As Richard looked about the garden, he was startled to discover what he had mistaken as malformed boulders were actually sleeping dragons. Each one lay curled near a freestanding wall, burrowed comfortably a foot into the dirt, the shade of an oak tree overhead. Only a few such spaces were occupied. Hundreds and hundreds of other patches were grown over, unused.
“Dragons don’t sleep in caves?” Bran asked.
“Dragons need little protection from the elements,” Henrick said. “They have tough hide and an inner furnace for warmth.”
“So few,” Richard breathed. “Four dozen, at most.”
“We dragons survive, one way or another,” Saethmoor growled, stopping to confront the knight. “It has ever been and ever will be.”
Richard nodded politely. He sadly didn’t agree.
Saethmoor passed through a large square lined by numerous rose bushes, some grown as tall as the residents of Tal Ebolyon. The dragon did not view their beauty. Instead, he made his way down a set of wide, shallow stairs and into a lower circular area as large as a city block. Rectangular granite slabs like those at Stonehenge periodically grew from the circle’s outer rim and glowed white, some forming trilithons while others stood alone. Power radiated from the area, born of some ancient mystique Richard could not identify but only feel. Maethyn and Nael sat perched atop two separate stones with three other dragons of varying earthy colors and sizes. All watched Richard and his companions enter the ring with vigilant scrutiny.
The scene at the center of the circle nearly brought Richard to a halt.
Lying on emerald grass and bearing hundreds of wounds, a green dragon lay stretched out, the rise and fall of its chest slow and laboring. The dragon was smaller than its kin, not fully grown as Richard could judge. It was dying and the concern Saethmoor had expressed upon their arrival became all too clear.
A man white like an albino but with raven black hair cradled the head of the dying dragon, soothing the fey creature as best he could. Short, stocky men who resembled Henrick but were bald and wearing white robes tended the wounds as best they could, examining the tears and rents in its wings while others patched the bleeding savagery with white cloth that turned quickly crimson. The man watched none of it, focused on the head of the beast, tears standing out clearly on his finely chiseled cheeks.
“Dragonsire?” Saethmoor said softly.
“What do ye desire, First Son?” Latobius snapped, not looking up.
“Visitors have entered Tal Ebolyon with a request for audience.”
“What they request, I cannot give. Turn them away.”
“Greetings, Lord Latobius,” Richard intervened, dismounting to bow. “I am Knight Richard McAllister of the Yn Saith. I come on behalf of the Seelie Court and the Morrigan who leads it. My sincerest sorrow to you and your kin at the sight I see before me.”
“What can ye possibly know of this or sorrow, knight?”
“More than you know, my Lord,” Richard responded. “More than you know.”
“The Queen oversteps her authority.”
“She is pressed with war. And has need of your wisdom.”
“As I wrote in my response to her, I care not,” Latobius said. “The woes of this world have come to my domain and I must care for them first.”
“Lord Latobius,” Lugh interrupted, stepping forward. Richard withheld his desire to grab the hellyll back. “I am Lugh of the Long Hand, bearer of Areadhbar, hellyll of the lost Hinter Hills, and defender of Arendig Fawr. Richard McAllister speaks true. The destruction of Tal Ebolyon is at hand. To have ignored the letter from the Queen was to ignore your own safety.”
“In no way will my kind take suggestions or accept criticisms from a spear wielder,” Latobius spat the last as a curse, shaking his head.
“I—” Lugh began.
“Saethmoor,” Latobius commanded, waving them away.
Before the charcoal dragon could guide them away, Lugh slammed the butt of his spear against the grassy carpet. The golden point of Areadbhar glowed pristine white even under the sunshine, drawing all attention to him.
The dragons sitting upon the stone blocks growled low.
Tension filled the air.
“We mean you no disrespect or harm, Lord Latobius,” Richard said, glaring at Lugh to stay his hand. “The Morrigan has need of your might in this trying time.”
“Such spears have killed many of my kin,” Latobius said, ignoring Richard.
“But not by my hand,” Lugh argued.
“By steady hands possessed of ill wills,” the dragonsire hissed. “Murderers. Perjurers. We dragons have long memories…long memories.”
“How did your son come to this, Lord Latobius?” Richard questioned, changing the course of the conversation in hope of having any chance of success.
“Something flying, some evil from the lowlands,” Latobius replied, still massaging the head of the enormous beast. “Tearing claws, a swarm of some bird unknown. His brothers found him struggling to regain the heights of Tal Ebolyon days hence. The Fynach work hard…”
“I know how this happened,” Richard said. “But more importantly who did this.”
For the first time, Latobius looked up. Eyes as black as coal fixed on the knight and the anger mirrored there simmered in depths grown deep from centuries of life and sorrow survived. It was all Richard could do to not look away.
“Who?”
“Philip Plantagent of Caer Llion.”
Latobius nodded almost imperceptibly.
“How?”
“Caer Llion has bred halfbreeds of terror in a war he plans against the whole of Annwn. By the multitudes, half-eagle and fey-cat beasts are rampaging across the countryside and skies, killing livestock, Tuatha—whatever they can. It is clear Philip plans to weaken your allies while strengthening his campaign. He will stop at nothing until the breadth of Annwn is under his total control, including the Snowdon and Tal Ebolyon. The Morrigan gathers the remaining lords of the Seelie Court one last time to defend your right to exist. It is for this reason I have traveled to these high reaches, to ask your help in the conflict to come.”
“The letter again, is it not?”
“The letter.”
“My answer is the same. Maethyn, who oversees the laws we live by, and Nael, who guards those laws, both agree. The dragons of Tal Ebolyon cannot invest in a war that will undoubtedly kill more of my children.”
“The letter arrived before this tragedy, my Lord,” Richard pointed out. “I do not wish to see any more of your precious kin ravaged in this way. But Caer Llion comes and will not stop until all is under his rule and dominion, including Tal Ebolyon. Is it not better to fight alongside the many rather than alone with few?”
“Dragonsire,” Maethyn whispered. “It is a difficult decision.”
“Perhaps we ought to revisit our earlier decision,” Saethmoor added. “This is not as clear as it once was. Not after the halfbreed attack.”
“First Son, do not ask this of me,” Latobius said, his mien tortured. “To lose any of ye would kill me as any spear.”
“What happened to the son in your arms will happen to you,” Richard said pointedly.
“He speaks a certain truth, Dragonsire,” Saethmoor said.
“Enough!” Latobius thundered. “I will not tolerate it!”
“Retribution for this grievous assault must be considered,” Richard pressed.
“Do ye not think I want vengeance?” Latobius said, gesturing to the damage done by the griffins. “For this? I want it more than anything. Anything!”
“Then bring your might, rejoin the Seelie Court.”
“I will not. Cannot! The risk is far too great, I say!”
“My lord, you must,” Richard insisted.
Anger flooding his eyes, Latobius gently put the head of his son down on the soft grass. Standing, his thin form immediately shimmered. The body of the lord expanded and elongated as it gained height, his skin developing scales, limbs growing longer and end
ing in razor-like claws. Clothes became leather wings, scarred with ancient healed rents. In a matter of moments, the fey lord had transformed into a dragon as formidable as any Richard could imagine.
The eyes of Latobius burned into the knight.
Richard gave no ground, conviction burning inside.
“Ye reek of loss, of uncertainty,” Latobius growled in his new form, his massive head mere feet from Richard. “Ye care nothing for anyone, or the world. Why ye are here at all is an enigma.”
Richard said nothing, unfaltering before obvious danger.
“Those who have nothing to lose make unwise and poor leaders,” Latobius said.
“You do not know me,” Richard challenged. “Nor my reasons for being here.”
Muscles rippling in his dragon chest and neck, Latobius fixed his gaze on Bran. “And untested as a new faun, this one,” Latobius snorted. The dragon returned to Richard. “Ye are an affront to me, to my wishes. Permit that I will not. My youngest son dies before me at the hands of war. Only seven decades old, a baby still in many respects. No eggs hatched since his cracked, with none on the horizon. I hurt as he does, yearn for revenge as those of my brethren around me. But I will not risk one more death like this. Too few, we are. To lose even one of us would undo us further.”
“Lord Latobius?”
All eyes turned to Kegan as he dismounted from his Rhedewyr.
“Clurichaun,” Latobius greeted, eyes narrowing. “Yer sadness is written on ye.”
Kegan bowed. “Sad. And true. Days ago I lost my oldest son to the wiles of Caer Llion. Connal was his name, brother to Kearney. Connal was a better son than I had ever hoped to have. He died protecting us in the lower passes, but he died for a cause larger than us. He died to remind us all what the Dark One has planned, and it is our choice if we let that happen.”
Latobius said nothing but watched Kegan closely.
“I tell ye this now not to persuade ye or anger ye further,” Kegan said, eyes shining. “Ye are entitled to your pain. As I am. But I want ye to know some of us have suffered losses at the hands of the evil that expands from Caer Llion. I would do anything to prevent others from feeling this way—from feeling the way ye do right now.”
“The pain in yer voice, clurichaun, I hear,” Latobius said. “Ye have a large heart to share it with me. But sharing will not keep my children safe on a battleground, now will it?”
“But they will come here to kill you,” Richard said angrily.
“Then let them come!” Latobius roared, smoke seething from nostrils. The Rhedewyr and their riders shied. Richard did not move. “Let them come and witness our power!”
“It is best we leave,” Henrick whispered, pulling at the knight.
Richard did not budge, his mind working fast. The meeting with Lord Latobius was on the brink of collapse. To stay meant possible annihilation at the fiery breath of dragonkind; to leave meant failing to return Tal Ebolyon to the Seelie Court. Richard had only one course left him, an admission he hated all the more for having to give it.
The knight called the Dark Thorn and knelt.
The dragons surrounding them watched closely as Richard bowed his head. The silver grains of the staff’s dark wood sparked under the sun and white fire ran its length. Richard stared at the ground, hoping he wasn’t losing his soul for what he was about to say, the conflicting parts of his entire life coming together in one moment that would define him forever.
“I swear an oath of fealty to your people, Lord Latobius,” Richard offered in his loudest, booming voice. “Bring your people to the Seelie Court. Fight Caer Llion with all of your might. Help kill Philip Plantagenet. Send him and his abominations to the lowest pit of the lowest hell. In exchange for your return oath to rejoin the Morrigan, I will walk the ends of Annwn and my own world to find what ails dragonkind and cure it.”
Silence fell over the mountain. Richard kept his head bowed.
He did not get up. “Ye may possess the Thorn, knight,” Latobius said. “But ye have yet to become it.”
“I just did, I think, Lord Latobius.”
Long moments passed. Richard awaited the verdict.
“It changes nothing, Knight of the Yn Ssaith,” Lord Latobius finally said. “I know ye are sincere in yer oath. It is not enough; it is not time. First Son, these guests have outstayed their welcome. The path here has taken a toll, I see. Guide them upon barges to the lowlands where they desire to go. It will aid them in ways I cannot.”
“Yes, Dragonsire,” Saethmoor said.
Anger at his failure visceral within, Richard rose and let the Dark Thorn vanish.
Lord Latobius looked closely at him.
“Knight, forgive me my choice,” the great dragon rumbled. “Give the Morrigan my apology. I pray she is strong enough for the breadth of the Tuatha de Dannan.”
“You cannot mean to betray Annwn,” Richard snarled. “Betray your Queen!”
“It will not be so!” Latobius roared. “At great distances my kind can see, better than all other fey. But no one can view the future. It is that future I fight to protect.”
Henrick pulled on Richard, but still the knight did not budge.
“Leave,” Latobius said lowly.
“Very well,” Richard said curtly. “I hope you reconsider. I hope you remember those who wounded you so, those who would see your kin wiped from this mountain. With courage we go to combat Caer Llion. I hope you regain your own.”
Latobius ignored the rebuke and stared sadly again at his wounded son. The Fynach continued their efforts. Richard mounted Lyrian once more and, cueing the others, followed Saethmoor from the Ring of Baedgor. Richard did not look back.
It would do no good.
“You have a stubborn sire,” Richard said to Saethmoor.
“He is in pain,” the prince said, guiding them from the gardens to a flat stone yard bearing large wooden square platforms with posts at the corners like a bed. “He speaks wisdom but pain has chosen his direction in this. Perhaps he will think on what you have said.”
“What do you think?” Richard questioned.
“What you have said, I believe,” Saethmoor said. “I would rather fight.”
“I failed then.”
“No, Knight McAllister,” Henrick said. “You do not know that.”
“The lord may regain his stones,” Snedeker said.
“More is what will be done now. It is time we visit Caer Llion, Bran,” Richard said, the realization of his failure blooming into a flame of resolve.
“To do what?” Bran asked, clearly surprised. “I thought we would—”
“Fight with the Tuatha de Dannan?” Richard asked. “That will come. The Morrigan now owes me a favor, although a small one. It is time we exercise it.”
“Why Caer Llion then?”
“To end the threat of Philip Plantagenet before the war even begins.”
Bran stared into the afternoon sky where the four dragons and the barge they carried flew, disappearing into the ether of the Snowdon.
In minutes they were gone.
What had taken days to ascend had taken an hour to undo.
Upon landing in Arendig Fawr, Richard ordered Bran to soothe Westryl and Lyrian before disappearing into the Cadarn to seek out the Morrigan and the lord of Mochdrev Reach. Bran remained with Arrow Jack, whose piercing eyes watched the mobilization of the city. The Tuatha de Dannan scurried about, dozens of races—short clurichauns and feline cait siths, ugly spriggans and hairy woodwoses, pointy-eared hellyll and many others. Fairies buzzed through the air, relaying messages. A few companies of coblynau had also arrived, adding their stalwart presence. From the depths of the forest, carts of armor and arms rolled passed, coming from Mastersmith Govannon. Even leprechauns tottered about, drunkenly trying to help.
All carried weapons of some sort, ready for the coming conflict with Caer Llion.
After the Rhedewyr were once again at peace from their chaotic journey through the air, Deirdre and Snedeker retur
ned from the Cadarn, steely determination in the redhead’s eyes.
“That was an interesting ride, eh?” Deirdre commented.
“No kidding,” Bran agreed.
“Looks like we go to war.”
“So many races here.”
“The Tuatha de Dannan are proud,” Deirdre said. “This fight has long been needed. Even without Tal Ebolyon, the force gathering should be formidable.”
“When Richard spoke in Tal Ebolyon, the dragon lord said something odd,” Bran said. “He called you a ‘fair witch.’ Why would he say that? Are you really a witch?”
“My mother was a witch,” Deirdre said, looking toward the Cadarn with an eagerness that annoyed Bran. “She died when I was very young. I know a few small spells she taught me, nothing that powerful. A levitation incantation. A song to change the color of leaves or control ivy. That’s about it.” She smiled sadly. “She would usually put back right what I had done.”
“I’m sorry to hear you lost your mother so young.”
“Life has a way of severing love sometimes,” she said sadly.
Bran nodded, thinking. When his own mother died, he had changed dramatically and knew of what Deirdre spoke. Upon entering Annwn he had changed again, this time for the better. He no longer felt lost to the streets. Despite only being in Annwn for a few days, he had become a part of something much larger than himself. He had always wished it and, like his father, he now possessed a relic of great power in Arondight, giving him the chance to matter in a world where normalcy was sought and highly overrated. He may not understand Arondight or everything that transpired around him, but he knew he would never let the sword go.
And unlike Richard, Bran would use the magic blade to the best of his ability and never let it change him as it had the knight.
No matter who he fell in love with.
“Do you love him?” Bran blurted, suddenly annoyed at himself.
“Who do you mean?”
It was all Bran could do to meet Deirdre’s green eyes.
The Dark Thorn Page 31
