Dagmar stepped away from Gwenvael and he grabbed hold of her arm, but she shook him off. She walked sedately over to his father, her hands folded primly in front of her, her head scarf perfectly in place over that simple braid. She looked as he’d first seen her, back in her grey, wool dress that had been scrubbed clean the day before.
The boring, quiet, demure spinster daughter of a warlord.
But that volcano inside her simmered beneath and that’s what Bercelak the Great was not expecting. He was used to humans like Annwyl, Talaith. Fighters. Assassins. Those who went in for the direct kill.
Little did his father know, Dagmar was more lethal.
“Perhaps I should make myself clear, Lord—” She gestured with a slight dip of her head.
“Bercelak. Bercelak the Great.”
“Oh.” She stopped, sized him up carefully. “You’re Bercelak the Great? My tutors didn’t describe you well at all.”
“Tutors?” He glanced at Gwenvael, but if he thought he’d be getting any help from him …
“Yes. I realize I didn’t make myself clear. I am Dagmar Reinholdt. Thirteenth offspring of The Reinholdt and Only Daughter.”
His scowl deepened. “You’re the daughter of The Reinholdt?”
“Yes. I am.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see Queen Annwyl.”
“Right. Except I find you playing with my boy.”
“I don’t think Fearghus would appreciate me playing with Annwyl.”
Gwenvael snorted another laugh, which earned him another glare from his father.
“I have to admit,” Dagmar went on as she leisurely walked around Bercelak. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Is that right?”
“You seem much braver than I heard you were.”
Confused, Bercelak looked down at Dagmar, his gaze following her as she circled him. “What?”
“You know. How you ran away from the Battle of Ødven.”
This little barbarian truly was evil. It had been Gwenvael who had told Dagmar those stories about Bercelak on their long flight to Dark Plains. And he’d told them to her as he’d been told, showing Bercelak for the killer he was, as a warning to her to keep her distance from Bercelak the Great should she meet him.
But she’d turned all that to gain her own vengeful ends—and Gwenvael adored her for it.
“I did no such thing,” Bercelak huffed, shocked.
“Or when you were found crying and whimpering near the Mountains of Urpa.”
“That’s a damn lie!”
“Doubtful. These are common stories among my people. And tell me,” she went on, “is it true that you only survived your battle with Finnbjörn the Callous after you begged him for mercy?”
Black smoke eased from Bercelak’s human nostrils. “The only thing that protected Finnbjörn from me was when he returned my sister!”
She blinked up at him, her face beautifully blank. “No need to yell.”
“You vicious little—”
“Father,” Gwenvael warned.
“And you brought her here!”
Gwenvael shrugged. “I begged her to marry me in the Northlands, but she wanted to get to know me first. You know how girls are,” he finished in a conspiratorial whisper.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Dagmar easily—and rather bravely, in Gwenvael’s estimation—stepped between the two.
“Gwenvael, why don’t you get Fearghus?”
“I’m not leaving you alone when he’s snorting smoke, woman.”
“I’ll be fine. Go get Fearghus.”
“I can call him here. I don’t have to leave.”
“No. Go get him.” She peered at Gwenvael over her shoulder. “Or would you prefer your father found Annwyl on his own?”
No. That wouldn’t be good either. But he didn’t understand why she wanted to be alone with Bercelak. The old bastard still had no problems eating humans when the mood struck him, often bringing them home as treats to Gwenvael’s mother.
“Dagmar—”
“I’ll be fine here. Go.”
He was reluctant, that was obvious; but he eventually did as she asked.
“I’ll be two minutes.” He glared at his father. “No flame.”
Dagmar watched Gwenvael disappear down a hallway before she turned back to face his father.
In all her years, she’d never seen a scowl quite like that. As if the dragon were filled with nothing but hate and rage. She’d thought Fearghus’s scowl was bad, but nothing, absolutely nothing, like this.
Taunting him had been pleasurable since she hadn’t appreciated the way he’d spoken to his son. And although Gwenvael had described the older dragon to her as some kind of murdering lizard, her instincts told her something else—she just wasn’t sure what that was yet. Who was Bercelak the Great, and why oh why did she desire to taunt him the way she did her own father?
“Why are you really here, Northlander?” he demanded.
She smiled because she could tell it annoyed him. He wanted her frightened and scurrying away. Not likely.
“Why I’m here is my business and the business of Queen Annwyl. Perhaps you should tend to your own, Consort.”
He stepped closer to her. “Do you really want to challenge me, human?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“Do you think I’m like my son? That the fact that you’re female sways me in any way as it does him?” He leaned down a bit, his face a tad closer than she would have liked. “There is no kindness in me. No softness. No caring. And I’ll stop at nothing to protect my kind.”
“Then you and I, Lord Bercelak, have much in common.”
“Tell me why you’re here, little girl. Tell me, or I’ll tear you apart.”
She debated whether to believe him. Was he evil? Pure and simple? Was there no reasoning with someone so filled with hate and rage, who had no softness about him at all?
Following her instincts as she’d always had, she challenged, “Do your worst. I dare you.”
His nostrils flared, the black smoke curling out from them increasing, and she saw fangs. That’s new.
“Granddaddy!”
Both Dagmar and Bercelak jumped as Izzy charged into the Great Hall from the courtyard, running across the table, only to throw herself directly onto the dragon’s body.
“They told me I’d just missed you at the lake,” she squealed, delighted.
Her arms wrapped tight around his neck, her legs around his waist, she kissed his cheek. “I haven’t seen you in ages! Where have you been?”
“Uh … Izzy …” He folded his arms across his chest, trying desperately to keep that scowl on his face. “Get down from there,” he snapped.
Without seeming to notice his tone, Izzy did just that.
“Morning, Lady Dagmar,” she said cheerfully.
“Good morn to you, Izzy.”
The young warrior stood in front of Bercelak, her light brown eyes glowing. “So what did you bring me?” she asked, though it sounded a bit more like a demand.
“What?” He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Her entire body shimmied like one of Dagmar’s dogs when she held up a favored toy. “You always bring me something! What did you bring me?”
“Can we not talk about this later?” he snarled viciously, even making Dagmar think of running.
But Izzy only stomped her foot and snarled back, “Give me!”
Through gritted teeth, “Back.”
Now she frowned. “What?”
“Back,” he said again and added a quick motion of his head. Izzy walked behind the dragon and squealed again, making Dagmar wince. The young girl ran back around, a gold and jeweled dagger in her hand.
“This is beautiful!” She danced from foot to foot in front of the dragon and said in one long rush of words, “I’ve never had anything so beautiful before in my entire life and I love you and I can’t wait to show Branwen—she’s going to be so jealous—and you are so amazing!” Then she added, “I love you, love you, love you!” She leaped up into his arms and kissed his face until the dragon couldn’t hold the smile back anymore.
“Would you stop that!” But he didn’t seem to really mind.
“You are the best grandfather a girl could ever have!” She kissed his forehead and jumped back down. “I can’t wait to show Branwen!” she cheered again, running toward the exit of the Great Hall. “And Celyn!”
He’d been trying for that angry gaze again, glaring at Dagmar, when Izzy’s last words caused him to look nothing but panicked. “You stay away from Celyn!”
She only laughed. “You sound like Dad!” Then she was gone.
Turning back to face Dagmar, he seemed not to appreciate the smirk she couldn’t stop.
“You can get that look off your face, little miss. Izzy’s different. And she’s the only one. Except for her, my soul is empty. No room for anyone human.”
“That’s it!” Talaith said as she marched down the stairs. “No more wine for me.” As she landed on the bottom step, she stopped and smiled. “Bercelak! I didn’t know you were here.”
Much steadier now and recently bathed, she walked over to them and reached up to hug the dragon. “I’m so glad to see you. How are you doing?”
“Fine. Fine,” he said gruffly.
She stepped away from him, his hand held by hers. “And what brings you here?”
“He’s here to see Annwyl,” Dagmar filled in. “I was just going to take him to find her myself.” She grinned, making sure to flutter her eyes a bit as Gwenvael did. It annoyed her why wouldn’t it annoy his father? “I simply can’t wait to get to know him better.” She placed her hand over her heart. “He reminds me of my own dear father.”
“Try the stables,” Talaith suggested, completely missing the glower Bercelak seared Dagmar with. “She’s been hiding in there lately. I think she misses that war ox of hers she has the nerve to call a horse.” She beamed up at Bercelak. “I do hope you’re staying. We haven’t talked in ages.”
“Um … yeah, well …”
She released his hand and stepped away.
“Oh … uh …” Bercelak glanced at Dagmar, then muttered, “The queen wanted me to give you this.” He yanked a pouch hanging from his belt and handed it to her.
Talaith tugged the pouch open. “The Fianait root!” And just as quickly her face fell.
“It’s not the right one?” he asked, obviously concerned.
“It’s not that.” She let out a breath. “I’m just so frustrated. I work on these spells, and I see what I want. But dammit, Bercelak. I just cannot make it come together. The power is there. The energy. But I simply can’t control it. I’m getting frustrated.”
“It’ll take time to hone the power within you, Talaith,” he patiently explained. “You’re being too hard on yourself. Too impatient.”