The Dark Thorn

by Shawn Speakman

  “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?”

  “I understand, fair knight!”

  Richard nodded to Bran. The boy released Snedeker.

  The fairy flew out the window like a dart and vanished into the night.

  “Damnable fairies. What other trouble have you gotten yourself into?” Richard griped.

  “What is this seed?” Bran asked instead.

  Richard took as deep a breath he could. Long moments passed. A part of him just wanted to go back to sleep, but he knew the question to be too important to not answer. Grunting pain as he swung his legs out of bed, he gave Bran his darkest look.

  “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, that we could discover what Philip was up to and return to Seattle without Merle’s omens coming true in any form,” Richard said. When the boy didn’t respond, the knight continued. “The seed in the box is called the Paladr.”

  “The Paladr?”

  “Remember how the Yn Saith received their power? Merle gave the knights their power to have the authority to make difficult decisions without interference from the Catholic Church and its own desires?”

  “Merle’s last great act of magic, you said,” Bran said.

  “That’s right. It did not only involve the knights of the portals. He foresaw a need for a lone knight, one not tied to the portals, one who would roam free to do things the portal knights could not. For seven hundred years, he fulfilled that role. But nearly losing control of his power imbuing the knights with their new authority in the twelfth century made him realize he could not do what was necessary any longer.”

  “The Heliwr,” Bran stated. “My father was the last, right?”

  “He was. And a good Heliwr he made too.”

  “And what of the Paladr?”

  “Do you know of Joseph of Arimathea?” Richard asked.

  “I saw his name mentioned in a book at Merle’s store,” Bran said. “The leather one with the rose on its front. I didn’t read much of it though. Had just started.”

  “Merle setting your future in motion, without your leave I might add,” Richard spat, his anger making him dizzy. “No matter. Joseph of Arimathea is the man who gave up his tomb for the burial of Jesus Christ after His crucifixion. He was also given the Holy Grail, the cup used by Christ at the Last Supper that later caught His blood when the Roman soldier Longinus, who meant to discover if Christ still lived, stabbed His side with a spear. Joseph and his family left the Middle East, carrying the Grail to begin Christianity in Britain. To accomplish this, God gave him a staff that helped carry him across all of those miles. Once he arrived in Britain, he drove the staff into the ground and it grew into a black hawthorn near where Glastonbury Abbey would later be built.

  “The Paladr is a seed from that tree.”

  “What is it for?” Bran probed. “Why would Merle give it to me?”

  “I will get to that. You should be asking me to finish the story,” Richard retorted. “The hawthorn that grew is a powerful tree, and for generations Joseph’s family watched over it, kept it safe, and cared for it. Merle knew the power the tree possessed, and when time came for the old man to relinquish his duty to someone else, he came to Glastonbury Abbey. Joseph’s family or the hawthorn—no one except Merle knows for sure—gave the old man a lone seed. The seed bequeaths the power of the Heliwr to the person—if they are worthy.

  Bran gazed back into the box.

  “The Dark Thorn is the promise of the Paladr, the staff carried by Joseph of Arimathea as he hunted a new beginning,” Richard murmured. “And all the power and responsibility the Dark Thorn gives the Heliwr. If you want it, that is.”

  Fear crept over Bran as Richard hoped it would.

  “Merle believes I am the next Heliwr?”

  “To accept the Dark Thorn is to become the Heliwr, yes,” Richard said darkly. “The Heliwr is the Unfettered Knight, able to roam both Annwn and our world, to hunt down those who occasionally get past the portal knights, to set right what evil fey and evil men desire of Annwn, to help keep the two worlds separate.”

  “I thought Merle said knighthood was never passed from father to son?” Bran said, his hand shaking a bit.

  “The old man lied, as usual.”

  “How does the Paladr become this magical staff?”

  “That I do not know,” Richard admitted. “Your father was already the Heliwr by the time I accepted Arondight from Merle. I know the seed offers itself to the right person in some way but other than that…”

  “And if I refuse the Paladr?” Bran asked.

  “It has happened before,” Richard said, shrugging. “The world will go on without a Heliwr, as it has done for more than a decade.”

  Bran gave the seed a final glance before closing the box. Richard did not envy the boy and his place in this mess. The knight had long ago made his decision to accept Arondight, and it had led to nothing but pain and hardship. Bran was now being told that he might have to make a similar decision, with nary more information than Richard had possessed. All Bran had to do was look at the knight; he lay scarred and destroyed of spirit, evidence of what it meant to take on the mantle of knighthood in service to the higher good.

  “I’m no knight, no one special,” Bran said.

  “If you believe that then don’t accept it.”

  The lonely sound of an owl hooted outside, a reminder that a world existed beyond the walls of their room, one where danger lurked everywhere.

  “Why do you hate me?” Bran asked, the question stunning the knight.

  “I do not wish this on you, not after how my life has gone,” Richard said, the darkness of the room coalescing around him. “Merle was adamant I bring you, leaving no choice. But you are right. I don’t care much for you. We have virtually nothing in common. You don’t respect me or understand why I choose to live in the Bricks. You would do anything to escape them, even if that means working for Merle, a man who uses you.”

  “You have more to offer than living on the streets,” Bran said angrily. “As do I!”

  “Not everyone is the same, you little bastard,” Richard grated. “Even still, I would never wish knighthood on you. I’ve been used and so will you be if you accept.”

  Bran shoved the box back into his jeans pocket.

  “I think you need your rest,” the boy said neutrally.

  “I do,” Richard sliced the tension aside. “Since we are in Arendig Fawr, I hope to speak to the Morrigan in the morning. It will be then we will find our course of action in all of this.”

  “I see,” Bran said coldly.

  “And be happy that damnable fairy is now gone,” Richard said. “And keep the Paladr safe. No reason for it to fall into another’s hands, especially those of a fairy.”

  Bran looked out the window where the moonlight played among occasional ephemeral clouds passing under the stars. Richard eased back to his bed. He marveled that the boy had the courage to stand up to him.

  Merle had chosen a strong soul. That was true enough.

  But the knight hoped their discussion would give Bran pause before accepting the Paladr and making a huge mistake.

  He closed his eyes. Sleep came swiftly.

  A faint knock on the door awoke Richard.

  He watched a gnarled old woman carrying two baskets filled with bandages, salves, and pungent aromatic herbs enter. She nodded a silent greeting, the golden light of morning coloring her long white hair, before she sat at his side and began unwrapping his dressings. Despite being in pain, he felt better than hours before. When his a
bdomen and chest were exposed, however, it gave him pause. The wounds inflicted by the demon wolves were terrible to look upon, harsh slashes in his rib cage muscles and bruising everywhere. The gashes were already healing, pink skin raised around the scabs; the terrible bruising alternated from purple to green to yellow. Richard had never been so damaged as a knight. If not for the administrations of the fey, he undoubtedly would have been much worse off.

  The woman cleaned the wounds and began rewrapping them when Richard heard boots come to a stop at the doorway.

  “Morning, Kegan,” Bran said, yawning as he rose.

  “Let us go, lad,” a clurichaun invited from the doorway. “Let Aerten do her work. The Cadarn and the world outside its stone walls awaits”

  “I will go with you as well,” Richard said.

  The short, bearded man stopped. “Do you think that wise, knight, given your injuries?”

  “The air will do me good.”

  The clurichaun grunted. Richard waited for Aerten to finish her work and then pushed himself gingerly off the bed. The old woman ignored him and vanished out the door. Realizing his clothes were gone—the better since they were undoubtedly bloodstained—Richard put on a new white shirt, green pants, and black boots placed on a chair nearby.

  They fit well, and soon the three of them left.

  The corridors of the Cadarn were cool but dry, filled with fey creatures and a few humans. It was carved from the mountain and more permanent than the grown buildings of trees, vines, and flowers Richard knew the fey usually preferred. Orbs lit his path, highlighting masterful alien artistry in every arch, each step, and all chiseled statues. Silk flowed like rainbows hung intermittently on walls and from the ceilings, beautiful banners of various forest scenes hanging against the black granite of the mountain. Passageways arched to new levels shrouded in mystery while other hallways burrowed deep into the world, the odor of water laced with minerals heavy on the air.

  Richard took his time as he followed the clurichaun and Bran down a spiraling staircase. The knight was weak, weaker than he thought when he had sat up in bed, but he had never been the type to lounge while healing. There was too much to do, now more than ever. He just hoped he would continue to heal and be able to carry out what he knew would be soon coming.

  “Clurichaun, what of the Morrigan?” Richard asked. “I must speak with her.”

  “My name is Kegan O’Farn,” the other replied. “Not clurichaun. To answer your inquiry, the Queen has called for a gathering of the Seelie Court. It has not done so in two centuries. She is quite busy. Ye and Bran Ardall will need to show solidarity with the Court if today is to have any meaning beyond words, that much I can tell ye.”

  “What is this Seelie Court, Richard?” Bran asked.

  Richard gave a snort. “Feel free to answer him, Kegan O’Farn.”

  “The Seelie Court is composed of the lords from all fey belonging to the light,” Kegan said, ignoring Richard’s mockery. “As for why it is important, the Tuatha de Dannan are a reckoning force but are spread over the Carn Cavall and beyond—some out of necessity, a few from condemnation. Arendig Fawr is the capital, it is the reason ye see so many different fey about ye, but the other conclaves are more race concentrated.”

  “The fairies live with the fairies,” Bran suggested. “The leprechauns with other leprechauns…”

  “Correct ye are,” Kegan said, smiling, as he guided Bran and Richard through the giant doors of the Cadarn into the late morning sunshine. “The lords of these conclaves rarely discuss matters. It takes a grave reason, like the war with Philip, to make it happen. The Morrigan feels she has a good reason to call the Court today.”

  “That reason has to do with us?” Richard asked.

  “I know not, although it is interesting ye are able to leave your post, McAllister. Ye are not the Heliwr,” Kegan stated, looking at Richard darkly. “But your appearance brings hope.”

  “Hope for what?” the knight questioned.

  “That is for the Morrigan to say. Whatever she wishes to discuss with the lords, it will be a difficult task.”

  “Why?” Bran prodded.

  “They rarely all agree—and several will not appear as commanded,” Richard interrupted, shielding his eyes from the hot sun. “When is the Court convening, Kegan?”

  “The gathering is not until late afternoon at the earliest,” the clurichaun said. “It will take time for last night’s request missives to arrive and longer for them to be answered. While we wait, I meant to show Bran some of Arendig Fawr.”

  Bran looked to Richard.

  “Might as well,” the knight said. “A walk should do us both good.”

  After receiving a sour green apple and a loaf of warm wheat bread smothered in butter from Kegan for his breakfast, Richard walked Arendig Fawr. The city was a lot larger than he had originally thought, encompassing much of the mountainside. The Cadarn fulfilled the role of a palace, the city populace living around it. As he walked near buildings constructed of nature, Richard observed bakers, butchers, spinners, tailors and shoemakers. Carts filled with vegetables and fruit made their way to the city market, and other than the occasional leprechaun sitting idly by with bottle in hand, everyone worked at perfecting whatever trade they employed.

  But to the careful eyes of the knight, there was an underlying darkness—a pervasive sadness—that haunted each set of exotic eyes he looked into, every smile sent his way that was far too brief.

  Richard knew what that sorrow meant.

  It was the look of life being swallowed by war.

  The sun passed its zenith and Kegan led his charges to the far northern side of Arendig Fawr, outside the city. The forest, mostly large fir and pine trees, gave way to a flat oval meadow encircled by a smattering of oak and lesser brush—and filled by hundreds of horses.

  “The Awenau,” Kegan shared. “The gathering place of the Rhedewyr.”

  The great animals cropped at the browning grass, their muscles rippling beneath coats shimmering like sun-drenched water. Some turned toward them, marked interest in their round eyes, while the foals and yearlings frolicked, lost in their own worlds of delight. A few humans tended the Awenau while two young clurichauns bearing a striking resemblance to Kegan worked together on the same horse, one humming while he dug clean the inside of a hoof, the other grumbling as he pulled the horse’s mouth wide to look at its teeth. Several other fey aided the horses, but Richard could tell the important work was done by the short clurichauns.

  “The Rhedewyr aren’t fenced in?” Bran asked.

  Kegan barked a laugh. “There is no need. They depend on us as we depend on them.”

  “Horses in our world would never be allowed to roam free like this,” Richard explained to the clurichaun.

  “Horses in your world aren’t that smart,” Kegan argued. “The Rhedewyr come and go at their own volition. They know when they are needed. My sons and I, along with a few others, tend them as required—a relationship that benefits both the riders and the cared for.” He smiled. “And look who wants to greet ye.”

  Richard observed one of the Rhedewyr cantering toward Bran, a tall chestnut mare with a flowing black mane and tail. The horse pranced to a slow trot as it grew near and stopped to nuzzle Bran with affection.

  “You see, lad,” Kegan said. “Smart.”

  “Willowyn,” Bran breathed, smiling. The boy looked around as if seeking someone but disappointment quickly filled his face.

  “I am surprised at the amount of humans among the Tuatha de Dannan,” Richard said.

  “All are ancestors of the Misty Isles,” the clurichaun sniffed. “Philip brought thousands of men and women and hundreds of those Templar Knights with him. Over the centuries not all of their children embraced the rule of the Usurper. Those who cannot tolerate him come to us—out of a change or safety or any number of other reasons.”

  “How can you know they aren’t spies sent by Philip?”

  “There is no way, knight,” Kegan
acknowledged. “Other than the Nharth. Those in the mountain fog know much about a person.”

  Richard watched the Rhedewyr, thinking. They would be an integral part of what was to come. He would have to speak to the Morrigan about them. There were things he and Bran would need if what he thought came to pass.

  It would require sacrifice.

  It would not come easily.

  Hoping he would be strong enough for the gathering Seelie Court, Richard finished his breakfast and tried to enjoy the innocence of the Awenau.

  He knew that innocence would not last.

  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.