“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?”