Her eyes suddenly locked on his, and Yrjan felt a fear he’d not known since he left his father’s house to join the Order.
“Do you have any of their robes or clothes? Anything they may have worn?”
“No. We assumed all that was destroyed—”
“When?” she growled.
“My lady?”
“When was the Order destroyed?”
Yrjan took a deep breath to calm his shaken nerves. “According to my readings, eighty-six to eighty-seven years ago during the winter of—”
He didn’t get to finish as her small fist struck the table and she jumped up, her chair falling to the marble floor. Many of the other Brothers rushed into the reading room and watched as the weak female paced angrily before them.
“My lady, I’m sure there’s—”
“Liar.”
Yrjan was insulted until she bellowed, “That bastard liar!” and he knew she was not speaking of him.
“My lady, please!”
She stormed toward the exit, and when his Brothers blocked her way, she screamed, “Move!”
They did, scattering like ants.
Yrjan followed after her until she stormed out the main doors, slamming them behind her.
Shaking and panting, he went back to the reading room and the Brothers rushed to get him his own hot tea and some soothing herbs to calm his nerves.
Abstinence. A very good decision.
Dagmar stalked out of the Great Library. She stopped on the third step down and looked around. Where has that idiot gone?
By reason, she was angry. Angrier than she’d ever been in her life. Angrier than she knew it possible to be.
He’d lied to her. Not for a few days or over a particular issue, but full lies for two bloody decades!
Dagmar had never felt so betrayed. So hurt. Ragnar had hurt her as no other could.
A sudden attack of pure anxiety and panic swept through her and she ran down the steps and to the side of the enormous building. Slapping her hands against the stone wall, she leaned over and brought back up all those biscuits and tea Saamik had fed her.
Her bouts of panic rarely caught her this badly. Usually she could control it with deep breathing or by focusing on something else entirely. But she couldn’t focus on anything else but this.
Who had she been dealing with all these years?
Her father’s words came back to haunt her. “Always so sure you’re right, little miss.”
She had been sure. She had trusted Ragnar with her life and the life of her kinsmen every time she allowed him into her father’s fortress.
Trembling, Dagmar rested back against the wall.
All right, she’d been a fool. She knew that now, but there was no use shaking and crying about it like a newborn pup. Ragnar must have wanted something from her; she needed to find out what.
Dagmar used a cloth from her satchel to wipe her mouth and headed back to the stairs. She sat down in the middle and waited. The dragon probably went for food. He was always hungry, it seemed. He’d be back and they could set off. Besides, a few minutes alone would help her get some control and figure out what to do next.
She’d allow absolutely no one to make a fool of her.
Chapter 13
Dagmar sat on the steps to the Great Library until the two suns went down. Gwenvael never returned.
When she saw the same man pass her twice, she knew she could no longer sit out there in the open and decided to return to the inn they’d been to the night before.
She set off, torn between worrying something horrible happened to Gwenvael and feeling sorry for herself, positive she’d been betrayed by another male and that he’d left her. She enjoyed feeling sorry for herself much more and focused on that instead.
Because of course he left her! Kisses meant nothing to someone like him when he could have, or hire, any woman he wanted. Dagmar was sure he was in some wench’s bed, his commitment to her completely forgotten as he took the whore again and again and again.
Dagmar stopped for a moment. That was a visual she didn’t need. Especially when the “whore” abruptly turned into her.
“Get a hold of yourself, idiot.” She was in a bad situation. If he didn’t return, how was she to get to her uncle Gestur’s or home or anywhere else? And what did it mean to the alliance with Queen Annwyl? The whole thing kept getting worse and worse.
Especially when she glanced over her shoulder and saw someone back into the shadows so she wouldn’t see.
Yes. Definitely getting worse.
Taking much quicker steps, Dagmar rushed back to the Stomping Horse Inn. She stepped inside and let out a sigh of relief. The place was quite busy and she felt safer in the well-lit inn with many around her, male and female.
“My lady, you’ve returned.”
Dagmar smiled at the owner. “Yes. I was wondering if I could get a table.”
“Anything for you.” She’d tipped him well that morning and she was very glad she had. He forced a few men to move and gave their table to Dagmar. It was in the back, and she faced the door, hoping to see Gwenvael come in looking for her. The owner went out of his way to keep the local men away from her, but a few still stopped by, trying to chat her up.
Men were so strange. She knew they weren’t enamored by her looks, but the colder and more off-putting she became, the more they swarmed. Willing local women all around, but they wanted the “cold bitch,” as one dismissed male mumbled at her.
She stared hard at the door, willing it to open and bring in Gwenvael. The chair on the other side of her small table scraped against the floor as it was pulled back and Dagmar let out an annoyed sigh.
“Go away.”
“I think we need to talk.”
Dagmar felt a fresh blade through her heart as she turned and looked deep into blue eyes with silver flecks through the iris. And until her hands, bent into claws, were going for his face, she had no idea she’d react so violently. But Ragnar simply grabbed her wrists and slammed them back to the table.
“Sit down,” he calmly ordered.
“My lady?” The owner rushed over. “Are you all right?”
Ragnar raised a brow, and Dagmar forced herself to smile up at the owner. “Everything’s fine. Thank you.”
He nodded at her and glared at Ragnar.
When they were again alone, she snatched her hands back and snarled, “You lying bastard.”
He wore no monk’s robes this time, no cowl, but a simple black cape with the hood pulled right to his forehead—to hide the purple hair, she supposed.
“Do you think it was so easy for me to lie to you for the last twenty years? You, who were always so kind to me?”
“Then why did you? What did you want from me?”
“What I got.”
She studied him closely. Reason help her, but he was beautiful. Those gorgeous eyes combined with sharp cheekbones, full lips, and an almost-but-not-quite-too-long nose would make any female stop and stare—and dream.
“He warned me your kind is everywhere,” she said. “But I believed a Northlander would be too honorable. Bigger fool, I.”
“If it had been safe, I would have told you the truth. Hearing stories about dragons is vastly different from realizing one is sitting across from you, drinking your wine.”
“You know it wouldn’t have mattered to me.”
“No. I see now that it wouldn’t have.” His smile was affectionate. “Not to my reasoning, Dagmar.”
“Your name, dragon. What is it?”
“Ragnar the Cunning, of the Olgeirsson Horde.”
“Fitting.” She gazed into his handsome face. “And why are you here now?”
“I have contacts at the Great Library. I would have preferred you not found out that way, though.” He leaned back in his chair. “Why were you looking for me?”
“Trying to confirm a rumor about Jökull’s truce with the Horde.”
He chuckled. “Where did you hear that?”
�
��Is it true?”
“No. Although it’s a brilliant rumor to start, don’t you think?”
“You know the actions of every horde?”
“Don’t need to. I only need to know your father’s territory is on my father’s territory—and Olgeir the Wastrel isn’t making any truces with humans. He considers you more…well, like your kitchen dogs. Pets that amuse and take scraps off the floor, but have no other real purpose.”
Dagmar rested her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm. “If I thought I could manage it—I’d kill you where you sit.”
He gave her a surprisingly warm smile. “I’ve always had a great fondness for you, Dagmar. A very great fondness. If I could have protected you from being hurt, I would have.”
“But you want something more. Don’t you? That’s why you’re here now.”
“Always quick.”
“Just as I’ve been taught.”
“Your Fire Breather. The Gold.”
She felt her stomach tighten, not enjoying the mention of Gwenvael one bit. “Deserted me for the night, I suspect.”
“You know he didn’t. But he was foolish to bring you here. Foolish to think he’d be ignored by my father’s spies or that the truce between the Hordes and the Dragon Queen would keep him safe.”
Dagmar let out a breath, struggled for calm. “You have him.”
“No. I have no need of him. But my father’s Horde has long memories and we’re just as protective of our females as your kinsmen. Chances are he will not last the night…unless I help him.”
“You mean for a price.”
“A price I suspect you’re willing to pay to get him back.” He took her hand in his and studied it. “Has he seduced you too, Lady Dagmar? Like he has so many others? Has that cold heart you always professed to have been thawed by a Fire Breather?”
Dagmar would give him nothing he could feed on, nothing he could use again in years to come. But she couldn’t deny to herself that she feared for Gwenvael’s safety. She’d seen firsthand what her kinsmen did to those who’d involved themselves with the wrong woman or sullied a kinswoman’s good name.
She knew that as she sat here across from the lying Horde dragon, Gwenvael suffered horribly at the hands of his enemies. She also knew hysteria would get her nowhere. If she kept calm, cold, and just as merciless, perhaps she could get them both out of this.
“At the moment, we’re business partners. And that’s all. You know me well enough, my lord. Know that when I want something, I’ll do what I have to in order to get it.” She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands primly on her lap. “We both know I need him alive if I hope to get what he promised me from that mad bitch queen. So what’s your price? What do I need to do to get you to bring the Southlander to me—alive?”
“It’s simple.” His small smile turned wide and brilliant. “Help me start a war.”
Gwenvael gritted his fangs and bit back a cry of pain as the blade of a dagger was forced under his scale and then lifted, tearing away the scale from its flesh anchor. But it was not removed completely. No. That was a weaker form of torture. Instead a small, jagged piece of metal was placed between scale and flesh and the scale pressed back into place. In minutes the flesh would seal again to the scale, enclosing the jagged metal inside. The pain of that would only get worse as the hours went on.
It was a very old form of torture but had been quite popular in his grandfather’s day.
When the Lightnings had first dragged him into the city tunnels, he’d thought they wanted information from him. Information he’d never give, but he’d assumed they’d try. Yet for hours, they hadn’t said a word to him. They hadn’t asked him questions or demanded anything. They’d simply beaten him until he shifted to his dragon form, and then they’d chained him from a thick steel pipe. After that they kept hitting him, again and again. If he passed out, they woke him up with water or herbs and went back to beating him. When they paused from beating him, one of them would lift several of his scales and put the metal bits underneath.
A good portion of his body was covered now, and as he hung from the chains manacled to his wrists and ankles, all he felt was pain. Excruciating, nearly unbearable pain. And it would only get worse. That much he knew.
It had crossed his mind to call out to his kin, but he’d decided against it. It would take them days to get to him, and in that time they’d have started another war with the Lightnings. He wouldn’t be responsible for that.
With the scales back in place, the hitting started again. Someone had very big fists and seemed to enjoy hitting Gwenvael’s face with them. By the tenth hit, he slumped in his chains.
That’s when he heard her voice for the first time. “Gwenvael,” she sang. “Gwenvael. My dear, dear heart.”
“He’s out again. Give me some water.”
“We’re out.”
“Then get some, you idiot.”
A claw gripped his jaw and lifted his head. “Don’t you worry, Fire Breather. We’ll get you taken care of.”
“It’s time to fight, Gwenvael,” the voice told him so sweetly. “It’s time to live. You must come to me. Come to me as quick as you can.”
Gwenvael nodded. “I will.”
“You are awake then? Good. So we can—”
Snapping his mouth open, Gwenvael wrapped it around the Lightning’s snout. He bit down, enjoying the screaming, and unleashed his flame. The Lightning’s purple scales would protect him to a degree, but he couldn’t breathe through flames the way Gwenvael’s kind could. So he kept the flame strong, drowning the bastard in effect, letting him twitch and struggle.
He heard other screams, knew the Lightning’s kinsmen would come to protect him, but they didn’t and eventually the one in his maw went limp. Gwenvael released him, staring down at the half-seared face of his torturer.
“Gods, look at him.”
Gwenvael raised his head. More Lightnings, their swords covered in blood, watched him.
“And look at this.” One of them swiped up something in his claw and showed it to the other two.
“They’re still doing that? Ragnar’s going to have a fit when he finds out.”
“We’ll worry about that later. Let’s get him down.”
“Can you walk?” one of them asked, and Gwenvael nodded.
“Can you shift to human?”
He nodded again. If nothing else, he’d definitely try.
“All right then, lad. Come on.”
Chapter 14
Dagmar saw Gwenvael being helped out of the tunnels by three other Horde dragons.
“My brother and cousins,” Ragnar murmured.
She rushed to Gwenvael’s side and lifted his head. “He needs a healer.”
Gwenvael surprised her by shaking his head and pulling away from the three who held him. She wasn’t sure where he’d found the strength. “No,” he said.
“She’s right, Fire Breather. I can see what they did to you,” Ragnar added with a frown. “Let me help you.”
“Help? From a Lightning? I think I’ve had all the help I can stand from you bastards.” Gwenvael took her hand.
“Don’t be foolish,” Ragnar argued. “Let me help you.”
“No. I’ll find my own help.”
“In the Northlands? Do you really think more of my kin aren’t out looking for you? Or that our Dragonwitches will help your kind?”
Gwenvael tugged Dagmar away, stubbornly refusing to hear anything else Ragnar had to say.
She glanced back at the Horde dragons watching them, and Ragnar gave a small nod of his head. She looked away and let Gwenvael drag her through the now-quiet streets.
“Where are we going?” she finally managed to ask.
“Someplace safe. She calls to me and says I’ll be safe.”
“Who?”
Gwenvael grunted suddenly, stopping to bend over at the waist, his hands resting on his thighs. That’s when she saw all the blood and bruises riddling his human body as they must
have been riddling his dragon one. But there were not only bruises and open wounds. There was something else. Under his skin? She didn’t know, couldn’t be sure. But she knew he was in pain—real pain he was fighting hard not to show.
“What’s wrong?” She gently rested her hands on his arm and he jumped back from her as if scalded. “Gwenvael, what is it?”
“Nothing. We have to go. She calls.”
“Not until we take you to a healer.”
“No human healer can help me.” He pulled her around a dark corner. “When I shift, get on my back.”
“You can’t do this here. Everyone will see.”
“They’ll only see you and only if they look hard. If we move fast enough, we can do this.”
“But Gwenvael—”
“Don’t argue with me,” he snapped, but then his voice calmed. “Please. Just do as I say.”
She had no choice. “All right.”
He walked away from her, and she watched as flames surrounded his body. When the flames died, he was dragon again.
“Now.”
She rushed to his side and grabbed hold of his mane. His tail lifted her from behind, seating her on his back. His wings moved, and they were airborne.
A few people looked up, frowning at the sight of a woman apparently flying above the city, but by the time they blinked and looked again, she’d disappeared into the clouds.
Rhiannon flipped through another ancient tome she’d found buried in the back of the royal archives. This area was for the scholars, witches, and mages. Unlike many dragons she knew, Rhiannon never cared much about learning for learning’s sake. She was a scholar only because it was necessary to be one as a witch. To be quite honest, she found this sort of research deadly boring. Yet she didn’t have much time and she knew it.
Annwyl’s body was simply not made to carry the kind of offspring she was near giving birth to. For those, like Rhiannon, who could see the tendrils of Magick wherever they looked, the power surrounding Annwyl almost blinded the Dragonwitch. For someone like Rhiannon, an actual birth of this kind would have exhausted her human body, but her natural, Magick-infused defenses would have most likely kept her healthy. But Annwyl was a true human warrior. There was absolutely no Magick inside her. No otherworldly skills that had been kept dormant until now. Her gift was her rage. The power of it was like a sudden storm that could wipe out an entire village in a night.
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