The Dark Thorn Read Free Page B

he held for the bookstore owner and how Merle made him feel, the knight had not come to Old World Tales to fight.
    “Is there anything you can do about the fairies?” Richard asked.
    “Without a Heliwr? Or you running across them? No. I am powerless.”
    “You aren’t powerless though,” Richard admonished. “Why have you not appointed a new Heliwr?”
    “It is not yet time,” Merle said simply.
    The knight’s emotions boiled anew. “Well, when will it be time?”
    “All things in due course, Richard,” the old man answered, looking to the ceiling.
    “That’s not good enough!”
    “ What is going on?! “
    Richard was on his feet instantly, Arondight a call away.
    Where the light of the front room met the darkness of its rear, a boy of around twenty years old stood like a tensed creature ready to attack—hair wild, green eyes flashing challenge. He wore only a pair of gray sweatpants, his frame sinewy and strong. With both hands he gripped a large hardcover book like a baseball bat, ready to swing and strike if need be.
    Richard relaxed. The youngster was no threat.
    “What do you plan on doing with that?” Richard demanded.
    The boy didn’t back down, but uncertainty filled his eyes.
    Then Richard saw the book’s cover. A golden rose emblazoned on the leather flashed in the weak illumination, its five petals opened and inviting readership. No title or author name could be discerned. It was an old tome but well cared for, its cover still supple despite its obvious age, its binding resewn by Merle numerous times.
    Richard knew the book well.
    “Did you just pick that book up?” he asked. “Or was it given to you?”
    The boy frowned, a fight still written on him.
    “Given.”
    “Relax, gentlemen. Sit, Richard,” Merle said sternly. “Nothing to be on guard about here.”
    “Are you all right, sir?” the boy questioned.
    “Bran, meet Richard.”
    Richard looked into the boy as he approached, surprised at what he had initially missed. Cold, untrusting eyes. A pursed, soured mouth. Distrust in every movement. Deeper within, a rod of steel existed, one tempered in hellfire most would never know.
    The boy had seen hard times and they had left their mark.
    “I heard raised voices…” Bran started.
    “Go back to bed,” the bookseller said. “Richard and I were discussing…old wounds. I am fine and you should be resting for the work on the morrow.”
    Bran hesitated, his eyes stubborn. Giving Richard a once over and a departing frown, he vanished into the darkness of the store.
    “Have a new apprentice, eh?”
    “Now, Richard—”
    “Don’t patronize me,” the knight said curtly. “I know you better than you think. You do nothing without intention, invite no one into your life you cannot use. The boy would not be here out of charity or good will. Especially with that book. Do not believe me daft now as you once did so long ago. And do not ruin another life for your games.”
    Arrow Jack stirred in his cage above but remained asleep.
    “Actually, Richard, the boy lived on the street—like you,” the old man countered. “I have given him a place to lay his head and have put him to work. Mayor Dimes has treated the homeless terribly. You know that better than anyone. No, Bran is better off now than he was a month ago when I invited him to work the stacks.”
    “Riddles within riddles,” Richard grumbled. “I have never told a lie, Richard,” Merle said. “Ever.”
    Richard gritted his teeth. Like the chess game in front of them, Richard and Merle were in the middle of an old battle, but this one with words. Chess was about misdirection and entrapment, making your opponent believe an attack was imminent from a horse rather than a conquering pawn. Merle knew how to play chess like no other, and it showed in how he related with Richard and the other knights; if the bookstore owner made a point to share information, it often had consequences far beyond any surface meaning.
    “I saw the