What a Dragon Should Know (23 page)

She snickered. “I assume you’re hungry, Gwenvael.”

“I am.” He inclined his head. “You look awfully familiar. Have we … uh … met?”

She rested her hands on her knees and bent at the waist, leaning in close. “Look in my face and say that again. With the same inflection.”

Gwenvael did look into her face and he knew what he saw smirking back at him.

His mother.

“I’m feeling really uncomfortable.”

“Good. You should.” She went to the pit fire and spooned stew into a bowl. “I’m your aunt Esyld.”

Gwenvael only knew of one Aunt Esyld and to this day she was still hunted by his kin.

“Then I’m eternally grateful for your help.” Gwenvael pushed himself up, his back resting against the metal rails of the bed frame. Air hissed between his teeth, the pain reminding him he had a ways to go before he was back to his old self.

Tell that to his cock, though. He would have taken Dagmar right then and there if his aunt hadn’t returned. For his life, he didn’t understand that woman’s effect on him.

“Surprised I didn’t kill you in your sleep?” She handed him the bowl and a spoon.

“There’s no good answer for that. So I choose to eat instead.”

Esyld pulled a chair close to the bed and sat, crossing one leg over the other. “She said you were smart.”

“Do you mean the beautiful Dagmar?”

She frowned. “Beauti—forget it. I mean Keita.”

“My sister?” Gwenvael dropped his spoon back into the bowl with a plop. “My sister’s been here?”

“More than once. We’ve become very close.” Gwenvael didn’t like the sound of that one bit, but before he could say anything about it, “Calm yourself, Gwenvael the Gold. Your sister found me. And I can assure you I have no intention of corrupting her.”

“You’re still wanted by my mother’s court.”

“I’m well aware of that. But I have no intention of challenging your mother for her throne.”

“Why did Keita come to you?”

“Why else? Because she knew it would drive your mother insane if she ever found out. They get along as well as Rhiannon got along with our mother. Hopefully it will not meet the same end.”

Considering Rhiannon had to kill her own mother to secure her throne and protect the life of Bercelak and his family, Gwenvael didn’t much appreciate the last part of that statement. “If it does, I’ll blame you.”

“I’m sure you will. But I want nothing more than what I have, Gwenvael. I don’t want her throne or her power. I just want to be left alone.”

“If that’s all you really want, then let me talk to my mother.”

“No.”

“You should be in the south, among your own. Not here among the barbarians.”

“That’s very sweet. And perhaps your mother would seriously consider it. But your father wouldn’t. Those kin of his still search for me. If they know I’m here, I won’t live another day. So I’d prefer they both knew nothing of my presence.”

He couldn’t argue with her; she was absolutely right. There were few dragons who took their commitments as seriously as Bercelak the Great. And he had no greater commitment than Queen Rhiannon.

“As you wish. You saved my life; I owe you at least that.”

She gestured toward his food. “It’s getting cold. Eat.”

The stew had cooled, but it was still warm enough and quite satisfying. While he ate, Dagmar returned. “That took you forever,” he said around a mouthful.

She slammed the filled bucket on the table and marched across the room. She flicked one of his still-healing wounds.

“Ow!” he cried out, pulling his arm away.

“I had no idea where the well is, you clod. So I’ve been stumbling all over the place looking for that bloody thing! I could have fallen in for all you lot care!”

“Don’t say that, Dagmar. Tonight, tomorrow …
eventually
we would have noticed you were gone. Ow!” he cried out when Dagmar flicked another one of his wounds. “Stop doing that!”

Vigholf the Vicious of the Olgeirsson Horde waited impatiently by the Spikenhammer Gardens. A quiet place of beauty and silence that Vigholf would avoid like the plague if he knew of any safer place to talk. But he didn’t. His father’s spies were everywhere, looking for his betraying son.

That was not Vigholf. As far as his father was concerned, Vigholf was still loyal to him. His brother had begged him to keep that illusion, although it grated on Vigholf’s nerves to do so. He was normally such an honest dragon that his mother often hit him in the back of his head with her tail and yelled at him to,
“think before you speak!”

But to his great disappointment, Olgeir the Wastrel no longer earned his son’s devotion. The old dragon had broken the truce they had with the Southlanders and had betrayed one of the warlord dragons he had an alliance with. The Northland Code was all, to dragons like Vigholf. A clear set of rules and guidelines with loyalty being the most important. Yet his father was loyal to no one but himself, so how could he expect others to be loyal to him in return?

Vigholf heard the pounding hooves of his brother’s war horse and turned to watch him ride up. It still amazed Vigholf how his brother did that. Most hoofed animals wisely stayed away from their kind because they knew how easy it was to become dinner. But his brother never had that problem. Animals were drawn to him, birds perching on his shoulders, wolves and deer resting at his feet, and horses taking him anywhere he needed to go though he could easily fly.

They’d never been very close growing up, Ragnar the Cunning a confusing mix of brilliant fighting skills with talk of philosophers and Magick. But Vigholf had learned to appreciate the skills his brother held and his true Northland spirit.

“Ho, brother!”

“Vigholf. You have news for me?”

“I do.”

His brother dismounted and got his horse to wait simply by sliding the palm of his hand down his forehead.

“Well?”

“I found out why our kinsmen have been heading back to the Horde lair. Da’s got himself a prize.”

Ragnar’s face twisted as if he expected to get punched. “Tell me it’s not that bloody Gold again.” Then he looked panicked. “Tell me Father doesn’t have Dagmar.”

His loyalty to that human female had always managed to stun Vigholf. She seemed quite plain and uninteresting to him, but for twenty years Ragnar kept his eye on her. Protecting her when he could, comforting her when he couldn’t.

“Calm yourself, brother. It’s neither. In fact, our father has gotten himself something much more valuable than one of the Dragon Queen’s sons.”

“Which is?”

“The Dragon Queen’s daughter.”

Ragnar stepped close, his excitement evident. “The Dragonwitch? Morfyd?”

“No. The other one.”

His brother’s face fell. “The slag?”

Vigholf shoved his brother’s shoulder. “Don’t be a bastard, Ragnar! Not all of us follow the dictates of monks.”

“It doesn’t make me a monk because I’m a bit choosy about my bed partners. How did he get his claws on her anyway?”

“She was on the wrong side of the Outerplains, it seems.”

“Foolish dragoness, and
again
he’s breaking the truce by snatching one of their females.” Ragnar began to pace. What he always did when he was trying to work something out. “So they’re all going back for The Honour.”

“Of course. A fresh dragoness to fight for until the last dragon is standing? Who among our kinsmen would miss out on that?”

“When is it?”

“I don’t know. Da hasn’t given a date yet, which is strange for him. He usually likes to get them mated off and out of his hair as fast as possible. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for.”

“I know. He wants her to call on her kin. Get them to fly in here to help her, and then he can get his war.”

“And every warlord will side with him if they think the queen made the first move. But I don’t think the little Red called on anyone. The Gold, her brother—if he knew about his sister, he didn’t show it.”

“He didn’t know. Neither did Dagmar, or she would have told me.”

“Even after she found out you’d been lying to her all these years?”

“She has more to gain by giving me information than withholding it. And what I did is not something I’m proud of, brother, so do not speak of it again.”

Vigholf had no idea why his brother would let it bother him so, but Ragnar was not an easy dragon to understand.

Ragnar stopped pacing. “The Southland dragons haven’t arrived because she hasn’t called to them. She’s going to try and get out on her own.”

“Why the hell would she try that?”

Ragnar faced him, his smile bright. “The beauty, my dear brother, of a mother-daughter relationship.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’ll move heaven, earth, and any number of hells to get out of there without her mother finding out.”

Vigholf shook his head. “You’re going to use this, aren’t you?”

Ragnar threw his arm around his younger brother, giving him a rough hug. “What kind of scheming, plotting bastard would I be if I didn’t?”

Gwenvael slept on and off for the rest of the day and well into the night. The scent of more food woke him up, and another meal and a delicious concoction of wine mixed with healing herbs had him up and wandering around his aunt’s house. It seemed a large step down for a princess who’d hoped to inherit her mother’s throne upon her death—and the death of any other siblings in her way—but Esyld seemed to be quite content.

They chatted for a while, Gwenvael busy bringing her up to date on his kin while leaving out any political talk completely. He left her tying dried herbs together and still laughing when he went out to find where Dagmar had wandered off to.

He found her behind Esyld’s house, sitting on an overturned trunk and staring out over a small stream. With bottle of wine and fresh fruit in hand, he walked up to her.

“See?” he teased. “I noticed you were gone.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice and kept her head down. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Most don’t.” He stepped in front of her and examined her closely. Her spectacles were on top of her head, and she was digging in the pocket of her gown for something. She was nervous and sniffling.

Knowing he wouldn’t get a straight answer out of her, Gwenvael gripped her chin and tilted it up until she looked him in the eye.

Tears. Real ones.

She jerked away from him. “I’m fine. You can stop looking at me like that.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

He sat down next to her on the trunk. “I have wine.”

She wiped her eyes and ignored him until he opened the bottle and held it out for her.

“It’s good wine.”

She took the bottle from him and swigged several gulps down. She handed it back to him and muttered, “It’s a bit weak.”

Gwenvael took a healthy gulp and almost choked it back up. “Weak,” he squeaked out. “Definitely.”

Locking the top on the bottle, Gwenvael placed it down in front of them. “Now I want you to tell me everything. Tell me the price you had to pay to free me from the Horde.”

She began to sob and when Gwenvael tried to put his arms around her shoulders, she shrugged him off. He felt cold fear grip him. “Gods, Dagmar, what did they do to you?”

Still sobbing, she reached into a hidden pocket of her skirt and pulled out a piece of parchment. She shoved it at him.

He glanced at the seal but didn’t recognize it. Quickly tearing it open, he read it. It was written in the ancient language of all dragons; although a few of the letters were penned slightly different, a few of the words possessing different meanings, it was still readable to his eye, if not to a human’s like Dagmar.

“It’s to my mother. From a Ragnar of the Olgeirsson Horde.” He blinked, raised a brow. “Ragnar? That wouldn’t be sweet, caring Brother Ragnar you told me about, would it?” She nodded, continuing to sob.

Gwenvael winced. “I understand how that could upset you, Dagmar, but I can assure you it’s a very common practice. My grandmother attended colleges all over the Southlands as human and no one ever knew.”

She pointed at the letter and continued to sob.

“Dagmar, all it says is that he’s responsible for me being alive and safe and wants to talk to my mother about an alliance to help him overthrow his father.”

When she continued to cry, he went on, “This is standard political crap. I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

Swallowing back her tears, “We both know this”—she pointed at the parchment in his hand—“is, excuse my father’s term, elk shit. We both know he doesn’t simply want me to convince you to take me to the Southlands just to get this ridiculous letter into the Dragon Queen’s hands.”

“So?”

“Which means he really wants me there for another reason. Once I’m there, he’ll want me to do something to benefit him.”

“Probably true … so?”

“And normally, I would jump at the chance. To travel into the Southlands. To meet Queen Annwyl and bargain for a much better deal than I got with
you.”

“That was an excellent deal.”

“Normally, I’d lie and connive and do whatever necessary to make you take me into the south.”

“But …”

More tears began to flow. “But that thing …”

“Thing? What thing?”

“That thing … in one’s head … that tells you when something would be wrong to do. It won’t let me do it.”

Feeling a sudden high level of annoyance, Gwenvael carefully asked, “Do you mean your … conscience?”

Her tears turned into hysterical sobs, and she went down on her side, her head dropping into his lap.

“Dagmar! Everyone has a conscience.”

“I don’t!”

“Of course you do.”

“I’m a politician, Gwenvael! Of course, I don’t have a conscience. At least I didn’t. Now I’m cursed with one. And it’s your fault!”

Somehow he knew that last bit would happen.

Why didn’t he understand? Why couldn’t he see? A conscience made her weak and vulnerable. Another poor female to be taken advantage of. Next thing she knew, she’d be planning parties, begging her father to arrange for suitors, and thinking about having children.

This was a nightmare!

“Stop it,” he ordered, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her to sit up. “Stop it right now.”