by G. A. Aiken
Dagmar looked up into a handsome but fierce face…until he smiled. That adorable smile took up his entire face and Dagmar was helpless to do anything but smile back.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello.” By all reason…His hair was blue. Not so black it appeared blue, but blue! She briefly wondered if Gwenvael would mind if she ran her hands through it.
“Is it true you went to the Great Library of Spikenhammer?”
“Very true.”
“I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve heard their collection of books is phenomenal.”
“It is. And your brother was thrown out for lewd behavior.”
Éibhear’s enchanting smile faded, replaced by a rather frightening frown. “Can’t take you anywhere,” he accused his brother.
“It wasn’t me,” Gwenvael lied. “She molested me in the stacks. She treats me like a whore.”
“He’s right,” she agreed, surprising the brothers. “Sold him for five copper pieces in the market, too. Thinking about buying myself a new dress with my earnings.”
“I’ll have you know,” Gwenvael said over his brother’s laugh, “I’m worth more than five copper pieces. If you’re going to sell my ass on the street, at least get my true worth!”
Izzy and Branwen quickly stepped apart as Branwen’s older brother Fal crashed past them, then stepped back together as they continued down the stairs.
“Who’s that?” Branwen asked, watching as Gwenvael led a woman toward the queen’s table with all of Gwenvael’s siblings—and Izzy’s mum. Who Izzy still wasn’t talking to!
“Must be the Northlander.”
“Cousin Gwenvael seems quite taken with her.”
“She must be smart then. He only truly likes the smart ones.”
Once off the stairs, Izzy glanced toward the main table. She knew they had a seat for her—right next to her mother.
Branwen grabbed her arm. “Come, cousin. You’ll sit with us.” The young dragoness pulled Izzy to a table. There were several seats open, but Bran still took hold of the hair of one of her sisters, and yanked her from the chair.
“Ack! You crazed cow!”
Yelling ensued, and Izzy tried to avoid the swinging arms.
“Sit, Izzy.” Ghleanna waved her into a seat. “Sit. Ignore them two. Never know how to act right.” She sucked the marrow from a chicken bone and tossed it over her shoulder, hitting a servant in the head. “It’s embarrassing.”
Izzy had just dumped several delicious-smelling ribs onto her plate from a passing platter, when Celyn walked up and shoved his sisters aside. He’d barely sat down in the seat beside Izzy when Branwen started yelling at him while her sister was still yelling at her. A solid blast of flame from their mother put a halt to it all.
“Branwen. Here. Dera. Here. Now both of you shut up!”
Wiping soot from their faces, the sisters sat down, and Izzy turned to Celyn.
“By the gods!” she gasped when she saw him. “What happened to your face? Are you all right? I’ll see if Morfyd has something for you.”
She went to stand, but his hand on her arm kept her right where she was.
“I don’t need anything, Iz. And this”—he pointed at his swollen nose and black eyes—“was just a warning off from Gwenvael.”
“A warning off? For what?”
He grinned. Even with his face swollen, Celyn was extremely handsome—and he knew it. But Izzy still liked him. He made her laugh and showed her all the interesting weapons the dragons used. “He tried to warn me off you.”
“Me?” She couldn’t help but giggle. “Really?”
“Really. Your uncles and father are very protective of you. Briec threw me into a tree. One of those really old ones that never move. Your uncle Fearghus bit me.”
Izzy placed her hand on Celyn’s. “He…bit you?”
“Aye. He was on the floor and—”
“Why was he on the floor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you think to ask?”
“No.” He pointed at his leg. “Bastard nearly tore out me calf muscle.”
Using the tips of her fingers, she toyed with one of the ribs on her plate. “And Éibhear?”
“What about him?”
“He’s an uncle. Has he violently attacked you for no good reason?”
“No. A cousin I was quite close to hasn’t said a word to me in three days.” Celyn took one of the ribs off her plate. “Not since he saw me flying you around.”
Celyn leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing into hers. “And if I may be so bold—if you want to call Éibhear your uncle that’s on you, but that would make him a very dirty, naughty uncle, because I’ve seen how he looks at you.”
Under the table, Izzy wiped her suddenly sweaty palms on the skirt of her gown. “How does he look at me?”
“The same way I do.”
Startled, Izzy quickly looked away. “I thought my father and uncles warned you off.”
“I said they tried.” He took another rib from her plate, laughing when she grabbed the other end and began to tug. “I never said they succeeded.”
When he saw Brastias lean over and whisper something to his sister, Gwenvael thought about setting the big bastard on fire.
“Stop it,” Dagmar murmured.
“Stop what?”
Dagmar laughed. “Don’t give me that innocent look. I invented it. And I don’t see what’s wrong with him.”
“He’s not good enough for her. She deserves—”
“Better than a human?”
“Did I say that?”
“You don’t have to.” A chalice of wine in her hand, Dagmar relaxed back in her chair while Gwenvael did the same. After the first fifteen minutes, Dagmar had held that pose most of the night. They leaned in close and chatted, her asking questions, him answering; then he would do the asking and she the answering. He loved how sly she looked as she watched everyone and listened to everything. He knew she didn’t realize it, but she’d let her guard down. The ongoing threats in Annwyl’s court among the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar royals and the Cadwaladr Clan were slight in comparison to life among the humans. His family dealt with things straight on. A fist here, a blast of flame there. It kept the general peace and didn’t kill an evening—or someone’s favorite cousin. The humans, however, were much more dangerous.
She’d probably never admit it, but she was enjoying herself. He could tell. She tugged on his shirt and he leaned back again.
“Why does sweet Éibhear look so angry? He hasn’t smiled once since we sat down.”
“He’s pretending he’s not jealous about my niece Izzy.”
“That pretty girl you pointed out to me? Talaith’s daughter?” She snorted. “Foolish, foolish boy.”
Gwenvael chuckled. “I know.”
She studied others at the table before she asked, “And do those two ever stop arguing?” He didn’t need to look to see who she spoke of, but he did anyway to find out what the argument of the evening was.
Talaith held up an apple in front of Briec, dangerously close to his nose. “This doesn’t look ripe enough. Why isn’t this ripe?”
“As ruler of all fruits and vegetables, I’ll make sure to get right on that.”
“You can’t expect me to eat fruit that’s not perfectly ripe, and I’m extremely disappointed you didn’t consider my needs.”
“I don’t expect you to have a sound thought in that head of yours, either, but I do like to keep hope alive. And your needs, woman, will be met later tonight.”
Gwenvael bit into his own piece of fruit before shrugging. “It’s not an argument. It’s their bizarre idea of foreplay.”
“Really? And what’s your idea of foreplay?”
The fruit he’d only moments ago swallowed became lodged in his throat. He coughed, twice, until it moved a bit, able to freely go down his gullet.
“You all right?”
“I’ll be better when I get you back in your room.”
“That
won’t happen for hours.” She held her chalice up so a servant could pour more wine into it.
“I never knew you were such a little tease, Beast.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Not on your life.”
The pair reared back a little when they realized the dining table was no longer in front of them.
“Were we done eating?” Dagmar asked, glancing suspiciously into her wineglass.
“You haven’t had too much to drink—the table’s really gone. And it seems it’s time for dancing.”
He held out his hand and opened his mouth to speak, but Dagmar cut him off.
“No.”
“You don’t even want to try?”
“No. Trust me. There are other things I’d rather do.”
“Such as?”
“Set myself on fire. Drown myself. Or hang myself from the roof. These are all preferable to dancing.”
Gwenvael laughed until his niece grabbed his hand. “Come on, Gwenvael! We’re dancing!” Izzy pulled him out of his seat with that healthy strength of hers.
“You’ll be all right?” he asked Dagmar, letting his niece grip his hand and put all her weight into trying to drag him forward.
“I’ll be fine.” She motioned him away with her chalice. “Go. Dance. Find me later—if you can.”
Evil little tease! “I will.”
He let Izzy’s hand go abruptly, and his niece squealed and crashed to the floor. “Iseabail! What are you doing on the floor? Get up, girl! Have some pride!”
Dagmar was in love. Madly, adoringly in love.
She never dreamed she’d find a love as deep as this. But who knew? Who knew a sweet-faced, soft-spoken dragoness would have so much gossip and, even more importantly, be so willing to share it all with Dagmar!
Yes, it was love. Deep, never-ending love!
“And see the short red-haired male standing near Briec? The royal?”
Dagmar wanted to squint through her spectacles—those at a distance were fuzzier than usual due to her excesses of wine this evening—but she didn’t want to be obvious. Luckily, however, Morfyd’s brother Briec was quite easy to spot. Arrogance like that filled a room. “Yes.”
“I’ve been told,” she whispered, leaning close, “that he enjoys wearing his wife’s gowns. And when he does, his wife accidentally catches him in said gowns.”
“Is there scolding?”
“Aye!” Morfyd lowered her voice again. “Apparently she enjoys scolding him very, very, very firmly. In fact, she scolds him until they’re both quite exhausted and happy.”
Dagmar put her hand to her chest. “That is fabulous.”
“Isn’t it?” Morfyd patted her leg. “I have to say, Dagmar, I am so glad you’ve visited. There are very few who have a true appreciation of delicious gossip. Except, of course, Gwenvael.”
“I expected that,” she admitted. “But no one else?”
“Fearghus doesn’t like to be bothered with anybody or anything. Everything irritates my eldest brother. Everything. Except Annwyl, of course, but even she can get on his nerves. Briec could care less about anybody or anything except himself and whether he can find something to argue with Talaith about.”
Wanting more on that, Dagmar began to ask, but Morfyd held up a halting hand. “Don’t ask. The whole thing is between the two of them and is idiotic. Éibhear is of no use to me because he refuses to believe the worst of anyone so he constantly interrupts me to say, ‘That can’t be true. That can’t be true.’ Which takes the piss right out of it.”
“Annwyl?”
“All she does is read. The woman lives in that library and she absolutely hates when you distract her from her precious books. If she isn’t killing, she’s reading. If she isn’t reading, she’s killing. There’s no middle ground with her.”
“And Talaith?”
“My one saving grace, but I can’t go on too long with her or she starts getting paranoid.”
“Paranoid?”
She rolled her eyes. “‘What are they saying about me? And what are you saying about me?’ Again, takes the piss right out.”
Dagmar laughed. “Well, you’ll be glad to know, I keep my paranoia for the important things.” Her gaze swept the room. “All I care about is what everyone else is up to.”
Morfyd grabbed hold of Dagmar’s hand, holding it close to her chest. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but…I love you.”
Dagmar laid her free hand on top of Morfyd’s. “And I you.”
They began laughing again—something she’d done more in this one night than she’d done in her entire life.
Talaith swooped in, crash-landing on the chair on the other side of Dagmar. “I’m having a wonderful time!”
Morfyd whispered against Dagmar’s ear. “She’s drunk off her ass.”
“I am not drunk,” Talaith protested. “You witch. Bitch.” She giggled. “You bitchy witch.”
Talaith waved her hands. “All right. I may have had more wine than I should. But I still know the important question of the day.”
“And what is that?”
“Has little Dagmar here fucked our Gwenvael?”
Dagmar rubbed her leg where Talaith had slapped her to emphasize her rude question, and Morfyd turned a lovely shade of red, gasping out, “That’s none of our business!”
“Come on. I want to hear it from someone who isn’t completely captivated by those big, dumb dragon eyes of his. I want the truth! Is he as good as he claims to be?”
“Quiet!” Morfyd hissed.
“I don’t know the truth.” When the women stared at her, Dagmar shrugged. “I don’t.”
“Then don’t do it,” Talaith said earnestly. “Trust me on this.”
“Why not?”
Putting one arm around Dagmar, she motioned to Morfyd with the other. “Close your ears, woman, you don’t want to hear this.”
“Gods help me.”
Talaith leaned in close. “As I said, Magdar—”
“It’s Dagmar.”
“Whatever. You don’t want to do this because if he’s anything like his brother, you’ll be trapped. Caught for eternity.”
“And why will that happen?”
“Because he’ll fuck you until your eyes roll into the back of your head and that’ll be it! There will be no getting free from that, my dear. You’ll be trapped here. In this hell.”
Dagmar calmly glanced around. “This hell?” she asked flatly. “This castle-hell with pleasant servants to do your bidding, beautiful rolling hills and forests filled with fresh game, a benevolent queen, fierce dragons bent on protecting you and your daughter, and a gorgeous silver-haired warrior who’s madly in love with you? That hell?”
“Yes! You understand!”
“Perfectly. And I will keep this in mind if and when I get around to…uh…fucking Gwenvael.”
“Just make sure it’s what you want. Because once you’re in, you’re not getting out. And don’t let him brand you. You’ll be trapped with him forever!”
“Talaith!” Morfyd exclaimed.
“Branding? With actual irons?”
“No! It’s not like that,” Morfyd argued. “It’s called a Claiming. The brand is placed on you by the dragon you love without implements. It’s quite mystical and…romantic.”
“It’s hardly romantic,” Talaith muttered before she perked up and nearly shouted, “But it will make you come!”
Morfyd dropped her head into her hands. “Gods, please stop drinking and talking.” She glared at the human witch. “Just pass out already!”
Dagmar simply had to ask. “Talaith, are you unhappy with Briec?”
“Absolutely not!” She sighed deeply and looked moments from emotional tears. “I love him so much.”
“All right then.”
Morfyd shook her head when Dagmar glanced at her. “I won’t discuss it. I just accept they’re my kin and go on about my day.”
Patting Morfyd’s leg, Dagmar offered what comfort she
could, “That’s probably for the best.”
Éibhear handed his brother a pint of ale when Gwenvael stumbled to a stop beside him. He grinned. “Duchess Bantor again?”
“It may appear that she only has two hands, but clearly she has six.”
“She’s been trying to get you into her bed for over a year.”
“Although never acknowledged by the lot of you, I do have standards.”
“She’s very pretty—huge breasts—and from what I understand willing to do anything.”
“Her hands grip me like claws. It makes me uncomfortable. She makes me uncomfortable.”
“And you have your sights set on someone else tonight.”
Now Gwenvael grinned. “I do.”
Éibhear pursed his lips and glanced away.
“What?” Gwenvael sighed. “What was that look for?”
“Nothing.”
“Just spit it out, little brother.”
Éibhear peered at his brother, wondering how to broach the topic tactfully. “It’s just…”
“It’s just what?”
“Don’t you think Lady Dagmar’s just a little…well…that she’s…”
“That she’s what?”
Éibhear decided to be cautiously direct. “A little bit beyond you?”
“Sorry?”
“She reads an awful lot. I talked to her for quite a bit, and she’s so knowledgeable. Extremely knowledgeable.”
Gwenvael put his hands on his hips. “You think she’s too smart for me?”
“Perhaps ‘more savvy’ is a better phrase.”
“You oversized cub!”
“Don’t get mad. I’m only suggesting you should aim…a little…lower.”
“What kind of brother are you?”
“An honest one. Would you prefer I lie to you?”
“Yes!” Gwenvael yelled, slamming the ale back into Éibhear’s hand. “As a matter of fact, I would prefer that!”
Dagmar was sneaking out the back of the castle when she saw her leaning against some fencing, her head on her folded arms. She approached slowly, cautiously.
“Annwyl?”
The queen’s head snapped up. “Oh. Dagmar.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just needed some fresh air.”
She needed bed. There was a light sheen of sweat on her and her hands trembled.