“Like a commune,” Marco said.
“If this is community, yes. We barter and trade what we grow, what we make, our skills, our service. Some will come to the taoiseach if there’s a conflict or question, and he will judge. Or the council in his place. We value peace, and train to hold it.”
“Do you sit on the council?” Breen asked.
“I do. Though I was not born in Talamh, I was given this honor, this duty. We are seven, and with the taoiseach and Tarryn as his hand, nine.”
Breen saw roads splitting off from the main as the main climbed the rise toward the castle with its many shades of gray stone, its battlements and towers and turrets.
On the topmost, the banner snapped in the wind so the red dragon seemed to fly against the white field. He carried a sword in one claw, a staff in the other.
She saw Cróga glide over the castle, and a boy—a winged boy—rode on his back. The boy’s joyful laugh spilled down like sunlight.
They came to another stone bridge, another gate. A fountain shot water clear as crystal toward the sky. It fell in rainbows. Gardens spread and speared in islands of texture, in rivers of color. More flowers flowed over walls of terraces and balconies that graced the castle. Beyond them and the roll of green stood a forest, thick and deep.
She heard the cry of a hawk, saw a stunning sweep of butterflies rise like a wave. They swirled around her, once, twice, a third time, before flying as one toward an island of blooms.
“They welcome you,” Minga said with a smile.
“That was wild.” Marco’s own smile dimmed as he studied Breen’s face. “Did they scare you, girl?”
“No, no, just surprised.”
And scratched the surface of some memory. Riding in front of her father, gulping in all the sights like water with the castle rising and spreading, the banner snapping, the fountain spewing and spilling. Those first sounds of waves slapping rock on the cliffs.
And butterflies swirling. How she’d laughed and lifted her arms so they’d land on them. Her father’s laugh as he’d kissed the top of her head.
Dragon Hearts, like your hair.
She knew Minga spoke about the falcon mews, the cliffs, the gardens as Keegan led them around to the side and back of the great stone building. She barely listened as she tried to hang on to the memory.
But it faded away as riders began to dismount around her.
Mahon walked up to take her reins. “They’ll see to the horses and have your things taken up. Minga will show you to your chambers—and anywhere else you want to go or see, as Keegan and Tarryn will be busy for a while yet. You’ve time before the Leaving to rest or wander, have some food. One of us will come fetch you, or find you if you go out and about, when it’s time.”
“I expect you’d like to walk a bit after the long ride.” Minga gestured. “We’ll go this way, and in through the doors to the entrance hall.”
“It’s big,” Marco commented as he craned his neck up. “And tall.”
“It’s all of that, but home nonetheless. I think you’ll be comfortable in the rooms Tarryn chose for you. Right next to each other, they are.”
“The gardens are beautiful. You said there was a falcon mews?”
“Aye.” Minga nodded at Breen, gestured again. “Down this path, a school for training as well—both hawks and students. Other training areas for horses and horsemanship, for archery, for combat. If you walk or ride down to the village, there are shops for trading. Fabrics and jewelry, leather goods, ironworks, tools for magicks, cobblers and tailors. Pubs for food and drink and music.”
She led the way around, winding through the garden, along stone paths, over wide terraces, and to the steps leading to massive double doors.
“The gates are only closed during times of defense. These doors are only barred at such times.”
Minga pressed her hand on the dragon image carved in the stone by the doors, and they opened.
They walked into a towering hall with stone floors polished smooth, with tapestries and bronze works gracing the walls. Archways opened up in all directions, and the sun spilled through the glass dome in the soaring ceiling.
Fabric-covered benches and high-backed chairs offered seating, flowers more beauty, and a fire, snapping in a hearth she could have stood in, warmth.
“It’s beautiful. I thought it would be more … fortified.”
“When necessary, it is. Those stairs?” She nodded toward the staircase—stone, but wide and straight rather than the curving pie shape Breen had seen in ruins and restorations in Ireland. “When the gates and doors must be locked, they … I have to find the word.”