Nharth. Those in the mountain fog know much about a person.”
Richard watched the Rhedewyr, thinking. They would be an integral part of what was to come. He would have to speak to the Morrigan about them. There were things he and Bran would need if what he thought came to pass.
It would require sacrifice.
It would not come easily.
Hoping he would be strong enough for the gathering Seelie Court, Richard finished his breakfast and tried to enjoy the innocence of the Awenau.
He knew that innocence would not last.
Richard watched the lords of the Seelie Court take seats around the Cylch Table.
The Sarn Throne stood empty next to him, the Morrigan yet to arrive. Dozens of orbs chased away the shadows from the uppermost chamber of the Cadarn, the soft light illuminating colorful banners of the fey nations that hung from the rock ceiling. The cool air bore a hint of crushed lilac and earthy minerals. Foot-wide waterfalls trickled down hewn rock at four different places, the water vanishing below. Despite the care that had gone into creating such a beautiful room from solid rock—and the elegant curve of powerful runes carved into the walls to keep the concerns of Seelie Court secret—Richard failed to find any solace.
The memories John Lewis Hugo had invoked lingered.
And angered him.
Since walking Arendig Fawr and feeling stronger, Richard turned his thoughts to his capture. The advisor for Philip Plantagenet knew intimate chinks in the knight’s armor, had used them to compromise the faith Richard used to maintain Arondight. How John Lewis Hugo knew of Elizabeth the knight did not know, but it had neutralized his escape from the demon wolves.
Even now, Richard was unsure if he could call Arondight.
He closed his eyes briefly, and saw the dead vision of her.
Stares from the summoned lords prickled him back to reality. He met each with stern authority, hiding the turmoil within. He would not show weakness.
The lords were as different as the lands they warded, governed by petty bickering and centuries-long squabbles. Lord Eigion of the Merrow, his skin near translucent and neck gills pulsing faintly, continually fought Lord n’Hagr of the Buggane to keep the coastal ogre-like people of Caer Harlech from destroying the fish populations of the sea. Unapologetic for her nakedness, Horsemaster Aife stared hard at Lugh of the Long Hand—the defender of Arendig Fawr and bearer of the magical spear Areadbhar—for the occasional ill treatment of the Rhedewyr. Beside Lugh sat Mastersmith Govannon, his meaty hands folded on the table, an outcast living in the outskirts of the city. On the other side slumped Caswallawn, barely cognizant in his perpetual drunken stupor, as Lord Finnbhennach glowered over all, his broad frame mammoth even seated, his bullish horns gleaming where they erupted from black skin.
A bearded human and a woman sharing his fiery red hair and fierce eyes stood near the wall of the room. The Tuatha de Dannan gave them distrustful stares as well.
Six thrones, including the guest seat for Bran, remained empty—lords who had been killed, lords who had joined Philip.
And lords who chose to ignore the Morrigan.
Richard shifted in his seat, which sent a fresh burst of agony through his middle. The wounds were healing. Richard knew he still suffered internal bruising though. His healers assured him that too would fade with time, but Richard knew he had no time to give.
In calling the Seelie Court, the Morrigan had other intentions.
The Queen deemed Bran important to the meeting, inviting him to sit in with the Court. No matter how much Richard hated involving the boy, he could not ignore the wishes of the Morrigan anymore than he could order the Pope. That afternoon, he had learned more about the battle at Dryvyd Wood and his rescue as well as what else the boy had done while in Arendig Fawr. It was obvious the Queen of the Seelie Court saw something in Bran Richard did not.
Merle had as well. Giving the Paladr to Bran had begun indoctrination into a role the boy would not understand—until it was too late.
Richard remembered the day he had accepted Arondight…Springtime had finally arrived in Seattle. Richard sat on a bench in the Quad at the University of Washington in his first year of graduate studies, his shaggy hair midnight black and pale forearms absorbing the first sunshine of the year. Ancient cherry trees bloomed around him, breezes sending a pink petal storm upon the air, while gargoyles—weathered from decades of sitting on the oldest buildings of the