Deirdre sighed. “The damage is done. Give it to a family with many children in town. Don’t let them see you. By giving it away, I hope you learn a lesson.”
The fairy didn’t budge, hovering in midair.
“Snedeker…”
“All right, all right. Swampmutton.”
As the fairy flew away, his shoulders a bit slumped, Deirdre looked up at the mountains that grew at Mochdrev Reach’s northern border and thought about what the shade of her mother had said. The line of jagged peaks known as the Snowdon burst from the older, rounded hills of the Carn Cavall, not unlike the emotions that swirled within her. Her mother had been a powerful witch before she died; she knew much of what was to come. The vision of the Tuatha de Dannan dead on the battlefield could mean only one thing—the fey had chosen to fight Caer Llion. And the man Deirdre would fall in love with? It couldn’t be Philip Plantagenet. But who? Another outworlder? The man holding her in the vision? And more importantly: when would this come to pass?
It no longer mattered, she thought. And it no longer mattered what the High King of Annwn, his advisor, or even her father wished. Deirdre knew she would rather die than succumb to a boot heel, particularly one from Caer Llion.
Because the Tuatha de Dannan felt the same.
Deirdre turned back to the Rosemere. Its waters were at peace but she was not. Those who knew her knew that when her mind was made up, nothing would change it. Stubborn like an ox bull, her father often said. He was right. No one was going to tell her what to do, especially a man who had proclaimed himself High King long ago and would use that power to steal Deirdre away from all she knew and loved.
She would not let it happen—come what may for Mochdrev Reach and those who lived within its walls. She had to stand and fight, no matter the consequences. No matter where that stand would take her.
Deirdre left to find her father.
Lord Gerallt would be the first to know.
With a cascade thundering behind him, Richard sat on the edge of the Waterfall Garden Park pool in contemplative reflection, waiting for the tourists and vagabonds to leave.
It would not be long now.
Mist from the falls swirled at his back, icy and persistent, but he barely felt it. The events of the previous night played over and over in his mind, lead chains weighing on him. The fairies from the portal had attacked Merle’s assistant, cajoling a cu sith into dastardly service. If Richard had not been there, Bran would have been killed. It had been the obvious culmination of an orchestrated plan, one set into motion specifically against the boy for reasons the knight could not fathom.
Richard had intervened and in the process had exposed his secret.
Now the boy knew about Arondight.
Why had the attack come against this new bookseller of Old World Tales? Had Richard made the right choice in not removing his memory?
The knight exhaled angrily. He only had an answer for the latter concern. It was necessary, of course. Bran retaining his memory meant the only ally Richard had in convincing the boy that Merle was a danger and not to be trusted.
Nearby the portal throbbed, a chilly reminder he was right.
The knight pulled his coat close. He knew one thing.
Bran was lucky to be alive.
As the cold wind captured vagrant leaves and sent them spinning outside the iron-barred walls of the park, a man wearing a black overcoat with collar held tight and a broad-rimmed hat entered the secluded Waterfall Garden and waited in the shadows. Richard ground his boot into the concrete, annoyed. He knew the man, hated him. Richard also knew the Churchman had found him for a reason and that reason went beyond coincidence.
Once the last straggler left the park, the man approached, his thick-fingered hands folded over a paunch that rarely missed a meal.
“Archbishop Louis Glenallen, find another soul to torment,” Richard said darkly.
Righteousness peered at the knight. “How unfortunate you yet live, McAllister.”
“Why are you here?”
“I know of the attack,” the Churchman said. “I know you failed. Again.”
“Here to gauge my faith, huh?” Richard questioned. “Want to offer me some absolution, some penance, in your hallowed box of confession?”
“Not at all,” Archbishop Glenallen replied. “I know, just as you do, that a lifetime of confession and Hail Marys could never erase the pain that erodes your soul.