She’d given her childhood heart to Rhydderch Hael a long time ago. And then she’d given her soul in order to save her mother.
“We all make sacrifices, little Izzy.”
“You’re a bastard,” she snapped. “A right bastard.”
His dark violet eyes flashed and his twelve-horned head lowered a bit. “And I’m still the god you’ve committed your life to. Your loyalty is to me.”
“My loyalty is to my kin. And they’re my kin. You’re not.”
“You say dangerous words, little Izzy.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care because my queen is dying. And it’s all your fault.” She wiped her face and realized at that moment that she was crying. “I know you’re a god, and we mean nothing to you. But just remember, those babes are your creation. No one will protect them like their own mother. Like Annwyl. No one.”
Rhydderch Hael yawned and motioned her away with his claw. “Go home, little Izzy.”
His black dragon body shimmered, and then he was gone. And she felt the betrayal all the way to her bones.
* * *
Dagmar stood outside Gwenvael’s door. She’d almost knocked three times. This wasn’t like her. Not knowing how to handle something. She handled everything. But she didn’t know whether stopping by would be … inappropriate? That seemed the best word.
Their one night together did not mean anything more than what it was.
But she was worried about him. Everyone seemed to be taking all of this so hard. Even the servants and the soldiers. On her way in, she’d passed poor Izzy running out. She didn’t bother trying to stop her, knowing the girl needed her own time to deal with this.
She knew Gwenvael loved Annwyl, and she felt the almost overwhelming need to care for him, which seemed absolutely ridiculous.
Besides, would Gwenvael even want that kind of comfort? At least from her?
She hated feeling like this. Insecure and confused. It wasn’t like her, but she guessed everyone had these moments.
The door was snatched open and she looked up into Gwenvael’s face.
“How long were you going to stand out here?”
“I didn’t want to bother you. I just—”
He grabbed her hand and dragged her into the room, slamming the door shut. He pulled her over to the bed and pushed her onto it.
“Roll onto your side,” he ordered. “Facing the window.”
“All right.” She did as he bade, the bed behind her dipping a bit as Gwenvael, fully dressed, crawled in behind her. His arm wrapped around her waist and he moved in close behind her. He rested his chin against the top of her head, and they both lay there staring out the window.
Neither spoke, nor moved, and they remained where they were until the two suns rose the next morning.
Chapter 25
Keita the Virtuous, a name recently given to her that would cause her brother Gwenvael to roll around the floor and laugh like a hatchling should he hear it, stared out over the cold, hard lands of the Northlands. She was in Horde territory, standing on the flat mountaintop of the Olgeirsson Horde lair, and all she could see for miles and miles in either direction were more snow-covered mountaintops.
But for nearing two weeks now, she’d been trapped in this place … with these dragons.
She had yet to meet a Lightning who wasn’t a barbarian. Appalling manners, distasteful habits, and brains the size of cooked peas. Every day had been a new experience in dealing with idiots.
Yet, as with most idiots, they were crafty enough.
Her talons brushed the steel collar locked around her neck. A long chain went from it to the spike buried in the floor and surrounded by several-feet-deep marble.
Aye. Crafty cretins, one and all. They weren’t smarter than her, but she’d realized quickly that aggression would only put her in deeper. They were used to Southland females like Keita’s mother, Queen Rhiannon. No matter the situation, Rhiannon only reacted with aggression and violence. Morfyd had always been weaker, but she wasn’t above using her Magicks to fight off her enemies. Unfortunately for Keita, her Magick skills were basic. She was a dragon, so automatically a Magickal being by nature, but she had no spells that could move mountains or turn a dragon’s blood to metal spikes. When she shot flame, it came out straight and true. Her mother’s flame could snake around corners and into crevices. She used it like a whip.
Her brother Briec also had skills far superior to many dragons, Fearghus a little less. But Keita, Gwenvael, and Éibhear only had the dragon basics, which meant she had to find other ways out of this hell.
What helped her, though, was the fact that there seemed to be nothing but males around her. Big, lonely males who were ready to settle down with a mate and have hatchlings of their own. Because females were so scarce, they’d have to fight for her in a tournament called The Honour. Brother against brother, kin against kin—all to be the one to Claim Keita. To put their brand on her, as if she were some farmer’s cattle.
That may have been her mother’s way, but it wasn’t what Keita wanted. It never would be. She liked her life just as it was. With human males hard and ready at the asking, beautiful gowns, and the freedom to go anywhere she pleased at any time. She answered to no one, and that included her mother or some male who thought he might own her.
For two weeks, she’d been amusing herself with the idiot kin of Olgeir the Wastrel, blocking her whereabouts from her parents and siblings. She knew her brothers well enough to know they’d come for her. They’d die for her, and she’d die for them. But after one night among the Olgeirsson Horde, she knew the risk they would most surely take would be unnecessary.