What a Dragon Should Know (26 page)

“I’ll bark at you all I want! And another thing … I … I …” His gaze had traveled past her—and up.

“What’s wrong?” She’d never seen such a blank expression on his face before. As if he didn’t know what to make of whatever it was he saw.

“Please,” he said calmly, too calmly, “for the love of all that’s holy, don’t turn around.”

That didn’t sound remotely good, so that’s exactly what Talaith did.

Her eyes searching, she looked at the crowd of dragons and saw nothing, but then she heard it. That giggle she’d known only a short time but had learned to love more than anything else in her world. Terrified of what she’d see, but knowing she had to see, Talaith raised her gaze to the open skies. Her mouth opened and she stared in shock as she watched her daughter—again her
only
daughter—charge across the back of some dragon Talaith had never seen before. And then to add to the horror, Izzy didn’t stop running. No, she simply kept going. Right over that dragon’s back and neck until she reached his head … and that’s when she dived right off.

And just when Talaith assumed her daughter was committing some sort of ritual suicide, she crashed onto another dragon that had come up under the first. Unfortunately, she lost her seat and slid right off. Grabbing hold of his mane, she held on while he zigged and zagged through the sky.

All of this on its own was nightmarish enough. Truly, it was. But the fact that Izzy was laughing and goading the dragon on did nothing but make it all that more terrifying. Well, terrifying at least for Talaith.

Because who, in their right minds, enjoyed this? As it was, Briec still had to find ways to trick Talaith onto his back for a simple ride to his den.

Another dragon flew under the one Izzy held on to, and that’s when Izzy released her grip on the mane. Her body fell toward the next dragon, but one of them must have miscalculated because she slammed against his side and went flipping off. Her body spiraled and plummeted to earth until a black-haired dragon raced forward and caught hold of Izzy in her talons.

That’s when Izzy screamed. Not in fear or panic—as Talaith would have truly appreciated at this moment to prove her daughter had an ounce of common sense—but in unabashed joy. Pure, unadulterated enjoyment of what she was doing.

“Talaith?” She felt Briec’s hand on her back. “Talaith, love, you’ve stopped breathing. I need you to breathe.”

“I—” She motioned to his kin. “You—”

“I’ll deal with them.”

She nodded, still unable to speak or form a coherent thought. Then she turned and stumbled back to the castle, trying the whole time not to throw up.

Dagmar wandered through the castle since she found herself in no mood to wait for Gwenvael’s appearance. Especially since part of her worried that he
wouldn’t
appear at all, and the thought of him with those women did nothing but annoy her.

She noticed right away that nothing about this place seemed royal. There were expensive tapestries here and there and marble flooring in certain hallways. But otherwise … It reminded Dagmar of her father’s house. There were weapons at the ready in nearly every room, in nearly every corner. And a few weapons adorned the walls, but Dagmar had to smile when she saw that some still had dried blood on them. A slightly less frightening way to threaten one’s enemies when the heads you have outside your walls had become nothing more than crumbling bone.

She also noticed that everyone seemed rather … casual. Dagmar had expected a lot more pomp and circumstance from the Queen of Dark Plains and her royal court. A lot more scurrying servants and whispered court drama. There didn’t seem to be any of that.

In fact, the more she wandered, the more Dagmar wanted to meet the infamous Blood Queen. But first, she’d have to track down Gwenvael. She’d have to tidy up before she could be presented to a queen. She was covered in traveler dirt, and her poor cloak and dress needed a good scrubbing. Grinning, she wondered if her recently earned five coppers could get her an already-made gown. Nothing fancy, of course, but a less heavy material that would be presentable for her first court appearance.

Dagmar walked past a room and then stopped. She immediately walked back and glanced in. The library. A very nice one, too, although a bit small. She wandered in and began to study the books on the shelves. Lots of fictional work here. Not really to Dagmar’s tastes, but she usually read everything she could get her hands on. She turned a corner and found books on history and philosophy. This was definitely more along the lines of what she enjoyed reading, especially when she found a rare copy of
The Battle Strategies of Dubnogartos.
He was one of the greatest warlords of the long-dead Western armies. And although some of his methods were outdated, to know how the man thought and strategized was a boon she simply couldn’t pass up.

Grabbing the book, Dagmar began to carefully skim through the pages. Finding it old but beautifully maintained, she immediately began to look for a chair to sit in so she could read a few pages … or chapters. Just a few. She went deeper into the library, surprised to find that it wasn’t very wide but awfully deep. Near the back, where daylight from the front windows no longer crept in, Dagmar followed the candlelight. As she came around the corner, she saw her. A woman sitting at a table, her elbows resting on the wood, her face, chest, and arms all that could be seen in the dim candlelight. She had a book open at midpoint in front of her and several lit candles on the table. But she wasn’t reading … she was crying.

Not wanting to interrupt—or be forced to comfort anyone—Dagmar began a quiet retreat. But she hit a loose floorboard and the woman’s head snapped up.

Dagmar winced. The poor woman had been crying for a while. “I’m sorry. I was just—”

“It’s all right.” The woman wiped her face with her hands. “Just having a moment.” Rubbing the back of her hand against her dripping nose, she asked, “What are you reading?”

“Oh. Uh …
The Battle Strategies of Dubnogartos.”

Her face lit up and Dagmar suddenly saw all the scars that the dim lighting had been hiding. “Great book,” she enthused. “His battle against the Centaurs at Hicca … bloody amazing read.”

She motioned to a chair. “You can sit down if you like. I’m done with my crying fit, I think.”

Dagmar slowly walked over to the table. “Rough morning?”

“You could say that.”

Dagmar pulled out the chair across from the woman and sat down, placing the book on the table.

She watched as the woman let out a sigh and stretched her neck. But it was when she again raised her hands to wipe her face that Dagmar saw them—from her wrist to her forearm, on both arms.

The woman raised a brow. “Something wrong?”

“Uh …” Dagmar couldn’t stop staring and finally she blurted out, “You’re Queen Annwyl. Aren’t you?” If nothing else, the dragon brands burned into her arms gave it away. Only a monarch would be brave enough to wear those markings for the world to see.

“Some days. But you can call me Annwyl.”

This softly sobbing woman was the Queen of Dark Plains?

And Dagmar began to wonder if her arranged alliance with this monarch had been a bit hasty. Her father needed a strong leader as his ally, not some whimpering mess hiding in a library. It was true enough, she knew, that being with child was hard on any woman, but even Dagmar’s sisters-in-law hid their misery better than this.

“And you are … ?”

“Dagmar,” she said quickly, realizing she had to hide any disappointment she may have at the moment. “Dagmar Reinholdt.”

The queen frowned. “I don’t recognize you, but that name sounds awfully familiar.”

“Dagmar Reinholdt. Only Daughter of The Reinholdt.”

“Dagmar? You’re a woman.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Yes. I’m also called The Beast, in some parts.”

“I was unaware that The Reinholdt had any daughters.” She leaned in a bit. “How did you get here?”

“Oh. Gwenvael brought me.”

It was strange watching it. That soft, sweet, scar-covered face so quickly and brutally becoming hard and very,
very
angry.

The queen’s fist slammed down against the thick wood table, and Dagmar felt it bend under the pressure, heard the sound of it splintering.

“That idiot!”

It took her a bit, to get that bulk up and out of its seat, but she managed without any help, her rage giving her a fluidity Dagmar guessed was denied the queen at most times. Then she lumbered off, words pouring out of her mouth that made Dagmar’s brothers seem more like holy priests than the salty warriors of the Reinholdt Clan.

She sat there a moment, letting out a breath. “So that’s the Blood Queen.” She knew now the rumors were true … The woman was completely insane.

“Oh!” Her hand covered her mouth as she realized what she’d done. “Gwenvael!”

Then she was up and running.

“Is there something wrong with you? Beyond that which we already know of?”

Gwenvael looked at his sister, the piece of fresh fruit he’d just taken off her plate still in his hand. “Huh?”

Morfyd sat down at the table where battle plans and decisions regarding Annwyl’s kingdom were made on a daily basis.

“What possessed you to bring her here?”

“I had no choice.”

“What do you mean you had no choice?”

“How was I going to find out why that Lightning wants her here if I didn’t bring her with me? Of course”—he glanced around—“I seemed to have misplaced her. But I’m sure I’ll find her again.”

Morfyd rubbed her eyes and took another breath. “Gwenvael, she is the
Only
Daughter of The Reinholdt. And the Northland men are intensely, almost rabidly, protective of their daughters. And you just traipse off with one.”

“I didn’t traipse. There was no traipsing. And I don’t know why you’re so angry at—”

“Don’t speak.” She held her hand up, palm facing him. “Just don’t speak. We have to figure out what we’re going to tell Annwyl before she finds out”—the door slammed open behind them, Annwyl glowering at them both—“on her own.”

“You idiot!”

“Annwyl! My heart!”

Annwyl stalked across the room, her belly leading the way. Actually, her rage led the way, her belly right behind it. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Well—”

“Don’t speak!” Morfyd cut in. “Just don’t speak.”

Dagmar charged into the room after Annwyl. She was out of breath and slightly sweaty. Did the woman exercise anything besides her manipulation skills?
Weak as a kitten.

“If you could just give me a moment, Your Majesty,” she panted out. “I can explain what brings me here.”

Gwenvael snickered. “She called you ‘Majesty.’ ”

Annwyl hit him on the forehead with the flat of her hand.

“Ow!”

“How do you do that?” Annwyl demanded of Gwenvael. “How do you convince them to take the blame for you?”

“It’s all in the hands,” he countered.

“I assure you I’m not taking the blame for anything, Your Maj—”

“Call me that again, and I’ll tear you open from bowels to nose. It’s Annwyl, you sod.”

Gwenvael saw Dagmar’s eyes narrow, her nostrils flare, and he quickly jumped in before the little barbarian could say something that would forfeit her head. “Tell them how you blackmailed me.”

Dagmar’s back snapped straight, Annwyl’s rudeness immediately forgotten. “What?”

“She’s just using me,” he explained to Annwyl. “Using me to get to you.”

Adjusting her frames, Dagmar said, “It’s time for you to stop talking.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you will stop talking.”

“We’re on my territory now, Beast. You can’t strut around here and pretend you rule all—”

“Quiet.”

“But—”

She raised her right forefinger.

“She—”

Dagmar raised that damn forefinger higher.

“It’s just—”

Now she brandished both forefingers. “Stop.”

He gave Dagmar his best pout, which she completely ignored, turning her back on him to again face Annwyl. “Think there might be some place
private
we can talk, my lady?”

Gwenvael’s mouth dropped open. “Did you just dismiss—”

Dagmar held up that damn forefinger again but didn’t even bother to look at him when she did.

Annwyl’s grin was wide and bright. A smile Gwenvael hadn’t seen from her in far too long. “Right this way, Lady Dagmar.”

“Thank you.” Dagmar brusquely snapped her fingers at Gwenvael. “And don’t forget to bring my bags up once I get a room, Defiler.”

Annwyl fairly glowed as she followed Dagmar from the room, her smile growing by the second. Gwenvael faced his sister. “It’s Ruiner, which is a vast difference.”

“Uh …”

“So get it right!” he yelled at the empty doorway. He shook his head, fighting his smile. “Rude cow.”

His sister stared at him so long he began to worry. “What?” He brushed his hands over his face. “Is something marring my beauty? Besides these hideous scars that I received while protecting those I love?”

“You like her.”

“I like everyone. I’m filled with joy and love and—”

“No. Nitwit. You
like
her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not even the kind of female I’d be attracted to.”

“Because she can construct and verbally repeat full and complete sentences?”

“That’s top of my list.”

Morfyd leaned forward. “Good gods … you haven’t fucked her. Have you?”

“What kind of language is that from my sister?” He wagged his finger at her. “It’s that Brastias. A bad influence. I know something’s going on there. I’ll find out.”

“Don’t try to turn this on me. You like a girl.”

“I do not.”

“You do. You like her.”

“Shut up.”

Laughing, Morfyd pushed away from the table and stood. “This is a great day in Dark Plains! I must trumpet it from the rooftops!”

“You’ll do no such thing. And does no one care that I had a near-death experience with Lightnings?”

“No!” his sister crowed, still laughing as she left the room.

“Your betrayal will not be forgotten!” he cried dramatically.

The statement would have meant more, however, if someone was there to witness it.