The Unlocked Tome: An Annwn Cycle Tale (The Annwn Cycle) Read online

  ALSO BY

  SHAWN SPEAKMAN

  The Annwn Cycle

  The Dark Thorn

  The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn

  The Everwinter Wraith*

  The Splintered King*

  Anthologies

  Unfettered

  Unbound*

  Unfettered II*

  * Forthcoming

  The Unlocked Tome is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Shawn Speakman

  All rights reserved.

  Book design by Shawn Speakman

  Cover art by Stacy Pitt

  For Todd Lockwood,

  Who paints words in ways few can

  Introduction

  What if an innocent boy discovered an ancient book and it possessed dark magic? Would that boy be able to control it? Or would the book subjugate his inherent goodness?

  And what if that book was Unfettered?

  The Unlocked Tome is a short story—very short indeed—that features the origin story of Lachlan Wood, a boy from a broken home who will figure prominently in a future Annwn Cycle novel. The short story will open the Signed & Numbered edition of Unfettered, an anthology featuring tales from some of the best fantasy writers working today.

  Since the regular editions of Unfettered will not include The Unlocked Tome, I thought it fair to make it available to everyone.

  I hope you enjoy a return to my favorite bookstore, Old World Tales! I did.

  The Unlocked Tome

  Lachlan Wood watched the old man from his hiding place, willing him to leave.

  The owner of Old World Tales did not do so. Not right away. He finished putting a last few stray books away—work that forced Lock to sneakily move about the shelving stacks to remain hidden—before finally flipping the “open” sign to “closed” and, putting on a long coat to ward off the early fall chill, prepared to leave for the night. The ten-year-old held his breath. He watched it all from deeper in the bookstore, peering between books that he hoped hid him, his excitement building. The last few customers had vacated the shop long before, leaving him and the old man as the last people within the Pioneer Square Seattle bookstore.

  Lock hated waiting. Hated it. Yet he had done so because he felt compelled. Two days earlier, he had witnessed the unexplainable.

  Magic. Real magic.

  Now he wanted to see that magic again—even if it meant getting caught and suffering the wrath of his mother.

  The thought left distaste in his mouth. His mother. She likely did not even know he had left. Lock had pled with his father not to go. He remembered crying so hard it hurt. It had not mattered. His family remained torn apart. And it felt like his mother blamed him, ignoring Lock more with every passing day.

  He had become unwanted by those meant to love him most—powerless to stop it.

  Walking to the door, the bookstore owner produced a pipe seemingly out of thin air, packed it with new leaf, and lit it.

  The smoke swirled about his head like a halo.

  “Goodnight, Arrow Jack,” the old man said to his day companion, a merlin who sat within an open cage at the front of the store.

  The bird gave a shrill chip of annoyance.

  “I know, I know,” the old man soothed. “Part of the plan.”

  The tiny falcon stared hard at the old man in response. Lock stood frozen. He worried the merlin would warn its owner of his presence.

  It didn’t happen though. The owner of Old World Tales turned off the lights that illumed all but the front window displays. Near darkness swallowed Lock. The old man gave his closed store one last thoughtful look. The boy swore he looked right at him.

  Then, the welcoming bells above the door chiming his exit and the jingling of keys securing the store, the owner left.

  Lock did not move. He would not make a mistake. When fifteen minutes had passed and he was sure the owner was not returning, Lock removed a small flashlight from his backpack and flipped it on, his enthusiasm grown unbearable. He would find the leather-bound book again, even if it took him all night. The book held magic. Not the kind that street performers and stage charlatans used to con unsuspecting audiences. Lock had seen the real thing when he had opened the curious antique book, its cover stamped with a Celtic knot square containing four chain links, one of which had been broken. The magic had flared to life, sweeping through his body as he read the page—and a fairy had materialized right in front of him, each of them just as shocked as the other.

  Lock had let out a yelp, thrown the book at the fairy, and ran for his life. A quick look back and the book lay on the ground, closed once more.

  The fairy had vanished.

  He had not told his mother. She held disdain for fantasy novels and would never believe him—not that she paid any attention to him anyway.

  After calming down for a few hours, he had vowed to find out exactly what had happened to him at Old World Tales. Now, using the flashlight, Lock found the same shelf where the book had been.

  It was not there.

  He cursed inwardly. A different kind of panic set in. It was possible someone had purchased it. Who wouldn’t want a magic book like that?

  Heart racing, he manically began scanning the shelves nearby.

  Nothing.

  He was about to give up when he spotted it.

  Barely able to breathe, Lock parted several hardcovers that had been placed in front of his hunt’s subject, mostly blocking the leather-bound book from sight, unable to believe he’d found it. He put his flashlight down, its beam shining on the old tome. Now he was uncertain. Should he touch it? What would happen when he did? Had the fairy returned to the book? Or was the fey creature roaming the shadows, watching him even now and planning evil things? Or worse, had he made up the entire event? A hundred questions burned through him, each more pressing than the last.

  Impulsively, Lock took the book from the shelf. The leather felt smooth in his hands, well-loved from years of reading and care. It appeared ancient, as if from another age. He ran his fingers over the stamped image of the chain-linked knot, marveling at its craftsmanship, wondering exactly who had created it and what it meant. Gilt pages glinted in the weak light and a well-worn black ribbon bookmarked a page near the end of the book, exactly where he had opened it before. He could not translate the title below the stamp—Dilyffethair—but that did not matter. He already knew what would occur when he opened the book and what would happen when he began to read.

  He turned to the bookmarked page then, his anticipation cresting like a wave. The interior words were in the same language as the title but only for a moment. They began to swim and change like a desert mirage, reforming into words he understood. The page became the same one Lock had read earlier, recounting the tale of a fairy named Berrytrill and his knight companion, Charles Ardall, who were hunting some grave evil in the depths of Rome’s St. Peter’s Basilica.

  The moment the boy began reading, the book warmed, a fine tingling traveling from his hands, up his arms, and into his chest.

  And like before, the warmth exploded white hot in his heart.

  Magic swirled into the bookstore, all about him, coalescing into the form of the flying fairy once again, his wings iridescent, his body and face made up of twigs and moss. This time, Lock corralled his fear and did not run.

  “I am not meant to be here,” the fairy whispered, scanning the shadows of Old World Tales with an o
dd mixture of awe and concern.

  Lock swallowed. “Where did you come from?”

  “From Annwn,” the fey creature replied.

  “Huh?”

  The fairy flew directly in front of the boy’s face then and scrutinized him, crossing his thin arms. Dark eyes squinted with anger. “My royal crown, you know not what you do, scion of man. I sense magic about you. Where is the Heliwr?”

  “The Heli what?” Lock asked. He couldn’t believe he was talking to a fairy.

  “Charles Ardall. And that book. Where did you get it?”

  For the first time, the boy realized he clutched the open book close to his chest. He had forgotten it in his euphoria. He looked down at it, the fire of magic still coursing through his body. He could feel a connection with the tome and, as power bridged that gap, he knew exactly where the fairy had come from.

  “There is an evil coming. Of that there is little uncertainty,” the fairy added.

  Lock ignored the creature. On a whim, he turned to a new page, somewhere near the front of the book.

  “What are you doing?” the fairy ridiculed.

  Lock read a new page. A woman lived in a stone tower, her companion a holly tree that grew old even as it came alive and protected her.

  Suddenly, at Lock’s feet, holly began to creep, emerging from the deep shadows beneath the shelves that surrounded him. Sharp leaves and toughened, crooked branches filled the entire bookstore floor, scratching their way toward the end of the aisle. There the branches began to weave together, taking shape. The boy held his breath, in awe. The holly transformed into a giant right before him, arms and legs flexing strength, two groups of crimson berries becoming eyes that blazed with watchfulness.

  The ten-year-old flipped the book to another page. Eagerly, he read. A Druid stood defiant on the obsidian shore of the Hadeshorn, its waters steaming and screaming with the cries of the dead. Upon its waters, a cloaked apparition floated, as large as the life the long-dead Druid had lived, bigger than the spirits that swirled reverently about it.

  “Put the book down, child. The magic will consume you. It cannot be trusted.”

  The boy spun. A cloaked man stared hard at him from the front of the store, eyes within his cowl as hard as agates, his skin pale and short beard the color of coal. There was something amiss about the man—Lock realized the Druid lacked an arm.

  The boy fought to withdraw from the other’s paralyzing dark gaze.

  Lock won. “I know what I am doing.”

  “You are a fool then.”

  Lock did not care what the Druid thought. The magic gave him power when he had been powerless for so long—with his mother, with his father, and with the looks of pity he received from teachers and friends when all he wanted was to be living a normal life. The magic did not care about those things. The book was a living thing, capable of giving him what he needed. A small part of him realized he was losing himself, but an angry seed buried in the pit of his being had sprouted, only desiring to grow and revel in the powerful magic.

  As he was about to flip to another part of the book, darkness filled the bookstore, horrible and malignant. Revulsive venom filled Lock. He scanned the shadows, almost unable to breathe, searching for the sickness’s source, almost afraid to find it. Then the blackness became a wiry dark man who smiled fangs, grinning from the shadows in the next aisle over, eyes filled with a hate that promised quick bloodlust.

  “Vampyr,” the fairy hissed.

  Lock clutched Dilyffethair closer to his chest. The magic gathered there, waiting to be unleashed. He would defeat the vampire. Nothing could stop him.

  “What is going on here?!”

  The question infiltrated the magic, reaching the part of Lock not lost to the book. He recognized the voice and latched onto it like a lifeline, instantly aware of the abyss that yawned before him. It took all of his willpower but he slammed the pages closed, the resultant echo reverberating throughout the store.

  When he placed the talisman back on the shelf, the magic died.

  The beings it had brought to life became wisps of memory on the air.

  Sudden silence deafened. Lock breathed hard, heart racing. He realized he had almost lost himself. The magic. The power. He already hungered for it again. But the owner of Old World Tales stood before the ten-year-old now, his mien just as dark and threatening as the fanged creature that had just vanished.

  “Well, boy? Speak!”

  Lock didn’t know what to say. Seconds felt like hours.

  “No reason to stammer an answer when we both know it,” the old man growled. He stood as only a silhouette against the city’s light, a wraith brought to life. “It is always better to think before speaking. And acting. A lesson you still must learn, it appears.”

  Lock swallowed hard, already thinking of escape. He was fast, but the old man blocked the way to the door and the night beyond. He was trapped.

  “And what book did you have there?” the owner asked.

  For the first time, Lock returned his gaze to the tome. It sat there, waiting. A shiver went down his spine, the memory of magic surging through him still. He craved to pick up the book and call forth its power again.

  That craving frightened him even as he barely understood it.

  “It called to me,” he said simply.

  “You did not answer my question.”

  Lock looked back to the book. “I don’t know what book it is. The title is on the cover but I can’t read it.”

  “Let us have a look then.” The old man walked to the shelf and picked up the leather-bound book. “Ahh yes. It is titled Dilyffethair.”

  “What does that mean?” Lock asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “It means ‘unfettered’ or ‘free.’ It’s an old anthology. Do you know what that is?” The boy shook his head. “Well, young sir, an anthology is a book containing many stories, usually written by different writers. Themed. No theme. It makes no difference. Based upon the magic I witnessed, I would say you ventured into about three of those stories?” Lock nodded meekly. “There are many more in Dilyffethair. Short stories are magic, in one form or another, different but powerful. Like you and me. We are like that too. Different but powerful.”

  “We?” Lock questioned. “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t think you are the only person who can do magic, do you?”

  “I can’t do—”

  “Magic?” the other cut in. He pulled his pipe out, and soon smoke fragrant with vanilla and cherry filled the store once more. “What do you think you were just doing?”

  “The magic came from the book,” Lock said adamantly.

  “No, son. It did not.”

  Lock looked down at his hands as if he didn’t know them. What had he done? And what did the old man mean exactly?

  “What is your name?” the owner of Old World Tales asked, a twinkle in his eye. The anger had vanished.

  “Lachlan Wood, sir.”

  “You have manners, at least. Strange for one of this world.”

  Lock said nothing beneath the other’s scrutiny. There was nothing to say.

  “I am Myrddin Emrys. My friends call me Merle. I own Old World Tales,” the old man said finally, offering his hand.

  Lock shook it. The hand felt like a maple leaf left too long in the sun.

  “Come back tomorrow,” Merle said. “I have need of your talent. Dreamers with magic are powerful people. And quite rare.”

  “You aren’t going to call my mom?”

  “Why ever would I do that?” the old man asked with an amused snort. “Would she believe what you’ve seen? What you did this night?”

  “No,” Lock said with genuine sadness. “She wouldn’t.”

  “Just so.” Merle gave the boy a wink but then grew somber. “Remember this though, Lachlan Wood. First lesson. Gaining power does not mean we get what we want. It merely means we have a far greater responsibility to the world. You entered a dark place this night—have been in a dar
k place, I would guess, for a great while. You fell prey to your own magic. It would have overcome you, changed you into something that is not yourself. Something dark. You have much to learn.” He paused. “But not this night. Off with you. Tomorrow. Unless you have plans to break into another store?”

  “No, sir,” Lock said. He grabbed his flashlight and backpack and walked passed Merle toward the door. He gazed furtively about. The magic had entirely disappeared from the bookstore and taken the fantasy creations with it, as if they had never existed. But Merle was right. The magic had changed him in some fundamental way. He could sense that much at least. It was almost too much to take in.

  Before Lock entered the light of the front displays, he turned back to see the old man still watching him. “Sir?”

  Merle drew on his pipe, emitting a curl of smoke.

  “Yes, son?”

  “You said earlier that I did magic. And you can do it too. What kind?”

  Merle’s lips curved into a smile, but it was one of mystery.

  “All in good time.”

  The boy nodded, unable not to smile back. He twisted the doorknob, Arrow Jack dissecting him the entire time with a steely stare, and with a small nod to Merle, left the bookstore. It felt like a dream. The streets were empty, the stars overhead his watchful companions. The fall air kissed his cheeks, cooling the fever the magic had left.

  Magic.

  Real magic.

  Still in a daze for the truths he had born witness to, Lock made his way home, bolstering his resolve, feeling stronger with every step. It was time to talk to his mother but not about what had occurred this night.

  And tomorrow, revisit Old World Tales.

  Biography

  Shawn Speakman grew up in the beautiful wilds of Washington State near Mt. St. Helens. After moving to Seattle to attend the University of Washington, he befriended New York Times bestselling fantasy author Terry Brooks and became his webmaster. It has led to a life filled with magic and words.