The Dark Thorn (40 page)

“Does Arondight come from the same place your staff does?”

Facing away from the camp, Richard exhaled a deep breath. The boy was eager, maybe too eager. The world had already begun changing for him; it would change a great deal more before he knew everything Richard knew. Just like when he had accepted Arondight from Merle, Bran now had hundreds of questions for Richard, so many the former Seattle knight could not hope to answer in a night, let alone a year.

“I need answers, Richard,” Bran added.

“I know you do,” the knight said. “Nothing can be changed now at any rate. You’ve made your decision. I’ve had mine forced on me.” He paused. “But, to answer your question, Arondight is held in safety here in Annwn, along with the other relic weapons held by the other knights. No one can steal them. You will be introduced to the other knights and learn more about this when we know how Lord Latobius decides. It is at that time I can contact the other Yn Saith and share what we know.”

“And you are now the Heliwr.”

Bran didn’t say it as an accusation. Richard didn’t know what to think. He wondered if the boy hated the mantle once belonging to his father.

If he did, he didn’t show it.

“Yes, I am. Whether I like it or not,” Richard said. “You and I were bonded in the glen when we became the tree. The Paladr took Arondight from me and replaced it with the Dark Thorn, born of the hawthorn planted by Joseph of Arimathea at Glastonbury Abbey. I do know the staff is called from some place other than Arondight. There is no place for the staff among the other relics. As the Heliwr, I am now responsible in ways you probably can’t fathom—but you will, soon enough.”

“You are angry,” Bran said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Go to bed,” Richard said stiffly. “The staff took much out of me.”

“I am tired as well,” Bran said. “God, the intense power…”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Bran took a deep breath. “I do not feel any…different.”

“And nor would you,” the knight said. “Power does not change a person; a person lets power change them. It is there when you command it. Don’t let it change you.”

“Arondight failed your calling sometimes…because you lacked faith?”

Richard turned away. “It is not as simple as that.”

“But how—”

“Bran,” Richard sighed heavily, annoyed. “It is an extension of yourself. Arondight is a part of you now, like an arm or leg. It responds much in the same way. When you have need of the sword, will it. It will be there.” Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. “No more on this now. Rest. More after we leave Tal Ebolyon, when we know more.”

“What about the bodach finding us?”

“Not tonight,” Richard said. “We have a few days. When it does, we will be ready.”

More questions burned in Bran. Richard could see them. To the boy’s credit, he moved away to his own bed near the fire.

Richard knew one thing. He would have to come up with a plan to kill the Unseelie. It was stronger than him. The next time, they would have to be prepared to finish it.

Or they would die.

With deep snores emanating from Llassar’s tent, Richard threw a few more tiny logs onto the fire and got comfortable for sleep.

Deirdre watched him do so, her eyes finding his.

Richard turned away.

When he closed his eyes, he thought of Elizabeth and why his place in hell was assured.

The morning dawned chill but clear.

Woken by a quick shake of his shoulder by Kegan, Richard wiped the sleep from his eyes, took a deep breath, and bundled his belongings for the trip to Tal Eboylon. He was sore and in a dark mood, his dreams during the night disturbed. After a quick meal of coblynau bread, tangy cheese, and few words spoken to the others, he mounted Lyrian and, with Henrick leading them, left the snores of Llassar behind. They passed the gaping door to Caer Glain and regained the trail leading to the dragons of Tal Ebolyon.

The group settled into the journey, Bran pulled Westryl alongside Richard.

“Do you really believe Philip will try to invade our world?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know for sure,” Richard said, thinking on it and still not arriving at an answer. “We still have not found the reason behind the attack on you, but I, like Merle, believe it to be related somehow to Philip wanting our world. But regardless, what I said to Lord Fafnir is true. Men like Philip crave more, their lives filled with insatiable greed. He will come one day to enslave both worlds.”

“And then?”

“Philip will die,” Richard said simply. “His army will die. And then this world will die. Annwn may have magic but the technology of our world will crush him. When that happens, those men like Philip in
our
world will destroy Annwn. We can’t let that happen.”

“We won’t,” Bran said.

“Why do you think Merle pressed me into this?” Richard snorted. “He knew a Heliwr was needed if we are to survive. If Philip is not stopped—if his desires are left unchecked—it could spell doom for both worlds. No matter if I hate the man for keeping this from me, a Heliwr is the only way to help maintain the integrity of the other portals. Merle pushed me here by using Elizabeth. For that, I will have a great many words for the old man.”

“If I knew anything about Elizabeth in this, I would tell you.”

Richard nodded guardedly.

“If he can view our world, wouldn’t Philip know that our technology would be more than a match for his army?” Bran questioned.

“He should,” Richard agreed. “And that’s what frightens me.”

While Lyrian strode on, Richard closed his eyes and reached out to the Dark Thorn. The staff was there, connected to him. Sighing, Richard opened his eyes and realized he might have a difficult time calling the staff: Arondight had answered his appeal most of the time, but his inability to control it completely had left him and others in danger. It was likely his past could also hinder his authority over the Dark Thorn.

The time for that test would come soon.

Of that he was sure.

The day grew warm. The Nharth disappeared to reveal the landscape—jagged barren slopes, the mountaintops around him too high for even the hardy lower clime pine and fir to grow. Short shrubs clung to pockets of dirt, and grayish grasses stabbed blades from crevices in the rock. The group passed drifts of snow, blinding beneath the sun. A hawk spiraled on what currents were afforded it, a lone act of life in the craggy reaches. It was hard to believe anything lived in the Snowdon heights, even dragons.

As the sun came to its zenith, the path leveled and the travelers came to Tal Ebolyon.

It was not what Richard had expected. Massive walls of eroded dark granite stood as high as a forest, dwarfing the knight and those around him. The stone blocks were seamlessly cut to fit while along the top of the wall the merlons were rounded nubs, scarred by weather and age. A circular doorway yawned in front of the company, the architecture similar in style to that of Caer Glain, a vast flat area beyond beckoning them forward.

“I hope Lord Latobius is here,” Richard said. “Time is short.”

“Will the dragons cooperate?” Bran asked.

“I do not know. Time to see.”

“The dragons have had a rough time of it as of late,” Deirdre said. “They are rarely seen in the skies. Travelers coming to Mochdrev Reach say they are dying. If that is true, I think this might be a great deal more difficult than Caer Glain.”

“That means I alone talk then,” Richard said. “And fairy, if you open your yap and piss them off, I swear I will put you in a jar and never let you out.”

Snedeker frowned darkly but said nothing.

The Rhedewyr clopped through the opening into a different world. A lone snow-covered peak cut the blue sky, lording over a far-reaching lake as blue as icy steel. Large stone partitions like broken gray teeth grew from a carpet of finely cut green grass, the sudden vibrant color a shock. Oak trees as large as eight-story buildings shadowed every eroded wall, each symmetrical and healthy, while numerous trimmed hedges curved beneath them and met flowering vines snaking on stone trellises and hardy rhododendrons bursting with blooms. Several oddly shaped boulders littered the grounds like abstract art. It was a massive garden, beautiful in its layout and care, one the likes of which Richard had never seen.

Overshadowing the appearance of the green plateau and standing directly across the lake, a tower house like Dunguaire Castle jutted into the warm afternoon, the stone just as weathered as the wall they had just passed through. Towers with open windows grew from the corners of the fortress while a lone square keep squatted in its middle like a tree stump. No moat circled it, no gate impeded entrance inside. A white pennant hung limp from a lone pole at the keep apex, lacking a design of allegiance.

Nothing moved—not from within the castle or the garden.

“Dragons live in that castle?” Bran asked incredulously.

“No, no, no,” Henrick answered with a laugh. “Lord Latobius and his dragonkin rest in the Garden of a Thousand Wings. It is the Fynach who reside in the keep of Tal Ebolyon, safe from the harsh winters that used to batter the Snowdon.”

“Who are the Fynach?”

“Caretakers, of a sort,” Richard said. “Coblynau devoted to the care and survival of the dragons. As Deirdre said, few dragons remain, only a handful. The Fynach work hard to discover the cause of the decline. They know more concerning dragons than anyone in Annwn—anyone anywhere, I believe.”

“Why are the dragons dying?” Bran asked.

“No one knows, young Ardall,” Henrick said. “Many believe the long summer the dragons have endured has altered them somehow. Others believe some kind of inbreeding has left them unable to produce offspring.”

“Where are they then?” Deirdre asked. “Or for that matter, the Fynach? Should not one of them have met us by now?”

“I do not know,” the guard said.

Arrow Jack let out a loud warning shriek.

Just as Richard clicked Lyrian into motion toward Tal Ebolyon, three dragons launched into the air from the far end of the garden, flying toward them like arrows shot from a bow.

“Lord Latobius will be difficult to persuade,” Henrick offered. “The Yn Dri rarely come to agreement on anything, especially a subject of serious magnitude.”

“Divisive bickering does not interest me,” Richard said.

Lyrian snorted defiance but held his ground as the monoliths approached. Patting the Rhedewyr comfortingly, Richard watched with trepidation. Slinking through the air like serpents in water, the three dragons grew as large as houses, their scales shimmering in the sunshine. The lead dragon was the largest, charcoal hide rippling with golden highlights, black leather wings beating with strong, smooth strokes. Flying alongside the leader was a brownish-red beast, its limbs shorter than the others; to the other side and a bit behind, a shrunken gray-green ancient dragon flew. All were scarily formidable, claws like curved swords, long barbed tails, and horn-encrusted heads bearing jaws rowed with dagger-like teeth.

Richard wondered suddenly if he had overstepped boundaries by entering Tal Ebolyon uninvited.

He had little time to worry.

In a flurry of swift wing strokes that sent a sudden wall of air at him, the dragons settled gracefully to the courtyard on four legs and eyed the newcomers with suspicion.

“Prince Saethmoor,” Henrick greeted, kneeling.

“Coblynau,” the dragon rumbled. “It is an ill moment for you to visit Tal Ebolyon.”

“I and those with me regret to hear of any ill befalling you,” the guard said. “I am Henrick, son of Harrick, here at the behest of Lord Fafnir to escort visitors from Arendig Fawr to the foot of your father.”

The dark blue eyes of Saethmoor probed the group, lingering on Richard and Bran. “Two knights I see before me,” he said. “With an Oakwell fairy. A depressed clurichaun. A fair witch. And a murderous,
spear-wielding
hellyll.”

“I am Richard McAllister, Knight of the Yn Saith,” Richard said, dismounting and bowing. “My friends and I have come at great cost to ourselves and freedom, hunted by Caer Llion at every bend of our path. It has not been an easy path to trod. The Queen of the Seelie Court desires—”

“You are here, knight, because my Dragonsire responded to a letter received.”

“We are, for that very reason.”

“As I earlier professed, the timing of your arrival is unfortunate.”

“The letter was not sent in vain, mighty prince,” Richard said. “The survival of your race may depend on the contents of that letter.”

The dragon growled deeply in thought.

“Maethyn?”

“By the laws of Tal Ebolyon, a response by the Yn Dri is necessary,” the ancient dragon said, pondering. “The law is quite clear. No matter if the issue, once answered in the past, arises again.”

“The Dragonsire will not be pleased,” the reddish dragon disagreed.

“Unfortunate circumstances arise, Nael,” Maethyn answered. “Guests to Tal Ebolyon will not be turned away without proper considerate discourse.”

“Turning you away I cannot do apparently,” Saethmoor growled to Richard. “Law rules our way of life and it blankets all, even non-dragonkin. You must understand, however, that hospitality may be hard to come by. Our lord suffers grievous pain. Can this be done with haste, Knight of the Yn Saith Richard McAllister?”