What a Dragon Should Know (46 page)

“I see.”

“Now, now. Don’t look so crestfallen, my little lightning strike.” She patted his arm. “I am still quite interested in an alliance between us. Dagmar gave me your letter. Although I doubt you sent her here simply to get that message to me. So why did you?”

“Her uncle Jökull is on the move. Heading toward her father’s lands as we speak. He’s doubled his army and I knew no matter what I told her, she’d head right back there. Risking everything to—”

“You were protecting her,” she cut in, surprised.

The Lightning glanced away. She couldn’t tell if that was embarrassment or regret on his handsome face. “I know she doesn’t believe it, but she means much to me.”

Definitely regret.

Unfortunately it was too late for any of that. Rhiannon had seen her son’s face when Dagmar walked out of that tunnel alive and well. It wasn’t just relief he’d felt for the human. It was love. If it had been any of the whores she’d seen Gwenvael with over the years—dragon or human—Rhiannon would not be pleased. But Dagmar was not some mindless little slag begging for love.

That barbarian could destroy the world with her will alone—Rhiannon admired that.

“Where do we go from here, my lady?”

She headed off back to the humans’ castle. “Find me at Garbhán Isle tomorrow. We will discuss an alliance.”

“And your daughter?”

“Keep her. Let her go. Makes me no never mind. But”—she spun on her heel to look at him as she continued to walk away—“watch your back, boy. I know Olgeir quite well. He won’t happily let that prize go.”

Rhiannon left the Lightning to do as he wished and made her way back to the castle. She neared the gates when she heard her mate’s voice.

“Where the hell did you go?”

Smiling, Rhiannon faced Bercelak. He was annoyed she’d left without telling him where she was going. He was annoyed she went off into the forest alone, without him or her guards. He was annoyed to wake up and find her gone. And she’d be paying for those little transgressions for the next few hours.

She couldn’t wait.

Taking his hand, she tugged him toward the gates. “Don’t snarl so, my love. I was getting us a war.”

“You were getting us a what?”

“You heard me. I was getting us a nice, bloody war. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

Dagmar awoke when she heard soft laughter from one of the other caverns. It didn’t amaze her that she heard that soft laughter in between bouts of the horrendous snoring going on next to her ear, but that she’d slept in spite of the horrendous snoring. But now that she was awake, going back to sleep with that level of noise was simply impossible. The trick was unwrapping the dragon who held on to her so tightly. Gwenvael’s arms were around her waist, his head buried against her chest, his left leg wrapped around her right, his right buried between her thighs.

She knew she should feel horribly uncomfortable buried under so much male, but she didn’t—until she couldn’t get him to move. She pushed on his shoulders, shoved at his neck, tried to tug her legs out from under his weight. Nothing seemed to work and he didn’t seem to be in any danger of snapping awake this early. Becoming desperate, Dagmar reached around his back and grabbed hold of his hair from the base of his skull. She pulled and Gwenvael angrily muttered in his sleep. She pulled again, going straight back, and, scowling but still asleep and snoring, the dragon rolled away from her.

Dagmar let out a breath and got out of bed before Gwenvael could roll back again. She found Gwenvael’s shirt tossed on the floor and slipped it on. She needed a bath, but that would have to wait a bit. Hunger was winning the race this morning.

She found Annwyl and the twins in one of the small alcoves. Dagmar couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the Blood Queen. She wore a sleeveless chain-mail shirt that brazenly revealed the brands Fearghus had given her upon Claiming, a black pair of leggings, and black leather boots. Two sheathed swords rested against the table leg closest to her.

So this is the true Blood Queen, eh?

Even with a child cradled in one arm and the other in his or her crib, rocked by Annwyl’s rather large foot, Dagmar knew this was the warrior sane men had come to fear. And with good reason.

“Good morning, Annwyl.”

Annwyl looked up and her smile was warm and welcoming.

“Dagmar. Good morn to you. Please”—she motioned to a chair—“sit.”

Dagmar did, sitting catty-corner from the queen.

Annwyl gazed down at her son, pride and joy warring on that scarred but pretty face.

“Handsome, isn’t he?” she sighed.

“He is.”

“And Fearghus tells me I owe you much, Dagmar the Clever, she of the most lethal of tongues.”

Dagmar laughed. “I like my new Southland name.”

“As well you should.” Annwyl motioned to the crib. “Mind picking her up? She’ll let me feed her, but otherwise she has no use for me.”

“You seem to have many”—Dagmar gave a quick glance around—“baby things around here.”

“That was Morfyd. She insisted that here and Garbhán Isle have everything the babes may need. But I guess in retrospect …”

They smiled at each other. “She was right.”

Dagmar went to the crib and looked down at the scowling little girl inside it. “She reminds me of Bercelak.”

“I know. But when I mentioned that to Fearghus I thought he was going to skin me alive.”

Lifting the babe, Dagmar cuddled her close. Tiny, strong fingers gripped her nose and twisted. “Have you named them yet?” she asked, the sudden nasal sound of her voice getting the queen to raise her head.

Chuckling, Annwyl uselessly remarked, “She’s got a grip that one. And we can’t agree on the names. Fearghus is partial to My Perfect Princess Daughter and The Right Little Bastard.”

Dagmar laughed and pried the babe’s fingers off her nose, wincing when the vicious little beast gripped her forefinger instead.

“I, however, prefer Adoring Perfect Son and Right Little Bitch, which Fearghus will not even hear of.” Annwyl kissed the small fingers carefully gripping her large one. Now Dagmar knew she should have asked to hold the son. The daughter was too much like her mother. “Any suggestions of your own, barbarian?”

Never in her life had Dagmar thought she’d find being called “barbarian” a compliment and sign of respect rather than an insult. But with Annwyl it sounded that way.

Dagmar looked down at the babe in her arms. Everything about the child spoke of power and beauty and strength. The proud, high forehead. The strong arms and legs. The fear-inducing scowl.

“Talwyn.” She glanced at the boy. “And Talan.”

Annwyl gazed up at her. “What?”

“Talwyn and Talan. They’re good names. Very old, but have strength behind them.” She nodded. “Yes. Talwyn and Talan.”

Resting her head against the chair back, Annwyl said out loud, “Talwyn the Terrible. Talwyn the Terrorizing. Talan the Tenacious. Talan the Terrifying.”

Annwyl nodded, her smile wide and bright. “I
like
it!”

Dagmar sat down at the table, the babe in the curve of her arm, as she reached for the pitcher of water and a cup. “I thought you might.”

“Now, Lady Dagmar, tell me of your uncle Jökull.”

She grimaced. “Why must we ruin a beautiful morning by speaking of him?”

“Because I need to know why Gwenvael’s been insisting I send three legions to help your father.”

Dagmar lowered the cup of water to the table, untouched. “How long has he been asking for three legions?”

“Since the beginning. That’s what he told Briec when he was still in the Northlands and then what he told me upon his return.” She rubbed noses with her son, making him giggle. “He’s a little too young to giggle, isn’t he?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“No. Let’s stay on topic. Your uncle.”

For more than an hour Dagmar told Annwyl about Uncle Jökull and why her father needed the help. It was an amiable chat, but Dagmar couldn’t tell if the Blood Queen would be giving her what she needed. The queen wasn’t so easy to read when she wasn’t psychotically trying to massacre someone.

Yet the most entertaining moment for Dagmar had to be when she watched the queen’s reaction to her babe’s diaper change. Eventually Dagmar had to take over, and the queen decided then, her face filled with disgust, “We need to get back to Garbhán Isle and let the nursemaids handle this sort of thing. Because I think I’m going to be sick.”

Minotaur blood, gore, and brains she had no problems with. Her own children’s dirty diapers—hell on earth.

As the children slept peacefully in their crib and the two women continued to chat, Dagmar noticed that Annwyl had slowly pulled one of her swords from her scabbard. Yet not once did she ever stop the flow of conversation.

Dagmar continued to talk until she, too, felt a presence in one of the tunnels closest to her.

It took another five minutes before Ghleanna cautiously stepped into the alcove. As she did, Annwyl was up, her blade raised and at the ready. Ghleanna automatically went for her own sword, and Dagmar stood.

“Stop it! Both of you. What do you think you’re doing?”

There were others behind Ghleanna, but they seemed more than happy to let her take the first hit.

Ghleanna motioned to Annwyl, “She still mad? Do I need to protect the babes?”

“Of course not.”

But for some unknown reason Annwyl suddenly jerked her entire body, forcing Ghleanna and the others to pull their weapons.

Dagmar gave Annwyl a scathing glare—which made the mad queen grin—and looked back at Ghleanna. “Everything is fine. Perhaps you should just tell me—”

Annwyl jerked again, making the Cadwaladr Clan extremely nervous. More swords were raised, more dragons in human form entered the getting-smaller-by-the-moment alcove with their weapons drawn, and things could turn ugly at any moment. That’s when Dagmar lost patience and slammed her hands down on the wood table, yelling, “Whatever you’re doing stop it right
now!”

Her sudden outburst was followed by a loud thump from the alcove she’d slept in and a screamed,
“I never touched her!”

Thoroughly embarrassed, Dagmar took off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, while around her the room filled with hysterical laughter.

Gwenvael woke up naked on the floor and he wasn’t sure how he got there. He distantly remembered laughter and the bellowed,
“Must you embarrass me?”
but that could have happened moments ago or twenty years ago. Gods knew it wouldn’t have been the first time that question had been tossed at him. In his opinion, everyone was too easily embarrassed. If one feared embarrassment, they feared living.

He washed up in the basin, pulled on his brown leggings and boots, and walked out to the main cavern. But he stopped as soon as he stepped inside the alcove with the dining table and stared at his kin. They’d made themselves quite comfortable in Fearghus’s den, which his brother would not appreciate one bit.

Ghleanna played with one babe, the girl, holding her high over her head and making unattractive silly faces, while Addolgar held the boy, bragging that, “he already snarls just like his grandfather.”

And Dagmar was nowhere to be seen.

As Gwenvael stood there, dazed, Fearghus came out of another tunnel and walked up to him.

“Why are they all here?” Fearghus asked.

“I don’t know.”

“How do I get them to go away?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if I ‘shoo’ them?”

“They’re like crows. They’ll just come back.”

“Dammit.” Fearghus’s gaze searched the room. “And where’s Annwyl?”

As if summoned, she appeared from another corridor. “Found it.” She held the still blood-covered Minotaur blade up. Gwenvael had no doubt it would one day be mounted on a wall either here or at Garbhán Isle. “Nice, huh?” she said to Fal, who stood at the other end of the alcove.

He held his hands out. “Let me see.”

And that’s when Annwyl threw it. Across the room, past their aunt holding one twin and their uncle, holding the other. Fearghus made a strangled noise of panic and Gwenvael went to dive for the weapon, especially when he saw his newborn niece reach for the bloody thing.

But before either brother could do anything, Fal snatched the blade from the air. He weighed it with his hands. “It’s a nice one, all right.”

“Told you. I think I’m going to mount it over my throne.”

Panting, Fearghus looked at Gwenvael and he could only shrug.

“It’s going to be a long eighteen years, isn’t it, brother?”

Gwenvael patted Fearghus’s shoulder. “Aye, brother. It is.”

Lightnings! In the Southlands! Izzy had never been so excited. She nearly couldn’t eat her morning meal.
But,
she thought as she reached for another loaf of bread and the servants gave her another helping of porridge,
no use in passing out from hunger at the Lightning’s feet.

That would definitely be embarrassing.

According to her grandmother, the Lightning would be coming this morning, and Izzy was putting off going flying with Branwen and Celyn just so she could meet him.

Purple! His hair would be purple!

She looked across the table at Éibhear. His hair was blue. A deep, dark, gorgeous blue. No, she doubted this Lightning would have hair as pretty as Éibhear’s, but she still had to see purple hair.

What a perfect morning this was turning out to be! Her queen was alive and well, the queen’s twins the same, and most of her family around her. “Most” because Annwyl and Fearghus were still at Fearghus’s den. So were most of the Cadwaladr Clan who wanted to see for themselves the twins were all right. Clearly they weren’t used to the darker side of Annwyl. But Izzy knew her queen would
never
harm her babes. Ever.

Also missing were Gwenvael and his Dagmar. She wondered if her uncle knew he was madly in love with that politician, as Briec called her. She doubted it. Males could be so stupid about that.

Again, she looked across the table at Éibhear. He seemed to be completely absorbed in the discussion between his parents and siblings, until he suddenly looked at her and crossed his eyes.