“You and that bloody information.”
“It’s what I barter in.” She leaned forward, looking him right in the eyes—one of the few unafraid to do so. “I need you to trust me on this.”
He snorted and stared down at the table, Dagmar patiently waiting.
When he finally grabbed hold of his ax handle, yanking the weapon from the table, she knew she’d won—or at least gotten a short-term reprieve.
“Don’t push your luck with me, little miss,” he grumbled.
Of course she would. She was so good at it.
As her father walked out, a servant rushed in. “My lady, Brother Ragnar approaches.”
She nodded and stood, her appetite long having left.
“Look all”—Kikka sneered, her husband still ranting about “all the bloody coin you spend!”—“another male who won’t be bedding our little Dagmar.”
“And then there’s you, sister.” Dagmar leaned down and finished on a whisper, “Who will apparently f**k anything.”
Heading toward the doors and her respite from idiocy, Dagmar heard her brother snap, “What did she say? What are you doing?”
Gwenvael skimmed the note quickly. “The Reinholdt wants you—they’re very clear on that ‘you’—to come to his territory to save the lives of your unborn children. You know, personally, I don’t appreciate him trying to order my lovely queen about, but what really bothers me—”
“Is that the barbarians already know I’m having twins?” At Gwenvael’s nod, she added, “And if they know that, they might already know I’m no longer as fierce as I once was.”
“You won’t be expecting forever, Annwyl. And once the twins are here, you’ll be as violently cruel and madly bloodthirsty as you always were.”
“Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Is it working?”
“A little.” She closed her eyes, and he knew she was in pain, the “twinges,” as she called them, happening more and more lately. She took a cleansing breath and went on. “But even if I wanted to go to the Northlands myself, Fearghus will never let that happen. And Morfyd! Gods, the whining.” Gwenvael’s older sister, a powerful Dragonwitch and healer, could wear the scales off a fast-moving snake when she was in a mood. “Besides, someone I thought adored me told me I was too fat to travel.”
“That is not what I said, although I love how all of you willfully misinterpret me. And how quick we are to forget I did notice that your br**sts had grown even fuller and more lovely. If that’s possible.”
Annwyl laughed and shook her head. “Not even a modicum of shame.”
“Not even a teaspoonful. Now, we both know you can’t travel, so what would you like me to do? Want me to write them back for you? I think we both have to admit that I have a way with the written word that you do not, my lovely.”
“This is very true.” She turned a bit on his lap so that she looked directly at him. “But I thought perhaps you could go in my stead.”
“Me? Go back to the Northlands?” he scoffed. “I’d rather eat bark.”
“Do you think I like asking you to take this risk? Especially with the reputation you left behind?” She raised a brow. “Ruiner.”
“You know, they weren’t virgins,” he argued as he’d been arguing for decades. “They stumbled upon me at the lake. Took advantage of me. They used their tails in a manner I found enticing, and I did what I had to do to survive the horrors of war.”
“Is it true you, and you alone, is specifically mentioned in the truce?”
“As long as I keep my distance from Lightning females—you may also know the Lightnings as the Horde dragons, my beautiful majesty”—he gave her his most appealing smile but she only stared at him, so he continued—“I can go into the Northlands for short periods of time.”
“Then I need you to go. But to be quite honest you’re the only one I can send.”
The admission surprised him. “I am?”
“I can’t send Morfyd. She’s female, and the Lightnings would snag her faster than you can lure a local girl to your bed.”
“What a lovely analogy. Thank you.”
“Besides, your sister is needed here because she’s the only one who can stop Fearghus from killing his own parents.”
Gwenvael barely stopped his angry frown, determined to keep the conversation as light as possible. “I see Mother still refuses to believe your babes are Fearghus’s.”
“I don’t know what she believes, and I don’t care. She hasn’t been here in six months since she was first told and that’s fine by me.” Gwenvael knew that to be a lie. That fight had been the ugliest he’d seen among his kin, and though all of Fearghus’s siblings had stood by him and Annwyl that day, the whole thing had hurt Annwyl more than anyone wanted to admit.
“I can’t send Keita,” she went on, “because she’ll have all the men turning on each other and won’t even remember why I sent her. Besides, when is she ever here for me to ask?”
Gwenvael couldn’t argue with her on that. His younger sister was more like him than anyone in their family. Only a couple of decades apart, they’d always been close and understood each other well. Yet he’d noticed that over the past few years, Keita had been spending almost all her time as far from Devenallt Mountain and Dark Plains as she could manage. She had her own cave but was rarely in it, and when she did return home, things often became uncomfortable between her and their mother. When he thought about it, Gwenvael couldn’t remember a time when mother and daughter had gotten along, making family get-togethers quite intense. Then again, Gwenvael lived for that sort of tension and often found perverse pleasure in making it worse.
“Of course there’s Briec, but—” Annwyl looked for words but couldn’t seem to find anything to say about the arrogant, silver-haired dragon, and ended with, “Do I really need to expound on Briec?”
“Not to me.”
“And Éibhear is still too much a babe. Besides, to be quite blunt, you’re the most politically savvy of the entire bunch.”
Gwenvael smiled, shocked and truly flattered by her statement. “Do you mean that?”
“Of course I do. I’m not blind. And one should always know the strengths and weaknesses of the allies they have surrounding them. My father used to say that … you know, before he went off and destroyed something or someone.”
She chewed on her thumbnail, a habit she’d developed over the last few months as her stress level grew. “In the end, I’m sure you’re the only one who can truly do this.”
“And I’m sure you’re quite correct on that point, but what do I get out of it?”
Annwyl dropped her hand into her lap. “Get out of it?”
“Aye. What is my reward for doing this task you’ve set for me?”
“What do you want?”
Grinning, Gwenvael craned his neck forward a bit and, using his thumb and forefinger, gently pulled the bodice of her dress forward.
“Stop that!” She slapped at his hands and laughed.
“Come now. I’m just asking for a moment to immerse myself in the lush garden of your bosom.”
“The lush garden of my …” Annwyl shook her head. “You’re not immersing yourself in any part of me, Lord Gwenvael.”
“Now, now. I’m only asking for a chance to play with them a bit.” He stuck his nose in her cl**vage and Annwyl laughed and pushed at his head.
“Gwenvael! Stop it!”
The front door slammed open and Fearghus stalked in. “What the hell’s going—” Black smoke billowed from Fearghus’s nostrils. “Get your nose out of there.”
Taking his sweet time, Gwenvael looked up into Fearghus’s raging face. “Oh. Hello, brother. What are you doing here?”
Dagmar smiled warmly when the gates opened and several monks came in, two pulling a large cart weighed down with books. Books brought for her.
“Brother Ragnar.” She briefly bowed her head in respect.
“My Lady Dagmar. It’s so good to see you, my dear.”
Brother Ragnar, a longtime monk of the mysterious and rarely seen Order of the Warhammer, had been bringing books to Dagmar since she was ten. It was the one thing about her father’s fortress and the surrounding towns that kept her sane—non-warring travelers who always had information she found of use. Brother Ragnar was definitely her favorite of all their regular visitors, but she’d met and talked with many—most of them monks or scholars—over the years, learning much about a world she’d never seen. They brought her books, news, and gossip that she often used to help her father and her people, but it was Brother Ragnar who’d actually tutored her in reading, writing, and negotiation skills.
He’d taught her much from the beginning, suggesting ways she could get what she wanted from her kinsmen without ever appearing as if she were trying. “Why be a battering ram, my dear, when you can simply knock on the door and be let in?”
He’d been right, of course. Like he always was.
Dagmar took his right arm since his left hand held onto his traveling stick. She never could see much of his face because of the cowl he always wore but doubted he was extremely old based on the sound and strength of his voice. And although he’d been wounded badly, his body broken and weak, he hadn’t lost his spirit. The eyes that gazed at her from the darkness of his cowl were a vivid blue with strange flecks of silver throughout the iris and were always bright and lively.
The Order forced Brother Ragnar, even with his body broken, to walk everywhere although she’d offered more than once to purchase him a horse. But it came down to the sacrifices monks of every order were forced to make, which Dagmar would never understand—wasn’t life difficult and painful enough without adding more misery to it?
“I’m so glad to see you, Brother.” She squeezed his gloved hand. “You’re looking well.”
“It’s still pleasant out. Although I don’t look forward to winter.” Winter in the Northlands was a hard time for all of them, and only the most hearty—or stupid—trekked through the winter storms to reach the Reinholdt lands.
“Well, you’re here now. And we have much to discuss.”
“Yes, we do.” He gestured to the cart. “And I’ve brought you some wonderful new books I think you’ll enjoy.”
She glanced in to the cart and smiled. “You bring me the best presents.”
Placing Brother Ragnar’s hand on her arm, she led him and his comrades to the Main Hall for warm wine and food. “So, Brother … any more on my uncle?”
“Much, I’m afraid. I don’t like it, Dagmar. I don’t like it one bit.”
“Nor will I, I’m sure.”
“Did you send a message to the Southland queen as I suggested?”