He scented the air. A human female. Talaith.
Lifting Briec up, he tossed him across the room, trying not to smile when his brother hit the wall, then the floor, gasping out, “Bastard!”
Then he smeared some of the blood from a cut on his head farther down his face and quickly sat on the floor. He’d just rested his back against the wall when the war room door flew open.
Talaith took one look around, her dark gaze finally resting on Éibhear. She frowned, probably confused by his Ice Lander look.
“Éibhear?” she finally asked.
“Talaith,” he said softly.
She gasped and rushed to his side. “Oh, Éibhear! What did they do to you?”
“Us?” Briec demanded, trying to pick himself up off the floor—and failing. “You’re blaming us for this?”
“Quiet, lizard!” She studied the wound on Éibhear’s head. “You poor thing. I can’t believe your brothers did this to you.”
“I’m all right, Talaith,” he said . . . weakly. “Really.”
“Let’s get you out of here.” She took his arm and he let her help him off the floor. With one hand on his forearm, the other on his back, Talaith led Éibhear through the door. Although he did manage to look back at Fearghus and Briec—not Gwenvael, since he was still out cold—and smile.
And that ball of fire that slammed into the wall right outside the door but missed him and Talaith? That only managed to make him smile more.
Izzy decided more walking was in order for her sister because exercise always calmed Izzy when she was upset. But she’d forgotten that her sister . . . not much for exercising. Less than five miles in, she was already whining.
Stopping to face her, Izzy asked, “Are you panting?”
“Think we can slow down a bit?” Rhi asked, her hand pressed to her chest. “Maybe you can carry me?”
“Aren’t you a little young to be so . . . weak?”
“Could you say that with any more distaste?”
“Aye. I could.”
Izzy heard footsteps approaching—many footsteps—and she pulled her sword, motioning Rhi to get behind a large boulder. And, as she’d been trained, Rhi followed orders without complaint.
Soldiers wearing the armor of the Elite Guard came through the trees. They were younger men, and their unadorned shields told Izzy they were still in training. In other words, they hadn’t yet left Garbhán Isle to be royal escorts.
She also doubted they had any idea who she was because she didn’t recognize them at all.
Plus, she didn’t have on her military armor, nor her bright red surcoat with the Queen’s crest of two dragons. Instead, Izzy only wore chain mail, worn leather boots, a dark brown cape, and every weapon she could fit on her body.
It was the weapons that probably worried the young soldiers. The one at the head of the small group called out a warning and the soldiers dropped their shields so they created a sort of wall.
“Speak!” one of them demanded. “State your purpose!”
Izzy? she heard her sister whisper in her head, as if these human males could hear her as well. They couldn’t and Izzy shouldn’t be able to either, but Rhi had been talking to her this way for years, sometimes over a thousand leagues away. It was something that took Izzy a while to get used to.
It’s all right, she assured her sister. Stay where you are.
Izzy took several steps toward the soldiers and they immediately pulled their weapons, their bodies tensing behind their tall shields.
Gripping her sword in both hands, Izzy pulled it back and readied for her attack, the soldiers following suit.
“Hold!” a voice ordered and the soldiers were pushed aside as a warrior walked past.
The red-headed soldier urgently said, “My lady—”
“Stop calling me that,” the Queen of Garbhán Isle ordered her men.
“Sorry, my . . . uh . . . Annwyl.”
Annwyl the Bloody crossed her arms over her chest and gazed at Izzy. “You dare come to my lands and challenge my guard?”
“They look like they need a challenge. You’d be better off with a loyal squire. Someone young, perky, and good with your horse.”
“Perky?” Annwyl laughed. “You were never perky, you lying harlot!”
Izzy shrugged. “It depends on your definition of perky.”
“My definition is not Izzy.” Grinning, Annwyl walked toward her, arms thrown open. Izzy slid her sword back into her holster and threw herself at Annwyl, the pair hugging and laughing.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” Annwyl said. “It’s been ages.”
“Ten moons is hardly ages.”
“It is to me.” Annwyl stepped back, looked her over. “A new scar. From a battle axe?”
“Angry raccoon in my tent.”
Laughing again, Annwyl gripped Izzy’s forearm and Izzy turned her hand to grip Annwyl’s. And, as Izzy often did, she used her thumb to trace the outline of the mark burned into Annwyl’s flesh. A brand placed there by Annwyl’s mate, Fearghus. The dragon’s way of Claiming his partner for life. Annwyl wore her brands on both forearms—and, Izzy had found out while she was Annwyl’s squire, on her inside thighs—Talaith wore hers on her lower back, and Dagmar’s was right on her ass. Something the family still teased her about. Yet of all the brands Izzy had seen on her mated kin over the years, it was her grandmother’s that Izzy secretly envied. Rhiannon’s went from the base of her foot to just below her chin, winding around her entire body as a small dragon would. And when Izzy was younger, dreaming of the day some dragon worthy of her would Claim her as his own, she’d planned on a similar mark.