The Dark Thorn (63 page)

“You realize, Bran Ardall, you have saved the world as we know it.”

With the boy standing behind him, Richard sat across from Cormac O’Connor, a large desk and a gulf of uncertainty between them. He stared out a large office window overlooking stormy Rome. It echoed the unsettling feeling he had inside. Sitting in a plush chair, he and Bran were alone with the Vicar, Finn Arne having left the room after reporting that the catacombs had been cleared of the remaining Templar Knights and the portal was secure once again.

Cormac had changed into clothing more suited to his station—red vestments with white trim, a red zucchetto upon his head, and a gold cross about his neck. The sword he had carried, Hrunting, lay with Durendal in the corner of the room, both cleaned of the blood staining their blades.

A gloomy dawn was only an hour away.

Somewhere below in chambers Richard could only guess at, Pope Clement XV lay in secluded peace. Very few knew of his death. In time it would be announced as a heart attack to the world and his burial wishes would be carried out.

A new Pope would then be selected.

A clock in the room ticked the seconds of silence away. Hungry and tired, Richard had accepted the invitation to the Cardinal Vicar’s office and brought Bran for two reasons only.

“Please, have some fruit and water,” Cormac offered, gesturing at a bowl of apples, bananas, and grapes and a glass pitcher. “You must thirst after what took place. It is the least I can do. Without you, both the Vatican and Annwn would have falle—”

“Stop with the pretenses, Cardinal Vicar,” Richard said bitingly.

The Cardinal Vicar stared hard at the knight.

Neither spoke, gauging one another.

“When has civility been frowned upon?” Cormac asked finally.

“When it is not sincere.”

Cormac did not flinch from the unabashed insolence. “Let us speak frankly, McAllister. You have ever been a thorn in the side of the Vigilo. It is beyond rational reasoning why Merle has chosen you to be the Heliwr. That said, there is no reason we cannot begin anew. It will take strength and friendship to see the coming days set right. Rossi is dead. Dozens of Swiss Guards are dead. The survivors will need to have their minds cleared of their memories to keep Annwn safe. And with the knowledge that even some fey have the might to challenge the separation of our worlds, it is more pressing than ever that we work together.” He paused. “Needless to say, you have no reason to fear our association.”

“The loss of Ennio is great,” Richard said. “The loss of your Pope is a hardship for you. Loss is nothing new to me though, Vicar. Loss is not foreign to Bran here either. You extend an olive branch. I have no desire for one.”

“Why did you agree to meet with me then, McAllister?”

“There are two reasons. The first, I keep my promises,” Richard answered. “You sent Finn Arne after young Ardall here, hoping to capture him at best, harm him at worst. I promised your captain upon meeting with him that I would bring Bran here with me after the death of Philip Plantagenet. That happened, so I am here to fulfill that oath.”

“Now, you wait one minute. I meant no harm to B—”

“There is more,” the knight interrupted. “I wanted him to meet you, to see your face, to know there are men in the world like you who use other people to their own selfish ends. Bran is now a portal knight. He has yet to fully understand the forces that move throughout this world. He now knows of you.”

“You just described your wizard,” Cormac said, face reddening.

“That may be truth. Bran now knows this too.”

“I have no aspirations but to keep the two worlds separate,” the Cardinal Vicar said. “The Vigilo maintains a valuable service. Sometimes it requires sacrifice and the best tools available. Sometimes those tools are people. I merely look for the best ways to keep the peace. Nothing more.”

“You are a liar,” Richard said. “I know you, Vicar. The rest of the Yn Saith know you. You are like Philip and Arawn. More will
never
, ever be enough.”

The ruddy face darkened further in anger.

Richard did not flinch.

“How
dare
you accuse
me
,” Cormac gnashed, the color of his face matching his robe. “I asked you here not to quibble about the lies and efforts of Philip but to extend my heartfelt gratitude and begin a relationship in these trying times. His Excellency lies in a cold room, murdered. My best friend and mentor already lies in his crypt, murdered. Countless Swiss Guards gave their life to stop Philip and his machinations. The Catholic Church and all who depend on her will soon be in deep mourning. Instead you throw that in my face? And question my motives?”

“You don’t deny it,” Richard snapped. “Who do you think
you are
?”

“I think you have not done the mathematics of the situation,
Heliwr
,” Cormac spat vehemently. “Even now, as we sit here speaking, the College of Cardinals is convening in the Sistine Chapel to begin the election process. The white smoke
will
blow for me. It is best for you to understand this precept: Do not be quick to make an enemy who wears so much authority upon his mantle.”

Richard sat forward. “Are you threatening me?”

“If that is what it takes for you to not make a mistake,” the Cardinal Vicar sneered before looking to Bran. “For one so
young
to not make a mistake.”

“Would you have me murdered?” Bran asked evenly.

Cormac folded his hands before him. “Ever hear the adage ‘One kills a man, he is a murderer; one kills millions, he is a conqueror; one kills everybody, he is a god?’ I have no doubt you have. For centuries the Vigilo has kept the world safe from those who would subvert it. It was given us by Saint Peter to ensure Christianity remained strong after his passing and spread to all hearts. Once a part of the Church, the knights are now a rogue element, given an agenda by a
wizard
of all people,” Cormac hissed. “You are part of the same hypocrisy.”

“You sound pleased the Pope is dead,” Richard said.

“Perhaps there is some truth to that,” Cormac admitted. “But I see His will be done.”

“He is nothing but a thug, Richard,” Bran said.

“As I said, you are young and insolent, fool!” the Vicar thundered. “How dare you question
me
! A whelp! A boy who has never seen the world and the evil within it. I know more secrets about this longest of wars than you could fathom! I should have you shackled for your disrespect!” Cormac paused, his ire lessening as a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I mean, after all, perhaps it was
you
who killed the Pope.”

Before he knew it, Richard was on his feet. The Dark Thorn materialized into his hands, its magic angrily diffusing the room. The Cardinal Vicar leaned back in his seat, a modicum of fear dampening the fire in his eyes.

“You are nothing to me, McAllister,” Cormac goaded as he stared hard at Bran. “You lost your ideals years ago when your wife died. The power that has been bestowed on both of you does not make you wise.”

“That may be,” Richard said. “But at least my soul is not stained.”

With contempt, the Cardinal shook his head.

“For now.”

“If I see you again—if you so much as send Finn Arne after me or Bran or the other Yn Saith—today will not be the last day you see me. And trust me, you don’t want to see me again.”

“Sounds to me like you are willing to bloody your hands by killing the innocent, as long as you believe it is done for your own rightness,” Cormac remarked.

Richard let the Dark Thorn vanish.

“I will do what I must.”

“As I’ve done ever since my family was murdered by heretics,” Cormac said, smiling without any hint of humor. “As pontiff I will ensure that same pain does not happen to another person. You and I are more alike than you even know. In time that will become as apparent to you as it already is to me.”

“Richard, we should go now,” Bran said.

Richard held his tongue. Cormac stared at him with stoicism. The Cardinal Vicar suddenly looked older, the venom gone out of him to reveal the black circles under his eyes and the sagging wrinkles of his cheeks. Richard realized the power Cormac wielded had worn him down, but some inner fire kept him driven.

“I pray you will change your ways,” Richard said simply. “Or we will cross paths again, and it will not be pretty for you if that happens.”

“His will be done, right?” Cormac said.

Knowing he had proved what he needed to for Bran and having nothing left to say to the Cardinal Vicar, Richard turned to the surprise of Cormac and strode from the room.

Bran followed.

Neither looked back.

“I buried Deirdre myself, over there,” Bran said, pointing.

Richard stood within the shadowy shelter of the Forest of Dean, looking over the dark carnage on the plains. The earth still smoked where charred dead halfbreeds rotted. The Tuatha de Dannan buried their own as well as the enemy, treating every corpse with respect and removing all steel so as to not poison the earth. Saethmoor worked alongside his smaller fey brethren, digging vast grave trenches with his talons. As Richard watched the hard work being done, the monumental loss of life and the reason for it burdened him.

He felt like he had failed to prevent the massacre.

Looking on the white granite bursting from the torn sod like shattered grave markers, Richard tried to understand what created men like Cormac O’Connor or Philip Plantagenet.

Snedeker sat on his shoulder, wings docilely fluttering. Richard was sad about Deirdre. She had died honorably, protecting Bran, and now she lay buried out beyond the battlefield where the plains had come to no harm—one sacrifice of many.

“You cared a great deal for her, didn’t you?” he asked.

Bran drew in a deep breath.

“As much as she did for you.”

Richard nodded. Bran had grown up during his short time in Annwn. The sadness written on him had gone deep into his soul. It would be a long time before Bran shuffled the sorrow off.

“Do you hate me for that?”

Bran shook his head but didn’t say anything.

“I saw Ennio Rossi die,” Richard said quietly. “He was young. Too young.”

“Do you feel that way about me?” Bran asked.

“I don’t,” Richard replied. “Not anymore. This has aged you, more than you yet know.”

Bran looked at the gauntlet where his left hand used to be. Richard knew what he was thinking. Change had come to both of them, change like the coming future. Even now the humid air that had suffocated their time in Annwn gave way to a cooling breeze washing in from the ocean. In the distance, dark clouds gathered, bearing with them the promise of unfettered electricity and rain Annwn had not seen naturally in centuries.

The coming storm matched the turmoil within both knights.

“It is time, Richard, young Ardall,” the Kreche informed, limping from the tent where the Seelie Court had gathered.

“I know,” Richard said. “What will
you
do now, my old friend?”

“I have never been built for politics,” the Kreche rumbled. “The Seelie Court has no need of my opinions. But I will remain here, in Annwn. The gateway to Rome is without a protector. I cannot fathom allowing a crossing of any kind.”

“I understand. Your origins make it so,” Richard said. “I hope you return to Seattle soon then.”

“I will return to my piers along the Sound when I can,” the Kreche grunted. He turned to Bran. “And Ardall?”

Bran peered into the dark eyes of the Kreche.

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said to you on the battlefield,” the Kreche said, giving him a short bow. “You are a great deal like your father.”

“Kreche?”

The monstrosity paused from limping toward the shimmering entrance of the gateway to take up his post, head down, barely turning.

“Yes?” the halfbreed said.

“Call me Bran.”

The dark behemoth grunted and continued on his way.

“We are wanted,” Richard said, patting Bran on the shoulder.

They walked to the colorful tent where the remaining lords of the Tuatha de Dannan convened for the third time in two weeks. The fighting had not reached the tent, leaving it unsoiled, but the wind from the coming storm ruffled its sides. Above them, in the canopy of the trees, dryads swung from branch to branch in the slowly swaying trees as they healed the Forest of Dean as best as they could from the lingering effects of the dragon fire.

Two hellyll warriors stood guard at the entrance. Both nodded in greeting as the two knights entered.

All eyes of the Seelie Court turned to them.

“Welcome, Knights Richard McAllister and Bran Ardall,” the Morrigan greeted from a high-backed chair a bit taller than the others occupied around it. Flowing silk had replaced her armor, her injured arm held carefully in her lap. Two fairies sat perched behind her again, awaiting any need she may have. The other lords nodded their welcome too, each bathed after the battle and in new clothing. Other than the Queen, the only other lord displaying any sign of injury was Lord n’Hagr, his brutish face pale, his left arm gone and bandaged above the elbow. Lord Latobius had also joined the Seelie Court, changed into his human form to sit within the confines of the tent.

With no hint of pain on her chiseled face, the Morrigan gestured with her other hand to a set of chairs set up near the table.

“We will not stay long, Queen,” Richard said, sitting down.

“Are you both well?”

Richard nodded. Bran sat down beside him.

“There is a change in the air,” the Queen began, her eyes scanning the lords. “In gratitude to the Heliwr and the efforts of Bran Ardall, the reign of Philip Plantagenet is finally at an end. Each and every one of you and your peoples surrendered life and blood for our freedom. There is power in that, a strengthening of the bonds of our Court that will stretch across the entirety of Annwn. And even now, as we sit here, the world reasserts its natural order once more, the first chills of a harsh winter long needed stirring within the bowels of stone and dirt and plant.”