What a Dragon Should Know (13 page)

“My father barely remembers my name. He refers to me as girl or little miss.”

“I thought those were terms of endearment.”

“Does he look endearing to you? But if you insist, it can be part of the deal that includes the legion and supplies—”

“What supplies?”

“The supplies you promised.”

“I never promised you any supplies.”

“You meant to.”

“I did not.” She was enjoying this entirely too much! He could see it by the little smirk on her face. She knew he needed the information on those bloody tunnels and she had no problem extorting him over it.

The world should be glad she hadn’t been born a man. She’d be emperor by now.

“I’m not doing this.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re up to something.”

“A few hours of freedom are all I ask, Lord Gwenvael. Is that really too much?”

Damn her.

“You swear you’ll really help me.”

“On my life as a Reinholdt, anything I can do to help your queen, I will.”

“Fine.” He lowered his head, took several breaths, and when he looked at her again, he saw her through tears.

She reared back a bit. “What
are
you doing?”

Gwenvael didn’t have time to warn her before her father came storming in, the simple fact the warlord hadn’t bathed in at least two days giving him away to Gwenvael’s poor nostrils. “What the hell’s going on?” Sigmar demanded, a pint in his hand.

Sniffing dramatically, Gwenvael gazed across the desk at Dagmar. Without even a twitch, she immediately stood and walked to her father’s side. “Give us a moment, won’t you, Lord Gwenvael?”

“Of course,” he choked out, impressing even himself by the little added sob at the end.

Dagmar took her father out into the hallway again. She wanted to jump up and down and clap her hands, but that would definitely work against her. Instead she said, “Sorry about that. He’s very upset.”

“By all the war gods—what did you say to him?”

“It’s not what I said, Father, but what I couldn’t. I know there’s more information from Brother Petur. You remember him, yes?” Good gods, why did she pull that man’s name out of her ass?

Perhaps because her father didn’t find Petur remotely threatening. He belonged to an order that preached tolerance over war. Unlike Brother Ragnar’s Order of the Warhammer or her other favorite, Order of the Burning Sword.

“Can’t you show him on a map how to get to that idiot’s convent?”

“It’s not a convent, Father; that’s for women.” And how many times had she wished he’d sent her to one? “It’s a monastery. And I gave him the directions there, but he wants me to go with him.”

“Not in my life, girl. I’m not letting you out of here with that … that …
weeper.”

“Come now, why not? Surely you’re not worried about my chastity.” She laughed, even as delicious visions of dessert cream and a liberty-taking dragon tail swam into her head.

“What do you mean ‘why not?’ He can’t protect you. He’ll be too busy sobbing like a bloody girl while you’re captured by some other warlord!”

“Keep your voice down! And his size alone will protect me.” Her father grunted, which gave her hope she could convince him. “How about we do this? I go with him today, which will take a few hours, and then he can take me to Gestur’s. He’s barely two hours on foot from that monastery. I can bring the messages that you have for him and be back on safe Reinholdt ground before nightfall.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to have it all worked out.”

She shrugged. “It’s been ages since the cousins have been here. And Gestur can bring me back next month when he travels here.”

“Next month?” Her father looked at her strangely and she had no idea what his expression meant. “I don’t like it. And you still ain’t given me much of a reason to send you.”

“A legion.”

“What?”

“As I told you, he wants to protect Annwyl the Bloody. He’s promised us a legion of her troops.”

“And you believe him?”

“I do. That’s fifty-two-hundred men, Father.”

“Southlanders,” he sneered.

“Human targets, I say. Keep Jökull busy until you can tear the skin from his bones.”

A rare smile crossed her father’s face. “Like your mother sometimes, you are. You’ve got a vengeful streak.” Her father’s compliments were rare and strange, but she took them eagerly nonetheless.

“I do. And if helping the weeper gets us what we need … It’s a small price to pay. For once, Father, please trust me.”

“I always trust you’re up to something, little miss.” But he was no longer fighting her and they both knew it. “But you’re sure, though? About being alone with him? You sure you’ll be safe with him—he’s still a male and I seen how your sisters-in-law have been watching him.”

She eased the door open a bit, and her father looked in to see Gwenvael blowing his nose into a cloth and continuing to make choking noises. Dagmar raised her brow. “Unless I suddenly turn into Eymund … I’m relatively certain I’ll be just fine.”

“My lady? My lady, please wake up.”

Morfyd opened her eyes. “What is it, Taffia?”

“You’d best hurry, my lady. The guards have called out warning that your mother approaches.”

“I’ll be down in a bit. The suns have barely risen.” Then she turned and buried her head into a warm, hard chest.

“My lady, if you do not go down to meet her, she will come up here.”

“Mhhm.”

Yes, yes. Her mother coming up to her room, seeing her cuddled up to Brastias …

Morfyd jolted awake, her entire body tensing as she sat up. “Good gods! She’s here? Why is my mother here?”

“I don’t know, my lady. But she approaches and will land soon.”

Scrambling out of bed, Morfyd pointed to her wardrobe. “Get my robes, Taffia. Hurry!” She saw Brastias watching her. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

She sighed impatiently, pouring water into the bowl on her basin. “I can’t tell her. Not yet.”

“Then when? When will you tell any of them?”

“Do you like having your arms and legs? Because my brothers will ensure that you do not. And my father—” She shuddered at the thought. Bercelak the Great had torn the wings off a young dragon once who’d stopped by her parents’ cave nearly every day for an entire moon cycle to prove his love to Morfyd. Her father had been incensed. “You’ve only turned forty!” he’d yelled, shaking her poor suitor’s wings while blood flew around the chamber. “You’re a child!”

“How long will you keep using your family as an excuse?” Brastias asked softly.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and realized he’d already gotten out of bed and was nearly dressed, heading toward the window.

“It’s not that easy,” she told his back while he pulled his shirt on.

“It’s easy enough for the rest of your kin.”

“You can’t compare us to what Fearghus and Briec—”

“I’d better go.” He pushed the window open and easily climbed through it and out onto the tiny ledge. She had no idea how he managed to do it every night and morning, but she’d be eternally grateful that he did.

“Brastias, wait.”

He pivoted toward her on the balls of his feet, those large feet the only things that kept him from falling, if not to his death then definitely to a broken body part or two.

“I love you,” he said. Then he was gone.

Morfyd had no idea how long she stood there, gazing at the spot he’d been standing in like some kind of lovesick child. He loved her? He’d not said it before now, and she knew he wouldn’t have said it unless he meant it. And, tragically, she loved him as well. Could either of them be more foolish? Taffia tugged at her elbow. “My lady? Your mother.”

“Yes, yes.”

To say she was in no mood to see her mother would be an understatement, but she had no choice. Quickly donning her witches’ robes, Morfyd dashed down to the first floor, through the Great Hall, and out into the courtyard. They’d expanded the size of the courtyard nearly two years ago to accommodate the comings and goings of dragons, and most of the humans were quite used to them now. But none were used to the Dragon Queen. Her mere presence brought out the dragonfear in nearly all the humans who served Annwyl.

Morfyd watched as her mother landed. Beside and behind her were the loyal dragon guards who protected the Dragon Queen with their very lives. Not an easy task when her mother insisted on shifting to human and demanding of all that could hear, “So where’s the whore?”

Briefly closing her eyes, trying to rein in her rarely shown temper, Morfyd said, “Stop calling her that.”

“Well, that’s what she is, isn’t she? The whore who betrayed my son?”

“Why do you refuse to believe she carries Fearghus’s babes?”

“Because it’s impossible.”

“Of all beings, Mother, you should know that anything is possible once the gods are involved.”

A panicked scream sounded and Morfyd stomped her foot at the sight of one of Rhiannon’s guards holding a stableboy in his mouth.

Frustrated, Morfyd snapped, “Mother!”

Her mother huffed impatiently. “Fine. Fine. Put him down, Cairns.”

“But my queen”—the dragon guard whined around a mouthful of screaming human—“I’m hungry.”

“Then go to the clearing and get a cow or something. But put him down!”

The human, rudely spit out, rolled across the courtyard grounds. Morfyd signaled to Taffia, and her trusted assistant went to care for the poor boy.

“Now where is she?” her mother snapped. “Where is the whore of Garbhán Isle?”

“I can’t believe you’re still not talking to me.”

“And I can’t believe you wouldn’t bring my dog.” Dagmar waited until Gwenvael settled in a clearing no more than a league or so from their destination—if she was guessing correctly—before she slid off his back. She tried to walk away, but her legs wouldn’t hold her steady and she had to grab onto the dragon’s neck to keep from falling to her knees.

“Gods!” Gwenvael growled, ignoring her discomfort. “Are we here again?”

“Yes! We are here again. You saw how upset he was!”

“Woman, he’s a dog! And I am not a beast of burden to carry your pets around.”

“He’s more than a pet. He’s my companion and protects me.”

“I’ll protect you now.”

“And somehow that gives me so little ease.”

The dragon moved away and Dagmar stumbled, almost falling. But his tail landed against her ass, keeping her upright … and taking liberties!

“Oh!” She planted her feet firmly, reached back, and slapped at his exploring tail. “Stop molesting me with that thing!”

“I’m not. I was merely helping you stand.”

She gritted her teeth. “Then why is it between my legs?”

“You moved.”

Feeling her strength return right along with her annoyance, Dagmar stepped back and raised her foot, slamming it down on the tip.

“Ow! Evil barbarian viper!”
He rose on his hind legs, his front claws grasping his tail. “You are aware this is attached to me?”

“Yes. That’s how I knew it was taking liberties!”

Gwenvael put the tip in his mouth, sucking it as she might suck on her finger after slamming it in a door. They scowled at each other, neither speaking. Then his gaze drifted and he said. “I know that city.”

Dagmar looked out over the ridge, exhaled. “The great city of Spikenhammer. I’ve always wanted to come here. They have the most amazing library that you’ll find anywhere in the Northlands.”

“Spikenhammer,” he sneered. “Could that name be more obvious?” The dragon abruptly dropped his tail and frowned, “Wait. I don’t understand. I thought we were going to a monastery.”

“Why would I go to a monastery?” She pointed at the big city she’d always heard about but had never been to. “We’re going there.”

“But you told your father—”

“I lied. He never would have let me come here, with or without him.” She headed down the ridge, eager to reach the city. “We have a bit of walking, so you’d best hurry.”

“What else have you lied about?” he yelled after her.

Dagmar laughed. “You’ll have to be much more specific than that, I’m afraid.”

The guards told him his mother had arrived, but he would have been able to tell without the notification. He could hear the yelling throughout the castle.

He stepped into the Great Hall and saw the two females standing toe to toe. Because neither female would let the other finish a sentence, Fearghus had no idea exactly
what
they were arguing about, but it was definitely heated and poor Morfyd was caught in the middle as always, trying desperately to calm the situation.

His mother towered over the other yelling female, but that didn’t make the smaller one back down—and she wouldn’t. Fearghus had learned that about her shortly after meeting her, and, at the moment, he appreciated it.

And while the two females argued, no one noticed him as he crouched down next to the chair of the woman he loved.

“What did I miss?” he murmured, his lips brushing against Annwyl’s cheek.

“Not sure. I walked in, your mother took one look at me, and it simply blew up from there. They talk over each other, so I’m not sure what they are saying. But Talaith does seem quite angry,” Annwyl said.

Fearghus chuckled, enjoying the way his brother’s mate, Talaith, practically dared his mother to turn her into a ball of flame. “I’m glad she’s handling it. I wouldn’t be nearly as nice.”

“Let your mother say what she wants about me, Fearghus. I don’t care.” It was true, Annwyl didn’t care. Not like she used to. Not like the Annwyl he remembered, who, Gwenvael once said, “would fight her own shadow if she thought it was getting a little haughty.”

But his mate, his consort, was tired. At twenty-nine winters, she shouldn’t be so tired. Even heavy with twins, she shouldn’t be
this
tired. Circles under her eyes, lines around her mouth. She wasn’t aging, so much as … He didn’t know. He didn’t know what was wrong. And it terrified him.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” He motioned to one of the servants standing around, watching the sideshow. “I’ll be up in a bit and we’ll nap together.”

“Your mother is here for a reason. I should find out why.” She looked down at her hands resting on the table. They were strong, capable hands that had many scars and had done much damage over the years. “But I just don’t care, Fearghus.”