“And you can’t do that?”
“Not for your sister. I’ve tried, Iseabail. Gods, have I tried. But her power . . .” Talaith fell back in her chair, her eyes locked on a spot across the room. “Her power has grown, only now it fluctuates with her moods. It wasn’t too bad when she was a child but when she came into her first blood . . .” Talaith shook her head. “She set Gwenvael on fire.”
Izzy’s back snapped straight. “She did what?”
“I know. He’s a dragon, but he was on fire. It was a good thing he is a dragon because he recovered after a few days. Even so, there was a lot of whining for all the females to take care of him, which was actually more annoying than anything else that happened.”
“Mum.”
Her mother looked at her. “Hhhm?”
“She set him on fire?”
“You know Gwenvael. He started it.”
“But if it hadn’t been Gwenvael . . .”
“Exactly, Izzy. And that was when Rhi was barely fourteen winters. She’s been working with me, Morfyd, Rhiannon, Ragnar, a few powerful dragon Elders . . . and although she tries hard, so very hard . . . once her anger or, even worse, her fear and panic come into play”—Talaith wrapped her hands around the mug and gazed down at it—“the damage continues to get worse.”
“What about Talan and Talwyn?”
“They protect her, just like always. That has never changed, I doubt it ever will. They’re equally powerful, but in different ways.” She looked at Izzy, smiled. “Just like you.”
“Powerful? Me?” Izzy shrugged. “Anyone can be powerful, Mum, with three legions at your back.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Iseabail. What you lack in Magick, you more than make up for in physical power and skill. Besides, dismissing anyone who lacks Magicks is something your grandmother would do. I’m sure you don’t want to make that same mistake.”
“What do you want me to say, Mum? About this?”
“Help me with your father. He listens to you.”
“I don’t know.” She hated that woman for what she’d done to Talaith. Hated her.
“Izzy—”“Let me think on it a bit, eh?”
“All right.” Her mother pushed her chair back and stood, leaving her tea and the cake untouched. “But not too long, luv. Your sister tossed the twins around like rag dolls yesterday . . . and she was only mildly annoyed then. I fear what she may do when she’s good and pissed off. . . .”
Chapter 15
Brannie sat beside Celyn on the Garbhán Isle battlements, their legs hanging over the edge, their arms resting on the railing. And together they watched their father, the great Bram the Merciful, stop in the middle of the oversized courtyard. One second he was walking and the next, he was digging through that bag of his. Whenever he traveled more than a hundred feet from his home door, their father had that bag or he went back for it. But he seemed to spend more time going through it, or complaining about what wasn’t in it, than doing anything else.
Even now, a good two hours’ flight from his home, and what was he doing? Going through his damn bag!
Brother and sister looked at each other, then back at their father. Although Brannie—and Celyn for that matter—had very little in common with their father, she did adore him. Unlike most of the males among her kin, he was the kindest dragon she knew. And although all his hatchlings had followed the way of the Cadwaladrs rather than the way of Bram the Merciful, he never showed disappointment or envy of dragons who had offspring more comfortable in libraries or royal chambers than in battlefields.
Even better, he made their mother very happy. Still, after several centuries together. Unlike her Uncle Bercelak and Queen Rhiannon, however, Brannie’s parents kept their private lives, well . . . private. Occasionally she saw her mother on her father’s lap when they were human or their tails intertwined when they were dragon, but if their father ever chained up their mother, Brannie could say with great relief . . . she’d never walked in on that.
Shame her royal cousins could not say the same thing.
“What do you think he’s looking for?” Brannie asked.
“His sanity?”
She laughed and leaned over the railing. “Daddy,” she called out and her father stopped searching in his bag, but he didn’t move at all.
“Daddy,” she called again. And now her father looked around him, appearing a tad panicked. She looked at Celyn, but he could only shrug.
“Daddy! Look up!”
He did, but when he saw his youngest daughter and son, he let out a breath, his hand against his chest. “Gods, Branwen the Black! You scared me to death! I thought you were calling me from the Great Beyond.”
Brannie frowned. “Beyond what?”
Now her brother laughed and her father shook his head. “Brannie, my love, how I’ve missed you.”
She grinned. “I’ve missed you, too. But why are you here?”
“To talk to the queens. But”—and the bag digging began again—“I can’t find all the paperwork. Gods, I hate when this happens. I hate not having everything I need when I must see Queen Rhiannon.”
She didn’t ask why he didn’t worry about Queen Annwyl the same way. It wasn’t because he feared her less—he didn’t—but because Annwyl didn’t make it her business in life to torment poor Bram. It wasn’t vicious. In fact, it was Rhiannon’s way of showing how much she liked their father. Too bad Bram just saw it as pure torment.