprouted from its side where pungent smoke exhaled, and at its back, rivulets of water ran down the rock wall directly into the building’s interior.

Fiery light flickered through narrow windows, angry eyes watching.

“What is that stench?” Bran asked.

“Smithing is not a clean art,” Richard said. “The reason Govannon is way out here, on the outskirts of Arendig Fawr.”

Richard entered the building, Bran a step behind. The thick odor of hard work and fermented sweet beer swallowed them. Eyes adjusting to the gloom, the knight saw he was in a large armory filled to bursting. Weapons hung from walls and crammed entire corners—swords of all shapes and sizes, battle and pole-arm axes, spears of varying lengths and design. A table showcased hundreds of daggers and longer knives while beneath shields—some round, others as tall as a man—were stacked neatly. Various pieces of armor dangled from the ceiling and littered any available space, vacant steel clothing waiting to be filled.

There was enough smithy work to outfit an army.

In another corner a distillery sat, surrounded by closed barrels.

From the fire-soaked shadows of the rear, the forceful pounding of a hammer meeting steel and anvil pierced his ears, steady and rhythmic.

“Govannon!” Richard yelled. “Mastersmith!”

The fall of the hammer ended, it’s last strike ringing throughout the room.

“Chyneuwch!“ a deep voice rumbled from the darkness.

Faint marble-sized orbs of milky light came into being, hovering just below the ceiling, growing stronger until they illuminated the entire armory and highlighted the swirling rune work on each artfully crafted item.

“Well met, Richard McAllister of the Yn Saith, well met,” the burly shadow welcomed as he navigated the mess of his making. “And the scion of Ardall. Greetings to you as well this morn.”

As the man came into the light, Richard got a good look at the fey smith in his natural environment. He was the largest man the knight had seen. Wiping grime-stained hands on a towel at his waist, the Mastersmith had massive shoulders and arms to apply his trade, balanced out by a huge paunch and thick, tree trunk-like legs. Blue eyes glittered beneath craggy eyebrows, his skin flushed with heat, black hair pulled back beyond a thickly bearded face.

“How fare you, Govannon?” Richard asked.

“The fire is neverending, my friend,” Govannon said with a grin. “It calls and demands like the Dryads of old. What do I owe this visit?”

“My companion. He requires a weapon.”

“I see.”

“You are quite talented,” Bran said, looking around.

“Like many things in life, what calls to a person is what is meant,” Govannon replied. “I don’t command talent as much as it commands me.”

“I can’t believe all of this exists,” Bran admitted. “It’s like I’m in a dream.”

“No dream, of course,” the smithy bellowed a laugh, winking at Richard. “I remember when I first arrived here in Annwn, I too could hardly believe it. Belief can be a tricky thing. Do you know there are men and women here—people who were born here and know no different—who don’t believe in your world?”

“People tend to not believe what they can’t see,” Richard stated.

“Good your sense of wonder is strong then.”

“A hidden world is one thing though,” Bran said. “Dragons, goblins, fairies, elves, leprechauns, witches—these are tales where we come from.”

“Oh, they are real, Bran Ardall,” Govannon said. “Dragons are in the heights of Snowdon. Goblins exist but are rarely seen during the day. Witches of varying skill are on street corners in every major city. So are leprechauns.” He paused. “As for elves, another story. Few exist. The dark hellyll remain but their elven brothers and sisters left Annwn centuries ago with their sylvan counterparts. Who knows if they yet live. Now we work hard without them, to maintain the wonder of the world. One day, it will need us again, with or without the elves, in Annwn or in the Old World.”

“That’s a bold endeavor,” Richard said. “Mankind…it destroys what it doesn’t understand.”

“Aye. ‘Tis the reason I drink as much as I do,” Govannon laughed.

“Philip Plantagenet is not drink-worthy,” Richard muttered.

“Not of my ale, anyway.”

As the mood grew somber, falling armor from the rear of the shop sent adrenaline rushing through Richard like lightning, Arondight an electric call on his fingertips. The Mastersmith put a restraining hand up and shook his head. Almost in response, a shadow stirred where Govannon had been working, wobbly, tall, and thin.

“Smith!” it slurred loudly. “Beer!”

“Help yourself, Caswallawn,” Govannon ordered. “I will not do it for you.”

The drunk lord from the Seelie Court stumbled into view. Bleary bloodshot eyes stared at Richard and Bran from a middle-aged face thick with stubble and wear, a sour frown deepening an already pinched mouth. An empty wood mug swung from a lax hand.

The light of the orbs shifted about Caswallawn—and his left arm and leg disappeared.

Richard blinked, unsure of what he wasn’t seeing.

Before he could say anything, the drunk-soaked eyes of the lord focused on him and his features twisted in a snarl.

“Your company worsens, Mastersmith,” Caswallawn spoke vehemently.

“It was not much to begin with,” Bran replied, smirking.

“Outlander filth,” the lord spat before filling his mug from one of the barrels nearby and wobbly returning to the building’s rear.

“Ignore him. I do,” Govannon said. “Caswallawn was the lord of Gwynedd, a province in northern Annwn, before Philip razed it to the ground, murdered his family, stole his land, and began using it to launch campaigns against us here in the mountains. He hates Philip and the world he came from. That much you saw yesterday. He is not the only one who hates your world, mind you. Now he is no better than a leprechaun, never leaving Arendig Fawr and unable to put his past to rest.”

“He hates us by association?” Bran asked. “That hardly seems fair.”

“Fair has nothing to do with it, Bran Ardall,” Govannon pointed out. “I allow him his petty drinking, here, far away from Arendig Fawr—far away from the Morrigan. She is a hard woman and does not take too kindly to his form of debauchery.”

“What is happening to his body?” Richard asked.

Confusion crossed Govannon’s face until he grinned. “Oh. That. He possesses Gwenn, an invisibility cloak, one of only two known to still exist. The ability to create such cloth has been lost to the ages. Gwenn is all he has left, and it is the only reason the Morrigan tolerates his behavior, I think.” The smith took a step back. “Now, care to look around and see what might appeal to you, young Ardall?”

Bran walked through several rows of glimmering artifacts. “See anything you like?” Govannon asked after Bran had walked the entirety of the room.

“To be honest, nothing. It is all wonderful work but nothing catches my eye.”

“That is odd,” Govannon said, frowning.

“What do you mean?” Richard asked.

The Mastersmith shrugged. “My creations always call to their eventual bearer, and everyone who visits leaves with something—even if it is only gauntlets, boots, or a ladle for soup. It is a magic of mine, to find what is necessary for those who need it.”

“Maybe it is because I am from the Old World.”

“No, that is not it. How do you think Richard McAllister received Arondight?”

“You gave that to him?” Bran questioned.

“Indirectly,” Govannon said. “I crafted Arondight. It has been passed for centuries to those who would protect the world and its people with honor and vision. It always finds a master. The knight Richard McAllister is merely the newest to use it toward its intended end.” He stepped to Bran. “Do not fear me.”

Bran stood still as Govannon gripped his forearm, his thick fingers like cords of steel, and closed his eyes for a moment before they reopened just as quickly.

“You are right. There is nothing for you here.”

“What does that mean?” Richard asked, puzzled.

“I do not know,” Govannon said. He looked Bran up and down as if gauging him. “It is like he is already armed. Perhaps it is a weapon I have yet to create. Interesting.”

“Can he not take something to protect himself at least?”

“He cannot,” Govannon said. “Every item here is meant for someone. They just have not visited me yet.”

Richard nodded politely to the Mastersmith. He had a sneaking suspicion the inability of Bran choosing a weapon had nothing to do with Govannon having not created the correct item.

Not at all.

“Thank you for your time, Master Govannon,” Richard said. “I hope we meet next time under better circumstances.”

“You too, Knight McAllister. Come back when you return from Caer Glain and Tal Ebolyon. Perhaps I will have something for young Ardall then.”

“Thank you,” Bran said.

Govannon smiled. “My door is always open.”

Richard watched the broad-shouldered smith return to his work and fade into the shadows where Caswallawn drank alone. As the cool mountain air met Richard again, the whoosh of bellows pumping with authority chased after.

The hate in the eyes of Caswallawn went with him.

With two Long Hand scouts leading the way, Richard, Bran, and the others left the safe haven of Arendig Fawr for the heights above.

The sun peeked through the fog, burning it away and coloring the world once more. Arrow Jack flew ahead, a fleeting shadow in the murk. Lyrian carried the knight forward, trudging after the hellyll warriors, rocking comfortably back and forth like a ship in calm seas. Bran rode Westryl next to Deirdre’s Willowyn. Lugh, his angular face stern and eyes taking in every nuance of the day, rode his massive black battle roan, its scarred flanks testament to its battles. Kegan and Connal came last.

In minutes the group traveled a steep trail overlooking Arendig Fawr, the fey city growing tinier as they climbed.

It soon vanished altogether.

Deirdre dropped back, bringing her Rhedewyr next to Lyrian. Bran watched her go, his mien darkening when he saw where she stopped.

Richard refrained from throttling the boy for his jealousy.

“How do you feel, Knight McAllister?” the redhead asked, her eyes shining emerald as they boldly sought his own. “The wounds Caer Llion delivered you were quite grievous. I cannot believe you are already upon your feet, let alone riding.”

“I heal,” he said simply. “It is enough.”

“My father is pleased you agreed to the Queen’s charge. He believes it bodes well on the destruction of Caer Llion. So do I.”

“I think your father puts too much faith in me.”

“You are a knight. I have faith in you as well.”

“I also think your father sent you because you are delusional and he needed a break from the madness.”

She laughed, clear and pleasant. “That may be, Knight McAllister.”

“My name is Rick. I’m not much on formality.”

“Rick,” she said, testing it with a smile.

“Where is your fairy?”

“Oh, him,” Deirdre said, darkening a bit. “Snedeker told me what transpired the other night. I thought it best he not travel with us. No reason for you to worry. He is truly harmless. And as a loyal friend, I would rather his ashes not become part of the winds, or whatever it was you said to him.”

Richard grunted. Deirdre grinned and didn’t look away. The knight began to feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny. She was beautiful, the light smattering of freckles around her nose accentuating the smoothness of her pale skin. Her eyes shared a vast intelligence, and she sat her Rhedewyr with practiced, lithe sensuality and grace. Beneath her physical loveliness, a power resided, a power Richard could not define but one that gave her maturity beyond her years.

If he were a different man in another life, he would have been attracted to her.

Those days were long behind him though.

The day passed uneventfully as the sunshine finally cut through the fog to reveal the blue sky. Birdsong and wildlife returned despite the burnt aspect of the forest, the power of the Cailleach everywhere. The trees loosened their hold on the mountain slopes as they climbed, and more small waterfalls tumbled to a much larger river that could be periodically seen slicing through the expanding valley below. Richard had not realized how far they had ascended to reach Arendig Fawr; he could almost reach out and touch the peaks of the Snowdon above, where patches of glacial snow fought the witch’s unnatural summer. In those upper reaches, the coblynau and dragons waited.

After a quick stop to take lunch and water the horses, the group continued on. The afternoon waned toward evening and still they climbed, the peaks purpling as the sun vanished in the golden, cloudless west. Exposed granite outcroppings shattered the mountainsides and long-needled blue pine grew around them, their odor sweet on the faint breeze even as they thinned from the altitude. The view became expansive, dizzying in its scope, as Richard viewed broken peaks all around them, the faint ribbon of the river still meandering far below and cutting off the forest they had ridden through from the other side of the vast valley.

As shadows lengthened toward evening and the rhythm of Lyrian drowsily lulled the knight, a splitting avian scream ripped through the stillness.

Arrow Jack.

The bird sat in a tree at the turn in the trail, wings flapping madly. Screams of surprise from Richard’s companions quickly followed as a shadowy wraith fell from the side of the mountain above, blotting out the sky like a thundercloud before landing in the midst of the company, separating Lugh and Richard from the rest of the group.

The shadowy creature turned burning eyes on Bran.

“Bodach!” Lugh roared. “Unseelie!”

“Get away, Bran!” Richard shouted.

Richard kept his seat as Lyrian reared in panic, whinnying loudly. Bran was not so lucky. He tumbled off Westryl and hit the packed dirt hard. Richard fought to get passed Lugh, who took up much of the path, but he couldn’t get there.

Bran would die quickly.

Thankfully Westryl lashed out with his hooves at the beast, the horse keeping between the creature and Bran. Prevented from its quarry, the creature turned its flaming gaze on Richard, its stare terrifying with maddened intelligence. Magic filled his soul and Arondight entered his hand without problem, the sword casting azure light about the trail and highlighting their attacker. It had the shape of hyena but was much larger, six legs ending in clawed paws trampling the earth. A long snout lined with teeth snapped at Lyrian and the Long Hand that charged it. As the creature spun, striking at the warriors, Richard realized he could see through it as if it were made of smoke. But from within its outline bones, chunks of elvish armor, and even weapons glimmered in what daylight was left, as if it had absorbed all remnants of earlier prey.

Revulsion swept through Richard.

It was an Unseelie creature, one that had eaten the hellyll Lugh had sent out that morning.

Bran scrambled back toward the clurichauns even as Lugh charged his battle mount forward, the horse forcing his way past the beast to defend Westryl. Areadbhar a lightning bolt of silver, Lugh jabbed at their attacker, snarling battle madness.

The bodach shied away from the spear, quicker than Lugh, hissing hatred. Caught between the hellyll leader and the slashing swords of the Long Hand, the bodach ignored the manic horses and pounced onto the two closest hellyll like a cat. The warriors sent their weapons into the creature but to no effect; they might as well have been fighting air. They screamed as its claws punctured their armor and flesh beneath, ripping through steel and bone alike.

In seconds their lifeless, ravaged bodies hit the trail.

Bolstered through his pain by adrenaline, Richard spurred Lyrian into the melee; he held Arondight high, blue fire angrily running its length. The bodach shrunk from him as it dodged his first lunge, its crimson eyes narrowed. He thrust again, sending the fiery steel toward the broad chest of the beast as Lugh, enraged, thrust his spear at its hindquarters. The bodach dodged Arondight but did not gain safety from the triangular point of the spear; Areadbhar penetrated the smoky innards of the creature’s thigh.

Bright golden fire coalesced there—so bright that Richard shielded his eyes. An inhuman howl of pain punctuated the trailside as the bodach wrenched away.

“Release, Lugh!” Richard roared.

“Hai, Grayth!” the lord yelled at his mount, ignoring the knight.

As Lugh tried to joust the beast over the edge of the trail, the bodach danced away from Richard. It gripped the shaft of the spear with two forefeet and, pulling it free, lifted Lugh clear of his Rhedewyr and sent him hurtling through the air to crash against the bare granite of the mountainside.

Lugh crumpled to the trail like an empty sack.

The bodach wasted no time. It scuttled toward the dazed lord like a spider. Before it could reach Lugh, Willowyn barreled into its side, slamming it away, as Deirdre slashed with her sword, the steel a blur, her hair as wild as her actions.

“Ayrith! Ayrith!” the redhead screamed.

The bodach buckled before the surprise assault, gathering itself in a dark mass, looking for an angle to attack her.

“Get out of the way, Deirdre!” Richard bellowed.

Too late, the bodach swiped at Willowyn, its claws like daggers. The Rhedewyr screamed in pain and stumbled backward, the side of her neck slashed to bleeding flesh. Deirdre somehow kept her seat, her sword flailing in impotence as she held on.

Eyes raging fire, the bodach bunched to strike at Deirdre.

“No! Richard!” Bran roared, completely unable to help. Finally given a clear path, Richard sent azure fire hurtling at the Unseelie beast. The power radiated from his being, to do what was right in the face of grave evil. The fire struck the beast and sent it pinwheeling through the air. With the blue flames licking its smoky outline, it moved like a tiger toward Richard, fixated on its last remaining enemy with true power at his command. The knight sent his magic into the creature again, to slow it, but the bodach was ready this time, leaping aside with ease.

It came on.

Realizing he was too far away for a killing blow, Richard charged Lyrian. He pummeled the creature with bursts of his will, keeping it pinned away from the others, unwilling to let it gain another advantage. The bodach fought the fire, the charred odor of burning garbage thick on the air. Richard was aware of Kegan and Connal pulling Bran away from the fight as the remaining hellyll helped the knight corner the creature against the rock bluff, trying to find openings, jabbing with their swords.

With their aid, Richard pressed forward, inching closer to the creature to strike.

Before he got close enough to deliver a killing stroke, the thing leapt backward from the fire suddenly and, scrambling up the jagged granite, disappeared into the night with bits of flickering flame still burning its body.

“Where did it go?” Bran breathed.

No one replied. All eyes probed the Snowdon, searching. Connal calmed the horses while Kegan looked at the wounds Willowyn had sustained. Lugh fought to rise, his movements drunken. No sounds other than the snorting Rhedewyr and the heavy breathing of the Long Hand surrounded them.

Long moments passed. Nothing happened.

“Is it gone?” Kegan hissed.

Richard gripped Arondight tightly. “I don’t think so.”

The shadow dropped again—this time down the trail behind the clurichauns.

As the others rushed to aid them, Kegan jumped in front of his son, a long silver knife freed and a whip in his other hand. The bodach pounced. Even striking it with the whip, the monster flung Kegan aside like he was a puppet.

Ignoring Connal, the bodach came at Bran again.

The bodach struck the boy from behind, sending him to the ground. Warding himself from the creature with his arms raised, Bran roared defiance. It did not matter. The beast rose up, eyes flaming and a snout filled with teeth leering over him.

“Finalleeee,” the bodach snarled venomously.

It reared up, its claws extended and glinting. It was happening all too quickly. Richard could do nothing but watch. The digesting dead in the opaque body were clear to the knight, stark in relief and reality.

Bran would become a part of it; Richard had failed.

Just as the claws fell, a blur of silver screamed in front of the creature’s face.

The bodach swatted with both forelegs at the apparition but could not connect. With a flurry of flashing wings and chittering screams, it kept between the creature and Bran, blinding it from its prey.

“Snedeker!” Deirdre cried in surprise.

Gossamer wings a blur, zipping around so quickly Richard could barely distinguish it, the fairy flung dust at the bodach. The silver grit landed on the creature’s face and the fiery eyes dimmed. The beast shook its head back and forth, trying to dislodge whatever had been thrown upon it, snarls of anger now replaced by snorting and hissing.

“Run, you doltish idiot, run!” the fairy shouted at Bran.

As Bran gained his feet, one massive ghost paw swatted the unaware fairy.

Snedeker disappeared into the night like an insignificant insect.

It was enough. As the bodach bunched to attack Bran, Connal was there, the clurichaun swinging his war hammer broadly, his face livid. He gave no ground. The head of the hammer passed through the bodach as if it were smoke, the creature laughing with dark glee. It ignored the ineffective attack. In one swift motion it lifted Connal from the trail. The hammer dropped from his fingers and he yelled out in pain as the shadowy beast squeezed.

The flaming eyes sparked—and then tore the clurichaun apart at the waist.

“No!” Kegan roared.

The halves of Connal flew apart in a crimson mist, the clurichaun dead before he hit the ground.

Inhuman laughter ricocheted off the cliff.

Ignoring his growing weakness, Richard drove Lyrian straight toward the bodach. Not expecting the attack, the Unseelie creature had nowhere to go. Blue flames lit the night as Richard brought Arondight down in a raging arc. The bodach tried to evade it but was too slow; the sword cleaved one of its legs. The howl of the beast deafened the air. As it shrunk into an inky mass, it retreated toward the only area it could—the cliff edge and the open air beyond.

With as much will as he could muster, Richard sent his power into its chest. Fire exploded, a torrent of magic. The bodach fought for a moment, still cradling its lost leg, before the flames sent it flying off the cliff into the black abyss below.

All went still.

Arondight dissolving, Richard nearly blacked out atop Lyrian; he managed to remain horsed, if barely. Silence fell over the Snowdon. Deirdre aided Lugh. The remaining warriors of the Long Hand helped her as well and looked after their dead.

Kegan cradled the remains of Connal, weeping audibly.

“What was that thing?” Bran breathed.

“Part shadow, a death machine given life,” Richard mustered, wiping his sweaty brow and gulping the mountain air. “It is a pure hunter, one of the Unseelie Court. Given a scent, it will never stop…never stop until its prey is dead.”

“Whose scent did it have?”

“Yours, of course,” Richard snapped.

“Why me? How?”

“It could have been anything.” Richard shook his head. “Your coat. Some scrap of torn clothing. There are few bodachs left, those who exist are imprisoned and only released as assassins. Someone wants you dead—badly.”

“Did you kill it?”

“No,” Richard said, dismounting and barely keeping his feet. “But it will be gone for a few days.”

“How can that be? It can’t be more than a few hours behind us.”

“It landed on the other side of the river,” Richard said, pointing over the edge toward the ravine. “Bodachs can’t tolerate water. It will have to find some kind of bridge or fallen tree to cross for it to begin its pursuit again. That should take several days, unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless we are very unlucky.”

The knight turned to Kegan. The clurichaun sat with what remained of Connal in his arms, the tears cascading down into his beard. Richard didn’t know what to say.

Such grief had left him long ago.

“We will bury him here, my son. My son, my son,” he repeated in a whisper as he rocked back and forth.

With Snedeker returning, Willowyn, Lyrian, and the rest of the Rhedewyr surrounded Kegan and Connal. All of the horses lowered their heads, eyes closed.

Richard watched the homage to the horse caretakers.

It would be a long night of sorrow.