coming to the sacred isle with the fey long before Philip had been born. He knew his history. He also knew countries could not be conquered without consolidation of force, and that meant bringing the Reach into his army and plan. John was right. The best way to do so was through marriage.
“My king,” John said, hands folded before him. “Gwawl, son of Clud, requests an audience. He can wait if it pleases you.”
“Are the preparations complete for Annwn’s newest visitors?”
“They are,” his advisor answered. “Master Goronwy and his hounds will lead a large company of Templars to the portal. The Cailleach has agreed to go for her normal price, of course. It should be enough.”
“The hag should be more than a match for the knight,” Philip said. “You are sure the boy and knight will enter Annwn?”
John did not answer but instead stepped to the middle of the room where the Cauldron of Pwyll sat upon its granite pedestal, the water in its silver mouth flat like ice. The rest of the study was much as it had been for most of Philip’s life—a refuge for the High King of Annwn. The room held many of the possessions he brought with him from London, but it had also become a journal of his time in the Sacred Isle. On one wall, opposite the world map of his birth, a map of Annwn hung, its breadth exposed for easy viewing. Shelves lined the other walls, filled with tomes from the library at Oxford, his own personal writings, and the combined knowledge of the dead rebel druids from the university at Caer Dathal. Rugs, ornate chairs, an oak desk buffed to a deep gloss, and acquired magical artifacts filled out the room.
“You look tired,” Philip said.
“The cauldron…taxes me, my king,” John said, touching the silver lip of the wide bowl. Philip observed the ruined mess that was the left side of John’s face, as it had been for centuries. The unpolluted childhood friend of Philip had vanished long before, the sad consequence of imprisoning one of the most fearful and powerful fey lords. “I am but a shadow of my other’s former self,” John admitted.
“You have given much. It is not in vain, I assure you.”
“Thank you,” John said. “What of the Lord of Arberth?”
“I care not about Gwawl,” Philip said, disinterested. “He is as demanding as he is ugly. Why has he come, especially at this early hour?”
“He would not say, my king.”
Philip gazed at the burgeoning morning. He had far more urgent items of interest to cater to. The demon wizard had acted as the witch had estimated. While Philip hated using fey creatures to lure the unsuspecting knight and boy, it was a necessary evil. Plans he and John had orchestrated were nearing completion—and it was time to reap the reward.
“Let him wait,” Philip commanded. “The day I have wanted for centuries has finally come, and it deserves my attention fully.”
“Yes it does, my king. Our efforts now begun, however, cannot be stopped. Separating a knight from his portal is a battle won, but I worry if the boy gets free, it could cost us the war.”
“I know your apprehension. Action has ever been the doctrine of my father’s vision, and its time is now, John, after all of these centuries. Whether the boy lives or dies, it will be to our benefit. Are you not confident in the portents of the witch? In your own auguries?”
“I am, but Myrddin Emrys is…wily. He could have pulled wool over my eyes.”
“The wizard is wily, indeed,” Philip agreed. “Like playing gwyddbwyll against the worthiest of opponents. And for your sake I hope you can see through that wool. If what you have seen is true, I have the advantage. The Heliwr is nigh to gracing two worlds again after almost a decade, and as he does so I will rule him.”
“The Templar Knights are assembled in the northern courtyard, my king,” John reminded.
“The cauldron then, one more time.”
Without word, John placed both hands upon the cauldron’s rim and stared into it, furrowed concentration twisting his face. A ghostly film stole across both of his eyes, even as the depths of the bowl stirred with a brackish glow that illuminated John with wicked intent.
“What do you see?” Philip questioned impatiently.
John remained bent over the water. “I see a merlin, flying against the azure sky, its wings darkening the land beneath with shadows. Those shadows fall over Caer Llion.”