illuminated the entire armory and highlighted the swirling rune work on each artfully crafted item.
“Well met, Richard McAllister of the Yn Saith, well met,” the burly shadow welcomed as he navigated the mess of his making. “And the scion of Ardall. Greetings to you as well this morn.”
As the man came into the light, Richard got a good look at the fey smith in his natural environment. He was the largest man the knight had seen. Wiping grime-stained hands on a towel at his waist, the Mastersmith had massive shoulders and arms to apply his trade, balanced out by a huge paunch and thick, tree trunk-like legs. Blue eyes glittered beneath craggy eyebrows, his skin flushed with heat, black hair pulled back beyond a thickly bearded face.
“How fare you, Govannon?” Richard asked.
“The fire is neverending, my friend,” Govannon said with a grin. “It calls and demands like the Dryads of old. What do I owe this visit?”
“My companion. He requires a weapon.”
“I see.”
“You are quite talented,” Bran said, looking around.
“Like many things in life, what calls to a person is what is meant,” Govannon replied. “I don’t command talent as much as it commands me.”
“I can’t believe all of this exists,” Bran admitted. “It’s like I’m in a dream.”
“No dream, of course,” the smithy bellowed a laugh, winking at Richard. “I remember when I first arrived here in Annwn, I too could hardly believe it. Belief can be a tricky thing. Do you know there are men and women here—people who were born here and know no different—who don’t believe in your world?”
“People tend to not believe what they can’t see,” Richard stated.
“Good your sense of wonder is strong then.”
“A hidden world is one thing though,” Bran said. “Dragons, goblins, fairies, elves, leprechauns, witches—these are tales where we come from.”
“Oh, they are real, Bran Ardall,” Govannon said. “Dragons are in the heights of Snowdon. Goblins exist but are rarely seen during the day. Witches of varying skill are on street corners in every major city. So are leprechauns.” He paused. “As for elves, another story. Few exist. The dark hellyll remain but their elven brothers and sisters left Annwn centuries ago with their sylvan counterparts. Who knows if they yet live. Now we work hard without them, to maintain the wonder of the world. One day, it will need us again, with or without the elves, in Annwn or in the Old World.”
“That’s a bold endeavor,” Richard said. “Mankind…it destroys what it doesn’t understand.”
“Aye. ‘Tis the reason I drink as much as I do,” Govannon laughed.
“Philip Plantagenet is not drink-worthy,” Richard muttered.
“Not of my ale, anyway.”
As the mood grew somber, falling armor from the rear of the shop sent adrenaline rushing through Richard like lightning, Arondight an electric call on his fingertips. The Mastersmith put a restraining hand up and shook his head. Almost in response, a shadow stirred where Govannon had been working, wobbly, tall, and thin.
“Smith!” it slurred loudly. “Beer!”
“Help yourself, Caswallawn,” Govannon ordered. “I will not do it for you.”
The drunk lord from the Seelie Court stumbled into view. Bleary bloodshot eyes stared at Richard and Bran from a middle-aged face thick with stubble and wear, a sour frown deepening an already pinched mouth. An empty wood mug swung from a lax hand.
The light of the orbs shifted about Caswallawn—and his left arm and leg disappeared.
Richard blinked, unsure of what he wasn’t seeing.
Before he could say anything, the drunk-soaked eyes of the lord focused on him and his features twisted in a snarl.
“Your company worsens, Mastersmith,” Caswallawn spoke vehemently.
“It was not much to begin with,” Bran replied, smirking.
“Outlander filth,” the lord spat before filling his mug from one of the barrels nearby and wobbly returning to the building’s rear.
“Ignore him. I do,” Govannon said. “Caswallawn was the lord of Gwynedd, a province in northern Annwn, before Philip razed it to the ground, murdered his family, stole his land, and began using it to launch campaigns against us here in the mountains. He hates Philip and the world he came from. That much you saw yesterday. He is not the only one who hates your world, mind you. Now he is no better than a leprechaun, never leaving Arendig Fawr and unable to put his past to rest.”
“He hates us by association?” Bran asked. “That hardly seems fair.”
“Fair has nothing to do with it, Bran Ardall,” Govannon pointed out. “I allow him his petty drinking, here, far away from Arendig Fawr—far away from the Morrigan. She is a