Dagmar walked past a room and then stopped. She immediately walked back and glanced in. The library. A very nice one, too, although a bit small. She wandered in and began to study the books on the shelves. Lots of fictional work here. Not really to Dagmar’s tastes, but she usually read everything she could get her hands on. She turned a corner and found books on history and philosophy. This was definitely more along the lines of what she enjoyed reading, especially when she found a rare copy of The Battle Strategies of Dubnogartos. He was one of the greatest warlords of the long-dead Western armies. And although some of his methods were outdated, to know how the man thought and strategized was a boon she simply couldn’t pass up.
Grabbing the book, Dagmar began to carefully skim through the pages. Finding it old but beautifully maintained, she immediately began to look for a chair to sit in so she could read a few pages … or chapters. Just a few. She went deeper into the library, surprised to find that it wasn’t very wide but awfully deep. Near the back, where daylight from the front windows no longer crept in, Dagmar followed the candlelight. As she came around the corner, she saw her. A woman sitting at a table, her elbows resting on the wood, her face, chest, and arms all that could be seen in the dim candlelight. She had a book open at midpoint in front of her and several lit candles on the table. But she wasn’t reading … she was crying.
Not wanting to interrupt—or be forced to comfort anyone—Dagmar began a quiet retreat. But she hit a loose floorboard and the woman’s head snapped up.
Dagmar winced. The poor woman had been crying for a while. “I’m sorry. I was just—”
“It’s all right.” The woman wiped her face with her hands. “Just having a moment.” Rubbing the back of her hand against her dripping nose, she asked, “What are you reading?”
“Oh. Uh … The Battle Strategies of Dubnogartos.”
Her face lit up and Dagmar suddenly saw all the scars that the dim lighting had been hiding. “Great book,” she enthused. “His battle against the Centaurs at Hicca … bloody amazing read.”
She motioned to a chair. “You can sit down if you like. I’m done with my crying fit, I think.”
Dagmar slowly walked over to the table. “Rough morning?”
“You could say that.”
Dagmar pulled out the chair across from the woman and sat down, placing the book on the table.
She watched as the woman let out a sigh and stretched her neck. But it was when she again raised her hands to wipe her face that Dagmar saw them—from her wrist to her forearm, on both arms.
The woman raised a brow. “Something wrong?”
“Uh …” Dagmar couldn’t stop staring and finally she blurted out, “You’re Queen Annwyl. Aren’t you?” If nothing else, the dragon brands burned into her arms gave it away. Only a monarch would be brave enough to wear those markings for the world to see.
“Some days. But you can call me Annwyl.”
This softly sobbing woman was the Queen of Dark Plains?
And Dagmar began to wonder if her arranged alliance with this monarch had been a bit hasty. Her father needed a strong leader as his ally, not some whimpering mess hiding in a library. It was true enough, she knew, that being with child was hard on any woman, but even Dagmar’s sisters-in-law hid their misery better than this.
“And you are … ?”
“Dagmar,” she said quickly, realizing she had to hide any disappointment she may have at the moment. “Dagmar Reinholdt.”
The queen frowned. “I don’t recognize you, but that name sounds awfully familiar.”
“Dagmar Reinholdt. Only Daughter of The Reinholdt.”
“Dagmar? You’re a woman.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Yes. I’m also called The Beast, in some parts.”
“I was unaware that The Reinholdt had any daughters.” She leaned in a bit. “How did you get here?”
“Oh. Gwenvael brought me.”
It was strange watching it. That soft, sweet, scar-covered face so quickly and brutally becoming hard and very, very angry.
The queen’s fist slammed down against the thick wood table, and Dagmar felt it bend under the pressure, heard the sound of it splintering.
“That idiot!”
It took her a bit, to get that bulk up and out of its seat, but she managed without any help, her rage giving her a fluidity Dagmar guessed was denied the queen at most times. Then she lumbered off, words pouring out of her mouth that made Dagmar’s brothers seem more like holy priests than the salty warriors of the Reinholdt Clan.
She sat there a moment, letting out a breath. “So that’s the Blood Queen.” She knew now the rumors were true … The woman was completely insane.
“Oh!” Her hand covered her mouth as she realized what she’d done. “Gwenvael!”
Then she was up and running.
“Is there something wrong with you? Beyond that which we already know of?”
Gwenvael looked at his sister, the piece of fresh fruit he’d just taken off her plate still in his hand. “Huh?”
Morfyd sat down at the table where battle plans and decisions regarding Annwyl’s kingdom were made on a daily basis.
“What possessed you to bring her here?”
“I had no choice.”
“What do you mean you had no choice?”
“How was I going to find out why that Lightning wants her here if I didn’t bring her with me? Of course”—he glanced around—“I seemed to have misplaced her. But I’m sure I’ll find her again.”
Morfyd rubbed her eyes and took another breath. “Gwenvael, she is the Only Daughter of The Reinholdt. And the Northland men are intensely, almost rabidly, protective of their daughters. And you just traipse off with one.”
“I didn’t traipse. There was no traipsing. And I don’t know why you’re so angry at—”
“Don’t speak.” She held her hand up, palm facing him. “Just don’t speak. We have to figure out what we’re going to tell Annwyl before she finds out”—the door slammed open behind them, Annwyl glowering at them both—“on her own.”
“You idiot!”
“Annwyl! My heart!”
Annwyl stalked across the room, her belly leading the way. Actually, her rage led the way, her belly right behind it. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Well—”
“Don’t speak!” Morfyd cut in. “Just don’t speak.”
Dagmar charged into the room after Annwyl. She was out of breath and slightly sweaty. Did the woman exercise anything besides her manipulation skills? Weak as a kitten.
“If you could just give me a moment, Your Majesty,” she panted out. “I can explain what brings me here.”
Gwenvael snickered. “She called you ‘Majesty.’ ”
Annwyl hit him on the forehead with the flat of her hand.
“Ow!”
“How do you do that?” Annwyl demanded of Gwenvael. “How do you convince them to take the blame for you?”
“It’s all in the hands,” he countered.
“I assure you I’m not taking the blame for anything, Your Maj—”
“Call me that again, and I’ll tear you open from bowels to nose. It’s Annwyl, you sod.”
Gwenvael saw Dagmar’s eyes narrow, her nostrils flare, and he quickly jumped in before the little barbarian could say something that would forfeit her head. “Tell them how you blackmailed me.”
Dagmar’s back snapped straight, Annwyl’s rudeness immediately forgotten. “What?”
“She’s just using me,” he explained to Annwyl. “Using me to get to you.”
Adjusting her frames, Dagmar said, “It’s time for you to stop talking.”
“I don’t want to.”
“But you will stop talking.”
“We’re on my territory now, Beast. You can’t strut around here and pretend you rule all—”
“Quiet.”
“But—”
She raised her right forefinger.
“She—”
Dagmar raised that damn forefinger higher.
“It’s just—”
Now she brandished both forefingers. “Stop.”
He gave Dagmar his best pout, which she completely ignored, turning her back on him to again face Annwyl. “Think there might be some place private we can talk, my lady?”
Gwenvael’s mouth dropped open. “Did you just dismiss—”
Dagmar held up that damn forefinger again but didn’t even bother to look at him when she did.
Annwyl’s grin was wide and bright. A smile Gwenvael hadn’t seen from her in far too long. “Right this way, Lady Dagmar.”
“Thank you.” Dagmar brusquely snapped her fingers at Gwenvael. “And don’t forget to bring my bags up once I get a room, Defiler.”
Annwyl fairly glowed as she followed Dagmar from the room, her smile growing by the second. Gwenvael faced his sister. “It’s Ruiner, which is a vast difference.”
“Uh …”
“So get it right!” he yelled at the empty doorway. He shook his head, fighting his smile. “Rude cow.”
His sister stared at him so long he began to worry. “What?” He brushed his hands over his face. “Is something marring my beauty? Besides these hideous scars that I received while protecting those I love?”
“You like her.”
“I like everyone. I’m filled with joy and love and—”
“No. Nitwit. You like her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not even the kind of female I’d be attracted to.”
“Because she can construct and verbally repeat full and complete sentences?”
“That’s top of my list.”
Morfyd leaned forward. “Good gods … you haven’t f**ked her. Have you?”
“What kind of language is that from my sister?” He wagged his finger at her. “It’s that Brastias. A bad influence. I know something’s going on there. I’ll find out.”
“Don’t try to turn this on me. You like a girl.”
“I do not.”
“You do. You like her.”
“Shut up.”
Laughing, Morfyd pushed away from the table and stood. “This is a great day in Dark Plains! I must trumpet it from the rooftops!”
“You’ll do no such thing. And does no one care that I had a near-death experience with Lightnings?”
“No!” his sister crowed, still laughing as she left the room.
“Your betrayal will not be forgotten!” he cried dramatically.
The statement would have meant more, however, if someone was there to witness it.
Chapter 18
Dagmar couldn’t believe the room the servants led her to, with the queen and Lady Morfyd following behind—laughing hysterically. She had no clear idea what they found so amusing, but she was used to the ways of bitchy women. She’d lived with a group of them for years. Yet for her people and her father, she’d suck it up and pretend that she was no better than they were.