The Dragon Who Loved Me (36 page)

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Authors: G.A. Aiken

BOOK: The Dragon Who Loved Me
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Everyone wandered off after that, and Vigholf told her, “I find your kin
unbelievably
entertaining.”
“That’s good,” she said, “because they will visit . . . often. And for long periods of time.”
“What’s long?” he asked her as she walked away from him. “A few days? A week? Perhaps we should start discussing what’s long and what’s
too
long . . . wait. Are you saying you’re coming back with me? Well, that’s a rude gesture! It’s a valid question, female!”
 
 
Vigholf grabbed Rhona around the waist and carried her into the closest stable.
“Great,” he muttered. “More horses.”
“Annwyl’s horse, Violence. Isn’t he cute?”
“No.” Vigholf turned Rhona to face him. “You need to give me a straight answer.”
“About what?”
“You are a cruel, heartless tease, Rhona the Fearless! Just tell me.”
“My sisters’ discussion over your breed-worthiness wasn’t a clue?”
“They’re not you, Rhona. I need to hear it from
you.
Tell me. Is this tail mine or not?”
“This tail belongs to me, Vigholf the Abhorrent.” She stepped closer to him, put her arms around his shoulders. “But my heart . . . my heart is yours from now until the end of time.”
Vigholf grinned, a weight he didn’t know had been there lifted from his shoulders. He kissed her then, holding her close.
“Oy!” The couple pulled back and gawked at the horses. “Could you two do that somewhere else? We were here first.”
They walked over to the empty stall beside Violence and leaned over the top.
Rhona shook her head in disgust. “Gwenvael!”
“What? I’m making up for lost time.”
“Lady Dagmar,” Vigholf said, giving her a wink as the poor woman tried to hide her naked body and embarrassed face under her mate.
“You,” Rhona told her cousin, “were appalling as a hatchling and you’re worse now! Anyone could have walked in. We did!”
“Piss off!”
“I’m telling your mother!”
“Like always! Blabbermouth!”
Vigholf caught hold of Rhona’s hand and dragged her outside, closing the stable door.
“The stables?” Rhona asked, disgusted. “They’re doing it in the stables? Those poor horses!”
“And who knows what’s in that hay.”
“Eeeww.”
Laughing, Vigholf took Rhona’s hand in his own and dragged her away. “Come on. I’ll find us a nice,
clean
place to fuck.”
“You know, that’s all I’ve ever asked!”
Chapter 39
 
There were three weeks of official mourning in the Southlands. A time to remember those who’d died in order to protect the kingdoms and the reigning monarchs. At the request of Celyn, Austell’s body was brought back to Garbhán Isle and a funeral pyre built to honor him. His kin attended, along with the Dragon Queen and her offspring, and the Cadwaladr Clan. The event was sorrowful but necessary.
When the mourning period finally ended, the Cadwaladrs had a feast at Garbhán Isle. It was to celebrate many things: the end of the war; that they’d won the war; those who’d earned promotions, including Branwen and Izzy to corporal; the oncoming end of winter; the upcoming return of spring; and anything else they could think of that would warrant a feast.
And as Garbhán Isle readied for the celebration it was obvious that some things had changed for longer than just the duration of the war.
The Kyvich did not leave simply because the war ended, much to Talaith’s annoyance. The barbarian witches planned to stay until the twins reached their eighteenth year, still guarding the gates and surrounding territories even while everyone toasted to a new time of peace.
Ren of the Chosen would be heading back to the Eastlands at the request of his father. He had every intention of returning to the Southlands, but no one, not even Ren, knew when that would be.
Keita would be returning to the Northlands with Ragnar, although she still refused to call him her mate. Rhona also would be going back with Vigholf, but she seemed more than happy to call him her mate.
Meinhard, probably because he feared being made to dance, had already headed back to the Northlands with his troops, escorting the Northland females who had no desire to stay for the feast, including Ragnar and Vigholf’s mother.
And now, as the hour grew late and the ale flowed more freely, Izzy stepped out the back door and away from the castle. The moon was full and the air crisp and cold. She should have worn her fur cape over her dress, but she’d slipped away from the party, not wanting to be seen.
As she walked past the Kyvich on guard duty at the back gate, Izzy had to smile a bit. She loved hearing her family happy and together again. Hearing the music, seeing them dance. Even her grandparents were dancing! Both of them ecstatic their offspring were home and safe, but neither willing to simply say the words out loud.
The music faded behind her as she trudged through the trees and, after about a mile, up Rose Hill. She reached the top and sat down on the ground, gazing out over the land she and so many others had fought hard to protect. The bonfires that went on for several days to dispose of the Tribesmen’s corpses were gone, and Dagmar had taken care to rid any signs of what had happened there. If Dagmar had her way, by springtime, there would be nothing but tall grass and flowers down there. Izzy wouldn’t be here to see that, though. In another week, she would be shipped out again. Her mother was not happy, but Izzy, to her own surprise, was. After the last five years, she thought she’d want to take the next year off before returning to the life of the troops—barely tolerable army food, sleeping on bedrolls, and taking orders. But gods, she longed for the army life. She loved it. Even after everything that happened, she absolutely loved it.
Izzy let out a sigh and asked the male she’d sat down next to, “Are you going to stay out here all night—looking maudlin?”
“I’m not in the mood for a feast,” Éibhear told her. He was polite, but she could hear from the way he clipped his words, he’d rather not be. “But don’t let me stop you from returning to the party, Izzy.”
“You going to hate me forever?”
“I don’t hate you at all. Or Celyn,” he said before she could ask.
“So it’s just yourself you hate then?”
“I don’t hate myself. I’m a Southland dragon and a prince of the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar—I don’t think I’m physically capable of hating myself.” And Izzy had to look off so he couldn’t see her smile. “But if you’re asking me if I’m disappointed in myself and crushed at the loss of a good friend . . . then sure. Why not?”
Sure? Why not?
Frowning, Izzy said, “I’m so sorry about Austell.” She’d only met the red dragon once, but he’d been very sweet. Besides, no one should die on the end of a stake. “But it’s the risk we all take as soldiers. He knew that. You can’t blame yourself—”
“Please go.”
And she felt the coldly stated words like a knife to her chest, cutting through flesh and muscle and bone, right into her heart. But she didn’t argue, simply stood.
She brushed off the back of her dress. “I’m sorry, Éibhear.”
“For what?”
“That you lost a friend. That you feel such pain for it.” Izzy let out a breath. “And I’m sorry that you found out about me and Celyn.”
His soft laugh was bitter, cold silver eyes looking up at her. “Really?” he asked. “That’s what you feel sorry for?”
“Aye. I’d never intended to tell you or anyone because what happened between me and Celyn was between us.”
“Do you really think he would have kept that quiet? Do you really think he wouldn’t have eventually told me on his own? That what you had between you was so desperately precious?”
“That’s between him and you and, to be honest, not my problem. But I never wanted you to be hurt by—”
“I’m not hurt,” Éibhear said, slowly getting to his feet. She was tall, but he absolutely towered over her when so few did. “In fact,” he shrugged. “I don’t feel anything. About you. About Celyn. Not even about Austell. Not anymore.”
“Then I feel sorry for you because no one should go through life like that.”
“Right. I should stumble along instead, feeling nothing but pain for everyone. Like a walking open wound. That does sound like fun.”
“With the bad comes the good, Éibhear.”
“You’re amazing,” he said, shaking his head. “After all that you’ve been through, all that you’ve seen and lost. Everything that you’ve killed. With what the gods did to your mother and Annwyl—to
you
. Marking you like chattel,” he said, gesturing to her shoulder, where the mark of the god Rhydderch Hael had been branded into her flesh so many years ago. “After all that, you can still walk around talking about feelings? About caring for others’ pain?” He laughed and it was like having knives thrown at her. “That’s quite . . . astounding.”
And with that, Éibhear the Blue headed off down the hill, away from the castle and his kin. Izzy had the feeling he wouldn’t be back. That he was going to try to catch up with Meinhard so he could start his new life in the Northlands, away from everyone and everything that he’d known.
And she knew she was right when he said, as he disappeared into the darkness, “Good-bye, Izzy. And good luck.”
After he was gone, she stood there until Brannie came up behind her and stood next to her.
“You all right?” her cousin asked.
“Well enough.”
“I wouldn’t let what he said bother you, Iz. He’s just—”
“Is it supposed to be this bad?” Izzy asked about the change every young dragon was supposed to go through as they got older. “Honestly?”
Brannie shook her head. “When Fal went through it, I mean we all do, but he mostly just whined about the misery of his soul and read dark poetry. The pub girls loved it. But he was never this . . .”
“Empty?”
“Well . . . I was going to say bitter, but you always were more dramatic than me.” Brannie tugged on the dress Keita had chosen for Izzy. It was a very dark blue and it sparkled. “Do you want to go for a walk, Iz? So we can talk?”
Izzy briefly closed her eyes, let out a breath. “Brannie, my friend, my cousin, the
last
thing I want to do is talk. I want ale, and I want to dance, and I want to forget that Éibhear the Miserable ever existed.”
Brannie put her arm around Izzy’s shoulders and steered her back down the hill and toward the castle. “I can help you with those first two, dead easy. But you’re on your own with that last one.”
“Yeah,” Izzy sighed. “Yeah, I know.”
 
 
A week after the feast ended, about one hundred leagues from Garbhán Isle, Rhona sat by the lake as human, trying to see over her shoulder at the mark that Vigholf had branded her with, Claiming her.
Unlike her own kind, he’d used lightning to brand her with that mark and she’d never say it out loud, but . . . ow!
“Here,” Vigholf said, crouching behind her and carefully placing ointment on the area. “This should help with the pain.”
Gods, he was just so sweet, but not what she was used to. Fire Breather males usually let the pain linger for a while, so their females knew who they belonged to. At least that was their logic. The females gave it back to them in full, though, when their turn came.
“That feel better?”
“It does. Thanks.”
They’d split off from Ragnar, Keita, and their troops so they could get some time together alone. Once they made it back to the Northlands, they’d both be busy. The civil war in the Provinces was heating up and Vigholf would be taking his troops in to join Gaius’s while Ragnar and Meinhard’s troops would be dealing with the Ice Land dragons who’d crossed borders during the Horde’s absence. Rhona would be making weapons for the troops in the Northlands and then in the Provinces. The few days they’d have alone now would be it for quite some time. So they planned to enjoy it.
Once he’d taken care of her mark, Vigholf grasped her face between his hands and gazed into her eyes.
“I love you so much, Rhona.”
Rhona went up on her knees and kissed him hard. Her body still trembling from the way he’d just taken her, she still knew that she’d more than happily let him take her again. And again.
“I love you,” she said when she pulled back a bit.
Vigholf petted her cheek, smiled at her, then announced, “I’m starving.”
Rhona crossed her eyes. “Of course you are.”
“Want to hunt something down out here or go into town?”
“I don’t really . . .” Rhona smiled and stood.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Look.” With real happiness, Rhona walked over to the white mare standing a few feet away. “Hello, you,” she said. “I’m so happy to see you again.”
The mare nuzzled her and Rhona stroked her forehead.
“Wait,” Vigholf said from behind her. “If she’s here, where’s that mean bastard of a stall—arrgggh!”
Rhona glanced over her shoulder to see that the chestnut stallion had run over Vigholf, slamming him to the ground. Then he galloped back and began to pummel the dragon with his hooves.
“Honestly,” Rhona said to the mare. “They’re both so pathetic.” Rhona leaned in and whispered to her equine friend, “But by the gods, I do love him more than I could ever say.” They briefly watched the males. “No matter how astoundingly ridiculous.”
“You deceitful bastard!” Vigholf yelled at the stallion, shoving him back with a well-placed fist.
“Oh, would you two stop it,” Rhona chastised, focusing again on the mare, the two of them bonding over their love of two idiots.
“You two? He started it!”

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