The only other prominent feature of the island grew near the knight—an oak tree as large as the castle with leaves as golden as the dawn.
Richard gained his feet and walked up the hill.
The oak ruled the whole of the isle like a lord. It was ancient and knotted with branches reaching in all directions, the trunk massive and its roots buried deep. Finches and other birds darted among the foliage and ferns beneath, singing their song to the day, while insects lazily drifted on the air.
Despite knowing the tree was as deadly as the wall of thorns, Richard wanted nothing more than to lie down in its serene shadows and sleep forever.
Circling the tree, seven bluestone blocks erupted from the earth like rib bones, each chiseled with druidic symbols. On the one closest him, Arondight glittered, the sword resting point-down on the diagonal face, its runes winking at Richard as if in greeting. The other blocks also bore weapons as unique as the one Merle had given Richard at his knighthood—a battleaxe, war hammer, heavy gauntlets, dagger, spear, and diamond-shaped mace.
The earth beneath his bare feet thrummed with power as he neared the great tree. At his approach, the roots and branches tensed, ready to protect the relics on the rune-written blocks.
“Achlesydd,” Richard soothed, calling the tree by name.
The oak relaxed, recognizing him as a Knight of the Yn Saith.
“What’s on your mind, Rick?”
Richard turned. A sandy-haired man with finely chiseled cheekbones and an average build stood nearby, his feet as bare as Richard’s own, his blue eyes inquisitive. He wore denim jeans and a coat that offered protection from elements not present in Annwn.
“Alastair,” Richard greeted. “It’s been many months. You look well.”
A smile brought life to Alastair Finley. “Life is good. Quiet. The family grows and I’ve gotten quite a lot of research done the last few months. How are you?”
“I am here,” Richard said simply. “The family is well then?”
“Yeah, all is good,” Alastair replied, looking away. “The kids grow like weeds. Mark actually likes school and Maddy is able to stand now.”
The knight of the Betws-y-coed fairy glen in Wales lived a peaceful life with wife and children, his portal one of the oldest and relatively inactive due to its odd entrance placement in Annwn. He was a good man, fair in all things. In another lifetime the two knights would likely have been close friends, their scholarly background a common bond. But Alastair enjoyed a life the other knights chose not to embrace and one Richard had lost, leaving an unbridgeable gulf between them.
A ghostly shimmer formed a few feet away, solidifying into a short, heavyset Italian man who hugged his barrel chest closely as if trying to stay warm.
“Damnable snow and ice,” he bellowed. “I hate Chicago in the fall and winter.”
“Sal, you hate everything,” Alastair said.
“You’re tellin’ me,” Sal grumbled. “What the hell did I have to traipse outside in this weather for?”
The other two men ignored Sal.
Soon other forms coalesced in the afternoon sunshine. In all, six men and one woman stood on the isle near the grandiose oak—the summoning bringing them from diverse countries, different cultures, and unique backgrounds.
They were the Knights of the Yn Saith.
“Thank you all for coming,” Richard said. “I know during this time of year it is a test of will to answer a calling.”
“We know you would not do so if it were not necessary, Richard,” James St. Albans said, his British accent thick. “No need to apologize.”
“I find this meeting a little odd. The Paris portal has been quiet,” Arnaud Lovel said. Fat pushed at the boundaries of the Parisian’s clothing. “I’ve not had reason to leave my home in many months.”
“That’s apparent,” Sal grunted.
Arnaud ignored the insult. Richard shared all the details of the previous night—the cait sith’s entry, the escape of the fairies, the cu sith and its attack on Bran, the visit by Archbishop Glenallen, and how Rome was aware of everything that had transpired.
“The cait sith mentioned the fairies being the end of the Word,” Richard finished.
“A Pope can die,” Danica Roderick said, her sleek blonde hair almost white in the sunlight. “But it does not end the Word. Or the Church.”
“It would have to be something else,” Richard agreed.
“Whatever it is, it isn’t affecting the rest of us,” James said, his long-fingered hand stroking his short goatee. “Like Arnaud said. The gateway in London has been peaceful for at least a year.”