by G. A. Aiken
As Celyn stumbled back, Elina caught his arm, the only reason he didn’t slip in his own vomit.
“What?”
“We backtracked a bit, went through river to destroy our scent, then headed long way round until we reached road again. I doubt they will find us.”
“I don’t remember any of that. I don’t remember anything.”
Celyn paced around Elina, his hands on his head. “This is bad. Much worse than I thought.”
“So what do you want to do? We cannot sit here all day.”
“Costentyn.”
“I do not know that word.”
“It’s not a word. It’s a dragon. An old dragon. Might no longer be living, but he knows a lot.”
“Why would he know anything of what we need?”
“He likes knowledge. From books. From other dragons. Even from people. He loves to wander through towns and villages as human, talking to everyone. When I was younger, my father and I used to go to his cave to chat. My father would ask advice and I would just listen. He always had such interesting information. And, unlike some cranky Riders I know, he was never stingy with the answers when I asked questions.”
“It is not that you ask questions, Dolt. It is that you ask so many. Why must you ask so many?”
“Because I’m curious. Imagine if we hadn’t gone into that giant penis temple.”
“We would not be wanted for murder?”
Celyn winced. “Good point.”
“But you are right. Most people find their own way to the gods. This is like . . . they are being trapped. Their mind stopped and wiped clean so someone else’s truth and lies can replace everything else the person knows. I do not like that. I do not think it is fair.” She walked to her horse. “Come, Dolt. Let us go see your friend who is old. Perhaps he can tell us of the dark times that are coming.”
Celyn glanced up at the sky. It was nearing the end of a bright, beautiful early winter’s day, but the Rider was right.
Dark times were coming.
Chapter Sixteen
Dagmar Reinholdt studied the parchment handed to her by her assistant Mabsant before signing it with a flourish and affixing her seal.
Many years ago, Annwyl had given Dagmar the power to sign for her just as Dagmar’s father had. Except Annwyl had appeared much more relieved to be handing over the tedious day-to-day business to her sister-by-mating. Dagmar’s father had handed over the power, but he had done so very grudgingly.
Yet even though Dagmar now had immense power, she never allowed herself to entertain the possibility of abusing it. For two very good reasons. The first, which was new to her, was the intense feeling that to abuse such power would be wrong. Usually, Dagmar didn’t bother herself with right and wrong. She left that to men who received their power simply by being born with a penis. Everyone else had to fight for what was theirs.
The second reason was a simple one: Annwyl might hate the day-to-day, but she protected her power as queen the way she protected her children. With a blinding, passionate force of will.
Besides, Dagmar had worked hard all these years to rein in the queen’s quirkier tendencies. Not that Dagmar didn’t enjoy that side of Annwyl, but she wasn’t just some soldier or even some respected general. She was queen. And she needed to represent herself as such. Especially if she hoped to keep control of her lands and her alliances.
But that’s what Dagmar was here for. To help Annwyl any way she could.
Mabsant, who’d worked with Dagmar for nearly eight years now, placed another parchment in front of her.
“This is from Baron Neish. He’d like some of Queen Annwyl’s troops to help him keep order.”
Dagmar squinted up at her assistant. She didn’t need her precious spectacles to do close-in work, but she couldn’t hope to see anything more than a few feet away without them. “Why can’t he maintain his own order?”
“There seems to be some discord among the religious sects in his city.”
Dagmar leaned back in the big wood chair. “That’s the . . . third?”
“Aye, m’lady.”
“Yes. The third time we’ve heard such complaints from one of the outer cities.” The Chramnesind cults were growing bolder—and meaner. Which was interesting since they preached unity and love. But Dagmar was not fooled. The truth was Chramnesind’s worshippers believed in hate. Hatred of the ones they called the Abominations. The mixing of human and dragon blood that had created . . .
By all reason, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the likes of Priestess Abertha were using the fear people had for dragon-human offspring to advance their real agenda of complete domination. For their god, but more importantly, for the Salebiri family.
The Salebiris had always felt they should rule all these lands, from the Northlands to the Desert Lands, from the Western Provinces to the Eastern Coast. They didn’t think much about the Ice Lands, because there was little in those harsh territories to interest them.
But everything else—they wanted. No matter how they had to get it. Something that annoyed Dagmar greatly.
Of course, nothing irritated Dagmar more than when the perfectly ordered kingdom she’d helped to create was being disrupted.
“Let me talk to Queen Annwyl and General Brastias before we do anything.” She didn’t like that Annwyl’s armies were being separated so much. Going off to fight petty skirmishes here, there, and every gods-damn where.
Massaging the fingers of her left hand—they always ached a bit after she did a lot of writing and when it was getting colder, like it was now—Dagmar glanced up and, with a squint, she noticed that her assistant was staring past her.
Dagmar turned her head and came nose to leggings-covered cock with some male.
“By all reason,” she squeaked, slapping at the groin that had been right by her face.
“Ow!” she heard her mate snap. “I thought we decided you’d treat my hair and my cock like they were the most important things in your world . . . since they are.”
“I never agreed to that, and stop shoving the damn thing in my face.”
“You didn’t say that last night, my dearest heart.”
“Gwenvael!”
“Aye, my love?”
Dagmar let out a breath. She knew, after so many years with the gold dragon, that yelling at him would do no good. It merely spurred him on.
“Could you excuse us?” she asked her assistant.
With a nod, Mabsant picked up a few papers and scurried from the room.
“I think I make the lad nervous,” Gwenvael said, grinning.
“I’m sure you do.”
“Don’t you find that odd? Everyone usually adores me.”
“Gwenvael,” she cut in, “what do you want?”
“You’re not being very nice to me.”
“Gwenvael, my patience is waning.”
“I thought we should talk.”
“Talk?” She squinted up at him. “About?”
“Varry.”
“Don’t call Var that. He hates when you call him that.”
“Which is probably why I call him that. He’s so bloody uptight. He reminds me of Fearghus in his younger days. Something that wouldn’t be a problem except that humans don’t do well when they try to live alone in caves.”
“Is this what you want to talk about?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you could get to it? I have much to do today. Would you like to see my list?”
“Threatening with those stupid lists only works on my mother.”
Damn.
Gwenvael went to his knees beside Dagmar’s chair, and using the arms, he turned it so she faced him. When he pulled her closer so that she didn’t have to squint so much to see his face, Dagmar announced, “I will not talk about Var leaving.”
“Dammit, woman.”
“Sending my son away is not a viable option. It will never be a viable option.”
“You can’t hold him here forever. He wants to
go. And now that Uncle Bram’s last assistant has finally died of old age—and most likely grave boredom—we have no excuse not to send him.”
“No excuse? He’s my son.”
“And like his mother, he plans to get what he wants. The question is whether we give it to him willingly, or he rips it from our cold, dead hands.”
“I ask so little of this world—”
“That’s a lie.”
“—that I don’t think it’s unreasonable to insist my only son stay by my side until he’s at least eighteen winters so that I may raise him properly.”
Gwenvael moved in until Dagmar felt forced to open her legs to allow him closer. He then placed his arms on either side of her and leaned in until their faces were only inches apart.
“Do you really think,” he asked, “that I want my son to go?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ll have you know, female, that unlike my father, who has always felt he only loved his sons due to some flaw in his gods-given instincts, I actually love and, more importantly, like my son. How could I not? He reminds me of you.” He kissed her nose.
“But I do fear,” Gwenvael went on, “that he’s stagnating here. A mind like his must be constantly occupied or—and I know this from experience—it will only turn to ill.”
“I managed.”
“Your kin thought so little of you in the beginning, how could you not? Var doesn’t have that problem here. Even Briec respects him.” Gwenvael lowered his head a bit so that they were looking each other right in the eyes. “Briec.”
“But to send him far away—”
“It’s not like we’re sending him to the Ice Lands, Dagmar. Bram’s not even an hour’s flight from here. And, even better, my uncle Bram will be able to teach our boy something that neither you nor I can.”
“Empathy?”
“I was going to say humility, but now that I think on it . . . both would probably apply.”
Annwyl sat on the outside steps leading into the Great Hall and gulped down more water from the chalice one of the servants had brought her. Her training had not gone well today. She hadn’t done her best, leaving herself open to easy hits and sloppy technique. Now her muscles were fairly screaming and she had a few new cuts that hadn’t been there this morning. They were also still bleeding, but she knew that Morfyd could tend them. Besides, it wasn’t like she was bleeding to death on the steps. Then she would have sent for a healer. Although many didn’t believe it, she did have common sense.
Gwenvael’s eldest daughter ran out of the Great Hall and down the steps.
“What is it, Arlais?” Annwyl asked the pompous child. Gods, she’d thought her Talwyn had been difficult. She’d take a thousand Talwyns over this one pain-in-the-ass brat.
Arlais didn’t answer Annwyl’s question, but her gaze was fixed on the sky above. That meant one of two things. Either Rhiannon was coming for a visit or—
“I will not have this argument again!” the red She-dragon snapped as her claws landed hard on the ground, her thick, long hair settling around her in all its shiny, perfect red glory.
“All I’m saying,” the purple dragon calmly explained when he landed next to her, his cousin not far behind, “is that you could have handled that better. Now I have to fix it.”
“Then fix it!” She sat back on her haunches and pointed a sharp black talon at him. “She started this, if you’d bother to remember. And I was kind enough to do nothing more than add a little something to her food that didn’t kill her. It merely made her scales fall off. I could have come up with something that would have made her head explode. But I didn’t do that, now did I?”
“That was so big of you,” the purple dragon replied drily, his eyes rolling back in his head.
“Of course it was.” And Keita said those words with so much sincerity that Annwyl had to take a quick moment to close her eyes and bite back her laughter. “I didn’t want her dead, my love. I just wanted to make it clear who’s in charge.”
“In the Northlands, I’m in charge, Keita.”
The redhead leaned over and patted his forearm. “Of course you are, dear. And you just keep thinking that if it gives you ease.”
“Auntie Keita!” Arlais shouted—sounding, for once, like an actual child and not a defiant hell spawn.
“Arlais!” Keita quickly shifted to human just as her young niece threw herself at her.
Hugging the laughing child tight, Keita lifted Arlais up and spun her around while covering her face in kisses. “My dear, dear, niece!”
Keita placed her laughing niece on the ground but held her hand. “Let us go inside and find me a divine gown to put on that will put all these worthless humans to shame with my astounding beauty.”
“I have the perfect one for you!” Arlais happily crowed while she dragged Keita toward the stairs.
“Excellent! You have such a fine eye, my dear Arlais.”
When Keita was close, Annwyl smiled at her and said, “Hello, sister.”
“Good day, dearest Annwyl.”
“What brings you all this way?”
“My mother tormented my poor Ragnar about coming home until he couldn’t stand it anymore.”
“She sings to me inside my head,” he complained while getting dressed. “She knows I hate that. She knows!”
“My mother probably just wants information.”
“And you are the queen’s spy.”
“I’m the Protector of the Throne. There’s a difference.” Keita pointed at Annwyl. “Are you aware you’re bleeding onto the steps?”
Annwyl looked down and saw that a small puddle had formed beneath her. “Oh. I didn’t think the cuts were that bad.” She returned her gaze to Keita. “That explains why I’ve suddenly begun to feel light-headed.”
“You’d best get that stitched up before Fearghus finds you dead where you sit.”
Aunt and niece then disappeared into the Great Hall, and Annwyl gave them a wave. “Thank you for your concern,” she said after them.
Ragnar of the Northland dragons and his cousin Meinhard, both now in their human forms and in dark grey leggings and black leather boots, stood in front of her.
“Hello, Ragnar,” she said.
“Queen Annwyl. Need some help?”
“Normally I’d tell you to piss off, but . . . I probably do.” Since she was sure that if she stood, she’d most likely pass out where she was.
The males looked around, and Ragnar asked, “Before I do this, is Fearghus nearby? I don’t relish the fight I’ll have if he sees me carrying you.”
“Oh . . . I don’t know.” Annwyl studied the purple-haired male and asked, “Aren’t you Fearghus?”
“All right then.” The dragon quickly came to her and lifted Annwyl up into his arms. “Go find Morfyd or another healer,” he ordered his cousin. “I’ll get her inside and try to stop the bleeding.”
“You’re very kind,” Annwyl said.
“Thank you.”
“For a purple-haired barbarian who was once the sworn enemy of my mate’s people.”
“We have come a long way.”
“And you’re very handsome. I see why Keita chose you. She does like her males handsome . . . and kind of stupid.”
“Annwyl?”
“Hmm?”
“Perhaps you could stop talking now.”
Annwyl nodded. “That’s probably a very good idea. You know, you’re surprisingly smart for a purple-haired barbarian that Keita actually cares about.”
“And unbelievably tolerant.”
“I can see that as well.”
Atop his stallion, Gaius Lucius Domitus, Iron dragon and the one-eyed Rebel King from the west, stared down into the valley outside Garbhán Isle. His twin sister, Agrippina, rode her horse to his side.
“This is definitely one of your stupider ideas, brother.”
“And I love you, too.”
Aggie glowered at him. “I’m serious. She’s unstable. Drastically so.”
/> “While I’m in the Southlands for the next few weeks, I’ll need to know that you’re safe if I hope to focus on anything else. Garbhán Isle is the one place I feel I can be assured of that. Besides, I don’t see what you still have against Queen Annwyl. She’s always helped us when we’ve needed it before. That human queen is blindingly loyal.”
“She’s also blindingly mad. She should be chained up in a room in some tower until she finally dies. Not leading a nation. And look—” Aggie pointed. “It seems they’re building that tower as we speak.”
“Your life’s in danger, Aggie.”
“So the never-ending rumors say. But you bring me here? To stay with those ridiculously spoiled Southland dragons and that crazed female? That truly seemed like a good idea to you?”
Gaius thought on that a moment, shrugged. “Perhaps I didn’t think it through.”
“Clearly,” she complained, pulling her fur cape tight around her shoulders.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine, Gaius. You know I’ve always found the winters in the Southlands unpleasant. That does not mean, however, I’m about to have some sort of emotional breakdown.”
“I was just asking. No need to bite my head off.”
“I’m sorry. But you know that I hate it here.”
“It’s not that bad, and I can’t honestly think of any place where you’d be safer.”
“Well, that doesn’t say much for the world we currently live in.”
“Times have changed, sister.”
“I know. But I still want to go home.”
But that wasn’t an option. Not when his sister’s life was in danger.
Gaius had almost lost Aggie once before. That’s how he’d met Annwyl. The Southland queen had needed the help of his army, and he’d needed someone to rescue his sister from the Emperor’s Palace and his bitch cousin Vateria Flo-minia. It was a rescue that had happened years ago, but it was a debt Gaius felt he could never repay, since freeing his sister had been impossible for him. Vateria and her guards had known Gaius and his men on sight and would have killed Aggie before he could have even hoped to track her down. So Annwyl and her friends had gone instead and had given Aggie back to Gaius.