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