of Caer Llion and our supply train. To be cut off from the castle while battling in the world of our birth would be unfortunate indeed.” Philip paused, looking at the center of the lake. “See to it this room is more securely guarded as well. Place Templar Knights you trust implicitly. I want nothing to go awry, and our power here must not be disturbed or stolen as we transition from this world to that one. To lose the relic would be a great loss. Your head, in fact.”
John nodded, seemingly unafraid of the threat.
“Make it happen,” Philip said sternly. “Failure is not an option.”
John bowed and vanished into the breeding caverns.
Philip watched his adviser leave. John had changed. When they had been young in that first century after imprisoning Arawn, John had been strong but sanguine, able to see the positive in any negative, able to take advantage of it. But over the years he had become darker, less than the friend Philip remembered. The hardship of ruling, no doubt. The earlier anger that had fed Philip now faded. He would speak to his old friend about it soon. John deserved any pleasure he desired; Philip would make sure his oldest advisor took advantage of their spoils.
The slaves on the shore continued their slow task.
Philip grinned.
He was going to succeed where his family had failed.
The kitchens of Caer Llion would be waking soon, their rising bread and simmering stews filling the needs of his people. He decided his own needs could wait. He would visit the Cathedral and pray for strength and victory before breaking his fast. He wanted to cleanse his soul. It was time the lords, after all of these centuries, discovered exactly what he planned, but he wished to do it with the filth of the Mhydew washed from him in all ways.
Philip raised the sword he had carried all of his adult days. Exquisite care had gone into Hauteclere, the fabled blade of Olivier de Vienne, one of the peers of Charlemagne. It had been in the Plantagenet family for centuries. The crystal embedded in the hilt glimmered at him where it met the golden curving cross guard, the torchlight slicking the blade with blood.
Philip thought that appropriate.
Standing in the presence of the relic that had made his existence eight centuries after his birth possible, he was reminded of the appeal Saint Peter had made to the Gentiles—to bring them within the fold of the Church and teach them the grace of the Lord.
Philip would do the same to the heathens of two worlds.
And sit upon one throne forever.
With sunshine warming his cheek and a hand shaking his shoulder, Richard broke the surface from an ocean of dreams into a birdsong-laden morning.
He opened bleary eyes.
“Knight McAllister,” Kegan breathed, the clurichaun staring worriedly down on him. “You took some waking. I was about to get the others.”
Richard blinked, sitting up. “Where are we?”
“From what I can tell, a glen of sorts. One with a waterfall.”
Morning light streamed in through the eastern trees behind the clurichaun, blinding the knight with its intensity. Cool air mingled with the scent of dewy grass and churned dark earth. Muffled thunder came from the waterfall. For the first time Richard became aware of the tree above him. Branching out to all sides, the gnarled limbs of the hawthorn bore dark green leaves that absorbed the virgin morning light to shimmer with vitality. The trunk twisted from the black earth, sturdy and strong. Small pink flowers budded in the canopy; sharp thorns two inches long burgeoned like knives along every branch.
It was beautifully symmetrical except where a knob of healed wood existed, the branch having once grown there gone.
Bran lay nearby as well, also beginning to wake.
Richard took a deep breath, still unsure about what was going on. Then everything about the previous night came back to him in a sudden rush—tracking Bran through the forest; the Lightbrands and their beautiful dance; the ancient, lilting voice in his head asking if he was prepared to do what was needed; and his transformation into a tree that had also wrapped around Bran.
Richard bolted upright, scared he’d see bark for skin or tangled roots for feet.
All appeared right—two legs in pants, two feet in boots. He stared at his hands; no leaves sprouted, no thorns existed. He breathed a bit easier.
He felt normal.
“Ye are fine, McAllister,” Kegan affirmed with a bushy questioning eyebrow.