And she’d finally have to learn that was always a mistake.
Chapter 21
Annwyl watched Dagmar’s young nephew lean over the picnic basket to look inside. She tried not to frown too much—she’d been told her frown could be terrifying—but she didn’t like anyone’s nose that close to the food they’d all be partaking in.
Placing her hands on his shoulders to gently pull him away, she jumped when the boy nearly came out of his skin.
“Sorry,” she quickly said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No . . . um . . .”
“Would you like to come with us?” she offered. Annwyl felt so bad for the boy, remembering her own youth, when tormenting her had seemingly been her idiot brother’s only pastime. She could tell that this boy’s own kin probably hadn’t been much better, probably just with a bit less outright hatred.
“It’s just a picnic with the twins, Rhi, Dagmar, Talaith, and Fearghus’s Uncle Bram. We talk books. Well . . . some of us talk books. Talwyn glowers.”
The boy looked down at his feet. “I don’t read much. It’s a bit of a struggle.”
Dagmar had muttered something about the boy not being too bright, but not everyone was a reader. Talwyn certainly wasn’t, but Annwyl would hardly call her conniving, plotting daughter thick. And Dagmar could be a bit of a snob when it came to intelligence. The barbarian wasn’t above using anyone, no matter their intelligence level, but she only accepted those she deemed “smart enough” into her inner circle.
But Frederik was just a boy. A boy who didn’t fit in anywhere by the looks of him, and that was something Annwyl completely understood. Gods, she’d had to involve herself with a completely different species before she found those who considered her tolerable to be around.
“I’m here! I’m here!” Rhi skipped down the stairs in a lovely midnight-blue dress with a fur cape draping her small shoulders. The leather bag her father had had made for her nearly ten years ago was over her shoulder and most likely filled with parchment for sketching, drawing quills, and inks. She brought little else when she traveled any distance from the castle.
“It’s such a lovely day out!” she happily chirped. “And just before winter. I hope there’s cheese!”
Annwyl fought not to laugh. “Aye. There’s cheese. I know how you love your cheese.”
“Is Daddy coming?”
“Your father, Fearghus, Gwenvael, they’re all off at Devenallt Mountain with your grandfather.”
“Ahh, important doings amongst the males.”
“That’s doubtful.”
“And Auntie Keita? Uncle Ragnar?”
“Off to Keita’s cave for the day.”
Rhi smiled at Frederik. “Are you coming, Lord Reinholdt?” And only Rhi would call a fourteen-year-old boy lord anything.
The boy frowned, deeply, but didn’t answer. Rhi scratched the back of her neck. “Well . . . hmmhm.”
Annwyl was about to ask the boy what he was doing, but a voice right behind her barking, “Mum,” startled the holy crap out of her.
“Talan!” she snapped, facing her son. “Stop sneaking up on me.”
“I didn’t.” He dropped into a chair and immediately grabbed one of the baskets and began to dig through it. The boy was a bottomless pit of hunger. No matter how much he ate, he never seemed to be filled.
Annwyl snatched the basket back. “Where’s your sister?”
“She’s not coming.”
“What do you mean she’s not coming?”
He lifted his hands and shrugged. “She’s not coming.”
Irritated, Annwyl demanded, “Why not?”
“I don’t know.” He reached into another basket and pulled out a loaf of bread. “She was out in the training area. I said, ‘Oy! Let’s go!’”
“And what did she say?”
“Nothing. One of those Kyvich told me”—and Annwyl’s son lowered his already low voice even lower—“‘My lady won’t be attending.’”
Feeling her anger begin to build, Annwyl asked, “And which Kyvich said that?”
Talan shrugged. “Don’t know. One of them burly ones.”
“They’re all a bit burly,” Rhi whispered, probably feeling horrible for even suggesting such a thing.
“I don’t mind that,” Talan went on. “Just not sure about all that shit on their faces.”
“That shit,” Rhi snapped, “is part of a sacred ritual that—”
“Blah, blah, blah, don’t care. Can we just go already, Mum?”
“Not without your sister.”
“Mum, leave it. If she wants to play sword fighter with the burly witches, let her. It’s not like she contributes to the bloody conversation.”
“That’s not the point!” Annwyl roared. “I’m queen!”
Talan sighed, his head resting against the chair back. “And we’re off . . .”
“I am queen here and I rule. I rule here! Not the gods-damn Kyvich. Not your sister. Me!”
“Mum.”
“No! I said she was going to the f**king picnic and she’s going to the f**king picnic! And I dare one of those cunts to try and stop me!”
Talan watched his mother storm out the door, her muscles taut; her fingers already twitching to grab one of the two swords that were strapped to her back and went with her everywhere—yes, even on a picnic with family.
Even as he debated exerting the energy necessary to get up and go after her, a rather large foot, considering the size of the girl attached to it, rammed into his leg.
“Ow!”
“That was horribly handled, Talan!” Rhi accused.
“What did I do?”
“How could you tell your mother that?”
“I thought I handled it pretty well. I didn’t tell her that I saw ‘Fuck that bitch queen’ in the Kyvich’s eyes, did I? That I kept to myself. I thought you’d be proud.”
“Oh!” Rhi threw her art bag onto the table, lifted the skirt of her dress, and ran after his mother.
At that point, Talan noticed the new boy. “Hey, there, Freddy.”
“It’s Frederik.”
“Yeah, whatever. You’d best get Auntie Dagmar.”
“Why?”
“Because chances are high my mum is about to cut off someone’s head.”
“Literally?”
“Oh, yeah,” Talan laughed. “Mum doesn’t like you or you piss her off . . . she’s cutting off your head.”
The boy stepped back, his mouth open in horror. “But . . . she doesn’t . . .” He cleared his throat. “She doesn’t seem like she’d do that.”
“Well, she wouldn’t do that to you, if that’s what you’re worried about, because you’re family . . . and a little too young. But mostly because you’re family.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you’re safe.” Then he added for good measure, “Just don’t betray us. Family or not, Mum will take your head if you betray us. She’s big on loyalty.”
“I wasn’t planning to—”
“Just figured I’d clarify.” Talan ripped off some of the bread from the loaf and stuffed it into his mouth. Once done chewing, he realized the boy was still standing there, staring at him. “What are you? Fourteen winters?”
“Fifteen in two more moons.”
“Yeah, well . . . still too young to drink. Let me know when you can. We’ll go to the pub. Get some women. You like women?”
“Uh?”
Talan sat up, ignoring the way the boy quickly stepped back. He motioned him away. “Go on, Freddy,” he said, his sister’s snarled Get out here. Now! ripping through his head. “Go get Dagmar.”
Rhi tried to stop her aunt. Tried to hold her back. But there was no holding back Annwyl the Bloody when she was on a tear. When she was angry. And with every step she took toward the training ring, her anger grew . . . and grew.
“Please, Auntie Annwyl, let me talk to Talwyn. Please.”
But it wasn’t Talwyn that Annwyl wanted. No. Rhi’s aunt would rather blame the witches than her daughter. The tension between the Southland queen and the Ice Land witches had been growing steadily, day by day, since Talwyn was a child.
And talking was really not what Annwyl was about. She left talking to Auntie Morfyd and Dagmar. Annwyl was a queen of action—brutal, violent, deadly action—and Rhi doubted that would ever change.
It definitely wouldn’t change in the next five seconds.
Annwyl stalked up to the training ring, went through the open gate and over to the three witches busy talking to Talwyn. Something that they could have done at any time, so Rhi wasn’t clear why this casual-looking conversation couldn’t have waited until after their picnic. Something she was sure her aunt had already noted.
Talwyn! Her cousin looked up, green eyes narrowing, when Rhi screeched in her head.
What’s going on? Talwyn demanded.
What do you think?
Bloody balls.
Well, don’t just stand there! Rhi snapped in her cousin’s head. Do something.
But when Talwyn averted her eyes, Rhi knew that her cousin wouldn’t be doing anything to stop this. Nothing!
Rhi began to panic, but she was also angry. Angry that her cousin was letting this happen without lifting a finger. And Rhi’s panic and anger together were not a good thing. And realizing that made her panic even more.
Auntie Annwyl walked up to them; her body looked relaxed even though Rhi knew it was not. She could see the rage and fear coming off her aunt in big gushing waves.
“Can we help you, m’lady?” one of the witches asked. Her name was Odda. She smiled a lot, but Rhi avoided her because that smile was a lie. She tried to hide it, but she was mean and didn’t like being here. She especially didn’t like Auntie Annwyl.
“No,” Annwyl said. She motioned to Talwyn. “Let’s go.”
Odda gave that smile. “I’m so sorry, m’lady, but Commander Ásta has asked us to work with Talwyn today. So she’ll have to miss your little picnic, I’m afraid.”
“Are you under some impression I’m asking your permission? For anything? On my territory?” She motioned again to Talwyn. “Move. Now.”
Talwyn took a step, but Odda held up a finger and to Rhi’s shock, her cousin stopped. Instantly, without question. When had she started doing that? Following orders? From anyone? She never followed orders. Even sane, logical ones. Not ever!
“Perhaps another time, my lady. But today . . . I do have my orders.”
It all happened so fast, Rhi didn’t see anything until blood splattered across the front of her pretty dress. That’s when she saw the blood-soaked dagger in Annwyl’s hand and the brutal slash across the left side of Odda’s face. It traveled from just beside her eye, across her cheek, and out the corner of her mouth. Blood poured down her jaw and onto her shoulder and chest.
The witch’s blue eyes darkened and her fingers curled into fists as Annwyl stepped in close and said, “I know your lot can fix that, so in a day or two it’ll be nothing but a faint memory. But get between me and mine again—and the next cut will be something you can’t fix. Understand me?”