but what he felt now bordered on insanity. Sadly, no alternate option presented itself. The part of Bran that questioned his decision wanted to retreat back to his warm bed and pull the covers over his head.
It was a large step to believe Annwn existed.
A larger one to step into it.
Wearing a warm coat, Bran hiked his backpack higher on his shoulder. He had to go, he realized. The opportunity to discover who had tried to kill him and what had truly happened to his father gripped him in a way he had never experienced. Questions long-carried would not be denied. They were embers blown into flame, and each step he took down the street was one closer to answers.
Richard led Bran and Merle on a direct path, barely contained annoyance in every aspect of his bearing.
“Do I call you Merle or something else?” Bran asked.
“I have gone by Merle for so long, to call me anything else would be wrong.”
Richard snorted. “Are you sure about the boy in all of this, old man?”
“I am, Richard,” Merle replied. “You will see.”
“Like you saw with me?” the knight said darkly.
Merle ignored the rebuke; Richard continued on. Bran wondered about their dynamic. It was apparent the two shared a stressful history, one in which the knight blamed the wizard for a terrible past event. Richard clearly did not trust Merle.
Should Bran? What had he gotten into?
After traversing two blocks, Richard brought them to a halt across the street from the triangular park fronting the Underground Tour. The downtown skyscrapers above rose stark against the half moon and star field, the city like a graveyard. It left him on edge. He had no idea what to expect. Every shadow was capable of hiding an attacker.
He had to be ready for anything.
“How did my father die? Really?” Bran asked Merle.
“In Ireland, as you already know, I believe,” the bookstore owner answered. “Your father was killed by an explosion. Your mother was lost at the same time. I never discovered who did it; for some reason it has been hidden from my sight. Another will acts against my own.”
Bran breathed in cold air, afraid to ask. “Did he die doing his duty? Being this Heliwr?”
“He did,” the bookseller said with obvious regret.
“Merle,” Richard growled. “If I go, who protects the portal?”
“I have made arrangements,” Merle said. “It will be safe. I move chess pieces into defensive positions as well as anyone.”
Richard looked away.
A different aspect bothered Bran. “How did you know I was—”
“Special?” Merle interrupted. “I’ve seen it before, Bran. It was how you carried yourself. When you accept who you are, the world will open up for you in ways I can’t explain. You will have to experience it for yourself.”
“Now you sound like a new-age pagan,” Bran said.
“I am who I am, Bran. No more, no less.”
“You can’t be thinking of making this boy the new Heliwr,” the knight accused.
“Never has a knighthood passed from father to son, Richard,” Merle said, eyes scanning the night. “You know this.”
Bran kept up with the other two men. They were walking across the street, their footfalls echoing, the knight bringing up the rear, when Merle jerked to a halt. He scanned the gloom, eyes probing. Across the street, the park triangle opened up, its tall totem pole a beacon of muted colorful paint. Nothing moved. It was a dead world.
“What?” Bran whispered.
“Richard. Arondight,” Merle ordered.
The knight didn’t question. Concentration filled his face.
Seconds passed. Nothing happened.
Merle raised a questioning eyebrow.
A grimace tightening his face, Richard fought a pain Bran could not see until the sword flared to sudden life in his hand, the silver hilt and steel of the blade catching the moon’s glow and accentuating it in the dark.
As if drawn by the weapon, a man wearing a sable coat and matching uniform emerged from behind the pergola into the light of the lamps, an ink stain given life. Coming to a stop at the street curb, he waited as if he had expected their coming. Both hands buried in pockets that bulged with suggestion, he gave Richard a snide grin despite the knight and the azure flame of Arondight moving protectively in front of Merle and Bran.
One eye in the middle-aged man’s chiseled face lay dead. The other held fiery purpose.
“Finn Arne,” Merle hailed. “You are a long way from home.”
“Indeed,” the other replied in a worn German accent. “First time to Seattle. But it appears you beat me here.”