hard woman and does not take too kindly to his form of debauchery.”
“What is happening to his body?” Richard asked.
Confusion crossed Govannon’s face until he grinned. “Oh. That. He possesses Gwenn, an invisibility cloak, one of only two known to still exist. The ability to create such cloth has been lost to the ages. Gwenn is all he has left, and it is the only reason the Morrigan tolerates his behavior, I think.” The smith took a step back. “Now, care to look around and see what might appeal to you, young Ardall?”
Bran walked through several rows of glimmering artifacts. “See anything you like?” Govannon asked after Bran had walked the entirety of the room.
“To be honest, nothing. It is all wonderful work but nothing catches my eye.”
“That is odd,” Govannon said, frowning.
“What do you mean?” Richard asked.
The Mastersmith shrugged. “My creations always call to their eventual bearer, and everyone who visits leaves with something—even if it is only gauntlets, boots, or a ladle for soup. It is a magic of mine, to find what is necessary for those who need it.”
“Maybe it is because I am from the Old World.”
“No, that is not it. How do you think Richard McAllister received Arondight?”
“You gave that to him?” Bran questioned.
“Indirectly,” Govannon said. “I crafted Arondight. It has been passed for centuries to those who would protect the world and its people with honor and vision. It always finds a master. The knight Richard McAllister is merely the newest to use it toward its intended end.” He stepped to Bran. “Do not fear me.”
Bran stood still as Govannon gripped his forearm, his thick fingers like cords of steel, and closed his eyes for a moment before they reopened just as quickly.
“You are right. There is nothing for you here.”
“What does that mean?” Richard asked, puzzled.
“I do not know,” Govannon said. He looked Bran up and down as if gauging him. “It is like he is already armed. Perhaps it is a weapon I have yet to create. Interesting.”
“Can he not take something to protect himself at least?”
“He cannot,” Govannon said. “Every item here is meant for someone. They just have not visited me yet.”
Richard nodded politely to the Mastersmith. He had a sneaking suspicion the inability of Bran choosing a weapon had nothing to do with Govannon having not created the correct item.
Not at all.
“Thank you for your time, Master Govannon,” Richard said. “I hope we meet next time under better circumstances.”
“You too, Knight McAllister. Come back when you return from Caer Glain and Tal Ebolyon. Perhaps I will have something for young Ardall then.”
“Thank you,” Bran said.
Govannon smiled. “My door is always open.”
Richard watched the broad-shouldered smith return to his work and fade into the shadows where Caswallawn drank alone. As the cool mountain air met Richard again, the whoosh of bellows pumping with authority chased after.
The hate in the eyes of Caswallawn went with him.
With two Long Hand scouts leading the way, Richard, Bran, and the others left the safe haven of Arendig Fawr for the heights above.
The sun peeked through the fog, burning it away and coloring the world once more. Arrow Jack flew ahead, a fleeting shadow in the murk. Lyrian carried the knight forward, trudging after the hellyll warriors, rocking comfortably back and forth like a ship in calm seas. Bran rode Westryl next to Deirdre’s Willowyn. Lugh, his angular face stern and eyes taking in every nuance of the day, rode his massive black battle roan, its scarred flanks testament to its battles. Kegan and Connal came last.
In minutes the group traveled a steep trail overlooking Arendig Fawr, the fey city growing tinier as they climbed.
It soon vanished altogether.
Deirdre dropped back, bringing her Rhedewyr next to Lyrian. Bran watched her go, his mien darkening when he saw where she stopped.
Richard refrained from throttling the boy for his jealousy.
“How do you feel, Knight McAllister?” the redhead asked, her eyes shining emerald as they boldly sought his own. “The wounds Caer Llion delivered you were quite grievous. I cannot believe you are already upon your feet, let alone riding.”
“I heal,” he said simply. “It is enough.”
“My father is pleased you agreed to the Queen’s charge. He believes it bodes well on the destruction of Caer Llion. So do I.”
“I think your father puts too much faith in me.”
“You are a knight. I have faith in you as well.”
“I also think your father sent you because you are delusional and he needed a break from the madness.”
She laughed, clear