What a Dragon Should Know (7 page)

“Dagmar.”

“Brother.”

“Who is this?”

“This is Lord Gwenvael. I’m taking him to see Father.”

The Northlander examined Gwenvael closely before saying, “He must be from the south. So brown.”

“I prefer golden,” Gwenvael corrected. “It’s a tragic curse really since I live in a part of the world where the two suns actually come out during the day and don’t cower behind clouds, afraid to be seen by the scary Northmen.”

When Dagmar’s brother only stared at him, Gwenvael glanced down at the female. She was smirking, and he knew he’d been right. Any intelligence in this group had gone to the woman.

“Lord Gwenvael, this is my brother and oldest son to The Reinholdt, Eymund. And I don’t think he understood your joke.”

That was sadly true. He didn’t. “Lord Eymund.”

The Northlander grunted, but kept staring. Gwenvael had no idea if this was an unspoken challenge so he said, “The men of the north are very handsome. Especially you.”

It took a while for his statement to get through the immense skull surrounding that excessively slow brain, but when it did Eymund eyed him intently.

“Uh … what?”

“If you’ll excuse us, brother”—Dagmar motioned for Gwenvael to move toward the end of the massive hall—“we’re going to see Father.”

When they reached a plain wood door, she knocked.

“In.”

She pushed the thick door open and ushered Gwenvael in, signaling for that tasty morsel of dog to stay behind. After closing the door behind them, she walked to her father’s desk. She kept her hands folded in front of her and her demeanor as nonthreatening as possible.

“Father, there’s someone here to see you.”

The Reinholdt lifted his gaze from the maps in front of him, glanced at Gwenvael, and immediately went back to his maps. “Don’t know him.”

“I know. But you’ve met him.”

“I have?”

“He’s the dragon from this morning.”

Grey eyes similar to his daughter’s slowly lifted, and the widely built man leaned over in his chair, looking around Dagmar to see Gwenvael.

“You havin’ me on?” he asked his daughter.

“Because I’m known for my rich and well-developed sense of humor?”

Actually, the dry way she said it, Gwenvael thought she was extremely funny.

“Good point,” her father said. “But still …”

“I know it’s hard to believe. But it’s him.”

The Reinholdt let out a soul-weary sigh and sat back in his chair. “Yeah, so … What’s he doin’ ’ere?”

“He asked to meet with you.”

“Last I remember, we weren’t tellin’ him nothin’.”

“True. But I had little choice but to bring him here. He asked for shelter and as an outsider alone I had to give it to him at least for the night as per Northland etiquette law, which he’s obviously studied.”

“Ya act like he’s some starving woodsman who fell at your feet. He’s a bloody dragon.”

“True. But it was hard to turn him away when he cried.”

Eyes now wide, the warlord again leaned over and gaped at Gwenvael.
“Cried?”
That one word dripped in distaste.

“Yes, Father. There were definite tears. A touch of sobbing.”

“I’m very sensitive,” Gwenvael tossed in.

“Sensitive?” And he said it like he’d never heard the word before. “He’s …
sensitive?”

Dagmar nodded. “Very sensitive and has a tendency to cry. So … I’ll just leave you two to it.”

“Get your skinny ass back here,” the warlord harshly demanded before she’d taken more than three steps. Gwenvael didn’t immediately jump to the woman’s defense as he would with most women. His instincts told him she didn’t need his help, and he knew for a fact she wasn’t like most women.

She raised a brow at her father and he raised one right back.

“When you put it so nicely, Father …”

“Cheeky cow,” he mumbled before returning his attention back to Gwenvael. “So what do you want?”

Putting his hand over his chest, Gwenvael softly replied, “Warm food, a soft bed, and a good night’s sleep. That is all I ask.”

The warlord gave something that a few partially blind beings might consider a smile. “What ya hoping for? In the mornin’ she’ll change her mind? She won’t. Tell ya that right now.”

“Can’t you beat it out of her?”

He heard it, though she desperately tried to hide it—a little cough trying to cover a laugh.

“We don’t do that here,” The Reinholdt told him. “We leave that to you Southlanders. We prize our women in the Northlands.”

“Ohhhh! You mean like cattle!”

Her father cut her such a look that Dagmar wondered if the dragon cared for his head at all. Or did he want it mounted on her father’s bedroom wall with the two fifteen-hundred-pound bears he’d slaughtered the winter before?

“Lord Gwenvael, I’m sure you’re not trying to insult my father. Again.”

“Trying? As in effort? No.”

All right, she had to at least admit it to herself … He was funny. And had no concept of personal safety.

Not only that, but what was he doing bringing up how handsome the men in the north were—although she knew that lie for what it was—and admitting to the crying with her father right there. He was no fool, this dragon. He understood the ways of the north quite well. So what in the name of reason was he doing?

She didn’t know, but she couldn’t wait to find out.

“As it is our way, Father, we should let him stay the night.”

“Fine.”

“And can I join all of you for dinner?” the dragon kindly asked, blinking those big golden eyes.

“Dinner?” Her father looked at her. He was so confused right now, it was almost endearing.

“Aye. I’d love to chat with the great Reinholdt over dinner. As well as the delightful Lady Dagmar.”

“Well … I guess.”

“And those fine strapping, handsome sons of yours! They’re all not taken, are they?”

The snort was past her nose before she could stop it, but when she saw her father start to rise from his chair, she held up her hand.

“It’s all right, Father.” She leaned in and whispered loudly, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“You do that.”

Her father settled back in his chair, and Dagmar motioned to the door. “My Lord Gwenvael. I’ll show you to your room.”

She led Gwenvael up to the second floor in another part of the building. The Main Hall may have been one mammoth room that could accommodate a small army, but behind that was an eight-story-high section that housed a substantial amount of sons, wives, and offspring.

“You’ll stay here.” Dagmar stepped into the room and waited for him to enter. “There are fresh linens, and the furs have been aired.”

He walked around the room.
It could be worse, I guess.

“If you need anything—”

“A bath. Please.” Gwenvael sat down on the end of the bed. The day had caught up with him and he was tired.

“Well, there’s a lake.” She walked to the window, looked out. “And I believe it might rain tonight if you want to stand outside.”

Gwenvael dropped his head into his hands.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“By all that’s holy, tell me you have a tub!”

When she didn’t answer, he looked up to find her hand over her mouth and her shoulders shaking as she laughed at him.

“Woman, don’t make me cry again. Because this time I promise you mucus.”

She laughed a little more freely now. “Reason’s defender, please no more of the crying.”

Gwenvael rubbed his tired eyes, yawned. “Reason’s defender? I haven’t heard that expression since the time of Aoibhell.”

“You’ve heard of Aoibhell? So you have read a book.”

“I’ve read at least two, but I actually knew her.”

“You knew Aoibhell the Learned? The philosopher?” She stepped closer. “You?”

“Don’t you mean Aoibhell the Heretic?” Arms behind him, palms flat against the bed, Gwenvael stretched his legs out in front of him. She was close enough that if he wanted to, he could run his foot up the inside of her leg. Well … He did want to, but he feared what might be waiting inside her skirt to snap his toes off. “Do you really not have a tub?”

“I have a tub. And heretic was an unfair title. So what was she like?”

“Like?” He shrugged. “She was nice enough. But she debated about absolutely everything. Do you really not believe in the gods?”

Dagmar kept her hands loosely clasped in front of her. To all outward appearances she seemed the perfect royal spinster daughter. Demure, well spoken, knowledgeable of etiquette, and just smart enough to hold conversation with those around her. But he already knew better. Only the brilliant and the brave followed Aoibhell’s teachings. To openly dispute others’ beliefs in the gods was risking a lot.

“There is nothing in Aoibhell’s teachings to suggest gods do not exist. But like her, I don’t worship them.”

Gwenvael smiled, remembering the passionate discussion he’d had with Aoibhell the Learned about the gods and her belief that reason and logic were all that was necessary to successfully and happily get through life. And it wasn’t that Gwenvael had disagreed with her at the time, but he could tell she liked to argue.

“Don’t you worry you’ll need a god one day?”

“No. They can’t be relied upon. One is better off standing on her feet, relying on herself rather than falling on her knees praying to gods who will not listen.”

He chuckled. “She would have liked you.”

“Would she?”

“She liked thinkers. ‘Those who think beyond their day-to-day cage,’ she’d say.”

“You really have met her. I’ve only read that phrase in some letters of hers a friend gave to me. Never in her books. Were you there when she passed?”

“No.” He winced at the memory. “We stopped speaking when she caught me in bed with one of her daughters. She was so mad. Came after me with a pitchfork.”

Her demure pose ended when her hands rested haughtily on her hips. “You defiled her daughter?”

“I didn’t defile anyone. Her daughter was a young widow. I was merely helping her back into life.”

“How altruistic of you.”

He grinned. “I thought so.” Gwenvael dropped his arms out at his sides and fell back on the bed. “Tub! Or I start stomping my feet and crying.”

“Please do. My father looked moments from throwing you out anyway.”

“He did, didn’t he?”

“A good crying fit should toss him right over the edge.”

“That would be a shame now, wouldn’t it?”

“Would it?”

“It would. Annwyl’s a powerful queen. An alliance with her would be wise.”

“You
can broker an alliance for the queen?” she asked carefully.

“Of course.”

“So the Blood Queen sends you as an emissary and you think it’s a good idea to laugh at the Only Daughter of The Reinholdt in front of his sons and troops?”

Gwenvael flinched. She got a direct hit with that one.

He forced himself to sit back up. “All right. I’ll admit that was not my best moment. I know this. But you need to understand that for the entire
long
trip here I kept hearing about The Beast. The Beast, The Beast, The Beast! The scary, frightening Beast. The size of a bear with the cunning battle skills and fangs of a jungle cat. And then you walk out. And you’re … you’re …”

“Plain, boring, and fangless?”

“I was going to say dainty.”

“ ‘Dainty’? Me?”

He couldn’t help but smile. “Compared to the women I know, you’re as dainty as an air fairy.” He gestured at her body. “Look at you. Your feet are small, your hands delicate, your neck long and lithe, and there’s not a scar on you. Not that I have a problem with scars. They can be quite alluring. But it’s been a while since I’ve seen a woman who didn’t have at least a few.” He pointed at her spectacles. “And being nearly blind only makes you appear more innocent and vulnerable.”

“I am
not
nearly blind. And it is believed in the north that a woman who has scars other than those from her typical daily chores, does not have a male in her life who takes very good care of her.”

“And the women I know don’t need a man to take care of them.”

“That doesn’t repulse you? Women like that?”

“Hardly. But my brothers keep finding them first and then they won’t let them go. Even for a night.”

Her lips began to bow into a smile, but she managed to stop before it got out of hand. “I do have a tub you can use. I’ll have it moved in here. It might take a bit, though. It’s heavy.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll just come to your room.”

It was only a smirk, but it was lethal. “Oh, will you?”

“Don’t you trust me, my innocent Lady Dagmar?”

That cold gaze scrutinized him for a long time. “I trust no one,” she finally admitted with what Gwenvael instinctively knew to be complete honesty. Complete honesty he doubted she practiced most days.

“My room is five doors down, on the right,” she said. “I have to tend to my dogs now that you’ve frightened the life from them, so it will be empty until after tonight’s dinner.”

“Thank you, Lady Dagmar.”

She walked back across the room and pulled open the door. That thing she called a dog stood there, waiting for her. His head lowered and he bared his fangs at Gwenvael.

“Canute. Out.” She never raised her voice, and apparently she didn’t have to because the dog stopped immediately.

“That reminds me,” he said, standing up. He knew if he lay back down, he wouldn’t get up again for hours.

“And what is that?”

He took a long look at the dog before smiling at Dagmar. “I’m starving. Anything to … snack on before dinner?”

Her eyes narrowed and she made a quick motion with her hands. The dog immediately walked off. “I’ll have some cheese and bread sent up to you.”

“Cheese and bread? Don’t you have anything with a little more mea—”

“Cheese and bread, Southlander. Be happy you’re getting that. And stay away from my dogs.”

She walked out, and Gwenvael yelled after her, “Someone is not taking very good care of me!”

“We have a problem.”

Briec glanced up from the book he was reading and into the face of Brastias, general of Annwyl’s armies and one of the few male humans Briec could tolerate.