Free The Dark Thorn by Shawn Speakman Page B

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. No, I’m not here to offer you salvation. I want to know how the attack happened, and why you didn’t do your job?”
    “Your Church no longer holds power over the Yn Saith.”
    “Ah yes,” the archbishop snorted. “The covenant the sorcerer made with the Seven. A more foolish man this world has never known. The truth is, the Church does what he, and you apparently, can no longer do—protect the world from evil.”
    “Your arrogance and ignorance is startling.”
    “Is it, now? There was once a young man,” Archbishop Glenallen began. “He carried right in his heart, accepted Arondight—the great sword forged by Govannon and later discovered by Lancelot of the Lake—and vouched with blood the safety of a city, of an entire world. This young man had a soul that was old. But he was idealistic and desired to have all that the world offered. Pride became his enemy. Going against the advice of his elders, against the wisdom of ages wrought, he married. He thought he could have it all—the duty that God had bestowed as well as the earthly treasures of the heart.
    “Some might call that arrogant, McAllister. Some might say that man’s presumption is a grave ignorance of and above itself.”
    “That man was a fool,” Richard said coldly. “And no longer exists.”
    “You are right. He is lost.” The archbishop shook his head. “God only forgives those who repent their wrath, their sins.”
    Richard said nothing. There was nothing to say.
    “Nevertheless,” the archbishop continued. “There is no reason why we shouldn’t work together as needed now. Our roles are the same; we merely go about it differently. I maintain a large diocese with thousands of souls, but I am also responsible to the Vigilo for the portal, just as you are. I have no ulterior motive, no reason to lie to you. There is far too much evil in the hearts of men, but think how evil would spread if God-fearing people realized they shared the world with myth and fairy tale. That mankind was not alone and creatures not