by G. A. Aiken
“My Lord Vigholf,” Keita said soothingly. She turned to face him. “Please accept my…”
Eyes wide, she stared at Vigholf, and Meinhard quickly followed her gaze, terrified that he was about to see his cousin bleeding to death from a wound they hadn’t noticed. But it was worse than that. Far worse.
Keita covered her mouth with her hand, her brown eyes wide. Unsure what he’d find, Ragnar looked at his brother—and released him.
“Oh.”
“What?” Vigholf asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh…uh…”
Poor deformed Vigholf looked down at himself. “What are you all looking at?”
“Perhaps,” said a cold female voice, “they search for this.”
Vigholf raised his head as the human female held up the long, single braid of thick purple hair that once belonged to him.
“Sorry about that,” the woman said, grinning. “I was trying for your entire head. But you move much faster than your oxlike size would suggest.”
“Oxlike?”
“Don’t worry.” She swung the braid back and forth. “This will look amazing in my helm when I ride into battle. Purple’s never been my color, but I think it’ll work just fine.”
“You mad cow!” Vigholf screamed, and Ragnar caught hold of his shoulders, barely managing to hold his raging brother back. Not that he blamed him.
“Come,” the human laughingly challenged. “Let’s finish this, Lightning.”
Keita moved closer to the woman and slammed her hands against her shoulders. “Stop this right now!”
The woman frowned, staring at Keita. For a moment, Ragnar feared for the royal’s safety until the woman asked, “Keita?” Then she smiled, pushing the Blue’s hands off her waist. “Keita!” The woman dropped her blade—if not the braid—threw her arms around Keita, and hugged her tight. “Gods! I’m so glad to see you!”
Keita let out a breath, gave a small nod to Ragnar. “And I you, sister.”
“It’s been too long.”
“And what about me? Do I not get a hug?”
The woman spun around and faced the Blue. “Éibhear!” She threw herself at him, wrapping long legs around his waist and arms around his neck. “Oh, Éibhear!”
Laughing, the Blue hugged her back. “That’s the welcome I was hoping for.”
“She mutilated me,” Vigholf said to him. And he wasn’t far off. Although no Northland male would ever wear his hair as long as the Southlanders did, they still prided themselves on what they did have. Before any major battles, related females or mates would put the Dragonwarrior’s hair into war braids. When the battle or war was over and had been won, another ritual took place where the braids were taken apart and the long single plait was returned. It was a simple, unadorned thing, but meant much to many.
But the truth of it was that they were in dangerous and foreign territory. Retribution for the damage this female had done could not happen. “Not here, brother. Not now,” Ragnar whispered.
“Then when?”
“Whenever you like, Lightning,” the woman offered, finally crawling off the Blue. “Now, if you so choose.”
Vigholf snarled, but Ragnar held him back with his hands against his shoulders. “Calm down.”
“Don’t hold him back. Unleash him so I can finish what I started and then”—the human female pointed a finger at Ragnar—“I can finish the rest of you.”
“What is wrong with you?” Keita demanded of the human. “Why are you acting like this?”
“You don’t think I know? That I hadn’t heard what they did to you?” Green eyes glared at them from under uncombed hair. “They kidnapped you, Keita. Trying to force a female into what they want. And for that”—the woman bent her head from one side to the other, the sound of bones cracking radiating across the road—“they lose their heads.”
She pressed forward, and Ragnar turned so he faced her. Not willing to let anything happen to Vigholf, Ragnar prepared to unleash a spell, but again Keita got between Ragnar and his kin and this crazed human female.
“No! You’re wrong. That’s not what happened.”
Keeping her eyes on Ragnar, the human asked, “Then what did happen?”
Keita cleared her throat. “These were the ones who rescued me from Olgeir.”
“Bullshit.”
“Do you think I’d really protect anyone who had a hand in my kidnapping?”
“It wasn’t them?”
“I assure you, Annwyl, it wasn’t—”
“Annwyl?” Ragnar repeated, suddenly remembering that Keita had said the same name before they’d burst out of the woods. “This is Annwyl?” Ragnar looked the woman over, from her absurdly large feet to the top of her unkempt head. “This?”
This human who had more muscles than seemed necessary for any royal and watched him and his kin with what he could only term as the mad eyes of a diseased animal.
Keita lifted her hand to silence him, her intense gaze warning him. He noticed that she made no large moves, kept her voice even and controlled. “Queen Annwyl of the Dark Plains, please allow me to introduce you to Ragnar the Cunning, his brother, Vigholf the Abhorrent, and their cousin Meinhard the Savage. My lords…this is Queen Annwyl, human ruler of these lands and my eldest brother’s mate. Now, before we go any further, just let me say—”
The human held up her hand. “Wait. I’m sorry. Your name is…Vigholf the Abhorrent?”
“Annwyl—”
“Why don’t we have names like that in the Southlands?”
“It used to be Vigholf the Vicious,” the Blue decided to add for some unknown reason, “but in the last war it became Vigholf the Abhorrent.”
“Now see, I’m just Annwyl the Bloody. That’s bloody boring is what that is. But Annwyl the Abhorrent? Now that has a lovely ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Annwyl.” Keita pressed her hand to the woman’s forearm. “Lord Ragnar and his kin are here under my and Éibhear’s protection.”
“Really? Even though they kidnapped you…twice? First this one’s father and then him.”
“I already told you, he rescued me from Olgeir. And the gods know we can’t charge him with what his father did. You, Annwyl, should know that better than anyone.”
“So when I’d heard he’d taken you to barter with your mother…?”
“Nothing more than a silly misunderstanding and absolutely no reason for there to be any anger.”
“Silly misunderstanding? Really?” The queen’s grin spread across her face, making her appear even more insane. “Then I guess we can call all this”—she swung the braid in her hand—“a silly misunderstanding as well? Eh?”
She laughed, kissed Keita on the cheek, and waited until the Blue lowered himself so she could kiss his cheek. “I’m glad you’re both home. Perhaps you’ll stop my mate from roaring so much these days.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth, and her horse came forward. “Be sure to see the children. Tell Fearghus I’ll be back later.”
The human queen tucked Vigholf’s braid into the belt around her waist, slung her sword and shield on her back, and somehow managed to mount a horse that would be too big for many Northland men. “I look forward to seeing you all at dinner.”
With another laugh, she spurred her horse and rode off.
“That’s your human queen?” Ragnar asked again. “Her?”
Keita shrugged. “She has moods.”
“She took my hair.” Vigholf drove his sword into the ground. “My hair!”
“My lord.” Keita took Vigholf’s hand and held it between her two smaller ones. “Please forgive her. So much weighs on her, and she only did it for me. I promise to do all I can to make this up to you.”
Ragnar knew it took a lot for his brother to say, “It’s not your fault, princess. Think no more of it.” But his strength of will was as strong as any Northlanders’.
“Come.” She tugged at Vigholf. “Let’s get you settled.” She smiled at a wounded Meinhard. “And
get you a healer.”
“And what do I get?” Ragnar asked her.
“My patience.”
And her response made him laugh.
“Welcome to Garbhán Isle, my lords,” Keita said to them all. “I can, at the very least, promise you that not a moment will be dull.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Sister!”
Morfyd gritted her teeth. She could do this. She would do this. Not merely because she’d promised Brastias, but because she’d promised herself.
Forcing a smile to her lips, she faced her sister. “Keita.”
“Oh, you look lovely!”
Morfyd instantly scowled. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Her sister scowled in return. “That those plain white robes you wear every day bring out the dark circles under your eyes?”
“Snake.”
“Birthing cow.”
“Keita.”
At the chastising tone coming from behind her sister, Morfyd gave a genuine smile. “Ren!” She kissed the Eastland dragon on both cheeks. “How are you, old friend?”
It was a fact among the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar that sweet Ren of the Chosen Dynasty was much beloved. Even by the likes of Briec, who loved no one but himself, and Bercelak, who loved only their mother. Ren had come to them nearly a century ago, sent by his family to learn about the Southland dragons while one of their cousins who was on the Dragonwitch’s path had gone east in his stead.
Morfyd hadn’t given much thought to the arrangement. It had been done before and had always worked out well, but those who came from the east rarely stayed. Why would they? They left behind a much calmer, much simpler, and much more extravagant life in the east than the one they found among her mother’s court. And yet, Ren had stayed. He stayed because he managed to become an accepted part of a family that could barely tolerate each other, much less outsiders. Even Fearghus had been known to invite Ren to his cave in Dark Glen for drinks. Fearghus didn’t even invite his brothers there. They’d show up randomly, but they’d never been invited.
Morfyd had to admit, though, she’d worried in the beginning when Ren became so close to Keita. Although Keita was barely thirty winters old at the time, she already had quite a reputation among some of the males. It wasn’t that Morfyd cared about who her sister bedded. How could she question what Keita did when no one questioned Gwenvael? But Keita was known for leaving a trail of broken dragon hearts in her tail’s wake, walking away from males as easily as Morfyd beat Briec at cards. She had not wanted the same for the powerful mage who, unlike most of their brethren, never took his power for granted, nor flaunted it to seem more important than he was. Yet after a short time, they all realized that Keita and Ren were far from lovers. They were fast friends. It eased their brothers’ concern about Keita’s welfare, knowing Ren often traveled with their youngest sister and could, at the very least, alert them if she got into any trouble.
But it still amazed them all that after so many years, Keita and Ren were still traveling companions and friends. Loyal to each other as any blood-related kin might be.
“I’m fine. And Keita was supposed to be securing your assistance, not pissing you off.”
“She started it,” Keita complained.
“You insulted me.”
“Only after you dare question my compliments! Do you think I compliment everyone, you whining sow?”
“Keita!” Ren smiled at Morfyd. “Maybe this will be easier if I say that I need your assistance, good lady.”
Yes. It also helped that, without being annoying, Ren was a magnificent peacekeeper.
“Of course, Ren. Anything for you.” She took Ren’s arm. “What can I assist you with?”
“Our Lightning guests had a slight run-in…with your queen.”
“Mother?”
“No. The other insane monarch you have running your lands.”
Morfyd gasped. “Gods, are they dead?”
“No. But there were some injuries. Tell me”—he began, leading her over to the waiting Northlanders—“I’m at a loss myself. Do you happen to know any spells for growing hair?”
Hands on hips, Keita glowered after her traveling companion and that vindictive, petty vestal virgin. She did not follow. She was too annoyed, and she knew what would happen. Ragnar would slobber all over her sister. Her perfect, glowing, Magickally-infused sister. In no mood to witness that, Keita waited, and, as she knew would happen, Ren returned.
“How long were you going to stand there—seething?”
“Until the end of time,” she said, making sure to sound particularly snippy.
“I thought you’d want to keep an eye on your Lightning.”
“Don’t start, Ren.”
“I’m worried. I don’t trust him.”
“All that should matter to you is that I do trust him.”
“At least tell me what’s going on.”
“Later. Not here.” Keita glanced around and saw a contingent of soldiers heading her way and waving—several held flowers. “Gods, Ren,” she whispered. “Get me out of here.”
Ren put his arm around her, and steered her through the crowd. When the soldiers glared at him and came closer, Ren unleashed a line of flame that had the men all diving for cover.
“Now,” Ren said, clearly in no rush with the soldiers currently running for their lives, “are you going to leave your Lightnings all alone? I think Lord Ragnar won’t like that much with him as your great protector.”
“Don’t like the tone,” she sang. “And he’ll have Morfyd to keep him company. They can discuss moving mountains and melting trees with their great skills.”
“I hope you’re not testing him, Keita.”
“Why would I do that?” she said a little too quickly. “Besides, I’d hate to think of my brothers seeing the warlord and his kin before I’ve had a chance to ease the way.”
Thankfully accepting that excuse, Ren asked, “Is it my imagination, little one, or is your family very ‘kill everything first, ask questions later and if we’re in the mood’ types?”
“Some might suggest that…you know, if their victims could speak with their heads lopped off and all.”
So this was her. Morfyd the White.
She was beautiful, as Ragnar had always heard. Although the scar on one side of her face, tore at him. Marked as a witch when the human Southlanders were still doing that sort of thing. It was a weak leader that couldn’t appreciate the power of others. Power that could be used to his benefit. Thankfully, the She-dragon’s blood had helped the scar to fade, but it was still there, clear to Ragnar’s eyes.
Although of royal blood and heir to her mother’s Magickal power, if not her throne, the princess still crouched before Meinhard like any healer and examined his leg. They were right outside the gates that opened to the town of Garbhán Isle, Meinhard sitting on one of the wood benches lining the path that led to the gates, Ragnar and Vigholf standing behind him. Eyes closed, the princess held her hands around Meinhard’s calf without touching it. A true healer, unlike Ragnar, who could mend his brother’s bone, but it would be difficult for him to place it so perfectly that Meinhard would have no limp without causing his kin more pain.
After several minutes, the princess leaned back.
“It’s definitely broken. But I can heal it quick enough if you don’t mind staying human for a while. Their bones are easier to heal than ours, I find, and healing the one usually affects the other.”
“That’s fine,” Ragnar answered for Meinhard. “We’ll be staying for a bit.”
“Even now?” Vigholf asked, his hand constantly straying to where his hair now rested by his ears.
“Yes, brother. Even now.”
Morfyd stood. She was taller than her sister, but leaner, even under those robes. “I am sorry about all this. I apologize for my brother’s mate. She’s quite cautious these days. But I can assure you all the best accommodations and anything you may need.”
“None of
that’s necessary, but thank you, princess.”
“Morfyd. Please. I’ve always felt that once you’ve been unfairly attacked by one’s family, a more casual etiquette should come into play.”
She smiled, and Ragnar returned it. “That sounds like an excellent plan.”
“Good.” She motioned to several guards. “These men will take you to your rooms.”
“I can walk,” Meinhard said, pushing himself to his one good foot.
“I’d prefer you not try.”
“A Northland dragon is only carried when he’s dead, my lady.”
“Well that’s”—Morfyd cleared her throat—“a rather hopeful ideal.”
Ragnar saw the Blue coming down the road—alone. They’d left him and Keita speaking to some locals while Ragnar and Meinhard searched for a place to let their cousin rest his leg. But only the Blue returned.
“Is something wrong?” Morfyd asked.
“Do you know where your sister is?”
“Knowing Keita? In the guards’ barracks, picking up where she left off perhaps?” The princess blinked and took a step back. “I’m…I’m only joking.”
Ragnar realized he must be scowling, and he worked to control it.
“Morfyd!”
The dragoness spun away from Ragnar. “Éibhear!” She lifted her robes and ran toward her brother, throwing herself into his arms.
“The way these women act toward him,” Vigholf complained, “explains so much about this pup.”
“Leave him alone,” Meinhard said through clenched teeth.
Vigholf walked over to their cousin and put Meinhard’s arm around his shoulder. “Lean on me.” When it looked as if Meinhard would throw that stupid Code in his face, Vigholf added, “It’ll make us look good to the pretty She-dragon with the blue eyes. You’ll look needy and I will look giving.”
“I hear she’s taken,” Ragnar tossed in.
“By a human,” Vigholf said before both he and Meinhard snorted in unison.
Laughing now, Ragnar turned from his cousin and brother, only to spot something off in the distance. Something that, although he’d never seen it before, he still recognized from a long-ago discussion with a warlord’s very reasonable daughter.