bred like rabbits, and sacrificing a few will give a greater understanding of what the Morrigan is planning. Regardless of her design, it will be moot if Caer Llion is made aware in time.”
“In whose keeping will you leaveCaer Llion?”
Philip had spent great amount of time considering that very point. The last few days had seen many meetings. Not all of the lords under his banner were trustworthy. With no heir due to the affects of the magic that kept him young, Philip did not have anyone to trust.
“Lord Evinnysan,” Philip ventured.
“The wisest choice of the group I think.”
“Not smart enough to take the throne, vicious enough to protect my interests,” Philip continued. “He will need to be watched.”
“Much will need to be watched other than the Morrigan and Caer Llion,” John said, turning down a new staircase where the air grew damp. “You should be made aware, my king, that a flock of griffins attacked a young dragon. It survived, if barely, winging back to its kin.”
“And you worry that could motivate Tal Ebolyon?”
“Long has Latobius remained separate from the Seelie Court,” John said. “Even if the dragon lord lends his power to the Morrigan, the griffins will protect the air. We have nothing to fear from that dying race. Their time passed with the shadow of the wind.”
“Watch them anyway,” Philip ordered, blocking the way. “Remember what Master Wace always taught during war seminar?”
“Overconfidence kills a leader.”
Philip moved on. Master Wace of Bayeux. Centuries had passed since Philip and John had studied with their mentor in a tall tower rising just outside Oxford. The Master had given fourteen years of his life teaching tactics in warfare, philosophy from the far east and Greek antiquity, the history and politics of Europe and the Isles, and the intricacies of the Church and its followers. When Philip was young he had longed to be part of the family his father Henry II denied him, but growing into manhood under the tutelage of Master Wace had opened his eyes to the hypocrisy in the world—starting with his own kin. The bickering of his father and brother Richard over northern France, his father banishing Philip’s mother to the Tower of London, the attempt by John to claim the crown while Richard fought in the Third Crusade—the sin of greed and jealousy drove wedges between his family members and the Word of the Church.
Philip promised he would never succumb to the sinful vicissitudes that had ruined his family and those he had seen in the poverty-stricken streets of London.
He repressed a snort.
The Seelie Court quarreled like his family.
Now, having lived longer than any of his father’s descendents, he meant to finish what God and Henry II had ordained all those centuries earlier.
Bring religious order to the world—with the sword, if necessary.
The staircase ended and both men stepped into a vast empty cavern, their footfalls echoing off the foundation of the castle. Of the four available doorways, John selected the one on their right, away from the dungeons, his flame above lighting their way.
“Will the Cailleach be ready with the strap bags?” Philip asked.
“She will. Enough cattle hide has been acquired to make it so.”
“It is almost time then.”
“Lord Gwawl and the rest have sworn their allegiance,” John said. “And given of their men and resources.”
“Give them the bags then,” Philip said. “Test them and ensure the water works. Explain what the bags are for. Do not tell them where they came from. I doubt any of them will turn on me after they realize the power I possess and control.”
John nodded and continued onward.
“And if they do challenge me,” Philip added. “They will be fed to the halfbreeds.”
The staircase continued to wind down, but the stone of the walls changed from mortared blocks to slick rock, cut from the natural lay of the land. The corridors were ancient, having been there since the Celtic gods and goddesses had entered Annwn to escape their persecution from the Isles. Philip possessed it all now, to use as his whim dictated.
After what seemed an eternity walking in the clammy depths, they came to a locked door, one newly fashioned from thick oak and banded in unforgiving iron. A giant Fomorian stood guard, his broad shoulders filling up much of the hallway. He bowed, his eyes lost behind the visor of a helmet. A giant sword lay propped against the wall nearby.
“My king, the witch may not appreciate our visit to these depths,” John said.