Keita felt sick just hearing the female’s voice, but nothing had her more worried than the fact that her aunt was cold to the touch. She was a She-dragon of Dark Plains. She was made of fire. The last thing Esyld should ever feel was cold.
Hands clasped together, steepled forefingers pressed under her chin, Franseza asked, “Now, Keita, how would you like to one day rule the land of Dark Plains?”
“Rule? Dark Plains?” Keita had to work hard to keep the game up when she felt her aunt dying in her arms. But she knew this scenario for the test—and warning—that it was.
“I know it sounds impossible, my dear, but I promise you it’s not. You just have to trust me.”
Desperate, her aunt clung to her tighter, shaking her head. “Keita, please.”
“It’s all right, Esyld. Really.” She kissed her aunt’s forehead and carefully lowered her back to the floor. She petted Esyld’s cheek once, deciding then it was time to end this game. So Keita closed her eyes and sent out one thought: It’s time, Ragnar.
She stood and faced Franseza.
The She-dragon’s smile grew wider. “Are you about to challenge me, Keita the Viper? Don’t be foolish.”
“I’m never that.” Keita pointed at the plate of fresh fruit on the table beside Franseza. “Isn’t the fruit here delicious? I’ve always enjoyed it myself.”
“Yes. It’s very tasty. And so juicy, I’ve been picking some every day.”
“From the tree that hangs over Athol’s gate, yes?” Athol took a step forward. “Keita?”
Keita giggled. “All right. I can’t lie…much. Honestly though, Franseza, I’ve been watching you for days. Every morning you’d come out, pick your fruit, and nibble on it throughout the day, between fresh cow carcasses that are delivered. And the servants don’t touch the fruit anymore because you already had a servant girl whipped who did. That is just like the Irons, isn’t it? Claiming everything as your own.”
“You little—”
“It wasn’t too bitter, was it? What I used? I do try to be so careful about taste and all.”
Her breath growing short, her hand on her stomach, Franseza asked,
“Do you think I’m alone here, that I have no one to protect me?”
“I know you’re not alone.” Keita tossed her hair. “You know, the poison would be much less effective if you were dragoness. Too bad about Athol’s spell keeping you in human form.”
The Iron looked at Athol, but he only shook his head. “I can’t. If you can shift, so can she. And anyone else she has with her.”
“Too bad for you, eh, cousin?” Keita asked, unable to stop her smile.
“Kill her, Athol,” Franseza ordered, dropping to her knees.
Keita snorted, swiped a dismissive hand through the air. “He can barely move after what he’s been drinking.” Keita glanced back at Athol.
“Did I mention your assistant hates you? Plus…he wants this place. All I had to do was promise him we’d fix the walls we’re about to destroy and he happily slipped that Banallan root right into your wine.” Keita clapped her hands together. “Isn’t this fun?”
The building around them rumbled, and the wall behind Franseza ripped away.
Athol stretched his arm out, terrifically weakened Magick flickering back and forth between his hands before he crashed to the floor. Ragnar and Ren made their way into the room through the space they’d created where that wall used to be.
Knowing that once they were inside Athol’s palace, their Magicks would be greatly diminished, they’d decided to tear the building apart from the other side of the gate first and left Morfyd outside to work on the next part of Keita’s plan.
With Ragnar and Ren managing Athol, Keita walked toward Franseza.
“So sorry there’s no one to rescue you,” Keita said, using the same tone Franseza had when discussing what she’d done to Esyld. “The guards who’d been with you are busy getting gutted by my brothers.”
“All you’re doing,” Franseza gasped out, “is bringing war to your weak queens, war that will tear this territory apart.”
“Perhaps,” Keita said. “And I must admit, I was fighting so hard to stop this war—even ready to come to your territory to try to work something out.” She crouched down and looked into Franseza’s bloating face as the poison took hold inside her human form. “But then I was told my aunt had been captured. And my friend, Ren, told me he sensed she was in some pain.
After that, cousin, there was no going back. Not for anyone. Not for you.” Keita stood again. “Although it has been said that sometimes war just can’t be avoided.” She smiled, making sure to use her prettiest one. “But don’t you worry, cousin. With the help of my friends and kin, I have come up with the loveliest idea to get everything started just right!”
The crowd roared as the two gladiators circled each other. It was the last day of the games, and now Vateria, eldest daughter of Overlord Thracius, was officially bored beyond anything she could remember. In fact, when she felt that slight earthquake under her feet, she hoped it might get bigger and open a chasm to swallow up all these boring beings tainting her and her father’s world. Anything to end the tedium.
Then she heard the gasps and saw her noble father lean forward in his chair. She focused again on the battle, but the gladiators had stumbled back.
Not from each other’s blows, but from whatever had suddenly formed in the middle of the field.
A mystical doorway. She’d heard of this kind of Magick but had never met anyone who could actually perform it.
It was a small dragoness in human form who stepped out. A Southlander, from the look of her. She gazed up at the now-silent crowd until her eyes locked on Vateria’s father.
“Overlord Thracius,” she called out. “A gift from my queen, in honor of her father, my grandfather.”
Then she tossed something away from her, and it rolled and bumped along, until it came to an abrupt stop on the field.
Vateria’s father shot to his feet, but by then what had been thrown had changed from human to dragoness. Vateria recognized her mother even from this height.
Thracius gripped the railing, his gaze moving back to the Southlander.
“And this is a little something from me.”
She reached back into that doorway and yanked three males out. Two old dragons and an elf.
“If it’s war you want, Overlord,” the Southlander shouted up to him,
“then war you shall have!”
Then she was gone. Leaving Vateria’s raging father, who’d just lost his mate, and three quaking foreigners in the middle of his gladiator ring.
Well, if nothing else, everything had just gotten a lot more interesting.
Annwyl waited in the war room, her rear resting against the table filled with maps and correspondence from her commanders, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Behind her stood Dagmar and Talaith.
Brastias opened the door and let in the two women.
“General Ásta and her second in command, Bryndís,” he announced.
Once they were inside, he closed the door and came to stand close by Annwyl, big arms folded over his chest, his steady gaze on the ones who’d challenged his queen.
The second in command, Bryndís, dropped to one knee, her ax slamming into the floor, her head bowed. Ásta, however, merely bowed her head. But she kept it bowed, waiting for Annwyl to acknowledge her.
Before she did, Annwyl motioned Dagmar over and whispered in her ear, “Why can’t I get this kind of bowing and scraping from you lot?”
“Because you’d force us to kill you in your sleep if you tried,” her battle chief whispered back; then she winked.
Annwyl grinned, but cut it short, getting a good scowl in place before focusing her attention on the two women.
“So you’re here”—Ásta raised her head as Annwyl spoke—“to protect my twins.”
“That is the task we’ve been given. That is the task we’ll carry out.”
“And what if I tell you I don’t need you? What if I tell you to go?”
“Then we’ll go. Our orders are to follow your orders. That is what we’ll do.”
Annwyl briefly glanced back at a practically snarling Talaith, and asked, “We have a Nolwenn babe here as well. Will she be safe around you?”
“We have never harmed a Nolwenn not of age. We will not start now.
We are not here to cause any harm, Queen Annwyl. Or take your children.
You have met us in direct combat and have earned our respect. We will carry out our orders to the best of our abilities. We will protect your children with our lives. Our very souls if need be.”
“Why?”
“Because you are all that stands between a world of many leaders, many cultures, many gods—and a dictator. War calls for you, Queen Annwyl. You must answer.”
Before Annwyl could reply, a knock came at the back door to the room and Ebba entered. She walked on two legs and wore a dress, coming to Annwyl’s side, and whispering in her ear, “You wanted me to tell you when I was putting the babes down for the night.”
“Thank you,” Annwyl replied, but then she saw the witch, Ásta, watching the centaur and smirking. The other, Bryndís, was still down on one knee, head bowed. “This is Ebba,” Annwyl told the witch. “The babes’
nanny.”
The two females sized each other up until the witch said, “A centaur.
We once hunted your kind for sport.”
Ebba smiled. “And we used to devour your kind as snacks. Don’t cross me, Kyvich, or I’ll leave nothing for your sisters to mourn but what I pick out from between my teeth.” Then, with a nod to Annwyl, Ebba walked out.
Annwyl again leaned down to Dagmar and whispered in her ear,
“Adore. Her.”
Rhiannon watched from her throne as her offspring approached, her sister held in Gwenvael’s arms. Beside her was what remained of the Elders.
Those who’d been involved with Elestren were among them, safe. They’d been pulled into the She-dragon’s need for vengeance without realizing it, and Rhiannon wouldn’t hold that against them…this time.
“Is it done?” Rhiannon asked once her offspring stood before her.
“It is done,” her eldest son answered for them all.
“Good.” She slipped off the dais and moved closer to Gwenvael. She brushed the hair from her sister’s battered and torn face. Now she remembered why she’d always hated Franseza since they were hatchlings—the bitch was mean. “Hello, sister.”
Esyld’s eyes opened, and widened a bit more when she saw Rhiannon staring down at her. “I-I told them nothing, sister. I swear. I never betrayed—”
“Hush, now. It’s over. I know what you’ve sacrificed.” Gods, did she know. The Northlander had touched Esyld’s hand, and what he saw, he sent to Rhiannon. Esyld’s Quintilian lover who’d tried to warn her, to protect her, only to get his throat cut in front of her; the beatings; the torture. Ragnar had shown Rhiannon all of it. She hadn’t asked him to, but she understood why he’d done it. So that there would be no question about Esyld’s loyalty, and there wasn’t any question. Esyld was and would continue to be loyal—to Keita. It had been Keita Esyld wanted to protect. It was Keita she’d suffered for, afraid of what would happen to her niece should Franseza get to her.