The Dark Thorn

by Shawn Speakman

  Behind him, Al clutched at his abdomen as he lay in the middle of the passage; yards away, Walker rocked back and forth, his arms crossed over his chest, reduced to the timidity of a four-year-old.

  “Dat ting,” Al whispered as Richard knelt. “What was—”

  “It was nothing,” Richard answered, peeling back the black man’s clothing to view the bloodied shreds of flesh. The cat had sliced him to his ribs but he would live. “That was a brave thing you did, Al,” Richard acknowledged. “I won’t forget it.”

  “I won’t evah,” Al said through clenched teeth, beads of sweat gathering on his brow.

  “Walker, get over here,” Richard ordered.

  The drug user’s eyes refocused suddenly, and with palpable uncertainty he also knelt next to Al, never deviating his gaze from Richard. He kept hugging himself. “What are yeh, Rick?”

  “I’m your friend,” Richard said sadly.

  Before Al or Walker could say anything more, Richard grabbed their wrists.

  Both of the men’s faces slackened; their anguish and dread became Richard’s. He went deep into their minds, where their memory existed. He reduced the last half hour to an alleyway knife fight with drug dealers, ordered Walker to help Al find the nearest police officer for medical attention, and demanded they never enter the underground world of Old Seattle again.

  He watched the destitute men slowly leave, Al on his drug-addicted friend’s shoulder, their horrific night erased and their eyes glazed as though they had just been hypnotized.

  Richard wished he could be more like them.

  With dawn lighting overcast skies and his arm throbbing feverishly, Richard unlocked the door to Old World Tales and entered the bookstore on silent, uninvited feet.

  No alarms screamed, no warnings sounded. Instead the old-fashioned bell tinkled in welcome as he closed the door. Richard adjusted to the dark; the store had not changed in his absence. Two windows displayed antique volumes, their wares cloaked behind sable blinds during closed hours. On the right, a counter supported the register; to his left, plush chairs surrounded a table bearing a chessboard. Rows of oak shelves vanished to the rear of the store, holding thousands of books. At the back of the shop, a set of stairs ventured to the owner’s hidden apartment above.

  An open cage hung from the ceiling. Within, Arrow Jack rested peacefully upon his perch, the merlin asleep despite the intrusion.

  The familiar odor of smoked tobacco lingered, comforting and haunting at the same time.

  He suddenly hated how weak he felt in returning once again.

  “You should have come earlier,” a familiar dry voice whispered.

  Richard froze, suddenly unsure. All but invisible in the darkness, the faint outline of a figure shifted in one of the chairs. White light suddenly flared, blinding for a moment, before the table lamp revealed an old man with a short white beard clinging to a face lined by age. Icy blue eyes bore into Richard’s own, the gaze weighted from a man privy to all, but who shared none himself. In his hand he cradled an unlit pipe carved with swirling runes, an affectation Richard knew was never far from its bearer.

  “I couldn’t come earlier, Merle,” Richard stated. “Work to be done.”

  “I know,” the other said. “You do realize, though, wounds notwithstanding, the role you fulfill cannot be done if you are dead.”

  A wave of intense annoyance crested within Richard.

  “Maybe you should stop trying to control the world.”

  Myrddin Emrys tamped fresh tobacco from a purse into the bowl of his pipe and lit it. The odor of cherry and vanilla intensified.

  “It was genuine care, Richard.”

  “You knew I would come here tonight.”

  “I suspected,” Merle said, pulling on his pipe and emitting a cloud of smoke. “And I knew I must be ready. Some things are more important than a warm bed, even at this hour.” He gestured at one of the chairs. “Please, Richard, long months have passed since we last spoke. Sit with me.”

  Richard nearly balked at the invitation; he wished to receive aid for his arm and nothing more. He instead took a seat across from the bookstore owner, a chess match in mid-play between them.

  “What came through?”

  “A cait sith,” Richard said. “Killed it. But not before three fairies slipped by.”

  “Hmm, fairies,” Merle said. “Mischievous creatures.”

  “The cait sith was a decoy.”

  Merle frowned. “How so?”

  Richard explained what had transpired hours earlier in the ruins of Old Seattle. Merle did not interrupt but smoked his pipe dead while listening, intent on the knight and what he related.

  “The war between the fey and the Word of the Church has ever been rife with passion and thoughtlessness, and each new battle begins without clear indication of who has renewed it. Even in the most peaceful of decades, one grievance gives rise to retaliation,” Merle said finally, shaking his head. “The cait sith’s pronouncement against the Church cannot be ignored. It is apparent the fairies are the aggressors here in some larger plot.”

  “Three fairies are barely an annoyance,” Richard said. “Hell, the crows in Pioneer Square will probably eat them before they cause harm.”

  “True,” Merle said. “But even the smallest creature can be a pain in the ass.”

  Richard had to concede the point. In his knighted tenure as one of the Yn Saith, he had seen the most innocent-seeming fey threaten lives and destroy property.

  Annwn and its inhabitants could never be taken lightly.

  “The failure of last night may bear fruit,” Merle said. “You must pay special care to your service in the coming months. The fairies have been sent through for a specific reason—of that you can be sure—and while they are mostly impotent as you say, do not forget the persuasive magic they carry.”

  “It would take an idiot to fall prey to the whims of a fairy.”

  “Or the cu sith that slipped by you mere months ago.”

  Anger at mention of his failure rushed through Richard.

  “Just be aware,” Merle said, raising placating hands. “‘Tis all I ask.”

  “Who could plan this?” Richard asked, cooling. “The Morrigan? Cernunnos?”

  “Or quite possibly Philip.”

  Richard snorted. “Why would Plantagenet care? His crusade is not finished.”

  “The Morrigan has far more pressing quandaries to deal with than this world, namely Philip,” Merle declared. He removed the ash from his pipe and began to tamp fresh leaves anew. “Cernunnos has never been interested in the war, choosing to keep the Unseelie Court in their shadows. Could be a rogue witch. Or perhaps a freed demon? Doubtful, although I suppose I should not be so quick to dismiss such notions. Whatever the case, it must be an entity with resources unimaginable to so brazenly enter this world with a plot—no matter how minor—and that fits Philip above all others.”

  “He should have died long ago.”

  “Yes, he should have,” Merle agreed as he relit his pipe. “One more reason to be cautious. There will come a time when what he has acquired in Annwn will no longer serve. He will want more. It is in the nature of such men.”

  “Plantagenet would never use the fey.”

  “Would he not to gain an advantage?”

  Richard thought it over. He had seen such men do just that. People in every aspect of life—whether in government, business, religion, or even on the streets—became corrupted upon gaining power and used whoever they could to retain it. Richard had spent years ignoring the demands of such men in the Church and in Seattle’s homeless area known as the Bricks—and doubted it would ever change.

  Philip Plantagenet could not be ignored.

  “Have the other portals seen activity?” Richard asked.

  “I do not know.”

  “That is not like you, Merle,” the knight said, darkening.

  The old man shrugged. “Regardless, it is what it is. The other knights have not reported activity t
o you, have they?”

  “No. They haven’t.”

  “Well then,” Merle said pointedly.

  “Dammit! Don’t mince words, Merle,” Richard growled. “You always know more than you share.”

  “We have had this discussion before,” the store owner said flatly.

  “And never finished it!”

  “The past is for the dead,” Merle said. “The present is for the living. That’s you.”

  “Don’t spin your philosophies to mollify me, old man,” Richard spat back. “I am beyond your games, now that I know of them.”

  “The past can consume a soul, Richard. Do not let your own destroy you.”

  Richard wanted to explain that it already had.

  “I know differently,” Merle continued, as if he had heard the knight’s thought. “You would not be so eager to attend to the portal, not so willing to put yourself in harm’s way every day for years, if there were not a worthwhile spark still within your soul.”

  Richard shifted uncomfortably, weariness from his wound helping to rein old lingering anger. He suddenly wished he were outside on his streets. It was hard coming into Old World Tales and being confronted with painful memories; it was harder to hear that Merle still believed in him. The certainty in the other’s ancient blue eyes drove a fresh spike through his heart, easily penetrating walls he had purposefully put in place. Richard took a deep breath. Despite the qualms he held for the bookstore owner and how Merle made him feel, the knight had not come to Old World Tales to fight.

  “Is there anything you can do about the fairies?” Richard asked.

  “Without a Heliwr? Or you running across them? No. I am powerless.”

  “You aren’t powerless though,” Richard admonished. “Why have you not appointed a new Heliwr?”

  “It is not yet time,” Merle said simply.

  The knight’s emotions boiled anew. “Well, when will it be time?”

  “All things in due course, Richard,” the old man answered, looking to the ceiling.

  “That’s not good enough!”

  “What is going on?!“

  Richard was on his feet instantly, Arondight a call away.

  Where the light of the front room met the darkness of its rear, a boy of around twenty years old stood like a tensed creature ready to attack—hair wild, green eyes flashing challenge. He wore only a pair of gray sweatpants, his frame sinewy and strong. With both hands he gripped a large hardcover book like a baseball bat, ready to swing and strike if need be.

  Richard relaxed. The youngster was no threat.

  “What do you plan on doing with that?” Richard demanded.

  The boy didn’t back down, but uncertainty filled his eyes.

  Then Richard saw the book’s cover. A golden rose emblazoned on the leather flashed in the weak illumination, its five petals opened and inviting readership. No title or author name could be discerned. It was an old tome but well cared for, its cover still supple despite its obvious age, its binding resewn by Merle numerous times.

  Richard knew the book well.

  “Did you just pick that book up?” he asked. “Or was it given to you?”

  The boy frowned, a fight still written on him.

  “Given.”

  “Relax, gentlemen. Sit, Richard,” Merle said sternly. “Nothing to be on guard about here.”

  “Are you all right, sir?” the boy questioned.

  “Bran, meet Richard.”

  Richard looked into the boy as he approached, surprised at what he had initially missed. Cold, untrusting eyes. A pursed, soured mouth. Distrust in every movement. Deeper within, a rod of steel existed, one tempered in hellfire most would never know.

  The boy had seen hard times and they had left their mark.

  “I heard raised voices…” Bran started.

  “Go back to bed,” the bookseller said. “Richard and I were discussing…old wounds. I am fine and you should be resting for the work on the morrow.”

  Bran hesitated, his eyes stubborn. Giving Richard a once over and a departing frown, he vanished into the darkness of the store.

  “Have a new apprentice, eh?”

  “Now, Richard—”

  “Don’t patronize me,” the knight said curtly. “I know you better than you think. You do nothing without intention, invite no one into your life you cannot use. The boy would not be here out of charity or good will. Especially with that book. Do not believe me daft now as you once did so long ago. And do not ruin another life for your games.”

  Arrow Jack stirred in his cage above but remained asleep.

  “Actually, Richard, the boy lived on the street—like you,” the old man countered. “I have given him a place to lay his head and have put him to work. Mayor Dimes has treated the homeless terribly. You know that better than anyone. No, Bran is better off now than he was a month ago when I invited him to work the stacks.”

  “Riddles within riddles,” Richard grumbled. “I have never told a lie, Richard,” Merle said. “Ever.”

  Richard gritted his teeth. Like the chess game in front of them, Richard and Merle were in the middle of an old battle, but this one with words. Chess was about misdirection and entrapment, making your opponent believe an attack was imminent from a horse rather than a conquering pawn. Merle knew how to play chess like no other, and it showed in how he related with Richard and the other knights; if the bookstore owner made a point to share information, it often had consequences far beyond any surface meaning.

  “I saw the book, Merle,” Richard said finally. “Don’t treat me like a child.”

  “I am completing his education. Nothing more.”

  “Nothing more?” Richard scoffed.

  “Just so,” the bookseller answered. “Many have read Joseph d’Arimathe by Robert de Boron. I would think you, as an educated and scholarly man, would appreciate trying to broaden a young man’s mind with the larger world about us all.”

  “Joseph d’Arimathe is a rare text few college professors assign to their graduate students, let alone to a boy his age,” Richard argued. “There is only one reason you’d give him that book and it has nothing to do with a lack of quality education.”

  “For a learned man, you assume much,” Merle stated, his eyes darkening.

  Richard snorted, unable to hide his derision. No matter what Merle said, the story of Joseph of Arimathea was not common reading. Considered a minor literary work in Arthurian lore, it recounted how a man of some import and wealth named Joseph watched the centurion Longinus pierce the side of the crucified Jesus Christ with a lance to discover if He was dead. The Bible accounted blood and water spilled forth, but later de Boron wrote that Joseph caught the fluid in the cup Christ drank from at the Last Supper. With the aid of a staff given him by God, Joseph fled the Holy Land with his family, made his way to Britain where he kept safe what would become known as the Holy Grail, and helped Christianize the Misty Isles by founding Glastonbury Abbey.

  Since most of it was cannibalized by later Arthurian writings, no one had reason to read Joseph d’Arimathe.

  Except those who needed to know the history of the Heliwr.

  “If your intentions toward the boy are truly only altruistic, what kind of work does he do in the stacks?”

  “He helps me about the store,” Merle said, shrugging. “Does what you once did.”

  “And look how that turned out.”

  Merle leaned forward, his eyes softening. “I know our past has never made our present an easy one to naviga—

  “Do not lecture,” Richard interrupted sharply.

  “I will,” Merle insisted. “What you do not know has always hindered your judgment, especially where I am concerned. That will change with time, sooner than you think, I wager. That I know to be true, Richard McAllister.”

  It was Richard’s turn to be quiet. He did not trust Merle, no matter his sincerity. Merle had a résumé full of completed machinations, ones that had wounded innocent people—like Richard—in their exe
cution. The bookseller had always attempted to control events around the world for the betterment of mankind. Yet every attempt yielded casualties of the body, heart, and mind. For the old man to directly make such a bold statement about Richard’s immediate future left the knight feeling more leery than ever.

  When Merle began telling Richard unveiled truth, the knight would give him the benefit of the doubt. Until then, he would keep the wizened man away from his heart.

  And maybe not even then.

  “My own counsel will I keep,” Richard said finally.

  “As you should,” Merle said, gaining his feet and placing his pipe back in his pocket. “Now, shall I have a look at that arm? Or should I let you keep bleeding into those filthy, stained clothes?”

  Richard followed Merle into the depths of Old World Tales.

  The knight didn’t say a word.

  With the alley shadows draped about him, Richard waited like a wraith for its prey, and watched the light of Old World Tales wink out.

  The boy did not immediately appear.

  No one was about. The late rush hour had finished, tourists had gone, the fall sun had set long before. After Richard left the bookstore in the early morning, he had spent the day walking the dirty streets of Pioneer Square, searching for any sign of the fairies. He had found no trace; the tiny fey creatures were adept at hiding. Every flight of fallen leaves, every furtive movement the crows made, drew his attention. But no matter where he looked, the fairies were nowhere to be discovered.

  It left him disconcerted but there wasn’t much he could do.

  Now he took a deep breath and shifted in the gloom, wincing. The arm Merle had bandaged still ached but the infection was already dissipating. The bookseller’s administrations had hurt like hell, and Richard had gritted his teeth throughout them. But he knew by the next morning he would be greatly healed.