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