“Crybaby.”
No, this isn’t what Talaith expected. Annwyl the Blood Queen was supposed to be a vicious, uncaring warrior bent on revenge and power. She let her elite guard rape and pillage wherever they went, and she used babies as target practice while their mothers watched in horror.
That’s what she was supposed to be and that’s what Talaith expected to find. Instead, she found Annwyl. Just Annwyl. A warrior who spent most of her resting time reading or mooning over her consort. She was silly, charming, very funny, and fiercely protective of everyone. Her elite guard, all handpicked by Annwyl, were sweet, vicious fighters and blindingly loyal to their queen.
And then there was Morfyd. A taller woman she’d never met, with a power Talaith envied. She had monumental control, the kind Talaith had only seen with the older, more powerful Nolwenn witches. Morfyd’s beautiful face spoke of many young years. Perhaps no more than thirty winters. If that.
With a sigh, Morfyd sat beside her on the tree stump. “She makes me insane.”
“Like family.”
Morfyd smiled. “Exactly.”
Wiping off the ointment she’d used on Annwyl with a dry cloth, Morfyd asked, “Are you cold, sister?” Morfyd had been calling her sister since she met her. She seemed to know she was a witch. Though not a very powerful one.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you haven’t taken off those gloves in two days.”
Of course she hadn’t. A witch of Morfyd’s power only need take her bare hand and she’d know all there was to know about Talaith’s past, from her first breath at birth to her last gasp with Briec. Because she hadn’t had any training in the witch arts for the last sixteen years, Talaith had no idea how to keep her out.
“I am very chilled, sister,” she lied.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No worries.”
“No worries about what?” Annwyl sat on the other side of Talaith, handing each some dried beef and a large chunk of bread. The battle she’d just waged with Morfyd already forgotten.
“Talaith is chilled.”
Annwyl sighed. “I’m sorry, Talaith. I know we’ve been living rough these few days, but we’ll be home soon enough. All the rooms in the castle have a built-in pitfire. It’s nice.”
Good gods. The woman wasn’t merely taking her back to Dark Plains, she was planning to put her up at Garbhán Isle as well.
“I’m fine, Annwyl. Really.”
“When we stop for the night, you can sleep in my tent.”
Panic swept through Talaith like wildfire. “That’s not nec—”
Annwyl waved her argument away with a scarred hand. The woman had many scars. “It’s nothing, Talaith. Really. But, of course, it’s up to you.”
“She snores,” Morfyd warned.
“I do no such thing!” Annwyl yelled back.
“Like a bull in rutting season.”
“When we get back to Garbhán Isle…don’t speak to me.”
“Trust me, Annwyl, that will be a pleasure.”
Talaith would have loved to enjoy their argument, but she couldn’t. Not when it took all her strength not to start shaking.
* * *
Talaith stood outside the back of Annwyl’s tent. Again, she swallowed down her nausea and thought only of her daughter. At the moment, that was all that kept her moving forward. With another quick glance around, Talaith crouched low and burrowed her way between the tent and the ground until she was inside.
She stood and walked over to Annwyl. The woman slept soundly. One arm thrown over her head, the other laying near the floor. Barefoot, she still wore her leggings. And her bindings all she wore on top. Several large blade wounds covered her upper torso and lots of tiny ones covered those. All old and long-ago healed.
The strangest thing was the markings over her collarbone. These marks were of an ancient and intricate design and were light brown against her sun-darkened skin. They resembled a faint tattoo or old brand and Magick radiated off it. Some kind of protection. Perfect.
Her long brown hair lay loose around her and she’d kicked the covers off so that they rested on the floor.
She looked peaceful.
Again Talaith closed her eyes, shutting out everything but the thought of her daughter. This sacrifice would save her daughter and that’s all that mattered.
Keeping that in her mind, she raised the dagger—tightly gripped in both her hands—over Annwyl’s chest. Right over the protective brand on her chest. With a prayer to any god but Arzhela to save whatever may be left of her soul, she brought it down with all the force she could muster.
When it stopped short of its mark, she realized she’d closed her eyes. Otherwise, she would have seen Annwyl’s arms come up, crossed, blocking her from completing the move. Talaith let out a relieved breath and that’s when those cold green eyes snapped open to focus on her.
“I have to admit, I thought you’d be a tad stealthier than this.” Annwyl gripped her hands and turned the blade toward Talaith’s throat.
* * *
Annwyl watched closely as the blade inched closer and closer to Talaith’s throat…and Talaith let it. In fact, she lifted her chin in preparation for the cut. Annwyl pushed it so far, the blade actually pierced the skin and all Talaith did was wince a bit. Then nothing. She’d already resigned herself to it; she could see it in the woman’s eyes. She’d seen it before during her brother’s reign, when Annwyl still lived with him. That resignation when you knew death was imminent and there was no way out. She witnessed it often with those condemned to his dungeons.